This is a really interesting and cool fanfic idea, which is also inspired by oc Emmy(who is a yellow and red hellhound as a sinner), Vincent x female radical graffiti artist reader, reader works at the tv production studio and becomes close acquaintances with Vincent, that was until she suddenly finds out that heâs been murdering people to get himself on top of the tv channel, reader tries to expose him but it keeps going all wrong since he is as quick as a serpent, they have an enemies to lovers story especially when they almost get caught by the police, Vincent tries to make it look like a make out session so they donât get caught. Reader is kind of like banksy kind of artist all mysterious with her art even though she does get shy with Vincent with her art, even though he has said to her multiple time that she should expand on it more.
Let me strach my fingers!
Sorry for taking some more time, this story got so long đ
Do you still read long storys ore Not? Let me know!
Graffiti & Corpses I Vincent x Artist!Fem!Reader
CW: Murder, explicit sexual content (18+), violence, blood
đâĄâËâĄŕ˝ŕ˝˛ ŕžâ¤ď¸ ŕ˝ŕž đâĄâËâĄŕ˝ŕ˝˛ ŕžâ¤ď¸ ŕ˝ŕž
đâĄâËâĄŕ˝ŕ˝˛ ŕžâ¤ď¸ ŕ˝ŕž đâĄâËâĄŕ˝ŕ˝˛ ŕžâ¤ď¸ ŕ˝ŕž
The Meridian Pictures production hall smelled of fresh paint, stale coffee, and the faint, lingering stench of too many egos in too small a space.
Or at leastâI loved the evenings when everyone else had left and I was alone with the set. With the spotlights, the unfinished sets, the empty chair in the middle of the stage that would be occupied again tomorrow. Then this space belonged to me, and that was rare enough.
Behind the second row of backdrops, I knelt with a stencil between my fingers and, with a steady hand, traced the texture of a brick wallâfor the exterior scenes of the film weâd been working on for three months. Kältegrad, a thriller supposedly based on real events, for which the studio had spent more money than Iâd earn in two lifetimes. My job was set design, the detailed craftsmanship, the things you didnât consciously notice on screen but immediately missed when they were gone.
I was good at it. I knew that.
âYouâre doing it wrong.â
I flinched so hard that my brush drew a wide stroke across the intended pattern.
âWhat?â I croaked, turning toward the voice.
Vincent Whittman stood two meters behind me, his hands in the pockets of his dark green jacket, looking at my work. As always, he was wearing his square glasses. His mismatched eyes seemed to see right through me. In between them was a face that seemed made for television: striking, expressive, with a smile that the camera loved and that had made me suspicious from the very beginning.
Too perfect. Everything about him was too perfect.
âThe joint depth,â he began, pointing at the wall. âOn real brick, it would be deeper. Youâre painting them too shallowâit looks like a theater set, not a real alley.â
Vincent pisses me off. He has to know everything better, and his voice!â
âYouâre the talk show host,â I said, turning away disinterestedly.
âAnd youâre the set designer,â he said, looking down at me. âAnd youâre getting the joint depth wrong.â
Vincent Whittman was the face of Late Night Whittman, one of the most successful talk shows on the evening scheduleâfor five years, every Tuesday and Thursday. Ratings that made the competition pale in comparison. He interviewed politicians, actors, writers, and occasionally scientists, when he was in the mood to appear intelligent. The audience loves him. The network loves him. Vincent had a way of asking questions that felt like a conversation between old friendsâopen, direct, with an undertone of irony that never tipped into condescension.
For three weeks, Iâd thought he was just a nice, well-groomed host.
Then I noticed that something didnât seem quite right.
The way he walked in without knocking, the way he sized up a room before anyone noticed him. The quiet precision of his observations, which had nothing to do with politeness, but with control.
âI know what joint depth looks like,â I rolled my eyes. âSo do I.â The talk show host stepped up beside me and examined the wall up close. âI worked as a student assistant on a theater production for three years. In front of the camera.â
âI donât believe you.â I blew the loose strands of hair out of my face.
âItâs true, though.â Vincent knelt down next to meâjust like thatâpicked up a second brush from the floor, and demonstrated what he meant. Two strokes. Set deeper, the shading changed.
I took the brush from his hand. âThanks. Can you go now?â
âI could.â Vincent stood up and looked down at me again. The smile was back. âBut then youâll miss the team meeting for Scene Thirteen, which starts in ten minutes in Conference Room B. Your nameâs on the list.â
I groaned softly. Heâd already held the door open for me when I stood up.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
Working on Kältegrad meant we saw each other every day. As it turned out, this wasnât just inevitableâit had been actively orchestrated by the production team, who believed that the lead actor and the set design team should âwork closely togetherâ to create the perfect set.
I actually wanted to refuse. My boss had laughed.
So we sat together in meetings. Walked through sets together. Vincent asked questions that showed he was actually listening to what I saidâabout perspective, lighting, the texture of surfaces that charged a scene with emotion before a single word was spoken.
âYouâre not what I thought youâd be,â I said once, on the way from Hall Three to the cafeteria.
âHow did you picture me?â Vincent tilted his head slightly because Iâm shorter.
âNice suit. Empty inside,â I teased him.
He laughedâa real laugh, not the soft, broadcast-ready one from the show. âThatâs the nicest compliment Iâve gotten from you in months.â
âIt wasnât a compliment,â I snapped at him.
âAnd yet.â Vincent held the cafeteria door open for me. âYou admitted that I surprised you.â
But as much as he might enjoy our bickering sometimes, I canât. Because I always thought: Be careful.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
The sketchbook was the second problem.
Vincent had found it during the second week when it fell out of my bag. Heâd picked it upâIâd taken it back, faster than Iâd expected. Ever since then, he hasnât stopped asking me for it.
âJust one page,â Vincent begged playfully, leaning halfway around me as I rearranged the set.
âNo,â I said, annoyed, and fiddled with the decorations. The house where weâre filming collects a ton of dust. Typical old building.
âJust a little one,â he said, pressing his thumb and index finger almost together, pouting and looking at me with an amused expression.
âNo, Vincent,â I rolled my eyes and turned away.
âIt could be two ifââ I heard him grin behind me.
âNo,â I emphasized again and walked back to him over the cables. With a bucket of fake blood.
Vincent raised his hands. The smile remained. âYou have paint on your wrist. Blue again. A different blue than last week.â
I pulled down my sleeve. âIâm experimenting.â
âYou experiment a lot for someone who doesnât show anyone the results.â He leaned against the dining table, arms crossed, that expression that was half curiosity and half something else. âWhateverâs in the bookâit shouldnât be locked away in a bag. Thatâs a waste.â
âThatâs my decision.â
âOf course. A bad one, but yours.â
I set the bucket down and tossed a pin from my pants pocket at him. Vincent caught it without looking.
That was the third thing that unsettled me: he always reacted a split second too early. As if heâd already read the room before he even entered it. As if he were alwaysâalwaysâone step ahead.
It was nice when he gave me the right answer during a team meeting. It was dangerous when you found out why.
The danger started with a small thing.
A name in a meeting log that shouldnât have been thereâMarcus Hale. A former producer whose contract hadnât been renewed at the beginning of the year. We knew each other only casually. Marcus had always been nice to me. But then he was gone, and no one had explained why.
But then I overheard a conversation in the cafeteria that I shouldnât have heard. Two editors, the name of an actress who had âvoluntarilyâ stepped down, even though just two weeks earlier she had spoken enthusiastically about the sequel series.
Part II â Cobalt Blue at Midnight
The city had a different look at two in the morning.
I love the empty streets, the silence between the trains, the orange light of the streetlamps, which transformed the concrete into something soft. The night simply made everything equalâno hierarchies, no studio, no smiles calibrated for the camera. Just color, a wall, and the question of what to make of it.
My bike was parked three blocks awayâa Yamaha R3 in matte black. A full-face helmet, visor chrome-mirrored. A black Alpinestars leather jacket with protectors, gloves, boots. A backpack with spray tips, cans, stencils, a small LED lamp, and the sketchbook that was always with me, no matter where I went.
The balaclava underneath protected my hair.
âThe Banksy of the city,â someone had written online, without knowing how close they were to the truth.
Iâd been in this scene for years. Not loud, not attention-seekingâthe opposite. My pieces would appear, get photographed, discussed, and disappear again before the city could paint over them. Sometimes they stayed for weeks. Sometimes days. It wasnât the work that mattered, it was the momentâthe point where paint and wall met in the night and something came into being that hadnât been there before.
I sprayed the last line, stepped back, and tilted my head.
I was about to pack up the can when I noticed the light.
It came from the warehouse at the end of the alleyâan old brick building that used to be a brewery. Itâs been vacant for years, with boarded-up windows and a fence in front that doesnât stop anyone. I knew the place. Iâd spent three weeks debating whether to take the back wall and decided against it.
The light moved. A flashlight.
My first thought: a homeless person. Nothing unusual.
My second: too purposeful for someone who wants to sleep.
I should have left. Should have grabbed my backpack and left the alley, quietly, without hasteâdonât run, never draw attention. That was the basic rule.
Instead, I ran toward it.
I simply pushed the fence aside. Then up the fire escape to the roof. Unfortunately, the bottom of the stairs was gone, so I climbed up the railing. Finally, I pulled myself up onto the roof of the adjacent building and crawled silently to the edge.
I deserve an award for that stunt. Motorcycle gear is super restrictive.
The light came from a lamp sitting on a metal shelf. Below it: Vincent.
My breath caught in my throat.
I recognized him immediatelyâhis shoulders, the way he stood, the angle of his head. Just a dark sweater, gloves. He was talking to someone whose face I couldnât see. The man had his back to me, but he was taller than Vincent. Vincent was looking at the other man with his arms crossed, leaning against a shelf.
I couldnât make out the words. Just the toneâcalm, controlled. The Vincent tone, as I called it. The tone that meant he already knew how this would end.
Quickly. Much too quickly.
My fingers dug into the concrete.
The stranger collapsed. Blood splattered across Vincentâs face. The red liquid spread across the room and the man fell to the floor. A dull thud echoed through the old brewery grounds. Then a rattle.
With wild eyes, Vincent looked down at the man and said something. The tension grew more intense and Vincent grew angrier. Suddenly, he lunged at the stranger again, stabbing him with Warlos. A bloodbath unfolded before me.
Eventually, Vincent stepped back, took off his gloves. He looked at his watch.
My whole body is shaking. Cold sweat burns on the back of my neck.
Dangerous, my instinct had told me.
Not dangerous like a man who intimidated people. Not dangerous like someone who made shady deals.
I moved backâa centimeter, then anotherâand stepped on a rotten spot on the roof.
The crack was loud. Too loud.
Vincentâs head snapped up. His murderous eyes locked onto me.
I ran, flipping down my visor. Itâs a miracle I can see anything at all.
The ladder, the fence, the alleyâeverything blurred into motion. I started the bike before I was even properly seated on it. The R3, which I affectionately call Yuzuki, roared to life. Without thinking, I turned into the side street.
For minutes, I rode aimlessly, just to put miles between me and Vincent. Finally, I parked in a narrow driveway between two apartment buildings outside the city and turned off the engine.
My hands were shaking on the handlebars. Not because of the cold, but because of the murder.
He doesnât know who you are, said a calm part of my brain. He only saw a person in black on a roof. Helmet. Mask. No face.
He doesnât know who you are.
But now I knew who he was.
And with that, everything was different.
Part III â On the Same Wavelength
The biker rides a Yamaha R3 and had paint in his backpack. I chased after him fast enough to catch that.
He must be eliminated, and as soon as possible.
Over the next few nights, I lay in wait for him and found him. Heâs small, agileâsomeone who didnât want to be fast, but invisible. Always on the move with that paint-splattered backpack.
What preoccupied him wasnât the chase itselfâthat was simple enough, a matter of patience. What preoccupied him was the why. Anyone chasing someone through the city at night had a reason. Fear, greed, an open ending that had to be closed.
This biker had none of those reasons.
The walls he had seenâhe had driven back specifically to look at them in the morning light. No message meant to speak to anyone. No anger venting itself. Just the motif itself, precise and calm, as if the wall had always been meant for it.
Someone who knew what they were doing. And was hiding it anyway.
But always to be found on some walls and drawing. In a book that seems somehow familiar to me.
The biker changed routesâan hour later, a different street, but the same pattern. I stopped and thought to myself that this could get really interesting.
The set design team had five members.
I figured them all out in the first weekâan old habit of mine. Who someone was was usually revealed by what they didnât say.
Y/N generally doesnât say much. In itself, itâs professional to keep your private life separate from your work. She does that, and yet I want to break through her defenses.
She delivered on time, flawlessly, without fuss. In meetings, she sat at the far end of the table, a notebook in front of her that contained more sketches than notesâIâd once glimpsed a page from three meters away before she closed it. The line Iâd briefly seen
wasnât a practice sketch. She was someone who knew exactly what she was doing and included it anyway.
I didnât understand that.
As I rode through the night streets on my Daytona 660 to find the biker, I smelled fresh paintâtwo hours old, maybe three; the artist was already gone.
The headlights swept over the wall where something had been created tonight. I recognized the style. The biker is our cityâs Banksy knockoff. But somehow it also looks like Y/Nâs style.
Probably because sheâs emulating him.
Curious, I got off my bike and examined the image in the light of my Daytona.
I wish I could take a peek inside that book!
Vincent started looking for me. Iâm not comfortable with this. After all, Iâm now on his hit list.
I noticed it in the little thingsâa phone call he cut short when I turned the corner. Questions about Viertel, the unknown artist.
âHave you seen the graffiti in the GĂźterviertel?â Vincent leaned against the backdrop frame, his glasses slightly askewâheâd push them up when he was thinking. âIt bothers me that I donât know who it is.â
âMaybe the person doesnât want to be found,â I shrugged as indifferently as I could.
The green and the blue of his eyes. Two minds, calculating differently, stared at me. âMaybe,â he said finally. âInteresting nonetheless.â
Youâre looking for me, I thought. Iâm looking for you, too. Only⌠differently.
During the day, I was a set designerâunobtrusive, methodical, paintbrush tucked behind my ear. I got to know his rhythm, just as I got to know the walls. Phone calls in the stairwell, second floor, the only spot without a camera. The quick glance toward Hall Three before he left in the evening.
I memorized names. Drew connections. Wrote nothing down.
At night, I was the Other.
I thought, while I gathered data and pieced together patterns, over and over again about the same thing: the gloves he had taken off after the deed. The calm with which he had looked at his watch. No panic. No remorse. Routine.
The murderous intent in his eyes when they saw me.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
Three weeks went by, and I kept uncovering more and more.
Itâs only since Vincent started working here that people have been disappearing without a trace. Theyâre never found again. I dug into the past. I pieced together the hypocritical connections.
I knew his lunch break better than my own. He knew my routes better than heâd admit. Of course, I noticed he was following me on his own bike.
We had a game that neither of us really spoke ofâand maybe that was why it worked. No rules to break. No admissions to regret.
At night, I crouched on rooftops and watched his headlights.
But I also thought: This man killed someone. I saw it, and now Iâm sitting here, finding it remarkable how well he reads routes.
That was the real problemânot that I couldnât figure him out. But that I could. Too well, by now. And that the picture Iâd pieced together both warned me and wouldnât let me go.
Three weeksâ worth of evidenceâphotos, copies, data on various hard drives. None of them had ever been connected to the studio network. Names that formed a pattern. Connections that were no coincidence. Evidence that would interest a prosecutor.
I had planned a route to the police. Not the direct oneâtoo obvious. One that took two detours.
Vincent had been acting strangely the last few days.
Not obviously. Not in a way that anyone else would have noticed. But I had been studying him for weeks, and I recognized the difference between his usual level of alertness and what he was showing now. Vincent would look at me when he thought I wasnât watching. Heâd pause a second longer when I set the bag down. Once, on Tuesday, heâd walked past my desk and briefly lowered his gazeâat the bag, at my jacket, at nothing in particular and yet at everything.
He suspects something, I thought.
Two days later, he found the cans.
Iâd left them in the inside pocket of my work jacketâtwo small ones, empty, but with the characteristic paint residue on the valves, cobalt blue and iron gray. A moment of carelessness. Iâd hung the jacket on the coat rack and gone into the meeting because I was in a hurry. When I came back, the jacket was on a different hook.
But I knew exactly where Iâd hung it. Itâs always on the third hook from the right, not the fourth.
We exchanged glances. But when our eyes met briefly during the next meeting, there was something in his expressionâno triumph, no reproach, just the calm, expectant smile of a man who has put together a puzzle and knows exactly what it looks like.
Faster, my instinct said. You have to be faster.
The night everything changed was cloudy and cold.
I took the familiar route, visor down, backpack on my backâthis time not with spray cans, but with the evidence, tightly packed, sealed watertight. Destination: a police post in the western district that didnât belong to the precinct Vincent knew. Ten minutes, then it would be gone and out of my hands.
I turned onto the second cross street.
A delivery van was parked across the street.
Too neatly positioned to be a coincidence.
But someone was already behind me.
The Daytona 660 pulled up silently, without its lights onâI turned around hastily just as Vincent got off the bike.
No glasses. That was the first thing I noticed. He looked different without themâsharper, the green and blue almost black in the darkness. Dark jacket. Gloves. That calmness that had nothing to do with relaxation.
âThat was a trap,â I hissed in a disguised voice. Deep enough that it could have been my brotherâs.
âYeah.â Vincent took a step closer. âA very neat one, Iâd say.â With a self-satisfied air, he brushed imaginary dirt off his shoulders.
âYou knew Iâd be out tonight.â
âI figured as much. The pressure lately.â Vincent paused. âSomethingâs changed. Youâve been⌠more restless.â
Slowly, I sat back properly on my R3 and reached for the throttle. âGet out of the way, Whittman.â
âThe delivery van is too big to go around, and Iâm right behind you. I donât think you want to mess with me. After all, youâve seen for yourself what Iâm capable of.â No threat in his voice, almost friendly. âI just want to know who you are.â
Vincent reached outâfor my helmet. I ducked away.
A brief scuffle broke out. Vincent cursed under his breath as he tried to grab me. I jumped off my bike and ran.
His arm wrapped around my waist. Thatâs when he realized I was a woman.
A look of satisfied confirmation filled his eyes. I quickly broke free and jumped behind the delivery van.
I stood there in shock. At my feet lay a womanâs corpse. Her bones were completely twisted. Neck, legs, arms.
âSo she was good for something after all.â Vincent crept around the delivery van. âYou know, she was hitting on me.â
In my state of shock, I didnât notice how he placed his hands on my shoulders and slowly opened my helmet.
Vincent stops for no one. That woman⌠could be me. Lying right next to her.
My heart was racing. Panic was spreading through me.
Vincent lifted my helmet. I pulled away in a panic. My whole body was shaking.
âItâs okay, sweetie.â Vincent smiled charmingly and looked at my AGV helmet. âI wonât hurt you if youâre a good girl.â
Just as I was about to run away, he grabbed me and yanked the balaclava off my head.
The silence between us had a textureâheavy, warm, absurd. Vincentâs face was drenched in satisfaction.
âWell, Iâll be,â he smiled softly.
âDonât say it.â A blush rose to my cheeks. Being this close to Vincent is uncomfortable.
âI was right,â he said it out loud, and his grin widened.
âDonât say it,â I rolled my eyes.
âThe color on your wrists.â He tapped his own. âCobalt blue. Iron gray. I should have noticed it soonerââ
âVincent,â I hissed at him.
ââŚnoticed, but youâre really very good at blending inââ Unconsciously, Vincent pulled me close.
âIâm going to report you,â I bared my teeth.
The smile faded. Not completely, but it lost its lightness. âI know that.â
âI have everything. Every name. Every date.â
âThen get out of the way.â
He didnât get out of the way, but he let go of me. Instead, Vincent crossed his arms.
I wanted my helmet back, so I tried to reach for it. But he held it up.
A fight broke out, just like between siblings.
To reach the helmet, I stood on my tiptoes and tried to grab it.
Vincent leaned inâsuddenly, directly, without warningâand kissed me.
My mouth was still half-open from our last argument, which didnât make things any better. Our tongues met.
Gently, Vincent placed a hand on my cheek. It was calm, completely calm, as if he had simply tuned out the rest of the worldâand he kissed me as if it were a statement he had wanted to make for a long time. One for which he didnât want to waste any more words.
I pressed against his chest to pull away.
Vincent left a millimeter of space.
A restless hunger spread through me and was immediately devoured again by Vincentâs tongue and lips. Vincent Whittman kissed with a thoroughness I hadnât expected. Satisfied, I gasped into the kiss.
I noticed this and stepped back. Anger welled up inside me.
I reached for the backpack.
My hand grasped at thin air.
I looked down at my shoulders. Then at Vincent, who was casually holding the backpack in one hand as if heâd been holding it the whole timeâwhich meant heâd taken it during the kiss.
âYouââ I clenched my teeth.
âSecurity deposit,â he grinned.
I snatched my helmet from his hand and ran over to my Yamaha.
I reached under the passenger seat. My fingers closed around the familiar weightâthe retractable baseball bat.
I extended it with a click and ran toward Vincent, who had now returned to the bikes.
He looked at the bat. Then at me.
âGive me back the backpack,â I threatened him.
âThatâs excessive.â
Somewhere in the distance: a siren.
We froze at the same time. This is our thing.
The siren grew louder. Then another one, from the other directionâthey were getting closer, that was for sure.
For a moment, neither of us was the otherâs enemyâjust two people with a shared, very urgent problem lying behind the delivery van.
âAgreed,â Vincent nodded.
No discussion. We moved at the same time, lifted the body, and hid it. Ninety seconds later, everything was in a different place, and I coughed against the cloud of dust that had risen as we stowed it in the delivery van. Vincent stepped behind me, and the sirens were now very, very loud.
The headlights and blue flashing lights were already sweeping past me.
âCome on.â Vincent grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the corner between the van and the house wall. A niche. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins.
âTheyâre driving down the parallel street,â I whispered. âIf they turn the corner nowââ
âI know,â Vincent hissed, lifting his head.
âWeâre completely exposed hereââ
He looked at meâcompletely focused on me. His gaze swept down the street, calculating, then returned to me.
âStop thinking about it,â he growled. âAnd just kiss me already.â
âI get what you mean, I justââ
He roughly grabbed my chin and kissed me againâthis time differently. No hesitation, no uncertainty. He pressed me against the wall, his body between me and the street, one hand flat against the concrete beside my shoulder.
I heard the siren slowing down and coming toward us.
I pressed my hands against his chestânot to push him away, but because I needed something to hold onto. Tried to resist. That was the moment my body spoke its own mind, because Vincent was actually good, uncomfortably good, and I hadnât kissed anyone in too long.
Vincent slid his tongue into my mouth with complete determination. He gently lifted me upâboth hands on my hips, a short, surprised sound escaping me, which he caught with his mouth.
I wrapped my legs around his hips, because it was the obvious thing to do and because the police car was now slowly turning the corner. The headlights swept over us.
The light lingered for a second. Two. Then moved on.
The car drove past. Disappeared.
We could have stopped right there, but we didnât.
Vincent pressed himself closer and closer to me, greedily. I felt something start to grow in his pants.
My heart was beating faster and faster, and I was getting wet, too. Our tongues grew more and more eager, wanting more. It already felt as if we were devouring each other.
âFuck. Y/N,â he gasped as we briefly pulled apart to catch our breath.
With glassy eyes, I looked up at him. His eyes gazed down at me intently, then he glanced around briefly, only to find me again.
His grip on my hip grew tighter. With every passing second, the tension was palpable. I want more, I want him! Now!
Vincentâs gaze grew slightly uncertain. Before he could act, I grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled him toward me.
In a flash, our lips met again. Relieved, we both moaned into the kiss.
The bulge in his pants grew faster and faster, and I began to rub myself lightly against him. Vincent grinned into the kiss, pressing me against him so I could feel him more intensely.
His lips broke away from my mouth. A thin thread of saliva connected us and snapped. Vincent greedily kissed my neck. Slowly, he unbuttoned my jacket and found the spot on my collarbone. He bit into it, only to attack my neck again.
I gasped and dug my nails into his shoulders.
âVinceââ was all I could manage before his lips found mine again.
âShut up. I just want your body to speak for me.â His eyes slid downward. Gently, Vincent set me down again. My knees buckled, so I clung to him. A laugh escaped his throat.
His left hand lifted my head, forcing me to look at him. His right hand wandered down to my pants and unbuttoned them.
âYou little cutie~â he whispered.
His hand slipped down into my pants. âLet me see if you feel the same way I do.â
His cold fingers brushed against my panties. Goosebumps spread across my skin. His hand gently moved further. Under my panties. I gasped, trembling.
Vincent touched me. The satisfaction in his eyes grew more intense. âFuck, princess~â he gasped, pushing his finger inside me. I moaned. It had been too long since anything like this had happened.
He moved his hand rhythmically. A pleasant sensation spread through me. I closed my eyes with pleasure so I wouldnât have to see Vincentâs triumphant smile.
âBaby~ Donât you want more? Yes?â Vincent spoke to me like I was a baby. I couldnât really answer him, but that seemed to be enough for him.
Slowly, he pulled away from me, which drew a frustrated whimper from me. He grinned amusedly.
Both his hands reached for my waistband, but he couldnât pull them down. âWhat?â
I grinned cheekily at him. âWell, looks like your plan isnât going to work.â
But Vincent was, as always, one step ahead and unzipped the zipper on my back that connected my pants to my jacket.
âOh yeah?â he grinned cheekily now and pulled my pants down a bit. Immediately, his fingers found me again. They penetrated deeper into me. I moaned. Quickly, his lips met mine, silencing my sounds echoing through the alleys.
Vincent moved his fingers inside me eagerly. His mouth was devouring me again. Our tongues tangled together once more, and saliva slowly trickled from my mouth.
The heat in my lower body was building more and more. I loved having his fingers inside me. After so long, Iâd had enough.
Vincent placed his thumb on my clit and hit my G-spot. I moaned loudly, breaking the kiss. I almost collapsed, as my grip on his shoulders was no longer enough.
âI love it when you break down for me.â His grin curled his lips. âIf only we werenât in this alley. Iâd devour you. Make you mine.â His deep voice whispered in my ear.
Hoarsely I gasped, âDo it. I⌠I need this.â The flush on my face burned.
Vincent looked at me with wide eyes. He chuckled softly, âItâs about time. Your knees are buckling, and I can feel you melting for me.â
Vincent got down on his knees and pulled my pants down as far as theyâd go, all the way to my boots. His mismatched eyes stared at me greedily. Lustfully, he licked me from the inside of my shin up to my center and kissed it.
I moaned again. The feeling of his lips on my pussy was driving me crazy. His tongue pushed its way between my lips. All the while, he didnât stop staring at me.
I quickly looked away, and he stepped back from me. âDo you trust me?â he asked, standing in front of me again.
He unzipped his pants and pulled it out. My face burned with embarrassment; the drops of arousal had already left a large wet spot on his boxers.
Gently, Vincent lifted me up and pulled me away from the wall to step between my legs. Instinctively, I wrapped my legs around him. Then he pressed me back against the wall.
His cock pressed against my pussy. I could feel how hot he was. âAnd now hold your breath, baby,â he whispered in my ear.
Skillfully, he slowly entered me. Startled, I moaned and bit my lip. âVincentââ I stammered, clinging tightly to him.
âShit. Y/N. Why are you so tight?â He looked down at me, amused. âHasnât anyone fucked you in a while, you stubborn thing?â
Our lips touched as he sank deeper and deeper into me and I lost my mind.
He moved rhythmically inside me, holding me tight by the hips and chin. The pressure in my lower abdomen grew stronger. The tingling spread through me. I felt like I was going to heaven.
I moaned with pleasure, biting his lower lip. Vincent grinned at me. Immediately, our tongues joined again to muffle our moans.
The slap of skin against skin filled the alley.
Vincent hit a spot deep inside me that made me cry out. Butterflies fluttered through my stomach. Flashes of light appeared before my inner eye. The knot in my stomach grew tighter and tighter.
I whimpered softly and let myself go. Vincent held me tight, moving faster, harder, deeper inside me.
Over and over again. Harder. I want more. I want him. His thrusts became sloppier but harder, hitting my spot exactly.
With a moan of pleasure, I came. Vincent came right after me. I felt him fill me. Gently, this man kissed my lips and just held me tight until I came to my senses again.
Trembling, he let me down. We got dressed.
âIâm still going to report you,â my voice trembled.
âI know.â He looked at me. âSomeday.â Vincent gently stroked my head and gave me a loving kiss.
Immediately, the blush returned to my face.
The studio was too bright in the morning. I made my way through Hall Three with the weary precision of someone whoâd had their mind fucked out of them yesterday and hadnât slept since. With some effort, I set up the set.
I heard Vincent coming before I saw him.
He sat down on a prop chair behind me. Said nothing. Just the creak of the old wood.
âThat shot you took last week at the underpass on SchillerstraĂe,â he finally said. âWith the bird.â
My hand paused for a second.
âA photo of it is making the rounds right now,â he continued. âSomeone posted it on an art forum. Two hundred comments in forty-eight hours. They say itâs the best thing to be on a wall in this city in years.â
âThatâs someone elseâs work,â I muttered.
âYes, of course.â Vincent didnât sound sarcasticâalmost gentle, which was worse. âThe cobalt blue on the bird. The way you treat the underside of the wings differently from the wing coverts. Thatâs a very distinctive choice.â
I put down the brush. Turned around.
Vincent was sitting there, glasses on his nose, hands in his lap, calm and attentive. He looked at me as if he wanted to understand me.
âIâThatâs notââ
âYouâre blushing pretty hard right now,â he grinned.
âItâs warmth.â He stood up, slowly, without haste, and walked over to me. Not too closeâthat Vincent distance that said, âIâll only come if you let me.â âYouâre ashamed of your work.â
âNot of the quality. Of the fact that someone sees it.â He stopped. âThatâs not the same thing.â
Vincent was right, as always.
âI have my reasons,â I said.
A long pause hung between us.
âIâm proposing a deal,â he began.
âMy secret stays yours. Yours stays mine. What happened between us.â A brief pause. âTruce.â
I was silent, but the answer was on the tip of my tongue.
âThen we both have a problem.â Not threateningâalmost resigned. âI donât want a problem with you, Y/N.â
I looked at him. Vincent wasnât faking it. I could tell right away. The warmth radiating from him.
I shook it. His hand was warm.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
The night was cold and clear.
We rode side by side, simply because thatâs how it had turned out and because neither of us acted as if it were unusual. My visor was openâa concession I didnât quite admit to myself. Vincentâs Daytona kept its distance from me.
We stopped by an old canal, behind a bridge that no camera could see.
I opened my backpack. Photos. Prints. Copies. The data, the names, the connections.
We were silent as the paper turned black and the wind carried the ashes across the water. The fire was small and methodical.
When the last of it had burned, he said, âThank you.â
âNot for that.â I looked at the water. âThat was a business decision.â
âOf course.â His voice was warm, and he rolled his eyes.
Vincent leaned against his Daytona, arms folded across his chest, looking at me from the side. The smile on his lipsâŚ
âThere was an underpass, two kilometers from here,â he said.
âBlank wall. Well-lit in the morning.â He slid off the bike and took off his helmet. âWe still have time before it gets light.â
I looked at him for a secondâthe man with the green and blue eyes, who was different at night than during the day, and who knew me. He probably has feelings for me, too.
âTwo kilometers,â I grinned.
The engines roared to life.
We set off. The city was quiet around us, and as the wind rushed past, I thought that maybe it wasnât so badâif the only person who knew who I was at night was riding beside me.
When someone in a side street shone a light on us while I was spraying, Vincent pulled me away into the hiding spot for our bikes. The light stayed behind us, grew smaller, and disappeared.
âThanks,â I whispered.
âTruce,â he smiled. âThat includes that.â
I laughedâbriefly, genuinely, for the first time in weeks, without reservation, against his chest.
Verliebt looked down at me.
Without thinking, I kissed him. Butterflies fluttered through my stomach, and it felt complete.
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