Dead Plate Oneshots Worn Out

Warning:contains sexual content

Rody didn’t think he’d ever see the day where his plans to “mess with Vincent” had actually succeeded—usually, it was Vincent rolling his eyes, delivering some icy jab that went straight over Rody’s head, or even a light smack on the shoulder if Rody was *really* being obnoxious. But, somehow, this time, he’d managed to leave the oh-so-composed Vincent Charbonneau stumbling through the apartment like a deer on wobbly legs.

It had started as just another Tuesday. Rody woke up late, Manon was already gone to some class, and Vincent was still in the kitchen. Rody caught himself lingering by the door, watching Vincent go about his usual precise morning routine: meticulously chopping vegetables for later, scrubbing the counters until they gleamed, and frowning at the most infinitesimal speck of dust as if it’d personally wronged him. Rody didn’t know what came over him, but he was suddenly struck by just how… *tight* Vincent looked in his plain black turtleneck, his sleeves rolled up to reveal those delicate forearms that were doing *serious* damage to Rody’s willpower.

So, he’d done what any normal person would do: walked up, threw his arm around Vincent’s shoulder, and casually whispered, “You look really hot when you’re focused, Chef.”

Vincent had rolled his eyes, of course. “You’re going to make me spill this,” he deadpanned, swatting Rody’s arm away. But his cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink, and Rody knew he had him.

Before Vincent could say another word, Rody had leaned in, letting his lips brush against Vincent’s neck as he murmured, “What’s a guy gotta do to get you to loosen up a little?”

An hour later, Vincent had been rendered unable to walk straight.

That brought Rody immense pride, and also a little amusement when, while Vincent lay in bed still catching his breath, he announced he’d go out to grab some food. “You’re not even going to help me up?” Vincent had grumbled, half-muffled by a pillow. But Rody just kissed him on the forehead, laughed, and walked out, leaving Vincent to “recover.”

—

Manon was, as usual, handling the kitchen with all the grace of a tornado. When Rody returned, takeout bags in hand, the first thing he noticed was the faint smell of burning. The second thing was Manon standing by the stove, fanning a sizzling pan while muttering to herself.

“Oh, you’re back!” she said, noticing him. “Got food? Great, because I think I just made the smoke alarm’s life flash before its eyes.”

She shot a glance around the kitchen, as if expecting Vincent to swoop in with his usual snarky “What on Earth are you doing?”

But the kitchen was silent, and the only person there was Rody, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

“Where’s Vincent? Usually he’s trying to hit me with a frying pan by this point” she asked, raising an eyebrow. She still had that look of cautious expectation, like she was about to get a lecture.

Rody just smirked, leaning back against the counter as he passed her the takeout. “Vincent? Oh, he’s… let’s just say he’s not feeling too well.”

Manon furrowed her brows, glancing down the hallway toward Vincent’s room. “Wait, what happened? He’s never sick.”

“Oh, no, not sick. Just, you know… *worn out.*”

It took a moment, but then Manon’s eyes went wide. She dropped the takeout bag, clutching her mouth. “*Rody!*”

He shrugged, smirk growing wider. “Hey, he was begging for it. Kept saying things like ‘This is inappropriate,’ ‘What are you doing,’ ‘Not on the kitchen counter’—”

“Oh my *god,*” Manon groaned, covering her ears dramatically. “That poor man. You’ve broken Vincent Charbonneau.”

Rody feigned offense. “Hey, if anything, I think I *improved* him. You know, helped him de-stress a bit.”

Manon shot him a disbelieving look. “You know, he’s probably planning a ten-step revenge strategy right now.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Rody replied, eyes glinting with mischief. “Wouldn’t be nearly as fun otherwise.”

But just as he was about to continue, they heard a faint groan from down the hall. Manon nearly dropped her food. “Is that him?” she whispered, as if Vincent might overhear.

Rody chuckled. “That’d be the sound of a man who’s feeling, ah, *thoroughly taken care of.*”

Another groan, and then a raspy “Rody…” drifted from Vincent’s room, just loud enough to make Manon’s eyes widen in horror.

“*You’ve ruined him,*” she hissed, barely able to stifle her laugh. “He’s never going to let you live this down.”

Rody only shrugged. “Guess he’ll just have to deal with it. Besides, he could use a little loosening up.”

They exchanged glances, and then, unable to keep straight faces any longer, they both burst out laughing. Manon happily tore into the takeout while Rody basked in the triumph of a job well done—or, in this case, a Vincent well-ruined.

Manon smacked him again with the dishtowel, unable to keep herself from laughing. “You better hope he’ll get back on his feet soon. Vincent’s the most responsible one here; he’s the only reason this apartment isn’t a flaming dumpster every day!”

Rody laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I swear, you can go check on him yourself. He probably can’t walk for a while. I might’ve overdone it just a tad.”

The sound of a bed creaking was heard, and Vincent’s irritated, muffled voice floated down the hallway. “Could you two not shout?”

Manon cupped her hands around her mouth, yelling back. “Are you alive in there, Vincent?”

A groan of frustration came back, and she could practically hear him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately, yes.”

She looked at Rody, who only chuckled, looking far too proud of himself. She couldn’t resist. She stormed down the hallway and flung Vincent’s door open.

There he was, lying on his bed, sprawled out like he’d just run a marathon. His usually neat black hair was a mess, and he looked absolutely exhausted, staring at the ceiling in the way only someone who had completely surrendered could.

“Oh my god,” she said, laughing harder. “You poor thing!”

He barely turned his head, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. “If you’re here to laugh, kindly leave.”

“No, no, I’m here for emotional support,” she snickered, leaning on the doorframe. “And to see the disaster Rody left in his wake.”

Vincent sighed heavily. “The disaster Rody left is that I can’t move. Happy now?”

“Oh, I’m thrilled,” she replied, laughing. She threw a look at Rody, who had followed her in, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, looking smug as ever.

Vincent glared up at him, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Did you really have to brag about it?”

“Aw, babe, come on. You know I can’t resist a little victory lap,” Rody grinned, flashing him a wink.

Vincent scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Trust me, I’ll remember this.”

Rody chuckled, leaning down to give Vincent a quick kiss on the forehead, which only seemed to deepen his scowl. “I know you will, sweetheart.”

Manon snorted, shaking her head. “Alright, I’ve seen enough. You two are hopeless. And Vincent, when you’re back on your feet, maybe consider booby-trapping the kitchen against Rody’s ego.”

With that, she threw them both a wink and headed back to the living room, shaking her head and already thinking of the future blackmail material this moment would provide.