• Taste Test by iguana8llama (Dead Plate, VinceRody)

╰┈• Focusing more on the flavor is an understatement! Being submerged in darkness like this serves to heighten his other senses to the point of hyperactive and overstimulated from anxiety fraying at his brain at each half baked thought of what Vince is going to do to him. It’s just another taste testing session, Rody tried to convince himself, but it did nothing to stem the nervousness. What is he supposed to do? Reach out blindly and somehow eat without making a mess of himself?

Jolting at the unexpected bump against his lips, a sauce smeared against them. Sucking in a shocked inhale, nostrils filling with a buttery richness and what had to be shellfish. Reflectivity opening his mouth, the prongs of the fork tickled at his tongue. Saliva gushing forth to wet his mouth and cool the hot morsel. Cinching his mouth shut, the slow scrape of metal on teeth buzzed in his ears followed by the encompassing rough smoker’s voice telling him the name of the dish.

Soft flesh bubbled and burst between Rody’s teeth as the redhead chewed agonizingly slow. Lobster, butter, cream sauce. So rich it left an unpleasant film in his mouth. He told Vince as such; herbs or spices severely needing to cut through the fatty buttery richness. A dry wine to cleanse the palette. “Good.”

Rody licked his lips. A tremor running down his spine. Was that praise or a comment on the quality of the wine?

His descriptions bring with them scratches on paper, low muttering, and the clank of a plate hitting the bottom of the sink. Ceramic grinding on marble counters alerted Rody of the next incoming bite. Clink of silverware as whatever dish is cut, stabbed, or spooned up. His hands sweat in anticipation, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows the excess spit. Hands itching to reach up and remove the blindfold so he could see the utensil come closer, and not have to wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans as he waits on edge.

Umami filled his senses and this time Rody is ready, opening his mouth for the bite to be deposited without getting food smeared on his face. This time it’s pork- no… yeah pork and prosciutto. Fontina and parmesan cheese that covers up the taste of the sauce. A sauce that, by itself, isn’t quite right. Too dry, almost vinegary, bitter. His nose wrinkles up at the offensive flavor. It needs a sauce that complements the earthy, mushroomy, woody taste of the fontina cheese like Marsala. Speaking his inner thoughts out loud, a considering hum plays at his ears before the sound of pen on paper once more fills the silence.

“I didn’t think you knew so much about wine and cheese pairings.” The gravelly voice praised him. Without seeing the nearly unchanging professional expression Vince usually keeps, Rody can truly hear the subtle tilt in the guy’s voice, and that for certain was praise. Rody shivered. Skin prickling and drawing his awareness to the feeling of how his shirt touches his skin with each labored breath.

“Have our little sessions broaden your horizons enough that you now thirst for more?” A heavy blush breaks out over his cheeks at the teasing coo. Without the sarcastic smirk that accompanies such remarks, Rody is left floundering at the unintentional double entendre of the phrase. Was it unintentional? He’s not given much time to think as a spoonful of sweetness caresses his bottom lip, coaxing his mouth to fall open and an unexpected moan to vibrate low in his throat.

Tiramisu. Damn good tiramisu at that. Vince chuckled at his reaction. “If it’s that good I wonder what sound you’ll make when I make it.” Rody tries to keep his voice from shaking as he thinks of possible improvements. Mascarpone instead of cream cheese. Dark rum instead of Marsala. By the time he stutters over his words he’s sweating; hands clammy and trembling. Breaths coming out harsher than they should be after such small bites. Face burning hot. These sessions never left him so agitated before, but with his eyes covered he can’t help but take in every tiny detail that typically goes unnoticed. Head swimming in the sound of Vince. The way he hums, laughs, clicks his tongue as he scratches something out. His world narrowed down to this willing darkness where Vincent has absolute control.

Where Rody stews in anticipation; waiting for the pressure to arrive at his lips so he could part them obediently and take what Vince gives him. Spill personal thoughts and opinions as offerings to Vince. Listen to the sounds of praise, as if rewards for being good and staying in this black endless expanse much like the ravenet’s eyes. Blunt nails dig into his jean clad legs, creasing the fabric and definitely leaving bruises. Shifting on the barstool, Rody squeezed his thighs together and felt an answering throb from his nethers.

╰┈• Cracking open the window, he placed one between his lips and pressed down on the spark wheel of his lighter. Sparks. He tried a few more times, tilting the damn thing to move the fuel but nothing worked. It’s empty, he never got around to replacing it since Rody had been lighting the majority of his death sticks lately.

Chewing on the filter he watched the street below, gripping his phone tight and running the nail of his thumb over the power button. Rody hasn’t even texted an excuse as to why he’s late. The big dope could have gotten in an accident, hit by a drunk driver, mugged. He should have driven out or had his friends pick him up. Anything would have been better than Rody riding a bicycle at night.

There’s a cheer from the other room and brings himself out of reclusing to see if they’re destroying his house. The two well anticipated women have arrived, sandwiched between them is a bashful ginger mut he worried about, thinking Rody was dead in an alley somewhere. There’s a large case on his back; is that a guitar? Vincent didn’t know Rody could play an instrument. He’s being introduced to the others by the ladies; one less thing for him to worry about.

Setting down the cigarette carton and his phone, Vincent got himself comfortable in the kitchen. With everyone here, he can start on dinner, let his guests mingle and chatter in the background. Well most of them. He and Aimé share the trait of being on the more reserved side, preferring to people watch.

A shadow appeared over his workspace. “Hey Vince.”

“Rody.” He acknowledged the other.

“Need help with anything?”

“Do you want to help?”

He glanced up and the redhead gave him a cheeky grin. “Will you pay me extra?”

Snorting at the brazen dog, Vince pointed over at the recipe he printed off. “Tortellini Soup, you know how to follow directions.”

Rody went for the paper but stopped short, hand hovering over Vincent’s discarded cigarette. The taller man patted down his pockets, frowning when he couldn’t find what he was looking for. This ballsy oaf then placed the cigarette in his own mouth, bent over the stove and clicked on the burner. Rody puffed and got it burning, standing up, turning off the burner, and offering the now smoldering cigarette to Vincent with a happy smile.

Taking it, he fought down the rampant blush threatening to take over his face. That’s not something you do casually for a friend! Brain malfunctioning, he brought the sin stick to his lips and took a pull, turning on the exhaust fan as a second thought. “Why were you late?”