#imp!vincent

“It’s all about intension.” They’d felt him drawl against their throat once,”I can make you feel so good. And you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Isn’t it better to be a thrall, thoughtless and stupid with pleasure, than a suffering whelp?” They remember the way their breath hitched at the beginning, cheeks constantly damp with tears that seemed to be in endless supply. The way they shook in his arms. He insisted on holding them close, crushing them to himself in a cruel mockery of intimacy. It seemed so long ago. The memory hazy around the edges, how they experienced most things now. The constant anemia stealing away their clarity. 

“But I could make it hurt, too, if I wanted.” They felt Vincent’s voice drop low, full of malice and gravel. They felt his needle sharp fangs catch at their tender skin as he smirked, running his tongue over one of the many raised scars he’d left behind, “So I suggest you be good for me, blood bag. Don’t give me a reason to make it hurt, hm?” 

His hand was cold as it gripped their chin tight, fingers digging harshly into their cheeks. He forced them to meet his gaze with a jerk of his wrist. Pain shot down their neck as glassy eyes met sharp, frigid silver. Vincent rarely tranced them but they truly never knew what to expect.  He liked to say he had other ways to control them, make them do what he wanted without wasting magic. He liked to say a lot of things. The only sound Vincent seemed to like more than the broken whimpers that fell from Lovely’s mouth was the sound of his own voice. He was constantly cooing, degrading, soothing, threatening. His voice penetrated their thoughts as if through deep, deep water. Swimming and echoing in their subconscious more than their own.