Vincent proposes to Freader, their wedding could be at the beach, both of them thinking about their future together and Also Reader suddenly having baby fever during the preparations for the wedding. This can be both a fluff and a smut
I disappeared. I know. final exams part 1 are next week and i’ve been buried under notes and mild academic panic.
But in between learing and breakdowns, I kept coming back to this story. And somewhere along the way it became softer than i expected. Sweeter. (First virsion was so dirty and smut heaviy 👀)
So here it is. Finally a new post! Please enjoy it as much as i enjoyed escaping into it 🤍
Forever begins in the sand I Human!Vox x Fem!Reader
CW: explicit smut, first time, breeding kink undertones, pregnancy longing, possessive dynamics, adult themes
Word Count: ~6.4 k
Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3
💙⋆.𐙚 ̊ 💙⋆.𐙚 ̊ 💙⋆.𐙚 ̊ 💙⋆.𐙚 ̊
💙⋆.𐙚 ̊ 💙⋆.𐙚 ̊ 💙⋆.𐙚 ̊ 💙⋆.𐙚 ̊
POV: Y/N
Chapter I – The Proposal
I was walking barefoot in the sand, white pumps in one hand, and the Atlantic glittered before me in the last colors of the day. The waves came and went in their old, indifferent rhythm.
I knew this beach. We had spent three summers here – Vincent and I.
He walked beside me.
Jacket over his arm, sleeves rolled up, hair a little tousled by the wind. There were men who entered a room and no one noticed. And then there was Vincent Whittman, who entered a room and everyone stopped talking without knowing why. Broad in the shoulders, with that way of walking that said: I know exactly where I'm going. And that smile – he was funny. You laughed almost every time he wanted you to.
"You're quiet," I said.
"I'm thinking."
"You always are."
"One of us has to be." A sideways glance, brief and warm. "You're walking barefoot and look completely carefree. I'm making sure we don't step on a jellyfish."
I laughed. "Right, because I can't look out for myself, can I?"
He laughed briefly, looked at me with love in his eyes.
Then he stopped.
When I turned to him, the last sunlight fell across his face. His eyes, so beautiful. Left green, as soft as seagrass, right blue, clear as the sea. Three years, and I still couldn't stop looking into those eyes.
He let go of my hand and sank to one knee.
The damp sand slowly seeped into his trouser leg, but that didn't interest Vincent. He loved the sea and sharks too much for that.
In his hand, a small black box.
His fingers trembled. Just a little – and my heart sank to my knees, because Vincent Whittman never trembled. Not in negotiations. Not in front of cameras.
Except now.
"Y/N." He says my name as if it were the only word he ever truly understood. "I'm not a man who lacks for words – you know that. But tonight they fail me, and that's because of you."
He takes a deep breath.
"I remember the moment I first saw you. You were laughing – about something I hadn't even heard – and I thought: That is the woman I'm going to marry. Not as a wish. As a fact. As if it had already been decided before I could say anything about it." A small smile, one that doesn't hide the trembling of his hands. "I've been waiting ever since. Not impatiently – but willingly. Because every day with you was better than the one before, and because I understood that you didn't just fit into my life, Y/N. You completed it."
He opens the box. A ring, warm in the last light.
"You are the person I want to wake up next to, every morning, for the rest of my life. You are the person whose laugh I look for in every room. You are the only place where I am completely myself – without a jacket, without words, without anything." His voice grows quieter. "I want children with you. I want arguments with you, and reconciliation. Excited mornings and all the quiet evenings in between. I want everything – the beautiful and the difficult – as long as you're there."
He swallows.
"Will you be my wife?"
I let the pumps fall.
I knelt down beside him right into the waves, so that my dress got wet too. His arms caught me. He held me tight and I felt safe in his arms.
"Yes," I said. "Yes. Of course yes."
Relieved, Vincent laughed into my hair, stroking my lower back.
Carefully we pulled apart. Then he slid the ring onto my finger – it fit as though it had never been anywhere else.
Vincent raised my hand.
Kissed the spot beside the ring.
"I knew you'd say yes," murmured my now-fiancé.
"You were trembling."
"That was the wind."
We looked at each other, laughing.
"That wasn't the wind."
"No." His head leaned against my shoulder. "It wasn't the wind."
Chapter II – Baby Fever
I can't say exactly when it started.
Maybe at Sunday dinner at Vincent's brother's place, when his nephew had fallen asleep on my arm – completely, as if I were the safest place in the world. That small, heavy warmth on my body. The quiet breathing. The tiny fingers curling around nothing in their sleep.
Maybe even earlier.
It had gotten worse after the proposal.
Much worse.
Now that the wedding had a date, the baby fever was no longer a quiet pull I could push aside. It was a calling. Everywhere. When I woke up in the morning and felt Vincent's arm around my hip, the thought came immediately: Soon. When I walked down the street and a pram rolled past, something in me stopped, even as I kept walking. The envy was impossible to ignore. When I looked through shop windows and spotted small embroidered socks, I simply stopped.
It was making me half crazy.
No. More than that.
This hunger was concrete and brutal. As though something was missing inside me that had never been there and yet was absent nonetheless. Vincent's child. Our child. A small creature who would have his eyes, one green, one blue, who would sleep between us on the sofa, who would call our names: Mama, Papa. I wanted it so badly that the jealousy and that hunger made me inwardly aggressive.
Vincent noticed.
He found me one afternoon in front of the window of a children's clothing shop. I had been standing in front of two stuffed animals. Daydreaming about me, Vincent, and our child sleeping between us with one of those toys, in a little romper to match.
My fiancé stepped beside me. Regarded the shop window with that same serious concentration.
"The shark or the bear?"
I blinked. "What?"
He nodded toward the window.
I looked at him.
"The shark."
"The shark, of course." He smiled, took the basket I had completely forgotten from my hand. "Shall we?"
Puzzled, I followed him into the shop. He bought the shark without batting an eye.
He took my hand on the way out. The basket in the other. The shark was inside it, and my heart was so full it was too small for everything it held.
"For our baby." Vincent grinned and pulled me closer. A faint blush spread across my face. I quickly hid it by snuggling against his shoulder, eyes fixed on the shark.
Chapter III – The Planning
The evenings when wedding magazines lay on the kitchen table were exhausting. Vincent sat across from me – sometimes with coffee, sometimes with a glass of whiskey. One evening he had closed the magazine. We hadn't talked about flower arrangements for an hour because we were both done.
"How do you picture it?" I asked out of nowhere.
Vincent looked at me. "What exactly?"
"Family life."
He leaned back. Answer at the ready. I could see it immediately.
"I picture putting them to bed and of course they won't want to sleep, and you're standing beside me and I look at you and think: Her. Always her. The woman who gave me all of this." He looked at me, his smile warm and open. "I picture watching them grow up. Taking them to school. Listening in the evenings when they tell us about their day – and you kicking me under the table when I start to laugh because they're so incredibly dramatic." A pause. "I want that chaos. I want that noise. I want all of it – with you."
"And if I—" I swallowed. "If I get pregnant—"
He leaned forward.
"Then I will be the most nervous person on this planet, and I'm telling you that right now." The smile shifted into seriousness. "I will get up at night when you can't sleep. I will give you back massages even when I'm exhausted. I will question every doctor in this city about their qualifications until I'm satisfied you're getting the best care available. I will take your three a.m. cravings seriously – completely, without question. I will be at every appointment. Every single one." He held my gaze. "You'll be carrying our miracle. That's the greatest thing I can imagine. And I will make sure you never feel, not for a single second, like you're doing it alone. Not for one moment. I promise you that."
I couldn't get a single sentence out.
Vincent stretched his hand across the table. I laid mine in it.
"The nursery... I already know exactly how it should look," he said quietly.
I blinked. "You have the measurements?"
"I think ahead. That's my way."
"You've been thinking about a nursery before we—"
"Since I knew I was going to marry you." He didn't let go of my hand. "Was that a surprise?"
I looked at him – this impossible man.
Chapter IV – The Coffee Klatch
Lena's kitchen smelled of fresh waffles. Maya was having her afternoon nap.
Just Lena, Sofie, Klara, and me.
Four women, eight years of friendship, and the ease between people who no longer have to hide anything from each other.
Sofie complained about her mother-in-law. Klara had whipped cream on her nose and didn't notice for half an hour. Lena kept topping up everyone's cups.
I had laughed until my stomach hurt.
"I can't believe you'll be Mrs. Whittman in three weeks," said Sofie.
"Have you seen how he looks at her?" asked Lena. "My husband doesn't look at me that romantically."
"Your husband has been looking at you like a lovesick fool since he met you," said Klara. "Admit it."
"...That's true."
I sipped my coffee and tried not to grin too broadly.
"What is it like," Sofie asked again, "being engaged to a man like Vincent?"
"Pleasant," I said. "He does everything he can. Vincent marshals people properly so everything turns out perfectly. But sometimes it's also exhausting because he wants the best. Compromises aren't really his thing."
"Are you excited?" asked Lena.
"Very."
"Nervous?"
I set down my cup.
"I need to confess something," I began. "Two things."
Silence.
"The baby fever." I looked at my hands. "It's bad. I mean really bad. I walk past prams and have to hold myself back from talking to the mother. I stand in front of shop windows and forget where I was going. I wake up at four in the morning and can't think about anything else." I shook my head. "It's that hunger. That physical, complete hunger for something that isn't there yet, and you can't turn it off no matter what you do. I knit socks in my mind. Little socks. I was never good at needlework."
Klara looked at me with a moved expression. "Aww. It'll all be fine. Once you're married and the wedding night is over, that feeling settles down."
"And the second thing?" Sofie asked quietly.
"I'm nervous about the wedding night." I cleared my throat. "I've played it through in my head so many times that I'm afraid of being too tense when the time comes. That it'll hurt. But... it's the first step toward a child."
Sofie leaned forward. "Can I say something? But it stays between us."
We nodded.
"I didn't wait for the wedding night." Calm, without apology. "Not out of recklessness. Because I had exactly what you're describing right now – that pressure makes it harder."
The silence that followed wasn't judgemental.
I was wrestling with it internally, whether I should try it too, and Klara had said the baby wish would settle down too.
"Maybe it would help if you talked to him," Sofie sipped her coffee. "I mean, men visit brothels before the wedding night anyway. Why should sex before marriage be harmful when only we're the virgins?"
Lena gently swatted Sofie with a serviette. "Really now, don't talk our Y/N into one of your women's rights campaigns."
Sofie choked. "What!?"
We laughed together.
I looked at Sofie and thought: Two weeks. Just two more weeks.
Chapter V – The Conversation
Vincent sat behind his desk. Reading glasses on his nose, pen in hand.
He looked up when I entered.
"I need to talk to you." I played with my fingers.
Vincent leaned back, put down the pen and the reading glasses. His full attention was on me.
"I'm nervous about the wedding night." The words came out uncertainly. "We love each other, that's not the question. But I've played that night through in my head so many times that I'm afraid of being too tense when it comes to it. That I—" Heat shot into my face. "I thought maybe we should—"
I looked away.
"I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea if we—" I cleared my throat. "Practiced."
Silence.
The chair scraped across the floor. Footsteps. Vincent was in my field of vision.
His hand slipped under my chin.
He raised my face to his, saw the blush.
Vincent smiled.
"You're right," he said.
"You don't think—"
"I've been thinking the same thing for weeks. I just wanted it to be you who said it."
"Why?"
"Because it has to be your wish. Not mine." His thumb traced my lips. "And because you're incredibly beautiful when you blush."
"Vincent—!"
He kissed me. Before I could do anything. Not hastily – calm, warm and deep, his hand on my face, the other gently at my back.
When he pulled back, I was completely still.
"Is that a yes?" I asked.
"That is a yes." The smile, broader, his voice a tone deeper. "And that—" He drew me closer. "Was the beginning."
────୨ৎ────
The apartment is the same as always, and yet something hangs in the air that has never been here before.
Vincent leads me to the bedroom. He closes the door behind us. The silence isn't uncomfortable – it's full of anticipation.
"You don't have to do anything," he says quietly. "We only do what feels right. If anything doesn't feel right, you tell me immediately."
I nod.
He kisses me. Deeper, with more intention, his hand gently at my cheek. I let it happen. When he presses his forehead against mine, I feel the tension in my shoulders dissolve.
"Better?" he murmurs.
"Mm."
He smiles. Kisses me again.
Then his fingers slowly begin to open the buttons of my dress – one after the other, from top to bottom. He lets the fabric slide, pushes it off my shoulders, and when the dress falls to the floor he takes a step back and looks at me. Really looks. The entire moment, without words, with a warmth in his eyes that drives the blush into my cheeks.
"You don't have to look at me like that," I say.
"Yes I do." He comes closer again. "I have to."
He kisses my neck. My shoulder. I breathe out, let my hands wander to his arm.
"May I—" I hesitate.
He raises his head, looks at me.
"I want to—" I swallow. "Look at you too."
The smile he gives is warm and something a little more than that. He undoes the buttons of his own shirt, pushes it off his shoulders, lets it fall. Stands before me.
I reach out my hand.
My fingers press flat against his chest. I take the time he gave me – feel the warmth of his skin, the heartbeat beneath it, faster than his face suggests. I let my hands wander – over his chest, his shoulders, the line of his collarbone, his stomach. He stands still, lets it happen, watches me.
"You look so focused," he says.
"I'm learning."
"I know that feeling." His hand settles over mine. Then he raises it to his lips and kisses it.
He leads me to the bed.
I sit, he remains standing in front of me. His hands find my shoulders, glide slowly down my arms, my waist. He bends down, kisses my neck – the side, then further down, to the collarbone. I instinctively reach for his arm.
His lips travel lower.
When he touches my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra, a soft gasp escapes me that I hadn't intended. I freeze for a brief moment, surprised at myself.
He raises his head. Eyes dark, smile knowing. "Good?"
"Yes," I say, somewhat more breathless than expected.
He unclasps my bra. Slowly. Pushes the straps off my shoulders. And then he takes his time. He kisses me, and when his tongue moves I slide my fingers into his hair and hold on to him, because my body gives an answer it already knows.
He switches sides. Watches me as he does.
"You're beautiful when you look like that," he murmurs.
"Do I have to look some way?"
"Incredibly sweet." He kisses my rib, my stomach.
He gently lays me back on the bed.
His lips map every part of me he doesn't yet know. My stomach. The inside of my arms. My hipbones. He finds places I didn't know existed, and takes note of every reaction.
When his fingers pull at the sides of my underwear and slide it slowly downward, I hold my breath. He takes his time – stroking over my thighs, my calves – and I feel my cheeks burning, but I let it happen, because my body is already too loud to be ashamed.
He sets the garment aside.
Looks at me.
The entire moment.
"You're beautiful," he breathes.
I reach for him. "Vincent—"
"Not yet." He kisses my stomach, my inner thighs. "I said I'd take my time."
He takes his time.
His lips travel lower, and when he finds me with his mouth, I reach for his hair and hold on. He listens to every sound; I could only think of him.
He gives me a moment to catch my breath when I'm gasping.
Then he pulls himself up to me. I reach for his belt, he lets me, and when I open it everything falls away. I keep my gaze on his face – this man who looks at me as though I'm the only thing that matters.
I pull him to me.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"Yes." I hold his gaze. "I'm sure."
He sinks slowly into me.
I breathe in sharply – pain and completeness at once, inseparable – and he stops immediately. Doesn't move a millimetre. Looks at me, his hand warm against my cheek, waiting.
"Breathe," he says quietly.
I breathe.
The pain is there, but underneath it is something else. When everything started to get better, I nodded.
He begins. Slowly. So slowly that I feel every centimetre. He draws back, comes again – deep, careful, with patience.
After a while the pain transforms into desire.
I move against him.
He pauses – surprised, then no longer – and the control he has imposed on himself all evening begins to crumble. I feel it in his grip, which grows tighter. In his breath, which is rougher at my ear.
"Y/N—" My name comes out rougher than anything I've ever heard from him.
I pull him deeper. "I know. Don't stop."
He doesn't stop.
He gives more. Deeper, faster, each movement with full weight. I claw at his back and let everything go – every instinct, every impulse, every longing that has been building for weeks. My body knows exactly what it wants, and I listen to it, moving with him, against him, demanding more.
And he gives it to me.
His hands grip my hips, holding them where he wants them – demanding, possessive – I moan loudly because it's exactly what I need, he hears that and gives even more, deeper, until the sounds coming out of me have nothing to do with restraint.
The last shred of his control gives way; we both fall deeper.
"I've got you," he murmurs roughly at my ear, in the middle of everything. "I've got you."
He drives me over the edge – deep, completely, inescapably – and when it overwhelms me, I almost scream his name. He holds me so tightly, as though I might otherwise float away.
Shortly after he came too. My name on his lips.
Afterward he lay beside me. No words. His heartbeat. Mine.
He laid his hand on my stomach.
We looked at each other.
"I want the same thing," he says quietly.
I know.
Chapter VI – Baby Fever: It Gets Worse
I stood in the kitchen, hand flat on my stomach, staring at the wall where our calendar hung.
The baby fever was different that morning.
Not quieter. Louder. Tormenting. It had woken me – before the alarm, before the light – with the image already complete before my eyes: a sleeping little baby on Vincent's arm. The sunlight perfect on the two of them.
I wanted it so badly it hollowed me out from the inside.
Two weeks until the wedding. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. The thought came before I could stop it: What if it already happened?
I pressed my hand harder against my stomach.
It sits inside me like a spark that knows it shouldn't burn, and wants to anyway. The idea that something might have already begun, tiny and quiet – that thought made everything simultaneously better and worse. The uncertainty was the hardest part. Not knowing. Waiting.
I was crazy. That had to be the explanation. People didn't go crazy with longing for something that didn't exist yet.
And yet here I was, standing since three in the morning, and now it was half past four. With cold tea and a hand on a stomach that was perhaps empty – or perhaps not.
Vincent came sleepily into the kitchen.
He saw me immediately – the posture, the hand on my stomach. He said nothing. My fiancé simply pulled me to him.
I pressed my face against his neck while he stroked my back soothingly with one hand.
"Worse?" he asked quietly.
"Worse."
"Two more weeks."
"And if it doesn't happen right away—"
"Then we keep trying." Vincent didn't hesitate. "For as long as it takes."
"That's easier said..."
"Yes." He pulled back a little, looked at me. The green and the blue, serious and warm. "And I mean it."
We looked at each other. For a moment the burning in my chest was so strong I had to close my eyes.
"Two weeks," I said, breathing deeply.
"Two weeks." He smiled reassuringly. "And then the wedding night. And then—" He pressed me briefly closer. "Then everything that comes after. At least two little Whittmans to keep us on our toes."
I snuggled into him.
Outside the morning was still grey, and the hunger was still there. But in Vincent's arms, it was a little more bearable.
Chapter VII – The Wedding
The beach was still. The sea the same as always – indifferent and beautiful.
Thirty people sat in rows of white chairs. The most important people we knew. A friend with a guitar played.
I stood behind the dune.
Lena held my bouquet, checked the dress, talked about unimportant things – and we both knew they were unimportant, but we both needed them anyway.
The dress fell lightly and was the most beautiful dress I had ever worn. I had no shoes on. The sand was warm.
"Ready?" asked Lena.
I looked at the beach.
At Vincent.
He stood at the front, his back to me. The white suit suited him well. Hands loosely folded in front of him. Hair that the wind had touched a little.
Then he turned around.
He had felt me.
When our eyes found each other, he held his breath.
Outwardly still – but I knew that pause. That second in which everything stopped existing for him: the thirty people who had just risen, the guitar, the sea, everything. Only me.
His mouth moved. A single word, barely visible, but I knew his face.
God.
And then he smiled with love.
My heart beat so loudly I thought Lena must be able to hear it.
I stepped forward.
The sand under my feet was warm, familiar. The music. The people. The sea. Everything was there, and everything blurred, and the only thing that was sharp and clear was the path to him. Every step bringing us closer. His hand reaching out as I arrived – naturally, as though he had always held it out for me.
I laid mine in it.
He closed his fingers.
"You look—" he began quietly.
"Not now," I said.
"Yes. Now." He looked at me. The smile I knew and which was nevertheless always new. "You are beautiful."
Tears rose to my eyes. He saw it and briefly raised my hand to his lips, a gesture so casual and so complete that Lena in the second row let out a quiet sound.
The man who married us spoke with a warm voice, and I only half listened – I only looked at Vincent, and he looked at me.
Then it was his turn.
He turned fully toward me, took my other hand too. Looked at me, long, as though making sure I was really there and this was really happening.
"I told you at the proposal that I loved you from the first moment," he says. His voice is calm. "Today I'm telling you what I've learned from these three years." A pause. "I've learned that love isn't a feeling that's simply there. It's a decision. New every morning. And I have chosen you – every morning, every evening, every quiet moment in between – without a single hesitation."
He swallows.
"I promise to be the man you can rely on. Not the perfect man – he doesn't exist, and you'd probably find him boring anyway." Quiet laughter from the second row. "But the man who gets up. Who is there. Who tries – with every child we have, with every argument we have, with every morning when it's hard. I choose you. Today and every day after. For the rest of my life."
Now it's my turn.
I swallow. My voice isn't as calm as his, but I mean it just as much.
"I've never met anyone with whom I can be so completely myself as I can with you." My hand presses his. "You saw me before I saw myself. You made me laugh when I thought I couldn't, and you held me when I thought I didn't need it." I hear my voice crack a little. "I promise to always be there for you. For us. For everything that's still to come."
The rings. His hands trembled, and mine trembled, and the ring slid onto my finger.
He kissed me – gently, deeply – his hand at my cheek. As though this were the moment for which everything else had only been preparation.
He didn't let go of me immediately.
────୨ৎ────
The celebration is long.
Lanterns in rows, white tablecloths, the sea as background music. The food is good, the wine better. Klara sits beside Vincent's younger brother and acts as though she doesn't find him interesting – which fools no one, least of all him.
Sofie gives a speech. Brief, which is extraordinary for Sofie. Then she glances toward Klara and Vincent's brother and says with a completely straight face: "I'm also very much looking forward to the next wedding in our circle – whose name I won't mention yet, because she's still pretending nothing is happening." Klara chokes on her wine. Laughter. Sofie sits down, satisfied.
After dinner came the opening dance, which we managed. Shortly after, the dance floor filled up and Vincent and I went to our families.
I watch him from the table. He stands with his older brother, relaxed, jacket off, telling something – his hands moving as he talks, his brother bursting out laughing. This man, I think. This wonderful man is now my husband.
His gaze finds mine across the heads of the crowd. The small smile. The raised eyebrow: What?
I shake my head. Nothing.
He excuses himself from his brother. Comes to me. Holds out his hand.
"Dance with me."
"Again?" I tease him. "I thought it was too much for you that I stepped on your feet."
"That wasn't stepping on them." The smile. "That was a very enthusiastic interpretation of the rhythm." He takes my hand. "I've been wearing protective gear since then."
I laugh and let him lead me onto the dance floor.
He holds me close – one hand deep in my back, the other holding mine. He moves us slowly, close, his lips somewhere at my temple.
"Happy?" he murmurs.
"Yes."
He pulls me closer. "Me too."
────୨ৎ────
Later – when the celebration is still going and the last guests are still gathered – he looks at me. Just briefly. A glance that asks.
I nod.
He takes my hand, and we disappear.
Simply gone, without fuss, down to the beach. The music and laughter of the celebration grow quieter behind us. The shoes come off and the sand is cool under our feet.
We sit down where the water barely reaches anymore, and the sea murmured.
I lean my head against his shoulder.
For a while we say nothing.
"I can't believe you're my wife now," he says quietly.
"Don't you believe it?"
"Yes." He turns his head, looks at me. "I believe it. I just wanted to say it out loud."
I take his hand, hold it in mine.
"Do you remember the first evening here?" I ask.
"You explained to me why sharks are misunderstood."
"That's right."
"Very passionately."
"Sharks are misunderstood."
He laughs – softly, warmly. "I know." He squeezes my hand. "I knew in that moment that I had lost."
"Lost?"
"The fight against falling in love." He looks at the sea. "You were talking about sharks, and I thought: That is the woman who will surprise me my whole life. And I was right."
I say nothing. Lean more firmly into him.
The night around us is cool.
"Would you like to stay a little longer?" he asks.
"A bit."
He pulls me closer. Kisses my forehead.
We sit there until the music of the celebration has completely faded and only the sea speaks.
Then he stands, holds out his hand.
"Come," he says. "The night is just beginning."
Chapter VIII – The Wedding Night
Three summers we had spent here. The door fell shut behind us, and the world stopped turning.
Someone had scattered rose petals on the bed – deep red ones, so many that the white sheet beneath almost disappeared. Lena, without doubt. The sea could be heard through the open balcony door, dark and even.
Vincent stood behind me.
He gave me a moment. Let the silence settle, let the room become real.
His hands found my shoulders.
"Hey, we're back here," he said quietly.
"Yes, with you—" I leaned a little back against him.
"How are you?"
I turned to him.
He looked at me – the green and the blue – my husband looking at me with love.
"You didn't breathe," I said. "Today. When I walked toward you."
"I found it again."
"When?"
"When you laid your hand in mine." He pushed a strand of hair from my face, let his fingertips rest at my cheek for a moment. "You still look breathtaking."
He kissed me.
Not the way he had on the beach earlier, not gently – this kiss has weight. Hunger. Three years of built-up longing that no longer has to hold itself back, and I feel it immediately. I wrap my arms around his neck, pull him closer, and he takes a step, then another, until my back is against the wall and his body stands before me and the kiss grows deeper, demanding, possessive.
When he breaks away, I am breathless.
He looks at me – the green and the blue, and in them something I have never seen so directly before. No trace of control. Only him, what he wants, and that he's going to have it.
"Three years," he says quietly. Not a question.
He turns me. The buttons of my dress – he knows them, has counted every one with his eyes this evening, I felt it – he undoes them now quickly, without detour. The fabric falls. He turns me back, unclasps my bra with one hand and pushes it off, and then his hands are already everywhere, warm and certain and with an urgency that takes my breath away.
He lifts me.
Carries me the few steps to the bed, lays me in the rose petals, and before I can even breathe, he is over me – tie still half on, shirt open – and kisses me further, my neck, my shoulder, my chest. When his mouth finds my nipple, I slide both hands into his hair because I have to hold on to something.
"Vincent—"
"Mm." He doesn't stop.
He takes his time there. Switches sides. Sucks, savors, until my knees would give way if I were standing, until every sound I make is real and uncontrolled and he enjoys every one of them.
Then his hands at my hips, at the sides of my underwear. He pulls it down – not slowly this time, purposefully – and tosses it somewhere into the room. His lips travel lower, over my stomach, my inner thighs, and when he finds me with his mouth, I have no time to feel ashamed.
He knows what he's doing. He has remembered what makes me loud, what makes me lose the ground beneath my feet, what makes me say his name as though it were a prayer – and he uses all of it, without mercy, without pause, until my thoughts disappear and only he exists.
The first time comes quickly and overwhelms me completely.
He gives me no time to collect myself.
He strips out of shirt, trousers, underwear – quickly, while I'm still trembling – and then he's over me again, his weight warm and real, and he kisses me so that I stop thinking.
"Now," I say.
No hesitation.
He sinks into me – deep, completely, all at once – and the gasp that escapes me is loud and honest and real. No pain this time. Only completeness. Only the feeling of finally, spreading through my chest like warmth.
He waits a heartbeat.
"Good?" Rough at my ear.
"Yes." I pull him deeper with my legs. "Move. Now."
He moves.
And there is no settling in period, no careful feeling-out – he knows what I want, I know what I want, and we both want the same thing. He takes what he wants and gives me everything back, deep and rhythmic and with an intensity that makes me moan from the very start.
I move with him. Claw at his back, raise my hips, demand more, and he gives more – deeper, faster, shedding control layer by layer, until his breath is as rough as mine and we are both falling.
He turns me onto my side, pulls me with my back against his chest. One hand flat on my stomach, the other at my hip.
"I've got you," he murmurs.
He takes what he wants and I allow it and want it just as much.
Deeper. Animal. Rose petals everywhere, the sea outside the window, his lips at my neck, his name on my lips – again and again – until the world stops existing and only this remains: him and me and this moment, for which we have waited three years.
When it overwhelms me the second time, I almost scream.
He follows me, holding me so tightly I will still feel his grip tomorrow, and that is exactly what I wanted.
He stays inside me.
He turns me to him, lays his hand on my stomach. Warm. Conscious. No words.
None are needed.
────୨ৎ────
The silence afterward was complete and beautiful.
The sea murmured. I lay in his arms, his heartbeat beneath my ear.
He pulled the blanket over both of us.
For a while we said nothing. The sea murmured, steady and eternal.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you more."
He pulled me closer.
I lay in the stillness and let the thoughts come.
Maybe. The word was there, soft and constant. Maybe tonight. Maybe right now, in this moment – already inside me, here, in this bed, on this beach where everything had begun.
I pressed my hand against my stomach.
"Vincent."
"Mm."
"Do you think—" I broke off.
He raised his head.
"That maybe tonight it already—" I tried again. "I know it doesn't always happen right away—"
"Sometimes it does." Vincent looked at me with quiet confidence. "You can never rule it out."
My hand still lay on my stomach. Now it felt like hope.
"We could—" I began, feeling the blush rise.
"Try again?" He raised an eyebrow. His voice a tone deeper, warm and dark. "As a precaution?"
Slowly he roused himself again.
────୨ৎ────
He turns me over.
Not gently – deliberately. His hands grip my hips, lift them, and I brace on my forearms, face into the pillow.
No long preamble. We both know where this is going.
His lips land on my neck – hot – then his teeth, very lightly, at the spot below my ear that makes me moan immediately. His hands travel slowly down my back. Over my spine. The waist. The hips. He takes a second to look at me, then he grips, as though completely certain of what belongs to him.
Because it belongs to him.
I can feel him behind me, not yet inside me, and even that makes it hard to breathe calmly.
"Vincent—"
"I know." He kisses my shoulder blade. "I know."
And then he sinks into me – all at once, deep, without hesitation – and the moan that escapes me is loud and shamelessly honest. He hears it, holds still for a single heartbeat.
Then he moves.
It's immediately different from everything before. Deeper. More direct. A rhythm he sets without asking, because he knows I want it – that I need it – and he's right. Every movement lands somewhere. I grip the sheets and hold on, and let everything go.
I press back against him.
A rough sound escapes him – uncontrolled, honest – and that, more than anything else, sends a wave through me that nearly brings me over the edge. He loses control too.
Knowing that is the most intoxicating thing I know.
He gives more. Faster, deeper, his hands at my hips so firm I'll feel it tomorrow, and I want exactly that, want the imprint of it.
"More," I gasp. Breathless.
He gives me more.
His hands wander – one stays at my hip, the other slides forward, finds me. The sound I make when he touches my clit is so honest that the blush shoots into my face and I couldn't care less.
"You drive me crazy," he murmurs roughly at my ear. "You know that."
I don't know. I don't know anything anymore in this moment except him.
He bends over me, his weight on my back, his mouth at my ear – his breath, his voice, his hands, his movements – hitting me all at once and I stop controlling anything. I moan his name, again and again, until it's no longer a word.
"I've got you," he says, rough, almost broken. "I've got you."
When it overwhelms me, it's different from the first round. Deeper. Darker. More complete. It begins somewhere deep inside and spreads outward and I hold myself buried in the sheets and let it happen, let everything go.
He follows me – immediately, firm, his grip at my hips like a final promise – and stays deep inside me until the trembling stops.
The sea murmurs.
He lies down beside me, pulls me to him in one movement, turns me to face him. Pushes the hair from my face. Looks at me, so warm, and lays his hand on my stomach.
Quiet. Conscious.
I roll toward him. Lay my head on his chest.
"Vincent," I say after a long while.
"Mm." Almost asleep. Almost.
"I think we should practice more often."
Silence.
Then his laugh – the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. He pulls me firmly to him, presses a kiss into my hair.
"That," he says, "is the best idea you've ever had."
I laugh too.
My hand lies on my stomach.
The sea murmurs, steady and eternal, and the word remains – maybe, maybe, maybe – soft and constant like the waves outside our window.
Our baby. Perhaps already there. Perhaps already inside me, quiet and tiny and the beginning of everything that comes after.
I want it so much.
The night belongs to us.
💙⋆.𐙚 ̊ 💙⋆.𐙚 ̊ 💙⋆.𐙚 ̊ 💙⋆.𐙚 ̊
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