I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
He half remembers her.
The way that he remembers a dream. The way that he remembers the edges of his evening wanderings, the places that the Krampus takes him when the moon is high and his lids finally close. He remembers her and the taste is rich on his tongue, rich in the back of his throat. Like summer wine it simmers there and he savors it for a moment as he watches her, the black of his eyes flat and unreadable.
There is a crazy within her that stirs something within him, something that rises up to meet it like a phoenix from the ashes. He can feel the reverberation of the Fear as it stirs from restless slumber, his fingers dancing along the edges of it and a hum beginning in the back of his throat.
She was one of the ones who craved it, he thinks.
One of the ones who nearly begged.
His tongue touches the tip of a sooty lip, a smile curving ever so slightly as he sends the tendrils of it low and slow through the meadow. It rolls like fog, dancing to his desires and bending to his wishes. Once, he struggled to control the Fear. Fought it. Was overwhelmed by it. But now, he is older, more mature, and it is easy to send it slipping through the shadows and over the nooks of the land. It is easy to command it.
He feels the edges of it reach her and begin to crawl up her legs, its tune sickly sweet.
Let it sink into her.
Let it find purchase on the ragged edges of her.
Let her look for its source, the shark-eyed, crocodile-smiled stallion in the shadows.
Let her come.
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
@[Jackel]