Work Text:
He doesn't love you.
You know this. You know.
And yet, here he is, and here you are, and he towers over you, meets your gaze with a clouded and seemingly unreadable expression, but one that you can hardly place as simply and truly evil. Whatever lies beneath his eyes is inhuman, you’re sure of it. his gaze is one of suffering, torment, despondency and brutal sadism. It reads of desire, deafening and drowning desire, and you know this as he looks at you. You know it’s for you, this sickening obsession, and it infatuates you, infects your moral compass with morbid curiosity and an inexplicable pull to give yourself to him.
But he doesn’t love you.
He can’t love you.
He can’t, won’t, doesn’t, and you’re aware that the way the fact of his indifference towards you is not so subtly gnawing a hole through your chest is one of the only reasons he keeps you around.
He feeds on it, you think. He loves you not for what you are, what you’ve been, what you could be, but he loves what you give to him.
It’s fear, you understand. You fear him. A primal kind of fear, one of prickling hot needles, cold ice through your veins, and he knows, and he likes it.
He’s tall, you note. Enough that it’s off putting. A man of his stature, his build, his mind, is one to be feared.
And you’re breathing it in.
You are aware of the religion of his self, the sanctity he seems to hold, and you’re baptized in his unholiness, his sin, his identifying filth.
You are unwillingly holding his gaze, waiting, waiting, waiting, for something to be said, something to be done, for him to tear you apart until there’s nothing left the way he has so many times before, but it’s quiet. The silence is deafening, burns your ears, makes ringing echo in your own head, leaves you questioning your sanity as it blows out your eardrums, makes you unable to think with its splintering volume, and you wonder how much of this is all in your head.
He grabs you by the jaw, lifts you up further, and here you are, sucking it all in, handing him the power that he already knows he holds, and beneath his eyes, you can read. you can make out the subtle existence of a single question, one that doesn’t need to be spoken, one that you feel down in your core, that shakes you, leaves your blood running cold, goosebumps on your skin, a silent prayer.
Do you fear me?
And you do. You do. And he knows.
He doesn’t love you. Can’t, won’t, doesn't.
You know this, and still, you are left helpless under the crushing weight of his stare and the glint in his eyes and the way the corners of his lips curl into the slightest silhouette of a smile.