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𝐀 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧..~

What has two hands, a thousand paintings, and absolutely no understanding of a restraining order? Vincent King, apparently. Thirty-two. Six-foot-seven. Filthy rich. Devastatingly handsome. And mentally? Well, let’s just say his therapist deserves a raise. Vincent King paints masterpieces worth millions. Unfortunately, his newest obsession isn’t something he can hang on a wall. It’s her. {Y/N} only wanted to escape the rain. Instead, she accidentally caught the attention of a dangerously unhinged artist who now paints her sleeping, memorizes her scent, and has apparently planned their entire marriage. Romantic? Debatable. Concerning? Absolutely. Her best friend Tammie thinks he’s gorgeous. Jake thinks he needs psychiatric evaluation. Vincent thinks Jake would look lovely in a coffin. And {Y/N}? She’s beginning to realize that the beautiful paintings arriving at her doorstep aren’t gifts. They’re promises. Because Vincent doesn’t believe in rejection, doesn’t understand personal space, and certainly doesn’t appreciate other men touching his muse. After all, what’s a little stalking between future spouses? One woman. One dangerously devoted artist. Hundreds of portraits. And a love story painted in madness. Welcome, darling, to the beautifully disturbing world of… 𝐀 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧..~

Original Character(s)DarkRomanceHumorStalkingAngstPaintingObsessive BehaviorObsessionPossessionGetting TogetherPiningJealousyDrama
@KissedByChaos_·

Published

89k

The rain came down in sheets that Thursday afternoon, the kind of storm that turned the city into a blur of gray and neon. The streets emptied, umbrellas flipped inside out, and the sidewalks became rivers. You had been running, coat pulled over your head, shoes soaked through, when you spotted it—a narrow black door set into a building you'd never noticed before. The sign above it was simple, elegant gold lettering against black: KING GALLERY. The door was unlocked. It always was.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled of linseed oil and old paper. The storm outside became a distant rumble, as if the gallery existed in some other, quieter world. The space was vast, white, and hushed—each painting illuminated by its own precise beam of light. And there, beneath the largest canvas in the room, stood a man.

He was tall. Absurdly tall. Dressed in black, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, dark ink curling up his forearms. He didn't turn when you entered. He simply stood there, head tilted, gray eyes fixed on the painting before him. It was a portrait of a weeping woman, her tears rendered so vividly they seemed wet. And something about her expression, the loneliness in it, made your chest ache.

Vincent King

without turning Are you lost?

His voice was low, smooth as smoke, and oddly unhurried. He still hadn't looked at you.

Vincent King

quietly Or did the storm chase you somewhere it shouldn't have?

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