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)
His eagerness to please is a beautiful thing.
It is not the sweetness of a conquest—there is no blood on the ground, yet, there is no broken flesh, there is no shattered will—but there is a different beauty to his wanton release to Bruise’s commands.
He is able to be molded, to be formed, to be pressed and broken into what Bruise desires.
(There is part of Bruise that curls in distaste to the weakness, a repulsive thing to bend so easily, but the other part greedily grabs for it, taking that which is laid before him like a feast and gorging on it.)
Bruise chuckles at the boy on his knees, the sound dark and throaty.
So eager. So willing.
He bends his heavy-horned head down again, pressing lips to his forehead and grazing his teeth to where his ears lay. “Patience,” the words are hissed before Bruise clamps onto the ear and tugs hard, feeling the sensitive flesh between his teeth and against his tongue—the taste of earth and hair and ownership.
He mostly wants to know how the boy will respond.
(Will he coil away?
Will he simply accept the pain?
Will he hunger for more of it?)
Releasing the ear with a sigh, he keeps his head hung down low. “I need to know you are a useful thing before I waste my time with you,” his voice low and accusatory—a demand, a request, a challenge.
“So go. Find me a plaything.” He lifts his head again, looking down his nose to the boy on his knees.
A sniff, regal and dismissive.
“Something weak to break,” a pause. “Someone like you, Rapt.”
He bends down once more.
“But not something for me to keep, Rapt.” A dark promise that hangs in the air.
“Not like I will be keeping you.”