Lame writer

I need a place to dump my thoughts about this fuckass show.

[bambitek]

happy pride 🌈 from ur local corporate bisexual

[dostoevskya]

📺 — COME JOSEPHINE, IN MY FLYING MACHINE.

꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vincent whittman (vox) x reader

wc: 3.4k+ words -> second person pov; fluff; humour; foreshadowing; inspired by titanic (1997); banter & bickering (a whole lot of it); soft + whipped + human vox; once again i pride myself on the historical accuracy of this

small note , this is a prologue to the oneshot i posted a few weeks ago. i do suggest that you read that first before this one, as this is very heavy with foreshadowing !

now playing… come josephine in my flying machine by billy murray + ada jones ⤷ in queue :: it might be you by stephen bishop

the stars were always brighter around this time of year, you think.

 they twinkle against the canopy of night and over the slated roofs of southampton, sparkling in tune to the flurried tinkle of your laughter. two pairs of leather soles clack loudly through the cobblestone streets—one swifter than the other, the other heavier than the first.

 “quiet!” vincent hushes you loudly, though unable to hold back his own laughs.

 “hurry, vinny!” you giggle, whipping your head to look back at the man you’re dragging by the hand behind you. “titanic waits for no one!”

 he picks up his pace, eventually falling into step with you. vincent then shifts his fingers to lace into the spaces between your own. “we’ve got all night, baby,” he says breathlessly, endeared amusement stumbling through the middle of his words. “we’ve got time.”

 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!

———

© dostoevskya 2026. all rights reserved. please do not copy, edit, or repost any of my works. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[tadohazbinokayy]

A Forecast for Early Rain

(A/N: writer's block continues to assail me, but i finally managed to finish this hazbin x reader oneshot, as a little treat.)

(Summary: you make the weatherboy cum in his pants.)

(CW/Tags: explicit sexual content, fem!reader, pre-established relationship (vincent is referred to as your boyfriend), handjobs/sex with clothes on, cumming in pants, breeding kink if you squint)

(Word Count: 1136)

“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.

  You lick your lips, curious to know what your weatherboy has in store for you in the future.

[writerisahazbin]

DAMN. THIS WAS GOOD.

I love it when Vincent is a pathetic mess. 😫👌

[tuquoque]

♪‧₊˚Curves And Swerves

vox x reader

tags: nsfw, headcanons, fluff, smut, exhibitionism, voyeurism, mommy kink, mentions of pegging, mentions of roleplay, strong language, 1950s beauty standards, early 2000s beauty standards, sinner!reader, curvy!reader, fem!reader

synopsis: how vox would handle having a significant other who has curves and knows how to use them—requested by anon.

wc: 700~

🏖️ As Hell’s beauty standards evolved towards extolling rail-thin bodies, Vox still found himself salivating over the plush curves that were in scarce supply in the afterlife. Following the end of the Second World War, the American beauty industry emphasized a hyper-feminine aesthetic in line with growing conservative ideals. Vox, like most men from the 1950s, believed that a woman should look as glamorous as she did pleasant—the picture of a happy and desirable wife.

🏖️ It was not uncommon for some hapless VoxTek employee to walk in on the TV-headed demon pleasuring himself to Valentino’s productions. The videos strictly depicted models with well-developed chests, wide hips, softer stomachs, and love handles.

🏖️ 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.

a/n: sorry this took so long, annie! my area of the world has been experiencing power outages. also, this isn't my body type in real life, so i hope this was respectful and to your liking!

[writerisahazbin]

"As Hell's beauty standards evolved toward s extolling rail-thin bodies, Vox still found himself salivating over the plush curves that were in scarce supply in the afterlife."

Favorite line in these headcanons 💙

Giving me motivation to finish my Vincent oneshot with this body type

[writerisahazbin]

Been feeling kinda shitty mentally and haven't had the motivation to finish my Alastor fic. I'm gonna write something Hella self indulgent to make myself feel better.

May or may not be a murdermedia x reader.

[eekism]

Giving Vox lazy head as he sits in his VoxTek CEO chair, sighing and moaning. He needs to be pampered after particularly long days or he'll throw the biggest hissy fit. Sloppy head is the #1 quickest way to de-escalate a situation or shut his whiny ass up.

He's all breathy curses and quiet pleas, head tossed back, brows knit on this screen, sharp claws grazing your scalp as his hips lamely buck off his leather seat. He's so mentally out of it that he doesn't realize how vulnerable he is. Cums with a huff and a shout, grips the back of your head close to his dick as he squirms. Slumps back into his chair and weakly protests if you overstim him, but will be absolute putty in your hands.

You're the emergency contact for Vox, Ethan, Valentino, and Velvette

[writerisahazbin]

ALRIGHT. Y'all officially have to HEAR ME OUT cause it's Pride Month. 🏳️‍🌈🌈

This scenario takes place in the 1950s, so, terminology like queer and dyke are used in a derogatory manner.

Now. I'm sure we've all seen the fanart of fem! Vincent, correct? Okay. If not, look it up. She's beautiful.

I'm just gonna call her Vinnie in this. Idk what name she should have, but it can't be Victoria 😭

It's her first day as weathergirl, and even though she hides it well, you can tell she's nervous. You've had to dab the sweat off her forehead multiple times while doing her makeup and hair. You point it out to her, and she denies it.

"You okay? You seem kinda nervous." You pick up a tissue and dab at her hairline.

She scoffs and waves your hand away. "No! I'm not!"

You roll your eyes with a fond smile. "You know..." You pick up a brush to place some blush on her cheeks. "I have an idea on how you can... let off some steam and relax."

She raises a brow at you. "What are you talking about?" She asked, genuinely confused. Her eyes then widened, and she leaned in close. "Drugs?"

"What?! No!"

You took a deep breath and lightly trailed your hand from her forearm to her shoulder. "I mean... Something... pleasurable?" You framed your question as more of a suggestion.

Her expression twisted into a heavy frown, and she grabbed your wrist. "What the hell?! I'm not one of those fuckin' dykes." Her face was flushed, teeth gritted as she forced the words out.

You groaned and freed your hand. "Ugh, god, Vinnie. You don't have to be a queer to have fun," you explained while rolling your eyes.

Her expression was completely clueless.

"Oh, come on. You've never... experimented with your friends?"

At the mention of friends, she stayed silent. She'd never admit it, but her social life in school was nonexistent. No girl friends, no shopping trips, no sleepovers. Nothing. Thanks to her weird graying hair and weirder bi-colored eyes, everyone thought of her as an outcast.

"No! I didn't have queer friends like you, apparently." She sneered as she said the word, 'queer'.

You threw your head back with a groan, "don't be such a stiff, Vinnie. It doesn't mean anything!" You reasoned, "just think of it as two friends helping each other out..." You rested your hand on her forearm and rubbed your thumb over the scratchy fabric of her brown blazer. You inched closer to her chair and stared down at her.

Her eyes glanced down at your hand and back at you. "It's not gonna mean anything?"

You shook your head, "Nope. I'll take care of you," you whispered with a smile.

She didn't say another word and nodded.

Your smile widened, and you surprised a small squeal. You pulled her up from her chair by her hands and pat the countertop of the vanity. "Sit up here," you instructed, "it'll be easier."

Vinnie gave you one long look but followed your instructions and sat on top of the vanity. You immediately kneeled down and nudged her legs open. She tried closing them, but you held them open.

"W-Wait! The door!"

You waved her off. "Don't worry about it." You rubbed the inside of her knee. "Just relax and don't think about it..."

꒰ঌ♡໒꒱

Don't judge me. It's not my fault these artists make her look so fine. 😞

I also think about sugar mommy! Vinnie too 👀

[tuquoque]

♪‧₊˚Hotter Than Hell

vox x reader

tags: fluff, suggestive content, light breastplay, fondling, biting, strong language, mentions of sex, alternate timeline, modern!au, human!vox, human!reader, asian!reader, pacificislander!reader, fem!reader

synopsis: the airbnb is too hot, and your battery-powered fan from don quijote isn't enough. but look on the bright side: the night market is selling siopao—requested by @vangoghpoes.

wc: 3.9k

You suppose your current predicament could be a lot worse. Complaining about the insulation of your beachside Airbnb—paid for exclusively by your affluent boyfriend, Vincent Whittman—was a luxury you never could have imagined for yourself.

Before coupling with the famous television personality, the most extravagant resorts you were accustomed to were 3-star Holiday Inn Express and Suites with modest continental breakfasts and swimming pools colored a deep emerald from algal bloom.

You begrudgingly recognized that the beach bungalow’s poor ventilation paled in comparison to the horrific 1-star reviews you read online—written like submissions to the r/nosleep subreddit. Even as you sweated off half your body’s weight in water, you reconsidered your situation after browsing forums dedicated to black mold, pest infestations, broken plumbing, and hotel mismanagement. You figured it was better if the island’s tropical climate remained your only concern.

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?”

a/n: this was requested by one of my mutuals! please check her fics out if you haven't already! she puts a lot of effort into them. additionally, although this fic was written with a specific image of the reader in mind, please feel free to enjoy it nonetheless.

[tadohazbinokayy]

pathetic merman vincent who is so convinced you're going to leave him for someone better that he resorts to trying to impregnate you to make sure you're tied to him forever.

he's not entirely sure how human fertility works. he himself only has a fertile window in spring that lasts a few weeks.

but it'll be enough. it has to be enough.

and once it arrives vincent is constantly on you, clinging needily to you as he buries his swollen, aching cock as deep inside you as he can, pumping you full of load after load of his warm, sticky cum in the desperate hope that it takes.

he doesn't tell you what he's doing, of course. vincent doesn't want you to know he's entered his fertile window, or that he even has one to begin with. he's hoping you don't notice anything different about him until it's too late.

he assumes you're none the wiser because you don't say anything about his behaviour, the slight changes in his physiology, or the drastic uptick in his libido. you keep letting vincent cling to you, fill you and fuck you with an increasing, feral desperation.

by the time his fertile window closes as spring ends and summer rolls around, vincent is very pleased with himself, convinced he was successful as he waits and watches for you to display the signs of carrying a merfolk hybrid in your belly.

he's in for a rude awakening a month or two later when those signs have still failed to appear.

and the tantrum vincent has when he learns of the human invention known as "birth control" will be of massive proportions.

[writerisahazbin]

I love how all of us Vincent simps have collectively decided that he has a breeding kink and will baby trap reader

[gabirose33]

i feel like we all need to take a deep breath and remember that fanfiction is supposed to be self indulgent!! especially with x readers!!mischaracterisation is not a big deal as long as the writer and the readers are having a fun time writers are supposed to enjoy their writing too

we have bigger fish to fry then a little mischaracterisation!! we should all just kiss and hold hands and have fun and keep tumblr the cool place it is!!

[june-violet]

trust him with your marine folklore

[beacon-lamp]

hello beloveds ☺️

[iceslushii]

made an alternate version for the mutuals ive never spoken to

[thetreeofliberty]

You are appreciated

[writerisahazbin]

I've been seeing random clips from Euphoria (I dont actually fully watch the show), and now I have an idea. This is based on that scene of Maddy and Alamo when they're in the hot tub together. I didn't actually see the full episode. Don't judge any inaccuracies

⚠️Spoilers for euphoria season 3 episode 7 ( I don't know if any of my hazbin girlies watch the show but put it just in case).

TLDR: Maddy begins doing some business with Alamo, a rich pimp (or drug dealer or both), and then needs his help to save her friend(?) Cassie from the mafia.

What I'm thinking is your friend accidentally gets caught in a contract with Val and hates it. You are already connected with Vox in some way (not soul ownership), and tell her you'll try to convince him to speak with Val about it. Hopefully, cancel the contract.

When you arrive in V tower after requesting a meeting, Ethan tells you he's currently relaxing and his hot tub, and if you want to join him Vox requested you wear a bathing suit he picked out for you.

As you stand at the edge of the hot tub, you tell Vox about your friends situation and ask if there's anything he could do.

Vox says nothing. He only lifts his hand and moves his finger in a circular motion. You do as he says and turn around so he can see you at all angles.

"Hmm, looks good," he comments.

You cross your arms, "I really need your help to get her out of this," you explained, "she can't handle that type of work. She's delicate."

Vox hums. "Tell how the water feels." He makes a downward motion with his hand, "come on, dip your foot in."

You do as he says. "Feels nice..." you mumbled.

Vox smirks, "yeah? Then, get in."

He framed it like a lighthearted suggestion, but you knew him by now. You knew it was command that you shouldn't ignore.

You tentatively took a step in. Vox reached out to grab your hand and stabilize you. The grip he had on your hand still remained. "You know, for someone who has been working her whole life, you got some surprisingly soft hands." He ran his claws over your skin, and you forced your breathing to remain normal at the feelings of his skin rubbing against yours.

"Can you please talk with Val? Convince him to drop her contract." Your voice was surprisingly steady despite the nervous goosebumps blooming over the skin he ran his claws over.

Vox stayed silent for a few seconds and continued admiring your hands. Not a single callus or patch of dry, flaky skin on them. "Souls are currency down here, doll. You should know that by now." He let go of your hand and took a sip of a drink he had near. "Letting go of one is like losing money."

A wave of anxiety washed over your skin. You could your forehead perspiring, not due to the heat of the tub. "I know, but she's so naive and stupid. She'd be awful on screen," you reasoned.

Vox shrugged, "some people are into that. The vees aren't in the business of pissing away money anyway." He rested his hands at the sides of the tub.

"Come on, you're the only one that can do this for me." You reached out and placed your hand on his arm.

Vox glanced at it for a moment and looked back into your eyes. "Move in closer. I'm gonna need you to try harder to convince me."

You took in a deep breath and soon found yourself sitting in his lap with his hands on your hips. "What..." Your breath stalled, "what do I have to do?" You whispered.

Vox only chuckled, his claws dipping under the band of your bathing suit. "I think you know."

Then, basically, y'all fuck. In the hot tub? In the bed? Idk. 😁

[abs0rbed]

The Way He Loves — Modern!Vincent Whittman ♡

♡ Tone: fluff/smut (at the end)

♥︎ afab!reader, sugar daddy!Vincent, mentions of alcohol, wealthy lifestyle, power imbalance (?), reader is spoiled rotten, porn with a lot of plot, kissing, vaginal fingering, slight choking, slight face slapping, finger sucking, p in v, mating press, missionary, praise kink, pussy worship (?), non consensual filming (!! Not condoning !!)

♡ Summary: Monaco, yacht dinners, expensive gifts, and a boyfriend who insists on keeping a hand on you at all times. Unfortunately for you, he also happens to be unbearably busy.

♥︎ Authors note: i genuinely had to get this out of my system.. if people actually end up liking this, i might write more of modern!Vincent because i fear this version of him has completely consumed my brain lately. This is also based off the hcs i posted yesterday, so make sure to check those out too if some parts of this confuse you a little!

♡ Words: 5992

The balcony offered a stunning view of nearly the entire marina. Yachts floated on the dark water below like pieces of exquisite jewelry, their lights casting a golden glow across the surface with every ripple of the waves. Somewhere in the streets below, soft music wafted through the warm Monte-Carlo night, accompanied by distant laughter, the sounds of upscale restaurants still bustling well past midnight. The air was infused with the scent of sea salt, cigarettes, perfume, and the heat of summer trapped between the buildings.

You were curled up in one of the cushioned chairs, a cocktail resting loosely in your hand, condensation trickling down the glass as you gazed at the city glowing beneath you. Behind you, his voice blended seamlessly into the night.

"No, move the meeting to Thursday," Vincent spoke calmly into the phone. "I’m not flying back early because someone didn’t read a contract correctly." He paused, then sighed. "I don’t care whose fault it was. Just fix it."

A faint smile crept onto your lips as you sipped your drink, some things truly never changed. When the call finally ended, a moment of silence enveloped the balcony before you heard the familiar sound of the sliding door opening behind you.

"You’re still working?" you asked without turning around.

"I’m done now."

"You said that an hour ago."

"I mean it this time." His voice was closer than you expected, and you turned slightly in your chair, only to freeze in place.

"…What is all that?" Several shopping bags dangled from his hands, their glossy logos glimmering under the balcony lights, Louis Vuitton, Hermès, Saint Laurent, Cartier. Another bag rested against his wrist, partially hidden from your view.

He looked unfairly attractive standing there, glasses slightly lowered on the bridge of his nose after hours of screen time, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows, dark hair streaked with silver under the warm light spilling from the suite behind him. The city glowed gold against the sharpness of his features, softening him just enough to make you catch your breath.

You found yourself staring at the bags once more. "Are you serious?"

"I was gone longer than I meant to be."

"You disappeared for three hours."

"I know." He moved across the balcony slowly, placing the bags down next to your chair, the expensive rings catching the light for a moment as he relaxed his grip.

"You didn’t need to buy me half of Monaco to say sorry."

A small smile tugged at the edge of his lips.

"Only half?"

"You’re crazy."

"You like me like this." Unfortunately, he was right again. You watched as he loosened the watch on his wrist before settling down next to you, his arm wrapping around your waist as it always did. The warmth seeped through the thin fabric of your clothes almost immediately, the city below continued to glow endlessly beneath the balcony while luxury cars glided through the narrow streets, and music floated softly from somewhere near the harbor, his thumb absentmindedly brushing against your side.

"I’m sorry," he finally said, his voice softer this time. "I know this vacation hasn’t really felt like a vacation."

You turned to him, slightly taken aback, not by the apology itself, he did apologize sometimes, in his own peculiar way, but by the sincerity behind it. "You’re busy," you murmured.

"That’s not an excuse."

"No," you conceded quietly, "but it’s true, and I’m not upset about it."

He leaned back in the chair beside you, his gaze drifting out toward the sea for a moment. You could see the exhaustion lurking beneath his composed facade now that the calls had ceased, the constant tension in his shoulders, the weight he carried as if it had become a part of him years ago... then he turned to look at you again.

"I do love you, you know."

The words flowed so easily it almost stung, and you smiled faintly into your drink. "You bought me Cartier after ignoring me for three hours. I figured that was your way of showing affection."

A soft laugh escaped him, low and weary. "Cruel."

"You deserve it."

"Ugh, absolutely."

The gentle breeze swirled around the balcony once more, bringing the scent of the ocean through his hair as he leaned in, placing a soft kiss on your temple before resting his forehead against yours for a moment.

“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” he whispered.

“You said that yesterday.”

“And I meant it then too.”

“You’re impossible.”

His lips grazed the edge of your jaw, lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Morning crept in slowly through the curtains.

Soft sunlight poured into the hotel suite in golden streaks, warming the marble floors and the tangled sheets you had half buried yourself in during the night. Outside, the city was already alive, distant traffic humming below, faint voices near the harbor, and the occasional crash of waves against the docks.

You barely wanted to open your eyes, the room still held the scent of Vincent's cologne and coffee. Your head turned slightly toward the source, and there he was, standing by the counter across the suite, glasses perched on his nose, one hand cradling an espresso cup while the other lazily scrolled through something on his phone. Even in casual attire, he somehow managed to look effortlessly put together, dark trousers hanging low on his hips, a white button up only half tucked in, fully unbuttoned so you could take in the sight of his waist and body. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms in a careless manner.

You hated how attractive he appeared in the morning light, which is why there were countless mornings you’d plead with him to do something about the ache between your thighs that he caused. Without looking up from his screen, he said,

“You’re awake... finally, thought I might’ve lost you.”

“What the fuck... have you been waiting?” you mumbled groggily.

“Obviously.”

“You’re creepy.”

A faint smile tugged at the rim of his cup.

“You drool in your sleep.” Your eyes narrowed immediately. “I do not.

"You do."

"You’re just trying to annoy me with that lie."

"I would never." You locked eyes with him for a moment, then grabbed a pillow from beside you and tossed it half-heartedly in his direction. He caught it effortlessly, not even glancing up. Ugh, so infuriating.

"You’ve been working already, haven’t you?" you grumbled.

"Just emails."

"It’s eight in the morning."

"And?"

"And normal people take a break on vacation."

"You’ve mentioned that before."

"Yes, because you refuse to hear me out."

This time, he finally glanced up from his phone, placing it on the counter before sauntering over to the bed, espresso no longer in hand.

"You know," he said in a calm tone, "most people would be thankful to wake up in a place like this."

"Most people aren’t dating a weirdo who can’t relax to save their life."

"That sounds a bit overdramatic."

"It’s the truth."

He settled down near your legs, one hand absentmindedly smoothing the sheets over you as he took another sip of coffee. Up close, you noticed the faint shadows under his eyes that hadn’t completely vanished overnight.

"You only slept four hours," you pointed out softly.

"I slept."

"That wasn’t my point."

"Fuck.. just, stop.. okay?"

You sighed, leaning your head back against the pillows, watching the sunlight dance on the silver strands of his hair. Even in his exhaustion, he looked unfairly elegant, with that sharp nose and tired eyes hidden behind thin-framed glasses, an expensive watch perfectly resting on his wrist as if he couldn’t exist without it.

"You know what your problem is?" you asked.

"Oh, I’m sure you’re about to tell me."

"You honestly believe the world can’t function without your control." He pondered that for a moment, then shrugged lightly.

"Well, historically speaking, I haven’t been proven wrong."

You let out a laugh before you could stop yourself. "You and that massive ego."

"It’s been earned."

"See? Horrible."

The warmth of his hand glided against your ankle slowly beneath the sheets before he drew you a bit closer to him, his expression now softer than it had been all morning.

You gazed up at him cautiously. "Do you ever stop with the flirting?"

"Hah! Take a wild guess, darling."

"At least you’re being honest."

"I’m more honest with you than with anyone else."

Something about the way he said it made the room feel quieter for a moment, his gaze drifting briefly over your face before he spoke again, his voice lower this time.

"C'mon, get dressed." You blinked. "Why?"

"I’m taking you somewhere."

"That sounds a bit suspicious."

"It’s just breakfast..."

"You’re wealthy enough for that statement to sound dangerous."

A soft laugh escaped him again, quieter now.

"Trust me."

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Last time you said that, we ended up on a yacht with three politicians and a guy who owned a diamond company."

"And you had fun!"

"Oh no... I hated every second."

"You looked stunning while hating it."

"You are truly impossible to argue with," you muttered, finally pulling yourself out of the sheets.

"I'm aware, sweetheart." His confidence should have been less appealing by now, at this point, it was practically a medical condition. You slipped into the bathroom long enough to wake yourself up properly while he remained somewhere in the suite behind you, likely answering another email despite claiming he was "done working." By the time you stepped back out, dressed and still adjusting an earring, he had already swapped the coffee for another phone call near the windows.

Of course he had.

"Yes, I saw the figures," he said calmly, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass overlooking the harbor. "Then send them to Zurich instead." You leaned against the doorway quietly, observing him for a moment. There was something captivating about the way he navigated conversations like this, controlled and precise. Like he always knew...

Even now, standing barefoot in a hotel suite at nine in the morning with slightly tousled hair and rolled up sleeves, he appeared more composed than most people ever managed to be. Then he caught you watching, and his expression changed almost instantly, it was so natural that you wondered if he even noticed it happening.

“I’ll call you back later, just don’t fuck it up like you did last time while I was away, okay?....alright...bye.” He said into the phone before hanging up without another word, raising an eyebrow, you remarked, “That seemed important.”

Vincent completely ignored that, crossing the room toward you instead, adjusting the necklace that sat crooked against your collarbone with careful fingers. “There,” he murmured, the gesture so gentle it almost didn’t seem like him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, dove.” For a moment, he simply gazed at you, making your stomach flutter every single time. “Oh my god, stop staring,” you pointed out quietly.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Oh, shut up.” You laughed softly as he pulled you closer by the waist, his expensive rings cool against your skin while his thumb brushed slowly along your side. “What’s the plan for this mysterious breakfast?” you asked.

“Ohhh.. you’ll see.” he chuckled.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not supposed to be!”

The drive through the city felt almost surreal in the morning light, luxury cars gliding through narrow streets lined with designer shops while sunlight flooded the coastline so brightly it almost hurt to look at. Beside you, he drove with one hand resting casually on the wheel, sunglasses shielding his eyes now as soft jazz played through the car speakers. You glanced at him briefly.

“Kinda curious, but how much does this car even cost?”

“Uhmmm.. I.. don’t actually remember.”

“That is the most villainous rich person answer you could’ve given me. You are unbearable.”

“You asked.”

“You scare me sometimes.

"Fuck off! You adore me!" Unfortunately, that response came way too fast, and he noticed it too. The corner of his mouth twitched up slightly as he shot a glance your way for just a moment before turning his attention back to the road... such a cocky jerk.

A few minutes later, the car finally slowed down in front of a serene restaurant perched above the water, "hidden" enough from the city to feel exclusive. You barely had time to unbuckle before he was already stepping out and making his way around to your side to open the door for you. You eyed him with suspicion.

"You know you don’t have to do that every single time."

"I know."

"Then why do you?" His hand rested momentarily against your lower back as he led you toward the entrance. "Because I enjoy taking care of you." The straightforwardness of his answer caught you off guard more than anything extravagant ever could.

Inside, the restaurant offered a full view of the sea, sunlight shimmering across the water just beneath the terrace while soft music floated through the air quietly enough not to disrupt conversation. The staff greeted him immediately as he stepped inside.

Of course they did.

You leaned in closer as you trailed behind him toward the terrace table already set for the two of you. "Do you secretly own this place too?"

"...No."

"You hesitated."

"Alright... alright, I'm friends with the owner."

"That’s somehow worse."

A low chuckle escaped him as he pulled your chair out for you, the sea stretching endlessly below the terrace, warm wind tousling his silver streaked hair, and for once, his phone remained silent beside him on the table.

By the time breakfast wrapped up, the sun had risen high enough to turn the entire sea a blinding gold, you had long since swiped bites from his plate despite having ordered your own meal, and he had grumbled about it exactly three times while still nudging the dish closer to you anyway. His sunglasses lay forgotten beside his espresso now, sleeves still neatly rolled to his forearms as the warm sea breeze drifted through.

For once, he actually seemed at ease.. or at least pretty close to it. "You know," you said lazily, swirling the melting ice in your drink, "this is the longest you’ve gone without checking your phone."

"Well.. uhh I checked it twice."

"See? Addiction."

"It’s called responsibility."

"Whatever floats your boat.."

That got a quiet laugh from him, just under his breath. "You’re quite judgmental for someone who’s currently spending my money."

"I spend it beautifully!"

"Ehh.. you definitely try."

You narrowed your eyes at him as he reached for the check before you could even pretend to glance at it.. not that you would have paid anyway.

The city buzzed softly beneath the afternoon heat, designer storefronts gleamed in the sunlight, polished windows showcasing clothes and jewelry that cost horrifying amounts of money while luxury cars cruised through narrow streets as if they belonged there naturally.

Next to you, he adjusted his sunglasses back into place before casually slipping his hand around yours, and you shot him a suspicious glance almost immediately.

"Oh my god not again.."

"What?"

"You have that look on your face.. y'know.. the one you get before making financially irresponsible decisions."

"I’m always financially irresponsible."

"That is not reassuring." His thumb brushed lazily over your knuckles as he kept walking. "I’ve hardly spent any time with you this trip," he said simply. "Let me spoil you properly."

"You already bought me Cartier last night."

"And...?"

"And I’m starting to think you’re trying to buy my affection."

"You already adore me. I’m just maintaining the standard, babe!"

You physically couldn’t argue with someone this shameless, and a few minutes later, you realized with growing horror that he was steering you straight toward the designer district.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"No, absolutely not."

"You haven’t even seen anything yet! You can't talk!"

"I know enough already..!"

His hand rested against your lower back as he smoothly guided you across the street, completely unfazed by your complaints, just the sight of the first boutique made your stomach churn.

Soft lighting danced off glass displays filled with watches and jewelry, while the faint scent of high end perfume wafted through the air. The staff greeted him immediately, not just with politeness, but with a sense of familiarity.

Of course they recognized him.

A woman near the entrance beamed the moment she saw him. "Monsieur, welcome back."

Back.

That single word irked you, and you turned to him slowly. "How often do you come here?"

"Occasionally."

The employee looked like she was holding back laughter. Within twenty minutes, everything had spiraled completely out of your control.

A Saint Laurent jacket draped over one arm, two Prada boxes sitting nearby, and something from Dior that you hadn’t even agreed to try on yet somehow was already bought.

Meanwhile, he lounged comfortably on one of the velvet chairs near the fitting area, one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling through emails on his phone as if casually spending outrageous amounts of money was the most normal thing in the world.

"You are insane," you told him as you stepped out of the fitting room, his eyes immediately lifting and locking onto you, the phone slowly lowering from his hand.

For a moment, he was silent, his gaze roaming over you with an intensity that made your entire body feel warm beneath the luxurious fabric.

Then finally:

"Fuck.. turn around for me." You stared at him, shocked. "Excuse me?"

"I want to see the back," he mumbled, biting his lower lip as he watched you.

"Pervert," you whispered, still wary, but you turned slightly anyway. The moment you faced him again, you instantly regretted it because now he looked far too pleased with himself.

"That one," he said with a calm demeanor.

"No..."

"Yes."

"It’s not needed, no... no."

"You checked yourself out in the mirror twice."

"That means nothing!!"

"Oh come on... it shows you like it." You crossed your arms right away. "You’re manipulative."

"And you’re breathtaking, we all have our flaws!"

Sometimes you despised him, by the time you two decided to leave, several bags dangled from his arm while countless staff members carried the rest toward the car outside. You stared at the growing pile in disbelief.

"There’s really no reason for all this."

He barely glanced at the bags.

"I wanted to."

"That’s not a reason... Vincent." The warmth of the afternoon enveloped you both again as soon as you stepped back onto the street. Nearby, music floated softly from a café while people strolled lazily through the sunlit city. He halted abruptly.

You blinked. "What now?" Without an immediate response, he reached up and adjusted your sunglasses slightly where they had slipped down your nose, leaning down just enough for his voice to remain between the two of you alone.

"You’ve been smiling all day."

Heat flooded your cheeks almost instantly. "That’s because you’ve spent enough money to destabilize a small country." A low laugh escaped his lips. "Still counts."

As evening descended over the city once more, the marina had completely transformed. The water mirrored hundreds of golden lights from docked yachts and waterfront restaurants, waves gently rolling beneath the darkening sky while music echoed faintly across the harbor. Everything sparkled at night here, the city, the sea, the people.

The moment the car approached the docks, you recognized it waiting there, of course you did. You had spent enough time on that yacht to know its shape immediately, the soft lights along the exterior, the polished deck, the subtle gold detailing he insisted wasn’t "too much"...

A soft chuckle escaped him as he exited the car, adjusting his sleeve cuff before making his way to your side. The warm marina air enveloped both of you instantly, carrying the scent of sea salt and high end perfume through the night.

His hand found its place on your waist effortlessly as he led you onto the yacht, which somehow appeared softer tonight, less daunting. Warm lights illuminated the deck while the gentle sound of waves lapped beneath the vessel, the city twinkling endlessly in the distance. Somewhere inside, low jazz played softly, blending seamlessly with the ocean's rhythm... then the aroma of food hit you.

You halted immediately.

“...Vincent Whittman.” He looked down at you, amusement already dancing in his eyes.

“What?”

“You hired a private chef again.”

“Well... you liked him last time.”

“That’s not the issue!”

“You said the restaurant yesterday was too packed.”

“I didn’t expect your solution to be Michelin-star dining on your yacht.”

“You deserve more than crowded eateries, doll.” The words flowed so easily that your mind almost refused to accept them, you regarded him with suspicion.

His thumb grazed your waist as you both strolled further onto the deck, and honestly, the setup was almost infuriatingly beautiful. Candles flickered gently in the warm night air, the table already set near the yacht's edge, overlooking the water while the city skyline glimmered gold around you both. Everything appeared elegant without effort, which somehow felt even more luxurious.

“You’re staring again,” he whispered.

“At the view... obviously.”

“Uh huh... liar.” You deliberately ignored him as he pulled your chair out for you anyway. Ugh, he was so annoyingly romantic when he wanted to be. Dinner passed slower than usual, but it was incredibly enjoyable and serene.

The yacht was enveloped by the slow, dark waves of the sea, while soft jazz floated through the deck speakers, the candlelight glinting off the sharp angles of his face with every movement. After a few glasses of wine, his glasses had slipped down his nose, and the silver strands in his hair shimmered warmly under the overhead lights.

You found yourself gazing at him more than once.

Unfortunately, Vincent caught you each time.

"Hm?" he finally asked, placing his wine glass down.

"You clean up nicely." A subtle smirk formed on his lips almost immediately.

"Nicely...?"

"Don’t get cocky."

"Tooooo late."

You rolled your eyes as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze still locked on you with that same unreadable softness that only appeared when no one else was around.

It was peculiar at times.

The ruthless man that everyone feared didn’t vanish completely around you, he lingered just beneath the surface, but moments like this made Vincent feel more tangible, less like an untouchable figure.

The chef made a brief appearance to replace part of the table before quietly slipping away, leaving the two of you alone with the endless sea and the city lights glowing around the yacht, a warm breeze wafting across the deck.

When you both returned to the suite, it was quiet.

Not silent, as the city never truly slept, but quieter than the marina below, where distant music and muffled laughter still floated softly through the slightly open balcony doors, inviting the night air in.

Warm light spilled gently across the room, and you kicked off your heels near the entrance with a sigh of relief, while he loosened his shirt collar by the windows, pushing his glasses up into his hair for the first time that evening, before deciding to throw them somewhere on the counter.

"You’re getting old," you remarked casually.

He turned to you slowly. "Excuse me?"

"You looked sooo offended getting up from that dinner chair."

"I did not."

"You made a noise."

"I- uh.. that was the chair.."

"Mhm."

A soft scoff escaped him as he poured another drink from the bottle resting on the counter. You observed him for a moment while stepping further into the suite.

There was something unfair about him at night.

Perhaps it was the weariness that softened him a bit after long days, or the way the warm lights of Monte-Carlo illuminated his sharp features through the windows, highlighting the silver strands in his hair. Or maybe it was simply that he appeared most genuine like this, with his loosened tie discarded somewhere, sleeves rolled unevenly, and expensive rings glinting softly as he raised the glass to his lips.

Your chest tightened slightly before you averted your gaze first, heading toward the balcony instead, hoping he wouldn’t notice how easily those words still affected you after all this time.

The night air enveloped you instantly.

Below, the city shimmered endlessly beneath the dark sky, headlights meandering slowly through narrow streets while yachts swayed gently against the water in the harbor.

A moment later, you felt him step beside you, his arm sliding around your waist effortlessly, pulling you back against his chest as he rested his chin briefly near your shoulder.

You watched the reflections dance across the water below while his hand moved lazily against your waist beneath the thin fabric of your clothes, both absentminded and affectionate all at once.

"Thank you for being patient with me this trip."

You turned your head slightly. "That sounds suspiciously sincere."

"It very much is sincere."

You studied him for a moment, tired eyes, hair falling messily after the long evening, his expression softer than the world would likely ever believe possible from a man like him.

"You really feel bad about the work thing, huh?"

"I brought you to Monaco and still spent half the vacation taking calls."

"You also spoiled me so much today that I’m pretty sure I can legally sue you."

His eyes wandered back to the city below, but his grip on you tightened just a bit more.

“You deserve my focus more than they ever could.”

There was something in the way he spoke that made your stomach flutter softly.

You leaned back against him, finding a more comfortable position, resting your head gently on his shoulder as the warm breeze tousled both of your hair.

His heartbeat was steady against your back, and his fingers absentmindedly traced slow patterns on your waist, as if he needed the reassurance that you were still there.

"Let me show you just how much I truly adore you." Before you could even voice a protest, he scooped you up, carrying you inside while shutting the balcony door behind him, drawing the curtains closed as well. He set you down on the bed, and before you could utter a word, he silenced you with a fierce kiss.

He crawled onto the bed, hovering over you as his tongue sought entrance into your mouth. You could tell he had been waiting for this all day, the way his hands roamed your body revealed just how desperate and pent up he was.

He was the first to break the kiss, pulling back just enough to attack your neck, urging you to arch into him.

"S-shit!" You cursed under your breath, feeling him suckle at your sensitive skin only fueled your desire for him.

He mumbled something against your skin before he began to strip you of your clothes, one by one. You let him, too lost in the waves of pleasure, but then panic set in. You tried to push him away as he continued to suck and lap at your neck, now occasionally grazing your collarbone.

You recalled what the hotel staff had warned you about... "Wait... Vincent! The staff... they said we s-shouldn't—"

He pulled away from your neck, his eyes locking onto yours with intensity, drool glistening on his chin and face as his brows knitted together.

"What shouldn’t we do? We shouldn’t have sex here? Well, no... I can do whatever the fuck I want. If I wanted to, I could buy this entire place and make it mine." Before you could even respond, he unclasped your bra, tossing it aside onto the bed, allowing your breasts to spill free as he swiftly removed his shirt, diving into your chest, leaving bites and hickeys scattered across your skin while his other hand began its descent.

"Open them up for me," he murmured against your skin, watching as you gracefully spread your legs, allowing his hand to cup your clothed sex. He ran a finger over the fabric of your already drenched pussy, moaning at the sensation... but of course, it was never enough.

Vincent pushed your panties to the side, his finger gliding from your entrance to your clit, spreading your slick as he rubbed his already hard cock against your leg, whimpering at the sudden contact.

Vincent pulled back from your chest with a soft pop, hovering over you as he took in the expression on your face when his finger finally sank into your wet cunt. You moaned loudly, and he smiled to himself, knowing deep down that no one would dare tell him to stop or kick him out.

Almost everyone knew who he was anyway.

"Such a good girl... you’re so hot, god, I want you so badly it’s insane. You’re driving me crazy." He pressed a kiss to your forehead as another finger slipped inside, curling just right as he relentlessly teased that one spot that made you want to cum right away.

"Vin... fuck... I’m gonna cum," you whined beneath him, your hair a mess on the sheets, eyebrows knitted together, hands gripping the sheets near your head as your hips began to move to their own rhythm.

Until, suddenly... he pulled his fingers out of you, sucking them clean as he shook his head. With one hand, he slid your panties off, the fingers that had just been in his mouth quickly thrusting into your mouth.

"Only on my cock, sweetheart, you’ll only cum on my cock." He wasted no time unbuckling his belt with one hand. You attempted to sit up to assist him, but he swiftly seized you by the throat, pinning you down on the bed with a force that made you feel a flicker of panic, yet you instinctively clenched around nothing.

He definitely noticed that, which prompted him to give you a light slap on the face, just a teasing gesture that made you giggle softly to yourself.

"Filthy girl... that’s why I’m obsessed with you." His hands returned to his belt, finally managing to undo it. He unzipped his pants and unbuttoned them, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. In a swift motion, he took your hand, placed his over it, and guided it directly over his hard, clothed cock, grinding against your palm just enough to elicit a gasp from you and a whine from him.

"Look what you’re doing to me, this is all because of you. I can’t wait to feel you inside... god, I’m going to cum just thinking about it." Vincent quickly pulled your hand away from his cock as he discarded his boxers, letting his cock slap heavily against his stomach, the tip already red and sticky from the hours of teasing.

How could you have not realized it sooner? Had he been hard the entire time he was with you? You snapped back to reality the moment you felt his head catch between your folds, allowing him to coat himself with your juices.

You could only moan at the sensation and the thought of him completely ruining you in this hotel room, it nearly made you drool.

Before you could even tell him to slip inside, he was already doing it, and oh, the moan that escaped him was loud. He threw his head back, relishing the feeling of your cunt clenching around him, trying to adjust to his size. Wetness gushed out of you immediately, and he noticed how your cunt became so slick, letting it drip down to your ass as he bit his lip at the sight.

"You're really spoiling me, doll.. so beautiful just for me.." His hips began to move right away, keeping your legs spread wide as he relentlessly slammed his pelvis against yours.

You were lost in the moment, mumbling incoherently as you tried to regain your focus, your hands exploring his abs before you attempted to clumsily rub your own clit. Naturally, he was quicker, swiftly smacking your hand away and replacing it with his own, rubbing rough circles against it while spreading your wetness across your lower abdomen.

"You should see yourself right now.. oh god.." You shut your eyes, moaning his name as he grunted, feeling your pussy clench around him, threatening to milk him dry. That’s when inspiration hit him. He snatched his phone from the bed, turning on the camera to record you in your blissed out state, zooming in on your face. You opened your eyes and felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you, but you couldn’t deny the thrill of it, you clenched tightly around his cock, nearly making him drop his phone as he quickly shifted the focus to your pussy, taking him so well as his pace intensified.

"Such a beautiful pussy.. fuck..! Just look at it.. good girl.. such.. a good girl," he moaned, biting his lip as he finally stopped the recording. You felt a twinge of relief that he did, yet the desire to be recorded and teased lingered.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed, causing both of you to halt immediately. He scoffed, choosing not to answer it as he resumed his sloppy thrusts, your moans picking up again until the ringing began to irritate him. The buzzing was driving him insane, he pressed your legs against your chest, leaning in closer as he hit all your sweet spots in a mating press, his eye twitching at the sound of his phone, thrusting harder as the bed creaked beneath you.

"Vin.. Vinny, slow down! Sh-shit!" You shouted, but he was too lost in his own world, chasing that elusive high while trying to drown out the incessant buzzing in his head.

He was at his breaking point.

In a fit of frustration, he grabbed his phone and hurled it to the ground with a force that shattered it into pieces. You gasped at the sight, but honestly, you were too far gone to care.

"Can't have a moment..— of..! Peace!"

With that, he spilled inside you, triggering your own climax as you squirmed to escape his hold, feeling him fill you up to the brim, certain you’d be leaking for days.

He huffed, panting heavily as he finally released your legs, his softness retreating inside you while your walls continued to clench around him.

"Fucking hell," Vincent gasped, straightening up, eyes closed, brows furrowed in disbelief at what had just transpired.

"Vincent..?" You asked softly, and he snapped his gaze to you. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine, I just... god, I shouldn’t have done that..." he admitted, still trying to catch his breath as he slowly pulled out of you. You whined at the sudden emptiness but didn’t dare move, not wanting to mess up the sheets any further.

He stood and headed to the bathroom for a towel, returning to clean you up, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

"I’m sorry you had to see me lose my temper... but I just couldn’t hold it in anymore," he said, brushing your hair back as he settled on the edge of the bed.

"Oh come on, I thought it was kind of hot."

He paused, looking at you with a smile, rolling his eyes playfully. "Was it?"

"Mhm, loved every second of it... hey, what about the video?" He sighed, realizing he wouldn’t be able to view it for a long time unless he asked someone to recover all his lost photos and videos soon.

"Shit... well... it’ll take a while to see it clearly.." he smiled, finally getting up and heading back to the bathroom.

"We can always make more, can't we?" he playfully suggested, allowing your imagination to run wild as he slipped back into the bathroom, tossing aside the towel before approaching the bed again, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you to the bathroom for a nice warm shower together.

"We still have your phone.." he winked at you.

[writerisahazbin]

Sugar daddy!Vincent was something I didn't know I needed till I read this 😫 This fic is so gooood 💙💙

[dostoevskya]

📺 — UNABLE TO STAY, UNWILLING TO LEAVE.

꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vincent whittman (vox) x reader

wc: 1.1k+ words

-> second person pov; (heavy) angst; tragic; ambiguous/open ending; inspired by titanic (1997); mutual pining; YEARNING; reunion hug; kissing + crying (lots of both); soft + whipped + human + potentially ooc (?) vox (he is a mess he is not ok); i pride myself on the historical accuracy of this

now playing… unable to stay, unwilling to leave by james horner ⤷ in queue :: can't help falling in love - with the philharmonic orchestra by elvis presley

a dull, aching sort of numbness had enshrouded your hands. whether it was from the frigid breeze biting at your flesh, the unnatural coolness of the metal fused to your petrified fingers, or the chill that ran through your veins from sheer terror, you don't know—all that you could fathom was that it was cold.

 so, so very cold.

 you were someplace near the stern, clutching onto a railing for dear life, eyes wildly scanning the horde of people that clambered higher up the ship as the bow dipped below the surface of the ocean.

 where was vincent?

 the two of you had lost each other in the hysteria of the crowd when the flares were first fired. of how long it had been since then, you were staggeringly uncertain. hours had bled into lifetimes, and lifetimes into seconds—for while the iceberg’s killing blow may have landed the starboard, the sands of time were the first to perish and disappear into the atlantic deep.

 frost clawed through the crevices of your lungs with every shuddering breath you stole back from panic. tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as the syllables of his name ghosted across your quivering lips in an echoing plea, one that was lost to the clamour and dissonance of every other terror-stricken soul on board. 

 it felt as if every pound summed from the blocks of cork in your lifebelt weighed nothing compared to the fear that imprisoned your chest between its teeth. and as it seemed that every face on this side of the ship was everyone's but his, it might as well have been heavy enough to sink and tow you headfirst to the ocean floor before the Unsinkable’s hull could crash into it, because fragments of him in the bedlam were all you could see.

 an old, ashen-faced gentleman with a nose that sloped like his. a young freckled girl from steerage with a similarly chipped tooth; you saw the gap between her molars as she cried out for her sister. there was a child with watery blue eyes, and another with unblinking glassy greens—then there was their mother, who had a divot in her throat that jutted out almost like the one you kissed every night before you went to sleep.

 the roaring pandemonium of screams and the dying howls that erupted deep from within the heart of the ship all but reached the peak of their crescendos as your eyes continued to dredge the thousands for a glimpse of the man you loved in a sea of strangers. the deafening clamour of it all swelled into an orchestra of white noise that tore severely through your head—

 —until the first, trembling miracle of the night presented itself in a cry of your name.

 and there he was.

 God, oh, God—there he was.

 vincent stands, almost petrified, at the starboard landing of the stairs that lead up to the aft deck; disheveled, frantic, and wild-eyed all at once. still, wretched as it was, the sight was something straight out of your most sacred prayers. just like he always had been.

 though you suppose the ones you used to utter as a young girl were disparate to the pleas you now begged.

 the scream that tore from vincent's throat across the deck seemed less like the sound of your name and more like a desperate cry to a God he had ignored his whole life—calling out in the fragile, infinitesimal hope that it would end up saving yours. 

 because for a split moment in his fear-shaken periphery, as the rear of the ship rose higher and higher into the sky, you were closer to the stars than he was to you. 

 with a shuddering groan, the titanic tilted and lowered her head deeper into the ocean, yet you paid it none of the mind your life could ill afford to spare elsewhere. the sight of him alone—alive—gave you enough courage to dare taking your hand off the railing. each nerve in your body, your temples, and your eyes were fixated on him as he lurched through the hysterical crowd, lunging past the raining current of people that had lost their grip on bulwarks and the debris that fell with them.

 every last shred of wisdom, judgment, and survival fled your wits just as the evils from pandora’s box did so long ago. with a shaking, whispered, "vincent," you feel your body lean forward along with the bow of the ship as you reach out toward him, almost surrendering yourself to the pull of gravity—the same force that he wrestled to defy for his body to collide into your own.

 one of his hands seizes the railing before the two of you could slide further down the deck, while the other clutches you tightly to his chest. the rush of adrenaline allows him to swing and hurl you both onto a mooring capstan, but even then, he doesn’t once loosen his hold on you.

 instead, vincent pulls you closer. he all but intertwines his ribs into the gaps between your own, almost as if he was trying to merge your two shivering heartbeats into one just so he could be sure yours was still pulsing.

 "honey," his breath comes out staggered as his hands find your arms, your hair, the curve of your jaw, and everywhere else his desperation could reach. "oh, baby. sweetheart." the kiss he crushes into your lips with a choked sob tasted of the sea and tears. "fuck." he pulls back, the blue and green of his eyes brimming with trembling, terrified relief. “you’re so stupid!”

 “vincent,” a whimper catches in your throat. you utter his name once more, then twice, and thrice again; it felt like the only word your mouth could remember to say. “oh, God, vincent.” your clammy palms find the pallid flesh of his cheeks, tasting a hiccuping sob of your own claw at the ridge of your larynx.

 “why the hell didn’t you get onto a lifeboat?” vincent demands, his face crumpled with anguish. you notice his glasses are missing. “they already made the women and children go first and you didn’t—damnit, (name), you could die!”

 “i couldn’t go,” you sob, “i couldn’t go, vince. not without you.”

 that only deepens the grief that lined his brow. “you could die,” vincent repeats desperately, the pads of his thumbs pressing violets into your cheekbones. “please. not you. anyone and a-anything but you. please. i-” tears flood the precipice of his lashes, yet he fought to make them remain unshed. “i can’t lose you, baby.”

 “and i already thought i did!” another heaving convulsion from the dying ship punctuates your futile grief. “i thought you were dead, vincent.”

 “rather me than you!”

 whatever retort stung the back of your eyes and the cusp of your lips was stolen by the shriek of steel tearing viciously against steel. it resounds ominously throughout the entire ship, followed by a tremor so violent it shook the weakening floorboards beneath your feet. the flickering amber lights saturate into a dimmer, reddish glow that illuminates the vehement fear and anger swirling in vincent’s lachrymose glare—a mournful gaze that once again hardens with a ferocity for survival as soon as the chorus of screams grew shriller against the stillness of the barren atlantic.

 he didn’t wait for you to piece back your words. he couldn’t.

 vincent clamps his hand over your wrist with a bruising grip and makes a break for the edge of the afterdeck, yanking you right after him. your mouth goes dry from sheer bewilderment, and you numbly let him drag you further up the stern.

 a sliver of gold catches in the pulsating light, almost tumbling out of vincent’s left pocket. dazedly, you recognise it as his father’s pocketwatch, yet he doesn’t spare the timepiece a single glance. the chain dangles off the third buttonhole of his open waistcoat, and the fractured dial read II and XVI. 2:16.

 the dreadful sound of steel rivets bursting added on to the macabre choir, likening themselves to the crack of gunshots in war. the pinewood decks began to shatter in detonating harmony, and the titanic was succumbing to the depths of the very ocean she had been destined to cross.

 vincent skids to a halt once his eyes register the amount of people crowding the taffrail. the pause was barely a moment, yet a century of seconds you could not afford to lose. the floorboards shook beneath your feet, tilting dangerously to a steeper slope.

 “vince–?!”

 “this way!” he roared, suddenly jerking you to the right. his hand slips tightly from your wrist to your palm as he clambers up the stairs to the docking bridge, hurling you both against the balcony’s balustrade. you yelp upon impact, shouting out in pain, but vincent barely gives you time to recover before he hauls you into his arms and charges toward the port side of the bridge, recklessly pushing past the few people that were also up on the platform.

 then, it happens.

 you can’t even begin to describe it.

 the strobing incandescent lights surged into a final, blazing flash—one that threatened a detonation of its tantalum bulbs—before a mighty crack tore through the ship and plunged it into overwhelming darkness.

 wind rushes out of your lungs and whistles past your ears in a scream that never made its way out of your chest. all fifty-two thousand and three hundred-some long tons of the titanic slams her great propellers back into the face of the ocean, and the endless cries of passengers grew impossibly louder upon landing.

 reeling from the shock, you break out into a cold sweat and feel panic creeping up the atlas of your spine.

 did… did the ship split in two?

 eyes widening in horror, you subconsciously raise your quivering fingers to your lips, before slowly closing them over your mouth.

 realisation dawns on you. 

 there were people in the water beneath the stern.

 poets and scientists alike had always emphasised how spectacularly light could blind. what they never quite mentioned, however, was how equally harrowing the theft of sight by darkness could be.

 “sweetheart?” vincent’s voice whispers weakly. you sense the familiar brush of his touch blindly fumble for you beneath the veil of night.

 “...i’m here,” you say hoarsely. every inch and crevice of your body was trembling.

 “oh, thank goodness,” he breathes. his hands feebly wrap around your shoulders again, and you notice that he’s trembling, too.

 “vinny,” your palpitation stumbles, and you swallow nervously. “vinny, i’m scared. i’m so scared.”

 vincent’s right hand moves to cradle the back of your hair as he hushes you. he presses his forehead to yours, almost as tenderly as he did when he first promised you the world. “i know. trust me, baby, i know.”

 “i–”

 “listen.” for once, the dying vessel isn’t what interrupts you, though it was getting increasingly harder to ignore as its hull begins to rise out of the water again. he pulls you in closer, urgency building in his tone. “we’re going to have to jump.”

 your heart stops. 

 “what?”

 titanic gives another agonising lurch, one that seemed like her final deathbound farewell. a jagged noise staggers in your throat from the sudden movement, and you instinctively claw for the front of vincent’s shirt in fear.

 “we have to jump before the ship goes down,” he repeats gravely. “when i tell you to jump, you jump.”

 “wait, vincent–”

 vincent doesn’t stop. “keep your legs straight as you fall. cross an arm over your chest to hold down your lifebelt so it doesn’t seize up and break your neck.” he’s practically just muttering the instructions against your lips now. “and make sure to cover your face with the other hand so you don’t inhale water into your lungs from the shock of the cold.”

 “vince–”

 “once you hit the water, swim. swim as- as far as possible from the ship so you don’t get pulled down with it. if we get separated in the fall, don’t look back. don’t come back for me. swim for the lifeboats as soon as you can- and live, (name), you have to promise me that you’ll live–”

 “goddamnit, whittman, would you shut up for a second and listen to me!?”

 the ground tilts into a slanting wall, and it would not have been far-fetched to presume that the propellers once again loomed like guillotines above the sea and below the sky it mirrored. as your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and the faintest starlight gives you a glimpse of the distress that had overcome his face, you’re almost certain that he, too, could see the outrage that was plaguing yours.

 “if i jump, you jump.” you seethe. the tip of your finger jabs into his chest. “we will jump together, and we will stay together.”

 his hand catches your wrist, and you feel the anger in his grip as it digs into your pulse. “don’t be a martyr, (name),” vincent snarls. “we don’t have time for this.”

 “you think time would mean anything to me once it passes without you?” you spit furiously, though fresh tears were burning rivers through your throat and past your cheeks once again. “what about new york, vincent? the station? your- our dreams?” a choked sound threatens to disrupt your impassioned retaliation. “i’m not about to search for you in every shadow of a city we’ve never lived in!”

 “you’re the only reason why!” he says desperately. vincent forces your hand closer to his body, so you had no choice but to flatten it over his chest—right above where his heart continued to beat wildly. his fingers lace through the spaces between yours. “all of it would mean nothing without you. you’re the reason why i even have a dream to lose. hell,” he lets out a watery laugh, before it bleeds into an uncharacteristic sob. 

 “you are my dream, (name). you are my reason why.”

  he knew you were running out of time. he knew it was a fight he would lose. letting you fire back a response wasn’t in the cards of fate, nor was it in his. it just wasn’t.

 titanic was already a few degrees shy of ninety by the time you felt him inching you both closer to the edge of the balustrade. it was a dance in the dark—a fragile waltz upon the tightrope that was the railing—strung together in infinitesimal faith with every trembling step he blindly led you through.

 “so we’ll jump,” he breathes with finality. “so help me God, we jump.” his nails dig into your skin, a four-crescent etch of promise. “together.”

 below you, the ocean spreads its wide behemoth maw, bubbling perilously as it continues to swallow the ship into a watery grave. the thought of it alone was daunting enough, but the fact that the vortex was perceivable only by sound and not sight made it all the more terrifying.

 you fumble for the rail, feeling your hand quiver violently as your skin meets iron, and take great care in swinging your leg over the narrow bar.

 “careful, now.” there’s a slight, concentrated wobble in vincent’s voice. “i’ve got you. i’m still here.”

 almost mockingly, the ship gives another sudden lurch, and you grip his hand even tighter than before.

 “it’s okay. shit, it’s okay,” he rambles feverishly, though you aren’t sure if he’s reassuring you or himself. “i won’t let go. you’re fine. keep going.” vincent squeezes back firmly. “but hurry.”

 it’s significantly harder to bring your other foot over the railing. your heart hammers painfully against your ribs, increasing in tempo as you inch yourself further to the left, quite literally dancing on the edge of the world.

 or what was left of yours, anyway.

 you faintly sense vincent all but tumble onto the precipice along with you, hearing the way his chest heaved from the effort. the railing presses coldly into your back, and you feel your stomach drop when you sense the port side twisting the slightest bit forward.

 “shit,” you curse under your breath. “oh, shit, shit, shit.”

 neither you nor he had to see to know that you now hung off angled toward the ocean. time was ticking, the world was tilting on its axis, and you had to jump now.

 “remember what i said?” vincent asks urgently, reaching around your back to lay a hand over your lifebelt’s left shoulder—half with the intention to help you keep it down, but with all the reason to still be able to hold you in the fall.

 “yes.” you mirror his actions, crossing your right arm over your chest. you meet his fingers over your shoulder, and he shifts to reposition his hand over yours.

 “do not forget to cover your mouth.”

 “i could say the same to you,” you say weakly, fingers digging into the canvas.

 “good.” vincent tightens his grip. “on my mark.”

 impossible thunder roars beneath the ocean, rumbling with a legion of tempests as air collapses within what was left of the broken stern. your fingertips scramble to relearn the grooves in the galvanised rail and commit it to memory one last time; bidding a quiet, heartbroken farewell to the ship of dreams.

 “now!”

 you let go.

 wind howls deafeningly in your ears as the plummet rips you both downward into the darkness. for the shortest, yet longest moment of your life, you were weightless; and the powerful current that gusts with gravity savagely strips the air from your lungs. you don’t hear yourself scream at all, but the pain that seared your throat proved otherwise.

 vincent’s fingers claw wildly for your neck as you fall, before all traces of his touch vanish for a bloodcurdling heartbeat. he shouts something, but you barely register it over the vicious sound of the rush.

 fear douses your spine as you plunge, untethered, until you feel his body miraculously crash into your back again. he shoots an arm across your sternum and clamps over your right shoulder with renewed strength, snaring you to his chest with more regard for your life than his own.

 you struggle against the pull, fighting to force a hand against your mouth. your lungs stagger, you choke, you almost forget how to breathe—

 and a thousand knives tear from your ankles to your skull as you slam into the atlantic with a violent crash.

 ice shoots up your body, near-paralysing in shock, and a gasp instinctively rips through your lungs from the cold. it snaps your jaw open in a desperate, primal demand for air, one that the ocean was undeniably all too happy to fill. brine floods into your mouth and stings the back of your tongue like lye—frigid and piercing as liquid fire; a cold so intense it burned.

 then, almost as swiftly as you plunged into the deep, it hurls you right back out. the cork in your lifebelt nearly forgoes your head, and you struggle to keep it down as the buoyancy sharply forces you to resurface. you sputter out water as the dead, bitter cold sinks its teeth into your skin once again, and you thrash against the invisible current that dared to tow you under.

 coughing madly, completely agonised by the ice that burned in your lungs, you heave for air. neither fear nor shadow had ever acquainted themselves with you this much until tonight—and neither bore hands you had ever wanted to shake.

 above you, the sky steadily slips the drape that was the titanic’s silhouette off her starlit shoulders. the disrobing of the night was captivating in theory, yet devastating in actuality; for the confines between the atlantic and the styx had begun to surge into a single downward current. the vessel is pulled beneath the water with a haste that paralleled the rape and capture of persephone into the underworld, though some may argue that one’s death was more merciful than the other’s abduction.

 she grows drunk on the sea, drowning her hollowed carcass in brine, and filling her rooms with saltwater where she could not carry dreams—dreams that man’s hubris had intended her to carry, for the sake of honour, glory, and renown. 

 a mighty undead roar rumbles from within the iron cadaver as the bubbling maelstrom that was the titanic’s last breath finally sinks beneath the lifeless tide. and in the briefest, most impossible instant, the unsinkable ship of dreams disappears into the heart of the ocean—with a quiet humility she had never been fated for, and with a thousand five hundred souls she had never been supposed to kill.

 it leaves a rattle in your skull and a thunder in your ears, and you feel the distant sound echo through your blood in a hypnotising tempo that fools your pulse into an equivalent cadence.

 you don’t know if you should be grateful that you couldn’t tell which direction the ship sank in. orientation had entirely lost its hold on you; left was right and east was west, and you realise too late that it’s not the only thing whose touch your flesh missed. with a growing horror, you realise that the only weight you carried was your own—

 and the weight you lacked had no means to stay afloat.

 your blood runs cold.

 “VINCENT!”

 the scream hurts—burns—more than the cold ever could. it tears up the sides of your trachea, trailing fire in its wake, yet is nothing but a needle in a haystack of wails. the placid air seems to have solidified into a tremendous wall of sound that presses upon the surface of the atlantic, petrified by the shrill coalescence of voices crying out for a salvation that would never come.

 and oh, how you miss when pain was easier to fathom.

 a litany of emotion, sensation, and anguish yank at the veins of your heart, stretching them apart into a forced web of bloodied tapestry, just as the flesh of a lamb torn to shreds by wolves would spill past yellowed canine fangs after the slaughter. 

 you are entirely alone in the chorus, a discordant note in the paradoxical shrieking harmony, fighting to see even in sightlessness. thrashing in the water, you fight to stay upright, blindly reaching out into the darkness in hopes to feel his skin against your touch. was it foolish? searching for what could not guarantee survival but would have promised life even in death? 

 perhaps. entirely.

 so let it be as it were — thus a fool you’d become, and a fool you’d remain.

 blood and screams pounding in your ears, you splash around, kicking and flailing despite the buoyancy wrapped in canvas around your torso. you fling more needles into the hay, crying out into a night that replied with nothing but echoes mocking your desperation.

 “oh, God, oh God,” you chant, gasping greedily for breath. “vincent!”

 the muscles in your neck strain as you whip your head in every direction, searching without sight. your eyes ache against the darkness, and you thrash to keep upright, carving your fingers into the sea in hopes to latch onto something other than water.

 your hand strikes wood—not flesh—and you scramble to dig your nails into it in an attempt to yank the debris closer to yourself. not dense enough to sink, light enough to stay afloat; but too narrow to climb upon.

 helpless, you collapse against the flotsam, feeling your cheek burrow into its grooves in a way that was sure to leave marks. you could not find it in yourself to care.

 survivors around you had regressed into animals as they fought for breath. their savage struggle for air was inhuman by nature, yet it was the rawest display of humanity you had ever witnessed.

 these were all people.

 just like you were.

 just like vincent was. 

 is.

 tears squeeze out of your eyes, turning to frost before they could slip past your lips. you barely know if you’re even still alive, how much more could you believe he was either?

 the darkness answers your ponder in kind.

 a hand lurches out of the abyss and clamps heavily around your ankle. panic seizes your throat, wrenching your mouth open in a voiceless scream. the wood pitches downward with a sickening jerk, nearly pulling itself vertical as you pull it down with you. the lifebelt digs into your ribs—taut against your chest, stifling against your stomach.

 the weight that came with the intrusive grip was heavy. it almost renders your lifebelt useless as you are dragged down, all the way until your shoulders, and the stranger claws past the skirt and hip of your dress as they try to escape the clutches of the ocean.

 but it was a grip you would recognise in every lifetime.

 the surface explodes beside you, and a head breaks out of the water with a violent, coughing gasp. the wooden beam falls back against the ocean as the shadow lets out a painful retch, emptying their lungs of seawater. he frantically heaves in air like a man starved—but his first breath was a feeble croak of your name.

 you feel your heart somehow stop and revive all at once. “vince?”

 the stranger shifts in the water, and the wood dips where he was clutching on to it. “(name)?” he wheezes thickly.

 “vince,” you sob in relief, “oh, baby.”

 “(name),” he chokes, and God, he sounds so weak. “(name).”

 you reach out blindly for him, but he meets you halfway, and you feel the locks of his hair press wetly against the underside of your chin. vincent coughs as he writhes, inching himself closer to you, and his fingernails scratch dully at the back of your lifebelt. he shakily huddles into your chest, right over the sound of your weakening heartbeat.

 still, desperately, foolishly—in hope and in agony—he listens. he writes each sequence and impulse into the backs of his eyes and the membrane of his ears and he holds you, holds onto you, with every ounce of strength he had left in his body—the only thing that could still keep him afloat.

 you were his only lifeline.

 “darling,” your lips move against his hair. “can you–” you give an involuntary hiccup, and vincent presses himself closer to your body. “can you take off your boots?”

 “w…what?”

 “try… taking them off… if you can.” you loosen your grip just a fraction, but he holds on tighter. “it’ll help you… float easier…”

 you feel his hesitation. 

 “i mean– fuck,” you tremble. “do you… even have enough strength to?”

 “if… it’ll help me… stay with you… a little longer.”

  his words hang heavy between the two of you. vincent moves, slowly but surely, to untangle his fingers from the straps of your lifebelt. your hand shoots out to clutch the scruff of his collar, making sure he’d still be tethered to you, as he sacrificed seconds of his life to bargain for minutes from death.

 vincent takes in a shuddering breath, stoking the ice that burned his throat, and disappears once again into a darkness that swallows him whole. the temporary loss of him envelops you, even though you know he is just inches below the surface. worry festers in you despite yourself.

 underwater, he struggles. you feel him thrash desperately as he tries to untie the cords laced through his boots, though his movements are sloppy. sluggish.

 he resurfaces barely twenty seconds later.

“i can’t. my fingers– i’m–” vincent sounds completely heartbroken. “i’m sorry.”

“no- no-” you hush him, pulling him close to your body again. “you’re… you’re okay, baby,” you promise, though your breath stutters. “you’re f-fine. i’ve got you.”

 you feel him slacken against your chest, and you knew that he, too, was crying.

 around you, the wall of wails slowly crumbles into the sea like the city of jericho, fading into a quiet that proved to be more terrifying than the noise.

 “tell me… about the house,” you whisper. “the one in… the one in new york.”

 “our house?” his voice is muffled.

 you breathe out a wet laugh. “yes, my love. o-our house.”

 “i’ve–” vincent shivers fiercely as he attempts to inhale, gently untangling from your embrace, then slowly swims toward your scanty piece of driftwood to hold onto it himself. “i’ve already got the deed.”

 “y-yeah?” you prompt him.

 the wood gives a tiny lurch as he finally drops and rests his head on top of it.

 vincent takes a while to respond.

 “…and?”

 “it’s… it’s in my trunk,” he finally says, before letting out a weak, almost pitiful chuckle. “at the bottom… of the ocean.”

 silence stretches for a moment.

 nudging the side of your hand against his, you murmur, “t-tell… tell me more.”

 “like what?” he asks weakly, quietly. 

 “the kitchen. the… the garden.” you’re already beginning to feel the cold seep into your bones and ebb at your life. “you told me… it was near…. central park.”

 “r–right. it was. it is,” vincent corrects himself. his tremors begin to grow sharper.

 “and what… what ab-about it?”

 “th’re’s… a big, wide window… in the kitchen,” he breathes, reciting it almost mindlessly off the top of his head. “looks right o-out into the river, so you can watch the ducks as… as you cook. be-because– you… you’d like that. yo-you’d like that, w-wouldn’t y-you… honey?

 “i would,” you promise, and your little finger quivers as you try to hook it over his own. “i… d-definitely would.”

 he continues. “and a… a big old library. w-with shelves…. an’ ev-everything,” vincent swallows laboriously. “all e-empty, though. ‘c-cause we– we were s’posed to… to fill them up… with books… as time passed. and our children would’ve… ‘d’ve learned how to read… there… ‘cause we’d– we’d teach them how. t-together.”

 ice forgoes your heart as it crawls up your muscles, turning your blood into glaciers and your tears into winter rivers. your pulse swells, then it eclipses; imprisoned by frost, and ensnared with grief. 

 you try not to let him hear the way your voice breaks. “and t-the garden, vinny? tell me about… tell me about the garden.”

 anything to keep him conscious.

 "flowers... that hang around th-the balcony... lilies, 'c-cause i know those are your f-fav-favourite," he hiccups, then shudders; it was obvious that every word he whispered wracked pain through his body. "and we'll... sit out there... in- in the mornings, ov-over c-coffee." 

 vincent weakly raises his head with the intention to look at you, but the mind-numbing cold pushes his cheek back against the soaked wood. "you'll call me an idiot... and i'll–" he lets out a heaving cough that sounds like a cross between a sob and a laboured gasp. "i'd tell you that you're beautiful."

 it was too dark to see anything. night fell heavy over the waters of the atlantic, and the cries of whoever had still been alive begun to wane into nothingness. your sight failed you—all you could fathom was darkness; but still, you felt him. you’d know his presence in shadow, you’d hear him in silence, and you’d have found him even in places no one else would be found.

 the stumbling, fragile flutter of his breath ghosts over your numb fingertips, and vincent’s hand fumbles to lace through the spaces between yours. you lower your head and press a frozen kiss to his knuckles—the bloodless flesh just below where his wedding ring sat.

 his next words come out slurred; weak with cold, drunk with sorrow, and heavy with regret. it echoes in your ears and the endless sea, over a still tide that mirrored a moonless sky full of stars you were never meant to name or rewrite.

 “i’m sorry i couldn’t get you a better ticket.”

꩜ a/n: aaaand there goes my longest fic EVER, and my first official angst work! i spent way too much time researching and watching documentaries just to get every single detail correct. i kid you not, this fic had me reading entire wikipedia articles in class and giggling over blueprints and hunting down 3d models of the ship and watching morse code logs with rapt attention. call me james cameron cuz best believe i'm citing all my sources below .. muehehe this started out as a writing exercise for a supposedly longer fic, then ended up becoming the longer fic. spent 43 days and countless 5am nights pouring my heart and soul into this—it went from being just another fanfic to being my love letter to the ship of dreams. the reason why this fic took so long to write was bc describing the high-stakes action was absolutely KICKING my ass. i'll stick to my emotions and dialogue thank you very much. but yes, thank you, to everyone who waited patiently for this and supported me all the way!! i can almost say with certainty that this is historically accurate. i hope you enjoyed the fruits of sleepless research born from the revival of a 3rd grade obsession <3 thank you, dear reader, for reading this all the way to the end. i am honoured to have been a steward of your time. i hope you loved reading this as much as i loved writing it! knock knock, voxblr, wake up. mommy's home (¬ᴗ ´¬ ) (and yes, the title is absolutely taken from a track of the titanic musical score!)

as promised, the citations. ♡ ꩜ taglist: @whoatemycheezeits @tuquoque @aquaticari @etcherrie @safination

cross-posted on ao3!

———

© dostoevskya 2026. all rights reserved.

please do not copy, edit, or repost any of my works. plagiarism is strictly prohibi

[writerisahazbin]

To my Vincent/Vox girlies, if you like angst READ THIS.

Had me looking like this when I finished it

But it is VERY well written 👏 👏👏

[dostoevskya]

📺 — UNABLE TO STAY, UNWILLING TO LEAVE.

꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vincent whittman (vox) x reader

wc: 1.1k+ words

-> second person pov; (heavy) angst; tragic; ambiguous/open ending; inspired by titanic (1997); mutual pining; YEARNING; reunion hug; kissing + crying (lots of both); soft + whipped + human + potentially ooc (?) vox (he is a mess he is not ok); i pride myself on the historical accuracy of this

now playing… unable to stay, unwilling to leave by james horner ⤷ in queue :: can't help falling in love - with the philharmonic orchestra by elvis presley

a dull, aching sort of numbness had enshrouded your hands. whether it was from the frigid breeze biting at your flesh, the unnatural coolness of the metal fused to your petrified fingers, or the chill that ran through your veins from sheer terror, you don't know—all that you could fathom was that it was cold.

 so, so very cold.

 you were someplace near the stern, clutching onto a railing for dear life, eyes wildly scanning the horde of people that clambered higher up the ship as the bow dipped below the surface of the ocean.

 where was vincent?

 the two of you had lost each other in the hysteria of the crowd when the flares were first fired. of how long it had been since then, you were staggeringly uncertain. hours had bled into lifetimes, and lifetimes into seconds—for while the iceberg’s killing blow may have landed the starboard, the sands of time were the first to perish and disappear into the atlantic deep.

 frost clawed through the crevices of your lungs with every shuddering breath you stole back from panic. tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as the syllables of his name ghosted across your quivering lips in an echoing plea, one that was lost to the clamour and dissonance of every other terror-stricken soul on board. 

 it felt as if every pound summed from the blocks of cork in your lifebelt weighed nothing compared to the fear that imprisoned your chest between its teeth. and as it seemed that every face on this side of the ship was everyone's but his, it might as well have been heavy enough to sink and tow you headfirst to the ocean floor before the Unsinkable’s hull could crash into it, because fragments of him in the bedlam were all you could see.

 an old, ashen-faced gentleman with a nose that sloped like his. a young freckled girl from steerage with a similarly chipped tooth; you saw the gap between her molars as she cried out for her sister. there was a child with watery blue eyes, and another with unblinking glassy greens—then there was their mother, who had a divot in her throat that jutted out almost like the one you kissed every night before you went to sleep.

 the roaring pandemonium of screams and the dying howls that erupted deep from within the heart of the ship all but reached the peak of their crescendos as your eyes continued to dredge the thousands for a glimpse of the man you loved in a sea of strangers. the deafening clamour of it all swelled into an orchestra of white noise that tore severely through your head—

 —until the first, trembling miracle of the night presented itself in a cry of your name.

 and there he was.

 God, oh, God—there he was.

 vincent stands, almost petrified, at the starboard landing of the stairs that lead up to the aft deck; disheveled, frantic, and wild-eyed all at once. still, wretched as it was, the sight was something straight out of your most sacred prayers. just like he always had been.

 though you suppose the ones you used to utter as a young girl were disparate to the pleas you now begged.

 the scream that tore from vincent's throat across the deck seemed less like the sound of your name and more like a desperate cry to a God he had ignored his whole life—calling out in the fragile, infinitesimal hope that it would end up saving yours. 

 because for a split moment in his fear-shaken periphery, as the rear of the ship rose higher and higher into the sky, you were closer to the stars than he was to you. 

 with a shuddering groan, the titanic tilted and lowered her head deeper into the ocean, yet you paid it none of the mind your life could ill afford to spare elsewhere. the sight of him alone—alive—gave you enough courage to dare taking your hand off the railing. each nerve in your body, your temples, and your eyes were fixated on him as he lurched through the hysterical crowd, lunging past the raining current of people that had lost their grip on bulwarks and the debris that fell with them.

 every last shred of wisdom, judgment, and survival fled your wits just as the evils from pandora’s box did so long ago. with a shaking, whispered, "vincent," you feel your body lean forward along with the bow of the ship as you reach out toward him, almost surrendering yourself to the pull of gravity—the same force that he wrestled to defy for his body to collide into your own.

 one of his hands seizes the railing before the two of you could slide further down the deck, while the other clutches you tightly to his chest. the rush of adrenaline allows him to swing and hurl you both onto a mooring capstan, but even then, he doesn’t once loosen his hold on you.

 instead, vincent pulls you closer. he all but intertwines his ribs into the gaps between your own, almost as if he was trying to merge your two shivering heartbeats into one just so he could be sure yours was still pulsing.

 "honey," his breath comes out staggered as his hands find your arms, your hair, the curve of your jaw, and everywhere else his desperation could reach. "oh, baby. sweetheart." the kiss he crushes into your lips with a choked sob tasted of the sea and tears. "fuck." he pulls back, the blue and green of his eyes brimming with trembling, terrified relief. “you’re so stupid!”

 “vincent,” a whimper catches in your throat. you utter his name once more, then twice, and thrice again; it felt like the only word your mouth could remember to say. “oh, God, vincent.” your clammy palms find the pallid flesh of his cheeks, tasting a hiccuping sob of your own claw at the ridge of your larynx.

 “why the hell didn’t you get onto a lifeboat?” vincent demands, his face crumpled with anguish. you notice his glasses are missing. “they already made the women and children go first and you didn’t—damnit, (name), you could die!”

 “i couldn’t go,” you sob, “i couldn’t go, vince. not without you.”

 that only deepens the grief that lined his brow. “you could die,” vincent repeats desperately, the pads of his thumbs pressing violets into your cheekbones. “please. not you. anyone and a-anything but you. please. i-” tears flood the precipice of his lashes, yet he fought to make them remain unshed. “i can’t lose you, baby.”

 “and i already thought i did!” another heaving convulsion from the dying ship punctuates your futile grief. “i thought you were dead, vincent.”

 “rather me than you!”

 whatever retort stung the back of your eyes and the cusp of your lips was stolen by the shriek of steel tearing viciously against steel. it resounds ominously throughout the entire ship, followed by a tremor so violent it shook the weakening floorboards beneath your feet. the flickering amber lights saturate into a dimmer, reddish glow that illuminates the vehement fear and anger swirling in vincent’s lachrymose glare—a mournful gaze that once again hardens with a ferocity for survival as soon as the chorus of screams grew shriller against the stillness of the barren atlantic.

 he didn’t wait for you to piece back your words. he couldn’t.

 vincent clamps his hand over your wrist with a bruising grip and makes a break for the edge of the afterdeck, yanking you right after him. your mouth goes dry from sheer bewilderment, and you numbly let him drag you further up the stern.

 a sliver of gold catches in the pulsating light, almost tumbling out of vincent’s left pocket. dazedly, you recognise it as his father’s pocketwatch, yet he doesn’t spare the timepiece a single glance. the chain dangles off the third buttonhole of his open waistcoat, and the fractured dial read II and XVI. 2:16.

 the dreadful sound of steel rivets bursting added on to the macabre choir, likening themselves to the crack of gunshots in war. the pinewood decks began to shatter in detonating harmony, and the titanic was succumbing to the depths of the very ocean she had been destined to cross.

 vincent skids to a halt once his eyes register the amount of people crowding the taffrail. the pause was barely a moment, yet a century of seconds you could not afford to lose. the floorboards shook beneath your feet, tilting dangerously to a steeper slope.

 “vince–?!”

 “this way!” he roared, suddenly jerking you to the right. his hand slips tightly from your wrist to your palm as he clambers up the stairs to the docking bridge, hurling you both against the balcony’s balustrade. you yelp upon impact, shouting out in pain, but vincent barely gives you time to recover before he hauls you into his arms and charges toward the port side of the bridge, recklessly pushing past the few people that were also up on the platform.

 then, it happens.

 you can’t even begin to describe it.

 the strobing incandescent lights surged into a final, blazing flash—one that threatened a detonation of its tantalum bulbs—before a mighty crack tore through the ship and plunged it into overwhelming darkness.

 wind rushes out of your lungs and whistles past your ears in a scream that never made its way out of your chest. all fifty-two thousand and three hundred-some long tons of the titanic slams her great propellers back into the face of the ocean, and the endless cries of passengers grew impossibly louder upon landing.

 reeling from the shock, you break out into a cold sweat and feel panic creeping up the atlas of your spine.

 did… did the ship split in two?

 eyes widening in horror, you subconsciously raise your quivering fingers to your lips, before slowly closing them over your mouth.

 realisation dawns on you. 

 there were people in the water beneath the stern.

 poets and scientists alike had always emphasised how spectacularly light could blind. what they never quite mentioned, however, was how equally harrowing the theft of sight by darkness could be.

 “sweetheart?” vincent’s voice whispers weakly. you sense the familiar brush of his touch blindly fumble for you beneath the veil of night.

 “...i’m here,” you say hoarsely. every inch and crevice of your body was trembling.

 “oh, thank goodness,” he breathes. his hands feebly wrap around your shoulders again, and you notice that he’s trembling, too.

 “vinny,” your palpitation stumbles, and you swallow nervously. “vinny, i’m scared. i’m so scared.”

 vincent’s right hand moves to cradle the back of your hair as he hushes you. he presses his forehead to yours, almost as tenderly as he did when he first promised you the world. “i know. trust me, baby, i know.”

 “i–”

 “listen.” for once, the dying vessel isn’t what interrupts you, though it was getting increasingly harder to ignore as its hull begins to rise out of the water again. he pulls you in closer, urgency building in his tone. “we’re going to have to jump.”

 your heart stops. 

 “what?”

 titanic gives another agonising lurch, one that seemed like her final deathbound farewell. a jagged noise staggers in your throat from the sudden movement, and you instinctively claw for the front of vincent’s shirt in fear.

 “we have to jump before the ship goes down,” he repeats gravely. “when i tell you to jump, you jump.”

 “wait, vincent–”

 vincent doesn’t stop. “keep your legs straight as you fall. cross an arm over your chest to hold down your lifebelt so it doesn’t seize up and break your neck.” he’s practically just muttering the instructions against your lips now. “and make sure to cover your face with the other hand so you don’t inhale water into your lungs from the shock of the cold.”

 “vince–”

 “once you hit the water, swim. swim as- as far as possible from the ship so you don’t get pulled down with it. if we get separated in the fall, don’t look back. don’t come back for me. swim for the lifeboats as soon as you can- and live, (name), you have to promise me that you’ll live–”

 “goddamnit, whittman, would you shut up for a second and listen to me!?”

 the ground tilts into a slanting wall, and it would not have been far-fetched to presume that the propellers once again loomed like guillotines above the sea and below the sky it mirrored. as your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and the faintest starlight gives you a glimpse of the distress that had overcome his face, you’re almost certain that he, too, could see the outrage that was plaguing yours.

 “if i jump, you jump.” you seethe. the tip of your finger jabs into his chest. “we will jump together, and we will stay together.”

 his hand catches your wrist, and you feel the anger in his grip as it digs into your pulse. “don’t be a martyr, (name),” vincent snarls. “we don’t have time for this.”

 “you think time would mean anything to me once it passes without you?” you spit furiously, though fresh tears were burning rivers through your throat and past your cheeks once again. “what about new york, vincent? the station? your- our dreams?” a choked sound threatens to disrupt your impassioned retaliation. “i’m not about to search for you in every shadow of a city we’ve never lived in!”

 “you’re the only reason why!” he says desperately. vincent forces your hand closer to his body, so you had no choice but to flatten it over his chest—right above where his heart continued to beat wildly. his fingers lace through the spaces between yours. “all of it would mean nothing without you. you’re the reason why i even have a dream to lose. hell,” he lets out a watery laugh, before it bleeds into an uncharacteristic sob. 

 “you are my dream, (name). you are my reason why.”

  he knew you were running out of time. he knew it was a fight he would lose. letting you fire back a response wasn’t in the cards of fate, nor was it in his. it just wasn’t.

 titanic was already a few degrees shy of ninety by the time you felt him inching you both closer to the edge of the balustrade. it was a dance in the dark—a fragile waltz upon the tightrope that was the railing—strung together in infinitesimal faith with every trembling step he blindly led you through.

 “so we’ll jump,” he breathes with finality. “so help me God, we jump.” his nails dig into your skin, a four-crescent etch of promise. “together.”

 below you, the ocean spreads its wide behemoth maw, bubbling perilously as it continues to swallow the ship into a watery grave. the thought of it alone was daunting enough, but the fact that the vortex was perceivable only by sound and not sight made it all the more terrifying.

 you fumble for the rail, feeling your hand quiver violently as your skin meets iron, and take great care in swinging your leg over the narrow bar.

 “careful, now.” there’s a slight, concentrated wobble in vincent’s voice. “i’ve got you. i’m still here.”

 almost mockingly, the ship gives another sudden lurch, and you grip his hand even tighter than before.

 “it’s okay. shit, it’s okay,” he rambles feverishly, though you aren’t sure if he’s reassuring you or himself. “i won’t let go. you’re fine. keep going.” vincent squeezes back firmly. “but hurry.”

 it’s significantly harder to bring your other foot over the railing. your heart hammers painfully against your ribs, increasing in tempo as you inch yourself further to the left, quite literally dancing on the edge of the world.

 or what was left of yours, anyway.

 you faintly sense vincent all but tumble onto the precipice along with you, hearing the way his chest heaved from the effort. the railing presses coldly into your back, and you feel your stomach drop when you sense the port side twisting the slightest bit forward.

 “shit,” you curse under your breath. “oh, shit, shit, shit.”

 neither you nor he had to see to know that you now hung off angled toward the ocean. time was ticking, the world was tilting on its axis, and you had to jump now.

 “remember what i said?” vincent asks urgently, reaching around your back to lay a hand over your lifebelt’s left shoulder—half with the intention to help you keep it down, but with all the reason to still be able to hold you in the fall.

 “yes.” you mirror his actions, crossing your right arm over your chest. you meet his fingers over your shoulder, and he shifts to reposition his hand over yours.

 “do not forget to cover your mouth.”

 “i could say the same to you,” you say weakly, fingers digging into the canvas.

 “good.” vincent tightens his grip. “on my mark.”

 impossible thunder roars beneath the ocean, rumbling with a legion of tempests as air collapses within what was left of the broken stern. your fingertips scramble to relearn the grooves in the galvanised rail and commit it to memory one last time; bidding a quiet, heartbroken farewell to the ship of dreams.

 “now!”

 you let go.

 wind howls deafeningly in your ears as the plummet rips you both downward into the darkness. for the shortest, yet longest moment of your life, you were weightless; and the powerful current that gusts with gravity savagely strips the air from your lungs. you don’t hear yourself scream at all, but the pain that seared your throat proved otherwise.

 vincent’s fingers claw wildly for your neck as you fall, before all traces of his touch vanish for a bloodcurdling heartbeat. he shouts something, but you barely register it over the vicious sound of the rush.

 fear douses your spine as you plunge, untethered, until you feel his body miraculously crash into your back again. he shoots an arm across your sternum and clamps over your right shoulder with renewed strength, snaring you to his chest with more regard for your life than his own.

 you struggle against the pull, fighting to force a hand against your mouth. your lungs stagger, you choke, you almost forget how to breathe—

 and a thousand knives tear from your ankles to your skull as you slam into the atlantic with a violent crash.

 ice shoots up your body, near-paralysing in shock, and a gasp instinctively rips through your lungs from the cold. it snaps your jaw open in a desperate, primal demand for air, one that the ocean was undeniably all too happy to fill. brine floods into your mouth and stings the back of your tongue like lye—frigid and piercing as liquid fire; a cold so intense it burned.

 then, almost as swiftly as you plunged into the deep, it hurls you right back out. the cork in your lifebelt nearly forgoes your head, and you struggle to keep it down as the buoyancy sharply forces you to resurface. you sputter out water as the dead, bitter cold sinks its teeth into your skin once again, and you thrash against the invisible current that dared to tow you under.

 coughing madly, completely agonised by the ice that burned in your lungs, you heave for air. neither fear nor shadow had ever acquainted themselves with you this much until tonight—and neither bore hands you had ever wanted to shake.

 above you, the sky steadily slips the drape that was the titanic’s silhouette off her starlit shoulders. the disrobing of the night was captivating in theory, yet devastating in actuality; for the confines between the atlantic and the styx had begun to surge into a single downward current. the vessel is pulled beneath the water with a haste that paralleled the rape and capture of persephone into the underworld, though some may argue that one’s death was more merciful than the other’s abduction.

 she grows drunk on the sea, drowning her hollowed carcass in brine, and filling her rooms with saltwater where she could not carry dreams—dreams that man’s hubris had intended her to carry, for the sake of honour, glory, and renown. 

 a mighty undead roar rumbles from within the iron cadaver as the bubbling maelstrom that was the titanic’s last breath finally sinks beneath the lifeless tide. and in the briefest, most impossible instant, the unsinkable ship of dreams disappears into the heart of the ocean—with a quiet humility she had never been fated for, and with a thousand five hundred souls she had never been supposed to kill.

 it leaves a rattle in your skull and a thunder in your ears, and you feel the distant sound echo through your blood in a hypnotising tempo that fools your pulse into an equivalent cadence.

 you don’t know if you should be grateful that you couldn’t tell which direction the ship sank in. orientation had entirely lost its hold on you; left was right and east was west, and you realise too late that it’s not the only thing whose touch your flesh missed. with a growing horror, you realise that the only weight you carried was your own—

 and the weight you lacked had no means to stay afloat.

 your blood runs cold.

 “VINCENT!”

 the scream hurts—burns—more than the cold ever could. it tears up the sides of your trachea, trailing fire in its wake, yet is nothing but a needle in a haystack of wails. the placid air seems to have solidified into a tremendous wall of sound that presses upon the surface of the atlantic, petrified by the shrill coalescence of voices crying out for a salvation that would never come.

 and oh, how you miss when pain was easier to fathom.

 a litany of emotion, sensation, and anguish yank at the veins of your heart, stretching them apart into a forced web of bloodied tapestry, just as the flesh of a lamb torn to shreds by wolves would spill past yellowed canine fangs after the slaughter. 

 you are entirely alone in the chorus, a discordant note in the paradoxical shrieking harmony, fighting to see even in sightlessness. thrashing in the water, you fight to stay upright, blindly reaching out into the darkness in hopes to feel his skin against your touch. was it foolish? searching for what could not guarantee survival but would have promised life even in death? 

 perhaps. entirely.

 so let it be as it were — thus a fool you’d become, and a fool you’d remain.

 blood and screams pounding in your ears, you splash around, kicking and flailing despite the buoyancy wrapped in canvas around your torso. you fling more needles into the hay, crying out into a night that replied with nothing but echoes mocking your desperation.

 “oh, God, oh God,” you chant, gasping greedily for breath. “vincent!”

 the muscles in your neck strain as you whip your head in every direction, searching without sight. your eyes ache against the darkness, and you thrash to keep upright, carving your fingers into the sea in hopes to latch onto something other than water.

 your hand strikes wood—not flesh—and you scramble to dig your nails into it in an attempt to yank the debris closer to yourself. not dense enough to sink, light enough to stay afloat; but too narrow to climb upon.

 helpless, you collapse against the flotsam, feeling your cheek burrow into its grooves in a way that was sure to leave marks. you could not find it in yourself to care.

 survivors around you had regressed into animals as they fought for breath. their savage struggle for air was inhuman by nature, yet it was the rawest display of humanity you had ever witnessed.

 these were all people.

 just like you were.

 just like vincent was. 

 is.

 tears squeeze out of your eyes, turning to frost before they could slip past your lips. you barely know if you’re even still alive, how much more could you believe he was either?

 the darkness answers your ponder in kind.

 a hand lurches out of the abyss and clamps heavily around your ankle. panic seizes your throat, wrenching your mouth open in a voiceless scream. the wood pitches downward with a sickening jerk, nearly pulling itself vertical as you pull it down with you. the lifebelt digs into your ribs—taut against your chest, stifling against your stomach.

 the weight that came with the intrusive grip was heavy. it almost renders your lifebelt useless as you are dragged down, all the way until your shoulders, and the stranger claws past the skirt and hip of your dress as they try to escape the clutches of the ocean.

 but it was a grip you would recognise in every lifetime.

 the surface explodes beside you, and a head breaks out of the water with a violent, coughing gasp. the wooden beam falls back against the ocean as the shadow lets out a painful retch, emptying their lungs of seawater. he frantically heaves in air like a man starved—but his first breath was a feeble croak of your name.

 you feel your heart somehow stop and revive all at once. “vince?”

 the stranger shifts in the water, and the wood dips where he was clutching on to it. “(name)?” he wheezes thickly.

 “vince,” you sob in relief, “oh, baby.”

 “(name),” he chokes, and God, he sounds so weak. “(name).”

 you reach out blindly for him, but he meets you halfway, and you feel the locks of his hair press wetly against the underside of your chin. vincent coughs as he writhes, inching himself closer to you, and his fingernails scratch dully at the back of your lifebelt. he shakily huddles into your chest, right over the sound of your weakening heartbeat.

 still, desperately, foolishly—in hope and in agony—he listens. he writes each sequence and impulse into the backs of his eyes and the membrane of his ears and he holds you, holds onto you, with every ounce of strength he had left in his body—the only thing that could still keep him afloat.

 you were his only lifeline.

 “darling,” your lips move against his hair. “can you–” you give an involuntary hiccup, and vincent presses himself closer to your body. “can you take off your boots?”

 “w…what?”

 “try… taking them off… if you can.” you loosen your grip just a fraction, but he holds on tighter. “it’ll help you… float easier…”

 you feel his hesitation. 

 “i mean– fuck,” you tremble. “do you… even have enough strength to?”

 “if… it’ll help me… stay with you… a little longer.”

  his words hang heavy between the two of you. vincent moves, slowly but surely, to untangle his fingers from the straps of your lifebelt. your hand shoots out to clutch the scruff of his collar, making sure he’d still be tethered to you, as he sacrificed seconds of his life to bargain for minutes from death.

 vincent takes in a shuddering breath, stoking the ice that burned his throat, and disappears once again into a darkness that swallows him whole. the temporary loss of him envelops you, even though you know he is just inches below the surface. worry festers in you despite yourself.

 underwater, he struggles. you feel him thrash desperately as he tries to untie the cords laced through his boots, though his movements are sloppy. sluggish.

 he resurfaces barely twenty seconds later.

“i can’t. my fingers– i’m–” vincent sounds completely heartbroken. “i’m sorry.”

“no- no-” you hush him, pulling him close to your body again. “you’re… you’re okay, baby,” you promise, though your breath stutters. “you’re f-fine. i’ve got you.”

 you feel him slacken against your chest, and you knew that he, too, was crying.

 around you, the wall of wails slowly crumbles into the sea like the city of jericho, fading into a quiet that proved to be more terrifying than the noise.

 “tell me… about the house,” you whisper. “the one in… the one in new york.”

 “our house?” his voice is muffled.

 you breathe out a wet laugh. “yes, my love. o-our house.”

 “i’ve–” vincent shivers fiercely as he attempts to inhale, gently untangling from your embrace, then slowly swims toward your scanty piece of driftwood to hold onto it himself. “i’ve already got the deed.”

 “y-yeah?” you prompt him.

 the wood gives a tiny lurch as he finally drops and rests his head on top of it.

 vincent takes a while to respond.

 “…and?”

 “it’s… it’s in my trunk,” he finally says, before letting out a weak, almost pitiful chuckle. “at the bottom… of the ocean.”

 silence stretches for a moment.

 nudging the side of your hand against his, you murmur, “t-tell… tell me more.”

 “like what?” he asks weakly, quietly. 

 “the kitchen. the… the garden.” you’re already beginning to feel the cold seep into your bones and ebb at your life. “you told me… it was near…. central park.”

 “r–right. it was. it is,” vincent corrects himself. his tremors begin to grow sharper.

 “and what… what ab-about it?”

 “th’re’s… a big, wide window… in the kitchen,” he breathes, reciting it almost mindlessly off the top of his head. “looks right o-out into the river, so you can watch the ducks as… as you cook. be-because– you… you’d like that. yo-you’d like that, w-wouldn’t y-you… honey?

 “i would,” you promise, and your little finger quivers as you try to hook it over his own. “i… d-definitely would.”

 he continues. “and a… a big old library. w-with shelves…. an’ ev-everything,” vincent swallows laboriously. “all e-empty, though. ‘c-cause we– we were s’posed to… to fill them up… with books… as time passed. and our children would’ve… ‘d’ve learned how to read… there… ‘cause we’d– we’d teach them how. t-together.”

 ice forgoes your heart as it crawls up your muscles, turning your blood into glaciers and your tears into winter rivers. your pulse swells, then it eclipses; imprisoned by frost, and ensnared with grief. 

 you try not to let him hear the way your voice breaks. “and t-the garden, vinny? tell me about… tell me about the garden.”

 anything to keep him conscious.

 "flowers... that hang around th-the balcony... lilies, 'c-cause i know those are your f-fav-favourite," he hiccups, then shudders; it was obvious that every word he whispered wracked pain through his body. "and we'll... sit out there... in- in the mornings, ov-over c-coffee." 

 vincent weakly raises his head with the intention to look at you, but the mind-numbing cold pushes his cheek back against the soaked wood. "you'll call me an idiot... and i'll–" he lets out a heaving cough that sounds like a cross between a sob and a laboured gasp. "i'd tell you that you're beautiful."

 it was too dark to see anything. night fell heavy over the waters of the atlantic, and the cries of whoever had still been alive begun to wane into nothingness. your sight failed you—all you could fathom was darkness; but still, you felt him. you’d know his presence in shadow, you’d hear him in silence, and you’d have found him even in places no one else would be found.

 the stumbling, fragile flutter of his breath ghosts over your numb fingertips, and vincent’s hand fumbles to lace through the spaces between yours. you lower your head and press a frozen kiss to his knuckles—the bloodless flesh just below where his wedding ring sat.

 his next words come out slurred; weak with cold, drunk with sorrow, and heavy with regret. it echoes in your ears and the endless sea, over a still tide that mirrored a moonless sky full of stars you were never meant to name or rewrite.

 “i’m sorry i couldn’t get you a better ticket.”

꩜ a/n: aaaand there goes my longest fic EVER, and my first official angst work! i spent way too much time researching and watching documentaries just to get every single detail correct. i kid you not, this fic had me reading entire wikipedia articles in class and giggling over blueprints and hunting down 3d models of the ship and watching morse code logs with rapt attention. call me james cameron cuz best believe i'm citing all my sources below .. muehehe this started out as a writing exercise for a supposedly longer fic, then ended up becoming the longer fic. spent 43 days and countless 5am nights pouring my heart and soul into this—it went from being just another fanfic to being my love letter to the ship of dreams. the reason why this fic took so long to write was bc describing the high-stakes action was absolutely KICKING my ass. i'll stick to my emotions and dialogue thank you very much. but yes, thank you, to everyone who waited patiently for this and supported me all the way!! i can almost say with certainty that this is historically accurate. i hope you enjoyed the fruits of sleepless research born from the revival of a 3rd grade obsession <3 thank you, dear reader, for reading this all the way to the end. i am honoured to have been a steward of your time. i hope you loved reading this as much as i loved writing it! knock knock, voxblr, wake up. mommy's home (¬ᴗ ´¬ ) (and yes, the title is absolutely taken from a track of the titanic musical score!)

as promised, the citations. ♡ ꩜ taglist: @whoatemycheezeits @tuquoque @aquaticari @etcherrie @safination

cross-posted on ao3!

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© dostoevskya 2026. all rights reserved.

please do not copy, edit, or repost any of my works. plagiarism is strictly prohibi

[writerisahazbin]

To my Vincent/Vox girlies, if you like angst READ THIS.

Had me looking like this when I finished it

But it is VERY well written 👏 👏👏

[passionateseadruid]

I just want a fic of Vincent Whittman holding your (together) baby as you look at yourself in the mirror and he sees how your body has changed because of the baby. Hips wider, stomach softer, breasts bigger. And then he leans down to the baby and just whispers thank you.

[writerisahazbin]

IT IS NOT TOO MUCH TO ASK

HE WILL ADORE HIS POSTPARTUM WIFE OR ELSE 🔪