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eliyesWhoa. How have I not posted this already? I thought I had, but I can't find it anywhere.
Title: Secret Recipe
Summary: Bobby's milkshake bringsthe boys Jean-Paul to the yard kitchenette. X3
Author's notes: Yes, I know the lyrics are wrong. It's Bobby that doesn't. ;3
As Jean-Paul approached the kitchenette just down the hall from his office, he heard the blender start up. He'd never used the appliance himself, but had seen its like before when Heather had gone on a health-shake craze. Big, businesslike, and possessed of a unique noise that was somehow both grinding and whirring, regardless of what was in it. It was also loud enough that most people didn't try to talk when it was running, which meant there was a chance he'd be able to get in and get his coffee without having to make conversation with whomever was there. A legitimate excuse to avoid smalltalk with his new "co-workers" was always welcome.
He swung open the door to the kitchenette an all thoughts of smalltalk, of coffee -- of anything at all -- fled.
Bobby was using the blender. Bobby was dancing with the blender. He had one hand on the lid and the other raised over his head as he bounced, wiggled, and swiveled his hips. Jean-Paul's eyes fell to the hypnotic motion of Bobby's butt. He glanced up, suddenly paranoid, but no one else was there to see him -- and so he let his gaze drift back down.
He realized that Bobby was chanting something in time with his movements, and after a moment made out the words:
"My milkshake is better than yours. Damn right it's better than yours! I could teach you but I'd have to charge. My milkshake brings the boys to the yard. That's right, it's better than yours..."
Prompted by the word "milkshake", Jean-Paul took notice of the various things assembled on the counter: a dripping spoon, a can with Chinese characters on the label, a small dark bottle, a banana peel...
The grind/whirr ceased, as did the chanting and hypno-butt wiggling, as Bobby looked at his creation.
"Hmm," he said absently. "Little too much."
"What kind of milkshake?" Jean-Paul asked, suddenly beside Bobby, who only barely twitched in startlement.
"Sneak. Wouldn't you like to know?" he teased.
"Would I have asked, otherwise?"
"Piña colada. It's really more of a smoothie," Bobby said. He held up the spoon, ignoring the drop of melting ice cream that hit his knuckles. "Want to taste?"
Jean-Paul wanted to lick Bobby's knuckles, and then move to his neck, but he doubted that was what was on offer.
"Yes," he said, watching the droplet disappear between Bobby's fingers and wondering when melted ice cream gained the power to ignite his passion.
Bobby set the lid on the countertop and, tilting the blender to one side, scooped out a spoonful. He held out the spoon, and looked amused when, rather than taking it from him, Jean-Paul leaned forward and let him hold it while he had his taste.
"Mmm. Very good," he said, surprised. "Not exactly like a piña colada, but still tasty."
Bobby beamed at him, but somehow also looked wry.
"Well, I'm only using a little rum extract, so there's one difference." The sudden knowing look on his face lit a fire in Jean-Paul's gut.
"Want some more?" Bobby asked, and his voice fanned the flame.
"Yes," Jean-Paul breathed. He definitely wanted more.
"I'll make you one," Bobby said, moving to the refrigerator. Jean-Paul licked his lips and watched him take an unmarked ice cream container from the freezer. He scooped two big spoonfuls into the blender with the already-finished milkshake.
"This is one of my secret ingredients," Bobby confided.
"Ice cream?"
"Pineapple ice cream."
"Really?" Jean-Paul had never heard of that flavour. "Where do you get it?"
"I make it," Bobby said so proudly that Jean-Paul had to smile. "Learning to make ice cream was one of the first worthwhile things I learned to do with my powers, I felt. Although the first hundred tries or so weren't very good."
Next, he chopped half a banana into the mix, followed by white liquid from the can.
"Coconut cream," he answered Jean-Paul's inquiring look. He added a couple drops of the rum extract, then started the blender up again. During this whole procedure, Jean-Paul had not moved any further away than he'd been to taste the spoonful, so the magic of milkshake-making took on an unusually intimate air. It also left him close enough to be able to notice Bobby now humming the same song from before.
The blender stopped, and Bobby gestured to a cabinet.
"Grab a tall glass," he instructed, and then blinked and smiled at the glass suddenly in Jean-Paul's hand.
The cabinet door banged shut.
Bobby raised an eyebrow, but poured from the blender into the glass as Jean-Paul held it, rather than having him set it down.
"Tsk, so impatient," he said, shaking his head. "Funny. I actually discovered the secret to making ice cream is to not be hasty." He stopped pouring, but gave Jean-Paul's wrist a squeeze before turning to fill his own glass. It felt like a signal to stay.
Or maybe he just didn't want to go.
"Oh?" Jean-Paul managed. Bobby nodded.
"You have to take things slow. Go gradually, stir and churn and work everything --" He emphasized his statement with a small hip thrust, and Jean-Paul might have made a helpless noise. "--otherwise you end up with a block of ice that used to be cream." Bobby turned back and topped up Jean-Paul's glass with the rest of the blender's contents, steadying the vessel with a hand on the base. Their fingers brushed.
Jean-Paul wondered when he'd gotten to the point that such a thing affected him.
Bobby smiled at him, and again it seemed knowing, as though he could see what Jean-Paul was thinking. He hoped it was his imagination, and started to turn, to get away from that gaze.
Once again, Bobby grasped his wrist. Was it his hand that was cold, or Jean-Paul's flesh that was fevered? Either way, a shiver ran down his spine.
"Don't go yet," Bobby chided. "You need a straw."
"Right." Or that was what Jean-Paul meant to say. It came out more like, "Unmfp." He resisted the urge to die of embarrassment.
Bobby fetched two wide straws from a container of them on the counter and handed one to Jean-Paul.
"You know, I could do something really suggestive with a straw and a milkshake this colour," Bobby commented; Jean-Paul made a strangled noise, "But I think it would be easier if you just kissed me now."
"Oh, Dieu merci," Jean-Paul breathed, digging both hands into Bobby's hair and kissing those teasing lips. His milkshake, set down too hastily, fell over on the counter as he backed Bobby up against the fridge, but he didn't care; this was what he'd wanted. Sweet as that taste had been, it was cold, but Bobby, who was wrapping arms around him and making happy noises -- Bobby was warm and sweet.
Cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
speedsicle.
Title: Secret Recipe
Summary: Bobby's milkshake brings
Author's notes: Yes, I know the lyrics are wrong. It's Bobby that doesn't. ;3
As Jean-Paul approached the kitchenette just down the hall from his office, he heard the blender start up. He'd never used the appliance himself, but had seen its like before when Heather had gone on a health-shake craze. Big, businesslike, and possessed of a unique noise that was somehow both grinding and whirring, regardless of what was in it. It was also loud enough that most people didn't try to talk when it was running, which meant there was a chance he'd be able to get in and get his coffee without having to make conversation with whomever was there. A legitimate excuse to avoid smalltalk with his new "co-workers" was always welcome.
He swung open the door to the kitchenette an all thoughts of smalltalk, of coffee -- of anything at all -- fled.
Bobby was using the blender. Bobby was dancing with the blender. He had one hand on the lid and the other raised over his head as he bounced, wiggled, and swiveled his hips. Jean-Paul's eyes fell to the hypnotic motion of Bobby's butt. He glanced up, suddenly paranoid, but no one else was there to see him -- and so he let his gaze drift back down.
He realized that Bobby was chanting something in time with his movements, and after a moment made out the words:
"My milkshake is better than yours. Damn right it's better than yours! I could teach you but I'd have to charge. My milkshake brings the boys to the yard. That's right, it's better than yours..."
Prompted by the word "milkshake", Jean-Paul took notice of the various things assembled on the counter: a dripping spoon, a can with Chinese characters on the label, a small dark bottle, a banana peel...
The grind/whirr ceased, as did the chanting and hypno-butt wiggling, as Bobby looked at his creation.
"Hmm," he said absently. "Little too much."
"What kind of milkshake?" Jean-Paul asked, suddenly beside Bobby, who only barely twitched in startlement.
"Sneak. Wouldn't you like to know?" he teased.
"Would I have asked, otherwise?"
"Piña colada. It's really more of a smoothie," Bobby said. He held up the spoon, ignoring the drop of melting ice cream that hit his knuckles. "Want to taste?"
Jean-Paul wanted to lick Bobby's knuckles, and then move to his neck, but he doubted that was what was on offer.
"Yes," he said, watching the droplet disappear between Bobby's fingers and wondering when melted ice cream gained the power to ignite his passion.
Bobby set the lid on the countertop and, tilting the blender to one side, scooped out a spoonful. He held out the spoon, and looked amused when, rather than taking it from him, Jean-Paul leaned forward and let him hold it while he had his taste.
"Mmm. Very good," he said, surprised. "Not exactly like a piña colada, but still tasty."
Bobby beamed at him, but somehow also looked wry.
"Well, I'm only using a little rum extract, so there's one difference." The sudden knowing look on his face lit a fire in Jean-Paul's gut.
"Want some more?" Bobby asked, and his voice fanned the flame.
"Yes," Jean-Paul breathed. He definitely wanted more.
"I'll make you one," Bobby said, moving to the refrigerator. Jean-Paul licked his lips and watched him take an unmarked ice cream container from the freezer. He scooped two big spoonfuls into the blender with the already-finished milkshake.
"This is one of my secret ingredients," Bobby confided.
"Ice cream?"
"Pineapple ice cream."
"Really?" Jean-Paul had never heard of that flavour. "Where do you get it?"
"I make it," Bobby said so proudly that Jean-Paul had to smile. "Learning to make ice cream was one of the first worthwhile things I learned to do with my powers, I felt. Although the first hundred tries or so weren't very good."
Next, he chopped half a banana into the mix, followed by white liquid from the can.
"Coconut cream," he answered Jean-Paul's inquiring look. He added a couple drops of the rum extract, then started the blender up again. During this whole procedure, Jean-Paul had not moved any further away than he'd been to taste the spoonful, so the magic of milkshake-making took on an unusually intimate air. It also left him close enough to be able to notice Bobby now humming the same song from before.
The blender stopped, and Bobby gestured to a cabinet.
"Grab a tall glass," he instructed, and then blinked and smiled at the glass suddenly in Jean-Paul's hand.
The cabinet door banged shut.
Bobby raised an eyebrow, but poured from the blender into the glass as Jean-Paul held it, rather than having him set it down.
"Tsk, so impatient," he said, shaking his head. "Funny. I actually discovered the secret to making ice cream is to not be hasty." He stopped pouring, but gave Jean-Paul's wrist a squeeze before turning to fill his own glass. It felt like a signal to stay.
Or maybe he just didn't want to go.
"Oh?" Jean-Paul managed. Bobby nodded.
"You have to take things slow. Go gradually, stir and churn and work everything --" He emphasized his statement with a small hip thrust, and Jean-Paul might have made a helpless noise. "--otherwise you end up with a block of ice that used to be cream." Bobby turned back and topped up Jean-Paul's glass with the rest of the blender's contents, steadying the vessel with a hand on the base. Their fingers brushed.
Jean-Paul wondered when he'd gotten to the point that such a thing affected him.
Bobby smiled at him, and again it seemed knowing, as though he could see what Jean-Paul was thinking. He hoped it was his imagination, and started to turn, to get away from that gaze.
Once again, Bobby grasped his wrist. Was it his hand that was cold, or Jean-Paul's flesh that was fevered? Either way, a shiver ran down his spine.
"Don't go yet," Bobby chided. "You need a straw."
"Right." Or that was what Jean-Paul meant to say. It came out more like, "Unmfp." He resisted the urge to die of embarrassment.
Bobby fetched two wide straws from a container of them on the counter and handed one to Jean-Paul.
"You know, I could do something really suggestive with a straw and a milkshake this colour," Bobby commented; Jean-Paul made a strangled noise, "But I think it would be easier if you just kissed me now."
"Oh, Dieu merci," Jean-Paul breathed, digging both hands into Bobby's hair and kissing those teasing lips. His milkshake, set down too hastily, fell over on the counter as he backed Bobby up against the fridge, but he didn't care; this was what he'd wanted. Sweet as that taste had been, it was cold, but Bobby, who was wrapping arms around him and making happy noises -- Bobby was warm and sweet.
Cross-posted to
speedsicle.