Cryptically yours, 🔮

The studio is brightly lit, as per usual, and while the air has that familiar chalky and stale scent of hairspray and colorful dust- the tension could be cut with a knife. Perhaps in the same way that the familiar scent is intertwined with the sweep and flourish of your expensive perfume that tickles Vincent’s nose just right as you flit around the space with your heels clicking aggressively against the linoleum tile. 

It would annoy you to hear Vincent say it, he knows this, but you make a space that is otherwise tortuous one of his favorite places to be. Cozy, safe, warm. So the mounting tension in the air doesn’t even touch him. Doesn’t register as a danger at all. 

Of course, he’ll swear up and down that the reason is because you like him and he never imagined you’d snap at him for practically nothing! 

Er- nothing out of the ordinary, at least.  

So Vincent continues yapping away happily, waiting for the moment he says something that makes you snicker- when your eyes crinkle and the corner of your mouth curls up slyly. If he’s really lucky you’ll confirm that it was a good joke, a good idea- something, anything.   

You grumble something unintelligible in response to something he’s said- he’s lost track of what- and that’s just about the only warning Vincent gets that you’re about to bite his head off… in your own way.

With strength he did not realize you still possessed you knock his knees apart with a swift movement and smoothly step between them to tower over his currently seated form. Vincent chokes on whatever word he was about to form, mouth hanging open. 

“H-hey!” Vincent squeaks, mouth suddenly dry as you relent for a moment to stare down your nose at him with stone cold precision that makes him squirm in place. He’s not at all used to you being so… forward. Unimpressed and terribly, unbecomingly mean about it? Yes, absolutely, but never so rough! 

He loved you, really, he did, but no matter how regally you dressed or how cold you acted you were still an increasingly fragile old bird under it all and- oh fuck.

You make no comment nor apology, roughly grabbing his chin between your forefinger and thumb- with the pad of it on the cleft you seemed to adore so much- and makeup brush in your opposite hand and aggressively perfect the makeup on his left side. 

Just a woman on a mission weren’t you? He kind of hates that he’s into it… Christ…

“That’s not- hey, doll- we’re in a public sp-” Being in a public space has never stopped him before but-

The brush that was aggressively grinding into his cheek was suddenly flipped around, the hard edge tapping the bridge of his nose. Your gaze is absolute fire and pissed as hell or not- it’s certainly not doing anything to dampen the churn of arousal in his gut. 

“Vincent Whittman if you do not shut that lovely mouth of yours and let me finish up in peace, I swear to God- I’ll wipe it all off and let you walk out there bald faced on camera.” You tap the brush under his chin and then dig it in to close his partially open mouth before he can manage to speak. At least you still think his blabber mouth is lovely…

Inevitably- and likely due to his inability to stop squirming in spite of any threat you issue- your gaze dips to his lap.

You sigh, a guttural- annoyed- sound that makes your shoulders shudder faintly. Releasing him with your hands splayed as you toss in the air in exasperation; you step away to lean back against the vanity table, taking your warmth and the smell of your perfume with you while you pinch the bridge of your nose. 

The crows feet at the corners of your eyes, the corners of your mouth, crinkle in a decidedly unhappy fashion as both pinch closed. 

Vincent blinks stupidly, confused. Firstly, you’re not usually so forward, so aggressive- more passively cruel, really. Like having to spell out your contempt was beneath you- and he loves that about you. Well… he only loves it because he knows you’ve warmed to him- figuratively and literally- and that he’s the exception. 

So… uh… what gives?

Not allowing him to look for long, your hands- weathered only mildly by time and made ever more elegant, they’re soft, smelling of expensive lotions- move up to cover your entire face. How he wishes they were wrapped around his-

You breathe deeply in and out as you try to compose yourself, a loud, noisy interruption to his winding imagination.

Embarrassment and confusion makes his pale cheeks flush darker and he closes his knees briefly as if by sheer force of will alone he can banish the erection straining against the seam of his slacks. When you don’t show any signs of admonishing him verbally or even, really- returning to the task at hand, he leverages himself out of the chair to make some adjustments. Make it a little less obvious that he’s popped a boner twenty minutes before the shoot because you got it in your head to- Christ… this is embarrassing. 

“Am I presentable?” He asks once he’s finished, quieter- gentler. Only because the one thing more embarrassing than walking out of the room bowlegged would be if you reamed him out over whatever you’re pissed about first. 

Fidgeting with his tie, smoothing the lapels of his coat- Vincent catches his pink cheeks in the reflection of the mirror behind your head. He thinks it makes him look handsome- youthful.  

You peek through your fingers, tilting your head up and down as you give him a dangerously slow once over that threatens both his good sense and his restraint. 

“Fine enough.” You grit out after a moment, your hands drop to the edge of the vanity- curling around the edge tightly enough for your knuckles to show the bone underneath with clarity.

“Not helping.” Vincent manages somewhat playfully, pressing an overly cautious kiss to the top of your head- careful not to muss up your hair and aware that even if he doesn’t you’re liable to scratch him- but he’s… not sure what else to do…? 

While you don’t scratch… you do offer him a relatively mild glare, all things considered. 

“If you do not like the answer, mister Whittman, then do not ask for my advice.” 

Oh. Okay. You were mad mad now… you never called him by his last name. Not anymore. Not when it was just the two of you. Unless of course, you were raring pissed. Vincent wrinkles his nose a little as he frowns down at you, unsure of what to make of this situation. 

 You stood, brushing him away towards the door in the same manner as you’d brush your skirt off.

He hovers, awkwardly in the doorway- practically grabbing onto the frame to keep from you shoving him out. “Um- wait-”

With reluctance, you reach up and squeeze his bicep all gentle and sweet like. As if that is a good enough indicator that you do not hate his guts entirely all of a sudden. 

Vincent is… not entirely reassured even when you say, as sincerely as you can muster, “You look like your usual handsome self. Stop worrying and shoo.” 

Vincent tries asking. Right after the set. You brush him off. He tries again at lunch,  same result. Tries another time while you are working quite literally on another warm body- the girl in the chair knows enough to shut up but not to keep her eyes in the position you ask her to. 

That attempt to ascertain what’s got your panties in a twist doesn’t end so well as the others where you more gently brush the question off, lure him into talking about this or that or the next thing… Anything but what he did to upset you so very much in all of five minutes… he’s almost certain it had nothing to do with him at all. 

You’ve always been hard to please- whether by word or by deed- but that’s never stopped him from trying.

It’s not until he gets home does he realize that you must be feeling guilty and it must really, honestly, not be him you’re displeased with. Actually guilty. 

How does he know without a shadow of a doubt?

Well, for starters, you’ve cooked for him. Cooked. With a capital C. 

As a general rule of thumb, you do not cook. Certainly not for Vincent, but not even for yourself. You think you’re above that sort of thing, and you shouldn’t have to lift a finger for something so beneath you. Vincent just- agrees to not argue the point. What’s he going to do, tell you no? When he’s already chasing up your skirt for a scrap of anything, for approval? Frankly, he’ll say a great many things that he may or may not actually believe in fully if he thinks you’ll approve of them and tell him so… 

So, imagine his surprise when he walks into his apartment (of which you have a key, of course), and the air is thick with some savory scent, tinged with sweetness. Confused, he turns a corner and you’re just- standing there, waiting for him, in his kitchen. Wiping your hands in the balled up apron before tossing it onto the countertop behind you. Elegant as always.

Vincent damn near passes out right then and there, the blood rushes from his head to his dick so fast. He imagines for a second he must be dreaming- dozed off at his desk, likely- before deciding he most definitely does not want to wake up, regardless. 

“What a simple man you are to please, Vinny.” You tell him with a carefully mild tone- once he’s had his dinner and dessert too- feasting both on you, of course, and a delicious something or other that you pulled out of the oven fully fledged like a damn witch. 

Once all’s said and done, you’re smiling faintly down at him where his face is happily nestled between your bare breasts, your fingers idly carding through his hair- pausing to thumb at the grey strands you know he hates with sudden, chilly, interest.  

The gesture is the closest to an apology he gets for being manhandled and that’s- well, that’s alright. Vincent can live with that.

What he cannot live with is whatever was putting you in such a mood. There’s something unmistakably melancholy about your demeanor that night and the following day. Something Vincent has never known you to have- or perhaps had the privilege of seeing before. 

If you won’t tell him when he asks- nicely- then he’ll simply have to take his initiative somewhere else to figure it out… and if it’s a problem he can solve? Well. He can take care of that too.  No sweat.

Vincent nudges the pastry across the desk with a little more insistence. The secretary- Mary, maybe? Look, he doesn’t keep track of every little piece that Robert shuffles through the doors to sit and look pretty, okay? He only has eyes for you and the spotlight that’s rightfully his… doesn’t leave much room for anything or anyone else.

That said, he does know that you’re fond of his girl- whatever her name is. That you have an almost motherly connection- or as close as you’re inclined to get to motherly. You’re protective of her and surely- well, maybe- maybe you’ve slipped up and told her a little more than you should’ve? Vincent could only hope.  

“Sir…?” the secretary stammers, “What-”

“That’s a bribe, doll. You’re supposed to take it.” Vincent says, sweetly but the way he taps his fingers against the edge of the desk impatiently gives away his growing annoyance like nothing else.

Bewildered, the girl starts to giggle nervously- cheeks flushed as she covers her mouth.

“I- um- well, you don’t have to bribe me, mister Whittman-?”

“I want to know what’s got our star studded makeup artist in such a state? She’s… crankier than usual.” 

“Oh…” The girl looks away, at her lap.

“C’mon. I know she likes to talk to you. Has she said something? Did someone upset her?”

That’s something he could fix at least, if not improve your mood directly.

“No, no- nothing so… You know how she is.”

Of course he knows how you are- you’re teflon on the best of days- but that’s not the point. He knows how you are and he knows something is extremely, terribly wrong with you right now and he wants to know what it is without getting stuck in the damn doghouse.

What if you’re… sick? You’re sick and you don’t want to tell him so you’re pushing him- pushing everyone- away? For someone so outwardly aloof, you sure did have a big heart… you poor thing… 

“Ye..- Yeah. I know how she is, but this is different.” Vincent pauses with a little sigh of frustration before plastering the softest smile he can manage onto his features, “Look, doll, I just want to see if I can do something to help.”

The girl seems to contemplate this before she nods. “If anybody could, I s’pose…”

Vincent’s less than sincere smile suddenly lights up, stretches wider at the indirect compliment coming from you to him through this- whoever she is. 

“I think she’s just… a bit melancholy? You know, the last film she had a starring role in came out around this month? Years and years ago now, of course, but-” 

Ah. That makes sense. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the name of the film, of course, or the plot- for that matter but he can picture the absolutely devilish number that they put you in that did a fantastic job of accentuating your-  

“I’ve seen it.” 

“Oh you have? Ah. Um- of course you have, sir.” She clears her throat, pulls the napkin towards her a little. Vincent lets her. A reward for a job well done as she keeps nattering on. “I suppose- well, it sounds to me like she misses being adored and it just reminded her that the curtains were closed… I’m sure it’ll pass. Give it a few days… treat her gently?”

That’s what he gets for asking for advice. Treat you gently- like he didn’t already!

“Thank you, miss-”

“Oh! Just call me Mary, sir!” She says, cheerfully, popping a corner of the treat into her mouth. 

Ahah! He had remembered her name! 

Much, much more importantly, he knew exactly what he was going to do for you.   

“You could have told me in advance that it was such an important anniversary to you or I’d have done more.” Vincent says softly, as he enters your makeup studio practically on your heels. 

From one wall to the other there’s bundles of roses, some tied up in silky black and blue ribbons while others are arranged freely. Leaving only the mirror and most of your equipment free from the gesture. In part because he ran out of flowers on such short notice but he’ll say he didn’t want to get water on any of your things or the wiring if you ask. 

You’ll like that. Foresight was attractive, you once said. He’s positive you once said, anyways.  

As a bonus, from the shadows of the doorway he can see the way your expression shifts rapidfire through different emotions as you step into the room proper. Finally, a tentative smile graces your face while you move so very carefully. As though you’re afraid that noise of any kind, be it your sharp heels or your attempt at words, that will scare the mirage away.

You gain a little momentum as you tiptoe further into the room, daring to spin in a delighted fashion, arms splayed so your fingertips brush the soft petals as you spin. The rush of air causes petals to rustle, some fall upon the ground at your feet and the fresh, sultry scent of the flowers wafts around you and to him. A little laugh- almost girlish in nature, it sounds so light and airy and delighted- spills from your trembling smile. 

Without hesitating any longer you beckon him further in the room with sweeping, insistent motions.  

“C’mere baby- don’t be a stranger.” You mutter tearfully, sniffling a little- turning your head away from him to hide the fact that your makeup is dripping pathetically. It seems to occur to you that you’re acting a fool even if you can’t seem to fight the impulse to be touched off.

Vincent’s done good. Very, very good- he’s sure of it.

The door is shut behind him softly, but he doesn’t come over right away even if the way you say baby makes his knees weak- he wants to watch you some more, imprint this rare version of you that he’s inspired somewhere in his mind to hold onto as proof. 

Vincent leans against the door for a moment- taking in the sight of you, beautiful, teary-eyed but smiling. Surrounded by entirely too many roses, petals dark and red, the air thick and cloying with the scent. All as you ought to be, as you deserved.

Reaching behind him, he clicks the lock into place.

“You’re so pretty when you cry but-” Vincent scrubs the tears away with his thumb, pops it in his mouth without much thought. Your eyes crinkle at the corners when you stare up at him through your wet lashes. “Mh… Shouldn’t be ‘cause you’re upset, honey.”

“I’m not upset.” You say, slowly. Not too quickly as to be considered dishonest, but as though the words are entirely foreign to you. 

Tentatively, you raise your hands to his shoulders- he takes one of your wrists and maneuvers it to his mouth, kisses your palm before drawing you into an impromptu dance. Slow, deliberate- you let him spin and dip you with careful precision to avoid any mishaps. 

Your laugh rings through the air, pattering out to a sharp, pleased inhale when he swipes a rose from the wall and draws it across your cheeks playfully. 

“Thank you, this is-”

Vincent offers you a brilliant, showstopping smile, eyes half shut with fingertips tap against your hipbone as he sways with you- subtly guiding you back.

“This is very lovely. Very… terribly… sweet of you, Vincent.”

You push at his shoulders- not unkindly- when you bump up against the vanity table and he encourages you up onto it. You know exactly what he’s thinking, he can see it in your eyes.

There’s a strange gentleness to your movements even as you protest still, softly, eyes darting from him to the flowers and back. 

“Vinny, you’ve done quite enough and it’s- we’re at the studio, in my- damn it all, Vincent! I swear to-” 

You practically squeak when he, having become impatient, bends and lifts you- easily- himself and deposits you on the vanity. Eyes wide as saucers you stare, quite bewildered- and leaving no room for melancholy as he pulls his glasses off slowly- folds them. 

When he kneels easily into the space between your knees, you still haven’t found the words to protest further, enamored with him in a moment of bald faced vulnerability that makes him giddy.  

“Door’s locked. It’s so terribly late. We’re probably the only ones still here ‘cept for a janitor.” 

“But- aren’t you worried-”

With his large, elegant hands he smooths your skirt down before taking the hem and bunching it all the way up to expose your core. He strokes you idly through the fabric of your panties, and you can’t help the way you sigh at the attention. 

“Never got up to anything naughty in your dressing room back in the day, did you?” 

You narrow your eyes at him slightly before they roll away to stare into the sea of roses nearest to you as if willing your embarrassment to dissipate through sheer force of will at the reminder that he adores you now. When no one else does. Not the way they used to.

“Regardless, sweetheart, that was the and this is now. You deserve to be worshiped now. Tonight. Yeah? Absolutely. So, just lemme-” Vincent presses a kiss to your knee- he looks up, watching you worry your perfectly painted lip between your teeth. Finally you sigh, reach out to stroke a flyaway hair from his forehead and give him an encouraging smile. 

 Swiftly he tugs your panties down until they’re around your ankles before you can change your mind, tongue licking a stripe up your inner thigh as he all but dives into you.

Your head makes a metallic-sounding thunk against the glass of the mirror as you relent with a faint laugh.

“That’s it, let go. Trust me, all you gotta do is sit there and look beautiful.” He can’t see you with the fabric bunched up around your waist, but he can picture how pretty you are, how elegant, how real. “Easy and effortless for you, I know.” 

Working methodically, alternating between stroking your slowly dampening hole and rubbing your clit, he follows the pitch and volume of the song your moans make even as you make every attempt to hide them behind your knuckles in your mouth.

He doesn’t care how long it’s going to take. He doesn’t care if he gets a cramp in his fingers- in his tongue- burying them in your notoriously hard to please cunt. 

So what if he’s palming himself through his slacks at the same time? It helped to keep him focused- just a teeny, tiny bit of relief- he’d swear up and down. 

Nonetheless, you’re going to come undone for him and him alone, that’s the end of it. 

And come undone for him you do.  

You crest your peak with a warbling sigh of his name, slender fingertips having mussed his dark brown hair into a state of nearly irreparable disarray- and when you look down your breath catches when you meet the emotion twinkling in his green and blue eyes.

Vincent need not say it. His eyes, dark pupils blown wide and sparkling with the vanity’s yellowed lights as though reflecting a marquee where you were the singular leading role.

He says it anyways, not bluntly- sweetly. Achingly so. 

An emotion you had thought quite lost on you nowadays, what with your age and subsequent exit from the main stage, wells up in your chest unbidden and you draw him up by his tie to kiss him. It was either kiss him senseless or start crying again, at this point, and you were never one for tears. Once was enough for today. 

“I adore you.” Vincent mumbles between sloppy kisses when you drag him up by his tie of all things, completely uncaring that you’re smearing your lipstick off with your own slick. “You deserve your name in lights.” 

He doesn’t protest when you kiss him, your heart still beating hard- your breath still coming out hard and fast. A kiss from you is a kiss from you and practically a silent well done. Plus, it doesn’t really matter does it? Your makeup studio is probably one of the better places for a messy tryst. The thought is not lost on him. You have all kinds of things stashed away to fix and fuss with unwanted smears and to smooth out roughed up edges.

Your fingers fumbling with the button of his slacks, your other hand digging in his back pocket- grabbing his ass in the process. Cheeky broad! 

He’s just about to ask if you want more before you push him insistently back towards the ever present chair distracts him. He stammers, “W-what’re you doing, doll?”

Not answering, you merely smile- triumphant- as you slide off the vanity, sweeping the tin of condoms you swiped from his pocket moments before into your hand as you go and waggling it at him teasingly.

Vincent leans further back into the chair as you approach him on slightly wobbling legs. His smug smirk back in full force at that.  With your hands on his shoulders to steady your shaking legs, you kick off your heels and then, your panties which dangle enticingly from your fingertips. You bend- press your mouth to his clothed shoulder teasingly- and he feels your hand trail from his rib cage to his pants before you push your panties into his pocket.

Before he can find the words to ask what you’re up to, you slide your knee between his to knock his knees apart in a swift movement. The briefest sense of deja vu dissipates when you smirk instead of scowl at the prominent line of his erection now on full, undeniable display. 

Fingertips dance mercilessly across the fabric, from his knee to thigh to the bulge- he whimpers when you thumb at the button again. Touching him anywhere but where he wants- hands clenching to fists at his sides.

When he was in this chair, he was at your mercy. That’s a rule, of sorts. Maybe an unspoken one, but one nonetheless. 

Regardless of whether you take pity on him or become bored with teasing him, you deign to pull him out of his briefs and stroke your soft hand up and down his painfully hard length. Your thumb grazes against the weepy, swollen head in sweet, slow movements- spreads sticky precum across the tip. 

“Thank God.” he gasps, grateful for you touching him at all but doubly so that you’ve moved forward. 

“Always so impatient, my Vinny.” You cluck your tongue and take another deep breath, “You’ll have to slow down one of these days.”

You pop your thumb in your mouth with an unbothered shrug, flashing your tongue at him teasingly, when he squints at you. 

Vincent closes his eyes with a guttural sigh, juts his hips out insistently when he hears the metal lid of the tin in your other hand pop open. Easily you slide the condom on, stroking your palms along his thighs afterwards as you retract- likely to observe your handiwork.

He huffs at you, peaking his eyes open to observe you, and you huff back with exaggerated, playful sarcasm that makes his stomach swoop just the same as when you crawl, carefully into his lap. His hands fall to your hip to keep you from swaying too precariously while your hands fly to his shoulders. 

With an amused little huff you carefully crawl into his lap- steadying yourself on his shoulders again. You let his cock rest between your folds as you settle, warm slick smearing across the length of him and drawing a sigh from his chest.

He likes this outcome best, actually. Better than any fantasy that flitted through his brain rapid fire at the time.

“Oh- okay- okay! I see what we’re doing.”

“Very good. Now shh, and play your part, Vincent.” You bat your sticky eyelashes at him. “For me? I’m the star, aren’t I?”

“Absolutely.”

Your fingers ghost over his cheeks, tilt his head this way and that as if pretending your fingers are your brushes. The absolutely wicked grin you’re sporting the whole time betrays how little you’re concentrating on your “craft”. Never have you smiled so wide while doing anyone’s makeup- his included. 

“What a mess you are.” You murmur. 

Grinning, he responds, “Only for you.”

You hum noncommittally but the way your eyes light up and a more genuine edge to your smile tugs at your mouth gives it away. 

“Keep giving me such cheek and I’ll leave you like this.” You warn, but there’s no heat behind the threat. The pad of your finger sweeps over his cheekbone playfully, and you steal the briefest of kisses to distract in its wake. 

Vincent is smart enough to not say “You wouldn’t.” at this moment because… uh. You would. You would with great malice and haughty irritation. He knows that much. He’d find it endlessly amusing if you weren’t liable to do it to him just the same as anybody else. 

“M’not being cheeky,” he murmurs instead, deepening his voice in a way that makes you shiver. “I mean every word.”

You roll your eyes but do not protest as you take him in hand- stroking him lazily again before you guide him into yourself. 

Vincent’s voice warbles with a faint moan as the tip pops into your waiting heat. His fingers twist in your clothing while his head tips back against the back of the chair. 

It takes him all of five minutes to become impatient, thrusting- albeit lightly- up into you as you’re sinking down.

“Mm- oh, ow.” You wince, he feels it before he hears you voice your discomfort. You lift yourself sharply up and away from his cock- leaving him cold in a matter of seconds.

Vincent panting, manages to peel his eyes open and raise a trembling, but concerned eyebrow at you- hands moving to more securely hold you.  

“Too deep-” You hiss between clenched teeth, bending forward to lean your head against the top of his- the fabric of your blouse that unfortunately conceals your breasts from him pressing against his face.  

Ah. Whoops. He knew better. You had your good days and your bad, and some things just didn’t work the same anymore- but he got to have you in all the ways it did so who was he to complain?

“Mm- couldn’t help myself.” There’s a faintly apologetic lilt to his stammered pant.

You nod, he feels it, just like he feels the way your shift hips down a little as you try to ascertain where your threshold is, and you murmur half-apologetically yourself, “Just hold still for me, baby? Can we do that?” 

He whimpers but nods his head frantically, knocks his chin into your shoulder as he’s sliding his arms down from your waist to around your knees, bridging the gap between his spread knees. A sort of makeshift place marker as you slide back down on his shaft slowly.

You set a comfortable pace and depth eventually- panting softly until you thread your fingers through his hair and tug him forward to press your mouths together with clumsy insistence. Your breath escapes your nose with increasingly sharp exhales and dampens his skin the longer you rock against him. 

“M’close.” He mumbles, finally, between open mouthed kisses- feels your core flutter around him at the warning even as you manage to keep pace.  

“C’mon then.” You slur into his cheek, hand in his hair, voice tired but undeniably sweet, “You’ve been so good, Vinny.” 

A whine crawls up his throat. He has been so good to you, hasn’t he? 

“And-” You say, stilted and not just because your steadier movements have started to falter. The words all but crawl out of you- like the admission itself hurts you more than taking him too deep- it hurts your pride. But you’re saying it anyway. For him. “I love you for it.” 

“Fuck.” He shudders as the orgasm washes over him, slow and warm. Instinctively, he curls around you as best he can, Fingertips digging into you wherever they happen to be. Your calf, wrapped around your ribs. There’ll be the faintest of marks, he knows.

“Good. Very good.” You whisper breathlessly against the shell of his ear, petting the back of his head sweetly. Even if you’re breathing hard still, the smile in your voice is undeniable and it brings a similar expression to his face.

With a great deal of your weight on his shoulders, you pull yourself off of him- in the dazzling and bright lights the sticky, thin evidence of your own desire shines along the silicone edge of the condom as he deflates.

“We’re not doing this here again.” You gasp and then whimper softly while pressing your forehead to his, clumsily rearranging your legs to sit crossways in his lap more comfortably. Just for a minute, until the feeling returns to your knees- probably, he thinks.

Vincent nods lazily along with the idea. Truthfully, he’s fine with that. More or less. 

He doesn’t think he could stand to sit in this chair and let you do his makeup anymore if this happened more than once. Not that he sits particularly well for you as it stands- ha!- he’s a squirmier, what can he say? But if you thought he was insufferable before, well. He could be significantly worse.

“Mhm. I see how it is. Any repeat performance wouldn’t live up to this time, would it?”

He expects a frown at the more or less jest- really he just wants you to tell him it was very good and you love him- but you end up nodding your head as you laugh again.

“Should’ve known you weren’t listening anymore.” Despite everything, you take his face in your hands- kiss him sweetly once more- and say, with gentle sincerity. “Yes, Vincent, that’s the reason. This is… extremely memorable. Special. Wouldn’t want to overdo it, no?”  

Absentmindedly he strokes his palm up and down your thigh when you move back to cuddle against him but instead whine- frustration suddenly threatening the relaxed atmosphere. You mutter, “Why did I think this was a good idea?” 

“What can I do for my star when we get home, hm? Warm bath? Massage?” he murmurs sweetly, nuzzling at your temple.

“You’re spoiling me.” There's a ghost of an eye roll in your tone.

You say that like you weren’t just so grateful and in love with him that you rode him in your studio like a damn fantasy come to life- sore joints and all be damned! Not that he’s complaining- and in fact, neither should you be! 

“Shh, shh. None of that. No complaints, just enjoy it.” 

After a few more minutes of catching your breath, he helps you set yourself to rights and the studio itself. 

“What about the-”

“They’ll still be here tomorrow, I imagine.” 

You pluck a fist full of stems from the wall and take them with you anyways- ribbons and all- as though the smell wasn’t going to follow you both out regardless. Vincent says nothing- shockingly- but the swagger his step has says it all anyways.

As promised- or at the very least implied- Vincent takes you home and pampers you.  

“How’s that poem go, again?” Vincent murmurs as he crawls onto the mattress next to you, bends over to press his mouth to your forehead, to your temple- inhales the scent of your shampoo that he so carefully massaged into your scalp. 

He likes you like this too. For the record. Stripped of every layer of defense, no makeup, no clothes, no perfume, even. Raw- his. The only person who gets to see you like this. 

“What poem?” Tiredly, your eyes crack open. Just a little. Just enough that he can see them glint. 

“The uh-” Vincent clears his throat, “Roses are red, violets are blue- you’re the apple of my eye, and the only star in my sky too?”

You huff with almost-laughter, hands over your mouth to conceal the smile as you lay flat on your back next to him- tiredly, your eyes crack open. Just a little. 

“That is… I do not think that is how it goes, Vin.” 

“Everybody riffs that last part, I think. Whatever, doesn’t matter- you’re smiling about it anyway.” He shrugs as he weasels his way under the covers and attaches himself to your side like an overgrown leech. Head tucked under your chin and arms looped around your waist. 

For your part you allow it, too tired- delighted- to protest much. You manage to free one of your arms from his embrace to alternate between lazily playing with the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck and stroking the warm skin between his shoulders.

At least he’s a handsome, occasionally excessively- insanely thoughtful leech, you think as you drift to sleep with his voice mumbling against your pulse.

“You’re still my star, hon.”

Robert’s pissed as all Hell for weeks. He’s getting complaints sent all the way up the chain with increasing bafflement. Mary, incidentally, has such an intense allergic reaction that she's absent for about as long as it takes for things to go back to normal... 

Not that Vincent pays Robert or anyone else who's had to endure the relatively mild fallout, considering his other problem solving tendencies, any mind at all.

More important to him is the way you hum while fixing his hair as long as the scent lingers, you tell him how gorgeous he is more often and you mean it. You’re, dare he say it, much- much- happier than he’s ever known you to be. 

The flowers you swipe before the room is cleared out temporarily have a place of honor arranged carefully in a beautiful vase in your own home, only to eventually end up dried and pressed in your scrapbook detailing your achievements from the humblest of beginnings to the highest of highs. You had thought the ratty old book well into retirement, much like yourself and yet somehow… unexpectedly, someone’s brought you a new entry to add tied up in ribbons. Literally.

Dried and pressed and kept with your other keepsakes from a bygone era in your life… hm. It gives you pause. You miss those times, the good times, you really do. Melancholy is stitched into the memories by default. However, more than ever before you suppose that your life now is not so bad. Not particularly glamorous, not exciting... but the present is, you'll reluctantly admit, made better by the company, you suppose. 

Much later, you tell him as much. For the sole purpose of watching Vincent preen at the mention of such obvious sentimentality from you for something he did!

yay Happy Valentine's day from me & my favorite girl... 🥰 I was just really thrilled to think of one of those cheesy v-day card lines that suited her LOL. She would say this trying to be cute about it 💜😂 Also yes, this IS a bit of a reference to the bar scene in chapter 4 of Black Rabbit, Blue Screen. Like a tiny one.

Also the no text version :)