Murder is in its nature. Perhaps not murder, but slaughter. We are akin in this and yet I would never admit it. Hunters are hardened to their purpose, removed from the outside by trauma and blood. Much in the same way I would assume medical staff or soldiers are. They've seen too much. They will never be the same.
The Beast has slaughter in its eyes. There's a glint there, murderous with a hint of chaos on the edge, that hungers for me in ways I couldn't fully understand. Even when it's within me, blood and sweat across its fur and my skin, I cannot understand. Perhaps it's the blood. It burns on my skin, slightly acidic.
Its affection is slow and methodical as its tongue traces my nakedness. Wounds close, knitting themselves together with terrifying speed. The licking is slow. It lingers over moisture, ensuring to clean it fully. Between its great legs, or paws, I lay, panting at first and then slowly breathing as its cleans me. After every time I visit, it rips me apart and puts me back together again.
Long, strong licks of the softened yet strong muscle that is its tongue. Were I to kill it tomorrow or it were to consume me, I would always remember the lingering tongue. Too long and with strange movements I had never seen before. It tasted of sweet memories and the promise of pain.