[Self-control is overrated] // Rody x Vincent (Explicit)

Hook (Part 1/3)

It's the 16th day since Rody Lamoree started working at La Guele-no, since he started working for Vince.

...And three hours ago, he committed a crime. A crime so deplorable he deserved a death sentence.

He... he- fuck! He lost his mind and masturbated- to whom you ask? Well, it was none other than his cold and mean-spirited boss. Oh god, what is wrong with him...?!

This was all his dream brain's fault, damn it! Ever since that night, he's been having wet dreams about Vince over and over and over and-

This is all. so. wrong.

Rody wishes that he can forget it all- just like the first dream, which still remained blurry except for brief flashes- because the recent dream he had, the catalyst to cause his sinful hand to reach beneath his underwear, was too fucking hot.

Soft hands tending his almost-healed knuckles, index finger sending butterfly-like caresses on his scabs, playfully scratching the edges as if the other person wants him to bleed again.

Do they want to fix him or break him?

...Or both?

He could do nothing but hiss in pain and try to fight against the bandages binding his arms to his torso, even if it was a half-hearted attempt and only done so that Rody can say that he doesn't actually want it- a big fucking lie.

Although he's pretty sure the other person realized it when they spoke, voice filled with bridled amusement. "Try a bit harder, Rody. Why don't you try using your legs?"

And as if to further humiliate Rody, their hands slide down to grab a fistful of his thighs, squeezing appreciatively as they part his- unbound -legs.

"Y-You..." He stutters, heart pounding loudly as the other person kneels down, slotting themselves perfectly in between his legs, and kisses the inside of his thigh. "Ngh....!"

Rody could only lament and mentally kick himself repeatedly. Why wasn't his mind this creative when he was still with Manon, huh?!

Fuuuuuuuuck. It's mortifying. He's seriously one impulse tick away from reaching for his barely-functioning telephone, courtesy of him punching it two days ago, dialing back the number Vince previously used to call him with, and rambling out a warbled, "I want to quit. I'm sorry for doing this without notice but it's a personal emergency. Goodbye!"

Then he'll move out of the city. Somewhere away from the bistro... and far away from Vince- where he can hopefully forget these confusing feelings.

But he can't.

Because he realized that calling Vince meant hearing his voice and Rody's not yet mentally prepared for that, and he doubts he'll ever be.

He could already imagine what Vince would say. Idiot, why the hell are you calling me at four in the morning? Unlike you, I don't have the luxury to have a day off. I'm too busy doing productive *censored*.

And he could also imagine what he'll do, which was nothing but get distracted as he basks in Vince's velvety voice, mind throwing him straight back to his dream- Vince's quiet sighs and hums of content in-between the embarrassing sounds of slicking and slurping noises, as he swallows Rody down and acting like he's gotten his sense of taste back and Rody's the best fucking meal he's ever had with how ravenous and determined he was to get all of Rody in his mouth until his lips meets tanned skin.