Foolish, maybe.There are other things about her, of course. Her beauty, her gentleness, her ability to see past all sins. These things are not necessarily foolish but, perhaps in the future, she may liken them as such - especially when laying them all out so openly to a stranger she barely knows; an offering to a monster she doesn’t even realize he is. He is not even aware of his own brutality (not yet) and the way he’ll use her to bring about his own fantasies. For now he is just a young boy that is high off of her, not yet realizing that she is only a puppet while he will be allowed to pull the strings.
There is genuinity within the pale lavender of his eyes and perhaps that is what makes the web that he weaves so enticing; there is no lie in how he feels about her, none at all. That is what makes it all so believable, all so enchanting - even to himself.
She draws in a breath and his gold-tipped ears press towards her to listen to it, to watch as she holds it there listlessly. He likes how her glittering eyes hold him so carefully, as if he had become precious to her, and he revels in her crystal glow.
Of course you will, he whispers into her mind, solidifying her confession with such an intimate prick into her own thoughts. He doesn’t even need to wrap his aura of fear around her like he had at the beginning - there is no hypnosis or magic in the way he makes her drawn to him. He prides himself in such a task, creating the perfect moments and saying just the right things to guild her into exactly where he needed her (exactly where he wanted her, within his grasp, already bent on becoming his).
“You don’t have to leave, do you?” he asks her sweetly (almost forlornly), and he wonders if she sees the thin black of his forked tongue slither unconsciously from his golden mouth. When it disappears behind his smiling lips, there is no break in his facade, as if it hadn’t even happened.
“You know how to find me - but how will I find you?” His brow furrows, the concern that shadows across his face quite real and contrite in the way his expression falters. He’d follow her home, he’s already thinking, but he doesn’t send this thought to her. He keeps it to himself, wrapped up tight for his own delight.
molech.
@[clementia]