Wax

Twenty Five

A/N: Hewo Beans! I was gonna do the giveaway draw today and film myself doing it but instead I spent the entire day, morning to night, writing this chapter ;-; so I was unable to do so. To everyone who participated, I've read alllll the entries (and shed tears of joy hehe) and written your names down on slips of paper and collected them all in a jar. 

I'll probably find a time to do the draw and also to announce the official date of BOTH Vanilla 1 and Vanilla 2's release on Instagram. For now, I'm looking at end November. A huge thank you to everyone who participated in the draw and I was also able to read the comments of both long-time readers and readers I've never seen so it was very heartwarming. Hehe. If I find the time, I'll also reply to all the entries /.\ everyone is so sweet.

Enjoy the chapter!

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[Leroy]

Something about seeing Siegfried's face puts the kettle on the stove. I think it's his nose. Back then, I'd always stare at it instead of his eyes whenever he was teaching. Whether it was a theoretical class on Indian cuisine or demonstrative one on flambéing a steak; looking into his eyes was ending a day that had barely started and I learned, along the way, how to avoid them.

No surprises. I'd be at my lowest an hour or so before seeing that face—anticipating the shitty day that was to come but guess what? Not today.

I was up at twelve making myself some bacon and eggs after a good morning's sleep in his bed, pulling out my Bluetooth speaker and placing it on the counter for a mood-maker. Fire-starter. Part of the dream was doing this every day; making breakfast to a sick beat, coffee machine whirring in the back, no shirt, just pants, him standing by the doorway, leaning on the frame with a cup of tea hiding a smile. Chicken at his food bowl. Maybe another cat. If he likes cats. Gotta ask.

Anyway, imagine starting the day with a good fix of 'bad guy'. Sure, it's been some time since I last did, but if I was to be living with a self-proclaimed avalanche, the least I could do was work on my flames. 200 IQ was becoming the bad-er bad guy. Baddest of them all. Already I could hear him correcting my grammar.

And if being bad included breaking the rules, I was at the top of my game; having breakfast at lunchtime; browsing the web for anal training kit recs over the bacon and eggs; measuring the variations he bought as a set with a fucking ruler; all while considering if I should do the same with my dick at it's, uh, best.

Practically speaking, I was making full use of my time. Siegfried sent instructions over to be at Andre's by three for a briefing in the kitchen which meant that I had at most two hours to myself before biking over to hell.

I recalled the decision we made together this morning before I crashed in bed about the training kit. That we'd come up with or list several options on a notepad by the front door just in case our separate work schedules got in the way of our discussion and then a couple of days later, decide on the best buy. Apparently, the plug that came in the largest size among the set of four he bought didn't, uh, make the cut. As in. Wasn't big enough.

I did some research, played with Chicken for a bit, got dressed, and wrote the first option on the notepad by the door before heading off. And then backtracked—just to get the idea out of my head—to write another option under an added category of 'play'. The kind that included a bullet vibrator and nine modes. Remote-controlled.