𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙚 . . . || SFW • NSFW • Dark Themes ⋮⋮ If you interact and you're under 18, or I have reason to believe you are, you will be blocked ⋮⋮ requests are open, feel free to send ideas! We don't judge here — ask for my current fandom and character list before sending one. ♡
♡ psst! I'm also on ao3 — Love you, cuties!
೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝙀𝙏𝙄𝙌𝙐𝙀𝙏𝙏𝙀 ೯ ⠀ᰋ
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I will not write anything involving minors.
I will not write any kinks outside my comfort zone.
Not every request will be written, I only choose ideas that inspire me, and real life comes first. Kisses ♡!
೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏 ೯ ⠀ᰋ
Bold — fluff
Italic — angst
Crossed — smut
𝙄. 𝙎𝙀𝙍𝙄𝙀𝙎
♡ Gilded Rot — Vincent Whittman (The Showstopper :: A Forgotten Thing)
♡ Swallowing the Rot — Human Alastor (The Scar :: The Lie :: The Home)
𝙄𝙄. 𝘿𝙍𝘼𝘽𝘽𝙇𝙀𝙎
♥︎ Forgive Me, Don't Follow Me — Vincent Whittman
♥︎ Between Sheets — Vincent Whittman
♥︎ Darling, Don't Speak Of It! — Vincent Whittman
♥︎ Love Learned Too Late — Vincent Whittman
♥︎ Love Me Wrong — Vincent Whittman
♥︎ Off Balance — Past Vox (Vincent/Box Vox)
𝙄𝙄𝙄. 𝙊𝙉𝙀-𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙏𝙎
♡ No Manners — Modern!Vincent Whittman
♡ Seven Seconds — Modern!Vincent Whittman
♡ The Way He Loves — Modern!Vincent Whittman
♡ Behave — Vincent Whittman
♡ Lay Me Down Where the Trees Bend low — Human Alastor
♡ Where the Mirrors Fog — Vox
♡ All the Light He Took — Vincent Whittman
♡ Love & Fingers — Vincent Whittman
♡ Breathe Me — Vincent Whittman
♡ Quietly Kept — Vincent Whittman
♡ Quiet Confessions — Vincent Whittman ♡ The Sweetest Sin — Human Alastor
♡ Evelyn Who? — Modern!Vincent Whittman
♡ Off to the Races — Vincent Whittman
𝙄𝙑. 𝙃𝙀𝘼𝘿𝘾𝘼𝙉𝙊𝙉𝙎
♥︎ Modern!Vincent Whittman
𝙑. 𝙍𝙀𝙌𝙐𝙀𝙎𝙏𝙎
♡ He's My Man — Vincent Whittman
♡ My Husband, My Witness! — Human Alastor
Hii, not a request but only praise for your writing style. It’s so unique and honestly my favorite, ever. Just wanted to reassure you, that you should only write whatever and whenever you want to. Take your time and take care of your mental (and physical) health. Put yourself first. Lots of love to ya! :)
Thank you so so much omggg ☹️🤍, your words mean the world to me I hope you know that!
♥︎ afab!reader, drug use, alcohol use, smoking, paranoia, panic attack, murder, porn with plot, rough sex, praise kink, p in v, aftercare, strip tease, hair pulling, choking, breathplay, spanking, biting, mild blood, creampie, minor daddy kink (since it isn't my thing)
♡ Summary: America's favorite anchorman is a serial killer. You loved the dangerous glamour of covering his tracks... until you realized a dying star isn't worth burning for.
♥︎ Authors note: Heyyaa! I wrote this fic while listening to "Off to the Races" by Lana Del Rey, highly recommend putting it on while you read if you want the full vibe! — !! I don't condone or glamorize any of the toxic behavior, drug use, or violence in this fic, it’s purely fiction! That said, if you're going through a hard time in real life, my dms are always open if you need someone to talk to !!
♡ Words: 9154
The air in the sun baked hills of Los Angeles always smelled faintly of burnt engine oil and blooming jasmine, but here, behind the wrought iron gates of his mid century estate, it smelled exclusively of him.
It smelled of imported Turkish tobacco, expensive bay rum shaving cream, and the metallic, ozone tang of a television studio’s hot overhead lights.
To the rest of the country, he was the steady voice of truth at 6:00 PM. He was the man who looked through the television lens with a sharp, black rimmed gaze, his tailored suits fitting his broad shoulders like a second skin, commanding the envy of every husband in America and the breathless devotion of every housewife..
They saw the devastatingly handsome anchorman with the perfectly combed hair, just silver enough at the temples to look distinguished, never old, who smiled with a rakish, practiced charm before delivering the evening’s tragedies.
But you knew the truth. You knew exactly what he was.
Vincent was a monster. A selfish, arrogant, petty creature who viewed the world as a ladder and other people as the rungs.
You knew about the young, ambitious reporter who had mysteriously drowned in the Pacific just days before he was set to audition for the main anchor chair.
You knew about the network executive who had suffered a sudden, fatal "heart attack" after threatening to cut his airtime. He cut the throats of everyone who stood in his path, executing each murder with the same chilling, meticulous precision he used to straighten his ties. He was manipulative to his core, a master puppeteer who used people until they bled and then discarded them without a second thought.
Yet, when the heavy oak doors of his mansion clicked shut behind him, the terrifying sociopath dissolved into something entirely different.
He was the man who would spend hours tracing the line of your collarbone with his calloused thumbs, whispering praises into your skin in that deep, velvety voice that made your chest ache.
Vincent showered you with dresses from Paris, diamond tennis bracelets that caught the California sun, and a desperate, suffocating affection that made you feel like the center of the universe.
And God help you, you loved him for it. You loved the danger of him.
You loved the blood on his hands and the ice in his veins, because when he looked at you, all of that terrifying power was focused entirely on keeping you warm.
He knew you knew. That was the most intoxicating part of it all. In a world full of fools who bought into his televised illusion, you were the only one who saw his true, dark face, and you hadn't run away. You held him while he shook from the adrenaline of a fresh kill. He was utterly obsessed with your loyalty, fueled by the knowledge that his girl was just as beautifully ruined as he was.
The afternoon sun was blazing, casting a sharp, white glare over the turquoise waters of the kidney shaped swimming pool. Vincent was sitting in a low, white wicker lounge chair at the far end of the patio, unbothered by the heat. He looked devastatingly sharp, wearing a dark, unbuttoned polo shirt that exposed the pale skin of his chest, his crisp trousers still immaculate. A gold lighter and a crystal tumbler of amber scotch sat on the glass table beside him.
You watched him from the shade of the veranda as he leaned forward, his movements deliberate and calm.
On a small, silver pocket mirror resting on his knee, he aligned a stark white line of powder with a razor blade.
He bent his head, his hair catching the light, and took it in with an inhale. He leaned his head back against the cushion, eyes closing for a fraction of a second as the rush hit his bloodstream, his jaw clenching tightly.
You stepped out into the blinding sunlight, the hot concrete burning the soles of your bare feet. You were wearing one of the white swimsuits he had bought you, your hair loose and shifting in the warm breeze. As your shadow fell over him, his blue and green eyes snapped open. The coldness in them vanished the instant they landed on you, replaced by a heavy, hooded warmth.
You stepped between his parted knees, leaning down over his chair.
You tilted his chin up, your fingers sinking into the thick, dark hair at the back of his neck, and pressed your mouth to his. An open mouthed kiss landed on his lips, tasting heavily of bitter tobacco, burning scotch, and the chemical sting of the drugs. He hummed low in his throat, his large, heavy hands immediately coming up to cup your face, his fingers digging into your cheek. Vincent pulled you flush against him, drinking you in as if you were the only clean thing left in his world.
When you finally pulled back, your lips wet and breathless, you stayed close enough that your breaths mingled in the heavy air.
He looked up at you with his pupils dilated. He brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb dragging roughly over your lower lip.
"What's gotten into you?" he murmured. "Missed me that much? Are you trying to ruin me?"
You smiled down at him, unfazed by the threat of him. "You're already ruined," you whispered back, leaning in to brush your lips against his sharp jawline. "I'm just keeping you company."
He squeezed your hip tightly before letting his hands slip away. "Go on then. Get in the water before you melt."
You stepped backward, keeping your eyes locked onto his as you walked toward the edge of the pool. He picked up his scotch, taking a slow sip, his gaze tracking every single movement of your body with an intense, unwavering focus. You reached the deep end, paused for a heartbeat on the coping stones, and then dove seamlessly into the cool, sparkling water.
As you broke the surface, shaking the water from your eyes, you looked back. He was still watching you through the haze of his cigarette smoke.
The water was a cool, liquid shock against your sun heated skin, a stark contrast to the thick, oppressive heat of the California afternoon. You floated on your back for a moment, looking up at the pale blue sky framed by towering palm trees, letting the bright blue ripples carry you away from the edge. When you rolled over, blinking the chlorine from your eyes, you saw he hadn’t moved an inch. Vincent sat there like a statue carved of dark marble and sharp angles, the burning cherry of his cigarette the only sign of life against the white wicker chair.
He took a long drag, his chest expanding beneath the dark polo shirt. "It’s a miracle you haven't drowned me yet."
You laughed, a light, melodic sound that seemed to dance over the water, and began to swim slow, lazy circles in the deep end. You kept your eyes fixed on him the entire time, watching the way his gaze tracked the fluid line of your shoulders, the curve of your arching back as you glided through the turquoise depths.
He loved this, loved watching you move in a world he couldn't entirely control
.
"Maybe I'm just waiting for the right moment," you called back, treading water now, resting your arms along the smooth concrete coping of the pool edge.
He smirked, leaning forward to flick his ashes onto the grass. The uppers were fully alive in his veins now, sharpening his movements, making his jaw tick with restless energy. "You had your chance when you kissed me, sweetheart. You could have choked me right there. I probably would have let you."
Slowly, you reached your hands behind your back.
His eyes narrowed slightly, tracking the movement of your elbows. The air grew instantly thicker between you. With a fluid, practiced motion, your fingers found the tie of your white swimsuit top. You undid the halter strap behind her neck, feeling the fabric slacken against your skin. You didn't look down, you kept your gaze locked onto his dilated pupils.
With a soft tug, you peeled the wet fabric away from your chest as you held it up, a flash of white dangling from your fingertips, giving him a teasing view of your bare sun kissed skin as you shifted in the water.
A heavy, dark silence fell over the patio. His hand tightened the crystal tumbler of scotch hard. His mismatched eyes swept over the curves of your body with a suffocating focus that made your skin tingle despite the cool water. He didn't move a muscle, but the sheer intensity of his stare felt like a physical touch, pinning you in place.
You let out a soft, teasing hum, thoroughly satisfied with the power you held over the man who held the entire city in his palm.
With a wink, you let the white top slip from your fingers, letting it float lazily away on the surface. Before he could even draw another breath, you kicked your legs, arching your back, and slid seamlessly backward into the deep end, disappearing beneath the shimmering, sun dappled surface of the pool. The water closed over your head, muffling the world into a quiet, blue womb, leaving only the echo of his heartbeat in your ears.
Up on the deck, he threw his head back against the cushion of the lounge chair.
He didn't wait for you to resurface. The rush in his blood demanded more, matching the sudden spike of adrenaline you had just gifted him. He leaned over the glass table, his fingers trembling slightly as he picked up the silver pocket mirror. With a swift motion of the razor blade, he lined up another stark, white path of powder.
He bent his head, his silver streaked hair falling slightly out of place, and took it in with one sharp, aggressive inhale, the chemical sting burning straight to his brain.
He leaned back, his eyes closed as the double rush of the drugs and your memory crashed over him, his heart hammering a frantic, wild rhythm against his ribs.
The water muffled his sudden intake of breath, but as you kicked your legs and broke through the shimmering surface, the reality of the hot afternoon rushed back. You shook your head, sending a spray of cool droplets across the concrete deck. Pushing your wet hair back from your forehead, you rested your chin and forearms on the edge of the pool, looking up at him.
The second line had slammed into his system with full force. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, reflecting the harsh mid century sun. He looked devastating, the heavy cigarettes, the burning scotch, and the pure chemicals creating a toxic storm inside him.
You leaned your weight against the smooth concrete, totally unabashed by your bare skin beneath the water, and let out a soft, tsking sound.
"Join me," you said as you tilted your head, a small but perceptive smile touching your lips. "You look sick. Cool off a little."
His blue and green eyes snapped to yours, tracking the movement of your mouth.
You let your gaze drop significantly to the silver mirror resting on his knee, then looked back up into his blown out eyes. "Those drugs are frying your brain, don't you think? You won't even be able to read the script tonight if you keep this up."
He let out a gravelly rasp of a laugh, the sound scraping against his throat. "My brain is perfectly fine, love," he murmured, his voice tight from the uppers.
He set the silver mirror down on the table with a sharp clink and stood up, his tall, broad frame casting a long shadow right over you. "And I don't need the script. America believes whatever lies I decide to tell them."
He walked to the very edge of the pool, toes gripping the concrete right above your hands. He dropped to his knees, leaning down so low his face was mere inches from yours, his breath hot and smelling of bitter tobacco and scotch.
"But you.." he whispered, his hand shooting out to carefully touch the back of your wet neck, his fingers tracing over your skin with feather light pressure. "You're the only one who doesn't buy the lie. And that's why I love you so much."
He released the slight grip on your neck, his thumb dragging one last, heavy line across your jaw before he stood up. He smoothed down his polo shirt, turned on his heel, and walked back toward the house.
The glass door slid shut behind him with a heavy, muted thud, leaving you alone in the quiet ripple of the water.
You took your time as you floated for a few more minutes, letting the cool water wash away the heavy tension of his stare, before climbing out.
Twenty minutes later, the blinding sun was blocked out by the thick, velvet curtains of his master bedroom.
You had changed into a simple, classic and comfortable outfit compared to the raw tension out by the pool. You walked down the long, wood paneled hallway, vigorously rubbing a plush white towel through your wet hair, shaking out the dampness.
You found him in his dressing room, sitting in front of a massive, illuminated vanity mirror ringed with bright, hot lightbulbs.
The room smelled heavily of his expensive cologne and a fresh wave of tobacco smoke.
He was already preparing his transformation back into America’s most trusted face.
His dark polo shirt was gone, replaced by a crisp, snow white dress shirt that was stiff with starch. He was in the middle of fastening his silver cufflinks. He stared at his own reflection, practicing the empty, reassuring smile he would give to millions of households in just a couple of hours.
You stopped in the doorway, lowering the towel to your shoulders.
The rigid, artificial smile he was practicing dropped instantly, replaced by that warmth he saved exclusively for you.
"You're tracking water on the hardwood.." he murmured as he abandoned the cufflinks, turning his chair around to face you fully, his long legs parted. "Come here."
You walked over, the towel draped around your neck, and stepped right into the space between his knees.
He watched you step into the space between his thighs, his gaze scanning your fresh clothes, your damp hair, and the effortless way you occupied his space.
"You look too clean for this room.." he voiced before he reached out, fingers hooking into the waistband of your skirt, tugging you an inch closer. "Too innocent. It’s fucking annoying."
You reached down, casually knocking his hand away from your skirt. "Then go find someone else to look at. I’m sure there are twenty girls at the studio who would love to stand here and watch you sweat through your expensive starch."
The rejection, small as it was, hit him hard. His face darkened instantly, the handsome, televised facade evaporating into pure fury. He hated being pushed. He hated when you reminded him that he wasn't completely in control of you.
"Watch your mouth." He snapped. "You forget who pays for that skirt. You forget whose house you're standing in."
"I don't forget anything," you shot back, tilting your chin up, matching his glare with a small smile. "I also don't forget that if I open my mouth to the police, you won't have a house to stand in. So... don't talk to me about who owns what."
It was the wrong thing to say. You knew it the second the words left your lips, but the thrill of poking the beast was too addictive to resist.
In a split second, he exploded out of his chair.
Before you could even blink, his heavy hand launched forward, his fingers wrapping violently around your jawline. He gripped your face harshly, thumb digging brutally into one side of your cheek while his fingers crushed the other, forcing your lips to pucker and pinning your head back against the solid wood of his wardrobe.
The sheer speed and power of it knocked the breath straight from your lungs.
"Listen to me, you little bitch," he hissed.
"You think you're clever? You think because I let you see what I am, you hold the leash? I made myself. I carved my way to the top out of human meat, and I will bury you in the backyard before I let you ruin me. You are here because I allow it. You breathe because I love you. Do not confuse my indulgence for weakness."
The terrifying weight of his threat hung in the air. The grip on your jaw was genuinely painful, leaving your face throbbing, and for a fleeting moment, actual fear spiked through your chest. He was a serial killer.. he was dangerous.. he could break you if he truly wanted to.
But as the adrenaline flooded your system, the fear twisted, melting instantly into a dizzying, intoxicating thrill. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs, a flush of heat blooming across your skin.
You loved this.
You loved the terrifying reality of him, the dark rush of being handled roughly by a man who could destroy the world but chose to hold you instead.
Your defiance vanished, replaced by a heavy quiet. You went still in his grip, your eyes wide, looking up at him through your eyelashes, letting your body go soft against his bruising hold.
He tracked the shift in your energy instantly. He saw the way your breathing hitched. He saw the spark of excitement in your eyes. His thumb eased up on your cheek, though he kept his grip firmly locked on your face.
"That's what I thought." he whispered. "Dirty girl.. you like it when I handle you like this, don't you?"
His fingers dug deeper into the soft flesh of your cheeks, forcing your head back against the heavy mahogany wardrobe until the wood groaned behind you.
He stared down into your eyes, his chest rising and falling slowly.
He was looking for any lingering trace of that defiance, but all he found was the dilated, breathless dark of your own pupils and the occasional jumping of your pulse against the skin of your throat.
"You're a sick little thing.." he mumbled. "God, you really are mine."
He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. He threw his weight forward, slamming his mouth against yours with a bruising, desperate fury.
The impact split your lip slightly, the sudden, metallic taste of blood blooming on your tongue, but the sudden sting only fueled the wild heat spiraling through your veins.
He tasted heavily of the bitter, chemical uppers, the smoky remnants of Turkish tobacco, and the expensive scotch he’d been nursing all afternoon.
His teeth clicked sharply against yours as his mouth forced your lips open.
His calloused hand never left your face, he shifted his hold slightly, his fingers tangling into the damp strands of your hair at the base of your skull, pulling your head up and back to expose the long line of your throat. He tilted your head at a punishing angle, deepening the kiss until you were completely dizzy.
You moaned into his mouth, your hands instantly flying up to grip the starched, snow white fabric of his dress shirt. Your fingers bunched the clean cotton into tight, wrinkled fists, pulling him closer as you pressed into the pain, arching your body forward until your chests crashed together, the hard line of his ribs crushing your breasts through your knit top.
His free hand abandoned the waistband of your skirt and slid up your spine, palm spreading wide across your back, flattening you against him so fiercely that you couldn't tell where your heartbeat ended and his drug addled one began.
The kiss went on, agonizingly long and suffocatingly deep, a frantic back and forth of teeth and lips that left you completely breathless.
He sucked on your lower lip, biting down just hard enough to make you whimper before his tongue swept back in to drink the sound down. He was driven mad by the cocaine rush and the absolute certainty that you belonged to him.
When he finally tore his mouth away, he stayed buried in the crook of your neck, his jagged breaths were warm against your sensitive skin. He nipped at the cord of your neck, his teeth dragging over your pulse point, making a shiver rip through your entire body.
"You have no idea how much I need you right now.." he demanded against your skin. "Unfortunately.. I have shit to do."
Your hands were still pressed up against his chest, the starch of his shirt wrinkled and ruined beneath your fingers.
"We still have a few minutes left.." you whispered, the sentence barely audible against the heavy silence of the room.
The energy that had filled the space seemed to dissipate, replaced by the reality of the evening's remaining obligations.. he straightened his collar in the mirror of the wardrobe that sat next to you, his eyes briefly meeting yours.
He turned away from you, facing the massive vanity mirror to inspect the damage.
He noticed the slight wrinkle your fingers had left on his white shirt, and with a sharp, impatient click of his tongue, he smoothed it down. He grabbed a tie from his rack, knotting it with aggressive, before slipping into a perfectly tailored suit jacket. He ran a heavy silver comb through his hair, ensuring the white at his forehead looked distinguished.
"Stay here, clean up, and don't touch my things," he commanded over his shoulder. "I’ll have a driver bring you to the studio closer to airtime. Don't be late."
With that, he snatched his gold cigarette case and left, the oak doors of the master suite clicking shut behind him.
An hour later, the backstage atmosphere of the television station was a blur of ringing telephones, shouting stage managers, and the heavy smell of ozone from the massive, blinding studio lights.
He paced the floor of his private dressing room carefully. The high from earlier was beginning to wane, replaced by a irritable edge that made his skin feel tight.
He couldn't go on air like this.. he needed that sharp clarity back!
Stepping over to his vanity, he locked the door. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the small glass vial, and tapped a generous amount of the cocaine straight onto the dark, polished wood of the table. He didn't even bother chopping it fine. He just leaned down, his hair falling slightly out of place, and took the entire line in with one aggressive snort.
He threw his head back, his eyes watering as the burn slammed straight into his brain. His heart immediately kicked into overdrive, hammering against his ribs. "Fuck..! Ow.." he whispered, hissing at the sudden sting.
When he finally walked out onto the main soundstage, the drugs were working too well.
The heat under the massive studio lights was always oppressive, but to him, it felt like a furnace.
As he sat down behind the heavy desk, adjusting his microphone, a sudden, heavy sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead. It began to bleed through his television makeup, running down the line of his jaw in visible, glistening tracks. His chest was heaving slightly, his fingers tapping a rhythm against the neat stack of news scripts in front of him.
From the shadows just off camera, two technical directors, middle aged men in short sleeved shirts and loose ties, whispered to each other, pointing at him with furrowed brows.
"Look at him," one whispered, loud enough to cut through the studio chatter. "He's sweating like a pig. His hands are shaking. He looks unhinged today."
"Yeah, he's totally losing his grip," the other chuckled, shaking his head. "If he messes up the opening monologue tonight, the network executive is going to have a field day! Maybe it’s time they finally look into replacing him with someone... younger."
Vincent didn't turn his head. He kept his eyes locked straight ahead on the dark lens of Camera One. The tapping of his fingers stopped instantly.
Behind his handsome smile, murderous rage crystallized in his mind. Losing his grip? Replacing him?'The sheer, petty arrogance inside him screamed for blood. He knew exactly who those directors were, Bob and Jerry from engineering.
They were small, insignificant bugs who thought they could whisper about a god.
His eyes narrowed as the studio clock ticked down to thirty seconds before live air. He knew Bob took the empty service elevator down to the basement archives every Thursday night alone. He knew Jerry drove an old Ford with a notoriously faulty brake line that would be incredibly easy to snip in the dark staff parking lot.
I'll cut your throat before you ever see me lose my grip, he thought, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped in his wet cheek. You'll be a headline on my 6:00 PM broadcast by next week.
"Five seconds to air!" the floor manager shouted, raising a hand. "Four... three... two..."
The red light on top of Camera One flashed to life.
Vincent leaned forward, flashing that perfectly practiced, reassuring smile right into the living rooms of millions of Americans.
"Good evening, America," his voice boomed out—smooth, velvety, and completely devoid of the violence humming in his veins. "I’m your anchor, and tonight, we begin with a tragic turn of events..."
The drive back home was a blur of neon signs, screeching tires, and the relentless, pounding rhythm of his own heart. The drugs were finally starting to crash, leaving his nerve endings raw and his mind trapped in paranoia. He had made it through the broadcast without a single mistake, his voice had been flawless, his smile pitch perfect, but the rage toward those two directors was still burning like a hot coal in his chest.
His hands gripped the steering wheel of his expensive coupe so tightly that his knuckles ached in the dark.
When he pulled up to the estate, the grand house was quiet, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn. He slammed the car door, his stride heavy and hurried as he unlocked the massive front entrance.
He kicked the door shut behind him, ripping his tie from his collar aggressively before kicking his shoes off.
"Where are you?" he huffed into the empty foyer.
He followed the warm glow of the lights into the living room.
You were sitting on the low, velvet sofa, looking serene. Your hair was fully dry now, tumbling over your shoulders.
On the low teak coffee table in front of you sat a beautifully prepared dinner, two plates of perfectly seared steak, roasted potatoes, and a freshly opened bottle of expensive red wine catching the dim ambient light.
You hadn't gone to the studio.
He stopped dead in his tracks at the edge of the rug. His tailored suit jacket was wrinkled, his hair was slightly disheveled from his drive, and the dim look in his eyes made him look odd. He stared at the food, then up at you.
The sight of you sitting there, waiting for him, with a meal prepared, made his heart ache. You treated him like a man who simply belonged to you.
"You didn't come to the station.." he sighed as he stepped closer to the couch. "I told you to be there."
You didn’t even look up from your plate at first as you calmly picked up your crystal glass, took a sip of the rich red wine, and let the silence stretch between you until his footsteps finally stopped right at the edge of the coffee table.
"I didn't feel like it," you said before you tilted your head back against the velvet cushion of the sofa, looking up at him through your eyelashes with a soft grin. "Besides, I made dinner. And! I wanted to have you all to myself tonight."
'To have you all to myself tonight.' He didn't say a word as he unbuttoned his suit jacket, ripping it off his arms and tossing it carelessly over the back of a nearby chair.
He unbuttoned the top three buttons of his white dress shirt, exposing the sweating skin of his throat, and practically collapsed into the velvet cushions right next to you.
The couch dipped under his imposing frame. He immediately reached out, hand sinking into the thick strands of your hair at the back of your neck, pulling you firmly against his side. He buried his face straight into the crook of your shoulder, inhaling the clean scent of your skin.
You gently set your wine glass down, your fingers coming up to stroke the thick, dark hair at the back of his head, your thumb tracing the distinguished white at his forehead.
"Tell me about your day," you voiced softly into the quiet room.
Vincent stayed buried against your neck for a long moment. When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his beautiful face was stripped of its televised perfection.
"The studio was a fucking circus.." he muttered as he reached out with his other hand, his long fingers dragging roughly along the line of your jaw, reminding you of the bruise he’d nearly left there earlier.
"Two little fucks in engineering... Bob and Jerry. They think they’re clever. They were whispering in the shadows, pointing at me, talking something about how I'm losing my grip. Talking about replacing me.."
"They don't know who they're dealing with," he whispered, his thumb pressing firmly into the corner of your mouth. "Bob takes the service elevator down to the basement archives alone on Thursday nights. Y'know.. It's an old shaft. Terrible maintenance. It would be so easy for the cables to just... snap. And Jerry's old Ford? A single snip to the brake line, and he’ll go straight through the guardrail on the canyon drive home."
He leaned in closer. "Can't wait to bleed them dry, and then I'm going to read their obituaries live on the six o'clock news with a saddened look on my face."
You leaned right into his palm, your thumb tracing the tense edge of his jawline as a slow smile spread across your lips.
"The basement elevator shaft..hmm.." you hummed. "That’s brilliant. Nobody ever checks the maintenance logs on Thursday nights. It’ll look like a tragic accident.. and Jerry always leaves the studio late after the late night reruns.. the parking lot will be completely empty."
His grip on your neck softened as he stared into your eyes,.
"You know how much I love you, right?" he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "You know you're the only thing on this godforsaken earth that keeps me sane? The only thing that's real."
You looked right back into his eyes, scanning them through his lenses. "I know."
He swallowed hard, before he leaned in even closer.
"If I ever get caught..." he started, fingers digging into your hair with a needy but gentle force. "Or if everything falls apart and I ever die... will you die with me? Will you come with me to the end?"
Without a single second of hesitation, you answered.
"Yes," you said. He let out a breathless sound of a sob of pure adoration, and softly slammed his mouth against yours.
It was a desperate, drowning kiss of surrender, tasting of heavy wine and bitter uppers.
Vincent held you against his chest for a long, quiet minute, his breathing slowly downshifting from a sprint to a steady rhythm.
He pulled back just an inch, his mismatched eyes sweeping over your face one last time before his gaze finally drifted down to the teak coffee table.
The two plates of steak and roasted potatoes were still sitting there, bathed in the soft, warm light of the living room lamp, the expensive red wine glinting in the dark.
"Look at this.." he sighed before he let his hand slip from your hair, his long fingers trailing down your arm to squeeze your hand tightly. "I keep you in a mansion in the hills, and you're the one taking care of me.."
"Someone has to make sure you don't starve while you're busy running the city." You teased softly, shifting on the velvet cushions to hand him his fork and knife.
He sat up fully, stretching his shoulders and loosening his white collar just a fraction more.
He cut into the steak with clean movements, his hands steady now. When he took his first bite, a quiet groan of appreciation escaped his lips. "God, you're a miracle!" he voiced around a mouthful, the high quality meat finally putting something solid into a system that had been fueled by nothing but liquor, tobacco, and coke all afternoon.
You picked up your own fork, eating quietly alongside him as the silence settled over the room. Every now and then, he would pause, reach across the small space between you, and cut off a prime piece of steak from his own plate, pressing the fork to your lips to feed you himself as he watched you chew with a hooded focus.
He poured more of the rich red wine into both of your glasses, the dark liquid swirling against the crystal. He raised his glass to you, his rimmed eyes locking onto yours with lethal devotion.
He drank the wine down in one long, smooth swallow, setting the glass back down before leaning over to press a soft, slow kiss to the corner of your mouth, tasting of the rich Cabernet and the promise of blood.
The oak door of the master bathroom clicked shut, the sound muffled by the thick drapes of the bedroom. Inside, the steam from the hot shower was still dissipating, leaving a humid, jasmine scented mist in the air.
He was already waiting for you. He was sitting on the edge of the massive, king sized mattress, his long legs spread wide.
His tailored suit and white shirt were gone, replaced by nothing but a pair of dark, expensive silk lounge trousers that hung low on his hips. A single cigarette was burning between his fingers, the blue smoke swirling lazily toward the ceiling.
When the handle finally turned and you stepped out into the dim amber light of the bedroom, the breath left his lungs.
You weren't wearing a nightgown. You weren't wearing one of his oversized dress shirts. You were entirely bare from head to toe, your skin still glowing and flushed pink from the heat of the water, a few stray droplets glistening on your collarbone.
You walked with confidence, unbothered by your vulnerability because you knew exactly what the sight of your body did to him.
The cigarette froze halfway to his lips.
He stared at you, his eyes sweeping down the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, and the soft, bare skin of your chest with a raw, ravenous hunger.
"Christ," he breathed before he hastily stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the nightstand as he stood up from the bed. "You look so goddamn good."
He stopped just inches away, the warmth radiating off his bare chest wrapping around you like a blanket. He didn't touch you yet, he just looked down at you.
"What's all this, hm?" he whispered as he looked into your eyes. "You wanna make me feel good...?" He mumbled before his hands came up to hold your naked hips carefully.
Instead of answering, you offered a slow, teasing smile. You leaned back slightly, melting out of his hold before he could fully pull you against his chest. Slipped from his grasp, you walked right past his frame, your bare skin catching the dim amber glow of the bedside lamp as you stepped up onto the soft mattress
Vincent turned his head, his gaze tracking every single shift of your body as he sank back onto the edge of the bed to watch you.
You crawled on your hands and knees across the sheets. You didn't stop until you reached the edge where he sat waiting. With a fluid motion, you straddled his thick thighs, sliding your bare skin over his hips until you settled firmly into his lap, your weight pressing flush against the hard, low slung fabric of his lounge trousers.
A soft moan tore from his throat the exact second you settled over his crotch. His hands immediately came up, thumbs digging roughly into the soft flesh of your waist to hold you there.
You noticed his gaze flicker to the crystal ashtray on the nightstand where he had just stubbed his cigarette out.
Before he could reach for it, you leaned over him, your bare breasts brushing against his chest as you stretched your arm out to grab the gold cigarette case and his matches.
You slid out a fresh, unlit cigarette, popped it between your lips, and struck a match, the small flame casting a sharp, flickering light across your face.
You took one long drag, letting the heavy tobacco smoke fill your lungs. Then, you leaned down until your face was mere inches from his.
Slowly, you exhaled the thick, blue smoke right into his face.
Vincent leaned his head back slightly into the pillows.
"You certainly know how to make an impression," he whispered.
His hands, which had been holding your waist, began to move with a restless energy, tracking the line of your silhouette.
From your thighs to your throat, hands fondling your breasts as he seemed mesmerized by the confidence of your movements.
You leaned back slightly, keeping the cigarette between your fingers, taking another slow drag as the silence stretched between you. As you blew another cloud of smoke, the power dynamic in the room felt shifted, settled firmly in your favor.
Slowly, he lifted one of his hands from your thigh. He reached up, his fingers wrapping around yours, and smoothly pulled the burning cigarette from between your fingertips. He didn't take a drag right away. Instead, he held it, the embers casting a tiny orange glow over your bare skin, before he leaned his head back against the pillows and took a long and deep drag.
He exhaled the smoke toward the ceiling.
"You think you're so clever, don't you, little girl?" he huffed while he set the cigarette down in the ashtray without looking, his attention snapping back to you.
Suddenly, his hands came alive. His heavy palms slid up from your waist, his thumbs dragging roughly over your ribs before cupping your bare breasts again, fingers slightly pinching your nipples, causing you to let out a tiny whimper before tilting you just enough to press your now wet pussy harder against the rigid line of trousers, letting you feel how hard he's getting just from this.
Your hands flew to his naked shoulders for balance, nails digging into his skin.
"Look at you," he whispered. "Sitting on my lap like a good girl, letting me touch you wherever I want.. you like knowing who takes care of you, don't you? You like knowing exactly who you belong to." He spoke to you while he forced you to lean down until your lips were brushing his jaw as he encouraged you to move your hips against him.
"Tell me, sweetheart," he sighed. "Who's your daddy?"
You didn’t make him wait. You leaned down until your lips were brushing the sensitive skin right beneath his ear, your hair falling forward like a dark curtain around the two of you. Hands tightened on his broad shoulders, fingers bunching into his skin as you gave him exactly what he wanted to hear with a swift grind of your hips.
"You," you gasped into his neck. "You are."
He hissed at your words and at the feeling of your lazy drags against his hard cock.
His mind was entirely trapped in the intoxicating reality of you.
"That's right," he rasped against your throat as his mouth found your skin, biting and kissing his way down to your collarbone. "My good girl. My beautiful, sweet girl. Look at you.. leaving a wet trail all over my trousers."
His palms slid down your spine, fingers digging roughly into the meat of your ass to lift you up just an inch, before pressing your wet cunt ruthlessly back down against his lap. You let out a soft whimper, your head falling back against his shoulder as the friction sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.
"You're exactly where you're meant to be," he huffed.
He watched the way you reacted to him. "Everything in this world is for you," he whispered. "And in return, you belong right here."
The amber glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the sheets as he took over. He pinned you down beneath the heavy, solid weight of his frame, one of his hands was gripping your hips from behind, while the other one was tangled in your hair, pressing your face down against the mattress while he pounded his thick cock inside of your pussy.
He leaned down until his chest crashed against your bare back, his face buried in the crook of your neck as his mouth nipped harshly at the sensitive skin of your shoulder.
"You feel so good.." he whined. "Just a helpless little thing in my bed while I'm abusing the fuck out of this hungry and needy hole."
He pulled your head back, forcing you to look up at his reflection in the heavy vanity mirror across the room.
"You like being held down like this, don't you, sweetheart?" he whispered, his thumb dragging roughly over your bottom lip, forcing your mouth open. "You like knowing you can't move an inch unless I let you. Fuuuuck—! You feel so good.. yeah? You like that?" He moaned into your ear.
"Tell me you're mine," he commanded, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "Say it louder this time.."
His grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back just an inch further to keep your gaze locked onto his reflection in the vanity mirror while his hips slapped harshly against your ass, knocking the air out of your lungs with each thrust.
"You're not answering me, darling," he huffed. "I told you to say it."
Before you could even draw a full breath, his palm slammed down against the fat flesh of your ass, the rough, sudden sting of his hand making you let out a sharp cry into the quiet room. He didn't care about being gentle, but as the sharp heat radiated across your skin, a familiar, dizzying rush of adrenaline flooded your system.
Vincent tracked the sudden shift in your body instantly, feeling the way you melted into the mattress beneath him instead of pulling away, his thumb digging brutally into the side of your jaw to force your face back toward him.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," he whispered against your lips. "You love it when I'm rough with you. Yeah? You want daddy's cock? God..—! You're so wet for me.. making a mess already?"
He leaned all of his heavy weight into your back, pinning you completely flat against the sheets as his hands continued to map every inch of your body. "Tell me who takes care of you. Tell me who you belong to before I lose my patience."
You didn’t keep him waiting a second longer. You arched your back slightly into the heavy, crushing weight of his frame, your fingers clutching the sheets as you let out a breathless, desperate gasp.
"You..! Haah!" you whined, your voice small and completely wrecked under his grip. "I belong to you—!"
"That's it," he hissed, his face buried in your wet hair. "Good fucking girl. Oh? Cumming already? Fuck, love..! I'm close too.. yeah? Tell me exactly what you want... mngh—! You want it inside? Want me to cum inside?"
You tilted your head back, your eyes dazed as you nodded frantically, hinting at exactly what you were begging for with a desperate shift of your hips against him.
"Then take it—! God, you're such a filthy s—slut.. fuck—..!"
With one final, thrust he locked you down as a long moan escaped his lips, finishing inside of you which activated your own orgasm as well. Moaning out his name as your tight pussy clamped against his wet cock over and over again.
The sheets were tangled around your legs, but the ambient chill of the bedroom was blocked out by the solid frame of his body pulled flush against your back. He had one large arm wrapped securely around your waist, holding you against his bare chest, while his other hand gently stroked the bare skin of your shoulder.
The dim amber light of the bedside lamp cast long, soft shadows across the bed, making the space feel separate from the rest of the world.
He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head, his breath warm against your hair.
"You did so good for me, sweetheart," he murmured. His hand slid from your shoulder down to your stomach. "So fucking perfect. You completely wore me out..."
You let out a soft sigh, melting back further into his embrace. The fierce confidence from earlier had softened into a heavy, comfortable exhaustion, and being held like this made you feel safe.
"Look at you, all quiet now," he whispered playfully, a fond smile evident in his tone. He shifted slightly, pulling the heavy duvet up over both of your shoulders to tuck you in completely. He pressed another kiss to the side of your neck, letting his lips linger there for a long moment. "Rest now. I've got you."
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed 2:30 AM, its steady, antique ticking the only sound inside the house until his heavy, uncoordinated footsteps shattered the silence.
He stumbled into the living room, his suit jacket completely gone, his white dress shirt torn open at the collar and dark with sweat. His eyes were wide and bloodshot.
Thursday night was over. Bob and Jerry were gone.
"It's done," he rasped into the dark room, his voice a jagged, breathless ghost of the smooth baritone America trusted. He let out a sharp, erratic laugh that bordered on hysterical, stumbling toward the liquor cabinet. "The elevator shaft... the brake lines... it went exactly like a script. Clean. Beautiful!"
But as he poured a glass of scotch, his hand shook so violently the crystal clinked against the bottle, spilling the amber liquid across the polished wood.
"There was a guard at the back gate. I saw him look at my car. They’re going to trace it... they’re going to find the snip on the brake line and they’re going to come straight for me. I’m fucking done. The network, that.. stupid chair... it's all going to burn."
You tried to step forward, stepping into the warm glow of the lamp to reach him, but his anxiety exploded into an erratic defensive wall.
"Don't touch me!" Vincent snapped, slamming the heavy scotch glass down on the table, cracking the base. "You don't understand! You're just sitting here in this house while I'm out there doing all that If they catch me, I'm heading straight to the chair, and I'm not waiting around for the state to flip the switch.
I'll take a bottle of pills or a bullet before I let them put cuffs on me. I'm leaving! I'll burn this whole place to the ground and disappear. I have to go."
"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up for one second and listen to yourself!" you yelled back, your voice cutting through his panicked breathing. You stepped right into his space, your eyes blazing with a mix of fury and terror. "Look at yourself! You’re the smartest man in this entire city, you planned every single detail of this for days, and now you’re going to throw it all away because you saw a guard look at your car? You are spiraling!"
"I am being realistic!" he shouted back, his face darkening as he leaned down into your face. "You aren't the one facing the electric chair! You didn't cut the lines!"
"And who helped you clean up after the last one?" you shot back, slamming your hand against his chest, refusing to back down from his height. "Who sits here and covers for you? I am in this just as deep as you are! Don't you dare talk to me like I'm some outsider watching your life happen. You are not running away, and you are not dying in some coward's way. You told me we were in this together until the very end, and I am not letting you abandon me over something like this!"
The sight of him unraveling, talking about dying, talking about leaving you behind, snapped something deep inside your chest.
Tears finally spilled over your eyelashes, hot and fast, blurring the sight of the man who ruled your entire world. You lunged forward, completely abandoning your pride, and threw your arms around his stiff waist.
You buried your face into his damp, ruined white shirt, sobbing violently, your entire body shaking against his hard chest.
"Don't leave me!" you begged, your voice cracking into a desperate, wrecked wail that echoed off the high ceilings. "Please, just don't do this! Don't talk about dying! Don't talk about running away!"
Vincent tried to push your shoulders back, but you gripped the fabric of his shirt with a white knuckled strength, refusing to let go.
"I can't breathe without you!" you cried, looking up at him through a mask of tears, your chest heaving so hard it ached. "I can't live without you! Look at me! Who else is going to put up with me this way? You can't just leave me here alone!"
His hands stopped pushing at your shoulders. He looked down into your tear stained face, your wide, terrified eyes looking up at him with a unconditional love that no one else in the world could ever offer him.
Letting out a loud sob of his own, his heavy arms suddenly slammed around you. He pulled you flush against his chest so fiercely it nearly knocked the wind out of you, burying his face deep into your hair as he held you.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
He squeezed you until your ribs bruised, his large hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, anchoring you to his chest. "I'm so fucking sorry. I'm not leaving you. I could never leave you..."
He rocked you slightly in the quiet living room, his breathing slowly syncing with your jagged sobs as he kissed the top of your head.
"Nobody is going to catch us," he murmured, his voice turning steady, dark, and fiercely possessive once again as he looked over your shoulder at the empty room. "I was just out of my mind. Those two bugs are gone, and the anchor chair is ours. I did all of this for us. Everything I kill, everything I steal... it's all for both of us. We're going to the end together. I promise you."
The morning sun finally broke through the heavy velvet curtains, casting sharp, golden beams across the polished hardwood floors of the master bedroom.
It was months after that chaotic Thursday night. The paranoia had faded, buried under a mountain of network promotions, soaring television ratings.
He had made it.
He was at the very top.
He sat at his grand mahogany vanity, staring at his reflection with a look of triumph. He was dressed in a pristine, custom tailored midnight blue suit, his hair styled to absolute perfection. He looked like a god of the airwaves. But if you looked closely, the way you always did, the cracks were starting to web across the glossy surface.
A fresh cloud of Turkish tobacco smoke swirled around his head, and a crystal tumbler of scotch sat half empty next to his gold lighter at 8:00 AM.
He was completely drunk on his own success, utterly lost in the intoxicating feeling of being loved, feared, and appreciated by millions of households. He had become so consumed by the roaring applause of the network, the thrill of getting away with murder.
Slowly, you leaned against the doorframe, a white towel draped over your shoulders, watching him.
Vincent didn't even turn around to look at you. He didn't track your movement in the mirror the way he used to. He just kept staring at his own face, practicing his flawless, televised smile, entirely forgetting who had cleaned the blood off his hands, who had held him while he shook on the living room floor, and who had promised to die with him.
He had forgotten the very person who kept him sane.
Like every star that burns too bright and too fast, he was reaching his supernova. You could see the invisible countdown clock ticking right above his head. His heart was a ticking time bomb, running on high voltage drugs and heavy liquor, which made him look sloppy.
It wouldn't be a detective that caught him, and it wouldn't be a rival anchor. His own vices were going to destroy him from the inside out, and it was going to happen very soon.
A few months ago, the thought of losing him would have made you scream and beg on your knees.
But now? As you stood in the doorway, invisible to the man who claimed you were his entire world.
You let out a silent sigh, your shoulders dropping as a wave of indifference washed over you.
The thrill was gone.
The dangerous glamour had faded into a sad, predictable routine of a man drowning in his own ego. You had given him your absolute, unconditional love and devotion, and he had traded it for something like this.
You took one last look at America’s favorite man.. a dying star suffocating in his own spotlight.
You turned your back on the vanity, walking away down the long, wood paneled hallway without saying a single word.
If he wanted to run his heart into the ground, if he wanted to burn himself out until there was nothing left but ash, you weren't going to stop him anymore.
You weren't going to save him from himself, and you certainly weren't going to fulfill that dramatic death pact.
♥︎ afab!reader, domestic fluff, flirting, teasing, Implied sex, dirty talk, Vincent is pathetic like always, hate sex (?) but they love each other, established relationship, sexual tension.
♡ Summary: Vincent rules the corporate world... At home, his 'loving' wife rules him.
♥︎ Authors note: Heyyyaa! Sorry for the little hiatus! I’ve already explained why I stepped away for a bit, and I’ll probably take another short break after this too, just to take care of myself. This is only a draft, but I’ve gone through it a few times and wanted to give you guys something fun to read, so here you go! Enjoy! Also, this is heavily based on a movie I really enjoyed, so hopefully some of you will recognize it!
If there are any typos or errors please lmk!
♡ Words: 6288
"Good morning, love..." his voice was a low, gravelly rasp, thick with sleep as his eyes tracked you from head to toe. "Oh, wow. You look so fucking good. Is that... is that the silk nightgown I bought you last week? God, it looks ten times better on you than it did on the mannequin. Come back to bed, just for five minutes. Let me look at you."
He reached out, his fingers catching the edge of your hip, trying to pull you back under the sheets with smooth confidence. He thought he was the ultimate prize.
You didn't move an inch. You slinked out of his grip, standing at the foot of the bed with your arms tightly crossed, glaring at him like he was a bug under a microscope. You were absolutely pissed off, and you hadn't even had coffee yet.
"Funny you should mention looking at things," you said, your voice dripping with sweetness. "Because I was listening to things. Specifically, you.. two hours ago."
Vincent let out a soft, arrogant chuckle, leaning back against the headboard and adjusting his glasses. He thought he could charm his way out of anything. "What..? Did I snore, sweetheart? I'm sorry, I know the scotch last night makes me—"
"Who the fuck is Evelyn, Vincent?"
The name dropped like a live grenade.
Vincent’s slick demeanor instantly disappeared. His jaw dropped just a fraction, his sharp face freezing in pure panic. The man who could manipulate stock markets suddenly forgot how to speak English.
"Evelyn?!" he squeaked, his voice cracking spectacularly on the second syllable, completely losing his deep tone. He sat up so fast his spine cracked, scrambling forward on his hands and knees across the mattress. "No! No, no, no, sweetheart, baby, listen to me! I don’t know an Evelyn! I mean—..wait, fuck, yes, I know an Evelyn! She’s— she’s a compliance officer at the firm! She’s fifty six years old, she has an underbite, orthopedic shoes, and she smells like peppermint! I swear to you on my life, I was not dreaming about her!"
"Is that so?" you replied calmly, tilting your head, unmoved by his desperate scrambling. "Because you called her a 'very naughty girl,' Vincent... Oh! And then you mumbled, 'Oh god, Evelyn, please don't report me yet, I'll give you whatever you want.. anything you want, just take it from me...' "
Vincent stared at you, his eyes wide and wild behind his lenses. "Because she misplaced the files!" he wailed. "I was having a nightmare about a federal audit! I was yelling at her because the numbers didn't balance! I don't look at other women, I don't think about other women, I only have eyes for you, love, please believe me—"
"Vincent," you interrupted. "Okay, shut up. I’ve had enough today. Just shut your mouth." Vincent’s jaw tightened, and he threw the heavy duvet off his legs, scrambling out of bed and pacing the floor.
"Shut up?! I need to shut up?!" Vincent yelled, his temper spiking. "Baby, you have fucking anger issues! I swear to god, I cannot put up with your bullshit today! I have a three billion dollar acquisition meeting in two hours, and I am standing here in my fucking boxers defending my 'subconscious' mind against your insane paranoia! I mean! Come on! This is so fucking humiliating!"
You stood up smoothly, totally ignoring his exploding temper, and walked straight into the master bathroom to start your morning routine.
Vincent followed you to the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing behind his lenses as he clutched the doorframe. "Maybe you should find a job! Did you ever think about that?! Find a hobby, find a new career, find literally anything to do other than swiping my fucking credit card all day long!"
You thoroughly tuned him out. You turned on the faucet, testing the water with your fingertips, and grabbed your expensive facial cleanser. You began gently massaging it into your skin in slow, circular motions.
"I am talking to you!" Vincent screamed over the sound of the running water, his voice echoing off the marble tiles. He looked utterly ridiculous. "You think money just grows on trees? You think I enjoy getting yelled at by the board just so you can spend five grand at Chanel because you had a bad dream? Answer me!"
You grabbed a clean, plush towel, patting your face dry with absolute serenity. You caught his eye in the mirror, gave him a slow, incredibly bored blink, and reached for your vitamin C serum.
Vincent let out a frustrated, pathetic whine, throwing his hands up in the air. "Unbelievable. You are literally psycho. I am leaving. I am going to the office where people actually fucking respect me!" He stomped away from the bathroom door, muttering under his breath about divorce lawyers, completely undone by your absolute refusal to care.
By 11:00 AM, the trading floor of Vincent's firm was a war zone of shouting analysts and flashing green monitors, but inside his private corner office, the energy was purely pathetic.
Vincent paced a trench into his expensive Persian rug, his custom tailored suit jacket thrown over the back of his leather chair. His silk tie was already loosened, and his dark hair was a messy nest from how many times he’d run his fingers through it in sheer frustration. He adjusted his glasses with an aggressive shove against his hooked nose and glared at his phone.
Ring. Ring. Ring. "Hi, you've reached—"
"Fuck!" Vincent slammed his fist onto his mahogany desk, making a heavy crystal paperweight rattle. He cut the call, stabbed the screen to redial, and brought the phone back to his ear.
Outside the floor to ceiling glass walls, three twenty something junior analysts huddled together, clutching folders and staring at him in absolute terror. They had a time sensitive Q3 prospectus for him to sign.
Ring. Ring. Ring. "Hi, you've reached—"
"Hey, it's me. Again," Vincent barked into the voicemail, his voice dropping into a hushed whisper so his staff wouldn't hear him. "Look, I know you're doing this on purpose... I know you're sitting on the couch right now, looking at my name pop up on your screen, and laughing. It's not funny! Okay? I am in the middle of a merger, they are breathing down my neck because of a filing error, and I can't concentrate because my wife thinks I'm a closeted cheater!.......... Call me back... Please? I love you."
He hung up, threw the phone onto his desk, and stared at it for exactly four seconds. It didn't buzz.
"Why would I even say some shit like that... I mean.. who would even say that?" he muttered, grabbing his hair. He picked the phone right back up and hit FaceTime. It rang out. He went straight back to voicemail.
"You know what? Fine!" Vincent yelled into the microphone, his face turning a shade of red as he paced toward the window overlooking Manhattan. "Be petty! Ignore me! See if I care! I'm freezing your stupid Nordstrom card. I swear to fucking god, I am calling AmEx right now and putting a lock on the primary account! You want to treat me like a stranger? Fine! You don't get the black card! You can use cash like a fucking peasant!"
He ended the call, took a deep breath, and tried to look composed. He smoothed down his vest and signaled for the analysts to come in. The door clicked open, and a terrified young guy stepped forward, trembling. "Mr. Whittman, we need your authorization on the tech acquisition—"
Vincent's phone buzzed on the desk.
He didn't even look at the paperwork. He lunged across the desk, knocking a gold pen onto the floor. He grabbed the screen, his eyes wide behind his lenses.
It was a text from Verizon telling him his data bill was ready.
"Get out!" Vincent roared at the analyst. "All of you, get the fuck out of my office! Come back when you actually have something useful for me!"
The analysts scrambled out, practically tripping over each other to shut the door. Alone again, Vincent slumped into his leather chair, buried his face in his hands, and let out a long, miserable whine. He picked up his phone, dialed your number for the forty seventh time that morning, and whimpered into the recording, "Baby, please don't lock me out of the bedroom tonight... I'll buy you the Chanel bag you wanted.. or I don't know.. something else you want.. just text me back.."
The late afternoon sun was blistering hot, reflecting off the crystal clear water of the massive infinity pool. Vincent was slouched so low in his luxury lounge chair he was practically sliding onto the deck. His custom tailored trousers were rolled up to his shins, his bare feet were dangling in the water, and his white button down was visibly unbuttoned to his waist. His hair was a wild, windblown mess as he clutched a glass of scotch.
Sitting next to him was his longtime business partner and best friend, who was nursing a cold drink and looking through some files on his tablet.
"They're completely ruining us on the tech acquisition if we don't get those disclosure forms filed by Friday.." his friend muttered, rubbing his eyes. "The board is terrified, Vincent. We need a signature on the prospectus before the market opens tomorrow, or the whole three billion dollar merger goes down the drain."
"Let it burn." Vincent growled, his gravelly voice thick with despair. He took a heavy swig of his scotch, his features twisting into a scowl. "I don't give a fuck about the board. I don't give a shit about any of this. I had to run a multi billion dollar firm today on three hours of sleep because my house is a literal psychological war zone."
His friend paused, lowering his tablet, a smirk spreading across his face. He leaned back, looking toward the massive, floor to ceiling glass doors of the mansion. "Right, forgot. How is the wife anyway? Where is she? How’s she doing?"
Vincent let out a long, miserable, incredibly pathetic whine, slumping even further into his chair until his chin practically hit his chest. "It’s... I don't know. She's okay, I guess. She’s absolutely mad at me though. She’s inside. Probably plotting my financial ruin or figuring out how to make me sleep in the guest house until next year."
His friend chuckled, shaking his head. "Did the credit card threat work?"
"Of course not!" Vincent snapped, throwing his hands up, nearly spilling his drink everywhere. "I told her I was locking the AmEx. I left it on a voicemail. Do you know what she fucking did? She texted a screenshot of a receipt from Cartier three hours later! A ten thousand dollar bracelet! She used the backup Visa for emergencies! The 'emergency' was her being petty because I muttered a compliance officer's name in my sleep!"
Just as the words left his mouth, a shadow moved behind the tinted glass doors. You walked into view, stepping into the bright sunlight of the glass walled sunroom. You were holding a fresh iced coffee, looking absolutely radiant and entirely unaffected by the drama.
His friend's face lit up, and he immediately sat up in his lounge chair, raising his bottle in a friendly gesture. He cupped a hand around his mouth and yelled across the deck. "Hey! Sweetheart! How are ya?!"
You paused mid stride, your eyes locking onto the two men by the pool, as you lifted your free hand, extended your middle finger, and held it high in the air. You gave them a slow, incredibly bored blink, making sure both him and your husband felt the full weight of your disdain, before turning on your heel and sauntering right back into the house.
The silence on the pool deck was deafening for exactly three seconds.
"See?!" Vincent suddenly exploded, leaping out of his lounge chair so fast his glasses flew off his face and clattered onto the concrete deck. He stood at the edge of the pool, splashing water everywhere in his rolled up pants, pointing wildly at the glass doors like a lunatic. "Did you see that?! She just flipped us off! She flipped you off, and you didn't even do anything! She has no respect for the hierarchy of this household! I pay for the house! I pay for the pool! I paid for the iced coffee she is drinking right now!"
His friend was practically suffocating from laughing so hard, wiping tears from his eyes as he watched him throw a full blown tantrum. "She literally owns you. It's over. Just sign the firm over to her now, man..."
He paused, his chest heaving as he stared at the closed glass doors, his anger instantly dissolving into pure, pathetic longing. "...Do you think if a Chanel bag is ordered right now, she'll let me sleep in the main bedroom tonight? Please, seriously, answer the question."
Vincent stood there at the edge of the infinity pool, his chest still heaving as he stared at the glass doors where your middle finger had just been. He let out a sharp, frustrated breath and snapped his fingers, looking toward the shaded cabana.
"Winston! Come here, boy!" Vincent called out, his voice instantly dropping into a ridiculous, high pitched baby talk.
From under the shade of a luxury lounge chair, a scruffy, incredibly ancient dog slowly dragged himself to his feet. The dog's back legs were a little stiff, his eyes were cloudy with cataracts, and he let out a heavy, wheezing sigh before slowly ambling over to Vincent, his tail giving a weak, slow motion wag.
His friend blinked, staring at the animal in absolute shock. He nearly choked on his drink. "Holy shit! Your dog is still alive? I thought that thing kicked the bucket during the financial crash of '22."
"Yeah, well, he’s a fighter... I guess." Vincent muttered, his rough hand coming down to gently scratch behind the old dog's ears as the hound leaned his heavy head against his rolled up trousers. "I mean... he’s getting up there in years. He’s getting old now. The vet says his mind is mostly gone."
"Didn't he ruin your Persian rug last month?" His friend asked, raising an eyebrow.
"He keeps shitting in the house from time to time, yeah.." Vincent admitted, letting out a defeated groan as he rubbed his temples beneath his glasses. "The hallways, the dining room, right outside my home office door... it’s a minefield. Fuck.. I had to pay a specialist cleaning crew three times last week."
"And you haven't put him in a nice retirement farm yet because...?"
Vincent cut his eyes toward the massive glass doors of the mansion, his expression melting into that familiar longing. He sighed, slouching back into his lounge chair and pulling the old dog's head onto his lap.
"Because she likes him," Vincent mumbled, his voice dropping into a quiet, whipped whisper. "She absolutely adores the old bastard. If I even mention the word 'kennel' or suggest he sleeps in the garage, she locks me out of the bedroom for a fiscal quarter. Last winter... he had a stomach bug, and she made me sit on the kitchen floor at three in the morning feeding him organic pumpkin puree with a silver spoon. I spent my Tuesday night cleaning canine diarrhea off a hardwood floor because my wife gave me a look that threatened my entire sex life."
His friend burst out laughing again, slamming his tablet onto the side table. "Shit! You are legally a hostage in your own home. The dog has more authority in this house than you do."
"Shut up," Vincent snapped, though he didn't stop scratching the dog's ears. Winston let out a loud, wet sneeze right onto Vincent’s expensive linen shirt, but Vincent didn't even flinch. He just stared miserably at the house. "She’s going to use the dog against me tonight, I know it.. She’s going to make him sleep right in the middle of the mattress just so I can’t crawl back into bed."
His friend packed his tablet into his leather briefcase, giving Vincent a look of pity. He patted Vincent on his damp shoulder. "Well, buddy, I should probably get going before your wife decides to walk past the glass window with a chainsaw. Good luck with the merger tomorrow. Try not to cry during the conference call.. whatever you need, just call me, alright?"
Vincent let out a defensive huff, adjusting his glasses on his nose as he stood up from his lounge chair. Winston, let out a sleepy groan at his feet.
"Yeah, whatever," Vincent muttered, trying to smooth down his unbuttoned linen shirt to regain some shred of dignity. He looked toward the massive mansion, then back at his partner, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Listen, man... I'd call you over for dinner tonight... Seriously, I would. We could grill some steaks, crack open that vintage scotch... but... y'know. She wouldn't be happy about that. She's in a fucking mood, and if I bring guests in, she might actually freeze my remaining bank accounts."
His friend smirked, adjusting his jacket. "You don't have to make excuses. I value my life. I don't want to be collateral damage."
"I'm not making excuses!" Vincent snapped defensively. "Look, we can go out drinking some time. Just like the old times. Hit the clubs downtown, order a ridiculous amount of bottles, throw cash at the bartenders... you know, when I actually had a life outside of begging for forgiveness."
"Sure thing, Vincent," his friend laughed, walking toward the side gate of the estate. "Just make sure you get permission from the warden first."
"Get the fuck out of my house, you cocksucker!" Vincent yelled after him, though his voice cracked slightly at the end.
Once the gate clicked shut, the silence of the backyard settled in. Vincent stood alone by the infinity pool in his rolled up trousers. He looked down at the old dog. "It's just you and me against her, Winston. And frankly, I don't like our odds.."
He marched toward the heavy glass doors, determined to go inside and finally demand some respect.
Vincent yanked the heavy glass door open, but the severe corporate scowl he had outside vanished the second he stepped into the air conditioned house. Winston waddled right past his bare ankles, heading deeper into the hallway and entirely out of sight. He walked into the living room, his bare feet padding softly against the hardwood floor. He adjusted his glasses on his hooked nose, looking at you with wide, pathetic eyes.
You were laying down across the long luxury couch, looking utterly serene, radiant, and unbothered by the nuclear warfare that had occurred in the bedroom that morning.
"Baby..." Vincent started, his gravelly voice dropping into a soft whine as he approached the sofa. "How have you been..? Want something for dinner? Anything? Just name it, love. I can order us something from that Michelin star place downtown, or—..or I can call a private chef or something so he can come over right now and make us whatever you want. Literally anything. Just please talk to me."
You just stared at the ceiling, actually relaxed.
"I'm okay," you said softly, your voice totally flat and indifferent.
The absolute lack of emotion in your voice drove his anxious brain into overdrive. Vincent couldn't take it anymore, shameless and entirely undone, he dropped to his hands and knees on the floor. He began to desperately crawl up the side of the long couch, his messy, unbuttoned shirt sweeping against the rug as he tried to slide his body up next to yours to beg for forgiveness.
As his sharp face got close to your legs, you smoothly lifted one leg, pressing the sharp heel of your shoe directly against the middle of his forehead.
Vincent froze instantly, pinned to the floor by your heel. His glasses tilted slightly on his nose, and his face twisted into a mask of agony. He hovered there on all fours, trapped, looking up at you with the most hilariously miserable expression.
"Angel, please..." he got incredibly whiny, his voice rising as his long fingers clutched at the edge of the couch cushions. "Don't do this to me. It's been a horrible day... and now my own wife won't even let me crawl into her lap. Just let me touch you a little bit, please?"
"No touching," you said, your voice flat and final as you kept your heel pressed firmly against his forehead.
Vincent let out a sharp groan against the sole of your shoe, but he wasn't ready to give up. He gripped the edge of the luxury couch cushions.
"Alright, look, baby. Enough of the dramatic penalty box, okay..?" Vincent uttered. "I do not stand—or crawl—for this kind of domestic insubordination. We had a little communication.. uhmmm.. breakdown this morning about Evelyn from compliance, but I am a reasonable man, you are a gorgeous woman, and I think we can negotiate a very mutually beneficial—"
He tried to cock his head to give you his best smooth smirk, but as he tilted his face back against your heel, his eyes tracked directly up the hem of your short dress.
His eyes went wider than saucers behind his lenses. His jaw literally dropped open, his mouth forming a perfect, silent 'O'.
From his exact angle on the rug, pinned on his hands and knees beneath you, he got an accidental peek. You weren't wearing a single thing underneath that dress. Absolutely nothing.
The blood rushed straight to Vincent’s face. His brain short circuited, the circuits frying under the sheer weight of what he was looking at.
"Oh, god..." Vincent gasped. He clumsily scrambled forward just a millimeter, his hands literally trembling against the floor as his dignity died right on the spot. "Oh, god, baby... you're—you're actually bare. You're not wearing anything. Holy shit."
"What about it?" you interrupted as you pressed your heel just a tiny bit harder against his forehead, keeping him exactly where he belonged. "Can't a girl wear whatever she wants? Maybe I am just..— oh so tired of wearing panties."
"Sweetheart, please!" Vincent exploded into a ramble, hovering on all fours. He was looking right at the prize but banned from reaching it, and the sheer desperation was driving him crazy. "You can't just fucking lay on the couch looking like that, completely naked under a tiny dress, that..— that I bought! And expect me to behave! I'm a man! I've been thinking about you in this room all day long! Look at me, sweetheart.. Let me just touch the hem. I'll call the private jet right now and we can fly to Paris for the weekend! Just let me up!"
You caught his wild, manic eyes in a slow, incredibly bored blink, enjoying the fact that a man like him was on his knees sweating through his expensive linen shirt, entirely at your mercy.
You slowly slid your heel off his forehead, but before he could even think about moving, you adjusted your posture on the luxury cushions. With slow, agonizing precision, you spread your legs just a fraction wider.
It was a blatant, devastating tease. Right at his eye level, you gave him a totally clear, unfiltered view of exactly how bare you were under that short dress, while remaining completely out of his reach.
Vincent’s breath left his body in a sudden, ragged hiss. He didn’t back away. Instead, he dropped his hips back onto his heels right in front of the couch, his big hands planting flat against the rug between his knees, his fingers digging deep into the fibers to anchor himself.
"Jesus Christ," Vincent rasped. A bead of sweat rolled down from his hairline, tracking past his nose. "You are a sadistic little bitch, you know that?"
"Look all you want, Vincent," you said as you tilted your head back against the pillows. "But I said no touching. You stay exactly right there."
"You think this is a game?" he muttered as he leaned forward just a fraction, his gaze flicking up to lock with yours. "You spread yourself open in front of me and tell me I can’t touch you? It’s driving me fucking crazy. I want to slide my hands up that dress so bad my fingers are literally shaking. I want to bury my face between your legs right now and make you forget whatever the fuck I said in my sleep." He shifted on his knees.
"Take the rule back, baby. Seriously. Drop the attitude, let me crawl up there, and I will give you anything you want. I'll wire a hundred grand to your personal account before sunrise, I don't give a fuck. Just let me touch you."
Vincent stared at you for three more seconds, his chest heaving under his unbuttoned shirt, before he suddenly snapped. He couldn't take the visual torture for another single frame. He scrambled up from his knees, his bare feet slapping hard against the hardwood as he practically sprinted down the hallway and up the stairs.
A minute later, he burst back into the living room. In his hands, he was clutching massive, thick stacks of rubber banded hundred dollar bills, straight out of the heavy safe in his master closet.
He marched right up to the edge of the couch, and without a single word, he snapped the rubber bands and began throwing the money. Stacks of cash rained down all over you, bricks of hundreds bouncing off the cushions, green bills scattering across your lap, your chest, and the floor around the sofa like confetti.
"There! Take it! It's all yours!" Vincent exploded before he dropped right back down to his knees in the middle of the mess, his big hands clutching at the edge of your thighs. "Take the whole fucking safe, take the keys to the Cayman accounts, buy whatever the fuck you want, I don't care! I love you so much, baby. I'm literally going insane. I can't live without you, I can't breathe when you're mad at me, and I sure as hell can't function when you're sitting in front of me looking like a goddess and telling me I can't touch."
He leaned his forehead against your knee for a split second, a heavy, defeated shudder running through his broad shoulders, before he looked back up at you. His mismatched eyes were entirely consumed by the sheer heat in the room, his corporate pride entirely dead and buried under the cash littering the floor.
"Do whatever you want to me tomorrow," he whispered as his fingers dug into your hips, his thumbs deliberately tracing the bare skin of your thighs. "But please... just let me have you tonight."
You looked down at him, utterly brought to his knees, surrounded by thousands of dollars of his own scattered money, absolutely at your mercy.
You reached down, tangled your fingers into his dark hair, and tilted his face up.
"Take what you want, pretty boy."
You blinked your eyes open against the bright morning sun streaming into the master bedroom. The first thing you noticed was the distinct, crisp texture of paper everywhere. You shifted, and a loose stack of bills slithered off your shoulder. You sat up, rubbing your eyes, and realized the entire bed was an absolute disaster zone of green. There was cash crumpled under the pillows, loose bills tangled in the silk sheets, and strapped bricks of thousands shoved near the footboard.
You stared at the mess, absolutely blank for a second. "What the fuck happened last night?" you muttered to yourself.
"You got exactly what you wanted," a voice chuckled from the doorway.
Vincent was leaning against the frame, looking entirely recovered and obscenely smug. He was wearing a black silk robe, his salt and pepper hair still damp from the shower, and his glasses perched cleanly on the bridge of his nose. He was holding a fresh cup of espresso, looking down at you.
He strutted over to the edge of the mattress, his robe billowing behind him, and looked at you with a completely shameless grin. "Hope you enjoyed your little treat, love. Thought I'd take it back this morning? Fuck no. It’s all yours. Every single dollar."
He set his espresso down and crawled onto the edge of the bed, picking up a stray bill and using it to lazily trace a line down your bare collarbone before letting it slide across your bare breasts.
"Jesus, sweetheart, we totally destroyed this room last night," Vincent murmured as he started reminiscing without any shame. "The second you finally took your foot off my head and let me up off that living room rug, I genuinely lost my mind. I didn't even care about the money! I just wanted to pin you down and make you pay for torturing me all day."
He leaned in closer before his gaze flicked down your body. "I remember ripping your dress out of the way and just slamming you into the mattress. I was throwing those stacks of cash right in your face, watching hundreds stick to your sweaty skin while I rammed into your pussy over and over again. Every time you made a sound, I just grabbed another handful of hundreds and threw them all over your tits, telling you exactly how bad I needed to touch you. You had bills stuck to your thighs, some flying into the air every time I moved.. I was talking so much dirty shit to you, just reminding you that no matter how much you try to freeze me out, you're still my girl!"
He scooped up a handful of loose bills from the mattress and let them rain back down over your lap, his smile returning full force. "So go ahead. Spend it all. Because after last night, I am officially a satisfied man, and you are a very, very highly compensated woman."
He picked up his espresso, taking a slow sip while watching you with a satisfied look on his face. He genuinely thought he had won.
Then, you got out of bed.
You didn't even care about the money slithering off your skin as you walked over to the closet. You reached in and pulled out one of the new dresses you’d ordered on his card. It was black, made of a tight, stretchy material, and so absurdly short it barely covered the curve of your hips. You slid it over your waist, smoothing it down.
Every single time you shifted, the hem rode up another half inch, showing off the absolute entirety of your legs.
To make it worse, you were completely bare underneath it, and you made sure he could see it from the bed.
Vincent’s smile vanished instantly.
He froze mid sip, the espresso cup hovering an inch from his mouth as his blue and green eyes locked onto your legs.
You casually walked across the room, your hips swaying, the hem of the tiny dress shifting to give him a devastatingly clear glimpse of exactly how bare you were. You stopped at the vanity, leaning forward deliberately to pick up your hairbrush, making the dress ride up even higher.
"What the fuck," Vincent choked out, his gravelly voice dropping into a thick, raspy whisper. He set the espresso cup down so hard it nearly cracked the saucer as he stared at you from the pillows. He was staring right up the back of your thighs, his mind already frying. "Baby... what the fuck are you wearing? You can't—you can't wear that. That is not a dress! That's a belt!"
"I told you I was buying new clothes, Vincent!" you said lazily, brushing your hair without even looking at him. "I think I'm going to wear these around the house from now on... hmm... do you like it?"
Vincent let out a low, ragged groan, kicking the silk sheets off his legs as he scrambled out of bed. The second he stood up in his black silk robe, it was unmistakable, he was already getting suffocatingly tight, a heavy, pounding ache instantly hitting him between the legs. He was getting so hard it was actually painful, his body reacting to the tease right in front of him.
"Why are you like this.." he muttered before he took a clumsy step toward the vanity, his morning confidence visibly dead and buried. "You're trying to give me a literal blue balls before I even get dressed for work. Slide that thing off, babe. Seriously."
You slowly turned around, leaning your hips against the vanity, crossing your arms, making the short dress ride up even more at the front, teasing him right at eye level.
"But I like it." you smiled at him. "You get to look! You can sit in your home office today, watch me walk past the door in these dresses, and think about how much you want it."
He wanted to lunge forward, eyes darting down the bare gap of your legs. "I have a three hour video conference with the European investors today! How the fuck am I supposed to sit at my desk and look serious when I know you're walking around the house wearing a tiny piece of fabric?! Just let me slide inside for a second..? Please..? Can I at least run my finger through your pussy? Just let me slide one finger inside, please, sweetheart.."
The blistering afternoon heat bounced off the infinity pool as Vincent and his friend leaned back in their luxury lounge chairs, the atmosphere completely different this time. The tech acquisition forms were signed, the market was stable, and the sweating panic from a month ago had entirely evaporated. Vincent looked absolutely put together again, his dark, silver streaked hair neatly styled, his glasses pushed cleanly up his nose, and his linen shirt casually unbuttoned just a few tabs at the collar.
He took a slow, relaxed sip of his scotch, giving his friend a knowing look as they engaged in low toned, casual talk.
"I'm telling you, the logistics on the shipping infrastructure are going to triple our returns by Q3," Vincent murmured. "We just had to restructure the compliance team.. ugh.. get the right signatures, and clear out the dead weight. The firm is finally locked down now!"
His friend chuckled, taking a sip of his drink and looking out over the water. "Yeah? And what about the household compliance team? No more middle fingers from the sunroom?"
Vincent let out a low, rough laugh. "Told you I had it under control, didn't I? The storm cleared. Evelyn is officially gone from the firm, the books are clean, and everything is exactly back where it belongs."
Before his friend could reply, the heavy glass doors of the mansion slid open smoothly.
You walked out onto the sun drenched deck, radiant and carrying a massive, beautifully arranged silver platter. It was piled high with an elite spread, various fresh, chilled fruits, sliced prosciuttos, premium meats, and a colorful assortment of high end cheeses.
The pissed off attitude from the weeks prior was entirely gone. You were back to your usual sweet, attentive demeanor, smiling softly as you approached the two men.
"Heyyyy!" you said gently, your voice smooth and light as you carefully set the platter down on the low glass table right between their lounge chairs. You reached over, casually fixing the collar of Vincent's shirt, your fingers brushing against his neck for just a second. "Thought you two might want a little something to snack on while you talk business. Let me know if you need fresh drinks, okay?"
His friend's eyes went wide, completely stunned by the sudden transformation as he looked at the gourmet food and then up at you. "This looks so.. so good! You’re an absolute angel."
"Of course, love. Enjoy!" you replied sweetly. You caught Vincent’s eye, giving him a slow, affectionate little wink, before turning on your heel and sauntering back toward the house, the hem of your dress swaying gracefully with every step.
Vincent didn't say a word until the glass door clicked firmly shut behind you. The second you were out of earshot, he slumped back into his cushions with a sigh. He looked entirely weak in the knees, his knuckles turning slightly white against his scotch glass.
"See that?" Vincent whispered to his friend while a deep flush crept up his neck. "See how she just touched my collar? That sweet little act? It’s a total front. She is entirely lawless behind closed doors. Now that the rule is over.. and I'm out of the doghouse, she lets me have her every single night, and fucking hell... she is destroying me. I’d hand her the keys to every account I own just to keep her looking at me like that."
His friend just shook his head while he reached for a slice of cheese. "Vincent.. sorry to break it to you.. but.. you are still a fucking idiot. "
are you switching to radiostatic now? I hope it won't come across as criticism or anything, you should write what you enjoy. Though it's kinda sad that we lose you to a ship that's already overfilled with fanfics and fanarts while Vox x Y/N gets more dead with every single day
I'm not switching to anything. I'll absolutely continue writing x reader fics, they're how I started writing in the first place, and I'm not planning on abandoning them.
But I also want to write about one of my favorite ships from time to time because it's something I genuinely enjoy. At the end of the day, I write what inspires me, and I'd rather post things I'm passionate about than force myself to write something I don't feel motivated to create.
Please understand that I'll be posting whatever I want to write.. If that's not something you're interested in or comfortable with.. you're always free to unfollow or leave my blog.
Thank you for understanding!! Kisses and much much love!! 🤍
I'm sure you already know where this is going.. but I think I'm going to take another break from posting my writing for a little while.
I haven't been doing okay mentally lately. A lot has been happening in my life, and I've reached a point where I need to step back and focus on myself before things get any worse. Some old habits and thoughts that I worked really hard to leave behind have started creeping back in, and I don't want to let myself fall into that place again.
On top of that, I have so many drafts that I genuinely want to finish (including a very angsty and long murdermedia series), but I'm such a perfectionist that I spend hours every day rewriting the same scenes over and over because I want every fic to be good enough for you all. It's exhausting, even if I love writing.
I'm probably going to keep most of this to myself, like I usually do, but please don't worry if I disappear for a bit.
Thank you for every kind message, every reblog, every comment, and every bit of patience you've shown me. It means more than you know.
Writing is my passion, and it means so so so so sooo much to me.
HI POOKIEE :33 just wanted to say that I really love your writing style it’s just so unique and so you which makes it BEAUTIFUL 🫶🏻 ALSO can I request more modern Vincent pretty please thank youuu MWAH MWAH <33
Thank you so much 🥹!!
I will definitely write more modern!Vincent fics in the future, I'm currently cooking up something entirely different.. buuuut once I'm done, I will be more than happy to fulfill your request!! 🤍
Not so sure If you’ve watched the movie obsession but if you haven’t that’s okay! You can still write about this without having knowledge of the plot of the movie but this is very much inspired off of it.
Hear me out..Vincent with an obsessive reader (afab!). kind of like the same reader with the subtle BPD trait from both of your other Vincent and Alastor fic you did a while ago but this one is obsessive and insane enough to the point where she WILL commit any kind of gory murder who comes in the way of their relationship. OH and they’re married btw..
Bonus points if Vincent is a little freaked out by her (ironic since he’s also a killer himself) AND fantasized having a lady devoted and obsessed with him only to actually get what he wished for literally.
Feel free to go crazy with this!! And take ur time ^^ you’re seriously my favourite author and I get excited when you post a new fic AAHHHHHH 💕💕‼️‼️
You're not going to believe this, but I am actually writing one that's based off "obsession". I LITERALLY started writing it last night, and omggg , when I saw this, I genuinely gasped so hard.
I can't wait to finish it and post it soon 🥹.. It will probably be a series or something, but I'll see how it goes!
♥︎ afab!reader, murder, blood, gore (slight), domestic fluff, praise kink, masturbation, oral sex (receiving), p in v, dirty talk, gentle sex, kissing, non-sex repulsed Alastor.
♡ Summary: He buries his sins beneath the bayou, then comes home to the only person who still sees him as something worth loving.
♥︎ Authors note: Finally posting this little draft that has been rotting in my notes for ages.. I’ve gone back and forth on whether I should upload it because I’m lowkey embarrassed by it, but I figured I’d give it a chance! Maybe someone out there will understand the vision. I’d love to hear your thoughts! I don’t know everything about his character, but he’s slowly growing on me and I’m enjoying writing him. If there are any typos please lmk!
♡ Words: 5402
The air in the deep Louisiana woods was dead quiet. It was the kind of heavy, suffocating silence that only happened out in the bayou past midnight, where the atmosphere smelled like stagnant river water, moss, and wet rot.
The only consistent sound was his breathing. It was slow, steady, and terrifyingly calm. Alastor stood at the edge of a jagged ditch, the dim moonlight catching the round lenses of his glasses, turning them into two blind discs. A few dark curls had fallen loose, dangling over his brow as he tilted his head, inspecting his work with a quiet, analytical focus.
At his feet, the man in the ditch wasn't dead yet. He was still making wet, choking noises, chest heaving weakly against the mud.
Your boyfriend didn't look angry, he didn't look manic or thrilled, either. He just looked slightly inconvenienced by the mess as he adjusted his grip on the heavy wooden handle of the spade, shifting his weight. His skin glinted with a thin sheen of sweat under the moon. He stepped closer to the edge, lifted the iron spade, and drove the blunt edge down into the dark.
There was a sharp, splintering crack that cut through the night. Then, the wet choking stopped. The woods went completely still for a beat before the cicadas started up again, screaming in the distant cypress trees.
Alastor stood there over the pit for a long moment, waiting. He listened to the silence, making sure it was permanent.
Once he was satisfied, he set the shovel aside and pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket. With slow, precise strokes, he wiped a tiny smear of dark, thick blood from his cheekbone. He folded the cloth into a neat square, tucked it back into his pocket, and picked the shovel up again.
Shovel by shovel, he threw the heavy, black earth over the face below until the body was completely gone.
He scattered dead cypress leaves, twigs, and loose moss over the spot until the ground looked completely undisturbed. He did all of this with the exact same patient, gentle care he uses when he brushes a stray hair behind your ear.
When he finally stepped away, he used the swamp water to rinse the iron spade, drying it with a rough rag. He checked his cuffs, polished his glasses, and brushed the stray dirt off his trousers. By the time he started the long walk back toward the house, his hands were clean, his coat was immaculate, and the horror was completely buried in the dark.
The front door clicked shut, immediately locking out the heavy, oppressive humidity of the night. Alastor stepped into the dim hallway of the house, the quiet of the space a stark contrast to the chaotic violence he had just left behind in the bayou. He slid his damp wool coat off his shoulders, his eyes catching the faint light from the moon outside the window. He was exhausted, his hair clinging slightly to the side of his forehead from the swamp mist, but the moment he crossed his own threshold, his thoughts shifted entirely to you.
"Mon chou?" He called out into the dark. His voice was a low, smooth murmur, dripping with that effortless charm that always makes your chest tighten. "I'm back, sweet girl."
No answer followed his voice.
He frowned slightly, a flicker of curiosity crossing his handsome features. His shoes made absolutely no sound against the wooden floorboards as he moved deeper into the space, navigating the dimly lit hallway with a practiced grace. He fully expected to find you asleep, tucked safely beneath the covers, but as he drew closer to the cracked bedroom door, a sudden noise stopped him in his tracks.
It was the soft, frantic rustle of fabric. The distinct, hurried friction of the white linen sheets being twisted and pulled.
He froze right outside the threshold. Tilting his head, his sharp eyes narrowed behind the rims of his glasses as he listened. A second later, a sharp, breathless little gasp broke the silence of the room, a ragged, completely uninhibited sound that he had never heard you make in the daylight.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached out with one hand and pushed the bedroom door open a fraction of an inch further, peering into the shadows.
The sight inside made his breath hitch hard in his throat.
You hadn't even realized he was home. You were completely, utterly lost in your own world, tangled helplessly in the center of the mattress. The light streamed through the sheer curtains, illuminating the wild, beautiful mess of your tousled hair spread across the white pillows. Your eyes were squeezed tightly shut, your lips parted as you let out another soft whimper.
Your white nightgown had been hitched up high, completely exposing the soft skin of your thighs and breasts to the cool night air.
Your fingers were buried deep inside of your aching cunt, hips shifting in small, desperate arches against the sheets as you chased a release, entirely consumed by the private heat of the moment.
Alastor stood motionless in the doorway, the weight of the evening’s grim tasks began to lift, replaced by the quiet gravity of the scene before him. Watching the restless, peaceful sanctuary of the room, he felt the sharp edges of his world soften.
The sight of the person he cared for most, safe and lost in the quiet of the night, brings a rare moment of stillness to his restless mind.
The air in the room was heavy with the scent of jasmine from the open window and the soft rustle of the linens. He remained in the shadows for a long moment, simply adjusting to the transition from the harsh reality of the bayou to the delicate intimacy of his home.
There was an intense sense of tranquility in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the peace he finds here that he finds nowhere else in the city.
He didn't want to startle the quiet of the house, yet the urge to be near was overwhelming. With slow movements, he began to loosen his necktie, sliding through his fingers as he prepared to leave the darkness behind.
He was content to linger in the doorway for just a second more, savoring the quiet before making his presence known and reclaiming the comfort of his own life.
The soft rustle of the white sheets suddenly hitched, matching the sharp catch in your breath. Through the heavy, pleasant haze of your own touch, you opened your eyes and spotted his silhouette looming in the doorway.
You froze for a fraction of a second, your face flushing a deep, hot crimson.
But the heat pooling in your belly overrode your shyness. You didn't pull the covers up, you didn't even try to hide.
Instead, your hips gave another small, desperate tilt against the mattress, fingers gently brushing against your drenched slit, eyes locking onto him with an uncharacteristic, heavy lidded boldness.
Thrill shot straight down his spine. He didn’t think you had it in you to be this wicked, and seeing his sweet, naive girl look up at him with such shameless need.. god was he in love.
He walked toward the edge of the bed with grace, unbuttoning his vest as he went.
"Look at you," Alastor cooed, his voice dropping into a deep purr that made your skin tingle. He sank one knee into the soft mattress, leaning over you. He smelled like the midnight rain and old paper, his gaze tracking the frantic pulse jumping in your throat.
He reached out, his soft fingers gently brushing against your jawline, tilting your face up to his. His eyes crinkled at the corners, overflowing with a terrifyingly sweet warmth.
"So busy in our bed, and you didn't even hear me walk in, mon amour?" he murmured, his thumb stroking your lower lip. He slid his hand down, his warm palm settling over your trembling thigh, right next to where your own fingers are resting over your puffy clit.
He squeezed gently, anchoring you to the sheets. "Tell me, darling... do you want me to help my pretty girl out?"
Wrecked by the tension, your throat went dry. You could barely find your voice, so you just gave him a frantic, desperate little nod against his palm.
"Such a good, needy little thing," Alastor whispered, his smooth voice dragging over the words like honey. "Look at how soaked you’ve made these beautiful white sheets while I was gone. Were you thinking about me while you ruined yourself like this? Tell me, mon ange. I want to hear you say how filthy you're being for me."
He loves watching you twist under the weight of his words.
He slowly slid down the bed. He moved with a heavy pace, his hands holding your hips to pin you against the white sheets. He just settled himself between your thighs, leaning his weight over you as his brown curls brushed against your bare abdomen.
"Look at how wide open you are for me," he cooed. He pushed his wire rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, his brown eyes locking onto yours with a sweet intensity. "So desperate. So helpless. Tell me, poupée, did you think I wouldn't find out how filthy you're being in our bed?"
You let out a soft, embarrassing whine, your fingers tangling in the white linens as the anticipation drives you crazy. You tried to push your hips up toward him, but his heavy hands clamped down on your thighs, pinning you flat.
"Ah, ah, mon chou. No moving until I tell you," he smiled at you warmly.
Alastor leaned down further, his warm breath fanning over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you shiver. "You've been a very bad, impatient girl tonight. I think you need to be taught a lesson a little bit first."
He dragged the tip of his tongue along the soft skin of your thigh, moving agonizingly slow, completely avoiding the center of your heat.
You gasped, your back arching off the mattress as you begged him to just touch you.
"Alastor.. please—!"
"Please what, darling?" he whispered against your skin, lips brushing the damp skin of yours. He looked up at you through his lenses, his eyes squinting with amusement. "You want me to taste how ruined you made yourself for me? You want your man to clean up your little mess? Tell me exactly how bad you want it."
You could barely think straight, your face burning red as you nodded frantically, whispering your desperate pleas into the quiet room.
"Good," he whispered, the intensity in his gaze softening just enough to let a flicker of genuine affection through the playful authority. He enjoyed the way you hang on his every word, the connection between you growing stronger in the quiet of the room.
He remained still for a moment, simply watching the way the light caught the silver of his glasses, before he leaned back slightly to look at you.
He didn't even hold back his words, letting them drift up from the dark space between your thighs as he finally closed the distance.
"Look at you, trembling so hard for me," he whispered against you. "My sweet, precious girl. Look at you.. so soft. So good for me."
He pressed a slow, open mouthed kiss to the very top of your inner thigh, just a fraction of an inch away from where you are burning for him.
You let out a high, fractured sob, your fingers clawing blindly at the covers, your hips jerking upward in pure desperation.
But he was too strong compared to you, his heavy, warm hands stayed locked on your hips, keeping you pinned to the mattress. He tilted his head back, his spectacles sliding slightly down his nose as his eyes lock onto yours.
"I told you not to move, ma chérie," he spoke softly, his tone pure sugar, though the grip on your waist is unyielding. "You need to be patient. Let me see how much of this dirty little mess you made for me."
He leaned down again, and this time, the tip of his tongue finally dragged directly over your aching cunt.
The contact was so sudden, so intensely warm, that your back arched completely off the bed. A breathless scream hitching in your throat.. He used his tongue with an agonizingly slow, swirling deliberation, drinking you in while his thumbs stroked the soft skin of your hips to keep you sane.
"So sweet," he spoke against you, his breath hot and damp against your skin as he paused for a cruel, teasing second. He looked up at you, his curls tumbling loose over his forehead, his lips slick and shining in the pale light. "You taste absolutely delicious, cher. So wet for me. Tell me how good it feels.."
You were completely at his mercy, your face burning hot against the pillows as you wept out his name, whispering every desperate thing he wanted to hear just to get his mouth back on you. You had absolutely no idea that the tongue ruining you so beautifully is the very same one that calmly lied about a murder just hours ago, completely blind to the monster devouring you in the white sheets.
Your desperate, broken voice broke the heavy silence of the bedroom, raw and embarrassed as you finally gave him the words he’s been begging to hear.
"I... I was thinking about you," you whimpered, your fingers gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles were turning white. "Every time you're gone... every time you're late at work... I just lie here in the dark and think about your hands on me. I touch myself right where you touch me. I pretend you're right here."
The moment the words left your lips, his entire body went completely rigid between your thighs.
The control he usually kept wrapped around himself like armor completely disappeared. Listening to your soft, innocent voice describing how you ruin yourself for him while he's out in the shadows, completely unaware that he was actually out ending a man's life, sent a violent jolt of adrenaline straight through his veins.
He wants to ruin you. He wants to devour every single piece of your sweet, naive soul until there is nothing left of you that doesn't belong entirely to him.
His glasses slid down his nose as his head dropped back down between your legs with a sudden hunger.
Alastor buried his face against you, his tongue striking hard and deep, drinking you in with a frantic, desperate intensity that caught you completely off guard.
You screamed, hands flying to his head, fingers tangling deep into his damp, thick hair as your hips jerked violently against the mattress, cunt leaving a wet trail all over the lower half of his face.
"Yes, darling, just like that," he muttered against your pussy as he pressed his mouth flat against your center, sucking hard on your clit, enough to make you sob out loud. "Tell me more. Let me hear how nasty your sweet little head gets when your man isn't here to keep you clean." He mumbled against you, the vibrations causing you to grind against his face.
His hands remained firm, pinning you against the mattress as the overwhelming weight of his attention centered entirely on you. In the dim moonlight of the night, the air in the room felt thick and heavy, charged with an intensity that left you breathless.
You felt the world narrowing down to just this room, the scent of rain and old wood, and the steady, rhythmic sound of your own heart racing. The cicadas droned on, but neither of you seemed to hear them anymore.
The contrast between his usual composed exterior and this raw, focused hunger is startling, drawing you deeper into the vulnerability you’ve shared with him.
The pressure of his mouth and the relentless rhythm of his tongue finally pushed you over the edge. Your back arched completely off the mattress, a broken, high pitched moan tearing from your throat as your entire body shuddered with a deep release. Your fingers tightened convulsively in his damp curls, holding him against you until the final, tingling waves began to fade.
Alastor drank in every drop of your surrender, his hands holding your hips steady until your trembling stopped.
Slowly, he slid back up the bed, the mattress groaning beneath his weight. His eyes were hooded and intense, as he settled his chest over yours. He looked down at you, and you up at him, your face burning hot, your breathing ragged and uneven.
Even though the initial edge of your hunger has been met, there is still a heavy, aching emptiness pulling deep inside your belly. You want more. You want him to completely take you, to erase the distance entirely.
Your throat went tight, and a sudden wave of deep shyness washed over you. You bit your lower lip, eyes darting away from his gaze, too embarrassed to find the words to tell him what you really need.
He noticed the exact moment you retreat into your shell.
A sweet, incredibly charming smile melted onto his face, eyes crinkling with a mixture of affection and rare desire. He reached up, his warm fingers gently cupping your jaw, forcing you to look back at him.
"Look at those lovely, wide eyes," he spoke softly, his smooth voice dragging over the words like honey. He leaned down, lips brushing against yours, letting you taste yourself. "You're still so tense, mon chou. Your heart is practically hammering out of your chest. Tell me what's wrong."
You just shook your head weakly against the pillows, your hands coming up to rest uselessly against his chest. "Nothing... it's nothing, cher."
"Don't lie to me, pretty girl," he whispered as he traced his hand down your stomach, his palm resting flat against the heat of your lower stomach, pressing down just enough to make you let out a needy whine. "I can feel how much you're still aching right here. You're too shy to ask for it, aren't you? You want me to finish what I started."
He stayed draped over you, heavy palm pressing firmly against your lower belly, keeping that exquisite ache dialed all the way up. He watched the conflict play out across your face, his glasses reflecting the pale light as he waited for you to break.
"I'm waiting, darling," he whispered, his tone pure sugar, though his eyes are showing his true intentions. "Say the words for me. Tell me what you need."
The embarrassment is overwhelming, but the constant, warm pressure of his hand is driving you completely out of your mind. You gripped his shoulders, eyes locked onto his fascinating face as the final confession spilled out of you in a breathless rush.
"I... I hate when you work so late," you whined, your face burning a soft crimson against the white pillows. "I know you're working so hard for us down at the docks, coming home so exhausted and worn out... it makes me ache. I just want to hold you. I want you to forget about work and just focus on me tonight. Please."
The bedroom air suddenly went completely still.
His eyes widened just a fraction. A violent jolt of pure desire shot straight through his chest, hot and jarring. He has literally just stepped into the house. The copper tang of fresh blood is practically still under his fingernails, and his pulse is still hammering from the frantic, brutal rush of taking a life in the damp woods.
Hearing his sweet girl romanticize his late nights, picturing him doing honest, grueling "labor" while he was actually standing over a bleeding corpse, completely shatters his composure.
The sheer, blinding contrast between her pure devotion and the rot in his soul makes his chest tighten. She is so beautifully, heartbreakingly oblivious. It almost hurts him to know how easily he could ruin her, yet the urge to ravish her right now, while he is still covered in the shadows of death, is entirely overwhelming.
He let out a silent laugh. It sounded entirely different from his usual polite, charming chuckle, it’s a breathless sound of sheer relief.
"Is that right, mon chou?" he uttered as he moved over you, his warm hands settling against your bare skin. "You lie awake thinking of me? You think I work too hard in the dark?"
He leaned down, lips brushing against your cheek.
"Then come here to me, ma belle," he breathed softly against your skin, hands gliding down to your waist as he guided you up. "Let me show you exactly what I brought home for you."
He backed off entirely, shifting his weight until he was lying flat on his back in the center of the bedding.
Alastor didn't keep you waiting anymore. His hands flew to his collar, pulling his necktie loose with a single, sharp tug and tossing the silk blindly to the floorboards.
He unbuttoned his white shirt with an impatient, heavy grace, sliding the fabric off his shoulders to expose his chest to the moonlight. He stripped the rest of his clothing away.
Finally, he reached up, took off his spectacles, and set them on the nightstand with a quiet click.
Without the glass hiding his gaze, his brown eyes looked completely ravenous.
He stretched his long arms out over the pillows, completely relaxed and open.
"Come here, mon chou," he uttered. "Show your man exactly what you want."
The invitation made your heart hammer against your ribs. Your face burning hot, but the desperate ache in your belly won out over your shyness. You slowly moved forward, sliding your knees to either side of his hips until you were hovering directly over him, your white nightgown pooling around your thighs, before your slit finally made contact with his aching dick.
He let out a low, satisfied hiss as your warmth settles over him. His larger hands came up to grip your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he tilted his head back against the pillows, his dark strands of hair spilling over the side of his brow as he looked up at you from below, his gaze burning with a sweet intensity.
"Look at my pretty girl," he said carefully, his slight accent dragging over the words like honey. He gave your waist a firm, upward nudge, urging you to move against him. "So shy a second ago, and now you're sitting right on top of me. Don't stop now, darling. Let me see how well you can handle me."
You let out a quiet hum as his hands nudged your waist, and the sheer desperation in your stomach finally overrode your hesitation. You shifted your weight, slowly sinking down onto him, taking him in completely. The sudden, intense fullness made your eyes flutter shut, a fractured, high pitched whimper tearing from your throat as you rested your palms flat against his bare chest.
He let out a whine, chest heaving beneath your hands, fingers digging brutally into the soft skin of your hips, knuckles turning white from the sheer force of his grip as he held you tight against him.
"Yes, mon chou, just like that," he moaned out. "Look at you... t—taking me so.. well.. ghk—! Look at how beautifully you fit right on top of me."
The room was silent except for the sound of your shared breaths and his encouraging words, the moonlight casting long, soft shadows across the bed. In this quiet sanctuary, the world outside seemed to disappear, leaving only the profound connection between you. His gaze remained fixed on yours, filled with a deep, quiet intensity that speaks of more than just the moment.
Alastor reached up, his touch gentle as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead. There is a sense of belonging in the way you move together, a rhythmic grace born from trust and shared vulnerability.
Every heartbeat feels amplified in the stillness, a steady reminder of the bond that has grown between you over time.
"You are everything," he whined, voice barely a whisper but carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken promises.
The air between you was thick with an undeniable tenderness, a feeling of safety that allows you to let go of the rest of the world.
He let out a harsh, ragged groan as your hips rolled against his, the sudden shift in your rhythm catching him completely off guard.
"Cher... please," you whimpered against his warm skin, voice trembling as you kept moving, your hair tumbling over your shoulders in a wild, soft mess. "You feel so good. I love when you hold me like this. I never want you to leave me... mngh—!.. ever."
Hearing your sweet voice say those things right into his ear completely wrecked him. The cold, meticulous killer who handles everything with clinical precision got completely lost in you. His mind spun, the grim reality of the bayou melting away, replaced entirely by your warmth, your scent, and the intoxicating rhythm of your body. He is completely captivated.
He threw his head back into the white pillows, his chest heaving violently.
"Mon chou... ah, you're killing your man," he rasped, his voice completely breaking into a desperate moan. He pushed his hips up to meet yours, matching your pace as his gaze locked onto you through the shadows. "Keep doing that.. yes, yes, just like that.. oh god—.. tell me how much you love me, ma belle. Let me hear it."
You let out a loud cry, completely overwhelmed by how unraveled he is for you. You kept moving against him, leaning down to press your lips against his jaw as you whispered every sweet, adoring thought in your head, totally blind to the fact that you had the most dangerous man in New Orleans completely brought to his knees.
He let out a broken, ragged sound, a completely pathetic, desperate whine that shattered any remaining trace of his usual demeanor. The absolute contrast of your soft, delicate skin against his rough hands was intoxicating. He handles nothing but cold steel, wet mud, and the heavy violence all night, but right now, you feel so incredibly soft and so warm beneath the white sheets that it completely unhinges him.
"You're so soft, you feel so.. so good, you're beautiful," he gasps out, his voice cracking, thick with a desperate, heavy need. "So beautiful, mon chou... please."
His hands left your waist, trailing up your ribcage with a frantic, trembling touch until he can cup your face.
He pulled you down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of your skin like a dying man needing air.
He was completely weeping your name against your skin, hips jerking up to meet yours in raw, messy thrusts that lack any of his usual calculated control.
"I'm yours," he huffed, his hair rubbing against your jaw as he lost his mind entirely beneath you. "I'm all yours, pretty girl. Look at what you're doing to me. Please, darling, don't stop. Just keep ruining me."
You let out a loud moan, completely overwhelmed by how pathetically he was begging for you.
He was completely unraveled beneath you, voice cracking as he begged against your skin.
You let out a sharp, needy whine and threw your head back, tousled hair flying around your shoulders as you pick up the pace.
You start arching and rolling your hips down onto him with a sudden desperation, using your weight to push him deeper and deeper into the white mattress.
He let out a loud, strangled gasp, his head snapping back into the pillows. His lovely skin was slick with sweat, jaw clenching so hard the muscles were standing out. He could barely breathe. His hands left your face and slid down to grab your thighs, but he wasn't trying to stop your rhythm.
"Oh, mon amour... fuckkk yeeess," he gasped out, it's really rare to hear him curse, but god, does it do things to you when he does. He pushed his hips up to meet every single one of your deep, rolling descents, completely helpless against the soft, tight friction of your body. Feeling your pussy clamp over him, over and over again. "You're so wet... so tight... you're destroying me..!"
You were panting heavily, your palms flat against his chest as you felt his heartbeat hammering like a trapped bird beneath your hands.
The sheer power you have over him right now makes you bolder. You leaned down, lips brushing his wet cheek as you rolled your hips again, harder this time, demanding everything he has left.
"You're holding on so tight... you feel so warm inside me..Al" you huffed breathlessly, your voice shaking with the oncoming peak. "Don't look away, please.. j—just stay right there and let me keep you safe from whatever is making you worry so much."
"You're too sweet for me, si douce... it almost hurts how pure you are.." Alastor mumbled, eyes half shut and unfocused in the night, completely blind to anything but you.
He lifted his hips in a sudden, messy surge, matching your frantic energy as the tension in the room thickened to a breaking point. "But please... let me have t—this.. fuck! Let me just lose myself in you tonight. I need you so badly."
Your fingers clawed blindly at his bare chest, nails digging into his delicate skin.
You were completely consumed by the heat, pushing your soft body down against him with a sudden, desperate strength that drives him deep into the white linen.
He completely lost the ability to form words, thumbs pressing hard into your skin, but he can't lift you, he can only endure the exquisite torture you are dealing out.
"Look at me, darling. Look at me while you cum." he calls out to you, chest heaving violently beneath your palms. His curls were soaked with sweat, plastering against his forehead as his hips lift in short, messy jerks, completely helpless against the rolling tide of your movements.
"Mnghh—.. take it all from me.. yes! Just! Like that!"
The intense friction finally pushed you both over the edge. Your back arched off his chest, and a breathless cry slipped out of your mouth as you came. Your fingers dug hard into his shoulders to keep your balance while your body shuddered.
Beneath you, he completely lost control. He let out a loud, choked groan, bucking his hips up into you one last time before he emptied himself deep inside of you.
His head fell back into the white pillows and his eyes squeezed shut. His chest moved up and down, and his whole body was shaking under you.
For a long minute, the only sound in the room was the two of you catching your breath. The hot, sticky air hitting your bare skin from the open window.
You collapsed forward, completely exhausted, and laid your head down on his chest. He let out a long, heavy sigh, his arms wrapping tightly around your back.
Coming from him, all of this was rare. It almost shocked you how quickly he wrapped his arms around you. He wasn't a big fan of physical affection.
You knew him well.
Or, well, at least you thought you did.
He didn't want you to get off him, so he gently rolled the two of you onto your sides together. He pulled you tight against his chest, yanking the white sheets up over your shoulders so you don't get cold.
He buried his face deep into your messy hair, breathing you in.
"You are absolutely perfect, my dear," he whispered against your neck, his slight accent sounding thick and sleepy. He trailed his hand down, fingers drawing slow, gentle circles on your bare hip. "My sweet, pretty girl."
You let out a soft sigh and closed your eyes. You were resting your hand flat over his heart, listening to it slowly calm down.
You feel completely safe and loved, having absolutely no idea about the horrible things he just did out in the woods.
Hii, just popping in to say that I hope you’re doing better after your surgery. Don’t forget to take your time & to take care of yourself! Your writing is honestly the best piece of media I’ve ever read on here, you’re so talented. But it’s important to put health first and that you take time to recover! :)
Take it easy & get well soon!
xx - Anon
This is so kind omfg thank you so much love!! I'm doing my best to rest and recover, and hearing that you enjoy my writing this much genuinely means everything to me. People like you keep me motivated to continue writing! Thank you for taking the time to send this!! Kisses!! 🤍🥹
♥︎ afab!reader, minor age gap, older!Vincent, younger!Reader (in her late-ish 20s), pathetic!Vincent, one night stand, alcohol, drunken flirting, drunken kissing, drunk sex, rough sex, rough kissing, cunnilingus (?), fingering, elevator sex, getting caught (accidentally), doggy style, missionary, praise kink, dirty talk, minor breathplay, biting kink, p in v.
♡ Summary: Getting blackout drunk with a famous anchorman was fun. Getting caught by his building's board of directors mid act in the elevator was not. Now Vincent is facing eviction, a brutal hangover, and the fact that he's completely hooked on you.
♥︎ Authors note: Hi cuties! I am finally writing something again after my surgery! Recovery honestly sucks, but I am feeling so much better than I did before! (the things I'm doing for looks..) I'm pretty sure after a few more days I'll be back to posting regularly without a doubt (as well as taking requests). Thank you all for being so patient with me while I was away. I hope this fic makes up for the radio silence! Enjoy, thoughts are appreciated!
♡ Words: 8544
The rain outside was coming down in sheets, drumming against the fogged up glass of the tavern. Inside, the air smelled of stale tobacco, cheap whiskey, and wet wool. You were just trying to dry off, staring into a half empty glass, when the stool next to you scraped against the floor.
A man sat down, exhaling a long, heavy breath. He took off his thick rimmed glasses, wiped the condensation onto his coat sleeve, and hooked them back over his ears.
You blinked, looking at his profile. The sharp, hooked nose. The crisp white strands threading through the dark hair at his temples. The tailored suit jacket, now slightly damp.
Holy shit. You knew that face. You saw that face every single night at six o'clock on the wood paneled television set in your living room. He was the well known, Vincent Whittman. The voice that delivered the city's worst news with total, unshakable calm.
Vincent caught you staring, and god, did he look just incredibly tired.
"Don't tell me," he muttered, a faint, amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "My tie was crooked during the evening broadcast."
"No, your tie was fine," you said, your voice a little louder than you intended. "I watch you every night. Seriously, I love your show! You're the only one on the air who tells it straight."
The tired slump in his shoulders vanished instantly, he sat up a little straighter, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. A slow, gratified grin spread across his face, lighting up the lines around his eyes. He absolutely loved it.
"Is that so?" He turned his stool fully toward you, resting an elbow on the bar. "The only one, huh? Well, it’s a tough job keeping this city honest, but someone has to do it."
He flagged down the bartender with a flick of his wrist, signaling for two more of whatever you were drinking.
"Tell me more," he said, leaning in, his eyes sharp behind his glasses. "What else do you think of the broadcast?"
You spent the next hour feeding his ego, and he ate up every single word, laughing loudly and buying round after round to keep you talking.
"Keep them coming, Tony," Vincent called out, slapping a crisp twenty dollar bill onto the counter without looking.
He leaned closer, the scent of expensive cologne and rye whiskey hitting you. The more you praised his delivery on the recent election coverage, the more his chest puffed out. He loved the sound of his own name on your lips.
"You've got a sharp eye," he murmured, swirling the ice in his fresh glass. "Most folks just stare at the screen like cattle. But you? You actually listen, what a good girl."
You laughed, the alcohol already starting to warm your cheeks. Every time you finished a story or complimented his poise under pressure, he beamed, nodding along as if you were handing him a trophy. He started letting you into the inner circle, whispering gossipy, behind the scenes secrets about his studio rivals and the network executives who tried to tell him what to do.
"They think they run the place," he scoffed, throwing his head back to finish his drink. "But without this face, without this voice? They’ve got fucking nothing."
By the time the third round arrived, your words were turning soft around the edges, and his laughter was getting louder, echoing off the low ceiling of the bar.
Vincent slid his stool an inch closer to yours. The glasses on his nose had fogged up again from the warmth of the bar, and he pushed them up into his hair, revealing mismatched, heavy, lidded eyes. The white strands at his temples caught the dim light as he leaned his chin on his hand, looking at you with total focus.
"Alright, enough about the newsroom," he said, a lazy, lopsided smile on his face. "I've been talking about myself for an hour. Let's talk about you."
He gestured with his glass toward you, his eyes scanning your face.
"What's a pretty girl like you doing sitting all alone in a dive like this on a rainy night? Don't tell me you don't have a boyfriend waiting at home, wondering where you are."
You looked down at your drink, a little flush creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the alcohol. "No," you admitted, swirling the melting ice. "No boyfriend."
He let out a low, satisfied laugh, sitting back just a bit as if he’d just won a prize.
"No kidding?" he murmured, shaking his head. "Well, the fellas in this town must be losing their minds, then... or, well, just plain blind."
You leaned in a little closer, the warmth of the rye whiskey making you bold.
"And what about you?" you asked, tilting your head. "An important, handsome anchorman like you must have girls lining up outside the studio doors."
He just let out a low, rumbling hum, completely unbothered by the question. In fact, he seemed to thrive on it. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your wrist as he settled his hand onto the bar right next to yours.
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth, late night register. "There’s a difference between girls who want to see their names in the society papers, and a girl who actually catches my eye."
His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and heavy with intent. He had absolutely zero shame, using that famous charisma like a weapon.
"Besides," he continued, sliding his hand just a fraction closer until his thumb lightly traced the back of your knuckles. "Those girls aren't sitting right next to me. And they certainly don't look like you do right now."
Your heart did a sudden, chaotic flip. He wasn't flirting! He was completely taking control of the room, fully aware of exactly what he was doing to you!
You held his gaze, refusing to look away or back down from the sudden heat in his voice. The alcohol was humming loudly in your veins now, melting away any lingering hesitation and replacing it with a sudden, sharp burst of confidence. Instead of pulling your hand away, you turned your palm up, letting your fingers casual slip between his, feeling the warm, slightly calloused texture of his skin.
"Is that right?" you murmured, leaning so close your shoulder brushed his damp suit jacket. "You talk a big game for a man who spends his life reading scripts that other people write for him. Tell me something real.. what happens when the cameras turn off and you’re alone in that big apartment of yours? Are you always this shameless?"
He loved a challenge, and the fact that you weren't intimidated by his television persona only seemed to excite him. He gripped your hand a little tighter, his thumb firmly pressing into the center of your palm as he leaned down until his breath fanned against your ear, completely ignoring the bartender who was awkwardly wiping down the counter a few feet away.
"I don't play roles when I'm off the clock, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice dropping into a gravelly, intimate register that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "When I see something I want, I don't see the point in wasting time with manners. And right now, looking at you, manners are the very last thing on my mind. But let's turn that back on you. You're asking a lot of heavy questions for a girl who claims she was just looking to get out of the rain. What is it you're really looking for tonight? Just a story to tell your friends tomorrow, or did you come in here hoping someone would finally give you trouble?"
You tilted your head up, your lips inches from his jawline, completely intoxicated by the smell of his cologne, the heavy alcohol, and the sheer audacity of his undivided attention. "Maybe I like trouble," you challenged softly, your eyes tracking the sharp, hooked slope of his nose down to the smirk resting on his lips. "Especially the kind that comes with a very.. very famous voice."
He hummed softly, a sound of pure satisfaction, and flagged down the bartender with his free hand without ever breaking eye contact with you. "Two more. Double them up this time, and don't bother with the water." He turned his full attention back to you, his eyes locking onto your mouth with a heavy focus that made the rest of the crowded, smoky bar completely vanish into the background.
The double shots arrived, the dark amber liquid sloshing against the rims of the heavy glasses as the bartender set them down with a dull thud. He didn't even hesitate, picking up his glass and downing the burning rye in one fluid swallow before setting it back down, his eyes never leaving yours. The heat from the alcohol was fully taking over now, loosening the last of his professional restraint and coloring his cheeks with a heavy, dangerous flush that made him look completely different from the sanitized man on the television screen.
"You know," he murmured, his voice dropping into a raspy, unhurried drawl that felt heavy with liquor, "an hour ago, I was sitting here thinking about how much I fucking hated this city tonight. But now? Now all I can think about is taking you back to my place, locking that heavy oak door behind us, and finding out if you taste as sweet as you look under these miserable lights." He leaned in closer, the scent of alcohol and expensive tobacco thick between you, his hand sliding up your arm to grip the back of your neck, his thumb caressing the soft skin right beneath your ear. "I want to hear that pretty voice of yours making noises that have absolutely nothing to do with the evening news. I want to see you completely breathless, ruined for any other man who thinks he can just walk up and talk to you."
Your head was spinning from the sheer speed of the alcohol hitting your system, your heart hammering against your ribs as his words sent a jolt of pure adrenaline straight through you. You leaned heavily into his palm, your hand finding the lapel of his damp suit jacket and tugging him down until your lips almost brushed his jaw. "You think you can handle that?" you whispered back, your words slightly slurred but dripping with confidence. "You're used to reading from a script, Mr. Whittman. You think you know exactly how the night ends, but you don't know the first thing about what I like. If we go back to your apartment, I'm not just going to sit there and let you take whatever you want.."
"God, you have a beautiful, wicked mouth," he muttered, his gaze dropping to your lips with total, shameless fixation. "Keep talking like that, and we aren't even going to make it to the taxi. I'll drag you straight into the alleyway behind this place and show you exactly what happens to pretty girls who try to push me around." He smiled. "Let's drink the rest of this bottle, love. Let's get so numb we forget our own names, and then I'm going to take my time taking you apart piece by piece."
The rain was still pouring down in heavy, blinding sheets as the heavy wooden door of the bar swung open, spilling the two of you out onto the slick, shimmering pavement. The cold air hit you like a physical blow, but it did nothing to sober you up, if anything, the sudden shift made your head spin twice as fast, the lights of the city blurring into long, bleeding streaks of amber and crimson. You couldn't even walk straight, your heels catching on the uneven concrete as you stumbled heavily against his side, laughing breathlessly as his arm locked tightly around your waist to keep you upright. Before you could even clear the fog from your brain, he spun you around, pinning you back against the cold, wet metal of a parked car and crashing his mouth down onto yours with a messy, desperate hunger that tasted entirely of rye whiskey and raw heat.
Your hands flew to his jacket, your fingers tangling in the damp fabric as you kissed him back just as fiercely, completely oblivious to the world around you until a yellow checker cab screeched to a halt right at the curb, its horn blaring loudly to shatter the moment.
"Get in," he muttered against your lips, his breathing ragged and heavy as he pulled away just enough to wrench the cab door open, practically hoisting you inside before sliding in right behind you and slamming the door shut against the storm.
The interior of the taxi smelled of old leather and cheap air freshener, the rhythmic thuds of the windshield wipers doing nothing to slow down the frantic pace of the night. The moment the cab pulled away from the curb, any remaining filter you had was completely gone, replaced by a sudden, liquor fueled boldness that made you crawl straight onto his lap, your hands sliding shamelessly underneath his tailored suit jacket to feel the warmth of his chest through his crisp white shirt. You trailed your lips along his jawline, your fingers teasing the collar of his shirt, driving him absolutely wild as his hands gripped your hips with a bruising force.
"Hey! Buddy! Lady! Break it off back there!" the taxi driver snapped suddenly, his irritated face glaring at you through the rearview mirror as he swerved around a corner. "I run a clean cab. Save that garbage for behind closed doors or get the hell out of my car!"
The interruption hit Vincent like a lightning bolt, snapping him out of his haze and replacing it with an instant, ugly surge of drunk arrogance. His face flushed a dark, angry red as he bolted upright, his grip tightening on your waist as he glared furiously at the back of the driver's head, entirely forgetting his smooth persona as his voice boomed through the cramped vehicle. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?" he snarled, his words thick and heavily slurred but dripping with absolute malice. "You keep your fucking eyes on the road and drive the car! I pay your miserable salary, you pathetic little nobody! If I want to touch her, I'll touch her wherever and whenever I damn well please, and you won't say a single word about it!"
The driver opened his mouth to shout back, the tension in the cab instantly skyrocketing as the two men started screaming over each other, the car swerving slightly on the slick pavement. Your head was pounding from the noise, and seeing him get so viciously distracted was ruining the heat of the moment, so you reached up, wrapping both of your hands around his face and forcing it down until his angry, bloodshot eyes behind his crooked glasses were locked onto yours. "Hey, look at me," you whispered loudly, your voice heavy with alcohol but firm as you stroked his cheek, drawing his attention away from the shouting match. "Calm down. Forget about him. Stop wasting your breath on him and focus on me."
The touch of your hands against his skin acted like an instant narcotic, completely draining the fury from his expression and leaving him looking dazed, heavy lidded, and utterly captivated by you. A slow, lazy, lopsided smirk spread across his face, hands sliding back up your thighs as he leaned his forehead heavily against yours, the driver's angry muttering fading into background noise.
"You're right, baby," he murmured thickly, his warm, whiskey scented breath brushing your lips as his gaze locked onto your mouth with total, shameless adoration. "You're absolutely right. Fuck him. Fuck this whole miserable city. None of them matter anyway." He pulled you flush against his chest, his hands wandering boldly once again as he buried his face in your neck, completely lost in the fog of the liquor and the scent of your skin. "You're the only thing I'm looking at tonight."
The taxi screeched to a halt in front of a towering, art deco apartment building, the brass fixtures on the awning gleaming through the torrential rain. He threw a crumpled handful of bills at the front seat without counting them, threw the door open, and practically dragged you out into the downpour.
You were both laughing hysterically now, completely plastered, your knees buckling as you stumbled through the heavy glass doors of the lobby.
The grand foyer was dead silent, lined with polished marble and a plush green carpet that felt like walking on a cloud to your numb feet. The night doorman gave a sharp, startled look from behind his desk, but one glance at Vincent’s fierce, protective grip on your waist, and the sheer, dangerous look in his eyes, made the man look down at his paperwork instantly, pretending he saw absolutely nothing.
He hauled you straight toward the elevator at the back of the lobby. It was a classic setup, featuring a heavy, outer mahogany door and an inner metal accordion gate. Because it was the middle of the night, the manual operator was gone, leaving it on the automatic night service setting. He yanked the outer door open, shoved the metal gate aside, and pulled you into the wood paneled cab. The second the heavy doors clanked shut and the elevator groaned to life, the claustrophobic, private warmth of the small space blew away what was left of his control.
He didn't even wait for the machine to pass the second floor. With a low, ragged groan, he slammed his body against yours, pinning your back hard against the smooth wooden wall of the elevator. The impact rattled the glasses up into his hair, his locks falling wildly across his forehead.
He didn't care.
He crashed his mouth onto yours with a desperate, bruising hunger that made your head spin into complete orbit. His hands were completely frantic now, tearing at your coat, his heavy warmth completely overwhelming you as the elevator hummed and vibrated beneath your feet.
"I told you," he whimpered against your lips, his voice incredibly thick, raspy, and completely undone by the liquor. "I told you I wasn't going to wait."
He locked one hand around your waist to hold you up, his thigh wedging directly between yours to pin you flush against the wood. His free hand slid down, completely shameless, tearing past the hem of your damp dress. You gasped into his mouth as his large, warm hand traveled straight up your thigh, his fingers sliding deliberately beneath the silky edge of your panties, pushing them to the side as he sank a finger into your wet and sopping cunt.
The sheer sensation of his touch against your bare skin made your hips arch off the wall, your fingers digging furiously into the fabric of his suit jacket just to stay grounded as the elevator kept climbing, the mechanical clicks of the passing floors echoing softly over the sound of your heavy, tangled breathing.
The elevator car shuddered slightly as it continued its slow, mechanical ascent, the heavy hum of the cables vibrating right through the soles of your shoes. He was completely blind to everything but you now, the liquor driving away every ounce of his primetime television dignity. With a rough, impatient curse muttered right against your neck, his hands shifted frantically. He let go of your waist just long enough to clumsily undo the fastening of his trousers, pushing them down just enough, while his other hand hooked into the fabric of your dress and hitched it up past your hips, forcing you to turn around. You arched into him, your hands gripping his broad shoulders for dear life as he stepped in closer, his heavy weight pressing you flat against the wood as he prepared to lift you completely.
Ding!
The sharp, crystal clear chime of the elevator echoed through the small wooden cab like a gunshot.
Before either of you could even process the sound through the thick fog of whiskey, the heavy outer mahogany doors slid back with a smooth click, followed by the metallic clatter of the inner accordion gate retracting automatically. The cool air of the high rise hallway rushed into the warm, breathless car.
Standing right there on the brightly lit parquet floor of the eighth story was an elderly, incredibly posh couple dressed in formal evening wear, the husband in a crisp tuxedo and the wife draped in a lavish mink stole and expensive pearls. They had clearly just returned from a gala, expecting a quiet ride down to the lobby.
Because of how he had spun you around in his frantic rush, you were pinned face first against the back wall of the elevator, your hands braced against the wood. The famous, dignified evening news anchorman was flushed a dark, sweaty red, his expensive glasses pushed up wildly into his hair, his trousers riding low on his hips, and his hands buried high under the bunched up fabric of your dress as he grinded heavily against your backside.
The silence that followed was suffocating. The old woman's jaw dropped so fast her pearl necklace rattled against her collarbone, her eyes swelling to the size of saucers as she gripped her husband's arm. The old man froze entirely, his sophisticated expression twisting into a mask of pure, aristocratic horror as he stared directly at the unmistakable face of the city's most trusted public figure caught in the most scandalous, shameless position imaginable.
For a second, Vincent didn't even move, his drunk brain struggling to register why the wall in front of him had suddenly disappeared into a bright hallway. He slowly blinked his heavy, bloodshot eyes, turning his head over his shoulder to look at them, a loose, lopsided, completely plastered smirk stretching across his face as his hands stayed firmly right where they shouldn't be.
He slowly turned his head over his shoulder, his bloodshot eyes blinking heavily as he tried to focus on the two stunned aristocrats standing in the hallway. Instead of pulling away or showing even a flicker of shame, a loose, arrogant grin spread across his face, his fingers tightening stubbornly against your hips as he gave a lazy, drunken shrug.
"What are you two staring at?" he slurred, his deep television voice echoing loudly down the quiet hallway, completely lacking its usual broadcast clarity. "Take the stairs if you don't like the programming. I pay rent here, and right now, the elevator is occupied."
The old man’s face went from pale shock to a furious, bright purple, his cane rattling against the floor as he gasped for air. "You—you disgraceful degenerate! You are on television!"
"And I'm a human being off the clock, you ancient fossil!" Vincent barked back, his temper flaring instantly just like it had with the taxi driver. And he actually had the audacity to lean back into you, his hips shifting as he tried to resume exactly what he had started right in front of them.
"Ignore 'em, baby. They'll be dead in a week anyway! Let's just finish this..."
"Oh, absolutely not," you gasped, the sheer absurdity of the situation finally cutting through the heavy fog of the whiskey.
You turned around as you planted your hands firmly against his chest, using every ounce of your strength to push his heavy, muscular frame back until his shoulders hit the opposite wall of the elevator. You reached down with one hand, frantically pulling the hem of your dress back down over your thighs, while your other hand grabbed his face to stop him from lunging back toward you.
"Stop! Stop it right now!" you hissed, your cheeks burning with a mix of intoxication and secondhand embarrassment as you looked at the old couple, who looked like they were about to have twin heart attacks. "I am not doing this in front of an audience that needs a pair of bifocals just to see what's happening. Get your pants up!... Put your dick in oh my god don't..— don't zip them up yet!"
Vincent blinked down at you, looking completely dazed and deeply offended that you were halting the action, his lower lip pouting slightly like a scolded child. "But baby..." he muttered thickly, his hair completely disheveled as he weakly reached for your waist again, completely blind to the fact that the old woman was currently clutching her chest and whispering for her husband to call the police.
You didn't wait for him to complain any further. Ignoring the old man's furious sputtering and the old woman’s dramatic gasps, you grabbed the knot of his silk tie and yanked it forward like a leash.
He stumbled out of the elevator cab with a heavy, uncoordinated groan, his trousers still dangerously loose around his hips as his long legs tangled over each other. You practically dragged him across the plush hallway carpet, his heavy shoulder scraping against the wallpapered wall as he let out a loose, drunken sob, completely shocked by how forcefully you were handling him. Behind you, the elevator doors finally clanked shut with a heavy metallic slide, cutting off the horrified glares of the elderly couple and leaving the two of you alone in the dim corridor.
"Key," you hissed, bracing your shoulder under his arm to keep his entire weight from collapsing onto the floor. "Where is the fucking key?"
He blinked lazily at the dark mahogany door of apartment 8B, a lopsided smile spreading across his face as he reached into his jacket pocket. Instead of a key, he pulled out a gold cigarette case, offering it to you with an incredibly slow, dim-witted nod. "You're spectacular, you know that? Firefire—furious. I love it when you're furious."
"The door key, you idiot," you muttered, groaning under his weight as you reached into his pockets yourself, your hands frantically searching until your fingers wrapped around a cold brass ring.
You jammed the key into the lock, twisted it until the latch clicked open, and practically threw your bodies inside. The apartment door slammed shut behind you, locking out the rest of the world and plunging the two of you into the quiet, shadowy luxury of his apartment.
Vincent didn’t care that his knees were shaking or that his glasses were currently sliding down the bridge of his crooked nose. He didn't even care that his trousers were unbuckled. With a low whine that rattled deep in his chest, he caught you by the waist, lifted you completely off your feet, and pinned you hard against the nearest wall of the dark foyer. A framed painting rattled against the plaster above your head, but neither of you noticed.
"You think you're in charge, sweetheart?" he muttered thickly, his voice raspy, laced with liquor as his breath brushed hot against your lips. "You think you can just pull me around by my tie and call the shots?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He crashed his mouth down onto yours, his lips tasting sharply of desperation. His large, warm hands grabbed the fabric of your dress, bunching it up in his fists and tearing it upward past your hips. You gasped into his mouth, your thighs wrapping tightly around his waist to hold yourself up as your fingers dug into his thick hair, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single inch of air left between your bodies.
Vincent stumbled forward, carrying your weight out of the foyer and into the shadowy expanse of his living room. He didn't even make it to the bedroom. His knees buckled under the weight of the alcohol, and you both tumbled wildly onto the thick, expensive Persian rug in the center of the room. You laughed breathlessly against his neck as you fell, the room spinning violently, but the second he rolled over and pinned you beneath him, the laughter stopped.
His suit jacket was half off his shoulders, his tie completely askew, and his mismatched eyes burned with a reckless hunger behind his lenses. He reached down, ripping his trousers and underwear the rest of the way down his thighs, his touch frantic and rough as his hand found the wet skin of your bare thigh again.
"I've been thinking about this since the second you sat down next to me," he growled, his thumbs digging into your hips as he positioned himself between your legs. "And I'm not waiting another second."
He lunged forward, driving into you with a heavy, unbridled force that made you arch your back off the floor, a loud gasp tearing from your throat as your hands clawed at his shoulders. The world dissolved into a complete, dizzying blur of hot skin, the heavy scent of his cologne, and the rhythmic, desperate friction of your bodies moving together on the floor.
Vincent was completely unhinged now, losing all of his famous, controlled broadcast dignity as he buried his face in your neck, letting out ragged, breathy groans with every heavy thrust, completely consuming you in the dark.
The sheer intensity of it was completely overwhelming, the pleasure hitting you so hard that you couldn't control the loud, uninhibited cries tearing from your throat. Your voice echoed sharply off the high apartment ceiling, completely shattering the quiet luxury of the dark living room.
Vincent let out a low, ragged curse against your ear, the sound of your loud reactions driving him completely over the edge. "You're so.. mngh— loud, babe. Fuck..! Keep it down a little." Wanting to muffle the noise before the neighbors called the building manager, he shifted his weight, pressing his large, warm hand firmly over your mouth.
His palms smelled of alcohol and expensive leather, his fingers anchoring tightly against your jawline to hold your head still as he kept driving his thick cock into you with a relentless, heavy rhythm.
The sudden, suffocating heat of his hand over your mouth didn't slow you down, if anything, the restriction only poured gasoline on the fire. A fierce jolt of adrenaline shot straight down your spine, your eyes widening in the shadows as you bit down slightly on the meat of his palm, your hips arching violently off the rug to meet every rough, heavy thrust.
Vincent moaned loudly at the sudden bite, his chest heaving as he leaned down until his forehead pressed against yours, his crooked glasses clicking against your brow. He kept his hand clamped tight, turning your loud screams into muffled, breathless whimpers that vibrated right against his skin.
"Yeah, that's it," he growled thickly, his voice a raspy, intoxicated whisper right against your face as his movements grew faster and completely unhinged. "Take it. You wanted trouble, sweetheart, and you're getting exactly what you asked for. Go ahead, take it, such a good girl... yeahhh..— hnggh!! You're so fucking hot. Gonna make me cum so fucking hard already! Nobody is coming to save you tonight."
Your fingers clawed furiously into the fabric of his shirt, leaving deep creases in the linen as the room tilted and spun into a complete, dizzying vortex of friction and heat. He was completely undone, losing every single ounce of his professional dignity as he spent his remaining strength pinned against you, his dirty talk turning into a string of breathless, gravelly praise until the final, heavy waves of your orgasm hit you both like a physical shock wave.
The heavy, ragged gasps of the climax had barely settled before the heat between you flared right back up, the alcohol refusing to let either of you slow down. He rolled his heavy weight off you just long enough to wrench his damp, wrinkled shirt completely over his head, discarding it onto the floor, leaving his bare chest gleaming in the shadows of the living room. He did the same thing with you, completely undressing you as he stared at your breasts as if they were another set of eyes.
Before you could even catch your breath, his hands were on you again, his grip tight and unyielding as he pulled your hips back against him. He wasn't done, and the sheer audacity of his stamina, ueled entirely by the numbing haze of the alcohol, had your heart hammering wildly against your ribs all over again. He turned you over onto your hands and knees right there on the thick rug, his fingers digging deep into your waist, pinning you down with a heavy force that left no room for hesitation.
"You thought that was it?" he growled thickly against the back of your neck, his voice deeper and more gravelly than before. "We’re staying up all night, doll. I’m going to make sure you remember every single second of this when you wake up tomorrow."
He drove back into you from behind with a sudden, bruising depth that had a loud, sharp gasp tearing from your throat. The friction of the rug against your knees and the heavy, relentless rhythm of his hips moving against yours sent a massive jolt of pleasure straight through your system. You arched your back, your fingers clawing desperately into the tight fibers of the carpet to keep your balance as he set a punishing, frantic pace that completely consumed the quiet apartment.
"S—slow down you.. pervert!"
The hours dissolved into a total, dizzying blur of motion, sweat, and the heavy scent of cologne and liquor.
Every time your voice got too loud, his large hand was right there to muffle the sound, his talking turning into an endless stream of praise and demands that kept you completely undone. You lost track of how many times you came, how many positions you shifted into, or how long the storm outside kept drumming against the glass.
He kept going until your muscles were completely trembling and his own strength was entirely spent, pushing the encounter to the absolute brink of exhaustion before the darkness finally, completely claimed you both.
Vincent didn’t give you a second to rest on the living room floor. He grabbed you by the thighs, hauled you up against his chest, and carried you straight into the bedroom, tossing you onto the mattress. Before you could even blink, he was sliding down your body, his large hands gripping your hips with a bruising force to pull you right to the edge of the bed.
He parted your legs, draping your thighs over his broad shoulders, and buried his face directly between your legs.
"You're such a messy girl.. look at this, shit, I'm drooling already.. be a good girl for me, and stay still." The first wet, heavy stroke of his tongue had your back arching off the sheets, a loud, sharp gasp ripping from your throat. He didn't slow down for a second, using his tongue and fingers to wreck you completely, holding your hips down so you couldn't twist away from the intensity.
But just as he was right in the middle of it, breathing hard against your skin, when his movements suddenly slowed down. His head got heavier and heavier against your thigh until, with one final, long exhale, he stopped completely.
You waited a second, your heart still pounding, expecting him to keep going. But the only response you got was a soft, deep snore vibrating right against your leg. The massive amount of whiskey had finally caught up to his brain, turning his lights completely out right then and there.
"Unbelievable," you muttered, looking down at the back of his head. The famous, untouchable voice of the evening news was fast asleep between your legs.
You braced your hands under his arms and hauled his heavy, muscular frame up the mattress. Vincent groaned softly but didn't wake up, his long limbs completely limp as you dragged him up until his head hit the pillow right next to yours. Removing his glasses as he instinctively rolled onto his side, flinging a heavy arm over your waist to pull you tight against his bare chest, burying his face into your hair.
You didn't even have the energy to fix the covers. You just closed your eyes, the room finally stopping its violent spin as you fell into a deep, heavy sleep tangled up in his sheets.
The morning sun cut through the heavy velvet drapes like a knife, blinding and hot, painting long golden bars across the expensive hardwood floor of the bedroom.
You woke up with a pulse pounding in your temples that felt like a localized earthquake. Every muscle in your body was stiff, your mouth felt like sand, and your hair was a wild, tangled mess against the silk pillowcase.
You didn't move an inch, completely aware of the heavy, dead weight of his arm still locked securely around your waist, anchoring you to his chest.
Instead of slipping away, you carefully rolled over onto your side, holding your breath against the sudden spike of nausea.
You wanted to see this.
You wanted to see the exact moment the city's most polished, untouchable public figure had to face the music.
He was still completely dead to the world, snoring softly. Without his glasses, his face looked surprisingly vulnerable, though the sharp, hooked slope of his nose still gave him a severe profile. The white strands of hair at his temples were stuck to his forehead with dried sweat, and his jaw was covered in a rough, dark shadow of morning stubble.
Slowly, his eyelids fluttered. He let out a low, pathetic whine that sounded more like a wounded animal than a primetime broadcaster, his hand moving automatically to press against his temple as the hangover slammed into his brain.
He blinked against the bright light, his eyes bloodshot and completely unfocused. He fumbled blindly on the nightstand until his fingers wrapped around his thick rimmed glasses, sliding them onto his face with a hand that was visibly shaking. He took a deep, shaky breath, turned his head slowly on the pillow, and locked his eyes onto you.
For a long, agonizingly quiet five seconds, he just stared. You could practically see the rusty gears in his drunk brain grinding as the fragmented memories of the night before started falling into place, the bar, the bragging, the taxi driver, the horrified couple in the elevator, the living room rug.
His gaze slowly traveled down the bed. He realized he was completely naked, his chest hair matted, and his expensive tailored trousers were definitely not in his bedroom, completely ruining any shred of dignity he had left.
His face went through a spectacular sequence of colors, from a pasty gray, to a sudden flush of bright red, right back to a pale, horrified white. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to find that confident voice, but it came out as a weak, gravelly squeak.
"Good morning," he croaked, his eyes darting frantically around the room as if looking for an emergency exit. "I... assume you have a name?"
You held his gaze, a slow, entirely smirk spreading across your face despite the throbbing ache in your head. Seeing the great, unflappable man completely reduced to a sweating, panicked mess on his own silk sheets was worth every bit of the hangover.
"I do have a name," you said, your voice a little raspy from the smoke and the screaming from the night before. You reached out, deliberately tapping the tip of his hooked nose with your finger. "It's [ Reader ]. But given everything we went through last night, I figured you would have remembered it, Mr. Whittman."
He winced slightly at the sound of his own name, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck as he shifted uncomfortably against the pillows, acutely aware of his and yours nakedness.
"Right. Of course," he muttered, trying to smooth down his wild, hair with his fingers, though it didn't do much to help his appearance. He let out a dry, self deprecating laugh that sounded incredibly rough. "Please tell me my memory is playing tricks on me.. Did I... did I actually threaten to throw a taxicab driver out of his own moving vehicle last night?"
"Oh, that was just the warm up," you laughed, propping your chin up on your hand to get a better look at his misery. "Wait until you remember what you told that lovely elderly couple on the eighth floor while you had me pinned against the elevator wall."
He froze entirely, his hand stopping mid air. His bloodshot eyes went wide behind his thick lenses as the memory hit him like a physical blow. He let out a low, agonized groan and pulled the pillow completely over his face, his voice muffled against the fabric.
"Jesus fucking Christ, " his voice rumbled from beneath the pillow. "They're on the building's board of directors. I am going to be evicted by noon."
Before you could even pull the pillow off his face to keep teasing him, the heavy quiet of the apartment was shattered.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
A series of sharp, furious knocks rattled the mahogany front door at the end of the hall. The sound echoed down the corridor and straight into the bedroom, hitting your hangover like a physical blow.
He bolted upright under the sheets, his face instantly draining of whatever color it had left. He threw the pillow aside, his breathing turning shallow as his eyes darted to the bedroom door.
"Mr. Whittman!" a loud, booming voice shouted from the hallway, muffled only slightly by the thick wood of the front door. It was unmistakable, the building manager. "Mr. Whittman, I know you’re in there! Open this door immediately! We have a severe situation regarding your conduct in the public spaces last night!"
Vincent looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He scrambled to find another pair of trousers, his hands shaking so violently he could barely get the zipper to catch.
"The board," he whispered frantically, his deep voice cracking into a panicked hiss as he looked over at you. "They actually called him. They’re going to ruin me.. this is the end. This is how my career is going to end. Fuck my life. Fuck my luck. Fuck everything. Matter of fact! Fuck you too!"
He finally managed to buckle his pants, before he threw on a wrinkled shirt that was lying near the closet. He took a deep breath, trying to pull his shoulders back to find a shred of that famous, unbothered evening news composure, but his bloodshot eyes and wild hair completely gave him away.
"Stay here," he muttered, pointing a trembling finger at you. "Don't make a sound. If the press gets hold of this, I'm finished."
He turned and strode out of the bedroom, his bare feet padding heavily against the floorboards as he headed toward the firing line in the foyer.
Staying under the covers was far too boring. You waited until his bare feet padded all the way down the corridor, and the moment you heard the heavy front door creak open, you slipped out of the silk sheets. Your clothes were in the living room, so you had to improvise, quickly you just wrapped yourself in a robe that sat near the bed.
Your head throbbed with every step, but you ignored the ache, creeping down the hallway in your bare feet until you were pressed flat against the wall just around the corner from the foyer. You peeked around the molding, getting a perfect view of the back of his wrinkled shirt.
"Good morning, sir," Vincent rumbled. He was leaning heavily against the doorframe, trying to look casual, though his hand was gripping the brass knob so tight his knuckles were white. "A bit early for a house call, isn't it? I was just preparing some copy for the evening broadcast—"
"Save it, Vincent," He snapped. The building manager was a short, stout man wearing a crisp tweed suit, and he looked entirely unimpressed. He was holding a small leather notepad, tapping a pencil against it with an aggressive, rhythmic click. "I received a phone call at three o'clock this morning from Mr. and Mrs. Higgins. They were hysterical, Vincent. Absolutely hysterical."
"The Higgins?" He let out a dry, forced laugh, running a hand through his wild hair. "Oh, come now. You know how the elderly exaggerate. A minor misunderstanding in the elevator car, nothing more—"
"A minor misunderstanding?" He lowered his voice, stepping closer into the foyer, his eyes narrowing. "They claim you were heavily intoxicated, shouting profanities, and engaged in a disgusting display of public indecency with a young woman. Mrs. Higgins had to take her heart drops! They are demanding your immediate eviction on the grounds of moral turpitude!"
Vincent didn't flinch, but you could see the muscles in his jaw clenching tightly. He drew himself up to his full, impressive height, his persona completely locking into place as he tried to bully his way out of the corner.
"That is an outrageous slander," he boomed, his voice echoing off the foyer walls. "I was assisting a colleague who had taken ill due to the torrential downpour. If the Higgins' fragile sensibilities mistook a gentleman helping a lady for something untoward, that is their malfunction, not mine. I suggest you remember who brings prestige to this address, sir, before you throw around words like 'eviction.' "
From your hiding spot around the corner, you had to bite your own hand to keep from laughing out loud. The sheer, shameless confidence of his lie was spectacular, especially since his pants were still wrinkled and his hair looked like a bird's nest.
The manager stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. He looked down at his leather notepad, then back up at the anchorman’s towering, rigid frame. The sheer authority in Vincent’s voice, the exact voice that millions of citizens trusted every single night, seemed to do the trick, slowly chipping away at the manager's resolve.
"An ill colleague," the manager repeated slowly, his tone shifting from furious to deeply skeptical. He tapped his pencil against the pad one last time before pocketing it. "Well... if that is indeed the case, Vincent, it was a highly irregular way to handle the situation. The Higgins are convinced they saw something altogether different."
"The Higgins are looking for drama where there is none," he countered smoothly, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the slight tremble in his fingers. "I assure you, my only concern was getting a sick woman out of the storm. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a broadcast to prepare for."
The manager let out a long, defeated sigh. He knew Vincent was a high paying tenant who brought a lot of status to the building. "Fine. I will speak to the board and try to smooth this over. But keep your 'colleagues' out of the public spaces from now on, Mr. Whittman. Good day."
The heavy front door finally clicked shut, the deadbolt sliding into place with a loud, echoey snap.
The second the manager was gone, all of Vincent's grand, authoritative posture completely collapsed. He let out a massive, ragged breath, his shoulders slumping heavily as he leaned his forehead right against the cool mahogany wood of the door.
"Fucking hell," he muttered to himself, his voice dropping back into a completely exhausted, hungover rasp.
You slowly stepped out from around the corner, leaning against the hallway wall with your arms crossed, a massive, teasing smirk on your face. "An ill colleague?" you echoed, tilting your head. "Wow. You really are a professional liar, aren't you?"
He slowly turned around, his eyes widening slightly when he realized you had heard the whole thing. A faint, completely embarrassed crimson flush crept up his neck, but he still tried to offer you a weak, lopsided smirk.
"It's called public relations, dollface," he croaked, rubbing his temples as the adrenaline faded and the headache came roaring back. "And right now, this 'ill colleague' owes me a massive favor for saving us from the street."
You walked back into the foyer, leaning down to scoop up your heels from the floor before turning to look at him. The morning light was fully flooding the apartment now, exposing the absolute disaster of the living room behind him, discarded clothes, an askew rug, and a complete lack of that primetime dignity he usually carried.
"Well," you said, a playful, lazy smirk on your lips as you looked around "This one night stand was definitely fun, Mr. Whittman. But I guess I should get going before your next 'ill colleague' shows up for a meeting."
You turned toward the living room in order to get fully dressed, expecting him to just let you walk away with a smooth, professional goodbye.
Instead, a large, warm hand clamped firmly over yours.
You blinked, looking up at him. Vincent had stepped in close, his heavy chest rising and falling beneath his wrinkled shirt. He didn't have his usual cocky broadcast smirk anymore. His thick rimmed glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, and his mismatched eyes were looking down at you with a sudden, intense focus that had absolutely nothing to do with a casual hookup.
"Who said this was only going to be a one time thing?" he murmured.
You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head up to match his gaze. "Vincent, we met in a dive bar, got blackout drunk, and almost got you evicted by a couple of senior citizens. I think we had our fun."
"I don't care about the elevator, and I don't care about the manager," he cut in, his grip tightening on your hand, pulling you just an inch closer until you could smell the faint scent of his cologne beneath the morning chaos. For the first time since you met him, he looked completely unscripted, his famous composure entirely melted away by something raw and real.
He shook his head, a silver strand of hair falling across his forehead.
"I've lived in this city for forty years, doll, and I’ve never met anyone who could make me forget who I am the way you do. I'm not letting you just walk out that door and turn into a story I tell myself at the bar."
He leaned down, his forehead resting gently against yours, his eyes locked onto your mouth that left no room for doubt. The arrogant Vincent was completely gone, he was entirely hooked, and he had no intention of letting you go.
"You're staying," he whispered against your lips, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your jawline. "We're going to clean up this room, I'm going to make you breakfast, and then you're going to tell me exactly how you want to spend the rest of our weekend. I belong to you, and you belong to me."
Would modern!vincent still be a serial killer..if he is he might as well be patrick bateman (and i mean that lovingly 💕)
Oh my god, you didn't know how much I needed to hear this! I've been thinking about the same thing! Istggg character-wise Patrick is such an idiot, but he's sooooooo fine. I feel like modern!Vincent would still be a serial killer, although he'd probably be more cautious and frame his murders as suicides..👀
♥︎ afab!reader, established relationship, sugar daddy!Vincent, sugarbaby!reader, pathetic!Vincent, teasing, porn with plot, lingerie, premature ejaculation, humiliation, semi-public sex, car sex, drugs, drug intake, alcohol intake, smoking, p in v, dirty talk, inner monologue, inner dirty thoughts.
♡ Summary: Vincent prides himself on absolute, untouchable control, right up until his ego completely disintegrates in a matter of seconds. Twice. To buy back your respect, he throws his entire empire at the problem, but a Centurion card can’t hide who he actually is.
♥︎ Authors note: This is my modern take on Vincent!! i’ve posted some hcs about him before and this is just written based off of those (kinda), but i did get some inspiration from one of my"favourite" movies... if you can tell then you know exactly what i'm talking about.
♡ Words: 7470
The morning sun over the Mediterranean glared, bouncing off the white marble floors of the penthouse suite.
Vincent was already awake, sitting on the edge of the mattress with his phone resting against his knee. The screen lit up every few seconds with frantic emails from various cities. He was already half armored for the day: a crisp, unbuttoned white shirt and his silver watch locked onto his wrist.
You blinked against the light, shifting beneath the silk sheets, and looped your arms around his waist from behind. You pressed your face into the warmth between his shoulder blades.
"Vincent. Stay. Just for today.."
He let out a low, breathy laugh, not looking up from his screen as his fingers flew across the keyboard. "I can't, my love. I have a ten o'clock meeting with my prime brokers. The European and American markets just opened and two of my tech shorts are squeezing. I don't have time..."
"You own the fund," you murmured, your lips brushing the sharp line of his spine. "Make them wait."
"I own the fund because I don’t make the market wait," he replied smoothly.
He finally dropped the phone, turning around to cup your jaw. He pressed a firm, expensive smelling kiss to your lips..oud and amber..before tapping your chin.
"Be a good girl. Go down to the kitchen and make me an espresso. If I'm late, I'll get killed.. i swear!"
You just smiled, a small, knowing expression that went entirely unnoticed as Vincent turned back to his phone.
Ten minutes later, Vincent walked into the modern, terrifyingly neat kitchen. He was fully dressed now in his tailored trousers, his tie perfectly knotted. He grabbed the fresh espresso you had set on the marble island, taking a quick sip while scanning an Excel sheet on his tablet. "Perfect. Thank you. I have exactly five minutes before the terminal—"
He stopped.
You hadn't gone back to bed. You were leaning against the edge of the island right next to him. You had ditched the silk sheets, wearing only your black heels and black, lacey, thigh-high stockings. Nothing else.
"You have five minutes?" you asked softly, stepping into his space.
Vincent’s breath hitched. His eyes darkened, his gaze dropping from your face, tracking from your bare breasts and stomach.. to your clothed thighs. For a man who prided himself on absolute, untouchable control, the sudden, heavy surge of desire made his eyebrows furrow.
"Don't fucking do this to me right now," he murmured, his voice dropping just slightly, though he didn't step back. He set the espresso cup down with a slight clink. "I am serious. This meeting is worth four million."
"Four million?" You reached out, your fingers sliding slowly up his chest, deliberately wrinkling the pristine linen of his shirt. You grabbed his tie, tugging it just enough to force him to look down at you. "Surely you can afford a fine..."
Before he could answer, you gracefully grabbed his hand, slowly yet carefully leading him toward the bedroom.
The moment you two entered it, Vincent stiffened, a low, ragged whine escaping his throat as your hands slid down his hips, unbuckling his belt with practiced ease. He reached up, his fingers tangling roughly into your hair, intending to tell you no, to protect his precious schedule, but the moment your lips touched his skin, his grip changed.
You ended up on the bed with him looming over you, he was stripped from all of his clothes while you were still in your heels and stockings.
He threw his head back, eyes closing as a heavy shudder ran through his polished facade while he sank into your warmth. His tablet was completely forgotten on the kitchen counter, the screen timing out into darkness.
'I am a fucking god,' his internal monologue roared, a frantic, ecstatic rush of pure ego flooding his chest. 'Look at this. Look at how she begs for me. I am going to absolutely ruin her, fuck her brains out 'til the sun goes down. Who gives a shit about work anyway. Those cocksuckers can kiss my ass, I'm the one in charge.. of course I am.. even—!'
The clock ticked on the wall.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Vincent moaned, his entire body locking up instantly. A sharp, breathless twitch rippled through his shoulders, and then... a dead silence filled the bedroom.
He sat there entirely frozen, plopping onto the bed next to you as he was now staring blankly at the ceiling. The grand, cinematic symphony playing in his head had abruptly cut to a screeching halt, replaced by the distant, mocking sound of a seagull squawking outside the window.
He plopped onto the bed next to you.. already breathless. For a man who prided himself on flawless performance and control, the reality of what had just happened was a localized natural disaster.
Slowly and heavily, Vincent looked to his side.
You were still on your back, blinking at him with an expression of pure confusion. Your jaw was slightly slack. You looked like you were waiting for the rest of the sentence, but the book had already been slammed shut and put back on the shelf.
"Ghhk.. that was..—" he exhaled, looking back at the ceiling.
"Did you just cum?" You asked in confusion, expensive and polished heels digging in the mattresses as you continued to look at him.
"Yeah.." he breathed out "Did you?"
Oh, and he had the audacity.. to fucking ask. You furrowed your eyebrows, shaking your head slowly.
"No.." you mumbled.
"No..?" He asked quietly.
"No." You gave him one last answer.
Vincent stared at the ceiling for three more seconds, the silence in the room heavy enough to crush someone. He swallowed hard, his throat dry.
"Right.." he mumbled, finally shifting. He reached onto the nightstand, his fingers slightly trembling as he grabbed his glasses and slid them onto the hooked bridge of his nose. He shoved his fingers through his hair, thick strands of gray and black that usually looked impeccably styled but were now wildly tossed across his forehead. He cleared his throat. "Right..! Well. Give me... give me a moment."
You blinked, sitting up on your elbows, the black lace of your thigh highs contrasting sharply against the white silk sheets. You watched him through your eyelashes. "A moment for what?"
"To.. shittt—! You'll see!" Vincent said defensively, sitting up and bracing his elbows on his knees. He looked over the rims of his glasses at you, trying to project confidence while his face burned a furious pink beneath his skin.
"I'm still half hard, give me a sec.. c'monnn"
He leaned back toward you, attempting to look seductive, but his hair was sticking up in three different directions and his glasses were slipping down his nose all while his hand was wrapped around his cock, giving it a few strokes.
You looked at him, you looked at the clock on the wall, you looked back at his panicked, intense eyes. The sheer absurdity of the situation had completely killed any mood that existed ten minutes ago. You let out a heavy, deeply bored sigh and rolled your eyes, pulling the silk sheet back up over your chest.
"Sure," you said, your tone flat and entirely unbothered.
Vincent paused. "What do you mean, sure? I am capable of—"
"Vincent, you know what? Stop," you interrupted, waving a dismissive hand at him as you lay back down and reached for your own phone. "Just go to work. There are people waiting or whatever."
Vincent froze. Go to work? She was dismissing him? Him?
"You know what.. I do not need to be told twice," he snapped, bolting out of bed with the efficiency of a man fleeing a burning building. He practically threw himself toward his discarded clothing, aggressively yanking his trousers up.
He snatched his tie off the floor, wrestling it into a knot without even using the mirror. He was too terrified to look at his own reflection right now. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, clutching it to his chest, and flashed a wide, slightly unhinged smile.
"There is an American Express Centurion card on the kitchen island," Vincent barked, his words tumbling out at a million miles an hour as he backpedaled toward the bedroom door. "Go to Avenue de Monte-Carlo. Buy a boutique. Buy the whole street. Do not look at the bill. I will see you at dinner!"
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him so hard the glass fixtures rattled, leaving you alone in the quiet penthouse, finally bursting into the laugh you'd been holding in.
The silence that settled over the penthouse after Vincent’s dramatic exit was absolute heaven. You spent the next few hours thoroughly enjoying his money, ordering a ridiculous amount of room service, and taking a long, uninterrupted bath. By early afternoon, you were lounging on the plush outdoor sofa of the terrace, wrapped in a fresh robe, casually scrolling through luxury boutique catalogs online.
The quiet was broken by the sharp, demanding ring of your phone.
You glanced at the screen.
Vincent Whittman.
You let it ring three full times before sliding the answer bar, pressing the phone to your ear without saying a word.
"Heyyyy my loveee," Vincent’s voice smoothed through the receiver, vibrating with that deep and polished resonance he used for everything.
There was a faint background purr of leather interior, he was likely in the back of his chauffeured Maybach, probably listening to some jazz to calm his nerves. "I just got out of that stupid meeting, ya know.. the one with 'those' people? Hah! Completely salvaged the portfolio, obviously! But I gotta confess... my mind has been totally stuck on you since I left."
"Mm," you hummed, your tone perfectly flat, the auditory equivalent of a blank wall. "Good for you."
A microscopic pause stretched over the line. Vincent cleared his throat, trying to maintain his effortless, smooth rhythm. "Yeah, welllll, I was just thinking about this morning. The way the light hit you. The sheer... intensity of it. Ugh, It’s rare to feel that kind of instant, overwhelming friction between us. I've been sitting in these meetings completely distracted, missing your skin, missing how you smell."
You didn't offer a single word to help him out. You just listened to him dig himself deeper, the silence forcing him to keep talking.
"I seriously can't wait to get back tonight," he continued, his tone dropping into what he clearly thought was an incredibly seductive murmur. "I intend to completely finish what you started this morning. I left you craving more on purpose, y'know.. A little anticipation builds the tension. It’s good for you."
You let out a short, quiet, deeply bored sigh into the microphone.
"And do what, Vincent?" you asked smoothly, resting your chin on your hand. "Do that over again?"
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush him. You could practically hear the exact moment his brain short circuited. There was a sharp, strangled hitch in his throat, followed by the quick click of his lighter as he desperately tried to spark a cigarette to maintain his cool facade.
"I... what?" Vincent stammered.
"I don't think I have another seven seconds to spare today," you said, your voice entirely stern, carrying the devastating weight of a flat corporate dismissal. "I’m busy."
"It wasn't seven seconds!" Vincent snapped defensively, his casual charm completely flying out the window.
"Right.." you repeated, your tone entirely unbothered as you casually flipped to the next page of your online catalog. "Anyway, I took your advice. I didn't buy a boutique, but I did buy three custom gowns, two pairs of diamond earrings, and a ridiculous leather trench coat from Avenue de Monte-Carlo. The Centurion card worked beautifully."
"I don't give a shit about the card—" Vincent began frantically, his breathing shallow as he tried to claw his way back into a position of control. "Listen to me, tonight is gonna be completely different. I'll show you exactly what I can do—"
"I gotta go, the delivery driver is downstairs," you interrupted smoothly. "See you at dinner, Vinny."
You tapped the red end call button before he could utter another syllable, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside you. In the back of his luxury car miles away, Vincent was undoubtedly staring at his blank screen in shocking horror. You leaned back against the silk pillows, a slow, highly satisfied smile spreading across your face as you waited for the evening to arrive.
Vincent stared at his phone screen as it faded to black, his reflection staring back at him, eyes wide behind his glasses, mouth slightly open, the pristine veneer of a self made man completely shattered. The silence inside the leather cabin of the Maybach was suddenly suffocating.
Seven seconds.
The words echoed in his skull like a closing bell.
A hot, furious wave of heat flushed violently up his neck, burning past his stiff collar. He slammed the phone face down onto the armrest and threw himself back against the plush leather seat, dragging his hands down his face. His fingers were trembling.
'She can't just do that,' his inner monologue hissed, a rapid, sweating rhythm pulsing through his brain. 'I was just too caught up in the moment.. I mean, holy shit, her body is just irresistible, the way her ass is shaped.. and god her tits? Fucking hell! Her pussy is like heroin to me. Who wouldn't react that way... right..?'
He forced a heavy, ragged breath out of his lungs, trying to steady his heart rate, but his ego was bleeding out on the floorboards. For a man who stabilized countless portfolios during a flash crash without blinking, being reduced to a punchline before lunch was a localized natural disaster.
He shifted uncomfortably in the heavy leather seat, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek as his mind drifted right back into the literal filth of the memory. The raw, visual contrast of your bare breasts against his chest, the whisper of black lace cutting into the soft flesh of your thighs, and the devastatingly hot way your fingers had wrinkled his pristine linen shirt just to force him to look at you.
A heavy, painful throb of desire hit his groin, instant and infuriating. He was already half hard just thinking about the way you had unbuckled his belt with that practiced, maddening ease. His own body was betraying him, desperate for the very thing that had just humiliated him.
'No. Fuck that. I am Vincent Whittman,' his mind roared, a feral frustration flaring up beneath his panic. 'I am the god of this ticker. I don’t get dismissed. I don’t get patted on the head and told to go back to my Excel sheets like a corporate lackey... that's why, tonight, I am going to bend her over the edge of that mattress.. or maybe.. over the counter? Ehh.. shower sounds good too.. fuck! Whatever! Pin her wrists until she’s completely helpless, and fuck her until she forgets her own name! I'm going to take my time, control the pacinggg...and make her beg for a singleeee secondddd of mercy! She thinks she holds the remote control to my life? I’ll make her swallow those words.'
BZZZT!
The sharp, demanding vibration of his phone against the leather armrest cut through his interesting plotting.
Vincent snatched it up, expecting a panicked message from his prime brokers. Instead, a real time banking alert from his American Express Centurion terminal flashed across the screen.
She wasn't just shopping... she was aggressively raiding his liquidity line, bleeding his capital as a direct tax for his seven second failure. She was literally making him pay for every single tick of the clock.
A choked, strangled laugh escaped his throat. The sheer audacity of it, the mesmerizing, ruthless control she was exercising over his bank account while he was sitting here sweating through his shirt, drove his weird brain into a complete, dizzying overdrive. He was utterly, hopelessly obsessed with how little she feared him, how casually she burned his money just because he couldn't hold his composure.
He needed to overcorrect, he needed an environment of absolute control before he completely lost his mind.
“Jean,” Vincent barked suddenly, his voice dropping into a harsh, commanding register, though his breathing was shallow.
Up in the front seat, the stoic older French chauffeur adjusted his rearview mirror, his face a flawless mask of professional endurance. “Oui, Monsieur?”
“Cancel my 6:00 PM briefing with the team. Push it to tomorrow. And call Le Louis XV in Monte-Carlo. Tell them I want the entire outdoor terrace blocked out tonight under the corporate name. No crowdsss anddd no distractions. You can do that for me.. right?”
“Right away, Monsieur.”
Vincent slammed the phone down once more as he gripped his lighger harshly, desperately sparking a rare Sobranie cigarette to steady his nerves. He took a long, aggressive drag, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke into the filtered air of the cabin. His ego was still a smoking crater, and the phantom weight of that flat, bewildered "No..." was driving him to the edge of madness, but the blueprint for his comeback was already drawn. He was going to buy back her respect tonight, or bleed his portfolio dry trying.
The private terrace of Le Louis XV in Monaco was dead silent except for the gentle, mocking lap of the Mediterranean waves below. Vincent had booked the entire outdoor section under a corporate name because he "detested crowds," but the reality was much more pathetic: he needed an environment where he could control every single variable.
Vincent was sitting rigidly across the white tablecloth, looking terrifyingly neat. He had spent the last three hours overcorrecting. His stunning dark and light hair was lacquered into place without a single strand out of line. He wore a sharp, custom tailored Tom Ford tuxedo, and his wrist boasted a different, even rarer watch. He smelled overwhelmingly, expensively of oud and amber.
The only flaw in his polished armor was the way his fingers were tightly gripping the stem of his champagne glass.
You sat opposite him, looking utterly striking in one of the custom gowns you had bought on his Centurion card earlier that afternoon. You were casually cutting into your wagyu steak, completely relaxed, occasionally looking out at the yachts in the harbor.
"The truffle reduction is excellent," Vincent said, breaking the silence. "I told the chef to prepare it specifically for you. Nothing but the best, sweetheart."
"It’s good," you replied smoothly, your tone flat and entirely unbothered. You didn't look up from your plate.
Vincent’s eye twitched as he set his glass down with a slight, anxious clink. He cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose as his need for control and approval desperately clawed for a way to bring up the elephant in the room. He needed to fix the narrative. He needed you to admire him again.
"So," Vincent started, leaning forward, trying to look elite. "You spent quite a bit at Hermès today. I saw the alerts on my terminal during my final corporate wrap up. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Money is meant to be burned, after all."
"Oh, I did," you said, finally looking up, leaning back against your chair. Your eyes tracked the pristine line of his tuxedo before settling on his tense face. "The leather coat is gorgeous. I figured since I had so much free time on my hands this morning, I might as well put it to good use."
Vincent practically choked on his own saliva. The flush returned to his neck, creeping up past his collar as he gripped the linen napkin that sat neatly on the table.
"Right. This morning," Vincent muttered, his casual charm instantly fracturing as he leaned in closer over the table, his voice dropping to a harsh, defensive whisper. "Look, about that. I told you on the phone. The stress—"
"Vincent," you interrupted smoothly, raising a single eyebrow. "Stop."
"I am a professional! I swear!" he hissed softly, his gorgeous eyes darting around the empty terrace to make sure no waiters were listening to his deepest humiliation. "I have complete control over my life, over my body. Tonight is going to be a completely different story. I’ve already arranged for the Maybach to take us back, I’ve put my phone on absolute silent, the brokers can bleed to death for all I fucking care. I am going to show you exactly who can make you feel good."
You didn't look impressed. In fact, you slowly shifted your gaze to the vintage clock ticking on the restaurant's stone wall, and then very deliberately looked back at him, letting out a small, deeply bored sigh.
Vincent froze. The sheer audacity of you looking at a clock while he was talking to you hit his bruised ego like a physical blow. He felt utterly stripped of his power.
"Are you... are you seriously timing me right now?" Vincent whined, looking at you with a very, very hurt look on his face. "Before we even get to the bedroom? C'mon! That is sooo unfair!"
"I'm just checking the time, Vincent," you said, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips as you reached for your champagne glass. "Relax. Eat your dinner."
"I can't relax!" his mind screamed in a deafening panic. He violently shoved his hand through his perfectly styled hair, completely ruining the style as a few strands fell wildly over his forehead. He reached into his tuxedo pocket, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulled out his rare cigarettes, needing the nicotine to stop his brain from entirely collapsing.
He stared at you across the table.. so beautiful, so fiercely loyal, and so completely unimpressed by his money and fame. The deep, terrifying insecurity in his chest flared up again, making his throat tight. He was utterly obsessed with you, possessively attached to the point of madness, but right now, he was just a desperate man trying to figure out how to buy back your respect.
"We are leaving," Vincent barked abruptly, throwing his black card onto the table without even glancing at the bill. He bolted out of his chair and stepped toward your side of the table, his hand instantly finding your waist, pulling you tightly to his hip. "We are going back to the penthouse right now. I am capable of—I will.. fucking prove it to you! Let's go!"
You let out a genuine, delighted laugh as he practically dragged you toward the waiting car, his elegance completely replaced by a sudden, hilarious desperation.
The ride back to the penthouse in the Maybach was an exercise in pure tension. Vincent sat rigidly beside you, staring out the window at the flashing lights of Monaco while a smooth jazz track played low on the stereo. He didn’t say a word, but he kept his hand locked tightly around your waist, pulling you so close to his hip that you could feel the sudden, heavy thudding of his heart right through his tuxedo jacket. Every few seconds, he’d take a sharp, aggressive drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke into the filtered air of the cabin.
'I’m going to fix this', his inner monologue was screaming, a manic, sweaty rhythm pulsing through his brain.
The second the heavy oak door of the penthouse slammed shut behind you, Vincent’s careful composure evaporated.
He didn't even let you take off your heels. He grabbed you by the waist, his touch harsh and almost desperate as he backed you up against the cool marble wall of the entryway. He dropped his jacket to the floor with a loud thud, his different colored eyes glistening as his gaze locked onto your lips.
"Tonight.." Vincent murmured, his voice forcing itself down into that deep register, though his breathing was already quick. "Tonight, you don't get to say a word. I am in complete control. Do you understand me?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He leaned in, pressing a heavy, deep kiss to your lips, tasting like expensive wine, rare tobacco, and that overwhelming cloud of oud and amber fragrance. His fingers tangled roughly into your hair, tilting your head back as his other hand reached down, unzipping the back of your custom gown. The expensive fabric pooled around your ankles, leaving you in nothing but your black lace undergarments and the heels you'd bought with his money.
Vincent’s breath hitched completely. His eyes tracked down your bare skin, and you could see the exact moment the sheer, overwhelming visual of you completely shattered his tactical game plan.
"Fuck," he choked out, his hands trembling as he aggressively tore his own tie off, tossing it blindly over his shoulder. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, his efficiency entirely failing him. "You're... you're doing this on purpose. You look too fucking good."
"Vincent," you said softly, leaning your head back against the marble, a slow, knowing smile spreading across your face as you watched his panic mount. "You're rushing again."
"I am not rushing!" he snapped defensively, "Just.. enjoy this for a bit, sweetheart.. I've got you."
He practically lifted you up, carrying you into the bedroom and throwing you onto the white silk sheets. He followed you down instantly, his body heavy and warm over yours, staring down at you through his slightly crooked glasses.
'Alright, alright.. don't fuck this up, Whittman, count to one hundred!' His brain scrambled, sirens blaring in his head as he prepared himself. 'Do not look at her chest. Do not look at the way the black lace is cutting into her skin... just don'ttttt pay attention to her voice.. or that— that look on her face.. or...orrr..'
He sank into your warm and wet cunt slowly, a hiss escaped your throat as you clawed at his back, slightly rolling your hips just to feel more of that delicious stretch.
The clock on the wall didn't even have time to tick..
Vincent whimpered, his entire body locking up into a rigid, breathless freeze. A sharp, violent twitch rippled through his broad shoulders. And then... a heavy, suffocating, dead silence filled the penthouse.. once again!
The grand, cinematic symphony in his head didn't even get to start playing this time. It was just a flat line. Outside the window, a distant yacht horn blew, sounding suspiciously like a sad trombone.
He stayed completely paralyzed over you, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade, his chest heaving as he stared blankly at the mattress.
Slowly, heavily, he rolled off you, plopping onto his back next to you on the bed.
You stayed on your back, blinking up at the ceiling. You slowly turned your head, looking over at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated bewilderment.
"Vincent," you mumbled, your tone entirely flat, carrying the weight of a disappointed shareholder meeting.
"Don't," Vincent breathed out, staring hopelessly at the ceiling.
"Did you just—"
"I said don't!" Vincent barked, his face scrunching up. He scrambled up, sitting on the edge of the bed and burying his face in his hands. His hair was wildly tossed in every direction, sticking up in three separate tufts, and his vintage watch was ticking loudly in the quiet room.
His brain was a smoking crater of absolute humiliation. His mind was aggressively trying to rewrite reality, but the math just wasn't mathing.
Two seconds.
"It's... it's just...oh my fucking god I am going to kill myself." Vincent stammered as he looked over his shoulder at you, his glasses slipping completely down the bridge of his nose. "I can't even defend myself."
You just sat up on your elbows, looking at his wildly messy hair, his crooked glasses, and his faint red blush. The sheer, absurd comedy of the situation completely killed any annoyance you had. You let out a heavy, deeply amused sigh and rolled your eyes, pulling the silk sheet back up over your chest.
"Well...." you said, your tone entirely unbothered as you reached onto the nightstand for your phone once more. "I'm genuinely getting déjà vu because of you. Could've sworn the same thing happened before. Today, to be exact." You exclaimed, clearly forcing him to remember the morning on purpose.
Vincent was looking like he had just been slapped with a liquidation notice. She was dismissing him again. Twice in one day.
"Just shut up," he mumbled as he got up, making his way towards the bathroom in order to get ready for bed.
The next morning, the sun was blindingly bright, flooding the modern kitchen with a warm, golden glow that felt entirely too cheerful for the aftermath inside the penthouse.
You walked into the kitchen wearing a silk black nightgown with a white lace near your cleavage, your hair slightly messy, completely relaxed. You immediately spotted the kitchen island. Vincent's iPad was sitting right next to the espresso machine, the screen glowing brightly with an open catalog for Benetti Superyachts. He had genuinely left it out for you.
And right next to the island, leaning against the marble counter with a cup of black coffee, was Vincent.
He looked terrifyingly neat, though it was clear he hadn't slept a single wink. He was already fully dressed for a Wednesday: a crisp, tailored light blue dress shirt, beautiful trousers that matched his shirt.. and a very lovely watch onto his wrist. His black and white hair was messily slicked back, there were a few strands out of place. He smelled heavily of a fresh, icy designer fragrance, probably a desperate attempt to wash away the scent of defeat from the night before..
The second you walked into the room, he froze. He kept his coffee cup pressed to his lips, his eyes tracking you over the rim of his glasses. The silence in the kitchen was heavy enough to collapse a hedge fund.
"Morning," you said smoothly, pouring yourself a cup of coffee.
Vincent slowly lowered his cup, setting it down with a microscopic, tense click against the marble. "Good morning, my love. I trust you slept well? The mattress is custom imported from Sweden, after all. Nothing but the absolute best for your comfort...!"
"I slept great," you replied, leaning against the counter right across from him. You deliberately eyed the iPad, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "I see you left the yacht catalog open."
Vincent’s face instantly furrowed. He quickly reached over, flipping the iPad cover shut with a sharp slap.
"Yes, well," he stammered, his casual charm immediately fracturing into pieces. He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "I... I spoke to the broker in Monaco at 4:00 AM. They have a stunning 140ft hull available for immediate delivery. Custom interiorsss, infinity pool on the deck.... told him to draft the paperwork..—"
"Vincent," you interrupted smoothly, taking a slow sip of your coffee while watching him through your eyelashes. "Are you trying to buy my silence with a superyacht?"
Vincent practically choked on his black coffee. He let out a sharp, strangled cough, his eyes widening in literal panic as he was hit with the brutal and bitter truth.
"Nonsense! Hah!" he snapped defensively, his voice rising a little as he stood up straighter. "I just... spend money because it's, well, insignificant to me. It has absolutely nothing to do with—... with any of this... yeahhh uhh—"
You let out a short, quiet, deeply amused sigh, setting your mug down. "Vincent, it’s fine. You don't have to spend millions because you couldn't last three seconds."
"Oh fuck off! It was two seconds the second time!" Vincent yelled defensively.
He stopped. His own words echoed in the quiet, pristine kitchen. He had literally just negotiated against himself.
An eerie, dead silence filled the room. Outside the windows, that same distant seagull from yesterday squawked, sounding like it was actively laughing at him.
"I mean—" Vincent choked out, his eyes darting around the kitchen looking for a fire exit.
You couldn't hold it in anymore. You leaned against the marble counter and burst into a loud, genuine laugh, the sound echoing through the penthouse.
Vincent stared at you, utterly bewildered, clutching his coffee cup to his chest. He looked incredibly pathetic, deeply insecure, and so intensely wrapped up in his own ego that he couldn't see how hilarious he was. But as you kept laughing, the absolute panic in his eyes slowly began to soften, replaced by a desperate look of relief that you weren't actually packing your bags to leave him for a prettier, smarter tech founder.
"You are incredibly cruel," Vincent mumbled, though his deep voice had lost its defensive edge, a small, faint flush remaining on his cheeks as he adjusted his crooked glasses.
"Go to work, Vincent," you said, wiping a tear from your eye as you smiled at him.
"I have a board meeting in twelve minutes anyway." He snatched his laptop from the counter, flashing a wide, slightly unhinged, but deeply relieved smile as he backpedaled toward the front door. "See you at dinner."
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him, leaving you alone in the sunny kitchen, still giggling as you reached for the yacht catalog to see exactly how much his bruised ego was going to cost him.
The heavy leather cabin of the Maybach felt like an expensive, soundproofed vault as it glided smoothly down the winding, pitch black cliffs of the Moyenne Corniche. Outside, the lights of Monaco flickered like spilled diamonds against the dark Mediterranean coastline. Inside, a low, hypnotic deep house track was pulsing from the Burmester speakers, and the air was thick with the suffocating luxury of Vincent’s signature oud fragrance, spilled champagne, and the bitter, expensive scent of rare tobacco.
Vincent had spent the entire evening at a yacht gala, ruthlessly exchanging numbers with investors he secretly despised, his hand tightly locked around your waist the entire night to show you off. But the second the chauffeur shut the privacy glass, composure disintegrated.
He was already wildly hyperactive, his nervous system completely fried from a cocktail of high yield stress, an entire bottle of rare Cristal, and the discreet, high grade cocaine he kept in a custom engraved platinum vial.
"You were the most beautiful person in that entire fucking room," Vincent muttered, his voice a deep, gravelly whisper that entirely abandoned his rehearsed, polite register.
He wasn't sitting on his side of the seat anymore. He was practically on top of you, his hands desperate and rough as he yanked you onto his lap. The alcohol from the party had left you warm, loose, and completely receptive, your hands sliding up his chest to aggressively loosen his tie. You leaned your head back against the leather headrest that belonged to the seat in front of you a lazy, hazy smile on your lips as your fingers tangled into his thick dark hair, completely ruining the neat style he’d spent an hour fixing.
"Vincent," you murmured, your voice thick and teasing as you felt the heavy, erratic thudding of his heart against your chest. "You're doing that thing again. You're rushing, love."
"I'm not fucking rushing.. god!" he hissed, though his fingers were literally trembling with a surge of desire as he dragged the zipper of your gown down, pulling the fabric away until the smooth, warm expanse of your cleavage was completely exposed in the dim, ambient blue lighting of the car. He stared down at your bare skin, his face tightening so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He wanted you so badly it made his blood turn to pure liquid fire. He wanted to fuck you right here, to hear those breathless, messy sounds you make, to completely erase the humiliating ghost of his previous two second disasters.
With a sharp, reckless flick of his wrist, Vincent pulled the platinum vial from his tuxedo pocket. He didn't even care that the car was moving. With practiced, chaotic elegance, he tipped the vial over, casually pouring a thick, messy line of white powder directly over the valley of your breasts, the stark white contrast against your skin driving his manic brain into absolute overdrive.
Quickly he leaned forward, inhaling the powder off your chest, before he threw his head back slightly, trying to wipe off that filthy and nasty substance off his face.
"Look at you," he breathed, his intensity reaching a fever pitch as he hovered close, his energy erratic and overcharged. "Such a good girl."
Up in the front seat, the chauffeur, was currently enduring the absolute trial of his career. Jean’s eyes were locked strictly on the asphalt ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles ached. The atmosphere in the back was undeniably chaotic. Jean very deliberately reached forward, his face a flawless mask of professional endurance, and turned the air conditioning up to battle the mounting tension in the vehicle.
Vincent didn't notice him. He was operating on a wave of frantic adrenaline.
But as your fingers shifted, pulling him toward you while your clothed cunt grinded against his heavy and hard cock, you decided to take complete control of the layout. Quickly you unbuckled his belt, pulling him out before you slipped your panties to the side, rubbing your slit all over the tip of his cock. The previous alcohol and the embarrassing absurdity of his tension had built up a sudden, heavy surge of your own desire. You reached down, your hands smooth and steady against his clothes as you finally sank down, guiding him, giving him exactly what he had been desperately pleading for all day.
The Maybach hit a slight, unexpected bump on the road.
Vincent’s entire body went completely rigid. He let out a sharp, ragged gasp mixed with a painful, almost pornographic moan, his head throwing back against the headrest, his eyes squeezed shut as his chest heaved under his unbuttoned shirt.
But the abrupt, humiliating halt he was terrifyingly braced for never came.
Instead, cocaine fueled adrenaline racing through his bloodstream finally locked into place, completely synchronizing with the heavy, pulsing bass of the music filling the cabin. His nervous system didn't give out this time.. the drugs hyperfocused him instead.
With a low, gravelly moan, Vincent’s hand shot forward. His fingers tangled roughly into your hair, his grip unyielding as he fucked you exactly where he wanted you, his grip tightening as he guided your movements, urging you to grind against him in order to feel all of him deep inside.
"Don't stop," he hissed, raw and entirely unhinged as the bitter, expensive scent of tobacco and oud fragrance rolled off his skin. "Keep going... yeahhhh.. just like that, babe.. exactly like that. Mhhm.. good girl, such a good fucking girl."
Jean very deliberately reached forward and turned the music up three more decibels to drown out the breathless, messy sounds echoing from the back.
Vincent was operating on a wave of pure euphoria, his green and blue eyes glistening and completely dilated to the edge of his irises as he stared down at you. The dark fantasy in his head was finally matching reality. He watched the white powder smudged across your cleavage, his face tightening as he reached down, his fingers pulling you entirely onto his lap with one final thrust, burying his face back into your neck with a desperate hunger.
When the final, overwhelming wave hit him, a heavy, breathless shiver ran through his whole body, his grip tightening around your waist so fiercely it would leave bruises, pinning you to his chest as he came completely into your warmth.
A dead, heavy silence fell over the back of the luxury car, broken only by the steady thump of the sound system.
Vincent stayed completely still for a moment, his forehead resting against your collarbone, his chest heaving as he slowly breathed you in. For a man who had spent the last forty eight hours trapped in a smoking crater of literal humiliation.
Slowly, heavily, Vincent lifted his head.
You were leaning against his shoulder, your jaw slightly open, blinking through the hazy, alcohol fueled buzz with an expression of pure, breathless shock. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, your chest rising and falling rapidly.
Vincent stared down at you, and a slow, deeply smug smile spread across his face. His silky hair was wildly tossed in every direction, some strands sticking to his sweay forehead, the white powder was literally smudged across his cheekbone and nose, his glasses were slipping crookedly down his.. crooked nose.
"Well?" Vincent murmured, his voice returning to that deep, commanding, effortlessly casual register as he slid his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Did you?"
You furrowed your eyebrows, still catching your breath as you looked at his intensely proud, shining eyes, a slow smirk finally tugging at your lips. "Yeah, Vincent. I did."
Vincent let out a low, breathy laugh, the massive weight of his insecurity completely evaporating into the Mediterranean breeze. His fingers completely steady now as swiped one to gently wipe the remaining coke from your skin, his touch suddenly incredibly tender.
"Good," he whispered, pressing a firm, expensive smelling kiss to your jaw. "I told you I was a professional.."
You rolled your eyes, pulling your gown back over your shoulders, but you couldn't hide the genuine, delighted smile on your face. "Whatever you say."
"Jean! Take the scenic route back to the penthouse!" Vincent barked at the front partition, his words carrying the absolute, soaring confidence of a king who had just reclaimed his throne. He pulled you tightly against his hip, his hand locking around your waist. "And wire the brokers in Saint-Tropez! We're buying the penthouse anyway! Tell them to double the budget!"
The Maybach glided smoothly along the glowing coastline, leaving you lounging against his chest, finally letting out a soft laugh as Vincent restlessly adjusted his watch.
You let out a soft laugh, setting your coffee down and picking up his iPad. Instead of looking at the Saint-Tropez villas, you swiped out of the catalog and pulled up a different app..a live flight tracker.
You tapped on the private charter flight Vincent had booked for his afternoon trip to Frankfurt.
Your phone buzzed on the marble counter. It was a text from Vincent.
Vincent: The Saint-Tropez broker is waiting for your call. Don't worry about the price. I'll be stuck in meetings until late, but I'm thinking about last night. Buy whatever you want.
You smirked, your fingers flying across the screen as you typed back a direct, unbothered reply.
You: Cancel the meetings. I'm coming to Frankfurt with you.
The reply was instantaneous. You could practically see him short circuiting in the back of his Maybach.
Vincent: Babeee.. you know I can't do that..you cannot just come to Frankfurt.
You: I have my black heels and the lace stockings in my bag. I can change on the jet. Or we can just stay in Monaco and you can go to work. ;)
The three little typing dots appeared.. then they vanished, then they appeared again. Last night had proven he could handle the pressure, but the mere mention of those stockings had his hyperactive brain completely losing its focus.
Five seconds later, your phone rang. You answered it, leaning back against the counter.
"Jean is turning the car around right now," Vincent barked into the receiver. You could hear the exact moment his composure shattered as he yelled to the front seat, "Jean! Back to the penthouse! Cancel the Frankfurt slot! Reschedule the board for Friday!"
He came back to the phone, his breathing shallow. "You are so fucking manipulative. You are destroying my schedule.."
"See you in five minutes, professional," you said smoothly.
You hung up before he could answer, tossing the phone aside. He was always going to be an exhausting man, obsessed with status, but you officially held the remote control to his entire life. You walked back toward the bedroom to get ready, a slow, victorious smile spreading across your face as you prepared to watch the god of the coast completely surrender his empire all over again.
Oh my gosh, your latest fanfiction about the Reader and Vincent is absolutely amazing! Would it be possible to get a prologue about their “reunion” in hell?
Vincent, who is now called Vox… I can’t get the idea out of my head that he’d do anything to win the Reader back, consumed by regret over what happened in their lives while they were alive
Oh, absolutely! I was actually thinking about writing something like that super soon, soooo glad there is someone out there who thinks the same way I do!
