『 R E Q U E S T S , C L O S E D 』AnimeCharacters x Reader

24. Vincent Phantomhive x Reader | Praying For Love & Paying In Naivety

→ character : Vincent Phantomhive | Black Butler/Kuroshitsuji

→ original fic

→ 04252017

→ wherein vincent, who visits the strip joint on a whim and an undignified loss to his curious desires, promises himself he'll practice something more chaste, though he finds himself dwelling on the intoxicating roll of your hips more than he dwells on his promise and his good faith.

[a/n]: the title and inspiration for this one-shot is drawn from the song "But It's Better If You Do" by Panic! At the Disco- it's the only thing i've been listening to and i've always wanted to write something so wrongly passionate as the impermanence of a lap dance.

xx

Vincent's always been told by his father to find a nice wife, settle down, raise an heir, tell his son the same things he's been told when he was still a lively, ignorant juvenile.

Father wants a wife who's born just as wealthy as he, who dresses in the thickness of expensive gowns, a wife who knows how to twirl in those ballgowns.

Though Vincent's acquainted himself with other kinds of women, dressed in black lingerie and masks, as if their night jobs were already shameful enough. He's met women that get down on their knees and crawl onto his lap, wetting their glossed lips. He's met women who moan in contrived intimacy, women that don't run away when a strap or two falls from their place, instead gyrating more fiercely, more enticingly.

And now, to Vincent, the darlings of society, that waver at the smallest things and laugh in a fashion that displeases his ears, those girls are much too plain for him. His well-practiced flirts, his grins meant to charm, are even more hollow, but the girls swoon anyway, and as long as his father nods approvingly as he drinks wine among his peers, Vincent's going to continue with his hollowness.

Though Vincent's guilty when the women and the rich all retreat to their homes, and he's cast in the judging harshness of the late evening light as he removes his suit into something simpler. He's guilty of thinking of you, even though the strip joint reeks of things that begin and end inside their walls.

He's guilty of the glasses he's drunk, glasses poisoned with alcohol as he watches the dancers from afar, entertaining the men, older than he, who offer rolls of money to the professionals. He's guilty of calling one of the vacant dancers over with a few snaps of his fingers, offering the money he's so generously prepared just for this.

It was on a much regretted whim, Vincent recalls, where he allowed his curiosity and his feet to wander, and soon, he found himself at the doors of the strip joint, out in the streets that still recovered from a recent downpour.

Vincent clearly remembers the black lingerie you're dressed in, how it shaped against your beautiful figure, and Vincent feels like a helpless field mouse that's caught in between the ferocious claws of a clever feline. The way your eyes examine him from behind the golden mask are akin to a cat's too, silently calculating, and Vincent sweats a little onto one of his cheaper sets of clothes (Cheap, he thinks, but he's sure it could put any of these women in a lifelong debt.)

You're wordless as you slide onto his lap, empty glass pushed aside, and you begin with an easy roll of your hips. Vincent's caught between a moan and a surprised gasp, and he chooses to throw his head back instead, allowing you to continue, urging you to quicken, even.

Your hair was a solid [h/c], styled simply to keep strands out of your face as you grinded against Vincent, but he found it more beautiful, more genuine than the upwards wigs of the darlings. He wants to strain your locks in between his fingers, to hear you use your voice, but his hands choose to remain useless on the fabric of the seat, and he looks into your eyes instead.