CEO of ❄️ Addict Vincent Whittman @purple-mountain-manatee - Tumblr Blog

11h

Off to the Races — Vincent Whittman ♡

♡ Tone: fluff/smut/angst

♥︎ 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.

Let the curtains fall. If he dies, he dies.