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Oh Paris. The city of love.
But what is love even about, when Manon doesn’t answer his calls? When again and again, nothing but the generic pre-recorded voice of a woman tells him that this number is currently unavailable? All week, his fingers had traced the numbers on his phone so diligently Rody thinks it will leave a permanent imprint on his mind, yet all of it matters nothing when the line goes dead each and every time.
Does the stack of money on his table even matter anymore?
Vincent paid him well.
Vincent.
“You sounded fairly desperate when you first asked to work here—"
What would a rich guy like him know about it anyway?
“…Well, the position’s still available if you need.”
Huh.
That’s odd, now that Rody thinks of it, that Vincent has wanted to keep him despite his numerous jabs at the quality of his work. Despite the fact that, objectively speaking, they had quite the differences. The look in those deep, dark eyes that Rody never could quite place, as he walked by.
As if he was expecting something to happen.
Perhaps they both were. Though, while the older of the two had hoped expected Manon to walk through the restaurant door and swing her arms around his neck happily, declaring her love for Rody and none other, congratulating him on getting his life together, he was absolutely clueless on what it could be his boss was waiting for.
A mystery he might never be able to solve.
His eyes absentmindedly watch as the raindrops splattered against his window dilute and blur the lights outside and race to the bottom, to escape the limelight. And he wonders, if this is what Vincent has always wanted – to be famous for his cooking, when he himself cannot taste. Get a taste of the limelight instead to satisfy his hunger for more. Or if him standing in the furthest corner of the restaurant may as well be a metaphor for him trying to escape just that, and yet he cannot.
Wait, why is he psychoanalyzing that weirdo anyway?
He should be thinking of Manon; of her beautiful face, the way those rosy cheeks would flush ever so slightly in excitement when Rody got her something new. Of her slender figure, of her gorgeous hair. He wants to think of her, remind himself what he was doing all of this for,
But in the end, all he can think of is his boss who had been the only one seemingly sad to see him quit and go.
28 jobs, and not one has been able to keep the redhead – 28, and none had ever told him the position would still be open after he quit. All of them done solely to meet Manon’s demands, yet every single one so damn tiring that even getting up from his couch was a hassle; it was all for her, and she ended it all before he could prove that he was stronger than the demons inside urging him to sleep just a bit longer. And then, finally, he found the one that was exhausting, yes, but not tiring. Demanding, but not mind-numbing.
There’s something about Vincent that motivated Rody to keep going; still does, oddly, because despite him lazing on the couch with not an ounce of energy left in his body, watching the rain and deliberately ignoring the bitter leftovers in his fridge, he finds the bitter taste in his mouth over possibly never bantering with Vincent again much worse, bad enough for him to return to the restaurant and ask to take him back.
Does it even matter? Manon isn’t even picking up her fucking phone as if the two of them never mattered.
Rody ruffles his hair. A frustrated grunt, because he realizes he’s doing it again. All up in his head worrying about other people, and maybe Manon was right that he’s not ready for a relationship, if their relationship tears him up still even a month after the break-up, that losing his friendship? rivalry? with Vincent ruins him even more.
His apartment feels suddenly too small for him. The walls closing in, the sound of rain deafening. The smell of leftovers in his fridge nauseating. His skin crawls, too small for his body, itching, tearing at him. Like a nightmare, but he’s wide awake and that makes it more horrifying.
The way to his bathroom is quick, though not without almost tripping over his bike; the toilet his new best friend for the moment, for anyone else abandons him. But is it even true, when he’s the one who abandoned Vincent?
The fuck’s he even thinking about that guy now?! It was just a job. A job. A job!!
“Ugh…” and Rody holds close against ceramic. “Too fuckin’ bitter…” he mumbles, overwhelmed and lost on the dirty bathroom floor. His mind circles like vultures over dead meat that is his relationships. Never figured that being the one that breaks it off sucks ass too.
His night is restless, and his stomach now and again decides that ‘empty’ is a good state of being. He doesn’t stop it, and eventually decides that the bathroom floor might as well also be a good place to sleep. Stone hard couch or stone hard floor, it’s all the same when you’re numb and everything feels like shit anyway. At least this way he doesn’t have to walk too far without the fear of ruining the living space with the content of his insides. That, or tripping on his bike and breaking his neck.
The sickness doesn’t necessarily subside, and the heaviness in his muscles even less; still, he knows this. It’s familiar, so Rody takes comfort in the autopilot mode his body takes, moving on its own past unwashed dishes, past filled to the brim fridge, to the last of his clean clothes unfolded still in the laundry basket. Before his mind even catches up, he finds himself outside in the rain, holding an umbrella that feels cold to the touch. If only…
Wait. Duh. The handle is wood. Of course it’s cold.
And of course his hands feel cold when he holds it, because there is no one else to warm his hands, and of course he feels cold when it rains cats and dogs.
Of course it’s cold.
Until it isn’t, and his eyes widen in the realization that his body feels oddly warm.
When he realizes what he’s looking at, 𝐿𝒶 𝒢𝓊𝑒𝓊𝓁𝑒 𝒹𝑒 𝒮𝒶𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 in an obnoxious font that he’s always kind of disliked for its pretentious nature.
When he realizes past the red curtains blocking most of the view, he can catch a glimpse of dark eyes with even darker bags under them staring right back, widening, lingering.
Huh.
Why is he here again?
“Rody,” wow, he hadn’t even realized when the door opened and someone came out… “What are you doing here. You’re soaking wet again.”
He knows Vincent isn’t a man of many words, so it takes him by surprise for the other to actually string that amount together at once… no, actually, for him to take initiative is the thing that truly shocks the older. He stands there, baffled, and realizes way too late that the grip on the umbrella has slipped and he’s been pretty much standing right where the awning ends and all the rain water collects to trickle down.
Oh that’s just great.
“I-…” The words get stuck in his throat. “I came to return this.”
He holds out the umbrella given by Vincent, but he’s not sure if it’s the umbrella or himself that he truly wants to return.
What a mess.
And by that, he does not mean what he has created in the freezer that one night, nor does he think of the dish that followed from it. It’s also not the fact that Rody only had taken a bite and declared it bitter – though that one was quite the surprising insult, given the premium ingredient.
No, no.
It’s the fact that he’s without a waiter now, hiring is troublesome, and he himself now is cleaning the restaurant from last night’s service, sweeping the floor while it rains so hard he wonders if he should install a barrier to avoid flooring of his precious restaurant.
It’s the fact that when he looks outside, there his waiter is, once more soaked just like the second day after the other has started working for him.
Vincent’s eyes go wide, in shock and surprise, bewilderment, maybe hope, but mostly dread. Because there is one too many ways this can go, and with his still lasting hangover from last night, he’s not quite sure if he’s ready to face the man who had left him and possibly find out whether he found out.
But most of all, it’s all too messy within his head, that he cannot help himself but let go of the broom – opting not to note the dull clank of it falling to the ground – and instead go outside with a quickened pace, deliberately ignoring that he himself is getting wet while berating the other for it. Though arguably not as bad, as Vincent doesn’t opt to stand right where all the rain from the awning drips down.
“I-…” Rody’s voice seems unsure, but Vincent listens patiently. “I came to return this.”
The chef cannot help but let his tired eyes roam; from red hair clinging to tan skin, to eyes so insecure Rody may as well disappear into the ground for no reason. A t-shirt somewhat ill-fitting and inside out on top of it all, clinging to the broad frame of his former employee in all the right places and all the wrong ways.
Vincent doesn’t hate the sight. Which is precisely why he hates it all the more.
“Non. There is no need, I have another one.”
“I insist—”
Enough. His hand already reaches out to take hold of Rody’s wrist and pull him in, away from the merciless rain into the warmth of the restaurant; he’d be a fool not to notice the slight tremble in the large frame of another, suffering from the temperature, or maybe nerves. Especially if that other person is someone he has keenly been watching for the past week.
But Vincent wouldn’t flatter himself enough to think he’d make this man tremble, especially after last night and the rough awakening to a dream that would never come true.
He replies nothing, instead goes to grab a towel; just like that second day, the fluffy soft fabric is placed atop the other’s head and harshly rubbed to dry him off. He may click his tongue, but a part of him enjoys this, to take care of Rody.
He wants to take care of him so much more than this.
“Hm? What’s that?”
Rody’s voice breaks the soft ambience of fabric rustling, water dripping, silent breaths. It takes a moment for Vincent to realize what those ᵐᵉˢᵐᵉʳᶦᶻᶦⁿᵍ eyes are fixated on, and his hand quickly draws back out of reflex.
Another breath. ᴵⁿ and ₒᵤₜ but not quite enough to calm himself fully. Still, he replies in a monotone voice.
“Just a cut.”
“You reek of wine, too, ya know—”
“I had a drink last night.”
“And then went to cook again?”
“What, are you suddenly a master in kitchen safety, monsieur ‘self-proclaimed kitchen hazard’?”
“!! Ouch- You don’t have to say it like that!”
It’s
Cute
Silly
How that idiot redhead acts hurt when Vincent mirrors his own words back at him. Even going as far as theatrically grabbing his chest to feign the pain. How… silly, truly.
“Ha! Made you smile!”
The feeling is faint, but once pointed out, Vincent realizes – the corners of his mouth have truly turned slightly upwards, and for once, not in mockery or smugness. It disappears just as quick, his expression leveled once more, but…
Ugh, why does this man have to make his life even more a mess?
Rody laughs for a moment, then it subsides, and his expression gets more gloom; now that Vincent can see him in the dim light of the restaurant, he notices he seems paler than usual, and tired, more than he has seen him before. He says nothing though, for he knows that this loud guy will break the silence within a second.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he begins, as if Vincent had predicted the future. Then again, it is easy to predict simple men like Rody. Not that he minds. He likes predictability. “Look… I did this all for Marieanne,” he continues, and Vincent listens. Without realizing at first, his pulse quickens. Please, don’t-- “But when I called her last night, she did not pick up. I-…” His voice trails off, and he rubs the back of his head. ᴮᵃᵈᵘᵐᵖ ʙᴀᴅᴜᴍᴘ ᵇᵃᵈᵘᵐᵖ ʙᴀᴅᴜᴍᴘ-- “Am I really not lovable?”
Eh?
“I dunno, it’s just, why did she break up? Saying I wasn’t ready for a relationship because I forget to take care of myself…”
“Maybe she wasn’t either.”
“Hm? But…” Rody hesitates again. A pause. “How did you know her?”
The question could’ve been expected, yet hits Vincent by surprise. He simply stares for a moment, but eventually gives a shrug. “Her parents came to my restaurant a little more than a week ago. They are food critics,” he states, “And she was with them. It appears she found more interest in me than the dishes served.” He did not enjoy the attention, but also doesn’t tell Rody. It’s not fair kicking a puppy already down.
“Wait, so she…”
“Asked me to be her boyfriend. Yes.”
“But, … what about me?”
“She never mentioned you.”
It’s a lie. Marieanne mentioned Rody to him. What for, he does not know. All he knows is that there was an attempt to be with him to get away from her feelings for Rody, and he rejected it. Mostly because of indifference towards her, and indifference to companionship in general.
Well, at least Vincent had thought so. But then this unruly idiot shows up at his doorstep and decides to make things complicated for him.
With the way his hair would messily frame his handsome features, and how the waiter uniform would cling in all the right places. How his smile would light up a room. How he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind… most of the time. Vincent knows he’s not approachable and yet Rody made it seem so effortlessly easy that Vincent could almost believe it.
That is, of course, until last night.
Was it selfish, or was it for Rody, that when Vincent found out about how Marieanne had abandoned this stupid golden retriever of a human, he wanted nothing more than to end his suffering forever? Or, perhaps, he wanted to make sure the two of them never got back together, ever. Perhaps he thought that if love was such an important ingredient in making food taste good, he’d serve Rody the one dish he knew he’d love. Perhaps the thought of eating Rody, whom ʰᵉ ˡᵒᵛᵉᵈ could bring back taste to his mouth, was what drove him.
Maybe it’s all of the above, too. Vincent does not know.
He knows he’s glad Rody didn’t go into the freezer; he knows he’s glad Rody did not stay last night after dinner service, to see the mess that Vincent is. A glass, two, of red wine and the appeal of tasting himself was all too alluring.
A quick glance to his bandaged arm.
It did not bring back taste to his mouth.
Neither did Marieanne.
It’s almost too sickening to think about now.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“Hm?”
“You spaced out, Vince.”
“Ah. Pardon.”
Silence spreads over the two of them once more, however; neither say a word, simply stand in front of another, and Rody takes the bandaged arm in his hand all too gingerly. Vincent knows that he wants to ask what happened, if it hurts, but those are questions the chef himself even can’t truly answer to. He remembers the haze of alcohol, and a sharp knife in his other hand. Remembers the distant sound of sizzling, and texture that made him want to throw up. But more than that, it feels like he had been in a trance all night, until it wasn’t night anymore and he saw the bloody mess he had created, just before he passed out on the floor drunk and dizzy.
For a moment they simply stay like this and the cold of that strong hand seeps into his skin calmingly. He doesn’t even have to listen closely to hear the other’s breath, and it would be all too easy to give in, lean forward, steal it away. A week of suffering, whenever this man would approach him, thinking about this one question asked. “Are you single?” Yes, but does he want to be? Maybe. But Rody surely makes it less appealing.
There’s no logical explanation for this either. Simply the fact that there’s something captivating about this guy with manners so lousy they would make Vincent normally scream in frustration, yet he finds it perfectly tolerable if its between the two of them. He doesn’t want Rody to be this informal with guests; neither with anyone else, if he’s honest. There’s an erratic need of having this idiot be selfish and rude and demanding only to him.
Unlike Marieanne, Vincent does not want to be put on a pedestal and be treated a prince where Rody sacrifices his life for him – hell, there’s no need for that either, seeing how he’s far more wealthy than Rody.
No. He only wants his true, authentic self. And that’s what he got.
It’s suffocating.
It’s addicting.
-- ʀɪɪɪɪɪɪɪɪɪɪɪɴɢ
Thank the heavens. It’s the phone that pulls the two of them from their proximity and Vincent finally manages to withdraw his arm from hands he’d like to hold all too much, turning quickly. “One moment,” he says before walking away to pick up. “La Gueule de Saturne,” he greets, and the voice on the other end already informs him that in a bit, someone will come over to provide the barrier that Vincent has been thinking about earlier. So it is one of those days. “What about dinner service tonight?” he questions, and once more is informed that tonight, the restaurant cannot be opened due to high chances of flooding. People are urged to stay home, so he better call his employees and let them know.
Apparently, it had been on the radio too, but Vincent doesn’t listen to radio.
“Thank you,” he concludes thus and hangs up.
“What’s going on?” he hears from behind himself, but does not turn to face Rody.
“The streets are flooding. People are urged to stay inside,” Vincent informs.
A desperate groan is the answer. “Fuck. Guess I’ll have to go then…”
But Vincent doesn’t want him to leave. Not again.
“It’s not safe,” he simply replies thus. “Stay here for the night. The restaurant will be closed either way.”
“But I can’t impose on you, especially after I quit…”
“Then take it back.”
“What?”
“Work for me again. You’re not imposing, then. I take care of my employees.”
Maybe it is a desperate attempt. No, not just maybe – it definitely is desperate, and he is glad his back is still facing Rody, because he doesn’t want to see the face of disgust on a man so stupidly ᵇᵉᵃᵘᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ. Who knows what that idiot is thinking now…
“Alright.”
The reply is so quick and so sure that it takes every last bit of self-restraint not to whip around and stare; rather than that, with a measured smirk and a slow turn, Vincent gauges Rody up and down. Looking for the deceit in him, but he cannot find it. And he hates to admit it makes his heart beat just a little bit faster, as stupid as it may seem.
“Well, well. I guess that means welcome back to working for me.”
“Yes, chef!”
His reply came too quick, didn’t it? Before Rody can even think, his words are already past his lips.
“Alright.”
Maybe his body knew what it was doing by coming here. Subconsciously, hadn’t he waited for this? To be welcomed back to be close to Vincent?
Of course, only in a rivalry way. He likes bantering with the slightly younger, and it’s refreshing not to mind too much what he’s saying. With Manon, it always felt like he had to flower his words and sugarcoat it all, but with Vince…
Wait, why is he comparing them again?!
He simply grins wide and exclaims, “Yes, chef!” when Vincent accepts his new application.
“I’ll give you a raise,” Vincent even tops it off, looking so smug Rody could mistake him for a cat who had just pushed a mug off a table.
“Wait- Seriously?! How much?!”
“You get to see my apartment.”
“Whaa…”
Yep, definitely a cat that just pushed a mug off a table. What a jerk.
“You’re the first of my employees. It should mean something, at least,” the other says nonchalant. It’s infuriating how this gets under his skin, and how it actually does make him feel special.
Man, what a turn of events. Just a week ago he was sure they were gonna be on each other’s throats and now they’re just two bros chilling in a restaurant five feet apart because they’re not gay, but still enjoying their company enough to have a sleepover.
“Since the restaurant will be closed tonight,” Vincent muses, “let’s leave the cleaning for tomorrow and go upstairs.”
“You just don’t want to sweep anymore, do you?”
“Why would I, when I have a new waiter who will do it for me tomorrow?”
“So that’s why…”
Another smug smile, and now the cat has scratched a hole in the furniture. How does a grown man even have such expressions?!
And most of all, why does it make Rody want to put his hand on his boss’ head and ruffle that black hair?
There’s no more words wasted, simply a nudge of Vincent’s head towards a door in the back that is usually off-limits, as it is an entrance to his apartment; Rody follows behind obediently, watching the lean, slender figure in front of himself keenly. Those casual clothes that his boss is wearing are quite nice, but somehow, Rody feels as if anything the other wears will look nice on him. The way those hips move with each step of the stairs taken, and it’s entirely unfair how elegant someone can walk, and how well Vincent’s casual pants fit against his body. Also, it’s unfair that his ass is on eye-level right now as they ascend towards the apartment. Not like he can look away, right? Totally not his fault.
Now… Rody has never been in here; some strange feeling inside him tells him that this still all looks somewhat familiar, as if in another timeline this was his first step to demise, but man, he’s been having all sorts of nightmares revolving around the restaurant and Vincent lately so he wouldn’t put it past himself that he had dreamt of this place before. Vaguely, at least.
“Wow…” He mutters. “It’s like some weird ass modern art shop in here.” Everything fits together in the way it looks out of place. He’s never seen such loveless decorations and they painfully remind him of the dishes Vincent creates. Fiction imitates reality, or something of the likes. He’s not a fucking philosopher.
“You can still leave and drown on the streets,” the other replies with yet another smug grin, but he clearly doesn’t mean it. “Anyway. Bathroom is past the kitchen, first door. Go get yourself washed off so you don’t catch a cold.”
It’s odd, that now that they’re alone, Vincent has been much more talkative than before in the restaurant. (Though talkative is still up for definitions, as his words are still sharp and cut short.) However, he would attribute it to the fact that it’s busy during dinner rush, so there’s not much to say, right?
“Oh- uh. Yeah! Thanks, Vince.”
“I’ll prepare dry clothes for you.”
A nod before Rody takes off; past the ugly couch, through a rather decadent kitchen. Nothing less expected of a renowned chef. Then, first door, easy to find, but god damn is this bathroom fucking ugly. No, wait, not the bathroom… The bathtub is ugly as fuck. Why is it half round?! Is anything about Vincent even remotely normal? Ugh, he will just rinse himself off quickly with warm water, because his boss isn’t wrong. Catching a cold on his first day to his second employment would be a bad look, right?
It feels a bit odd to strip in another man’s house – like, sure, when he was visiting his bros back in school, that was fine because he knew those guys for longer than a week. But something about Vincent is just different, and totally not bro-material. The wet cloth falls to the ground carelessly in a thud, and he finally realizes just how freaking cold he was underneath the soaking layers; he considers putting them to the side but ends up not doing so, before stepping into the atrocious abomination that is this bathtub.
Faintly, instrumental music can be heard; it’s so subtle, however, that when Rody turns on the water, it completely drowns. Just a quick rinse… nothing more. Okay, look, he talked shit about the bathtub but the fact that there is actually a place to sit comfortably is actually not that bad. Big enough surely to fit two people. Ah, if only Manon was here…
…then she still wouldn’t bathe with him.
How sobering.
“She didn’t even mention you.”
Somehow, those words are still stuck in his head. Is it true? Well, why would Vincent lie about it? Speaking factually, he didn’t reject her at first but since he’s single now, something must’ve happened. Something that made Manon probably turn away from dating in a while, and Rody isn’t sure whether to thank Vincent for not stealing his ex-girlfriend, or condemn him for hurting her. Maybe. Like, he doesn’t even know if she’s hurt! Could be just that she found out she’s into girls. Or something.
Not that Rody ever considered it himself. The whole… well. That. Yeah, that stuff. Like who’s even into guys? Guys are fucking weird.
No wait. He’s a guy and he’s not weird.
But dating them is weird.
No, that’s also not it, or else girls wouldn’t date guys.
Either way, having anal--
No wait. That’s also kinda hot.
By the time he’s halfway done thinking about that, the bathtub is already halfway filled – so much for a ‘quick rinse’. But now that the warmth is engulfing his lower body… he really wants to relax for a hot minute in here. Truth be told, he hadn’t paid his water bill fully lately, so at home he’s stuck with cold baths. Which is okay, until it isn’t, and one realizes how much better life can be when you are in a giant bathtub that might be ugly, but does a phenomenal job at heating his body back up to a normal temperature.
His eyes wander over various bottles and containers. Shampoos, soaps… there’s one container that catches his interest and he opens it, but inside, it looks like… colored salt? Wait, does this guy even season his own bathwater? The smell coming from it is phenomenal, however, so Rody can see why he’d add it. Just a tiny bit won’t hurt, right? Vincent is loaded, he can survive… Right? It’s almost a moral dilemma, but then Rody considers the fact that he owns fancy shampoo and doesn’t wash his hair with soap like the rest of humanity not swimming in wealth, so…
Fuck it, right?
It’s only a bit at first, a pinch if one might, but nothing happens. Another pinch and another. Then, about as much as Rody would assume a tablespoon would be like, held directly under the stream of water filling the tub. That’s when the magic happens, and bubbles form. Not many, not big, but enough to make his puppy eyes go wide in surprise. Wait, he’s seen this in commercials from overseas! Bubble bath, is what they called it?
It’s entirely magical and for a moment, he stops to think about the price of it – watches as they form, their scent filling the air around him. It’s a pleasant feeling, too, then they hit his naked skin, clinging to him. Some pop, new ones come to life. Temptation to add more, but he knows this is just a quick rinse. A quick rinse with a bit of fun, okay?
Maybe this was the raise Vincent talked about.
The redhead cannot help himself but hum; turning off the water when his body is emerged to his chest in heat, warming his core and refreshing his senses. Somehow, after emptying his stomach all night and being anxious over seeing Vincent again, this truly does wonders to his mind, his heart. For once, he doesn’t think of Manon. Not of the ways guys can have sex and neither of the fact that he thinks Vincent has a nice ass.
Not that he ever thought that. But still, he doesn’t now.
Seconds turn into minutes, and he seeps away. Only him and his bubbles and his peace of mind. And warmth, that he thought only Manon could give him, but he finds this is way more comforting than heartbreak and trying to get someone back who had eyes for another man just weeks after they had broken it off.
Who knows? Maybe Vincent can be the one to take his mind off of her. Not as a bro, duh, but. As a boss, maybe. Keep him on his toes and all that.
“Ah~”
“You’re quite enjoying yourself, I see.”
The sudden second voice startles Rody. So much so, that he jumps up, almost slips, barely catches himself. Stares, wide eyed, into the darkness that are Vincent’s eyes.
“I- uh, it’s- it’s not what it looks like,” he musters to sputter out, caught like a deer in headlights, but there is no scorn in the other’s face. Still the same impassiveness as usual. “I just… Look… I’ll pay…”
“It’s fine.”
“Is it though?!”
A shrug, and finally Rody’s eyes peel from Vincent’s; down, he notices that Vincent, too, has changed clothes into yet another turtleneck but this time without sleeves. It looks good, too good, the way the black fabric clings to slender neck and nape, exposing equally slender shoulders. His collarbones look delicious, in a way the redhead had never thought he’d think collarbones could look like. Over the bandaged arm, there’s fabric and a towel draped. And further down, much to his demise, Rody notices it’s still the same tight gray pants from earlier.
It looks good. And it shouldn’t.
“I forgot to give you clothes and a towel.”
Finally, his eyes snap back up, but just in time to catch that not only he himself was mustering Vincent up and down, but that it is quite the mutual sentiment. Just, that his host is fully dressed and he himself has nothing but a few bubbles clinging to his body keeping him chaste.
“A-ah- T- ᵗʰᵃⁿᵏʸᵒᵘ I mean, you, I- ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉᵈᵒⁿᵗˡᵒᵒᵒᵏ--” His words are rushed and perhaps a few pitches higher than should be. And in turn, Vincent’s expression is more smug than it has any business of being.
Oh fuck-
“I-I’m sorry—” he begins again and quickly his hand snaps to cover his private areas. Another shrug.
“I see no reason to apologize.”
“…What do you mean?”
“I don’t mind it.”
“But I’m naked. … And I used your bubble stuff.”
There’s a short pause in which Vincent’s eyes once more wander downwards. Perhaps to the bathtub, or perhaps to the poor attempt at covering himself.
“So? There is nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Now it’s Rody’s time to be quiet for a second. Trying to process. But all that happens is that he feels way too hot now, with those stern eyes on him, almost mapping his body. As if trying to memorize it.
“… Like, you have seen a dick before-??”
“Monsieur Lamoree. I am a man, too. It might come as a surprise to you, but I have one as well. You do not hold the monopoly on having a penis.”
“Oh.”
Right.
Now that’s embarrassing.
Somehow, more embarrassing than Vincent actually looking at it.
Somehow.
At first, Vincent had considered sneaking in, leaving the clothes and towel, and equally silently leaving.
But when he walked in and saw that broad back, the muscles wet, the sweet innocence of someone experiencing a bubble bath for the first time… well. He found it hard not to look.
And then that little “Ah~”?
It was simply too much to handle.
Now, had Vincent considered the fact that Rody would jump up? No. Had he considered the other apologizing for wasting stuff he himself will never use? Also no. And did he think Rody would be shy about his crotch area? Definitely not.
But here they are, in a staredown, and instead of sitting back down, this idiot of a man keeps standing full on display. And Vincent would be a liar if he said he did not like what he saw, too. Sure, women are soft and elegant, so sweet and tender. But when his eyes roam the strong frame of his employee, once more he is reminded that he simply finds no appeal in soft. He can feel his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, hungry, starving, wanting to devour. Not how he had wanted to last night.
Different.
Better.
He still is glad Rody left when he did.
Perhaps, one day, he can savor him the right way.
For one who cannot taste, his mind races trying to figure the other’s taste. Sweet? Savory? It’s a mystery. How would his skin feel under his lips? What would he sound like if he were to bite him?
“Well. As I said, I came to bring towel and clothes.”
It’s safer to excuse himself now before he loses his composure, his control. He knows how erratic he can become, and he knows if he does now, he might not see Rody ever again.
“Y-yeah, sure. Thanks.”
It’s cute when he’s insecure. Vincent doesn’t reply, simply sets the clothing aside, somewhere safe from splashes. He reaches for the doorhandle.
“Wait,”
“Hm.”
“Wait. No. Don’t wait. Uh-“
“What?”
“… Isn’t it awkward, seeing another guy’s…”
Once more, Vincent turns to face the older. “Why would it be.”
“Dunno. Isn’t it kinda…” A whisper. “Gay?”
“Are you?”
“No!”
Unfortunate.
“Then it’s not.”
There’s many things Vincent is willing to do, or be, for Rody. One of them is being patient, until either something blooms, or it withers and dies like the flower in his hallway. He’s well aware that it’s nothing but a simple infatuation – though he might consider it an infuriation too, with how dense this man is.
He moves to press the handle of the door down once more, and once more he’s stopped all the same.
“Actually,” the louder of the two begins and Vincent can hear water moving. Finally, at last, he’s sat back down into the water. “What’s your type of girl when you’ve rejected someone as perfect as Manon?”
The question takes him by surprise. So much so he lets go of the handle and turns to face Rody.
“None.”
“What do you mean, none? Come on, something has to grab your attention, right? Big boobs, big hips, I dunno. Blondes? Redheads?”
“Hm.” What an idiot. “Redhead.”
“Yeeees?” Is he really egging him on with puppy eyes? How insufferable.
“Moles. Strong. Kind of stupid.”
“You like stupid women?”
“I don’t.”
“Then…”
“I don’t like women. Not like that.”
A blanket of silence once more engulfs them. Vincent can see the gears turning in Rody’s head, and he knows that his assessment of ‘kind of stupid’ really hits the nail on the head. What is he, moronsexual?
Perhaps.
“Wait a minute… Does that mean-”
That I’m into you? Yes.
“You like butch women?!”
Oh god. He wants to drown either himself or this himbo in the water. Or both. Preferably both.
Both sounds good.
“I don’t. Rody. I am not interested in any sort of woman.”
There they are, those gears turning once more. How much clearer does he have to state it? And how long is he made to suffer the fact that those damn bubbles are blocking his view all too conveniently? It seems, however, that finally it clicks in that presumably pea-sized brain that he is, in fact, not interested in women, if the wide stare of green eyes is anything to go by.
“Oh shit- Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t—Look, I can leave—”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything to you.”
It’s not the sigh of relief that Vincent anticipated that follows. It’s moreso tense shoulders, a strained expression. As if Rody is uncomfortable, but not for the fact he fears Vincent will do anything to him – which, in all fairness, he probably should be considering how his girlfriend ended – but rather that he has pushed Vincent into a bad position of outing himself. Which he doesn’t mind. It’s all the same to him. After all, it doesn’t matter what he does in bed as long as he still excels in the kitchen.
That’s what society expects of him, not his bedroom habits.
Not that there are any.
“No, that’s… Vince, sorry, okay? I didn’t know.”
“Apparently.”
“I don’t mind it! I’m totally okay with it!”
“How reassuring.”
“This won’t change anything between us, right?”
“Do you want it to change?”
“No…”
“Then it won’t.”
He feels the words leave his mouth sharper with each word, and he can see that silly face get just a bit more discouraged with every answer. But what is he supposed to say? He’s not one to lie, unless, well, it’s about Marieanne. That one particular detail that she is
Dead.
Yes, that detail. Of course alongside her affections for Rody that he knew of, but in the grand scheme of things, this one pales in comparison. Just a white lie that he keeps telling himself all the same, to not think of the guilt of having killed another human. And what for? A bitter main dish? He cannot afford to think about it at all. It almost feels surreal now, as if it had been a bad dream.
He still hopes it was.
“…How is it,” Rody asks, cautiously, “with another guy?” Almost as if asking this question would turn him into something he’s not.
Or is he?
“I’ll show you,” Vincent jests, a smirk that usually would show he’s mocking Rody, but somehow…
It doesn’t quite land as a joke with the redhead.
“Woah- Wait, are you for real?”
“I said I won’t do anything you don’t want.”
“But what if I do?”
Now it’s time for his Vincent’s eyebrows to furrow. “You were against it.”
Well, not so much against it, Rody thinks, but then thinks again. He totally was. But when he looks at Vincent, his slender form and those deep eyes, when he hears his voice and thinks about him leaving this bathroom right now… Somehow, he does not want him to leave.
In fact, much the opposite.
Somehow, hearing someone openly express those things without shame, it feels much less shameful for himself too. Almost makes him want to picture the other naked too, because it would only be fair, right?
And what harm would one time do?
Touch a bit, feel a guy’s body, and see if he likes it, or if he’s only into women. Some sort of test for himself. And he knows, knows so damn well it’s not fair to use another person for that. Much less his boss who is kind enough to let him come back to work for him, let him stay in his home for the night, let him use his hot bathwater and the fucking bubbles. Sure, Vincent is insufferable at times, he’s snippy and commanding, and he sure as hell has a few loose screws.
But all of that makes him… exciting?
Not to speak of his body that is seriously attractive, like. Anyone would agree with him on this one.
“I mean, fair,” he finally replies. “Sorry, that was kinda stupid of me. It’s just. Guess I’m curious,” he says and leans back in the tub, opting not to further explore the other’s body with his eyes, lest even bubbles won’t be able to hide if he got excited. The ceiling looks super interesting right now anyway, like, what is it? Off-white? Snow white? Super interesting, and definitely more interesting than picturing those tight pants coming off slender legs. A thin waist for him to hold. What is his waist even so slim for? For other men to hold? Pft.
“Are you curious or are you delusional.”
He still doesn’t look at Vincent.
“I mean it. Guess I’m mostly curious how touching a guy feels.”
“Hm.”
“Maybe kissing.”
“Hm.”
He really needs to stop talking.
“Can guys even kiss other guys well? Like, our lips aren’t as soft as those of women.”
Seriously. Stop.
And yet, he says it as if he’s daring Vincent. This time there’s no reply, simply some rustling, and he wonders if his host is finally fed up with him and turns to leave him and his misery of discovery alone. On one hand, that would be preferable so he can get away with washing away those thoughts, on the other hand… He would really like that guy on his lap right now. And maybe whisper his name and make him shiver a bit and lose his control.
“Vi-nc…e … …?!”
It’s more a squeak than a whisper, coming out unintentionally when the water moves and he feels skin. It’s too quick for him to process, ripping his gaze off the ceiling to face forward, only to be met with the bare chest of his boss in front of himself; lanky and slim, pale as a ghost. And God damn those bubbles hiding what’s beneath the water and very much pressing against his leg.
“Wha---!!!???!?”
“You said you are curious.”
Curious yes, but now?! … Well, yes, now. But seriously? Without a warning? Once more Rody feels like a fish on land, caught in a trap. A trap that is long slender legs on either side of his own, and not very female hips straddling his laps.
Damn this guy has a boney ass.
Rody doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he opts to flail. Great. Not much, and he’s also not pushing off Vincent, but also, what the fuck. He didn’t expect this to escalate into a seriously hot guy Vincent joining the bathtub! Just when he’s on his journey to explore if there’s more than girls for him!
And his heart, too, feels like it’s gonna break his ribcage from the inside out. Trying to escape. His pulse so loud his ears are going to fail on him any time soon. And all because of his boss who is, all things considered, a fucking jerk and dickward?
Maybe it’s another of his nightmares.
“What’s wrong.” Vince’s voice is rather monotone, but his eyes speak volumes of expectancy. They drill into his skull, and Rody thinks he will never forget this sight. The way he straddles his legs, the soft bubbles surrounding this sharp man, a certain condescension in his looks, demeanor, words, and Rody thinks it’s all too hot to handle. He’s not a masochist. At least he doesn’t think he is.
“Nothing, just…”
“Touch me then.”
It is a command not unlike what the other would bark in the restaurant… Just of a different nature, and spoken with so much eroticism in his voice that Rody has to swallow hard. His patience is running low as is, eyes not able to still even for a second, too much to take in; it doesn’t help when Vincent takes his hands and places them on his body, on either side of his waist. His skin is so soft it’s maddening, and just like his gaze, now that his fingers can take in the sensation of his body, they won’t stay still.
Curious, but enthusiastic; they roam, free reign, over his flat chest to his collarbones that simply beg to be decorated with love marks, to shoulders that show he does lift heavy stuff like flour from time to time, yet aren’t bulky in any shape or form. He’s so… different from Rody in every way, almost as if he could crush him if he hugged him too tight.
His breath hitches. Somehow it feels like he can’t get enough, as one hand trails to the back of his nape, pulls the younger closer. So very close only inches separate them, so very close he can feel hot breath on his skin.
Maybe he can see what people labelling him charismatic can see in him.
Maybe because he sees it as well.
The way his lips part slightly, dark eyes wandering as well. How hips shift beneath against his thigh, wordlessly asking for more. But Rody still hesitates going beneath the waterline with his hands; it feels almost forbidden, thinking if he does, he can’t go back. But can he at all?
The more he feels, tracing that figure atop him, the more he thinks he wants to see him come undone. Lose his composure once more. He wants to know all sides of the man known as chef Vincent Charbonneau.
A gasp, then, when there’s another shift and he can feel those hips flush against his own. Fuck. He didn’t even realize he was getting harder by the minute just from touching a guy, and yet here he is, feeling like the other is setting him on fire from within. And, pouring oil on top when those mere inches between their faces disappear, hot air replaced by soft lips on his own, hungry and full of desire. Moving not gently but determined, almost professional, in all the right ways, in all the worst ways for his heart and dick. Right now, he thinks there’s no need for air at all when instead he can have those soft tiers against his own rough ones.
And oh, he’s so eager to return the gesture. He feels ablaze, his much stronger hands compared to Vincent’s holding his nape and hips in place, grinding up against the more lithe man whilst his eyes fall shut to enjoy the sensation of the kiss. Sometimes, their teeth click; it’s not Vincent’s fault, though, but much more the eagerness Rody displays, pressing forward, meeting the other whenever he can. And when the other nibbles on his bottom lip, he can’t help but moan into their kiss in earnest, desperate, a sound even he himself didn’t know he could make. It seems to amuse his boss, if the feeling of lips curling upwards is anything to go by.
It’s the first time someone has taken charge, and it’s … actually not so bad, when he thinks about it. The way Vince’ tongue licks into his mouth to coax more of those sweet sounds from him is way too hot, the fact that he knows what he wants. That whatever Rody does, it’s enough. He doesn’t have to aim to please, because he knows he already does. Remembers when he would kiss Manon, that she’d act all shy about it. Allow only small pecks, before pulling back and giggling. And sure, he liked it.
But he also likes the raw dominance that Vincent displays, claiming his mouth with his own, pressing his tongue against Rody’s, sliding it along the wet muscle, toying with him, and lord help him, getting him impossibly harder simply from grinding against his erection. It’s absolutely maddening and he can’t resist, like a spell cast over him that makes him want to do whatever his boss desires of him. Like his only goal in life, from this moment forward, is to be claimed and known as Vincent’s. He wonders for the briefest of moments, if Vincent is able to taste him back. Because the waiter knows for sure that he can taste tobacco and wine, and he also knows he likes the taste suddenly.
Another moan. Muffled by tongue and lips, and he’s feeling like he’s getting light-headed from lack of air – which seems to not be the case for Vincent at all. How does he even do it? It’s beginning to be straining, but in all the best ways possible. More ᵐᵒʳᵉ ₘₒᵣₑᵐᵒʳᵉ ₘₒᵣₑᵐᵒʳᵉ ₘₒᵣₑ he chants in his head, desperately. He’s so very hot, so desperate. Is it the lack of sleep, oxygen, or touch from another? Is it all? Possibly.
And suddenly, Vincent pulls back, face flushed slightly, giving a pale tint to white features. His lips swollen slightly, glistening with saliva, the small string connecting them snapping.
Wha…
“Breathe, idiot.”
Huh. That’s a first that someone tells him so. But frankly, the second that mouth isn’t on his own anymore he inhales sharply, so there isn’t really a need to remind him. Or is there?
“You know you can breathe through your nose while kissing.” A sentence so deadbeat it makes Rody feel like an idiot virgin that never kissed before.
Of course he knows!
He just forgot.
“Sure…” His reply is weak, just as weak as he himself is for the man on top. Who would’ve thought that he’d go from questioning his entire sexuality to being absolutely, maddeningly infatuated with this asshole with just one kiss and some not-so-dry-humping.
“So, is your curiosity satisfied now?”
The question takes him aback, his hazed mind taking a few moments to process.
“… I don’t think so.”
But how can he be blamed for wanting more?
Originally, Vincent had thought to let Rody take the reins.
But when he noticed the other was too awkward to touch him, well…
It doesn’t matter now. It seems his stupid little waiter is enjoying himself more than he thought. And for that, Vincent couldn’t be more delighted. Rody should see the look on his face, frankly. Puzzled and bewildered, lips glossy from saliva and making out, cheeks as red as can be. Eyes glassy in a haze of desire.
And, perhaps, lack of oxygen. What is he even thinking, holding his breath the entire time?
“If you don’t tell me now to stop, I don’t know if I can later.”
It’s a fair warning, Vincent thinks. He’s been stupidly pining ever since they met, and now that they’re so close, he doubts he can keep his control for much longer. He wants to possess, own, demolish and build back up. Eat him whole, until he can taste all that is Rody.
“Bold of you to assume I can stop now.”
Is this excitement? Such sensation, Vincent hasn’t felt in what feels like years. Life quickly turns boring when one of your basic needs, to taste, cannot be fulfilled. It’s dull. Everything is dull and gray.
But not Rody.
He’s vibrant. Fiery. Heated. Sure, also stupid, but he decides he likes it.
In this one person, at least.
Vincent moves back in to claim those lips once more, this time a lot more ferociously – nibbling, biting, gnawing. Abuse dry lips, and drawing more gasps from the man beneath. He’s so responsive. Delightful. Whatever Vincent throws at him, he returns.
His healthy hand traces strong muscles of the waiter’s chest; his abs, uncaring to break the unspoken line of crossing water, fingers circling his navel before trailing further down. He already knows how hard Rody is, it’s hard not to when their lengths are pressed flush against another. But to circle long, slender fingers around the grith of it, is a whole different thing entirely. It seems everything about him is just a bit… bulky.
“F-uuuck….” The motion pries lips from another as the redhead throws his head back and groans loudly, his body tensing.
Neck exposed, it’s almost as if he’s asking for it.
At first, Vincent only moves in to take in his scent – not having used soap yet, the scent of his sweat, the rain and the bath mix on his skin in a perfect blend. If it had to be a dish, it would be dessert. And he knows he cannot taste anything, yet still his mouth claims where pulse is racing, pearly whites digging aggressively into the delicate skin. A yelp that sounds more a moan vibrates from Rody’s throat; he can feel the muscular body arch and meet his own slender one, chests pressed flush. Not letting go, he digs deeper, bites harder. More. A flick of his wrist to make the older tremble. Every stroke calculated in pace with hips grinding.
And God is Rody loud.
But loud isn’t the worst when it’s Rody, Vincent thinks.
Luckily, only an empty restaurant beneath is to witness these delicious noises from a desperate man who just finds out he’s into other men as well.
A kiss, then, soothes the blooming red spot forming on his neck; a lick, another kiss. Many, many small ones until he finds another spot to assault, biting even harder, whilst simultaneously jerking his hand underwater quicker and harsher as well. Their hot breaths and Rody’s mewls echo in the tiled room, the water splashing around them adding to the melody that they create. He’s not a musician by far, but thinks he could get used to creating this song and dance over and over again.
It’s almost as if he can taste the sheer need of his waiter on his tongue.
A meal he can get used to.
“Nnh- ⱽᶦⁿᶜᵉ⁻ ₒₕₘᵧ𝓰ₒ𝒹ₚₗₑₐₛₑᵐᵒʳᵉₘₒᵣₑᶠᵘᶜᵏᵏ--”
It is one particular stroke that has the older tumbling, desperately gripping his hair, his hips, the strength surprising as it is arousing, the way fingers cut into flesh like sharp knives, but not leaving trails of blood; Vincent, too, gasps out against the skin of his neck, releasing the reddening area from his teeth. Rody trembles, twitches, pumps his hips into the firm hold of slender digits until water turns milky.
“Heh.”
It’s hard to hold back a smirk and a chuckle, half-lidded eyes glancing at the space between, or rather, what little thereof is. Sullied now, but Vincent truly doesn’t mind all too much.
“That was quick.”
“Hah- Fu-huck you…ⱼₑᵣₖ...“ It’s truly cute when Rody tries to insult him. It’s like a newborn puppy trying to bark.
So that’s it, then. Vincent leans back once those hands soften their hold on his lithe body, black eyes taking in the view of a man come undone so quick. He licks his lips. Savoring. No taste, yet delicious. And then, he moves to get off those way too muscular thighs. Time to get dry and take care of his own issues.
Or so he thinks, until he can’t and he’s once more fixed in place by strong hands.
“What about you?”
“Me.”
“Yeah. You.”
It takes the chef a few moments to realize; if anything, it’s big green eyes looking straight at his hard-on that gives it away. “It’s rude to stare.” But isn’t that rich coming from the man who just walked in on another bathing? Then again, he had made a point not to let his eyes stay there for too long, and not stare too obviously.
On the other hand, Rody does not know what being tactful means.
Maybe he can be forgiven this once.
“Wha- No! I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just,” he mumbles, face red and flustered, “You did that and… I can’t just leave you like this.” As if there was a moral obligation to jerking someone off.
“So you’re curious about more.”
“Curious?”
Heh. Silly. “Wasn’t it you who claimed to be curious in the first place how kissing and touching another guy is. You got just that.”
“Oh. Oooh. Right.”
“So you are still dissatisfied with your dinner.”
“Guess you could say that. Do I not get a main after my appetizer?”
That toothy grin looks so stupid, but it is so very much Rody that once more, he will be forgiven. One would think he’s getting soft at heart to let so many things slide for such a low-IQ creature.
“Suit yourself then. But don’t complain over what is served. You do understand it is a fixed menu.”
“Yes, chef!”
So enthusiastic. Vince wonders, for a brief moment, if he will go to hell for taking advantage of this man to please him. But then again, he reminds himself he has committed far worse crimes – literally – so does it really make a difference at this point? Besides, isn’t he also doing some educational stuff right here?
“How experienced are you.”
“Hm?” His big eyes blink at Vincent, confused. Titling his head. “Experience?”
“With fucking someone.”
“Uh… some?”
“In the ass.”
“… Ah.” Somehow, that ‘ah’ combined with eyes going even wider and cheeks flushing even redder says more than any ‘no’ could ever. But to his surprise, Rody nods after all. There might be hope- “I was at this college party once and walked in on a couple doing it…”
Nevermind.
“Cuck.”
“Ouch. It was unintentional!”
An exasperated sigh leaves his lips, shaking his head. “Either way.” It’s too hard to even take this guy serious sometimes. Instead, Vincent takes the hand holding him by the arm in place and carefully pries it off, guiding it back underwater where it had been prior to hold his hips in place. However, this time he leads it further, watching the other’s face keenly for any sign of discomfort. There is none, though. Only curiosity. “You’ll need to use your fingers to prepare.”
“You?”
“Who else.”
Rolling his eyes, he almost misses the sheepish smile he gets in return.
“So I just…”
“Put them in. One after another. Three at most.”
Rody nods. The instructions are easy enough, Vincent figures, and Rody isn’t a total virgin. He’ll probably fingered someone else before.
Hopefully?
Placing both hands on either shoulder, Vincent now leans forward, hips raised enough for the other to comfortably reach, but also giving the cook the range to move himself if things go too slow; his kisses resume on that strong neck, up to his ear where he nibbles the soft skin. Hot breath ghosting. Anticipating.
A sharp inhale when he feels the stretch of a first finger slowly pushing past little resistance.
“You okay?” Rody asks, but what can he say? More than okay? It feels stupid to even grace it with a reply, but also he knows if he doesn’t, that idiot will pull back.
“It’s fine. Move.”
Slow at first, but the waiter’s finger is big enough that he can feel it clearly stretching him far more than his own would. It’s not uncomfortable, either. Just different.
The motion quickly eases, a calm rhythm set to prepare the chef – little breaths and gasps all that leave his mouth. Unlike his employee, Vincent is quiet; the most the older will get to hear are sharp breaths whenever it’s a sensitive area stroked against. And luckily for his sanity, it seems that when he moves back to meet the shallow thrusting with his hips, Rody gets the hint and carefully adds to the stretch with another digit.
Truth be told, the last time he was intimate with someone, it has been years. His interest never given, and no one good enough that they could compare to when he did it himself. So what benefit would it have to invite someone in, just to be disappointed? However, in this situation he wonders if it might have been for the better to stay in practice. It’s entirely different when someone else leads the pace and depth, and he’s still unsure whether he likes giving up that sort of control. It’s good, it really is. But also, he wants to tear into Rody to hurry the fuck up.
His body was already on edge lately, and this teasingly slow preparation leaves him nothing less but starved for more. “You’re too slow,” he gasps hotly into Rody’s ear, need for satisfaction growing with each second. Perhaps showing him how it’s done is better than using words - so the hand formerly holding onto his shoulder joins the much wider one underwater, and in a swift movement, two thinner fingers join the careful sliding of the other’s. Though arguably, he’s much less careful with his own body.
A voice rings out beside him, “What are you doing?!” but it lacks any bite, simply shocked surprise.
“I said faster.”
And he can feel it on the tip of his tongue that Rody wants to say ‘no, you didn’t’, and that wouldn’t be incorrect either, but it’s clear he understands that arguing back will not help. Neither Vincent’s mood, nor getting him prepared, and most of all not Rody’s own newly hardened cock waiting once more for stimulation. It seems that instead, he gladly matches the pace, fucking his fingers right into that tight entrance, loosening him for something much bigger.
Harder, too, to a point it makes the lithe body rock lightly in the water, against a much stronger body all too happy to keep him steady.
In all, it’s efficiency that overshadows the prep work; there’s no search for nerves, nor any other glorious escapades. It might just be in his nature to keep prepping short and taking more time actually cooking the meal. Enjoying it. What use would it be, to already be so on edge that once he takes what is rightfully his, he’d be done in seconds?
He’s not fast food. This is fine dining.
“That’s enough.”
Once more it seems like protest lingers on Rody’s lips, but also once more it seems that he has no place to argue. Instead, fingers are withdrawn simultaneously and Vincent positions himself – smirking when the other groans lightly as he’s gripped by the base of his cock once more. He’s so responsive.
Good.
As hips lower themselves, the prodding of his big head against the sensitive ring of muscles makes Vince inhale; drawing it out, circling, making Rody squirm, but knowing full well he will not just take as he pleases. It’s not his place to dedicate the pace. He’s a guest invited, not the chef. Set the plate, make it appetizing. Straightens his back, roll his shoulders. Make his mouth water.
“Vince…” A desperate plea. A need, a want, a desire, obligation, frustration. Green eyes drinking in his form, as if to remember every curve and bump. “ᵥᵢₙ𝒸ₑₚₗₑₐₛₑₒₕ𝒻ᵤ𝒸ₖ--” Words almost slurred as if drunk, but he is sober.
Vincent does not know whether he is sober, when he feels like Rody’s pleading voice is straight up alochol.
And he’s a lightweight.
ᴰᵒʷⁿ Dᴏᴡɴ 𝒹ₒ𝓌ₙ
Embracing it all. Mouth falling open, but no words come out.
Big.
His lungs rapidly fill with air, but he’s suffocating.
A week of torture.
And he has wondered many times how it feels.
He knows now.
And thinks again, how could that Vacher girl possibly let him go.
He will never.
Deeper, he does not care for Rody’s mouth moving for words. What is he saying? Does it matter? All he hears is moans, his name. Every inch devoured. Not even the bubbly water around them any comfort against the intrusion that stings more than it should, yet not enough. Maybe it hurts, pulsing, stretching. Maybe he likes it, too, when it does. More words to fall on deaf ears.
Only when Rody is fully inside and his ass is flush against strong hips he pauses. His chest rises. Falls. Rises. Falls. Risesfallsrisesfallsrisesfalls until he realizes how heavily he is breathing.
He’s too hot.
It feels like he’s burning up, and Rody does not help, pulsing inside him, twitching, presumably trying to make sense of it all. But just like Vincent doesn’t give himself time to adjust, he doesn’t give time for the other to think. Raising his hips, slamming back down.
It hurts too good.
“Ah—”
He needs something to hold onto.
Auburn hair, and a hand wrapped in bandages curls into the locks firmly. A yelp? Maybe. Vincent doesn’t care too much. Knuckles turn white. He doesn’t care either. A choked moan. But he still doesn’t care.
He only cares that he needs more.
Body moving on its own to chase the high, each sliding out almost all the way just to slam back in taking his breath away, making his body feel as if on fire.
He cannot taste, and yet this is perhaps the closest he will ever get.
There’s strong hands clawing at his thighs; holding on so strong one might confuse it with possessiveness. Fingerprints turning red, a reminder for later. Vincent licks his lips.
“Hnn- oh—”
All these noises bubble from Rody’s throat. Whatever goes on inside his mind, Vincent wonders, or is it blank? Wonders how it feels for him, to plunge deep inside his hole over and over again, the tight inner walls embracing him all too much, twitching around him. Is it as good as it is for the chef? Filled to the brim, so deep, a sensation he has waited for ever since he first laid eyes upon the idiot with an easy-going smile.
No, it’s much better than imagination. Watching water splash against his strong chest with every slam of hips, riding his cock hard, and relishing in the low lights of his bathroom bouncing off the tan skin in a rhythmic dance.
His thighs strain. Ache. He’s not used to this much exercise, but for what it’s worth, he will keep going for as long as he can. Are his breaths in pleasure or exhaustion? A chef, not an athlete, but maybe for Rody he would run a thousand miles.
To own him.
Claim him.
In this moment, when his hold is so very tight on auburn locks and skin meets skin underwater, the guilt of his sin is washed away.
She can’t interfere now.
Rise and fall, his body trembles, crumbles; his vision feels blurry yet fully fixed on Rody, on his face twisting in pleasure and pain, and the urge to push him underwater and drown rises like the waves surrounding them.
Messy, damaging. Why is this man doing such things to him?
Life would have been fine without him.
Calloused fingers against his neck. Burnt from stoves, long time ago. Burnt from the wrong men, too. He squeezes, and moans turn to breathless pleas. Green eyes unfocused, wide open.
His body tingles.
A tidal wave is approaching. Helplessly, strong hips thrust upwards in desperate attempts for more, the precise angle from before changed. Maddening. White. Black. A twitch. Curled toes. Mouth agape, and fingers loosen. Head thrown back, black hair messily clinging to skin wet from both sweat and steam. He thrusts harder, then. All too keen on satisfying his boss.
Of course Rody would. He always cares too much for others.
But also, in the way he erratically slams his hard length inside his lithe body, Vincent is willing to believe he is for once chasing his own completion above all.
His fingers tighten once more, but the other does not stop. Even when he lacks the oxygen, his vigor does not waver; the only one wavering is Vincent, feeling himself tightening around the welcomed intrusion.
Close.
Close.
Close.
When he lets go of that strong neck left to bruise, a firm hand grabs black hair equally tight as auburn is held; pulled closer, and teeth click violently. A deep kiss, even deeper desire, unspoken words drowning between their lips.
Breathtaking.
And for once, his mind stills.
Rody.
Rody.
Somewhere between tongues mingling, and lips meshing perfectly, he thinks he can hear his name. Vaguely, he hears Rody’s name too, but he’s not too sure, because who would be whispering it in a hushed tone breathlessly?
Their movements still and slowly but surely, it feels like the world gains more depth again other than a certain redhead. He can dully feel pain in his lower body, but moreso he can feel calm drowning him. His body rises with each breath, and falls like a souffle the next moment. Through curtains of black, he gazes down and see that Rody is in similar state of disarray.
“I’d like a side, please.”
How did they get here?
It’s barely a hazy memory at this point.
They’re still slightly wet, though most has already dried on their skin after leaving the bathtub. Only hair desperately clinging to their skin, but neither cares.
Vincent is surprisingly light.
And long.
Long arms, reaching far low to dig his perfectly manicured nails into his back, painting lines of red over a canvas that isn’t one. Long legs, circled around his waist to hold on desperately as he keeps bouncing himself down onto his cock.
“You feel ₛₒ 𝓰ₒₒ𝒹, ⱽᶦⁿᶜᵉ —"
Is his voice cracking? He doesn’t really mind it either way. But still he wants to say those things. Declare them. Is it weird, to do so with a guy?
Yet every time he does, the other reacts. Subtle. A slight blush. His insides twitching, tightening. Something, always. He’s not even sure the other registers the words, but still he reacts.
It’s intoxicating.
Pounding into Vincent tonight has never been his plan, frankly. Hell, he never thought he’d get laid ever again after Manon left, heart too broken. But now he somehow realizes that perhaps it wasn’t her. Maybe it was the loneliness of a burnt-out loser driving him to obsess over a girl that did not want him.
Vincent wants him.
He’s so quiet, and Rody loves it. All those strained gasps and sharp inhales, swallowed moans and drawn-out breaths, they drive the older to thrust just a bit harder. Pressing him against the wall, pounding into him. Whatever he had poured inside him earlier has already been fucked out, hole slickened and gliding so smooth with his cum still coating those velvety insides.
The mental image alone drives Rody insane.
For now he feasts on the view of Vincent though, with collarbones specked in red flowers blooming into hickeys and eyes unfocused with desire. Sometimes, an order would slip through; always, Rody would obey. More. Harder. Faster. Slower. Deeper. Whatever it is, he listens.
All to hear more of those sounds.
“F-fffuck…!” He hisses when those muscles around him tighten. It’s as if that man is milking him for all he’s got.
Their lips meet in a desperate attempt at being even closer, and by now, Rody has lost count on how many times they kissed since they had left the bath. It’s not romantic, and it’s not soft. It’s hungry and starving. There’s biting, licking, teasing. Swollen skin too sensitive to go on.
Neither cares that their bodies scream.
The heat inside him pools, drops, spills. Again, again. His hand jerking Vincent off forcing him to do the same, a mess over lithe frame.
His name rolls over his tongue so effortlessly, Rody wonders if Vincent has practiced moaning it before.
Rody is still a bit dizzy.
Not really did he expect to be choked in the bathtub, but he found he liked it, kind of. All the air flowing back into his lungs and the blood in his brain was like a rush better than any drug, especially when paired with the addicting feeling of having Vincent around him.
Still, slowly he pulls out, though not without a trail of mess left behind dripping from between gorgeous legs. Letting feet touch the ground once more, he still supports the younger when he realizes he’s still shaky after their second – third? – round. Maybe Rody is glad he had always been more an athletic type, stamina paying off. Maybe right-hand practice also comes into play, but he doesn’t kiss and tell.
“Bed,” Vincent says.
He looks frail; tired, maybe, as if he also hadn’t slept well last night. Though their difference in built is clear, because Rody is way more alert now, body accustomed to such, while it seems to take a toll on his boss. Seems they both had restless nights, and today will not be any different.
Okay, maybe it will be. Maybe after next round he will drop dead in eternal bliss.
“What are you thinking.”
Uh oh.
“Nothing~”
“Usually I’d believe that.”
Somehow, that sharp tongue of his is endearing, when one understands it. Vincent can be blunt, and disregard the other person’s feelings. Objectively, the things he says are bad, hurtful even. And yeah, there was a time during that week where he was legitimately scared of his boss. But now that he sees him covered in hickeys and bruises, his hair a mess and his lips so kissable and swollen, it’s hard to think of those negatives. It’s hard to think at all, really.
Did he love Manon, or was he chasing a fantasy of being wanted?
Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back. Rody understands what it means. When at first, he was questioning, wondering. Doubting that it’d even work with two guys. Perhaps even disgusted.
He now realizes he can be himself with Vincent. There’s no need to bend and break himself over a man who has it all. No need to be loving and tender when Vincent himself has shown his possessive and violent side. He looks frail and tired, but he still takes it, and dishes out all the same.
Of course, a part of him hopes this isn’t the last time, and he gets to be tender, too.
But right now, he can’t get past a feral need to ruin this man in ways no one else has before.
Grabbing Vincent is easy – again, he’s just really light. Princess style, of course, nothing less for a man who made his last week heaven and hell all the same, and he deliberately ignores the protests and squirming until it subsides and the cold man in his arms simply crosses his own and huffs.
The bedroom isn’t far, and Rody unceremonially throws the owner of this place onto the mattress. Only the lights of the lanterns outside brighten the room barely above what is visible, but he can tell that Vincent is annoyed at being manhandled like this. Which is ironic, considering the fact he just fucked him against a wall.
Crawling between legs that seem to go on forever, his fingers trace the skin along as well. When before it was the other holding the reins, it is now his time to show he’s not only good at taking whatever he’s served. His hands hook behind Vincent’s knees and lift him, which earns him a surprised noise in response.
“Again.”
It sounds like he’s stating a fact, but annoyance rings through his voice. Rody decides to reply chipper.
“Again.”
Emeralds fixate on obsidians. He wonders how he hadn’t noticed before how those eyes resemble that stone, but now that he does, he can’t unsee. He cherishes the thought.
But not as much as he cherishes having his boss again, even more so that he seems annoyed by it. If he was going to initiate, he will have to live with the consequences of his actions.
Too easy when he practically folds the black-haired in half; more easy to wrap his arms around his waist and lift, pretty much turning the other upside down. Is this what they mean when they say face down ass up? Eh, not his business to know.
“What. Are you. Doing.” Vincent sounds strained, but that might be perhaps because of the position he’s in, only his shoulders and head touching the bed still. His back is flush against Rody’s heated body, and his ass.
Well.
“A fixed menu, right?” He answers. “Dessert is missing.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Oh but he would. He will. His tongue darts out to trace along the rim and his firm grip keeps Vincent from struggling from his grasp. He’s at the waiter’s mercy and somehow Rody feels like Vincent hates it. Which is why he loves it all the more. The taste is salty, a mix of leftover residue from the bath, sweat, and cum. Not so bad when he thinks about the ashtray he’s been kissing the past hour or two or three – what is time even? It feels wildly irrelevant right now anyway.
The wet muscle draws along the sensitive skin until it finds where he had been pounding into; cute, how his entrance twitches at the affection given by his mouth, almost as if he was tickling him. But the strained gasp tells a different story, and so do eyes squeezed shut and cheeks flushed red. Rody doesn’t mind the taste, but he thinks mentioning it’s better than last night’s left-overs would be too unfair to the man who had prepared it for him. He just wants to see him struggle a bit, not downright ruin him. They’re not the same.
It’s not too hard to push his tongue past the throughoutly stretched ring of muscle. Licking inside and teasing him from deep within, it seems to make his name roll off those lips way easier. Even if scolding, the name “Rody” still slips from Vincent. It sounds so good he wants to hear it over and over again.
His mouth moves on, his tongue painting the way wet, until swollen lips firmly press against taut balls. Deliberately slow, they engulf the ever too soft, hairless skin. Count on Vincent to take care of himself in this kinda way. Like who would ever know.
Rody knows now.
He sucks. Vincent gasps. He rolls. Vincent breathes. He sucks again. Vincent’s back arches.
A cute back and forth, and Vincent feels almost small in his hold. It’s such a nice angle too, to see the white sticky mess on ebony skin from just minutes earlier, and his cock back ready for more.
“You act like you don’t want to, but you’re hard again, Vincy.”
“Don’t ever call me that again.”
At this point Rody feels like Vince will pop a vein. But it’s still fun, to see the guy who bossed him around like a total bitch all week being like this. Annoyed, but not resisting. Well, not really resisting. His words say one thing, but his eyes and body say another altogether.
Sitting up, he lets that boney backside slide down against his chest, his abs. Again, folding him like a paper sheet, which somehow feels ironic to even think considering how pale Vincent is. Guy seriously needs to go outside more.
“Don’t worry though, I’m hard again too,” he says, ignoring the precious statement with intent. “Vincy.”
There’s an attempt at kicking him in the face, but it’s so weak that Rody catches it with one hand, using the leverage to bend the other even more, squeezing the air out of him.
“Look what a good position this is. You can see everything too from your angle, right?”
He’s weirdly motivated about this. TOO motivated. Licking his lips and tasting left-overs from main and side, he grins as he guides his hard cock towards the tightness once more. He already looks so used, cum spilling, loosened, still hot, and Rody wouldn’t want it any other way. He could never do such things to a girl, but he sure as hell can do it to Vincent when he aligns his tip with the sensitive entrance.
The turns have tabled, and now it’s Rody’s turn to determine the pace.
“Do not call me that. You’re a degenerate, Rod—aah---!”
In one swift thrust, he bottoms out – knows Vincent can take it – and catches his words off-guard. It’s the first proper moan he has heard all evening, and even if it had been achieved with trickery, Rody is proud. Real fucking proud. Even more when his boss slaps his arm over his mouth and bites into bandages. When he pulls out just to push back in, a muffled yelp comes from beneath.
Somehow, every time feels better than the last. Not because Vincent is bad at riding, but moreso because now Rody is comfortable, able to gauge his limits and almost break him the same Vince almost broke him earlier, too. Maybe he’s bisexual after all, or maybe he’s just really into overly confident chefs that bite off more than they can chew.
Seeing his body crumble shows him more than enough that he indeed bit off more than he could handle. And he also knows despite being unable to taste, he enjoys the taste of this all the same.
The mattress beneath them begins to squeak when a ruthless pace sets in; if the window is open, neighbors can hear Rody’s loud moans. If someone broke into the restaurant, they will hear the bed slamming against the walls. He barely cares for the noise pollution he creates tonight.
The covers under Vincent shift. Elegant purple and golden patterns, highlighting the pale of his skin, contrasting his own tan in comparison. Black hair melts into the darkness, and so do wide eyes. Void. Bliss. All Rody can think of is how good Vince feels inside out and how beautiful he looks under him. The wet noise of cum and lewd sound of skin on skin echoes in the room, only rivalled by his own grunts and moans in pleasure. Vince managed to regain his composure enough that his arm does not have to suffer any more biting. For now.
It feels erratic. How has he ever lived without this? Going full out. Using all his strength to pound into someone, unafraid they will run. From what he gathers, it seems his boss does like a bit of pain. Each ᵗʰʳᵘˢᵗ hits ᵈᵉᵉᵖ; the way Vince curls and twitches heavily lets him know he’s doing something good. Mouth wide open, saliva running from the corner, breathless groans and glossy eyes. He doesn’t understand, but it seems whatever he’s hitting inside his boss, it’s good.
“Rody,”
It sounds like more is to come, but the words fail. Vince is trembling, shivering, almost spasming beneath him, and he’d be a liar if he said he’d ever seen anything more enticing. Holding back is not an option. His stamina runs dry. He’s sensitive, and he’s sure Vincent is, too.
And Rody presses him into the mattress when he cums. Spurt after spurt, the last remains of his energy is pumped deep inside the younger. Vince cums, too. Hard. Holding his breath. Tightening. His entire body jerks harshly. And Rody knows that those obsidians are trained on the way his cock is lodged deep inside his ass.
Maybe he’s hallucinating. But is Vince…
“Get off me, idiot.”
Of course Rody obeys. Pulls back, and sees the other wince. Eyes squeezed shut and he can tell there’s wetness at the corners of them. White spills from an abused hole, and he lets down his lower body carefully before rolling up by his side.
“Was it too much?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hate it?”
Silence.
“Vince…”
“No.”
It takes more than a moment for the redhead to register that the ‘no’ is, in fact, not regarding calling out his name. Which makes it all the cuter how Vincent is acting about it.
“Liked the view, then?” he pesters him some more.
“Leave me alone,” is the reply. But it lacks the usual bite, and Rody knows it to be a lie again. Seriously, when it’s about any sort of feeling, Vincent really isn’t good at talking them out!
He turns his back to the larger figure, but he only takes it as an invitation to embrace him from behind.
“I didn’t think you’d like being the little spoon.”
“The fuck—”
Okay, maybe he’s overdoing it now. But it’s really just fun to tease that jerk back for hell’s kitchen week. That, and he feels the more he teases, the more he understands the man who seems so irrational in his behavior at times.
Or so he thinks.
“Okay, okay, I’ll drop it,” he mumbles against black hair and tenderly kisses the crown of his head. Then there’s silence. And after a while, it seems that Vincent is finally relaxing in his arms. His fingertips play along the other’s arms, much more slender in comparison, before he whispers, “How did you get hurt in the kitchen?”
It’s unusual, and he’s been meaning to ask all day.
“…”
Silence. Rody already takes a breath to say nevermind, but,
“I tried eating myself.”
Eh?
This tone, Rody does not know. It’s different, and he can’t place it. A joke? Serious? He can’t see Vincent’s face, so it’s entirely impossible to tell.
“That sounds insane,” he replies earnest.
Vincent hums in something that resembles a chuckle. Again, fake or real? Hard to tell.
“It is.”
“So…”
“I got drunk and cut myself while cooking. Don’t think too much of it.”
“Ah. You really shouldn’t drink and cook!”
“Speak for yourself. You can’t even cook sober.”
“Touché.”
Somehow, Rody finds he actually likes this. This whole laying with Vincent in his arms, holding him, smelling him, kissing him, making silly little auto-cannibalism jokes, if it has to be. Whatever floats the chef’s boat.
All in all, he thinks he really likes this asshole of a boss. Maybe this whole ‘city of love’ crap isn’t such a scam after all.
But he’d seriously would like to know why that sounded so damn real.