Lame writer

 you knew he liked charlie puth and maroon 5, sure, but this was just…

 “...vince. babe, slow down,” you reason nervously, eyes flitting between him and the rapidly approaching stoplight. “the light’s about to turn red—”

 “and now my heart is- what? oh, shit.” 

 he slows down a second too late.

-

 vincent had the common sense to turn down the stereo, but apparently not enough fucking intelligence to have switched it off entirely. jb's young tenor voice still echoed annoyingly from the speakers at 5% volume— wait, had this idiot put the song on loop without you noticing—?

 “officer.” he tries flashing a charming smile but it comes off embarrassingly sheepish instead.

your nails dig into your bag as you stare holes into your jeans, before glancing up at the police officer with the most haunted in your eyes.

“officer, i swear i do not know this man.” 

 you’re pretty sure you sound like you’re about to cry.

 the policeman looks wearily at you, then pins his gaze down to the matching slivers of metal on both your right ring finger and his. promise rings, he had said, as he carefully wiggled it past your knuckles on your first anniversary after graduating high school.

 vincent’s was thicker—a simple silver band with the outline of a shark leaving a gaping hole in the middle of the metal. predictably, the missing shark was adorning the slimmer gold band that sat prettily on your hand. 

 you feel the blood drain out of your face.

 fuck.

꩜ a/n: and if i said writing stupid blurbs like these were what got me through junior year cuz pretending i had vincent as a boyfriend was better than actually going out and getting a real one took me six months to post this homyga high school/college au's r peak yall even if theyre just in ur head . trust

will be cross-posted to ao3 soon !

———

 canute road was surprisingly empty for an hour this early into the evening—though you suppose most people were either tucked in in preparation for the excitement of the next day, or putting on the ritz with the rich and glamorous back at the southwestern hotel.

 you could almost see her—titanic, that is—barely peeking over the rooftops as you neared the white star docks. you feel your heart give a happy little flip and you briefly squeeze vincent’s hand in elation.

 “oh, darling, just look at her!”

 “where?” he squints, scrunching his nose. it barely lifts the thick-rimmed lenses of his glasses to his line of sight.

 “there, you silly boy!” you exclaim, pointing up somewhere into the distance.

 vincent chuckles sheepishly, “i still can’t see it, honey.”

 you stubbornly continue to point at the sliver of pale buff steel that was her mighty funnels. “over yonder, just by the– oh, forget it, you blind rat.” you drop your hand to your side. “we're almost there, anyway.”

 vincent laughs again, and the ring around his finger is cool against your skin. “you might have married a blind man, sweetheart, but at least i’m handsome enough to make up for it.” he preens under the yellow streetlights, and your indignant retort is lost to the succeeding guffaw that bursts from his chest.

 “i thought you were the one telling me to be quiet!” you protest, though you can't fight the smile that worms its way onto your face.

 he doesn't stop laughing.

 “vincent!”

 “okay, okay,” he relents, beginning to wind down his laughter. “i’ll be quiet now.”

 your handheld sprint slows to a leisurely jog as you near the gates to the port—tall, red-bricked, imposing sentries that barred the path to the berths. heavy, wrought-iron pickets were speared adjacent to the massive pillars, and in front of the enormous latch stood a watchman in uniform.

 his gaze rakes over the two of you with a severity that makes your breath catch in your throat, but vincent doesn’t flinch. before the guard could part his lips with an admonishment, vincent smoothly slinks his hand into his breast pocket and pulls out a thick, cream coloured card—one that was folded in such a way that made it fit neatly in his suit, yet strategic enough to flaunt the embellished White Star Line logo that adorned the margins.

 “evening, officer,” vincent greets with a small, self-assured smile. “second-class passengers. my lady wanted to see the ship up close before we board tomorrow."

 the watchman’s eyes flicker from the ticket to vincent’s tailored coat, gives your silk and pearls a fleeting glance, then immediately nods. “mind the railroad tracks in the dark, sir.” he pulls back the hefty latch with a metallic clink, and slightly bows his head toward you in acknowledgment. “and have a good evening, ma’am.”

 you hesitantly return his gesture, then carefully move your hand to wrap around vincent’s arm.

 as the gate carefully swings open, a flash of gold gleams beneath the postlight. vincent tosses a coin, flicking it from his pocket, and the watchman catches it almost effortlessly. his stern demeanour relaxes with a slight upturn of his lips. 

 “good man,” vincent winks. “we won’t be an hour.”

 the watchman responds with a casual salute, pockets the coin, then turns back to his post.

 you exhale the breath you were holding. “oh, my goodness!” you burst into another fit of giggles once the two of you reach a considerable distance away from the gate. “i was so nervous!”

 vincent does a complete 180°, his earlier suaveness gone with a turn of his heel. “did you see how i handled that?” he asks proudly. “keen, huh?”

 “positively dashing,” you agree, tiptoeing to press a delighted kiss to his cheek.

 “all about the execution, sweetheart,” vincent says smugly. “shall we, my love?” he places his hand over where yours rests in the crook of his arm.

 “where to, sir?” you grin, deciding to humor him. “the stars?”

 it was around a quarter of a mile further down to the quay, but you were in no rush. 

 you had time.

 briefly squeezing your hand thrice, vincent smiles, relishing in the way you glow with joy. he leans down slightly, lowering his voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper. 

 “the ship of dreams.”

—

 loose gravel crunches beneath your feet as you walk, together, past the row of cargo sheds that line the dock. quayside cranes loom over your heads like trees unshaken by the spring breeze; a zephyr that rolls in from the southwest and blows a shiver through your clothes.

 vincent breathes out a chuckle that clouds in front of his lips. “didn’t bring a coat?”

 “got too excited.” your teeth chatter, though it does nothing to chase away the smile that all but splits your face. “c-couldn’t wait to leave. dinner was stuffy.”

 “silly girl,” he huffs, returning your earlier remark in kind. “come here.”

 your walk is paused momentarily as vincent takes a second to unbutton and shrug off his dinner jacket, before he settles the coat around your shoulders. the warmth that follows is immediate and endlessly comforting—though you notice how the weight of the tickets settling upon the space above your heart was far heavier than the wool.

 “vincent—” you start.

 “i’ll be fine,” he hushes you. “i run hot anyway, remember?”

 the fabric of his waistcoat fits neatly against his stomach and chest, and you can’t find it in yourself to complain. still, you roll your eyes.

 “oh, praise,” you drawl sarcastically, settling back into his side. “my hero.”

 “i know, i know.” vincent lets out a theatrical sigh, shaking his fist. “such sacrifice. the very image of chivalry.”

 “you’re just pushing it now!” you say loudly, then try to stomp your right heel over his dress shoes. he narrowly dodges it with a tiny yelp.

 “i- hey!” he protests. “is that any way you should be treating your hero?”

 “no, but it's how i should be treating my husband.” you throw him a dirty look, before adding, “for being an idiot.”

 the mock-offense on his face melts almost immediately. a newborn star gleams in his eyes, and he softens, tenderness bright in his mismatched gaze.

 you blink at his change of demeanour. “what?”

 “i don’t think i’ll ever get used to it,” he finally says. vincent turns to look ahead, resuming your walk. the most boyish, happiest smile you’ve ever seen him wear stays spread across his face.

 “to?”

 “you calling me your husband.”

 the raw honesty in his voice was staggering—uncharacteristic, though not unwelcome. it steals the witty retort that had been brimming on the edge of your tongue, and in its place blooms a sudden, sweet ache that you try hard to swallow. that same ache swells in your chest and dances through your skin, warming your cheeks in a flush you can’t blame on the evening chill, and gravitates the blood in your fingertips toward the pulse in his. you trail your palm down his arm until you find his hand, and you slip into where you’ve always fit; where you’ve always belonged.

 “better start getting used to it, then.” is all you can muster. a watery laugh unwillingly breaks out of you, and you press your cheek into the ironed cotton that dresses his shoulder. “i don’t plan on stopping any time soon.”

 “not even for the next ten years?” he teases, nudging his chin down to rest upon your head.

 “not even for the next seventy.” you scoff, smiling.

 vincent lets out a thoughtful hum. “still sounds a bit too short. how about eighty?”

 “you drive a hard bargain,” you remark playfully. “would a lifetime satisfy you?”

 he beams. the sight of it warms your heart. “indubitably.”

 eyes crinkling at the corners, you tighten your grip around his hand and say, “you’ve got yourself a deal, mr whittman.”

 “pleasure doing business with you, mrs whittman,” he teases. as you round the corner of a shed, what greets you on the other side completely steals your breath away.

 there she is.

 titanic.

 she emerges from the darkness, all one hundred and seventy-five feet of her standing tall and proud upon the waters of the river test. a hundred thousand rivets—millions, perhaps—adorn the sleek structure of her hull, jutting out from the steel in rows like aligned constellations dotting the sky. the pungent scent of fresh paint danced with the salty waft of sea spray, and she glowed against the port with lamps that lined her portholes and decks in an almost incandescent golden light.

 the magnificent curve of her stern faced you, and above it fluttered a flag of the british blue ensign. she was vast, immense, utterly unprecedented in scale; a two hundred sixty-nine metre titan that stretched through the wide expanse of berth 44. across the lip of her rear was painted the word liverpool, etched in ochre and yellow, beneath the careful, precise inscription that grandly read titanic. 

 and truly, did the ship of dreams live up to her tremendous name.

 “oh, vincent,” you breathe, entranced, taking a step away from him and toward the ship. your fingers touch the rouged flesh of your lip, utterly captivated by the enormity of the grandest moving object that had yet to grace the ocean by far.

 you had never felt smaller. more miniscule. standing below the hull of a ship they had claimed to be unsinkable—it was impossible not to.

 but, oh, you felt nothing but wonder as you marvelled at how humbling it felt to stand next to something of such sheer power and size.

 “she’s beautiful.”

 “...yeah,” vincent murmurs, though his eyes land elsewhere. “she is.”

 he watches you turn around slowly, your gaze glued to the vessel, starry with rapt captivation. the joy on your face was so immense, it almost baffled him to think about how much a hunk of metal and steel could bring such bliss and happiness.

 and he couldn’t help but love you for it.

 nevertheless, being loved by vincent whittman didn’t come without a price.

 “still, though,” vincent comments offhandedly, mischief tugging at the corner of his lips. “it doesn’t look any bigger than the mauretania.”

 you whip your head toward him so fast you nearly throw out your neck, with a look so offended it was almost hilarious. “you can be blasé about most things, vinny, but not about titanic!”

 vincent crosses his arms, entirely delighted that you took the bait. “oh, really?”

 “yes, really!” you fire back, gesturing wildly at the hull. “mauretania was only seven hundred ninety feet long. titanic is almost a hundred feet longer, and far more luxurious!”

 “the mauretania is faster, though,” he points out, trying hard to hide his amusement. you were too easy.

 “oh, you and your obsession with speed!” you say hotly. “so what if cunard line ships are 5 knots faster than white star line’s? at least this one won’t rattle your eyeballs sideways from the vibration of steam turbines!”

 “mmm, perhaps,” vincent acknowledges, pretending to tilt his head to the side in deep thought. “the mauretenia was built to break speed records, after all.”

 “exactly,” you stress. “besides, this is the height and technological marvel of our era. luxury and advanced propulsion, yes, but— oh, don’t you even get me started on the watertight compartments!”

 “yeah?” he comes up behind you, planting his hands on your waist and his chin on your shoulder. “and if i do?”

 you subconsciously lean back into him out of habit. “it’s just state-of-the-art, vinny,” you immediately gush, pointing up at the hull and waving your fingers around as you gesture here and there. “groundbreaking. sixteen watertight compartments and fifteen bulkheads below her decks—she’s practically unsinkable!”

 vincent hums. “how so?”

 “she’s built to stay afloat even if any two compartments flood,” your words are rapid-fire as you explain excitedly, “and even up to four of the forward-most compartments, over there by the bow.”

 your hands stretch out to the sky, flattening your palms against the stars. “mauretania’s got compartments too, yeah, but hers are longitudinal. they run parallel to the ship’s sides so they’re more inclined to listing if water flooded into her hull.” you exhale almost wistfully. “it’s just one of the many reasons why the titanic is so amazing.”

 vincent laughs. “if i didn’t know any better, darling, i’d think you’d want to marry this ship.”

 this time, you take the bait only to dangle it over his own head. “if anything,” you shoot back, “i’d want to have married her designer.”

 “...what.”

 the easy, smug indulgence that had been oozing off him in waves vanishes faster than a cunard line ship could cross the river clyde. vincent’s hands freeze over your waist, nearly stunned to paralysis, and you have a feeling he’s stopped breathing altogether.

 you don’t even bother turning around, instead taking another step closer to the edge of the berth, keeping your eyes trained on the portholes. a wicked little grin threatens to split your lip as you tilt your head up toward the sky, wrapping your arms around yourself like a pining schoolgirl to polish off the act. 

“thomas andrews,” you sigh dreamily, making it a point to sound as moony as possible. “an irishman, from belfast. he’s the one who designed olympic, too.”

 “wait– hold on–” vincent splutters, frantically stepping around to force himself back into your line of sight. his eyebrows are pinched together so hard they almost coalesce into one over the rim of his glasses as both his hands clutch at your shoulders.

 “i mean, he’s tall, intelligent, soft-spoken, kind, and gentle.” you blithely list off each trait on your fingers like they’re virtues, avoiding his eyes as you try hard not to laugh. “he plays cricket as well, so i hear he’s strong. and, goodness, what an architect–!”

 “he’s a married man!” vincent shrieks, before immediately catching himself, his eyes darting toward the direction of the dock gate in fear that the watchman would have somehow heard his undignified outburst from half a mile away.

 you finally collapse into laughter, feeling it bubble like champagne from your stomach and up past your lips. you take his face in your hands, gently cradling his cheeks between your palms as you press a chaste kiss to his downturned lips. “oh, baby, i was joking!”

 “it’s not funny!” he insists, looking so crestfallen it almost makes you feel bad. 

 almost.

 you pepper more kisses across the strong bridge of his nose and the corners of his quivering mouth in an attempt to pacify him, laughing all the while. “m’ sorry, i had to try and get back at you somehow.”

 “not like that!” vincent’s adamant refusal to stop pouting almost perplexes you, but you could tell that even despite himself, he was thoroughly enjoying being the object of your affections. “unbelievable,” he continues heatedly. “not even a year into marriage and my wife’s already moony-eyed for another man. a married one, nonetheless!”

 your laugh buzzes pleasantly against his neck when you throw your arms around him in an embrace that nearly knocks him off his feet. vincent steadies you, trying to keep you both from losing balance, and you give him a silly smile as you pull your head back to look at him. “i just admire him, vinny. no more, no less.” you punctuate the sentence with another peck, and your lips curve into a smile against his own. “i’ve got eyes for no one but you.”

 tension deflates from his shoulders as he huffs. he’s convinced, you know this well—but of course, vincent being vincent, he was going to be petty about it long enough to drive you insane.

 “as you should,” he grumbles, pulling you in tight and flush against him almost as if the head designer of harland and wolff actually were about to swan dive over the portside guardrails and steal you away. his hand settles over your head as he holds you close, and you feel his rapid heartbeat settle into an easier rhythm that beats in harmony with yours.

 titanic stands to vincent’s back as you mindlessly start to sway to a tune that wasn’t there. chin hooked over his shoulder, you continue to look up at her tremendous form, committing every square inch your eyes could land upon to memory.

 “come, josephine, in my flying machine,” you sing softly, moving your lips to brush against the skin just below his ear. it was a parlour song you had taken a liking to after you heard it in the first house-party you both had attended as husband and wife. vincent would be so incredibly vocal about his distaste for the ragtime tune every time he’d hear it in passing—though you knew he loved it almost as much as you did because it was a song that fell often from your lips. “going up, she goes, up, she goes…”

 “wouldn’t it be a sailing machine in this situation?” vincent muses, and you feel the weight of his head settle gently over your own.

 “oh, just go with it,” you chide, looping your arms around his neck as his hands find home over your hips once again. “balance yourself like a bird on a beam…?”

 vincent lets out a low, stubborn hum, and you lightly smack his back in retaliation. “come on, vince, you know the words!”

 “...in the air, she goes, there she goes,” he relents, his smooth baritone rumbling against the curve of your ribs. you almost feel the chuckle he ghosts between the lyric thrum into the veins of your heart.

 happiness blossoms in the apples of your cheeks, and you both continue to sway slowly to a song that hung only between the two of you, dancing in secret beneath the ship that promised a future of dreams.

 “up, up, a little bit higher…” you hum contentedly, feeling your eyes flutter shut as you lose yourself in the melody.

 “i… forgot the next lyric,” vincent admits abashedly.

 you laugh for what must have been the hundredth time that night, stepping back from the waltz and taking a good look at him, the novelty of belonging to each other still fresh on your finger and young in your souls.

 a beat of silence passes, and so does another fluttering breeze. vincent smooths his thumb over your cheekbone, just below your eye, and his gaze grows impossibly softer than it was before.

 another smile quirks up on the edge of his lips. “are you gonna tell me how it goes?”

 “it’s definitely not up,” you joke. “we’ve established that pretty well.”

 “what is it, then?” vincent asks quietly, tenderly tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

 “oh, my, the moon is on fire.” your eyes twinkle as you croon the verse, tilting your head to gesture somewhere behind him. “and it is,” you grin. “look.”

 he turns to glance at the sky, only to be greeted with the sight of half the moon glowing silver against the starry drape of evening. “huh. you’re right.”

 you step closer to him again, smoothing your hands over the front of his vest. “i think it’s a good omen.”

 vincent looks down at you, smiling lopsidedly in the way that always made only one of his eyes crinkle. “a good omen,” he repeats, just as he would raise a glass and echo a toast to prosperity and life. “i’ll hold you to that.”

 and hold you he would.

꩜ a/n: girl is this even about vincent whittman anymore like atp this was just an excuse for me to nerd out over boats and project my big fat crush on thomas andrews HAHA HOW'D U LIKE THAT METRIC FUCK TON OF FORESHADOWING this fic was genuinely such a feat for me cuz like 3k words in 4 days is just INSANE as of where i am in efficient writing right now (◍´꒳`◍) i am very VERY happy with this one. literally such an amazing palate cleanser after that enormous hunk of angst i spent the last month writing HAHAHA i am a fluff writer first and foremost after all ! once again, all my love n thanks to ac, bel, shay, zeke, nue, & milo <3 and a very special mention to @tuquoque for helping me regain faith in my characterisation for vincent !! (ily so so much big sis) no citations for this one cuz i'd argue most of my research came from me going through the ancient depths of online forums and fighting google earth just to calculate the geography of southampton's port #cartographerism i'm just now realising this fic was the turning point for my titanic fixation expanding into a fixation on ocean liners in general (and yes, the title is absolutely taken from the song that jack whispers to rose during the "i'm flying!" scene in the titanic (1997) movie; the same song that rose sings to herself as she waits on the floating door waiting for rescue after the sinking!)

cross-posted on ao3!

———

“Oh shit. Oh fuck, baby… sweetheart… I can’t…” Vincent’s desperate groans are music to your ears as you palm the tent poking through the front of his dark grey slacks.

  Your boyfriend’s breath escapes his lips in desperate, hot huffs as you keep him pinned tightly against the wall, your knee keeping his legs propped open, your breasts pressed firmly against his torso. His glasses are crooked, the lenses fogged.

  “We can’t do this here. It’s not- not safe,” he chokes. There is some truth to his words. The dressing room you have cornered him in is not private. Vincent has only recently started his position as a junior weatherman. In relation to the other personalities the station employs, he is at the bottom of the food chain- not yet important enough to have any personal rooms.  Instead, he is forced to share this dressing room with everyone else at the bottom of the station’s social ladder. Someone could walk in at any moment.

  The risk is what makes it so delicious. For you, anyways.

  Vincent squirms against you, feebly attempting to escape your grip, and the torturous, addicting friction against his groin. But he fails. He always does.

  He is weak for you, and though half-hearted protests still escape his lips, you know there is nowhere else he would rather be.

  “It’s alright, Vinny,” you coo into his ear. A nip at his earlobe makes him shudder.

  “Everyone else is on air right now. We have time.” You give his erection a squeeze and he lets out a beautiful whimper.

  “Can’t, doll,” he whines, still attempting to deny your advances even as his hips begin to rut forward, grinding needily against the motions of your hand.

  “Someone could still walk in. An assistant… a crew member… a- oh, shit. S-slow down,” Vincent begs as you jerk him off through the multiple layers of clothing. A small wet spot is already beginning to form on the front of his pants, the tip of his cock leaking like a faucet into the fabric of his briefs.

  “We don’t… have… don’t have any rubbers…” he adds, humping desperately against your palm.

  You giggle and lick a thick stripe down his neck, causing him to moan and shiver, his hips canting forward with increasing force.

  “Don’t be silly, Vinny. We don’t need a rubber,” you purr.

  Vincent chokes on his own breath, his erection jumping under your fingers as he imagines taking you without any kind of barrier.

  “What?” He gasps, scandalized and yet needier than ever at your brazen proposition. His pupils are blown wide with lust, all but swallowing his mismatched irises.

  “Can’t… can’t take you without one, doll… Could get you pregnant…” He tries to appear against it, but you know the idea secretly excites him. He would love to have you tied to him forever. Unfortunately for him, that is not your intention.

  "We don't have to worry about a baby, silly," you respond. Vincent's brow furrows in confusion.

  "We… we don't?" He pants, a soft whine escaping his throat. He looks thoroughly debauched, and ever so slightly disappointed.

  "We don't," you confirm.

  "'Cause you're not going in my pussy. You're going in my mouth, Vinny. I'm gonna get down on my knees and suck you off, right here." You bat your eyelashes at him.

  "You won't have to pull out or anything. You'll get to cum down my throat. I'll swallow your whole load. Right here, right now. No risk. No mess. Doesn't that sound nice?"

  "You'd- oh shit… Fuck. Fuck, fuck- fuck!" The promise is too much for your poor weatherboy. The image of having you on your knees for him makes Vincent's eyes roll back. He bucks frantically into your hand, his clothed bulge twitching under your fingers as the wet spot on his slacks rapidly expands. His head falls back against the dressing room wall with a loud thump and he moans oh so prettily for you, his pale skin flushed a lovely shade of red.

  Vincent ruts against you a few more times, gasping for breath as you hungrily observe him.

  "Fucking… Christ," he hisses, humiliation sinking in as his orgasm recedes. He quickly adjust his glasses and his tie, trying to fix his appearance and make himself presentable before anyone else enters the dressing room, possibly drawn by his moans.

  But there is no quick fix the stain on the front of his pants, where beads of fresh semen are continuing to leak through.

  "You made me… in my… in my fucking pants! Like a teenager!" Vincent pushes you back. He is angry at you, blaming you for his lapse in control, and his soiled clothes. You grin salaciously at him, not cowed in the slightest by his display of temper.

  "No I didn't," you deny, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

  "I was going to get on my knees and suck your dick. I was just getting you ready first. It's not my fault you couldn't hold it, Vinny. How was I supposed to know you'd blow your load before I could even get your cock ou-"

  "Shut up," Vincent snarls, surging forward to grab you by the front of your blouse. "Just…. just shut the fuck up! This is- I'm not… you- you used some kind of trick on me, to make me… to make me do that," he accuses, only letting you go when he remembers that you are still in a semi-public location. His eyes dart from one end of the dressing room to the other, searching for any potential audience.

  "I need… I need to get fixed up. Shit, my weather segment is in…" One glance at the rooms singular analogue clock sends him into a frenzy.

  "Four fucking minutes!" Vincent scrambles around the room like a headless chicken, swiping a pair of ill-fitting but clean pants to replace his own, cursing the whole time.

  "Whittman! Get off your ass and get out here!" By the time the set manager bellows out his name, Vincent is presentable, if only just.

  "Hold your damn horses, Anderson! I'm coming!" He yells back.

  You grin, but before you can make a tongue in cheek comment about your boyfriend's choice in words, he pins you against the wall.

  "Not a single fucking word out of you, doll," he threatens.

  Vincent presses a brief and surprisingly sweet kiss to your lips before heading out the door.

  "You're gonna regret what you did to me today," he tells you, looking back only to make sure your eyes are following him as he heads off, surely plotting some kind of revenge for the way you made him finish in his pants.

🏖️ Of all the silver screen icons who got Vox’s blood pumping, it was the Italian “it girl”, Sophia Loren, who stole his heart. The Oscar-award-winning actress had it all—tan skin, a mature face, and an hourglass figure. Most of the lingerie Vox gifts you are based on a publicity still from Loren’s film The Millionairess (1960)—a British romantic comedy he had to pirate from Earth after his untimely demise. Vox carefully selects corsets, stockings, garter belts, pearl necklaces, and below-elbow-level gloves to recreate his cinematic fantasy.

🏖️ Vox is obsessed with your stretch marks. You think to yourself that he might be a little too obsessed with the jagged lines that embellish your skin. He’ll rub his clawed hands over any exposed areas that showcase the glossy scars. For some reason, Vox gravitates towards the stretch marks on your hips and thighs.

🏖️ The two most common positions in your sex life are doggy style and prone bone. Vox enjoys any positions where he can posture himself as the domineering, masculine man he is, whilst watching the fat of your ass ripple from his rough thrusting.

🏖️ If your boyfriend is up and at ‘em before you are, he makes a mental note to watch you get dressed through the security cameras in your bedroom. He’ll sit tight in his surveillance room at V Tower and slip into his voyeuristic ways, watching with rapt attention as your voluptuous form tries to squeeze into your dress pants. He (creepily) leers at you in person too, but there’s something more invigorating about doing it without your knowledge.

🏖️ You get a kick out of reading people’s opinions of your body type in Vox’s time. The vintage magazines were a far cry from the terrible tabloids of the 2000s—the kind that aggressively shamed waifish supermodels for being “bigger than ever.” These 1950s beauty publications were not much better, with their unabashed male-centered language. Nevertheless, it was deeply fascinating to read about how women took Ironized Yeast tablets to “gain beauty-bringing pounds” to avoid being labeled “friendless.” If this was the media your boyfriend was raised on, his over-the-top reactions to your hourglass figure make a lot more sense.

🏖️ Though it's done with ulterior motives, he’s used to taking care of people’s needs. On the rare occasion Vox feels that his own needs are being neglected, he’ll come crawling to you for a specific type of roleplay-based stress relief. He likes to be babied—to feel temporarily free from his endless responsibilities (do not be surprised that this whiny attention seeker has a latent Mommy kink).

🏖️ Out of any potential partners, Vox would have an easier time accepting someone like you pegging him. A very feminine woman (soft) domming him, as opposed to a masculine woman, a feminine man, or a masculine man, is more enticing than it is humiliating.

🏖️ Vox encourages you to wear skimpy outfits. He gets off on the covetous stares he receives from other demons. Your barely-there ensembles guarantee media coverage for their scandalously glamorous nature. Proceed to buy clothing with caution because Vox shreds garments he doesn't consider flattering—even if you personally like it.

🏖️ When your boyfriend is experiencing burnout, he’ll lie on top of you with his full weight like a dog who forgets it's a Tibetan Mastiff and not a Yorkshire Terrier. Vox just wants to be near you at all times, even if that means crushing you, scratching you, or shocking you.

🏖️ Vox loves how much you make him feel like the pinnacle of masculinity. After ruthlessly running a megacorporation all day, coming home to find his girlfriend dolled up in beautiful, flowy dresses leaves him drooling all over himself. The stress of the VoxTek boardroom fades away the instant he steps through the door and sees you. In these moments, he melts into a gloopy puddle of validation, like butter on a hotcake.

However, despite your willingness to make the best of things, you couldn’t help but internally scold your boyfriend for disregarding your instructions. Before flying back to your island for this year’s summer getaway, you advised Vincent to conduct extensive background checks on your Airbnb, making sure the rental’s air-conditioning units were fully functional by the time you two checked in. Of course, the pompous talk show host ignored your suggestion, snagging the first rental property available on the most luxurious beach he could find. Lo and behold, you two were now stuck renting a banana yellow bungalow equipped with one low-intensity ceiling fan to combat the summer heat.

At least one of you had the common sense to purchase a JONETZ handheld fan from the Don Quijote a few blocks down. It was a little frightening knowing that the battery-powered device—the size of your iPhone—was the only thing standing between you and heatstroke.

...And it ran out of juice about five minutes ago.

As if nature understood the mechanics of comedic timing, a sweltering gust carried the afternoon heat through the slats of the bungalow’s French shutters. You instantly felt a fat drop of sweat slither its way down your back like a salty snake making a nest between your shoulder blades.

Blegh, gross!

Peeling your sticky body off the lime green cushions of your wicker chaise lounge, you began stripping off the layers of clothing clinging to your sweat-slicked self. You started by reaching around your torso to untie the knot holding up the Versace scarf you had converted into a top. The seashell-patterned scrap of silk fell to the wooden floor, along with your Lokahi Swimwear bikini top and white bell-bottom jeans.

The sigh of relief you let slip past your lips could have easily been mistaken for the whine of a small dog.

Up since the crack of dawn at Vincent’s insistence, you’d been acting as his tour guide, showing him around the main island in a rented Toyota Tacoma. Per his request, you traded in the typical tourist traps for a literal stroll down memory lane: driving past your dilapidated elementary school, buying Lotte-brand snacks from the convenience store you ran like the Navy in your teens, and catching up with your cousins in the shopping district.

Predictably, your family took a while to warm up to Vincent’s snappy New Yorker disposition, but soon his insider Hollywood stories worked their usual magic. Before long, your cousins were starstruck, hanging on to his every word, completely captivated by Vincent’s talent for entertaining and name-dropping.

You were not at all surprised that the late-night talk show host had effortlessly charmed your family in minutes. Vincent had poured his heart and soul into carefully crafting his world-renowned persona—the picture of an entertainment cognoscente fully plugged into the cultural zeitgeist.

An abrupt ping sounded out over the bungalow’s Bluetooth sound system, interrupting the tropical-flavored playlist suggested to you by Spotify's algorithm. Making your way over to the bungalow’s kitchenette, you coolly plucked your phone off the tiled countertop. You pressed pause on some dreamy pop track by MXFRUIT, then opened your WhatsApp chat with Vincent.

✩🐠Baby Shark🐠✩

Hey babe

Heading back soon with a big surprise!

ETA 20 min

Attached to the bottom of Vincent’s brief text messages was a selfie of him standing on a dirt path in the middle of an open-air bazaar. Your boyfriend was giving you his signature chip-toothed grin; his grey-streaked hair smushed flat by the wide-brim sun hat you bought for him at an ABC Store. In his right hand, he clutched a misshapen plastic bag deformed by lumps of unidentifiable takeaway. The rounded corners of the Styrofoam to-go boxes were stretching the material taut beyond its limit.

You

okay, handsome ☺️☺️☺️

drive carefully, please!

✩🐠Baby Shark🐠✩

…Don’t you have trouble remembering to signal?

That’s like playing Mario Kart once and telling Baby how to be a getaway driver

You

unprompted?! wtf 😭😭 i was just being nice

✩🐠Baby Shark🐠✩

Kidding babe

That was a joke

I love you! 💙

Seriously that was a joke

You

ily2

can’t wait to see what you bought at the market 🍧🍘🍣 hope you had fun!

Your boyfriend simply reacted to your last text with a thumbs-up emoji, so you assumed he had gone ahead and exited the app to access Google Maps.

Vincent had probably been gone for at least three hours now, if the gimmicky, turtle-shaped clock was anything to go off of. Earlier in the afternoon, once you officially diagnosed yourself as unfit for any more socialization, your vivacious boyfriend had struck out on his own to visit the night market nearby. He informed you over the phone on the drive there that he was killing two birds with one stone by enjoying what the island had to offer whilst picking up a “culturally authentic dinner” for the both of you to enjoy.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of the East Coast native, with his sunburnt skin and faded Hawaiian shirt, getting purposefully overcharged for teeny-tiny packets of li hing mui-dusted Gushers or chicken satay. You couldn’t feel too bad, though. Vincent’s wallet wouldn’t even miss the wads of cash its owner doled out left and right to various street vendors. If the Hollywood rumor mill was to be believed, the Academy was allegedly eyeing Vincent to emcee next year’s Oscars ceremony. Whatever dent those hawkers would put into your boyfriend’s bank account, the Emmy-award-winning hot-shot was sure to make up for it.

Actually, the A-list celebrity's contact name in your phone used to be “Princess Morbucks” before he “hacked” his way in. And by “hacked,” you mean he snatched it off you while you were playing Gardenscapes. Comparing Vincent to the spoiled little ginger from The Powerpuff Girls must have wounded his ego, because the man actually sat on you and typed out every emoji and letter, making you promise not to change it after he got up.

That was the day you learned that your boyfriend was a deceitfully heavy man...

You shook your head at the silly memory and relaxed back into the wicker chaise lounge to enjoy the remnants of the island’s golden hour.

Through an open window in the living room, you could see the sun gasping its last breath before disappearing beyond the horizon. Shadows of the bungalow’s balustrades rotated like the hands of a clock in the setting sun’s golden rays—a makeshift sundial.

Night settled over the island with an almost palpable calm—the air thick and still. Palm fronds rustled softly in the gentle breeze. Pale moonlight blanketed the sands and cast the vining branches of hot pink bougainvillea in a ghostly silver aura.

The air had cooled at last. Its ephemeral touch caressed your freshly tanned skin—dewy with perspiration. In the luminous glow of the moon and stars, your droplets of sweat shimmered like an elegant pearl drapery.

You couldn’t decide if the outdoor symphony of nature was from the cicadas, the crickets, or a mix of both, but either way, the low hum of harmonizing insects was doing wonders to increase the weightiness of your eyelids.

By the time you heard the revving of a Toyota Tacoma in the driveway followed by the familiar tinkling of house keys, you were barely awake. Heavy footsteps clomping in from the foyer to the living room indicated that Vincent had just waltzed through the front door and was offloading his night market haul onto the coffee table across from your naked body.

Wait a damn minute—

The bespectacled man’s heart skipped a beat when his blue and green eyes trailed up the expanse of exposed, tanned skin on display. Was this all for him? Were you really that needy for your boyfriend that you would wait by the door in nothing but light grey Hipster-cut panties? Holy fuck, you really were the perfect woman for him, weren’t you? Vincent throbbed against the stiff fabric of his cargo shorts. His mind moved at a million miles per hour, generating a myriad of sexual fantasies he could only hope to fulfill.

“Aw, baby, look at you,” came the strained voice of your highly aroused boyfriend, who was incorrectly conflating your nudity with an open invitation. “You tryna tell me somethin'?”

“What?” You warbled in raw befuddlement, sounding more like an untuned trombone than a confused human.

“Whaaargh,” would be a more appropriate transcription of your nonsensical utterance.

You rubbed the remaining haze of slumber from your eyes, looking up to see your boyfriend, who was looming over your sweaty body with a mischievous smile spreading across his face.

He shrugged off his Hawaiian shirt, then stooped down low to straddle you, positioning himself between your legs. Your delirious self sucked in a breath when you felt his soft pink lips leave a trail of wet kisses along your torso and up your bare chest. Vincent’s long fingers traced the stark tan lines that wrapped around your shoulders and outlined your breasts, as if they were artistic strokes formed by the steady hands of a calligrapher. He toyed with the elastic waistband of your underwear, hooking it under his finger and lifting it up for a glimpse of your hip bones. The sight of your newly acquired tan lines from the blazing summer sun got Vincent's heart pumping. Pure, unadulterated lust coursed through his veins.

Your boyfriend shifted his weight—careful not to crush you under his muscular frame—and groaned softly into your ear, “You look so fuckin’ sexy like this, honey. Don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my hands off of you ‘til we get back to New York.”

Vincent’s hands clamped themselves around the meat of your hips, his bruising grip pulling you even closer to him. The vibrations from his stifled moans buzzed against your skin in an uncrackable Morse code. He eyed your body hungrily, rubbing concentric circles around the fat of your breasts.

Your boyfriend was either being willfully or genuinely ignorant of the unimpressed expression distorting your now fully alert features, consisting of pursed lips and a cocked eyebrow.

“Boy, what the fuck are you doing?” You deadpanned.

As soon as the accusatory question fell from your lips, the talk show host put a stop to his possessive, passionate groping. Vincent hesitantly looked up, gawking at your inquisitive face, as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A rosy pink blush graduated from his aquiline nose to his angular cheekbones.

Who would have thought? The pervert was genuinely ignorant—blinded by lust.

“I was just—I came in and—were you not, uh,” he spluttered defensively, tripping over the start of every new sentence. “I-I thought you wanted to have sex! I walked in here to dish out our food and found you with your fuckin’ tits out. Were you not, like, psychically beggin’ me to fuck you awake?”

“Absolutely not, you dickhead,” you scoffed in disbelief. “It was hot as hell in here, and I was too tired to go out back for a swim.” You grabbed a plastic piece of tech nestled into the nook of your chair and waved it a centimeter away from the concave lenses of your boyfriend's glasses. “The fan’s battery died hours ago, so my only options were to take off my clothes or die of dehydration.”

You let your eyes skim over Vincent’s roguishly handsome appearance. His salt-and-pepper hair was tousled this way and that from his sun hat, which was now hanging off the coat rack by the front door. An angry red seeped through the splotches of sunburnt skin peeking through the uncovered areas of his body, such as his forearms and neck. Goddamnit—that stubborn bastard! You had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t wearing his SPF 50 sunscreen, and this just proved your theory. It was the quick glimpse at his feet, however, that had you rapidly shaking your head in disapproval.

“Tch, V, take off your shoes. How have you not broken that habit yet? I make you do the same thing in New York.”

“I have—quite literally—never had anyone tell me to take my shoes off in the house, except for you.”

“It’s tradition—this entire island does it. I’d go bigger and say the whole Asia-Pacific region does it, too. Also, it’s just cleanlier. Why the hell would you want to track the outdoors indoors? Go—shoo!”

Vincent grumbled something unintelligible, but obediently followed orders. While he removed his sneakers and placed them by the door, you got up from the wicker chaise lounge and scooped his discarded Hawaiian shirt off the floor. You threw the oversized shirt around your body for partial coverage—not bothering to fasten the buttons.

When Vincent returned to your side, he wasted no time grabbing you by the hips and hoisting you onto his lap, as if you weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes. His warm hands immediately gravitated to your chest, slipping underneath the loose fabric to roll his thumbs over your pert nipples.

“Cough, cough, PERVERT, cough, cough,” you whisper-shouted.

Vincent pressed a kiss to the side of your head and snorted, “Eh, ’s not illegal, last I checked. Anyway, babe, you’re gonna have to tell me what any of this is before we eat.” He nodded at the unopened spread of takeaway in front of you. “I just bought what looked good in the moment.”

You shifted your gaze to the three Styrofoam to-go boxes occupying the surface area of the low-level coffee table. Reaching for the box sitting to the left-most side of the table, you cracked it open, revealing two perfectly round steamed buns fighting for space in their claustrophobic Styrofoam enclosure. Grabbing hold of one bun, you pried the soft bread apart to sniff at the aromatic spices within.

“Mmm...okay, so this is siopao with a chicken curry filling. Remember the manapua we got at that food truck? It’s basically the same thing,” you explained while rotating the fluffy ball of dough in your hands.

Vincent nodded without comment. He drummed his fingers against your rib cage in a slow, rhythmic pattern—a silent indication of his interest as he waited for you to move on to mystery box number two.

Once more, you unlatched the takeout container's hinges, but this time you were greeted by a multicolored array of vegetables and rice vermicelli encased in a gauzy rice paper wrapper. Off to the side, in a squat to-go cup, was what you imagined to be the accompanying spicy peanut sauce. You would have smelled it to double-check, but if you inhaled any more of the savory fragrances swirling around the bungalow, you’d probably end up devouring the rolls and the Styrofoam it came in in a flash.

Growing impatient from hunger, you didn't hesitate to open box number three, flinging it open faster than you had the previous two containers. Inside this one was a generous amount of butter mochi. The squishy, sunshine yellow squares seemed to catch Vincent’s eye because he rested his head on your shoulder to get a better look at them.

“You guys eat lemon bars without the crust or the powdered sugar?” He wondered aloud.

“Hm? You don't smell the coconut? These are butter mochi, and the box next to it is fresh spring rolls with, uh, some kind of sauce—probably peanut-flavored or some sort of fish base,” you theorized (more to yourself than to your boyfriend). You pinched off a greasy corner of the 'lemon bar' and casually plopped it in your mouth, letting the buttery, coconutty taste burst across your tongue. Reclining into Vincent’s sturdy chest, you turned your head to plant a kiss on his strong jawline. “I’m impressed, sweetheart. You picked, like, everything I was craving ever since we left the airport.”

He gave your tits a firm squeeze from under your shirt, prompting you to gasp in pain and pleasure.

“What can I say?” The television personality gloated, straightening up like a sunflower under the radiance of your praise. “Happy wife, happy life.”

You shot Vincent, who was very much not your husband or even your fianceé, a quizzical look. “Aw, sweetheart, that was...so corny—sweet, but corny. I don't think I have room to complain, though. I find your tap dancing attractive, so maybe I'm the corny one...”

Vincent studied your side profile as you spoke—a dark intensity shrouding his vision like rolling thunderclouds over a once-spotless sky. You were too cute for your own good, despite how bratty you can be at times...

“Hey, wanna know somethin' cool?” Your boyfriend asked you plainly.

You hesitated for a second, sensing the shift in Vincent's energy, but accepted his question. “Uuuuuuh, that sounds ominious, but sure, what's up?”

“Did you know that some species of male sharks give female sharks love bites when they mate? Sometimes they inflict such deep wounds that the female shark's healin' process will leave a pretty little scar,” he informed you in a rather morbid tone.

“The hell does that have to do with anyth—OW! VINCENT!” You yelped.

A sudden warmth flared beneath your skin as you felt Vincent’s teeth graze your neck—a tender bite, equal parts playful and intimate, sending a shiver of something indescribable down your spine. The show of possessive affection oscillated between searing pain and sizzling delight. His sharp canines had chomped down on the muscle stretching across your neck to your shoulders, as if you were made of the same pillowy dough as your neglected siopao.

When Vincent removed his mouth from you to bury his face into the crook of your neck, you gaped at the sunburnt man cradling you in his lap.

Rubbing at the teeth marks he had just impressed into your body, you hissed in discomfort, “Jesus, honey, what the hell was that for?”

“Mmm, I don't really know and I don't really care,” he sighed, inhaling the scent of your vanilla and jasmine-scented sweat. “You just make me—I, uh, I...felt happy...”

“Yeah, well, feel happier in a more productive way. I love you, but what the fuck is wrong with your ass?”