He was no saint, no innocent man. There was blood on his hands, but his conscience was not guilty for the crimes he had committed. He laughed at the idea of wallowing in guilt for the shit that he'd done. He was bringing justice to the world, he was punishing the sinners. He thought it a suitable, justified practice. It was no crime, it was a gift. From him to them. He granted them peace after a life of filth, he set them free from living in this god awful world. 

And she— she was a sinner. With her tempting figure and delicious hips, her unwavering pride and confidence, it was no good. His madness, his instability, it shook him to the core and pushed him into a blind panic, a fit of fury and rage that lasted. He wanted to relieve her of her sins so bad, to set loose her wild spirit and let it soar where the body could not take it. 

Yet— he couldn't.

He tried, night after night of looming over her with a vicious smile— but oh gods he could not even look at her without remembering her in her youth, where she was carefree and spirited. Where, oh where had she gone? How had he lost little Ru, the innocent, the pure, what mistakes had he made to lose her? So he would stand, taking in her broken figure and knowing oh so well the way each and every wound had come to exist, how the crunch of her leg beneath his weight sounded— how it felt. He knew the taste of her flesh, that she was lean and muscular, and tasted bitter sweet on his tongue. 

Why had he done this, why had he fallen so far from who he had been, from who he wanted to be? What had he done to turn into something so cruel and engrossed in petty torture? He mourned the loss of his empathy, trembled with the idea of going beyond just this empty husk, scared of the idea of feeling again. For so long he'd lived like this— callous and content with his silence, with his husky voice and sickening grin. But somewhere inside he could not bring himself to look at his reflection, at the scarred hide thrown over his body, at the matted blood along his fur. 

Yet here he was, threateningly close to bringing her down again. He was driven with the need to hear her beg, to earn more than just some starved rabbit's flesh, to get hers. It had taken years of unfortunate hatred to get her flesh to taste this sweet, and now he couldn't get enough. Tonight in particular, he craved it. 

Smacking together his toothy black maw, a malicious grin sprawls across his features. With a deep, hungering snarl rising in his throat, he chuckles quietly. "Guess who's hungry," he sings into her ear as their bodies collide, leaning in in an attempt to lap at her hide, to taste her sweat, her fear. She does not crumble so easily, his frustrations rising, his muscles tensing and jaw clenching at her rebellion. How dare she.

He throws back his head in unrestrained laughter, boiling with hidden disgust at her words. "I need no invitation," he breathes out, stepping closer and closer to her blossom pink body. He moves quickly, silently, reaching out ivory canines for the dip of her back, seeking to peel away flesh from the ribs and feed himself as he'd done before. "Whoring yourself out again, hm?" He can discern a fresh smell as he gets closer, an unfamiliar smell that is not her. His stomach boils and knots, his teeth grinding together. He stalks to her front, gazing into her eyes with his brows knit. "Who would even want damaged goods like you?" Spitting at her face, he raises his forelegs to strike out, seeking to rake his leg over her left eye. He seeks to punish her, to take this recent sin from her heaving shoulders.
"Talk talk talk"