Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun.

Author's Notes: This was written for stop_drop_porn. My prompt was "hot cocoa." No beta. No time. Set in the A Year (More or Less) in the Life universe. This bit will make more sense if you read that first.

"What the fuck?" I grab the can of hot cocoa that his soon-to-be broken hand had put back on the shelf that I'd just put into the basket. "Earth to stupid." I point in the direction of the outside. "It's blowing a fucking gale outside and some of us, like me, would like—"

"Would you watch your fucking mouth," Vecchio says to me in an irritated whisper. "You've given half the old ladies in the store heart failure."

"Not like they haven't heard it before," I grumble, but turn on the mouth censor.

"That stuff is garbage. It's good enough for Benny because if you served him hot cocoa made out of moldy socks he'd insist it was the best cocoa he'd ever had. I'll make you hot cocoa that will be better than sex," Vecchio purrs in my ear.

"So let me get this straight. We buy a bar of chocolate that costs ten frigging dollars. Plus organic/srganic whipping cream made from cows that were milked by the Virgin Mary, and more organic-shit milk. Whose cows ate wheat cut by Jesus Christ himself—"

"You scythe wheat, moron."

"Oh. Sorry. My bad. We scyyyyyyttttthhhheee the wheat—"

"Would you can the comments until I'm done?"

"Sure, Vecchio. Just so you know. We've just shelled out $15.00 to make your fancy-dancy cocoa versus the $1.49 for the Nestle's shit."

That gets me a glare that's got some Vegas on the edges, so I hold up my hands in surrender. Plus we we're getting to the good part. Vecchio working the machine.

Yeah, I'm a guy so chrome and knobs and gears and cogs and power turn my crank like whoa. Never thought I'd have a jones for an espresso machine, but I'm now a year into living with Vecchio, and I get a hard on the minute I hear the "shush" as the thingee heats up the milk. And yeah, I know it probably has some really hoity-toity name, but I call it the thingee because it looks like a friggin' thingee and it acts like a friggin' thingee. Plus calling it a thingee riles Vecchio up. I'm a weenie like that.

"First, we chop up the chocolate."

I hit my head against the kitchen table, because it's going to be one of those nights.

Vecchio has a thing about his knives. There's only one knife I'm allowed to touch, and it's the one he picked up in the Salvation Army for two bucks. The rest of them are off limits. Which, yeah, he caught me trying to pry open a can of tuna with one once, and since then I'm only allowed to use the crappy knife. Which, hey, I'm okay with because he does all the cooking, and I'm pretty sure that should I get a fish bone caught in my throat, he could give me a trach without any problem. Tonight, he removes the really big fat knife from its sleeve (it says something about my life these days that the knives in our kitchen have clothes that they wear when they are living in their drawer). In less than a minute he's pulverized the chocolate bar into chocolate dust. He dumps a bunch of the chocolate into a stainless steel jug, then pours in some of the whipping cream, tops all of this with a bunch of the milk, and the thingee starts to do its thing. Fortunately, he's getting so wrapped up in getting the milk the right temperature with the thermometer that he bags the usual lecture.

I love watching Vecchio do this sort of shit. He's like Mr. Sensory. He shoves his big honker in there and snorts up the scent of milk and the chocolate and being a guy, he gets off on twirling the dial this way and that, and it's not enough that he keeps a beady eye on the thermometer so the milk won't scorch. He has to keep smelling the milk with that schnooz of his.

He does this with me too. Inhaling me, seeing how turned on I am. Sniffing my pits, my groin, savoring all the sounds I make and the smells I give off. I gotta see things; watching my hand moving over his dick, getting all jazzed when his nipples tighten up. The jaw drop he does just before he's about to lose it. But him? He sniffs and sniffs some more, and nuzzles the crease between my leg and my groin. Groans when he nuzzles my nuts with his chin. The smell, I swear, gets him off.

I see him sticking that honker practically down into the milk and I think, whoa, that could be his face snorting up the smell of my balls, which is a sure-fire prelude to me getting a blow job. Vecchio giving head? If they had an Olympic competition for sucking people off—man, talk about contact sport—Vecchio would absolutely make the team. Christ, you spend two years surrounded by Vegas hookers and short of being brain dead, you have to pick up a few pointers. And Vecchio ain't brain dead.

He's fiddling some more with the knobs and he's saying stuff, which I'm totally ignoring. The gist is that I've never had cocoa like this, and, yeah, I kinda have to agree, because my ma made me cocoa all the time when I was growing up, and I didn't get no humongous boners while she was making it. I bring a palm to my fly, just to ease some of the heat, and press against the rough of the denim. Christ, that's good. I moan, and turning around to scope out why I'm making noises, Vecchio sees me palming my dick through my pants.

"Fuck, Kowalski," he murmurs and turns off the machine.

We'd been stripping each other's dicks for a few months now. I kept getting the call but wasn't answering the sex phone because first Stella and next Fraser and beat up didn't even come close to how wounded I was. But then it either have Vecchio touch my dick or go crazy. I'm enough of a nutball as it is, so I opted for the sex. Man, once I gave the high sign, he was all over me. Which tells me he wanted it real bad. He still wants it bad. Despite the fact he's cooking and I'm eating, I'm still one skinny motherfucker. He pulls my jeans right off my hips, tugs them down in hard yank.

"Hey, you're gonna rip off my diiiiick…" My grousing turning into groaning real quick, because he's got his face in my groin and I can feel all the snorts and sniffs as he pants and smells me. He nudges my knee with his elbow, signaling me to open wide. I can only shift my feet so much because my pants are strangling my ankles, but it's enough for him to first take one ball and then the other in that gorgeous mouth of his, sucking gently, getting me primed.

"My dick," I whimper.

"You greedy son of a bitch," he says happily and fondles my balls with one hand and grips my shaft with the other. Then he plays with me. That motherfucking asshole plays with me. Lapping around the head and working my shaft until I'm this close and then slowing it down. And then ramping it up again until I'm jittering forward, fucking his mouth as much as I can since he's got my dick in a vice, and then it's back to teasing me. And I never know how he knows when it's about to cross the line from sex worth selling your soul for to total torture, but he knows. Because without any warning, he'll swallow me down and shove two fingers up my ass. I see a bunch of white and then a bunch of black, and then my dick spreads the major happy to the rest of my body.

Just tall enough to make it work, he lifts up my shirt and start to hump my stomach. Spitting into my hand to give him some slick so he doesn't get skid marks on his dick, he grinds against me with a push, shove, swivel, push, shove, swivel. I start working his nipples, which doesn't do a hell of a lot for me, but usually gets him going. Bang, he's there, gushing all over me and whispering affectionate bullshit in my ear. Which, yeah, I like even though I tease him about it.

"You," he whispers and then nibbles on my ear for a bit, "are a goddamn horn dog."

"Pot, whatever," I whisper back.

"You want your cocoa?"

Which is how we end up sitting at the kitchen table drinking cocoa with our pants and shorts around our ankles, and me using a dishtowel to wipe down my stomach.


Vecchio can't leave well enough alone. And not like I'm not an equally competitive bastard.

"It's okay," I shrug.

"It's goddamn perfect."

"Nope, it's not."

"What's it missing?" he demands.

Vecchio might be Mr. Cool most of the time, but you poke at him about his cooking and he gets super pissy.


I reach over, grab his hand, and squeeze.