I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
She comes, of course she does.
He has spent many years sunk into the deepest pieces of the Fear—learning how to manipulate, learning how to weave false realities, learning how to carve out the emotions into the hearts of his victims—but the part that had surprised him the most had been how some hungered for it. How they craved it. He had not expected that, but he had found it. They were like junkies. Broken things who enjoyed the way it felt like swallowing glass. Who came to him for a hit of it, just a taste of that razor’s edge on their lips.
And he was oh so happy to provide it for them.
His crocodile smile splits his handsome face when she walks into the shadows, as he watches the way her fractured mind jumps behind her manic eyes. “Hard to blame him,” he says simply, his voice blunt, his hands never stopping the languid way they pluck and pull on the different threads of Fear. It is a fucking symphony around them, and he wants to throw his head back to breathe it in. Wants to bathe in it.
What a masterpiece.
“I don’t mind Death’s scraps,” he presses his lips together, considering her, studying her, wondering at all of the different ways she might be pulled apart. He takes a step forward, letting the Fear swell around them, letting it send a trickle of it down the back of his own throat as he hums. “Do you always come back?” he asks, curious. “Or do you simply stop before you hit Death’s doors?” He makes a low sound in his throat, wondering at how she is able to constantly elude death, constantly pull herself from its depths.
“It doesn’t matter,” he dismisses the question, waving a metaphorical hand in the air.
“Shall we begin?”
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
@[Jackel]