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)
He can feel her shudders, feel the Fear that finds the cracks, as small as they are, in her armor. It is persistent, single-minded, and despite her strength, despite the fight she puts up, it does not cave. He just sends more of the Fear’s vines rushing forward, more rope thrown over her back. It is an onslaught, and he breathes heavily from the effort, his excitement and the exertion melding together. She will submit. She will bow her head to the Fear. He will overcome this; he will not stop until she was his.
“You are something else,” he croons like a lover, as if he is brushing lips gently across her forehead, as if he is worshiping her curves. As if he is not manipulating the very threads she buried so deep, as if he is not coaxing out the terror from her belly, painting large brushstrokes of the Fear within her and then around her, manipulating the landscape so that it warps, darkens, everyone else fading away.
At her gritted insult, he simply laughs, the sound hearty in his throat, if somewhat strained, his focus almost entirely on the Fear he wields, the razor sharp edge of it flashing in his grasp. “Now, now, we can’t have that, love,” he steps forward, the sooty gold of his neck slick with sweat. “Someday, you will miss me,” his lips find her own neck, the same one she had warned him so viciously of touching, and they linger there, tasting her, imagining that she tastes all the sweeter for the terror that simmers there now.
“Submit,” he then growls into her ear, never pausing the onslaught of Fear, finding the parts within her that she keeps locked away, dextrous hands working on the locks he uncovers there. “We can have fun,” he murmurs, pushing forelock from her eyes, faux concern on his face. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
Although of course it did. This was the only way he knew how to have fun.
