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)
“If you insist,” he drawls, moving forth from the shadows with an alien grace, the darkness peeling away from him with the arrogant apathy of a man shrugging a cape to the floor. He regards her with eyes that are dark, too dark, appraising her openly and unabashedly. He was, after all, Prince of Pangea, but more than that, he was Prince of the Fear. He was raised to be both owner and master. Nothing was not his own.
Taking a step forward, he lifts his chin, pressing his lips together in thought. “Is it wise for you to enter into Pangea and greet us monsters with such demands?” His voice is velvety and low, pooling out into the space between them—a space he does not bother to respect, Bruise moving to close it swiftly.
She had forfeit any right to space the second she entered his domain.
“What is your name?” He comes to her, curling around and coming up the other side, the sooty gold of his coat pressing against the mahogany of her own. He reaches over and lets his lips trail lazily along the edges of her neck. Nothing but a pretty new toy. Nothing but something else for him to mold and own.
For a moment, he peers into her eyes, hoping for the brilliant flash of green and growing frustrated at their plain darkness. “What brings you to Pangea?” he asks, breathing the question into her flesh, the heat of his breath rippling across her neck, the space between them humming with what could be mistaken as tension but Bruise knew as untapped potential. He plays along the edges of the Fear, tempted to pull upon the strings of it to see how she reacted but holding off for now. Not yet. He’d get his hands dirty first.
