Big Book Of Parvill One Shots

Payment And Payback (N)

TW: Stuffing, Food Kink, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Oral Sex

Quick note: this is a sequal to Talking Body (put it on me) - this story is also in this book if you would like to re-read that one before reading this one

After the lasagna debacle last week, the last thing Strife wanted to see upon arriving back at Strife Towers was Parvis, in his kitchen yet again.

But life was cruel, and Parvis was an ass. So, when he returned home after a long day's mining in the Nether, it was to a blood mage darting around his kitchen, humming softly to himself under his breath – an eerie little tune, quiet and disconcerting, despite how cheerful Parvis looked.

Dumping his backpack onto the kitchen table with a loud thunk, and drawing in a deep breath in an attempt to control his temper, Strife cleared his throat. "Parvis!" he snapped, when that got no response. "What the hell are you doing in my goddamn kitchen? Again?"

Parvis jumped a near foot in the air at the sound of Strife's voice, the humming transitioning abruptly into a sharp yelp as he spun around. There was an odd look on his face – almost guilty, almost apologetic, almost sly. "Strife! Strifey. Hi."

It wasn't a comforting expression, and Strife's scowl deepened. "If you're raiding my fridge again..." he growled, trailing off. His expression and tone of voice spoke volumes as to what, exactly, he'd do to Parvis, far more than any threat he could make.

"What – you didn't enjoy last week?" shot Parvis back, regaining his composure enough to smirk at Strife, cocking one hip to lean against the counter. It was only then that Strife noticed his hands were dusted with flour, a pale, powdery white replacing the usual streaks of russet-red dried blood. "I don't seem to remember you objecting at the time..." His grin widened. "In fact, I don't remember you saying much of anything, other than oh, Parvis, Parvis!-"

Strife growled, again, stalking past Parvis to wash the grime of the Nether off his hands in the sink, water running brownish-red with netherwrack dust as he scrubbed it away. "Shut up, Parvis." He was aware it wasn't the most elegant retort, but most of his attention was taken up with the effort of not letting his face flush at the memory – Parvis beneath him, breathing heavily, trying to writhe despite the weight of his stuffed-solid, bulging stomach pinning him to the couch... "Look, just- what are you doing in my kitchen?"

Something in Strife's voice – the quiet, resigned exhaustion of a day's hard work – softened Parvis' expression. He slipped from almost cruelly teasing back to that strange, sly guilt in the space of a breath, still leaning against the counter. "I felt bad, y'know, Strifey. For eating all your dinner the other day..."

"That'd be a first," muttered Strife, under his breath, turning the tap off and shaking the excess water off his hands into the sink. As far as he could tell, Parvis had never felt bad for anything in his entire life.

"-so I thought I'd make you some new dinner! To, y'know, make up for the old dinner. And say sorry. Sort of." Parvis paused, grinning widely, expression unreadably gleeful as always. "It's already in the oven, it should be done any minute. I did good, didn't I, Strifey? Tell me I did good!"

For a long moment, the only thing Strife could manage was stunned silence, turning slowly as he wiped his hands on his pants to stare at Parvis. "...You can cook?" he asked, bemused and surprised enough to miss the odd expression on Parvis' face as he looked Strife up and down – sharp, hungry, edged with the slightest hint of arousal bordering on adoration. "I didn't know you could cook."

Then again, there was probably plenty he didn't know Parvis could do. Parvis was a lazy asshole, and would never do anything if he thought there was a chance he could get someone else to do it for him – simple tasks like cooking included.