I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
She does not appear easy prey, and although that should perhaps deter him, it instead sends a thrill racing up his spine. It was so much more thrilling to watch the strong bend than the weak. Not that he does not appreciate the supple way he can manipulate the weak (he loves the way they move like putty in his hands, the way that they bend and curl to his every whim), but it was a specific thrill to take something made of sturdier material and impose your will upon it. To take a mighty oak and cut it down to size.
It takes everything within him to keep the excitement from his eyes.
Instead, he remains confused and shy, worrying his lip as he glances around them. “O-O-Oh,” he stutters, the sound laced with defeat. “I-I-I never meant to come back here,” he swallow visibly and shakes a little, a brow furrowing as he looks around, his gaze lighting along the different trees and forms in the distance until it comes back to her, anxiety clear in the parting of his lips and the shakiness of his breath.
“I-I wasn’t paying attention.” He tosses his head. “S-S-Stupid. I-I-I’m so stupid.”
He bites his lip again, internally scoffing at the weakness he is portraying, the vulnerability that he masterfully etches into every line of his slender body. It is with distaste that he pulls on such a mask. It is with distaste that he plays such a weak and stupid boy. It is unfit of his bloodline. Unfit of the krampus to force himself to wear such ill-fitting clothes, but he has done it before and he would do it again.
Sometimes, the kill did not come from the sheer weight of will or the blow of sledgehammer. Sometimes, it was a more delicate death—more insidious. Sometimes, it is like a poison the creeps slowly through the veins. A lie that blossoms in the chest, beautiful and delicate at first and then hungry and demanding. What starts as such a sweet fib on the tongue morphing into a fatal kiss—fang to throat and knife to belly.
Sometimes, you killed from the inside.
“P-P-Please tell me my f-f-f-father isn’t here anymore.” His eyes are pleading as they find hers and latch on, searching her face, hungry for a haven she could never offer. As if he was terrified at the return of his father. As if he simply needed protection. As if she could provide that to him. “His name was P-P-Pollack.” The name almost turns to worship on his tongue be he forces it out in fear, letting the memory of his victim’s response rise up and through him—using it as fuel for his performance.
“H-H-He can’t know I’m here.”
um, those were beautiful words and she's wonderful.