Another deer!hybrid reader x Simon please..recently came into your first post about it again and it’s been on my mind 🙏🙏🙏
here’s more hunter!ghost and deer hybrid! reader :3 | part one
true to his word, simon keeps you with him at home. it's a bit awkward given that he doesn't really speak to you other than a gruff keep still while checking on your injuries, but once you accept the fact that you're making conversation with a brick wall most of the time, you're just happy to be there with him. his cabin's pretty cosy, the bed much warmer and more comfortable than the pile of leaves you occupy. the food's not bad either, although you did refuse to eat the meat he had placed on the table the first couple of nights. you preferred your simple diet of greens, fruits, and nuts, but you begrudgingly gave in when he cooked up some fish for you.
even when you're all healed up, he doesn't explicitly tell you to get out, and you take full advantage of that. wearing his clothes, slumbering in the sweet little garden he has at the back, curling up against him at night. he may grunt and act annoyed whenever you drape yourself on top of him and snooze away, but the arm wrapped tight around your body says otherwise.
however, that's where he draws the line at touching you, and you're beginning to get a little restless. you thought feeling his hand rub up and down your back would've been enough to soothe the heat prickling all over your skin; the soft pats on your head and gentle strokes on your excited little tail should have satisfied your need for affection.
yet here you are, face hidden in the crook of his neck as you rock against the thick thigh between your legs. you just can't help yourself, can't quell the urge to get on all fours and present. he's just right there, so big and warm, encompassing you from all sides; it's impossible to escape his heady, musky scent. maybe you should feel embarrassed about being so desperate, but he's ignored so many of your subtle signs. it's impossible to play coy when you're sprawled out on top of him like this.
simon swirls his glass, the taste of bourbon and want heavy on his tongue. such a pretty sight you make, his favourite headache shamelessly whimpering and getting off on top of him. when you whine for something more, something better, he only shushes you and places a supportive hand on your lower back, urging you to carry on. this is for him, doe; after all that shit he's put up with, he's earned the right to play with you.
need resident bottom dennis being forced to fuck robby and hating it the whole time because he’s the good boy that should be fucked. he is not built for fucking.
jack and robby are teasing him all while wiping his tears and telling him to fuck robby harder.
his dick is hard and achy but he hates the feeling of fucking someone, and he really hates having nothing in his ass.
he’s begging for a plug at least,
“or or nipple clamps, please daddy, anythinggg. can jack fuck me? or can I have a dildo pleasee? i’ll be such a good boy! i’ll-i’ll fuck you so good without even stopping again, I swear!”
he gets nothing, horribly fucks robby to an orgasm, and cries the whole time.
Two weeks have passed since that fateful night your friendship with Alastor spiraled into something volatile instead of romantic.
You hadn’t seen much of him since then.
And though your gut still churned in resentment at the fleeting memory of his cruel endeavors, you weren’t exactly avoiding him.
No, not on purpose… as much as you would have loved to torture him with your absence.
The time you had spent apart was owed to college.
Finals were encroaching, and with the high expectations of your parents bearing down on your weary shoulders, you were stretched thin.
You had no opportunity to go out and carouse, to peruse through the French District of New Orleans as you clung to your best friend’s arm, who had wronged you in more ways than one.
Unless you wanted to leave your parents in a state of perpetual disappointment, the weekends were better spent with your nose buried in the books.
You couldn’t afford to spare a single second on the streets stumbling around in your heels with bootleg liquor coursing through your veins, as much as you missed the high-energy nightlife.
“You’ve never kissed anybody, have you now?” You tilted your head in curiosity, fingers absentmindedly playing with the collar of a shirt.
Still, you refused to allow college to stop you from partaking in the war Alastor had inadvertently waged in his pursuit of vengeance.
Nor did you allow it to stop you from seeking entertainment when you found yourself struggling to absorb and memorize simple information.
“I… well, there was this one girl in grade school,” The cadent voice you had come to familiarize yourself with sheepishly confessed. “I was 12, I think. She, uhh, she pecked me on the lips before squealing and running away.”
You shifted on your study partner’s lap, the mattress softly creaking at your efforts, clothed heat rubbing over a crotch that was tenting into something rather impressive by the second.
“Cute,” Rouge-tinted lips curled upwards in an amused grin, causing pale skin to flush in response. “But I’m afraid that doesn’t count.”
His name was Vincent, Vincent Whittman, and he had been eyeing you from across the room in your Art History course since the Spring semester began.
He was 18 years old — just a measly year younger than you — charming, intelligent, and all sorts of attractive.
Vincent had captivating green-blue eyes, a hooked nose, medium-brown hair with a thick streak of silver, and a jaw so sharp it could effortlessly slice into stone, which you envied the most about him.
His appearance was totally opposed to your best friend’s. They were nothing similar, unless in stature.
His complexion was pale, his hair held not a single curl — but he was no less eager to please you than Alastor had been during your rough-and-tumble in his backyard.
It wasn’t until recently that you decided to make your admirer’s acquaintance, though, spurred on by the recent turn of events.
“I suppose not,” Vincent offered you a halfhearted shrug, slender fingers curling into the sheets beneath him, shy and oh-so nervous.
You couldn’t recall how the two of you wound up making the short trek to his twin-sized bed from the tiny round table, where your textbooks sat long abandoned, no less with you straddling his waist.
But you weren’t opposed to it, despite your lingering affection for Alastor.
“How did we arrive at this topic again?” You regarded Vincent through your lashes, making his throat bob with a thick swallow.
“I was… I was staring at you earlier, when we were supposed to be discussing the guy who made this famous Romanticism painting…” Mismatched eyes darted sideways, avoiding your inquisitive stare. “The Kiss by uhh… Frank… Frances...”
“Francesco Hayez,” You reminded him.
“Yes, him!” He snapped a finger before growing uncertain again, “…and then you proceeded to ask me if you had something on your face.”
“Oh yeah,” Your grin further widened, “But I didn’t. You were just staring at my lips, like you’ve been doing these past two weeks instead of studying… perhaps desiring to reenact that painting?”
Truthfully, if Alastor hadn’t blurted out a terribly cruel reminder in the wake of your passionate session — that you weren’t lovers — you would have otherwise never bothered asking Vincent if he wanted to be your study partner.
“No! No, not at all, I was just — oh, sometimes I forget myself,” Vincent fumbled over his words. “Okay, I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to stare —”
His face was practically glowing, the corners of his mouth twisting and contorting in a mixture of shame and embarrassment.
“Oh no! It’s okay, truly. I’m flattered,” You pressed your thumb to his lower lip with a honeyed murmur, pulling to reveal pearly white teeth, a stuttered breath caressing you. “In fact, I would love to be your first kiss, even though I’m no expert.”
You weren’t usually so bold, so utterly brazen, not unless you had a bit of liquid courage in your system, the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath your ass.
Hooking up with strangers on a whim wasn’t something you partook in.
It just wasn’t… you.
But when a wicked thought entered your mind the moment you locked eyes with mismatched ones and made its owner flush a flattering shade of red, you couldn’t resist making it a reality.
“Please,” Vincent shamelessly pleaded as your thumb slid down, dipping into the dimple on his chin as his large hands simultaneously found your waist, squeezing in sweet anticipation.
It didn’t help that with each passing day without a proper apology from Alastor, the resentment you felt towards him for taking your virginity in a scene that was far from romantic festered and grew into an ugly, impassible pit in your stomach.
And it invited the same terrible desire that had coaxed him to avenge himself in such a needless and selfish manner, driving you to act just like him, uncharacteristically and thoughtlessly cruel.
“Just beware,” You settled your hands on the sides of his neck, leaning in, the swell of your chest pushing into the smooth plane of his own. “The rouge might transfer to your lips.”
While you were certain that what you were initiating was excessive — seducing this boy with striking features in hopes of inspiring the same anger in Alastor that surged in your throat as thick bile — you continued.
“Oh, that’s all right with me! More than that, actually,” Vincent’s mouth stretched to form a boyish grin before quickly falling into something serious at the breathless giggle you let out. “I mean, uhhh, yeah!” His voice dropped an octave. “Sure, it’s all right, dollface. I don’t mind. Truly.”
All is fair in love and war, right?
“Okay,” The grin on your own face relaxed and faltered into a soft smile, “But don’t you think about complaining the moment you realize how difficult it is to rub off, you hear me, Whittman?”
And there’s no semblance of kindness or forgiveness, either.
It’s violent and aggressive.
And it leaves both sides aching and utterly wounded, no matter the outcome.
…right?
“You won’t hear a complaint from me, not a single peep,” Vincent replied enthusiastically, your cheeks blooming with heat. “You have my word.”
Besides, with finals sparing you no time to scheme and plot, to figure out how to get back at Alastor in a way that yielded the same painful disappointment he had instilled in you, this self-indulgent act of revenge would do just fine.
“Good boy,” You praised him with a sultry purr, green-blue eyes fluttering in unmistakeable delight.
As you craned your neck and leaned in to conquer Vincent’s awaiting mouth, eyes fluttering shut, a small part of you hoped that you wouldn’t leave his dorm simmering in regret — partly because it felt a bit wrong, being turned on by another.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Vincent muttered sheepishly as his thin lips awkwardly slotted with yours.
However, the tent resting heavily against your clothed cunt throbbing into your bundle of nerves made up for it, your nostrils flaring in arousal.
“It’s okay,” You breathed out.
For the longest time, since you and your best friend grew and slowly transitioned from innocent children to curious teenagers, it was always him.
Those who had ever expressed an inkling of interest in you, they were never able to get past the usual pleasantries and mind-numbing chit-chat.
Alastor was the only one you had yearned for since you realized the sight of him tugged so viciously at your heartstrings at the tender age of 14.
“Just take it slow,” You added, your hips giving a slow, experimental roll, as if it wasn’t just the kiss Vincent had agreed to.
The act earned you a deep groan, pleasure curling low in the depths of your belly, wetness pooling in the thin fabric of your underwear.
“Y-Yeah. Okay, all right. I got this.”
But as Vincent slid his large, eager hands down to completely encompass the swell of your ass, hips canting upwards to rub his erection against your clothed cunt, it also felt rightfully delicious.
“Mhhn,” You gasped against his lips.
Perhaps it was how hot and heavy the outline of his cock felt even through the layers of clothing standing in between your hot bodies.
Or perhaps it was the endearing display of self-consciousness about being inexperienced that the boy you were straddling radiated.
Either way, you forcibly shoved any guilt, any negative sentiments that threatened to ruin this self-indulgent moment to the deepest, darkest crevices of your mind.
This slow, tentative kiss you and Vincent were partaking in, which was gradually spiraling into something more carnal as the sound of your lips smacking together in the quietude of his dorm overwhelmed your senses, it was just that.
“How am I doing?” He asked for reassurance between every break you took to catch your breaths. “…am I… am I doing good?”
It wasn’t supposed to serve any other purpose besides making Alastor regret his cruel act of revenge — if your impromptu makeout session happened to progress, which grew likelier as his exploratory thrusts evolved to full-blown, shameless grinding, your clothes softly rustling.
“Yes,” You moaned out, pulling your hands away from his neck, snaking them in between your gyrating bodies in search of something specific.
His belt.
A mere budge at the cool, metal buckle made his cock pulsate eagerly in his trousers, massaging your sensitive button in a way that had your brows tightly knitting in pleasure.
“Fuck, yes,” Vincent pulled away from your mouth, rouge-stained lips latching onto the skin just above your collar with a newfound confidence, sucking.
Your eyes fluttered open alongside your gasping lips as you unclasped his belt, prying it apart with a soft clink, your fingers immediately moving to unfasten his trousers.
Large hands ascended from your ass to the center of your back, swiftly traveling around your waist to your fluttering belly, only to untuck your blouse from your skirt and catch buttons.
“Your roommate won’t be here for a while, right?” You softly inquired, shifting back slightly on his lap, sliding two fingers into the opening of his briefs.
The pressure pulling your skin in to leave behind a bruising testament of your passionate exchange receded as you grazed the hot, velvety skin of his needy cock, making you shiver.
“Y-Yeah, not for a few hours,” Vincent stammered out, your blouse slowly falling open with his efforts, green-blue eyes darting to the tantalizing sight of your supple breasts pushed together by a lacey bra. “We have time. Lots of it.”
You teasingly traced the vein on his length with the pads of your fingers, pulling a breathy noise from him that you could only compare to a pathetic whine, gratification blooming in your chest.
“Perfect.”
The two of you wasted no time in shedding your clothes after that, everything that once clung to your bodies strewn haphazardly across the dorm.
Nor did you falter when you repositioned yourselves on his twin-sized bed, no matter how unaccommodating it was, the muscles in your belly flexing as he hovered above you on trembling arms.
Vincent was brimming with nervous excitement, it was written all over his unique features.
He didn’t even bother pushing the thick frame of his glasses up as they slid down the steep bridge of his nose, completely transfixed by the newness of the entire ordeal.
Of the slow rise and fall of your bare breasts, the once-soft peaks hardened with anticipation, and of your swollen clit throbbing right above your entrance, which was clenching around nothing and dripping with viscous arousal.
And you?
Oh, you weren’t faring any better than Vincent was.
Alastor had stolen something so precious from you, a moment that should have been sweet and gentle and certainly nowhere near a grimey, ill-lit alleyway.
Your first time, you had always hoped it would be special and memorable.
Something to look back to with a shy fondness.
But no.
Your first time was marred by a perceived wrong.
Even if it had been delicious, even if it had been with Alastor, it made your stomach churn.
It made you encourage Vincent Whittman, your study partner, to swallow any uncertainty he had and slowly drag himself through your slick folds.
“First kiss… first time doing, well… this, right?” You let out a low murmur, though you knew what his response would be.
The flustered expression that befell his features, it was the way you would have reacted if Alastor had taken you as you were taking Vincent, soft and with a saccharine sweetness.
“Yes, and this — fuck, this is happening,” He stammered out, wrapping his trembling hand around the base of his length, mismatched eyes flitting down in disbelief. “This is it. This is really happening. I… I’m going to lose my virginity! I didn’t think it would happen, no, not for a long while.”
You pulled your elbows in, sitting up just a bit, your eyes also flying down to observe how his cockhead pushed through your slit.
“And so are you, r-right?”
Your eyes flew back up immediately.
And your lips parted, caught off-guard by his question.
“I…” You started.
But before your tongue could curl to formulate another syllable, the underside of his length parted your slick-drenched folds, cockhead rolling deliciously over your swollen bud.
Your breath audibly hitched in your throat, his pupils expanding to the size of saucers, leaving behind thin rings of green-blue.
“Christ, you’re so fucking wet,” Vincent proceeded to say through a full-throated groan, deep and resonant, echoing deliciously in your mind.
He encouraged you to lie back on the mattress, his free hand falling beside your head, supporting himself as he experimentally pumped his cock in his fist, length gliding through your folds with a continuous filthy slick.
Quick and eager, he was.
You planted your palms on the solid plane of his chest, fingers curling into hair.
This.
This was utterly delicious.
It may have not been your first time, but you were partaking in an intimate dance in the privacy of a room, on your own volition.
And your clothes?
Oh, they were draped unceremoniously across random furniture.
But everything was intact.
No button had popped off, no seam had been torn in your haste to rid yourselves of the dreadful barriers standing in between your aching bodies.
Your panties, especially, were perfectly intact.
Soiled in your anticipation to avenge yourself and do something else besides studying until your brain stopped braining, but intact all the same.
As Vincent’s cockhead finally caught your entrance, you realized that you could walk out in bliss and, when you dropped by Miss Hartfelt’s home to ‘catch up’ with her son after your finals tomorrow…
Raw satisfaction at the reaction you’d no doubt pull from Alastor with only your bruised skin — a testament of a time well-spent.
“Uhh… f-fuck,” Vincent shifted himself into you, hooked nose slotting in the crook of your neck, the weeping head of his cock finally pushing in.
Your head lolled sideways into the pillow with a sharp gasp, hands moving away from his chest to scramble for purchase on his back, fingers catching flexing shoulder blades.
“Oh!”
You wouldn’t delve into the finer details, of course.
It wasn’t necessary, describing anything at all to Alastor. Everybody knew what a bruise on the neck signified… unless they lived under a rock.
“T-This is better than what I had imagined,” Vincent’s voice vibrated against your skin with each and every inch of himself he pushed in.
He was just a little bit less girthy than Alastor, but he was still tall and heavy enough to slide into you with a stinging bite, your spongey walls clamping down around his hot flesh.
“R-Rub me,” You mewled helplessly into his hair.
A singular finger slid through your slit once he had pushed himself into you in his entirety, pressing uncertainly, obviously searching.
He touched it at one point, your lips curling upwards in relief.
— until his finger slipped sideways from the slickness of your flesh.
Then he was just pressing right beside it, torturing you, your nostrils flaring in frustration.
“You don’t know where it is, do you, Vincent?” You still asked with patience.
Your question was met with embarrassed silence.
“Here, let me help you.”
You reached down south, nimble fingers curling around the wrist of his open hand, patiently guiding him back towards your throbbing bud.
“T-Thanks...”
You pressed the pad of his forefinger to your clit, helping him apply just enough pressure to ease the burn of being stretched.
“Right here. Keep it here… and press like that, no more, no less,” A smile of relief curled at your lips once more. “And don’t lose it, please.”
He obediently nodded, stray strands of silver slipping and cascading over his forehead.
“All right. Okay.”
You may no longer be a virgin, though this was only your second time being taken.
Having someone else inside of you — it didn’t feel any less foreign, overwhelming, and all-consuming than it had the first time.
And now that you were completely sober, you were acutely aware of how utterly full you felt.
“Like that?” Vincent replaced his forefinger with his thumb, pressing, massaging your bud.
He also kissed the side of your neck with his rouge-stained lips, gentle, reverent, immediately making you clench around his cock.
“Yes…” You sighed heavily. “Yes, Vinny.”
The nickname slipped from your lips entirely unbidden.
Feeling him rub your clit in soothing circles as he was buried to the hilt, thin lips gliding across your skin, it made you feral.
Your brain assigned Vincent an endearing nickname, as if you had plans to stay in contact with him once the Spring semester convened.
But you didn’t realize what you had gasped so sweetly into the crown of his head.
Or the visceral reaction it stirred within the man who had carved himself a space deep inside of your accommodating walls, naturally assuming that the filthy, debauched groan he let out was because of your whispered approval for him to move.
“Please, please move,” You closed your legs around his waist, heels digging into his rear. “I-I need more.”
It was only natural that you also failed to recognize in your own selfish pursuit to provoke Alastor what sort of weight this moment held for Vincent, too.
You were merely hooking up, partaking in a casual fling, getting the full college experience.
And Vincent?
He was losing his virginity to someone he had long admired from afar with a boyish crush, too shy to approach you, despite his dreams of making a name for himself in a promising industry in television.
“S-So wet, so fucking wet and tight,” Vincent praised you endlessly, hips moving, dragging his throbbing length against your walls. “Christ, dollface. You feel so good.”
It was simply ironic how you had made the same grave mistake as Alastor.
You couldn’t just take what you wanted and leave.
All is fair in love and war — but you must reap what you sow.
“Fuck, Vinny, this can’t be your first time,” You babbled into his hair, nails raking down his back, leaving behind a testament of your pleasure in red, jagged lines. “Oh, yes! R-Right there! Please.”
Still, of course, that was an issue for your future-self.
Right now, you could only bury your nose in his hair and focus on the onslaught of pleasure Vincent was bringing you, his cockhead driving into that special spot in your walls that had your toes curling.
“So pretty, I can listen to you all evening — and I wish I could, but you — fuck — you have to tone it down a touch. The walls, t-they’re thin. I can’t get kicked out.”
You couldn’t fully comprehend what he was saying.
Not with his thumb still rolling around your swollen bud in delicious circles, not with your insides being rearranged by someone who was supposed to be a virgin, your lips parting with a high-pitched whine.
Hell, you didn’t even feel the warmth of the face buried in the crook of your neck recede.
Or how you suddenly found yourself flipped around, large hands grasping your hips and propping your ass up in the air before your own face was promptly pushed into the softness of the pillow.
You were just aware of the sensation of his length sliding back into your fluttering cunt, reaching impossibly further in this new position, cockhead practically kissing your cervix.
“F-Fuck, I’m sorry for manhandling you,” Vincent apologized kindly through a pleasured hiss. “But you left me no other choice, dollface.”
And you, you thanked him through a muffled cry, quite liking the roughness of having your hair gripped to muffle the sound of your pleasure, his other hand encompassing the flesh of your waist.
Even if he was no longer massaging that sensitive button, your fingers curled into the sheets underneath you, the coil in your belly growing taut.
The crude, wet sound of his balls smacking against your clit with each and every roll of his hips, his own length starting to stiffen inside of you, had you teetering dangerously on the verge of ecstasy.
It felt good, too good.
“V-Vinny!” He barely caught your whine.
You felt aimlessly behind you, your hand stilling once it found the larger one gripping your waist with a bruising strength.
“I… I hope you’re close,” Vincent’s thrusts began to grow sloppy, uncoordinated, voice wavering and devolving into a pathetic whimper. “Please tell me you are — I can’t… I can’t hold on much longer.”
A series of ‘Yes’s’ poured from your mouth in quick succession, mostly drowned out by the pillow.
The coil in your belly snapped.
And your palm repeatedly smacked his in tandem with every vicious wave of searing hot pleasure that crashed over your body, your belly pulling inwards, your cunt spasming violently.
The stiff cock inside of you slipped out as soon as it felt the first contraction of your orgasm grip rather possessively, only to paint the skin around your pulsating entrance with thick, hot ropes of a memorable first time, making a mess of your ass.
Still, you couldn’t find it in you to be upset about the inconvenience, completely and utterly blown away by Vincent’s performance.
Nothing about the way his hips had moved against yours had faltered or stuttered awkwardly.
It was perfect, too perfect.
As if he had practiced beforehand.
“Oh, oh Jesus H. Christ,” Slender fingers slowly unraveled from your hair, relinquishing the mean grip they had on you, allowing you to lift your head and breathe. “That was — wow. Just wow.”
Something soft slid across your rear.
You tossed your head over your shoulder, eyes fluttering open, watching Vincent, whose thick glasses had long slid off of his flushed face, clean you up with his shirt.
Rouge-smeared lips curled upwards in a smile that was nothing short of thankful, even if you were starting to feel a bit self-conscious as you came down from your high, thighs closing shut.
“Th-Thanks,” You breathed out.
“Yeah, of course,” Vincent sheepishly offered, casting his gaze aside.
You thought he felt a similar way, too.
But then you tried to roll over onto your back, something solid biting into your shoulder blade.
His glasses.
“Oh!” His head snapped up, watching you reach behind you, only to pull out exactly what he was searching for. “Looking for these?”
“Yes! Thank you,” Vincent sighed out in relief. “Didn’t even feel them slip off.”
As he accepted the glasses pinched between your thumb and forefinger, you decided to get up and gather your clothes.
You underestimated just how good your study partner had made you feel, however, the mattress creaking rudely beneath you as you fell back.
“Hey, are you all right?”
Your knees, they buckled and gave up on you.
Vincent Whittman had turned your body into jelly, a furious heat sprawling up your neck to your face, embarrassed.
“Can you help me gather my things, please?” You squeaked out. “I think I need a moment to… to recover.”
His eyes lit up with pride, that same boyish grin from earlier tugging at his lips once more.
“Sure.”
But he held his tongue and nodded, sliding off the twin-sized bed.
As Vincent simultaneously dressed himself and picked up your clothes, you grabbed the sheets and pulled them over your nude body, gaze drifting towards the window.
Sunlight filtered through drawn curtains, but it wasn’t bright or revitalizing, it was amber and hazy — how much time had passed?
“Here… I think that’s everything,” Vincent suddenly coughed, jumping, your neck snapping sideways.
He gingerly placed a stack of your clothes on your lap, and neatly-folded, a small smile tugging at your lips at the kind gesture.
“Why, you didn’t have to do that.”
Still facing you, he slowly backed away on long legs, mirroring your smile with a slight blush.
“Well, it uhhh, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me if I just tossed your clothes at you in an ugly heap,” Vincent shrugged, bare-chested. “Wouldn’t it?”
He bumped into his drawer, the wood rattling.
“I suppose you’re right.”
You turned your back to him, allowing the sheets to drape down your body, putting on each article of clothing.
“Thank you. You’re a real sweetheart.”
And you were thankful for his attentiveness, again.
“Yeah, of course.”
— up until you realized something was missing.
Something that you shouldn’t have had a problem with at all, your eyes scouring each and every inch of the small dorm as Vincent began to rifle through his drawer in search of another shirt.
Your panties.
You had put everything on except for your goddamn panties, an inconvenienced noise seeping past your lips.
Where were they?
“Hey, did you see my underwear?” You stood up from the bed on shaky knees, fingers lifting sheets that reeked of sin. “I swore I kicked them off somewhere around here.”
Vincent looked around, still facing you, mismatched eyes joining in on your search.
Only to turn up fruitless, too.
“Uhhh… it didn’t fall into the side of the bed, in the gap where the wall is?” He innocently suggested, pulling a random t-shirt over his head. “H-Happens to me all the time with my socks.”
You shook your head.
“No, I already checked there.”
Fuck.
No panties, but this time, they had somehow managed to vanish into thin air instead of winding up tattered and forgotten.
You smoothed your hand over your hair, trying to tame the stray hairs as you gave the room another good scouring.
— to no avail, of course.
“Oh… well, you can just have one of my briefs,” Vincent offered, your eyes snapping towards him. “Unless you want to walk home like… like that…”
His pale skin flushed to an unhealthy degree as he held out a fresh pair for you, hot red from his neck to his ears, for some peculiar reason.
“No, of course not!” You took them despite the slight hesitation, the intimacy of wearing his underwear feeling like… well, like too much.
Then again, you didn’t want to walk home commando, even if your skirt was way longer than the one you wore to the speakeasy.
No, you couldn’t relive that discomfort.
“I think I’ve said thank you quite a lot already, but thank you, really,” You nervously laughed. “I already, uhh… lost a pair a few weeks ago, and now another one? Gee, I’m so… so careless.”
You hastily whirled around on your heel and slid them on under your skirt, the material just barely fitting, fabric stretching with the flare of your hips.
“I don’t think you’ll want these back… right?” You stammered out once you approached the tiny round table to gather the rest of your belongings, especially after finding the clock.
It read 7:35 P.M. — you should have left half an hour ago.
Your parents were probably curious about your whereabouts, an arm holding your textbook close to your heaving chest, the other readjusting your collar to assure Vincent’s dirty work remained hidden from any prying eyes.
“No, no. Keep them,” That cadent voice of his managed out with a flustered lilt. “It’s just the one, it won’t be missed. Trust me.”
Your shoulders slumped in relief.
But the man standing almost an entire foot above you shuffled restlessly, hands clasping behind his back, green-blue eyes trained on the carpet.
God, was he adorable.
Too bad your hook-up with Vincent Whittman was just that, heels taking a leisure turn, your hand latching onto the doorknob besides you.
“Well, I better get going! I gotta go see if I can hitch a ride, I’m late for dinner,” You cleared your throat. “Anyway, uhh, thank you for… for this… it was good. You did real good,” You added sheepishly. “And good luck with finals tomorrow. I hope the past two weeks have been of help, though I highly doubt it.”
He didn’t unclasp his hands from behind his back, but he did lean in, your lashes fluttering in shock.
A kiss.
He pressed a kiss to your cheekbone.
Your hand immediately fell to your side, eyes trained ahead, flustered and belly churning with something awfully fuzzy and warm.
Something only Alastor had ever instilled in you.
“Frank… Frannnn…cesco Hayez! Yeah, him! He was an Italian painter, one of the leading artists of Romanticism in mid-19th-century Milan,” Vincent suddenly started to ramble as he pulled away, sliding behind you, fixing to open the door.
You turned around and moved backwards, blinking up at him, mouth falling slightly agape.
“The style emphasizes raw emotion and… and intense individualism in its rejection of the cold rationality of the Enlightenment,” He gestured a bit theatrically with his free hand as he continued. “The uhhh, Age of Reason, no?”
“Yes,” You barely managed out, stupefied.
Your inability to formulate a response that wasn’t so simple as you stepped past the door, the humid, Louisiana air amplifying the heat of your already hot skin, it had nothing to do with the knowledge Vincent had shockingly retained.
No, it had everything to do with that shy little kiss he almost seemed to regret placing on your cheek — after you made out, after you fucked raw.
“I’ll save a seat for you tomorrow, yeah?”
Oh.
Oh no.
“That’s… that’s real sweet of you,” You slowly said, feigning gratitude as you tucked your hair behind your ear. “I’d very much appreciate that.”
He offered you that boyish grin of his.
It made your heart thump in your chest, but it also made your stomach churn just a bit, conflicted.
“I… well… ‘night, Vincent.”
Suddenly, you were the one doing all of the pausing and stuttering between barely-coherent words, your brows knitting in embarrassment.
“Goodnight, dollface.”
Tomorrow.
It was just tomorrow, and that was it.
You didn’t plan to take any courses during the summer. No, you wanted to take that time to work.
But still.
“Oh, I’m no better than Alastor,” You muttered under your breath after he shut the door, trying to beat the setting sun, heels clicking loudly against the pavement.
Vincent would surely understand that you had no intention of pursuing anything past a one-night stand.
He had to.
You hadn’t entertained him until now.
Or at least he would eventually have to come to terms with the fact that you had used him for something fleeting.
Yes, of course.
He was just young and dumb and all sorts of giddy about getting it on with you.
— the panties stuffed in his back pocket begged to differ, though.
You had no idea that you had made your situation far more complicated than it already was.
And that Vincent Whittman, the nice boy who had allowed you to redeem what had been unfairly taken from you, was no less volatile than Alastor Hartfelt in the throes of a jealous-haze.
