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)

Bruise grows impatient in waiting.

His patience, thin as it is, grows increasingly frayed on the edges, mood turning dark as the time passes. He wonders, for a moment, if the boy had been stupider than he had expected. If he had thought to run away instead of obey and Bruise’s mood lifts momentarily, thinking of all the ways he will punish the boy—all of the ways he will take apart his spirit, letting it fall apart before him, peeling inch by inch.

But he does not get to have such pleasures, at least not now.

Bruise lifts his gaze slowly when the boy returns (the man really, but a boy nonetheless), another on his heels. The smile that curves the edges of Bruise’s face is terrible and cruel, his shark eyes burning bright. Still, his patience is thin and when Rapt insists on talking, on touching the new possession that is clearly Bruise’s, he lashes out, moving with alien speed and snapping his dull teeth at the boy. “Quiet,” he snarls.

Still, the boy has been useful and he feels a certain pride in his chest when Rapt hits his knees.

“You took too long,” he reprimands but leans down all the same, gracing him with a brush of his lips against the other’s unworthy forehead. “But you did well. You will be rewarded.”

He steps back, turning his attention to the mare in question, the one he had ignored entirely until now.

“Watch, Rapt,” he commands, ensuring the boy lifts his eyes from the ground where they belong.

Bruise’s beautiful sooty face washes clean, baptized in this raw material placed at his lap, and he steps toward her, appraising her like an artist, wondering if she is clay or wood or steel. Would she respond to the pressure of his palms? Would she require something stronger? He plucks the edge of Fear, thrumming his fingers over it, wondering how she will respond to it. “You are beautiful,” he lies, although he does think there is something beautiful in the way that she will come apart. “My name is Bruise.”

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)

Bruise appraises her, biting his lip, dark eyes unreadable as he measures her up.

She is young and foolish and has a body that will look like artwork when it is strewn apart. Once, his father had woken him early and ushered him forward. He had talked to him of the great lessons that he would need to learn. He had shown him how death can paint your muzzle and stain your flesh, how it was okay that he liked to play with them the way that he did, but that there were other steps he needed to take.

He showed him how important it is to wash yourself shortly after, to cleanse yourself.

These things echo in his mind now as he looks at the mare, as he idly plucks at the strings of the Fear, almost lazily picking up the tune, watching as her body reacts to it. There is something…different about the way she bends to it. The way she almost welcomes it. He tilts his head in thought, still thinking of the best way to break her, brushing her appreciation off with a shrug, when he hears Rapt’s voice trembling.

Stupid boy.

Anger floods the Krampus and he turns quickly toward where the boy kneels.

He moves with supernatural quickness, lashing out. His hooves fly out to hammer into the boy’s side, his shoulder, wherever he can reach. Not enough to cause breaking, but enough to get his point across. “Quiet, idiot boy,” he hisses, standing over the pale gold stallion. “Speak when spoken to.”

Scowling, he shakes the dust from his coat and, with one more hard stare at Rapt, he turns his attention back to Jackel. He almost purrs with pleasure, straightening himself and moving toward her. He plucks a little more on the strings now, wondering how she will respond—will her vision morph? Will she simply feel the beginning tendrils of horror through her veins? He reaches her side, his lips gliding up her body, claiming it as his own, material to be shaped as he wishes. When he reaches her head, he lingers on her jaw and then her eye for a moment, teeth grazing over the delicate flesh before he finds her ear.

“I hate to be the one to draw first blood. It is so selfish.”

He takes a step back, expectedly.

“So I want you to be. Break yourself open for me.”

He motions around them, the rocks, the branches, the endless options.

Then, with a devilish glint in his eye, he whispers: “Please.”