selfbow | (no subject)

snowstorms&fairytales; todd and petunia au: cyril as a gigolo

they call him a king, because the name of his occupation always starts the hushed whispers. 'does he really?' they ask, as though mean nuns and prudish priests can hear them. it's like a harsh rainstorm in his ears, but he pays little attention to it. he gives them a bat of his lashes and they melt -- they call it the oldest profession in the world, and yet this is the reaction. pathetic, he thinks, the word resounding in his mind. absolutely pathetic.

http://youtu.be/A-Pkx37kYf4

they call him a king, and it's because they know nothing of him. he's a mystery, a blank page for them to project on, so they talk. they say he was made from a snowstorm -- his hair is made of night and stars and his skin is snowflakes crushed together to give him a body. he's white as snow, born in the mountains, the son of a queen, the rightful heir to a throne, fallen off to the wrong side of the tracks.

so he gives him the image of a fairytale. he gives them the childhood fullfillment they desire and they come to him with wads of money. they ask him to make their beds warm with his body heat, tell him to wear his dancing shoes, they buy him dinner and wine. he doesn't care, he'll take it. if this is what his face gets him, then he's happy to take it.

who said sinning wasn't fun?

who said he doesn't take his dancing shoes off, put on boots and go out with a gun? who said he doesn't know how to handle a gun or how to shoot too accurately? who tells stories of such gradeur, who tries to bury him under a blanket of lies and who tries to hide the truth?

you've heard that the original stories aren't always so sweet, haven't you?

http://youtu.be/-i1SqFJ3K8Q

when the sun begins to set, he puts on his suit. black, and deep red like the blood stains he washes away. it brings out the white in his skin, makes him look like the snow white they so desperately crave. he kisses their hands, and whispers secrets to them. he moves as they want him to -- and they don't ask if he's the wolf who ate their grandmother. they don't ask if how many times he's stabbed a man. they don't ask if the blood is his, they don't ask. they read the story they want. it's natural, you'd say, for people to see what they want to see.

no one wants to know you're a murderer. they want to think you're a prince from the mountains. they want to think the kisses are real, even if they're sweet like honey and no one's kiss should be as addictive as honey. they don't want a horror story, they want love and triumph. and they think that can save them.

they want snow white, not the hunter.