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)
The sweetness of her voice sickens him, but he doesn’t show it, doesn’t show that he is repulsed by the syrup of it. Instead he just presses his lips to her forehead, chest tightening as he reminds himself, over and over again, that art is pain. He was not meant to always like it. If he was to only create canvases from the crude splashing of Fear upon it, the blood splattering outward, then he would be a hack—not a true artist. He needed to put time and effort into it. Sacrifice. Like he was sacrificing now, with her syrupy voice ringing in his ears, the role of protector and enamored lover, stretching thin and pulling tight.
Before he knew what was happening, she was running away from him and his heart raced in his chest, the need to chase expanding and contracting painfully. This is different, he reminds himself, watching as she scampers away, all light and play, her laughter ringing out into a wasteland that begged, that deserved to be filled with screams. He could barely keep a grimace from his face, the need to hunt from his bones.
He gave in though, indulging her desire to play although he was convinced that such frivolity was far beneath him. With a laugh of his own, forced from his throat, and unnatural to his ears even then, he broke into an easy canter, the motion effortlessly graceful. The ground swept underneath him and despite the fact that he knew he could overtake her easily, he checked himself, staying several feel behind her.
Allowing just a little more speed, he caught up enough to press a kiss to her haunches, his teeth carefully pulled away from the velvet of his lips, before he fell behind her again, letting her run forward. It would be so easy, he thought, staring at her from behind, the cream of her trail streaming behind her rich coat, it would be so easy…he broke the thought forcefully, catching up to her side once more and grinning at her.
“Caught you.”
