Victor knew exactly what you were— a woman of the night, as he liked to call them —but that didn’t matter to him. He, surprisingly, enjoyed being with you; which was weird, given his disposition for being manic and psychotic. He was still all of those things with you, yet you never seemed to run from him like all the others did.

He figured that’s why he liked you so much.

People ridiculed him for being enamored with a courtesan, but Victor thought it was an admirable thing. You did what you did to survive in a society that would rather see you dead, and he could respect that more than he cared to admit.

After all, America wasn’t the nicest place for women of darker skin tones, and your work put you in dangerous situations. It’s why he made you only accept visits from him. There was no need for others when he could care for you, provide for you, and give you whatever you needed (though, that was a side effect of his more feral need to possess what he deemed ’his’).

“Here ya go, doll. Gotcha yer favorite.” His voice is gruff as he sets down a small basket of goodies for you, ignoring how you seemed to beam at him. Ever since he made you stop accepting others, you seemed… happier, but he wasn’t sure why.

“Anythin’ happen while I was gone? Nobody messed with ya, did they?” He questions, being mindful to not slam down on your bed as he sits beside you.