DISCLAIMER: Capcom's. I really apologize.
NOTES: Written for the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme. Apologies if I butcher the French language, and I know the game spelled très with an acute not a grave, but this is the proper French way so deal with it. (PS: THE BODY OIL IS A LIE.)
PROMPT: I cannot believe this has yet to be requested, anon! I'm ashamed of you!
Armstrong/Godot, body oil. Restaurant sex with Victor Kudo randomly coming in.
It was all the fault of the Elg case that he even deigned himself to enter the froofy pink restaurant again, now that it was all squared away. All that talk of "javaccino", as the old man called it, made Godot curious to try it. Although he was a man who liked his coffee strong, black, and of his own personal blend, Godot had been seduced by it, tempted by the dark 8-dollar goddess brewed at Très Bien.
A bell above the door chimed as he stepped in. The place reeked—roses, everywhere, in fine vases, all over the tables, near the cash register, even patterned in the wallpaper. Just one whiff made him want to hightail it out of there, and thinking of the restaurant's owner gave Godot the chills.
But that coffee… temporary salvation. He craved it, now.
"Bienvenue à Très Bien!" came the unmistakable voice of said owner. Godot felt the predicted shiver run up his spine.
Everything about the man was off-putting; his stature, his rosy stink, the curls and the general femininity a man of that size should never, ever exude. Godot tilted his head back, hands tucked away in his pockets, and sauntered towards Jean.
"Ah, z'e prosecutor! Monsieur Godot, non?" Jean waved him over to one of the empty tables and patted the seat. "Z'is is a surprise! 'andsome as ever, I see."
Godot took a cursory look around. "No waitresses on duty?"
"Non," Jean pouted, tugging a rose from the pocket of his outfit, "just moi for z'e day. Z'e customers are still lacking."
"I don't need your life story," Godot said, taking the proffered seat—the one Glen Elg happened to die in, he noted. "Just a coffee. Sans poison."
"Excellente choice! Excuse moi, I must brew la nouveau pot."
"Ha…" Godot took in the place. Girly as it was the last time he came, accented everywhere with little knickknacks and flowers, French fashion magazines, lacy curtains, jingling music that irritated him to no end. The place certainly put the "gay" in "gay Paris".
The kitchen door swung open and Jean was back, holding something in his oddly feminine hands.
"What is that thing?" he asked as Jean rounded his table.
"Z'is 'ere is jasmine wiz un peu essence of patchouli." Jean presented the small, decorative blue bottle. "I could see it in la body language. You need relief for la tension, non? A massage wiz z'is and voilà! Revigorerais!"
"Ha…!" Godot tipped his head, wary now of the other man. "Let me get this straight. You're offering me a massage, Mr. Armstrong?"
"Oui, oui, z'at is, if you would like?" Jean smiled, fingering the bottle coquettishly.
Godot crossed his arms, looking Jean up and down, sizing him up. The smile, the curly beard, ridiculous hat and hair told him no, no, no he did not want a massage or anything else Jean was offering.
"Never let a man bigger than you give you a massage. That's one of my rules."
With a deep pout on his pink lips, Jean whimpered, "Alors! Monsieur Godot, I am but a little girl! Is z'is 'ow you perceive moi?" Shaking his head, he added, "La brute I am not!"
"You're no kitten, either."
Jean looked close to tears. "Mon Dieu! 'ow rude!" He slapped Godot on the shoulder with a long-stemmed rose for emphasis.
Godot brushed a stray petal from his vest. "Nice girls don't hit, Mr. Armstrong. Now," he said, giving the table an impatient tap, "my coffee."
"Ah! Z'at is right, z'e coffee!"
Jean opened the blue bottle and placed it on Godot's table before toddling off to the kitchen. Godot sniffed inelegantly; the smell of the oil plus the overbearing scent of rose perfuming the place all clashed together. He waved his hand towards to bottle in an attempt to waft the stink away. It was dizzying.
After a while Godot stopped trying to evade the smell; like the past, it kept coming back to haunt him. He was starting to get used to it, anyway—either that, or it was strong enough to kill off his sense of smell. Godot would never understand this "aromatherapy" thing. Mia tried explaining the concept to him once, in his previous life, but he never went for it. The only thing he wanted to smell was the scent of the blackest brewed coffee…
…or, perhaps, Mia.
"Monsieur Godot, la coffee is ready!"
Jean precariously balanced the flowered cup and saucer on a matching serving platter as he waggled his way back to Godot's seat. Godot glanced into the cup.
"Oui, oui! Sans addition!"
Godot took a sip.
"I 'ave used only z'e best beans, ground by 'and. La coffee is satisfactory, non?"
He swallowed. It wasn't as good as any of his own personal blends, but there was sure as Hell no way he'd pay eight dollars for something like this ever again. Especially not out of a cup that looked like it belonged in a little girl's tea set.
Jean pressed his fingers together nervously. "Your opinion, s'il vous plaît…?"
"Don't you know not to interrupt a man when he's drinking his coffee?"
"Ah, my apologies. Allow moi to sit, z'en, as you enjoy."
Uninvited, Jean sat in the seat opposite Godot, watching him drink out of the absurd cup. Godot absently wondered if he should have his pinky raised or not as he drank.
"Ah, z'e smell of z'e jasmine and patchouli… très relaxing." Jean took a big whiff of the stuff in the bottle, broad chest puffing out comically far as he smelled. "Are you sure you will not indulge yourself in la massage?"
Godot stayed silent.
"I am, 'ow do you say wizout sounding vulgaire… ah, très bien wiz my 'ands."
Cup emptied, Godot set it down and said, "I've had better."
Jean wibbled. "Z'e coffee did not meet your espérances?"
"Not for that price," he said honestly as he stood, taking a ten dollar bill from his pocket. "Keep the change. Buy yourself something pretty."
"Non, Monsieur Godot, wait!" Jean flailed at him, and ended up catching his arm. "You 'ave not been properly satisfied!"
The stench in the place was killing him, now. "I didn't have high hopes to begin with. It takes a true man to brew up something strong enough for my tastes, and that man is me."
"Monsieur Godot, allow me z'is one z'ing! La massage will 'elp. Z'e service did not please you; allow moi to massage."
Godot was frankly quite sick of hearing about "la massage". Hell, he was sick of Jean Armstrong at that point. But Jean was kneading the muscle of his bicep in what seemed to be a demonstration of his skill as a masseur, and all in all it wasn't too bad, really…
"Alright," he consented finally, "but you'd better keep your hands above the equator. No touching the beans."
Jean clapped. "Mais oui! Ah, I am z'e 'appiest girl in z'e world."
Almost immediately Jean grabbed a vase from one of the empty tables and began tearing the petals from the roses, littering the table with them. "Allons! Remove your clozing!"
Hesitantly Godot removed his armbands and vest, folding them neatly before taking off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.
"Oh là là! Your body! C'est magnifique!" Jean clapped his hands eagerly, admiring Godot's strong arms and the fine musculature of his chest and stomach as he folded his shirt. "But it is a pity, la tension you 'ave…"
"'Tension'…" Godot repeated, voice bitter as his beloved coffee, "You keep talking about tension. Hauling oneself back from the depths of Hell would leave a man feeling a little strained, wouldn't you think?"
"Oui, oui! Un peu massage is necessary, z'en, for you, Monsieur Godot." Jean handed Godot a pink towel. Lovely. "For you. I will excuse myself, so you can… undress complètement."
With that, Jean Armstrong trotted gaily towards the kitchen, twirling a rose between his fingertips. Just watching the burly man act so feminine gave Godot the creeps—but, at the same time… it almost made Godot want to start calling Jean "Kitten".
He quickly took off the rest of his clothing and wrapped the towel around himself. Godot was still a little unsure about all of it; standing naked in the middle of the worst French restaurant ever while folding his pants and waiting for a massage by a giant was something that he pretty much never expected to happen to him in his lifetime.
Trite he could easily imagine getting into this sort of situation, but not him.
"Monsieur Godot, are you decent?"
Godot turned towards the door and found Jean peeping through anyway.
"You tell me."
"Pardonne moi. I am a bad little girl!" Jean crept out of the kitchen, gestured for him to climb onto the table and said, "La massage will 'elp you. Jasmine and patchouli, z'ey work wonders. Just z'inking about z'em sends moi to 'eaven!"
Godot laid out on the table as Jean picked up the bottle and moved the chairs surrounding the table away. Jean poured some of the oil onto his back, making him jump. It was colder than he expected.
"Relax, and enjoy."
Jean, for as flamboyantly odd as he was, had gentle hands, soft like a woman's. Godot had tensed up at first, not knowing what to expect, but eventually he put his head down, pillowing his cheek, the damned visor he needed to wear digging into his forearm. The room stank even worse now that the contents of the bottle were actually on him, but Jean's oily hands working the knots out of his shoulders were helping him forget that fact.
Godot would've enjoyed it more if the masseur was a masseuse, but no, it wasn't as bad as he expected. Jean was attentive and thankfully quiet as he rubbed down his back, stopping only to add more of that godawful oil.
"Hey," Godot muttered as he felt the stuff pooling in the grooves at the small of his back, "that's enough, wouldn't you say?"
"Ah, oui! I was busy admiring z'e dark tan you 'ave."
"…ha! Tan… don't make me laugh."
Jean snapped the towel from around Godot's waist and exclaimed, "Ah, z'is is z'e color of your skin, you lucky boy!"
Godot was in the process of turning over to yell at him when Jean placed a hand between his shoulder blades and pushed him back onto his stomach.
"Non, non! Je n'ai pas fini la massage!"
As his last name suggested, Jean was… quite strong. Godot could've fought him off, naturally, since Jean was, in his own words, "a little girl", but in the end he decided to just go with it. Maybe it was a weird French thing Jean liked; they were all exhibitionists over there.
"Remember, no touching the beans," Godot reminded him. He felt a little cold, exposed and covered in oil the way he was.
"Mais non! 'ow can you z'ink so lowly of moi?"
"You tore off the towel."
Jean gasped. "Non, z'at was la prank! I did not scare you, I 'ope…"
"Ha… scared… Once you've died, you never scare. You'll find out, one day."
"Monsieur Godot, you are so grim…"
Jean placed his hands at the small of Godot's back, spreading the oil and massaging the muscles with his thumbs, palms sliding up his back.
The massage was a bit of a turn on, despite who was giving it to him. Godot imagined it was Mia; in his mind, Mia's hands were traveling up and down his slick back, Mia's hands pressing into the column of his spine, Mia's hands sliding down to finger the cleft of his ass.
But he couldn't exactly turn over now—all those thoughts of Mia and a full-body rubdown had given him a hard-on, and Jean would take it the wrong way, just like the ditzy waitresses in cafes messed up his orders.
Aided by the oil, Jean's fingers slid over Godot's entrance even as he clenched every muscle in his lower body.
"Monsieur Godot, you are très tense! La body oil, it is supposed to relieve la tension, not be z'e cause!"
"This isn't part of any massage I know," Godot growled. He hissed through his teeth when Jean began to apply more pressure to his anus.
"Z'is is a French massage, 'ow it is in gay Paris!"
More of the oil was poured onto his body, sliding down the slope of his ass and pooling around Jean's fingers.
"You are a man, non? Z'is is z'e special treatment!"
This time one of Jean's fingers breached his entrance and slid in up to the second knuckle. Godot squirmed; the feeling was utterly foreign, and he was uncomfortable with the amount of oil on his ass, not to mention uncomfortable with the guy who had his finger in his ass. But he was still hard despite that, no matter how hard it was getting to imagine that Mia Fey was the one doing this to him, fingering him, pushing inside him and—
The surge of pleasure caught Godot utterly off guard. He involuntarily lifted his hips when it happened again; Jean had found something inside him to play with, and play with it he did.
Another oily finger pushed into him.
"Z'is is la good massage, non?"
Godot clawed at the tablecloth, grunting inarticulately as Jean rubbed at his prostate with a renewed force. His hips bucked of their own volition. Godot bit his bottom lip and groaned, half out of anger for allowing himself to get into this mess, and half at himself for actually getting some sort of enjoyment from having another man's fingers—or anything, for that matter—up his ass.
Jean sparkled, pumping his fingers in and out of Godot's entrance. Godot even relaxed a bit, opening his thighs the smallest amount. He didn't know what the hell it was Jean was doing in him, but it felt so good. He flexed his hips, hard cock rubbing against the tablecloth and rose petals scattered over it. It was just the right amount of friction to go with the pressure Jean applied to his prostate.
"Z'ere, now you relax like a good boy, Monsieur Godot…"
Godot didn't even feel like protesting, now. He humped the tablecloth shamelessly, helping Jean plunge his fingers into his ass, faster and faster. Godot panted and thrust against the tablecloth one more time, fist banging the table. He came, slicking the tabletop and his stomach with his semen, no doubt soiling several petals in the process. Godot breathed hard, brain damn near breaking as he came down from what exactly just happened.
Finally Jean withdrew his fingers. He plucked a cloth napkin from another table and wiped his hands with it before tending to Godot, spreading his ass cheeks and cleaning the excess oil dripping down his thighs.
As Godot rolled off the table and took a clean napkin from Jean to clean his stomach, the bell above the door jangled loudly.
Both Godot and Jean stared at the blushing old man.
Victor stared back at them, wide-eyed.
After a long, drawn out silence, Victor threw handful upon handful of seeds at them, going on and on about youth these days, how in his day there would never have been something like this going on…
Godot tuned him out and caught a few seeds with his teeth, resuming his cleanup.
With a final "Kah!" the old man left Très Bien in a storm.
"Mo-Monsieur Kudo!" Jean cried, giving chase. "Mon Dieu! Attends! S'il vous plaît arrêter!! You are my only customer, Monsieur Kudo!!"
Godot dressed quickly, skipping a few buttons on his shirt and vest, not bothering to replace his armbands. The one thing on his mind was getting the hell out of there, quickly, and never return to Très Bien again.
The coffee wasn't that good, anyway.
A/N: Apparently, in aromatherapy, roses, jasmine and patchouli are considered aphrodisiacs. THE MORE YOU KNOW. -glittery rainbow-