ashlinn ! lunee @luneemoon - Tumblr Blog

okay i think you may be able to guess who this is from but im #nervous anyways so. :D

character: vincent whittamn

reader: fem

prompt: okay ill go deeper into it in the details part but sort of based off the song He's My Man by Luvcat (this idea has been brewing for a while) where the reader is basically making vincent sick to try and keep him home. very obsessive and messy and toxic on both ends, vincent being lowk shitty and manipulative, and the reader being disgustingly obsessed with him and only craving his concern and attention in any way

tone: predominantly angst, but fill in whatever u want. i give you all the freedom ever. i trust you more than anyone else ever to write this as my eyes have never graced poetry alike to yours in all their time reading

details: ok ok so you have typical housewife, same kinda vibe as the angst youve written before dynamic. vincent isnt home, hes always at work, doesnt care and is honestly pretty neglectful. the reader is DEEP in love with him, tho despite everything, and is basically losing it over how hes treating her. so as a desperate attempt to get him to be home, for him to pay attention to her and is extremely slowly poisoning him to make him sick so he has to go to her to help. in a way, she doesnt even understand what shes doing, and shes like fully attached to and dependant on him. i hope im wording this out well and not totally confusing you

outside of that. go insane. make it as horribly fucked up as you want. put anything you desire into it. again, i trust you completely. i love how your brain works and how you write the fucked up angst. WORDS CANT EXPLAIN HOW MUCH I ADORE IT

okur thats all :D

- anon who's probably not very anonymous and glazes you in like every single comment section because i simply CANNOT help doing so <3

(if you dont feel up to it, are too busy, or dont want to, THAT IS SO OKAY !!!!! dont feel bad at all and take care of urself while doing whats best for you^^)

He's My Man — Vincent Whittman ♡

♡ Tone: Angst

♥︎ afab!reader, mentions of drugs, drugging (non-consensual), poisoning, panic attacks, unhealthy relationship dynamics, gaslighting, psychological manipulation, memory loss, sleep deprivation, obsessive behavior, isolation, emotional abuse. (!! Not condoning anything depicted !!)

♡ Summary: Vincent thinks he’s losing himself to exhaustion, memory lapses, panic attacks, lost time.. thankfully, he still has you to take care of him.. unfortunately for him, you’re the reason it’s happening.

♥︎ Authors note: Hello anonnn! I know exactly who you are! Anywayyy, I apologize for the late response... I've been really busy lately. However, when I saw your request, I had to fulfill it! So your wish is my command and feel free to let me know your thoughts . . . ♡ (if there are any typos pls lmk! Writing this at 2am ugh..)

♡ Words: 2730

Late September hangs over the city like something exhausted.

The heat hasn’t fully left yet, but it’s beginning to rot at the edges, turning damp in strange places, lingering too long in concrete and window frames and the seams of old buildings. The skyline beyond the apartment window looks blurred together rather than built, smokestacks and grey towers dissolving into the same dull shape beneath a sky that presses downward instead of stretching open.

Even the air inside feels used, you drift in and out of sleep on the couch without meaning to.

The fabric beneath you has thinned enough in places that you can feel the frame underneath if you shift wrong, rough against your skin in a way you stopped noticing properly months ago.

Above you, the ceiling fan turns with its usual uneven rhythm, slow enough that it almost seems reluctant, as if it keeps moving only because stopping would require more effort.

Light from the window drifts across the apartment in pale strips, washed-out and tired. It settles over the coffee table, over yesterday’s newspaper folded open where Vincent left it, over the mug beside it with cold coffee sitting untouched near the bottom.

Nothing in the room feels urgent, not even the silence, especially not the silence.

It sits heavily against the walls like it’s waiting for something that’s already late, Vincent hasn’t been home in hours, or maybe longer.

You stopped checking the clock sometime after midnight because the numbers never seem to change anything here, time inside the apartment feels swollen, stretched thin around the edges until it stops behaving properly.

The telephone rests against the wall on its small wooden stand, black and solid, too heavy-looking for something meant to carry voices.

Most of the time it simply exists there in silence, which somehow makes it worse.

You drift again, not fully asleep, though far enough that the room softens around the edges.

Then the sound of the line engaging cuts through the apartment, sharp and immediate, violent in the quiet.

You sit up too quickly, your heart stumbles once against your ribs before settling, for a second there’s only static.. then his voice.

“Yeah?”

Warped slightly by wires and distance and movement behind him, tired.. not the kind of tired he admits to.

“You called,” you say.

Paper rustles faintly on the other end. Voices overlap somewhere behind him, indistinct and rushed.

“I didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

“I wasn’t.”

Your voice comes out rough with sleep, “I keep falling asleep anyway." Something soft leaves him then. Not quite a laugh.

“Same here,” he says quietly. “Just not in the same place.”

You settle back into the couch, the receiver warm against your ear, the conversation hangs there between you both, oddly weightless.

“You’re still at the station?”

“Yeah.” another rustle. “Everything’s going wrong tonight. Cameras missing cues... someone lost half the live scripts.. people are panicking over nothing.”

You hum softly, you don’t fully follow the details anymore, but you know the shape of them.

Schedules.. deadlines.. bright studio lights. People running in carefully organized circles pretending the chaos means something.

“Sounds important.”

“It is,” he answers automatically.. then quieter:

“I think.”

That catches.. the hesitation, headlights slide across the curtains before disappearing again, the apartment dims back into itself.

“I’ll be home by two,” he says after a moment, habitual, like he’s repeating something neither of you expects to become true, you close your eyes briefly.

“You won’t.” what an ugly silence...

“Probably not.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the receiver, “I’m fine with that,” you say, the lie leaves too smoothly, he notices, you can tell he notices.

But he lets it pass. “I know.”

Something shifts in the background on his end. Someone calls his name, Vincent exhales slowly.

“Just don’t wait up too long.”

That almost makes you smile, because both of you already know you will, the line crackles softly.

“I’ll come home when I can,” he says.. a pause, then he whispers: “I love you.” almost like a routine..like something repeated enough times to become structural.

“Okay,” you answer, another silence settles, then the line clicks softly as he hangs up, you don’t move the receiver away from your ear immediately, you sit there listening to the faint remnants of the station beyond the dead line, the muffled machinery of a world that keeps taking pieces of him in increments too small to notice all at once.

The evening deepens without asking permission, inside, the ceiling fan keeps turning, slow and unconcerned, eventually you drift again. The city, the apartment, the sound of his voice. Everything blurs together into something almost soft enough to mistake for rest.

By afternoon the next day, the light has changed without improving, it spreads through the apartment thinly now, diluted and pale, making everything look older than it did earlier, dust drifts visibly through the sunbeams whenever it catches the angle correctly, suspended in the air like it’s forgotten where it was supposed to settle.

You’re still on the couch, at some point your body stopped treating it like temporary furniture, it has become a place you return to automatically.

The ceiling fan continues its slow rotation overhead, steady.. the fly near the window is still there.. or another one is. It taps softly against the glass in uneven intervals, you watch it longer than necessary.

There’s something strangely familiar in the persistence of it, when you finally shift your arm away from your eyes, your gaze lands on the telephone again.. still silent.

You look at it the way people look at clocks they already know the time on...out of habit.

Work explains everything, the station, the schedules, the endless emergencies that somehow never become important enough to remember later.

Vincent belongs there too easily, that’s part of the problem, you can picture him under studio lights more clearly now than you can picture him asleep beside you, he moves through that world cleanly, competently, like exhaustion simply slides off him while he’s there.

You’ve started noticing the difference more often, the thought settles unpleasantly in your chest.

Who are you with right now?

Not because he isn’t here.. but even his absence changes the shape of the apartment.

The silence organizes itself differently around it, you lean your head back again, the couch creaks faintly beneath your weight.

The afternoon continues lowering itself toward evening, nothing about the day feels completed, it just keeps going because there’s nothing stopping it.

When Vincent finally comes home, it’s later than he said, not unusual, the apartment door opens slowly, you hear it before you see him, the scrape of the lock, the uneven pause afterward.. then footsteps.

He enters with his coat half-falling from one shoulder, tie loosened unevenly beneath the collar of his shirt, for a moment he just stands there near the doorway like he hasn’t fully arrived yet. “You’re awake,” he says quietly, it sounds more relieved than surprised.

“You’re late." A tired smile touches his mouth briefly.

“Yeah.”

He drops his keys onto the table, the sound cuts sharply through the apartment, you watch him shrug the rest of his coat off, his movements are slower tonight.. almost delayed, like his body is waiting for instructions slightly after the moment they’re needed.

“You look awful,” you say, he laughs softly. “You always say that.”

“Because you always do.”...that gets another smile out of him, smaller this time, but it fades quickly, he presses a hand briefly against his eyes under his glasses, letting them slip up and uncomfortably rest against his sweaty forehead, you notice it immediately, the slight tremor in his fingers.

“Oh love.. are you alright?”

“Just tired.”

You stand and move toward the kitchen before he can say anything else. “I reheated dinner.”

Vincent exhales quietly behind you.

“Thanks.” you prepare the plate carefully, the bottle tucked behind the spices barely makes a sound when you pick it up, just a soft click, you hesitate, only for a second, then add a little more than usual, the liquid disappears easily...colorless and harmless-looking, you stir the sauce once.

By the time you bring the plate back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of the couch with his head tilted back against it, eyes closed.

“Mhhhm..” you hum softly, his eyes open immediately, like some part of him was waiting, you hand him the plate.

“Eat before you pass out.”

“Bossy.”

But he takes it.. he always takes it, you sit beside him while he eats, the apartment stays quiet except for the occasional scrape of silverware against ceramic, halfway through, Vincent stops.. you feel it before he speaks.

“This tastes different.” your pulse stutters once, but your expression doesn’t move. “How?”

He frowns faintly “I don’t know.” he lookes down at his plate. “Saltier maybe.”

You lean back casually. “You said the same thing last week.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.” The answer comes easily... a little too easily, Vincent studies the plate another second, then shakes his head once. “Maybe my tastebuds are dying.”

You smile softly. “Probably.. lay off those drugs, they might be the problem.” you chuckle at your own joke, watching him smile slightly as he rolled his eyes at you.. the moment passes, but something cold remains afterward like awareness, because for half a second, he noticed something.

The changes arrive gradually enough that neither of you names them, that’s what makes them dangerous, Vincent starts sleeping through alarms, then through entire afternoons.

He forgets where he leaves things, his keys, his cigarettes, conversations, sometimes he stops mid-sentence because he can’t remember where it was going.

At first he laughs about it, then he stops laughing, one evening he stands in the hallway staring at the apartment door after coming home, not opening it.. looking at it, you watch him from the couch. “Vincent?" He blinks hard, then finally turns the handle, for a moment his expression looks unsettled.

“I forgot which apartment was ours.”

The words leave him carefully.. embarrassed, you stand immediately, cross the room, touch his arm. “You’re exhausted.” He lets out a strained breath.

“Yeah.” But he doesn’t sound convinced, that night he clings to you in his sleep hard enough to bruise, his body burns with feverish heat beneath the blankets, you hold him anyway, carefully and tenderly, his breathing catches suddenly against your shoulder.

“I keep losing track of time,” he whispers, you smooth your hand through his hair. “That’s what stress does.”

“I was in the editing room earlier and suddenly everyone was gone.” his fingers tighten weakly around your sleeve. “I thought maybe I fell asleep standing up.”

“You’ve barely been resting.”

“You think that’s all this is?” the question lands harder than it should, for a moment you almost answer honestly, instead you press your lips briefly against his forehead.

“Yes.” he goes quiet.. “Okay.” the trust in that word settles somewhere deep inside you.. oh so warm and terrible...

A week later, Vincent improves.. not fully.. but enough to frighten you, he wakes early, shaves, gets dressed properly, even laughs at something on the TV while making coffee.

The apartment feels different immediately, sharper and more awake, you watch him from the kitchen doorway while he adjusts his cuffs, for the first time in weeks, he looks like himself, or at least close enough to it.

“I think I needed actual sleep,” he says, there’s color in his face again, focus in his eyes.. your stomach tightens.. you already know what that means.

“That’s good.”

He nods distractedly while searching for his wallet.. then.. “Did we talk the other night?”

You keep your expression neutral. “Which night?”

“The one where I came home late.” his brow furrows slightly. “I remember calling you from the station but after that everything’s blurry.”

Your fingers curl subtly against your palm.. “You were half-asleep.”

“Maybe.” but he still looks uncertain, then he glances up at you, for one brief second, something clears behind his eyes, a sharpness.

“You’ve been acting strange lately too.” The room goes very still.

“What does that mean?”

Vincent hesitates. “I don’t know.” A faint chuckle leaves him... uneasy. “Forget it.” But he keeps looking at you another second too long.

Then he grabs his coat and leaves, the apartment feels unbearably empty after the door shuts, you stand motionless in the kitchen, your pulse refuses to settle.. he doesn’t know.. right..?

For the first time, he almost touched the shape of something real.. and worse than that,

for the first time in weeks, part of you didn’t want him to.

Hhh

That evening he comes home shaking, violently, the apartment door barely closes before he stumbles against it.. you’re beside him immediately.

“Vincent?”

His face is pale beneath the warm hallway light, sweat dampens the collar of his shirt.

“I don’t feel right.” the words come slurred together, panic flashes through you so suddenly it feels physical.

Too much.. you gave him too much, his knees nearly buckle, you catch him before he hits the floor. “Hey...! Hey, look at me.”

His eyes struggle to focus. “I was at work and then suddenly…” His breathing sharpens. “I couldn’t remember where I was.”

You guide him carefully toward the couch, the ceiling fan turns overheah slowly. “I thought I was going to pass out.”

“You’re okay.” Your voice stays calm and practiced, inside, something ugly twists hard in your chest.. fear. Because you almost broke him.. how selfish of you to almost kill your boy just for the sake of him not leaving you?

Vincent grips your wrist suddenly and hard, his unfocused gaze under his glasses fixes onto yours. “You’d tell me if something was wrong with me, right?”

The question splits straight through you, for one terrible second you can’t breathe, then instinct arrives, you kneel in front of him and up his face carefully.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

A lie.. a filthy.. smooth lie.

His expression crumples slightly with relief, and you realize then, with sudden horrifying clarity, how completely he believes you, you’re not convincing.. no.. he needs you to be right, he leans forward abruptly, forehead against your shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he whispers, your arms wrap around him automatically, the fan keeps turning, the city keeps moving outside the pipes click softly somewhere in the walls, and slowly, carefully, you hold him together while realizing you’re the one pulling him apart.

After that, the balance between you shifts permanently, Vincent begins looking at you before making decisions, small things first, whether he already took medicine, whether he told someone at work he’d come in tomorrow, whether he ate, whether he slept.

Then larger things.

Whether he should leave the apartment at all.

“You think I’m okay to go in, love?” he asks one morning, you look up from your coffee, he’s standing near the doorway already dressed for work, but uncertain somehow.. waiting.

The realization settles slowly through you, he’s asking for permission, you should hate that, but, instead something inside you softens around it.

“You should rest today,” you say, Vincent exhales quietly, almost relieved. “Okay..”

The apartment grows smaller after that emotionally, it becomes the center of his world because everything outside it exhausts him too quickly now, some nights he wakes disoriented and reaches for you before he fully opens his eyes.

Other nights he sits at the edge of the bed staring at his hands like they belong to someone else. “I can’t tell what’s real lately,” he says once, you sit beside him carefully.

“What feels unreal?”

He laughs weakly. “All of it......"

“....but you don’t.” The words settle heavily between you, you don’t answer immediately, you know exactly why, eventually you touch his shoulder lightly.

“You’re overwhelmed.” Vincent leans toward you before you even finish speaking, like some part of him has already decided you are the safest thing left in the room.

Outside... the city continues existing without either of you, traffic lights changing, trains moving, studio cameras rolling, people laughing somewhere far above the streets.

Inside Vincent rests his head against you with the exhausted trust of someone too tired to survive without an anchor, you hold him carefully like something fragile.. stolen.. like something that might still realize what you’ve done if you loosen your grip even slightly.

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ashlinn ! lunee