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 comes and his attention is drawn to her, to the hardness she wears like armor, to the sharpness of her Pleasure races up and down Bruise’s spine—pleasure at the Fear that runs thick around him, as tangible as the oxygen that pumps through his lungs. He can taste it, each hit licking up his side and radiating through his brain. The boy is like clay, so malleable, so perfect, and as he rains down blows, as the blood begins to flow from Feast, Bruise begins to feel what he can only assume is some level of brotherly love.
His eyes glaze over and he ignores the words that come simpering from Feast.
“More,” he growls as he comes for him again, as his teeth lash out, as he pulls upon the terror—a mad man intent upon sucking the marrow dry. This is nirvana, he thinks, as the boy breaks open before him like ripe fruit, bruised and splintered and ready. Still—still. Bruise has enough control that he does not continue forever; he does not continue until the boy lays wasted and cold at his split hooves.
Eventually, he comes to a stop, breathing hard, his golden sides dark with exertion. His eyes though, those are sharp and glittering in the darkness as he considers the boy—still standing, despite the obvious gashes and wounds. He does not respect him for it, but he does appreciate it. The boy would be ready for another lesson eventually and Bruise would be all too happy to oblige. Pollock’s kin could not be weak.
He considers demanding that the boy kneel, but decides against it, instead tilting his head and considering him, expression clean of any mercy. “You are loyal to me now,” his voice is hard and unrelenting. “Blood is thicker than water,” he reminds, “and I am your blood. Therefore you will show the proper respect.”
He takes a step forward, a warning, perhaps.
“You will be loyal.”
