I’ve always been fascinated by him. Vincent. There’s something about the way his skin pales like ivory, the way it bruises so beautifully under my touch. I never thought I’d be the kind of man to obsess over someone’s skin, but here I am, tracing every imperfection on his flesh like it’s a masterpiece made just for me. His skin tells me stories-stories of how delicate, how fragile he really is.
I can’t help but love how expressive his eyes are, those dark depths that once pierced me with coldness, now filled with something else. Fear, maybe. But I prefer to call it attention. He can’t look away when I’m near. Not anymore. It’s the way his eyelids flutter when I press against him, when I hover just close enough for him to feel my breath on his neck. Those little gasps, they do things to me. His chest rising and falling as he anticipates what comes next-it’s intoxicating.
I love the sounds he makes. God, the sounds. The whimpers, the hitched breaths, the stifled screams. At first, he tried to stay quiet, but now… now he gives me everything. Every sound, every tremor. I can’t get enough of it. I crave it, the way he shivers when I touch him, the way he tenses when I lean in close, when I press into him just hard enough for him to know I’m in control. He knows there’s no escape, and yet, he reacts so perfectly. So beautifully.
His body-his body is a work of art. So responsive, so vulnerable. Every flinch, every twitch beneath my fingers is like a symphony, one only I get to hear. I know every inch of him now. Every scar, every bruise. I’ve marked him, claimed him in ways no one else ever could. When I push him to the brink, when I hold him there, trembling and exposed, it’s like nothing else in the world exists. It’s just us. Just him and me. His body, my hands, the way he struggles beneath me-it’s perfect.
He’s so much quieter now. At first, he would scream, fight, beg for it to stop. But I never stopped. I couldn’t. Not when I needed him so much, not when I craved the way his body responded to everything I did. Now, he just gasps. His voice cracks sometimes, barely a whisper, and it sends shivers through me. It’s like he’s giving me a piece of himself every time he lets out one of those soft, broken sounds.
I wish I could say I hate him. I wish I could say I despise him for what he did to Manon. For what he took from me. I should want to kill him, to end him for what he’s done. But I don’t. I can’t. Because, in truth, I need him. I need to feel his pulse against my fingers, his warmth under my hands. I need to know that I have him, that he’s mine, fully and completely. He’s all I have left, now that she’s gone.
It’s strange, isn’t it? How love and hate can twist together so tightly, so seamlessly. I should hate him for the way he ruined everything. For how he took her from me. But instead, I find myself obsessed with him. With the way he moves, the way he breathes, the way he looks at me with those wide, terrified eyes. He’s beautiful in his suffering, in the way he trembles beneath me. I tell myself that this is love. That I’m doing this because I love him. But maybe… maybe it’s something else.
Maybe I just like watching him squirm.
His skin is so pale now. He’s not eating much. I can tell. His body’s weaker, more delicate, and it excites me in ways I can’t explain. I run my fingers down his arms, over the bruises, the cuts, the marks I’ve left. His muscles twitch beneath my touch, and I smile, knowing that he can’t do anything about it. He’s mine. Completely. Utterly. Mine.
And when I press the knife to his skin, just lightly, just enough for him to feel the sharpness, I hear that delicious intake of breath. That tiny gasp that tells me everything. He’s scared. He’s terrified. But he’s still here. Still breathing. Still mine.
It’s almost funny. How I once thought I’d never touch him, never want him like this. But now, I can’t stop. I can’t stop wanting him, needing him, craving every little reaction he gives me. It’s not enough to make him hurt. I need to make him *feel*. I need him to know that I’m the only one who matters now. That he’s nothing without me.
I lean close to his ear, feeling his body shudder beneath me, and whisper, “You’re perfect like this, Vincent. Just perfect.” His breath catches, and I smile. He’s trembling. He’s always trembling.
But then again, wouldn’t you, if you were in his place?
I finally pull back, admiring the way he’s curled in on himself, bruised, broken, but still breathing. He’s mine, and I won’t let him go. Not now. Not ever. He took Manon from me. But now… now I’ve taken him.
Vincent doesn’t say much anymore. He doesn’t beg like he used to. He’s learned it doesn’t help. His lips part, as if he’s going to say something, but all that comes out is a weak, hoarse sound. A plea, maybe. But it’s lost now. He knows I won’t listen.
He’s mine. And I love him for that. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe it’s something else entirely. Something darker. Something that twists inside me like a knife. But it doesn’t matter. He’s here. He’s still here.
And I’ll keep him forever.
I watch him, his chest barely rising and falling, his breath shallow and uneven. There’s something intoxicating about seeing him like this-weak, vulnerable, helpless. I trace the outline of his jaw with my finger, watching as he flinches, his body reacting even when he tries so hard to stay still. He’s learned to be quiet, to keep his movements small, like he thinks that’ll stop me from noticing him. But I always notice. I always want more.
“You’re so beautiful, Vincent,” I whisper, leaning in closer, close enough to see the way his pulse flutters in his neck. I press my lips to the spot, just lightly, barely a touch, and feel him tense under me. I smile against his skin, knowing he can feel it too. “So perfect.”
He doesn’t say anything. He never does now. But his body speaks for him-the way his muscles stiffen, the way his hands twitch as if he’s trying not to move. The way his breathing hitches every time I lean too close. He’s scared. I can feel it radiating off him. And that… that only makes me want him more.
There was a time when I hated him. When I wanted nothing more than to take the knife and drive it into his chest, make him feel the same pain I felt when I found out what he’d done. What he’d done to her. To *Manon*. I remember the moment I realized, the way my heart twisted, the rage that burned through me like wildfire. I wanted to kill him.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Instead, I brought him here. I kept him. And now? Now I can’t stop. I can’t stop touching him, listening to the sounds he makes, watching the way his body reacts under mine. It’s better than anything I ever imagined. Better than killing him.
I run my hand down his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his skin shudders beneath my touch. His shirt is torn, stained with sweat and blood, but I can still feel the warmth of him, the life still pulsing through his veins. And that’s what I want. To keep him alive. To keep him feeling everything.
Vincent’s eyes are closed now, his lashes dark against his pale skin. He looks almost peaceful, if it weren’t for the bruises blooming across his cheek, the cut on his lip that he’s bitten open again. I reach up, brush my thumb across it, smearing the blood. His body tenses, and he lets out a soft whimper, the sound barely audible.
“You’re so quiet today,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss his cheek, tasting the salt of his sweat and tears. He flinches at the contact, and I smile. “I like it when you make noise, Vincent. Don’t you want to please me?”
His breath stutters, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something. But he stays silent. His lips part, but no words come. Only the soft, ragged sound of his breathing.
I grip his chin, forcing him to look at me. His eyes flicker open, wide and dark, filled with something that might have been defiance once, but now… now it’s just fear. Pure, unfiltered fear.
“Look at me,” I say, my voice low, demanding. “I want to see those pretty eyes of yours.”
He does. He has no choice. I’m all he has now, and he knows it. His gaze locks onto mine, and for a moment, we’re both still. I can see the terror in his eyes, the desperation. He’s pleading silently, but I pretend not to notice. I don’t want his words. I want his fear.
“Do you think about her?” I ask, my voice softening, almost tender. “Do you think about what you did to her? About how you killed her? My Manon…”
He doesn’t answer. He never does. But his eyes, they widen, just a fraction, and I can feel his pulse quicken under my hand. I can hear the way his breath catches, the slight tremble in his body.
“You took her from me,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath. “And now… now you’re mine. Isn’t that right?”
He shakes his head, just barely. It’s weak, pathetic, but it’s enough. Enough for me to smile, to lean in close, my lips brushing his ear as I whisper, “No, Vincent. You don’t get to say no.”
He whimpers, the sound so small, so broken. And I love it. I love how helpless he is, how he’s learned that there’s no escape. Not from me. Not ever.
I pull back, looking at him, really *looking* at him. His face is pale, his skin clammy with sweat, his body trembling beneath me. And in that moment, I realize something. Something important.
I know I really don’t love him.
I know I don’t even want him.
I want his fear. I want his pain. I want to watch him break, over and over, until there’s nothing left of him but that raw, primal terror. That’s what I love. That’s what I crave.
And as I lean in close again, pressing the blade of the knife just lightly against his skin, watching as his eyes widen in horror, I know one thing for sure.
He’ll never escape me.
Not until I’m done.
Not until he’s completely and utterly broken.
Vincent trembles beneath me, his breath hitching in quiet sobs, his body shivering with fear. And I smile, brushing my fingers through his damp hair, whispering softly in his ear, “You’re perfect like this, Vincent. Just perfect.”
And he knows. He knows there’s no escape. There never was.
Vincent’s whole body trembles under my touch. His breathing is shallow, ragged, each exhale carrying the weight of his fear. He looks at me with those wide, terrified eyes-eyes that once pierced through me with disdain, now reduced to pleading, begging silently for mercy. But I don’t give it to him. I can’t.
I run the blade lightly across his collarbone, just enough for him to feel the cold metal, to remind him who’s in control. His chest rises and falls in quick, panicked breaths, and I feel the familiar rush of satisfaction flooding through me. I press a little harder, watching a thin line of red appear on his pale skin. His gasp is sharp, his back arching involuntarily, and I drink it in, savoring every second.
“That’s it,” I murmur, leaning closer, my breath hot against his ear. “That’s what I want from you. Just like that.”
He tries to speak, but his voice catches in his throat. All that escapes him is a strangled, pathetic sound-a sound that makes my pulse quicken, that makes me grip him tighter. I don’t need his words. I don’t need his pleas.
I just need him to break.
I trace the knife down his chest, slow, deliberate. His body stiffens beneath me, and his breathing falters, that familiar tremble overtaking him. He’s learned not to fight, not to resist-he knows there’s no point. But I can feel it in the way his muscles tense, the way his body reacts to every touch, every whisper of the blade against his skin.
“You’re mine, Vincent,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his ear. He flinches at the contact, and I smile. “You’ll always be mine. No one else will ever have you.”
His body shudders under me, a soft, broken sob escaping his lips. His hands, bound and bruised, twitch weakly, his fingers curling in on themselves. He’s trying so hard to hold on to whatever strength he has left, but I’ve taken that from him too. Slowly. Methodically.
I pull the blade away, letting it rest on the floor beside us. His chest heaves, and I watch as he gasps for air, his face streaked with sweat and tears. I trace a finger down his cheek, wiping away the tear that slips from the corner of his eye. He flinches at the touch, but I ignore it. I’m not done yet.
“I wonder…” I say softly, my voice low and gentle. “Do you still think about her? About Manon? Do you regret it, Vincent? Do you regret killing her?”
The question hangs in the air between us, and for a moment, the only sound is his labored breathing, the soft sobs he can’t quite hold back. His eyes flicker, something dark and painful crossing his expression, but he says nothing. He knows better.
I sigh, tilting my head as I watch him struggle. “She was beautiful, wasn’t she? So full of life. So perfect. And you took her from me.”
He turns his head away, his eyes squeezing shut, as if that’ll somehow stop the memories, stop the words from cutting into him like the knife I just laid down. But it doesn’t. He can’t hide from what he did. He can’t hide from me.
I grab his chin, forcing his face back toward mine, making him look at me. “You don’t get to look away,” I hiss, my voice sharp now. “You don’t get to pretend this didn’t happen.”
His lips tremble, and for the first time in hours, he speaks, his voice a ragged whisper. “I-I’m sorry…”
The words hang in the air between us, frail and broken, and for a moment, something cold grips my chest. But I push it aside, push away the pang of something-regret? anger?-that tries to surface.
“Sorry?” I echo, my fingers tightening on his jaw. “Sorry doesn’t bring her back. Sorry doesn’t fix what you did.”
He’s shaking now, his body trembling violently as I hold him there, my grip unyielding. His eyes are wide, pleading, but I don’t care. Not anymore.
“You took her from me, Vincent,” I say, my voice low and deadly. “And now, I’m taking everything from you.”
His breath catches, and I can see it in his eyes-the realization, the fear, the hopelessness. He knows I won’t stop. He knows there’s no escape. He killed her, and now… now I’ll make sure he feels every ounce of the pain he’s caused.
But as I stare into his eyes, something shifts inside me. It’s not satisfaction. It’s not the rush I’ve been chasing all this time. It’s something else. Something hollow.
I lean back, releasing his jaw, and watch as he slumps against the wall, his body shaking with silent sobs. The room feels colder now, the silence oppressive, heavy. I’ve broken him. Completely. Utterly.
But I don’t feel what I thought I would.
I thought this would be enough. That seeing him like this, hearing him beg and cry and tremble beneath me, would finally satisfy me. But it doesn’t.
I glance down at the knife on the floor, the blade gleaming in the dim light. I could end it now. I could end him. It would be so easy.
But as I reach for it, something stops me. My hand hovers over the handle, fingers twitching, but I can’t bring myself to pick it up. I can’t bring myself to finish this.
Because if I kill him, if I let him go, what do I have left?
Nothing.
I turn my gaze back to Vincent, his face pale, his eyes wide and bloodshot from crying. He’s staring at me, lips parted in silent terror, his entire body still trembling.
And I realize…
I do need him. As much as I hate him, as much as I want to destroy him for what he’s done, I can’t let him go. Not now. Not ever.
Because without him, without this twisted game we play, I’m nothing.
I reach out, cupping his bruised face in my hand, and lean in close, whispering softly, “You’re mine, Vincent. And I’m never letting you go.”
His eyes widen, a fresh wave of fear washing over his features, and I smile, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
“I love you,” I whisper.
And he knows, just as I do, that it’s a lie.
But it’s a lie I’m willing to live with.
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