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“Go on, then,” she enticed, voice low and velvety as her fingers wrapped around the blade, drawing it tighter against her throat. “What are you waiting for? This is your big moment, isn’t it?” She watched, mesmerized as the blade split her skin, merlot rivulets of blood trailing down her neck.
“How are you not scared?” she managed to grit out, body thrumming with that vague, urgent need that she was dying to give into. Still, for whatever reason, she couldn’t move.
“Why would I be scared of you, hm? You can’t even look at me,” she hummed, shoulders shifting against the wall. She could practically feel her gaze tearing into her as she waited, hands still resting on the blade of the knife, a silent dare. “Come on, Victoria, there’s no reason to be bashful now!”. . .
Or: I've made a semi-convoluted AU where Vox and Alastor are women (but more importantly, active serial killers) in the 1950s.
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