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Tonight is slow. In the warm summer heat, it’s hard for anything to get done, too muggy outside to even hang laundry. The humid air clings to your skin, even in the cool indoors, and coats the whole day in molasses.
This is not how he works. Everything is fast-paced, a neverending race against the tide of the up-and-coming. He claims that the race of technology forces him to work more and more, even though you know his workload is his own doing. Owning a broadcast station takes time, but not that much time. So you lay, barely dressed on your sofa, watching the six o’clock news – he still makes appearances often, though he’s not a newscaster anymore. Always, always doing something there.
You hear keys jingle in the door as the familiar news reel begins, and you turn to face him, sitting up against the arm of the couch. Vincent walks in like he stepped out of a magazine – hair gelled, suit pressed, briefcase in hand, smiling. He reaches for his glasses, tucked away in his coat pocket, before turning to look around. Shrugging off his shoes and jacket, you can see the tension melt out of him as he meets your eyes, “Hi, sweetheart. You miss me?”
You reach for him, and he circles the sofa without a second thought, practically falling into your hands with a sigh, “What’cha watchin’...” You both watch as his face pops up on the screen, thanking their sponsors and viewers for contributions to the station. He groans over his own voice, burying his face in your chest, “I just left there, and now you got it on here? Baby, you’re trying to kill me.”
You smile down at him and run your hands through his hair, ruffling the pomade out of the ends, “I do miss you, y’know? Thought I might see you on there tonight.” He hums into your shirt, hands coming up to wrap around you in return. You look back at the screen, wrapping up his brief prerecorded intermission, “Shame they can’t see how pretty you look in color, huh?”
He squirms, grabbing at your hands as he looks up at you, “Hey, I’m not– I’m–” His face flushes as you hold his hands in front of you both, running over his knuckles. He sits up, pulling his hands away to lean back on as he moves, “Not ‘pretty’, I’m like, handsome, right? Something manly. Not ‘pretty’ like–” He tries to smooth down the hair you’ve ruffled, straightening his glasses as you grin at him, barely holding back a laugh. “Why are you smiling?! You’re not funny!”
You lean towards him, watching the flush grow to his ears, “Yeah, sure. You’re a ‘Donna Reed’ type, Vinny.” He sputters as you laugh, crowding him against the other arm of the couch, looking over his rumpled clothes. You take his glasses in your hands, removing the frames from his face with a smile. You look into the green and blue, watching them dilate as you bring a hand to cup his cheek, “Maybe more of a ‘Gracie Allen’?”
He scoffs as you cackle, grabbing the glasses from your hands to put them on the coffee table next to you. “Quit messing with me, you know I’m like a ‘Clark Gable’, right?” His hands come up to cradle your head, pulling you into a mimicry of a classic movie poster. You crane your head up to look at him, arms pressed against his chest, “Does this make me ‘Vivian Leigh’? Is this your way of letting me down easy?” You both dissolve into laughter as he pushes you towards your original spot, hovering over you as your arms and legs tangle together.
The news rattles on in the background as he buries his face in your neck, kissing a path up to your jaw as your laughter settles. He plants a kiss behind your ear, softly sighing next to you, “I really don’t mean to stay so long. Let me make it up to you?”
His hand comes up to rest against your cheek, and you drag him in a bruising kiss, swallowing his groans as you grab at his tie. You gasp as he trails back down the curve of your neck, across your collarbones, against the collar of your shirt. One hand snakes up to rest behind your neck as the other comes up to follow his lips, tracing a path to your chest under the thin fabric of your shirt. He looks back up at you through dark eyelashes, eyes and stark hair caught in the glow of the television screen and evening sun, and smiles as you whine under him.
As he reaches for the bottom of your shirt, you fight to undo his button-down, dragging his tie to fall loosely from his collar. You get caught in a mess of clothes, both trying to help each other, until he finally presses into you again, boxing you into the cushions in just his A-shirt and slacks. The summer heat clings to your skin as you slide against each other, lost in gasps and moans as the time wears on, minutes passing between each other’s lips. A tug of his hair has him whining into your kiss, panting as you pull back to mouth at his neck, “Baby— Shit—“
Your hands move down to his pants, grabbing at belt loops to pull him flush against you with a whine, “Vinny, fuck— So pretty for me.” He arches with a groan, trying to move away from the praise, and bucks into you instead. You pull him closer, closer, closer still, caging him in with your legs as he cries out. His hair has fallen in his face, and one of your hands comes back up to push it out of his eyes. “You are, honey. You’re my pretty boy.”
He squirms, flushing down past the collar of his tank, “I can’t, I’m not— Please—“ Hiccuping against your skin, his hands move down across your hips, your thighs, your ass. He pulls you against him as you both gasp, lost in the friction through thin layers of clothing. You grab one of his hands, bringing it to brush against both of you with a sigh, “You know it, you know you are.”
You lean closer to him, an inch between your faces as he presses into you both, gasping as you brush the bridge of his nose, “Beautiful. Oh—!” You meet his lips, pleasure building as the news comes to a close in the background. Your hand finds his jaw, grabbing at his chin, pulling you apart as he cries in confusion. You turn his face towards the screen, pressing his cheek to yours as you continue to rock against him, “Y’know who knows he’s pretty, Vincent? Just watch.”
The fabric around your hips is slick with sweat and fluids as you both move faster, still watching as his own face pops up on the screen, the pre-recorded segment playing to close out this part of the programming. You hold his jaw firm as he watches himself talking, and turn to watch as his eyes glaze over.
On screen, he’s wearing a crisp, light suit with a clean-shaven jaw and no glasses. His hair is darker, his face is a little younger, a little smoother. His eyes are bright and full of appreciation, staring directly at the viewer as he speaks, voice tinny through the speakers, “As always, we’d like to thank you for supporting our local—“ He cries out over the sound of his own voice, eyes rolling back as he floods with embarrassment. You grab at his hair again, pulling him closer and closer as you whisper in his ear, “Keep watching.”
He opens his eyes again, and you watch the screen glow off his face, grayscale shining in bright blue and green. His hips stutter against yours, moving faster as your pleasure builds, moans echoing over fabric rustling. On screen, Vincent Whittman continues, “Remember, trust us with your—“, and is cut off with another whine as he falls apart on top of you, begging for release. “Please, sweetheart, I—“ His eyes stay locked on the screen as he grabs at your waist. “Need to—“
You let go of his jaw, and he immediately finds your lips, leaving a burning trail from your mouth to your chest where he mouths at your skin with punched out whimpers. You throw your head against the sofa’s cushions, turning to watch the screen as you get closer and closer to the edge. Your hands scrape his scalp again, tugging a little through the pomade as you hold him against you. “Y’know, sometimes when I really miss you—“ A whine leaves your mouth as he bites in the curve of your neck, “—all I can do is watch you on here.”
His eyes snap up at that, batting your hands away as he slows his hips, raising his head, “Oh? You—“ He looks at the screen as you swivel your hips under him, trying to gain some of the lost friction back. His eyebrows furrow, then raise in shock as his face flushes a deep, deep red in embarrassment, “You watch me—? Watch this—? While you—“
He looks back at you as your hand cups his cheek, fingers brushing under his eyes. You grin as you meet his eyes, “I wish you ran that part in technicolor, honey. These eyes… they don’t know— Oh—“ Your moan is swallowed by him as he dives in for a kiss again, hips moving faster and faster as you both lose yourselves. It takes no time to reach your high again, building until you collapse in on each other, still partially dressed and spent through his slacks.
Shuddering, he lifts off of you, adjusting his weight and kissing your cheek. He leans in towards your ear as you catch your breath, still ragged from his orgasm, “…We need to reshoot that for you. At least once a year… Maybe once every six months?”
Laughter bubbles out of you then, clinging to him as you turn to catch his lips. “You’re so ridiculous, Vinny.”
He pulls out the kiss, leaving you chasing his touch as he goes to sit up, “I’m serious, baby! You need it, right? It’s for the good of the people. I’ve just gotta write it—“
You grab at his belt loops, grinding together in overstimulation to get his attention. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he falls against you as he cries out, grabbing at your hips. One hand runs through his hair as you pull him in, “Cool it, ‘Mr. Butler’. Don’t you dare get your head into work right now…”
He sighs against your lips, nodding, “Of course, f’course, anything for you—“
You arch into him, hands reaching for his belt buckle with a grin, “Come on, let’s get to the bed and see just how pretty you can be.”