Work Text:
early morning sunlight streams in from the open blinds of vincent’s college dorm window, casting a soft glow against the red brick walls and the polished wooden floorboards. the scent and steam of coffee curl through the dust motes that dance in the air, accompanied by the crackle of bacon upon the stove as you watch vincent move around the countertop with his back faced to you.
you absentmindedly nudge the barstool’s metal footrest with a sock-clad toe, clothed in virtually nothing but his (significantly larger) university shirt and a pair of calvin klein boyshorts. at the sound of the chair squeaking, vincent takes a moment to throw you a fond look over his shoulder before turning back to the task at hand.
“something on your mind?” he asks, carefully flipping the bacon over.
“you could say that,” you hum, taking a sip of your coffee as you eye the way his lean shoulders flex against the back of his shirt. “just… reminiscing.”
“yeah?” he prompts.
your tongue darts out to wet your lips as you set your mug down and bring up a thoughtful hand to your chin. “did you know i used to like alastor?”
vincent’s entire body goes rigid. you could almost swear the temperature in the room drops by 10 degrees.
“what?”
might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.
“i used to like alastor,” you reiterate smoothly, almost carelessly—though you were damn well sweating your balls off. “back in freshman year. he was in my communications class.”
“alastor.” vincent repeats, though it was… strangely void of his usual venom. he turns away from the pan to look you dead in the eye, expression completely unreadable.
“vinny, the uh… the stove,” you say uneasily, timidly gesturing behind him. “the bacon’s gonna-”
without breaking your gaze, his wrist snaps to the knob and flicks it off. his stare is unwaveringly calculated; you could almost see his thoughts racing at a million miles per hour.
“you used to like alastor,” he says again, though it was more of a statement than a question. jaw set, vincent takes a slow step away from the counter and toward the opposite end of the kitchen island where you sat. his hands grip the edge of the marble as he props himself up, tilting his head at you with minutely narrowed eyes. “before you liked me?”
“i- yes?”
“are you serious?”
you furrow your brow, doubtful. “are you mad?”
“mad?” a wide grin breaks out on his face. “sweetheart, i’m fucking elated!”
your mind goes blank. “huh?”
vincent rounds the kitchen island, spins your barstool towards him, and slides his hands beneath your thighs before hauling you into his arms. you yelp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his hips and locking your ankles behind his back. “vince!”
“i win!” he boasts, all but skipping merrily back to the counter and plopping you down on top of it. vincent nudges your knees apart and slips into the space between them, before capturing your face in his hands and placing a fat kiss onto your lips with a loud, dramatic, mwah!
you were so lost. “you- what?”
“this is so much better than revenge,” he rambles on as he keeps peppering kisses around your face, rocketing over the moon from his own ego. “no, fuck that— this is my revenge!” vincent pulls back, shining with pure, unadulterated pride. “baby, aren’t i just so much better than that old-fashioned geezer? like, seriously, what an upgrade!”
“vincent–”
“i know, i fucking rock!”
vincent prances over to the fridge, flinging it open with a mighty flair, before snatching two eggs from the tray and sliding back to the stovetop with a smoothness enough to send michael jackson into a jealous fit. “hold this for me, baby, would you?” he transfers the poultry into your hands, then sets about to firing up the burner once again.
you don’t think you’ve ever seen him this happy.
he adlibs a jaunty tune under his breath as he transfers the bacon onto a fresh plate, practically wiggling his hips in a proud little dance as he moves to and fro. there goes another slice of butter onto the pan, a new steam wafting into the exhaust, and you at a complete and utter loss for words.
vincent takes an egg from you, cracking it over the rim of the cast iron with one hand, before reaching up to take your chin in the other and pulling you down into another kiss. you let him guide you from your perch on the counter and back onto the floor, and he slides his hand from your face, to your shoulders, and down into the small of your back as he pulls you in closer.
hips arching toward his, you gasp into his mouth, though the sound is drowned out by the sizzle of the egg finally hitting the pan. ever the opportunist, vincent takes the unintentional invitation, tilting his head to the side to deepen the kiss as his lips part over yours, and you feel the smug bastard smile against your mouth before his tongue slips past your teeth. he immediately melts, drunk on the faint taste of coffee and the stronger flavour of knowing he was the only person who’d ever be able to have you like this.
you vaguely feel his other arm shift—presumably to flip the egg like the goddamn show-off he was—as he parts for breath. self-satisfied, kiss-bitten, and flushed, vincent cockily moves up his hand to thumb at your bottom lip.
“bet you alastor can’t do that, huh?”