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 he’s 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 don’t 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 👀
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
🏍♡⋆˙⟡ཐི ྐ❤︎ ཋྀ 🏍♡⋆˙⟡ཐི ྐ❤︎ ཋྀ
🏍♡⋆˙⟡ཐི ྐ❤︎ ཋྀ 🏍♡⋆˙⟡ཐི ྐ❤︎ ཋྀ
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 least—I 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 wall—for the exterior scenes of the film we’d been working on for three months. Kältegrad, a thriller supposedly based on real events, for which the studio had spent more money than I’d earn in two lifetimes. My job was set design, the detailed craftsmanship, the things you didn’t consciously notice on screen but immediately missed when they were gone.
I was good at it. I knew that.
I flinched so hard that my brush drew a wide stroke across the intended pattern.
“What?” 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.
“The joint depth,” he began, pointing at the wall. “On real brick, it would be deeper. You’re painting them too shallow—it looks like a theater set, not a real alley.”
Vincent pisses me off. He has to know everything better, and his voice!—
“You’re the talk show host,” I said, turning away disinterestedly.
“And you’re the set designer,” he said, looking down at me. “And you’re getting the joint depth wrong.”
Vincent Whittman was the face of Late Night Whittman, one of the most successful talk shows on the evening schedule—for 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 friends—open, direct, with an undertone of irony that never tipped into condescension.
For three weeks, I’d thought he was just a nice, well-groomed host.
Then I noticed that something didn’t 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.
“I know what joint depth looks like,” I rolled my eyes. “So do I.” The talk show host stepped up beside me and examined the wall up close. “I worked as a student assistant on a theater production for three years. In front of the camera.”
“I don’t believe you.” I blew the loose strands of hair out of my face.
“It’s true, though.” Vincent knelt down next to me—just like that—picked 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. “Thanks. Can you go now?”
“I could.” Vincent stood up and looked down at me again. The smile was back. “But then you’ll miss the team meeting for Scene Thirteen, which starts in ten minutes in Conference Room B. Your name’s on the list.”
I groaned softly. He’d already held the door open for me when I stood up.
Working on Kältegrad meant we saw each other every day. As it turned out, this wasn’t just inevitable—it had been actively orchestrated by the production team, who believed that the lead actor and the set design team should “work closely together” 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 said—about perspective, lighting, the texture of surfaces that charged a scene with emotion before a single word was spoken.
“You’re not what I thought you’d be,” I said once, on the way from Hall Three to the cafeteria.
“How did you picture me?” Vincent tilted his head slightly because I’m shorter.
“Nice suit. Empty inside,” I teased him.
He laughed—a real laugh, not the soft, broadcast-ready one from the show. “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve gotten from you in months.”
“It wasn’t a compliment,” I snapped at him.
“And yet.” Vincent held the cafeteria door open for me. “You admitted that I surprised you.”
But as much as he might enjoy our bickering sometimes, I can’t. Because I always thought: Be careful.
The sketchbook was the second problem.
Vincent had found it during the second week when it fell out of my bag. He’d picked it up—I’d taken it back, faster than I’d expected. Ever since then, he hasn’t stopped asking me for it.
“Just one page,” Vincent begged playfully, leaning halfway around me as I rearranged the set.
“No,” I said, annoyed, and fiddled with the decorations. The house where we’re filming collects a ton of dust. Typical old building.
“Just a little one,” he said, pressing his thumb and index finger almost together, pouting and looking at me with an amused expression.
“No, Vincent,” I rolled my eyes and turned away.
“It could be two if—” I heard him grin behind me.
“No,” I emphasized again and walked back to him over the cables. With a bucket of fake blood.
Vincent raised his hands. The smile remained. “You have paint on your wrist. Blue again. A different blue than last week.”
I pulled down my sleeve. “I’m experimenting.”
“You experiment a lot for someone who doesn’t show anyone the results.” He leaned against the dining table, arms crossed, that expression that was half curiosity and half something else. “Whatever’s in the book—it shouldn’t be locked away in a bag. That’s a waste.”
“Of course. A bad one, but yours.”
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 he’d already read the room before he even entered it. As if he were always—always—one 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 shouldn’t have been there—Marcus Hale. A former producer whose contract hadn’t 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 shouldn’t have heard. Two editors, the name of an actress who had “voluntarily” stepped down, even though just two weeks earlier she had spoken enthusiastically about the sequel series.
Part II — 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 equal—no 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 away—a 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.
“The Banksy of the city,” someone had written online, without knowing how close they were to the truth.
I’d been in this scene for years. Not loud, not attention-seeking—the 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 wasn’t the work that mattered, it was the moment—the point where paint and wall met in the night and something came into being that hadn’t 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 alley—an old brick building that used to be a brewery. It’s been vacant for years, with boarded-up windows and a fence in front that doesn’t stop anyone. I knew the place. I’d 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 haste—don’t 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 immediately—his shoulders, the way he stood, the angle of his head. Just a dark sweater, gloves. He was talking to someone whose face I couldn’t 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 couldn’t make out the words. Just the tone—calm, 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 Vincent’s 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 back—a centimeter, then another—and stepped on a rotten spot on the roof.
The crack was loud. Too loud.
Vincent’s head snapped up. His murderous eyes locked onto me.
I ran, flipping down my visor. It’s a miracle I can see anything at all.
The ladder, the fence, the alley—everything 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 doesn’t 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 doesn’t know who you are.
But now I knew who he was.
And with that, everything was different.
Part III — 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. He’s small, agile—someone who didn’t want to be fast, but invisible. Always on the move with that paint-splattered backpack.
What preoccupied him wasn’t the chase itself—that 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 seen—he 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 routes—an 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 week—an old habit of mine. Who someone was was usually revealed by what they didn’t say.
Y/N generally doesn’t say much. In itself, it’s 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 notes—I’d once glimpsed a page from three meters away before she closed it. The line I’d briefly seen
wasn’t a practice sketch. She was someone who knew exactly what she was doing and included it anyway.
I didn’t understand that.
As I rode through the night streets on my Daytona 660 to find the biker, I smelled fresh paint—two 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 city’s Banksy knockoff. But somehow it also looks like Y/N’s style.
Probably because she’s 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. I’m not comfortable with this. After all, I’m now on his hit list.
I noticed it in the little things—a phone call he cut short when I turned the corner. Questions about Viertel, the unknown artist.
“Have you seen the graffiti in the Güterviertel?” Vincent leaned against the backdrop frame, his glasses slightly askew—he’d push them up when he was thinking. “It bothers me that I don’t know who it is.”
“Maybe the person doesn’t want to be found,” I shrugged as indifferently as I could.
The green and the blue of his eyes. Two minds, calculating differently, stared at me. “Maybe,” he said finally. “Interesting nonetheless.”
You’re looking for me, I thought. I’m looking for you, too. Only… differently.
During the day, I was a set designer—unobtrusive, 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.
Three weeks went by, and I kept uncovering more and more.
It’s only since Vincent started working here that people have been disappearing without a trace. They’re 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 he’d admit. Of course, I noticed he was following me on his own bike.
We had a game that neither of us really spoke of—and 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 I’m sitting here, finding it remarkable how well he reads routes.
That was the real problem—not that I couldn’t figure him out. But that I could. Too well, by now. And that the picture I’d pieced together both warned me and wouldn’t let me go.
Three weeks’ worth of evidence—photos, 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 one—too 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 wasn’t watching. He’d pause a second longer when I set the bag down. Once, on Tuesday, he’d walked past my desk and briefly lowered his gaze—at 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.
I’d left them in the inside pocket of my work jacket—two small ones, empty, but with the characteristic paint residue on the valves, cobalt blue and iron gray. A moment of carelessness. I’d 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 I’d hung it. It’s 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 expression—no 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 back—this time not with spray cans, but with the evidence, tightly packed, sealed watertight. Destination: a police post in the western district that didn’t 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 on—I turned around hastily just as Vincent got off the bike.
No glasses. That was the first thing I noticed. He looked different without them—sharper, the green and blue almost black in the darkness. Dark jacket. Gloves. That calmness that had nothing to do with relaxation.
“That was a trap,” I hissed in a disguised voice. Deep enough that it could have been my brother’s.
“Yeah.” Vincent took a step closer. “A very neat one, I’d say.” With a self-satisfied air, he brushed imaginary dirt off his shoulders.
“You knew I’d be out tonight.”
“I figured as much. The pressure lately.” Vincent paused. “Something’s changed. You’ve been… more restless.”
Slowly, I sat back properly on my R3 and reached for the throttle. “Get out of the way, Whittman.”
“The delivery van is too big to go around, and I’m right behind you. I don’t think you want to mess with me. After all, you’ve seen for yourself what I’m capable of.” No threat in his voice, almost friendly. “I just want to know who you are.”
Vincent reached out—for 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. That’s 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 woman’s corpse. Her bones were completely twisted. Neck, legs, arms.
“So she was good for something after all.” Vincent crept around the delivery van. “You know, she was hitting on me.”
In my state of shock, I didn’t 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.
“It’s okay, sweetie.” Vincent smiled charmingly and looked at my AGV helmet. “I won’t hurt you if you’re a good girl.”
Just as I was about to run away, he grabbed me and yanked the balaclava off my head.
The silence between us had a texture—heavy, warm, absurd. Vincent’s face was drenched in satisfaction.
“Well, I’ll be,” he smiled softly.
“Don’t say it.” A blush rose to my cheeks. Being this close to Vincent is uncomfortable.
“I was right,” he said it out loud, and his grin widened.
“Don’t say it,” I rolled my eyes.
“The color on your wrists.” He tapped his own. “Cobalt blue. Iron gray. I should have noticed it sooner—”
“Vincent,” I hissed at him.
“…noticed, but you’re really very good at blending in—” Unconsciously, Vincent pulled me close.
“I’m going to report you,” I bared my teeth.
The smile faded. Not completely, but it lost its lightness. “I know that.”
“I have everything. Every name. Every date.”
“Then get out of the way.”
He didn’t 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 in—suddenly, directly, without warning—and kissed me.
My mouth was still half-open from our last argument, which didn’t 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 world—and he kissed me as if it were a statement he had wanted to make for a long time. One for which he didn’t 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 Vincent’s tongue and lips. Vincent Whittman kissed with a thoroughness I hadn’t 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 he’d been holding it the whole time—which meant he’d taken it during the kiss.
“You—” I clenched my teeth.
“Security deposit,” 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 weight—the 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.
“Give me back the backpack,” I threatened him.
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 direction—they were getting closer, that was for sure.
For a moment, neither of us was the other’s enemy—just two people with a shared, very urgent problem lying behind the delivery van.
“Agreed,” 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.
“Come on.” 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.
“They’re driving down the parallel street,” I whispered. “If they turn the corner now—”
“I know,” Vincent hissed, lifting his head.
“We’re completely exposed here—”
He looked at me—completely focused on me. His gaze swept down the street, calculating, then returned to me.
“Stop thinking about it,” he growled. “And just kiss me already.”
“I get what you mean, I just—”
He roughly grabbed my chin and kissed me again—this 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 chest—not 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 hadn’t kissed anyone in too long.
Vincent slid his tongue into my mouth with complete determination. He gently lifted me up—both 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 didn’t.
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.
“Fuck. Y/N,” 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!
Vincent’s 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.
“Vince—” was all I could manage before his lips found mine again.
“Shut up. I just want your body to speak for me.” 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.
“You little cutie~” he whispered.
His hand slipped down into my pants. “Let me see if you feel the same way I do.”
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. “Fuck, princess~” 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 wouldn’t have to see Vincent’s triumphant smile.
“Baby~ Don’t you want more? Yes?” Vincent spoke to me like I was a baby. I couldn’t 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 couldn’t pull them down. “What?”
I grinned cheekily at him. “Well, looks like your plan isn’t going to work.”
But Vincent was, as always, one step ahead and unzipped the zipper on my back that connected my pants to my jacket.
“Oh yeah?” 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, I’d 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.
“I love it when you break down for me.” His grin curled his lips. “If only we weren’t in this alley. I’d devour you. Make you mine.” His deep voice whispered in my ear.
Hoarsely I gasped, “Do it. I… I need this.” The flush on my face burned.
Vincent looked at me with wide eyes. He chuckled softly, “It’s about time. Your knees are buckling, and I can feel you melting for me.”
Vincent got down on his knees and pulled my pants down as far as they’d 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 didn’t stop staring at me.
I quickly looked away, and he stepped back from me. “Do you trust me?” 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. “And now hold your breath, baby,” he whispered in my ear.
Skillfully, he slowly entered me. Startled, I moaned and bit my lip. “Vincent—” I stammered, clinging tightly to him.
“Shit. Y/N. Why are you so tight?” He looked down at me, amused. “Hasn’t anyone fucked you in a while, you stubborn thing?”
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.
“I’m still going to report you,” my voice trembled.
“I know.” He looked at me. “Someday.” 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 who’d had their mind fucked out of them yesterday and hadn’t 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.
“That shot you took last week at the underpass on Schillerstraße,” he finally said. “With the bird.”
My hand paused for a second.
“A photo of it is making the rounds right now,” he continued. “Someone posted it on an art forum. Two hundred comments in forty-eight hours. They say it’s the best thing to be on a wall in this city in years.”
“That’s someone else’s work,” I muttered.
“Yes, of course.” Vincent didn’t sound sarcastic—almost gentle, which was worse. “The cobalt blue on the bird. The way you treat the underside of the wings differently from the wing coverts. That’s a very distinctive choice.”
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.
“You’re blushing pretty hard right now,” he grinned.
“It’s warmth.” He stood up, slowly, without haste, and walked over to me. Not too close—that Vincent distance that said, “I’ll only come if you let me.” “You’re ashamed of your work.”
“Not of the quality. Of the fact that someone sees it.” He stopped. “That’s not the same thing.”
Vincent was right, as always.
“I have my reasons,” I said.
A long pause hung between us.
“I’m proposing a deal,” he began.
“My secret stays yours. Yours stays mine. What happened between us.” A brief pause. “Truce.”
I was silent, but the answer was on the tip of my tongue.
“Then we both have a problem.” Not threatening—almost resigned. “I don’t want a problem with you, Y/N.”
I looked at him. Vincent wasn’t faking it. I could tell right away. The warmth radiating from him.
I shook it. His hand was warm.
The night was cold and clear.
We rode side by side, simply because that’s how it had turned out and because neither of us acted as if it were unusual. My visor was open—a concession I didn’t quite admit to myself. Vincent’s 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, “Thank you.”
“Not for that.” I looked at the water. “That was a business decision.”
“Of course.” 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 lips…
“There was an underpass, two kilometers from here,” he said.
“Blank wall. Well-lit in the morning.” He slid off the bike and took off his helmet. “We still have time before it gets light.”
I looked at him for a second—the 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.
“Two kilometers,” 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 wasn’t so bad—if 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.
“Truce,” he smiled. “That includes that.”
I laughed—briefly, 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.
🏍♡⋆˙⟡ཐི ྐ❤︎ ཋྀ 🏍♡⋆˙⟡ཐི ྐ❤︎ ཋ
