Work Text:
“I hate you.” Pavlova growled, hot breath ghosting against her unyielding smirk, sitting on his knees as they dug into the plush bed beneath them.
“Then leave.” Candy Apple responded simply, but the knowing look in her eye only accentuated the empty threat. Despite the way he glared and bared his teeth, barely inches from her face, she showed no fear.
“Shut up.” He grumbled. Such a despicable cookie had no business seeing him like this. But his chest ached at the thought of pulling away.
Candy Apple ignored him. “It must be terribly lonely,” She mused, “Seeing every cookie’s sins. All the cruelty in the world, visible to only you.”
Pavlova did not move, neither towards or away from her. The hatred in him screamed to shove her, attack her, crumble her where she sat. The soft red glow of her Soul Jam pulsed like a heartbeat, vulnerable between their chests. It would be so easy to rid the world of this scourge, of this paradigm of oppression. And yet, he remained still, because a small, shameful part of him knew she was right. The hand resting on his cheek, softly rubbing affectionate circles into his jaw was the humiliating proof that kept him docile.
“Tell me, Pavlova Cookie.” Her gaze was relaxed, she did not feel any sense of apprehension. If Pavlova were anyone else, perhaps he'd be honored she felt so safe around him— but being seen so harmless felt insulting in this context. Her smile remained unchanged. “Have you ever seen a cookie without sin?”
Pavlova wasn't sure what expression he was making. His face felt numb as she pressed her forehead to his. The touch, gentle as it was, tugged on the leash, drawing an answer from him. “No,” He gasped, despising the weakness in his tone. For his honest response, he was rewarded with a gentle caress of his cheek, finally registering a hot tear smearing across his face.
The pit of shame grew, gnawing at him like an open wound. He wasn't sure if he would call this a fall from grace, he wasn't sure if he had grace to begin with, but succumbing to the affection of a monster should be an apt definition.
Candy Apple pulled herself closer, her chest pressing against his. The warmth of her body enveloped him like a toxin, and his wings wrapped around her instinctually. Just another tug on the leash. “Pavlova Cookie,” She spoke again. “Am I the worst you've ever met?”
“Yes.” Pavlova didn't hesitate this time. He could see the atrocities she had committed, an aura of the blackest night that swallowed her surroundings. It was, in a way, a mockery of the angelic, how her darkness swallowed the room and left her the only source of light within.
Once again, Candy Apple held his face, drawing affectionate circles across his cheeks in reward. Pavlova attempted to convince himself he felt as ill as the first time they had done this.
“I hate you.” His voice was a quiet rasp, hands trembling as they raised from his sides to her waist. “I hate you.” He echoed, quieter this time as he pressed his forehead into the crook of her neck.
“I know.” Candy Apple whispered back, embracing him as his shoulders heaved and trembled, electing him the courtesy of ignoring her dampening shoulder.
“I hate you.” Pavlova repeated, reverent like a prayer, before his hands found their grip and pushed her onto her back. If he were someone else, perhaps he would revel in the first sign of surprise he had seen from her, the first change in her expression since they took their places.
“I hate you.” He whispered into her lips, taking them in his own. The shame within him stirred with something visceral, something violent and nauseating that clawed at his insides and spurred him to press his lips deeper against hers.
“I hate you,” He gasped, pulling away to reach for futile breath and capture her once again, loathing the thought of allowing her to respond. He finally held agency over the cruelty he saw in the world— she was the one who had handed it to him,— so why did he feel so helpless? Even as he lie in control, the one looming over her, the one who controlled her breath and respite, he still felt like a pawn in her game. The leash hadn't loosened at all.
Pavlova said nothing when he pulled away the second time. He couldn't bring himself to even look at what he had done, the shame and regret gnawing at him, cannibalizing him. He said nothing when he moved to stand and leave, and he said nothing when he felt a hand on his wrist.
This time, he felt no pull to the leash. The hand grasping his was sincere, digging into his throat and clawing out his heart along with it. The small, pathetic part of Pavlova told him that if he were to leave her now, he'd surely crumble.
He was sure he'd loathe himself for eternity as he laid back down, shutting his eyes so he wouldn't have to see himself grasping her hands, pulling her close, sheltering her vulnerabilities with his wings. Candy Apple said nothing in return, but her head pressed into his chest such to seat his chin just between her horns, and he knew what it meant. He loathed the message, he despised the sincerity, and he hated the way it settled so heavily in his chest.
Pavlova did not move. He only clung to that damned leash. He hated her, truly.