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ccrites · 10 months ago

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who to call to clean up after an "accident" than your sick and twisted military boyfriend? :D (dark!ghost x dark!fem!reader, 18+)

cw: dark!reader, dark!simon, horror movie vibes, graphic depictions of character death/murder, unhealthy relationship dynamics, one slip of daddy, smut, unprotected piv, simon "spit in my mouth" riley, reader and simon are kinda psycho :D

you've been so nice to her. really nice. you've let it slide off your back whenever she doesn't do her dishes. you pretend you don't notice when she borrows your shoes from the hallway and wears them out to dinner. you hide yourself in your room when she has her awful, loud guests over, and you have never once said anything about how she takes her sweet time in the shared bathroom in the morning and makes you late 2 days a week for work.

but this? this?

she needs to keep simon's name out of her fucking mouth.

"excuse me?" you say finally. your roommate is shrugging on her jacket to leave, her purse in her hand as she types on her phone, using it as a way to not make eye-contact with you. her long nails are tapping against the screen, and it feels like fucking drip water torture. "what the fuck did you just say?"

she sighs, irritated, rolling her eyes as she keeps tapping away at the screen.

"you're so dramatic, it was just a fucking joke."

"you know, i let a lot of things slide," you laugh, humorlessly, and you cross your arms over your chest as you follow her into the kitchen. "but you need to be careful what you say."

"i don't do anything except call it like i see it," she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder and looking at herself in the reflection of the mirror hanging on the wall. "you need to just...go out more. man like that isn't gonna stay for long if you don't give him something to go for. he's bored, you know. when you have him over here all the time. and i've totally caught him peeking at me after i shower, y'know."

"well why the fuck are you wearing nothing but a towel when my boyfriend is here, anyways?" you snap. "he's trying to be polite, he's a guest. what if i wore a fucking towel when you had your guy friends over?"

she laughs, poking at the edge of her lip to fix the gloss of her pout. "trust me, honey, no one's looking at you in a towel."

you step back, a little shocked. she rolls her eyes again, sighing.

"i didn't--"

"are you kidding me?" you retort. "you're the worst fucking roommate in the world, and i put up with all your bullshit, and now you're going to go so low as to insult the way i look just to make yourself feel better?" you make your way around the kitchen island. "you don't wash your fucking dishes, you steal my fucking clothes, you're always late on your rent so i have to spot you--"

"you know what, just because i'm fucking happy, and you're not, doesn't mean you have to take it out on me!"

"i am happy, you sorry bitch!" you cry. "i'm so fucking happy, you're the only thing in my life making me constantly miserable!"

"oh, shove it up your ass, you ungrateful little shit!" she snaps. "you're just so fucking insecure and hate me so badly just because simon would rather fuck a girl like me than have to spend another minute with--"

the crack of cast iron against her head shuts her up. it dents the side of her head easily, and her face smacks against the countertop before she crumples to the floor.

it's so fast. one minute, she's yapping, high-pitched voice straining your ears. the next, she's silent.

and she won't say simon's fucking name again.

you watch with bated breath as she folds into herself, her head hitting the hardwood last, a slow puddle of blood beginning to grow under the tendrils of her hair as your eyes move to the heavy pan you're still holding in your hands.

fuck, that's a lot of blood. god, you thought she was just full of fucking air.

you drop the pan once the rush of anger leaves your chest. it thunks onto the ground, and your hands shake as you see the specks of blood that are on the back of your hands, sprinkled over the shirt you wear. it stains your bare legs, even your toes, and you don't even want to look at the spray of it along the counters.

you should be crying, you think. you should feel bad. you're trembling a little, but you think it's just the adrenaline beginning to fade and not the guilt you know is supposed to be racking your insides.

you turn your eyes back to her. her eyes are dull. she doesn't move. it's so quiet now, utterly silent, and you take a deep breath as you take in the silence that you've craved for a long while now. you make your way quietly out of the kitchen, stepping over her body before going for your phone that sits on the coffee table in front of the couch.

you keep your eyes on her as you put your phone to your ear. it rings, and you tilt your head to the side as the blood begins to spiderweb under the kitchen table.

"'ello?"

you blink, looking towards the door. you clutch your phone a little tighter to your ear.

"simon?" you say softly. "a-are...are you busy?"

he hums lowly, chuckling, "no' at the moment, swee'eart, why?" he asks. "mmm...missed y'r voice..." you close your eyes as you hear the buckle of his belt. you try not to picture your giant of a boyfriend leaning back on his worn couch and shoving his jeans low enough to fuck his fist. "tolk t'me, luv...tell me 'ow much ya miss daddy."

you clear your throat gently, willing yourself to ignore the soft squelch of what you know is his hand around his cock, to not let it distract you from what's more important. "uhm...i liked the flowers you gave me, simon. t-they were beautiful."

the sounds on the other end of the phone quiet. you hear shuffling, and then a few moments later, the clink of his car keys.

"tha' right, baby?" he asks, and you close your eyes as you hear the front door of his flat opening. he's already on the way, already coming.

"yeah," you sniffle. "really nice sunflowers."

a yellow flower. he huffs on the other end of the phone, breathing a little easier.

"good girl," he murmurs, and then the line cuts. you set the phone down, making your way back to the kitchen and taking a seat at the table. you watch as the blood continues to curl over the floor. you make no attempt to help her; you just swing your feet under you as you look at her spoiled outfit, just grateful she isn't wearing your shoes or one of your jackets. you would hate to have to throw something out that she got all dirty.

there's a curt knock at the door ten minutes later, and then it opens. simon shuts the door behind him, cracking his neck by moving it from side to side before narrowing his eyes at you. you bite your lip, blinking, forgetting suddenly why he is here when he looks so fucking good. he's got a sweatshirt on under his windbreaker, worn jeans tucked into his boots; you like these jeans, his ass looks incredible in them.

"wot happened?" he asks. you stand, remembering your place. your lip starts trembling, and simon's eyes soften just a little. he's wearing his balaclava, hood up over his head and jacket zipped up, shadowing any true expression on his face. his gait sounds heavy as he lets his hands out of his pockets, coming towards you. when he steps into the kitchen, his eyes dart towards your roommate who's still on the floor, laid out unnaturally just by the oven.

he lets out a low breath, clicking his tongue under the mask. you hold your breath as you wait for his reaction.

"bloody hell," simon mutters, reaching up and throwing his hood off. you wring your hands together nervously, your eyes beginning to sting with tears. you brace for the accusations, for the inevitable terror of facing the music. simon is military, for fuck's sake, why the fuck did you think turning to him would be a good idea?

"i...i-i--" you start, looking up at him, and he holds up a hand, taking the side of your face into his palm before smoothing a gloved thumb over your bottom lip. you blink in confusion, not understanding.

"'s olright, baby," he shushes you, shaking his head. "don't cry."

"simon, i--" you sputter a little, gripping his wrist gently. "i just--i couldn't do it anymore, she just--"

he pities you. maybe you can explain. maybe if you tell him a warped story of what happened, he can help you. he must know someone. he must have important friends, he must--

he uses his free hand to move his mask up over his nose, and you lean into him when he bends, kissing you warmly. your eyes flutter shut, and you shuffle closer as he kisses you sloppy, kisses you hot. you mewl as he slips his tongue into your mouth, licking over your teeth and humming low as he pulls away. his eyes are flashing.

mmm. love.

"hmm..." simon licks his lips, smiling a little. he looks over you, almost pensive, his eyes scanning over your face before he settles back on your eyes. it's tender, the way he looks at you. romantic. "let's get this off of ya."

he reaches for the large shirt you are wearing, pulling it up and over your head. he crumples it into a ball before tossing it on top of your roommate, nodding his head behind you.

it's then that you realize simon isn't going to do the noble thing. he isn't going to call the police. he isn't going to turn you in, make you explain, he seems uninterested in knowing what really happened. no, he already knows what happened. but that's not important.

his pretty, perfect girl got into a little trouble. and he's going to make this go away.

"go on, luv. take a nice shower, yeah?" simon turns you around and pushes on your back gently. you suck in a shaky breath when he fondles your ass, pulling on your panties gently. "mmm...take these off, too."

you slip your panties down your legs, handing them to him.

"they have blood on them, too?" you ask, wiping your face, and he chuckles lowly.

"nah," he shrugs, stuffing them into his back pocket after taking a little sniff. "these are just for me."

jesus fucking christ, there's really something wrong with him. there's something really, really wrong with him.

and something wrong with me.

simon looks you up and down, his eyes catching on your naked body for just a few moments before he nods his head again.

"go on," he tells you. "before i get distracted." you pause for a moment, tilting your head back a little as he reaches out and cups one of your breasts in his big hand. you bite your lip, swallowing back a heavy breath as he flicks his thumb over your nipple gently. "greatest tits 've ever seen," he mumbles, scrunching his nose under the mask before he lets you go. "yeah, go on, baby." it takes everything in you to walk away when you see him reach down with that same hand and grip his bulge through his jeans, adjusting himself as he turns back to the mess in the kitchen.

when you shut the bathroom door behind you, you hear shuffling in the living room. the coffee table scraping. the couch being pushed. the rustle of the rug you have there. he grunts a little, and you hear his boots track from the kitchen back to the living room.

you turn the water on hot. you decide to take a bath, not looking at yourself in the mirror as you sink into the tub and plug the drain. you make the water scalding, and it soothes your sore muscles as you rest your cheek against the edge of the tub and stare at the door.

you're not sure how long you stay there. long enough for the water to nearly slosh over the edge of the tub and for simon to swing the bathroom door open, seemingly done with his...tasks.

he's taken his sweatshirt off. just a black t-shirt tucked into jeans, and there's a slight pant to his breaths that tell you he's exerted some energy. you notice he has his gloves still on, but before he touches you, he takes them off and tosses them into the sink.

"move over," simon mutters, starting to undress. you look up at him as he undoes the button on his pants, shucking his shirt off and into the corner before dropping his jeans. the water swishes as you sit up, and you swallow hard when simon kicks his boots and pants off, his cock hanging heavy as his mask is the last to hit the floor.

fuck, he's so pretty.

he has no regard for his size. he simply steps into the tub behind you, taking a seat. he looks comically large in your small bathtub, and you squeak a little as the water spills over the edge of the bath and wets the floor. he hums as he feels the hot water on his back. you don't say anything as his hands start to turn the water a little red. you just look up, away, at him.

you shuffle between his legs, tucking yourself into his space. you can't help but look him up and down, admiring his naked physique. he's just hot. big arms, thick thighs, sunburnt tattoos and scars cutting across his face. he hasn't shaved today, so there's some stubble along his jaw, but your eyes focus a little too much on his girthy length, heavy as it sits on his stomach and leaks a little there. his fat stomach, all solid and pudgy, such a nice place for you to rest your hands.

"you did good today," simon says finally. you look at him, and he tilts his head to the side. his approval makes your chest warm. "callin' me like tha'. wot a good girl you are."

keeping quiet on the phone is what he doesn't add out loud.

you purse your lips, trying not to keen at the praise, but it's hard not to when he reaches over and slides his hand over your shoulder, thumbing at your jaw.

"i-i didn't...didn't know what to do," you admit, and he clicks his tongue, shaking his head. you didn't know what to do, so you called him. level-headed enough to not do something rash and call someone else, no, you called him.

"mmm...tha's wot i'm 'ere for, luv," simon soothes you. "made such a little mess..."

you close your eyes. it's sick. deranged. fuck, it feels nice.

why don't i feel anything?

"i know. i'm sorry."

"nothin' ta be sorry about."

you slump into his arms, resting your cheek on his solid chest. you can feel his cock pulsing against your tummy, and you adjust yourself in the water, straddling him as you rest your chin on his pecs and look up at him through watery eyes.

you aren't sad. no. not sad at all. simon has shown you what he will do for the you. the lengths he will go. what he'll forgive just to take care of you. he's so capable, so understanding.

sick. twisted. mine.

"then i'll just say thank you," you mumble, grinding your hips slowly. simon hums, a wicked smile coming over his scarred face. he licks over his bottom lip, big hands gripping you by the fat of your hips as you grip the edges of the tub for stability. "say thank you to my big, strong man for taking such good care of me..."

he chuckles, his eyes lowering, watching your tits sway as you fit your pussy over his length and grind down on him.

"tha' so, baby?"

you nod.

"mhm," you whine. "how can i thank you, my big boy? how can i show you how grateful i am for cleaning up after me, hmm?" you bend at the waist, kissing him wet and warm, and he hisses as you suck his tongue into your mouth. he tastes like cigarettes, and normally you would curse him for it, but right now it tastes so much like him, and you lick around his teeth trying to taste more of that sweet nicotine.

"fuck--such a naughty little girl..." he snickers, reaching down. you sigh when he slides his big palms over your ass, forcing you to grind slower, the tip of his cock sliding through your folds leisurely. you grip the edges of the tub tighter, pressing down to give you more leverage to grind down harder. "make such a mess, oll the time..." you gasp when he presses into you just enough, the tip breaching your entrance and forcing you to squeeze around him, your cunt trying to suck him in. "olways needin' me ta pick up afta ya..."

you giggle, sliding your hands up his chest, gripping his shoulders for leverage as you sink down onto him. he grits his teeth as you do, his eyes focused on the way his cock disappears inch by inch until you're seated down in his lap, his length kissing deep and twitching excitedly. he always feels like a teenager again whenever you fuck--like you're the first pretty girl to ever wet his cock.

you cup his cheeks finally, smoothing your thumbs under his eyes as you bring his gaze up to meet yours. you swallow hard, looking down at him.

"i-i love you, simon," you breathe. he stills underneath you, his jaw clenching as he frowns just a little. you come a little closer, nuzzling your nose against his, your thumb falling to trace the outline of his torn lip. "i should've said it a long time ago...i-i..."

"heart's beatin' out y'r chest, luv," he mutters lowly. "'s olright...'m not goin' anywhere."

it's so disgusting. you should be fucking ill. you should be scrambling to the toilet, your breakfast halfway up your throat. you should be crying, emotional, begging simon to tell the cops that it was all your fault, because it is. he should've come here and made you do the level-headed thing and confess your terrible crime.

he shouldn't be here, sitting underneath you in your tub, cock-deep inside of you after helping you commit murder and then fucking clean it all up.

"what did i do?" you gasp, sitting up. you move to get out of the tub, but simon growls, putting two firm hands on your ass and shoving you back down on his cock, making you cry. "w-what did i do? s-simon, why don't i feel bad, why am i not sorry--?!"

simon tsks, feigning comfort. he juts his bottom lip out into a pout, mocking your little cries.

"oh, luvvie, don't start cryin' now," he chuckles. "don't start pretending like y'care."

uhm...

"simon--"

"no one likes a liar."

you're still trying to pretend, and he knows this. you're still trying to act how someone normally would react. someone normal, someone who thinks rationally, would never have picked up the pan in the first place. and even if they had, they would've scrambled, cried, picked up the phone and confessed, called an ambulance as they tried to get her to start breathing again, put both hands on her chest and tried to get her wake up.

but you didn't. you watched, unnervingly calm, as she stained the hardwood with her blood. you watched as her eyes glassed over, lifeless, and you watched as her insides began to paint the floor in abstract shapes as you gave it time to spread. and not once during that time, or waiting for simon, did you think to help her.

you didn't want to help her. and you certainly didn't think she deserved to get back up. maybe she hadn't done anything quite harsh enough to deserve death in someone else's eyes. annoying, overbearing, rude.

but it's hard to feel bad when she talked about simon. when she called him by his name. when you've seen her let her towel slip when he's in her vicinity, trying to coax him into her room when you're looking away.

you should've taken one of the throwing knives that simon hides in his boot and thrown it at her then, just for that.

"we're cut from the same bloody cloth, baby," simon says, almost accusingly. you grip the edges of the tub, trying to stand again, but he cants his hips and fucks up into you, drawing a frenzied moan out of you. you reach for his shoulders as he does it again, his tongue darting out before he licks a fat stripe over your pebbled nipple. "'s olright. 's okay, luv. don't worry. don't hafta get y'r hands dirty, swee'eart, i've got it."

"but simon," you whine, but all he does is shake his head. you don't have to put on this morality act for him. you don't have to pretend that you are sorry for something that you had every right to do, you don't have to explain to him why you aren't feeling the way you should be feeling.

simon doesn't care about how you should feel. he only cares about how you actually feel.

"she was in y'r way," simon grunts. "always bein' a bloody brat." he fists your hair and brings your mouth to his, groaning as you tighten around his cock. "'ow many times did she fuck ya over, baby, hmm? 'ow many times did she steal y'r fuckin' things, come outta the loo wearin' nothin' but her fuckin' knickers, yeah? 'ow many times?"

you kiss him, frantic, digging your nails into his pecs and dragging them angrily.

yeah. fuck her. fuck what she did to me, fuck the way she behaved, fuck her stupid face and her stupid attitude and her stupid little games.

"called ya names..." he's hitting your sweet spot now, making you cry from pleasure. your pussy feels so hot, squeezing him because you know he's right, and the way he fucks this time makes you think he really knows what you are and knows exactly how to get you there. "wot a fuckin' twat. deserved every bit o' it, baby."

you meet his eyes, dark and cruel. he's still moving, still holding onto your hips and drawing out little whines, but it's different suddenly, it's more. you nod, understanding.

simon is terrible. no good. his head isn't in the right place, maybe it never has been. you wonder, briefly, if this is what he does when he's at work, if these are the things that he's used to. maybe simon has been in service too long--maybe he doesn't understand that you aren't at war here, that you can't just kill and clean up, that you aren't in the field.

"she deserved it," you whimper, and he grins, all teeth, all mean.

"tha's it."

"she was such a bitch."

"fuckin' right."

"she got what was coming for her."

"nnghhh--fuck, baby, gonna make me fuckin' cum, tolkin' like tha'," he hisses. you practically smack him as you grab onto his scarred face, gritting your teeth as you glare down at him. his lips part, and you spit in his mouth as he fucks up into you, thighs hitting your ass with a wet smack that makes your head spin.

"and i'll get rid of the next bitch that so much as looks your way, simon."

the kiss is searing. hot, blinding, white noise fills your ears as he cums with you, stuffing you full as he cums hard, a pained groan leaving him as he collapses against the porcelain tub with a harsh thud. you follow him, chasing after him, kissing him between heavy breaths as you don't make any effort to move off of him. when simon opens his eyes, he can't help but smile.

he's never seen his reflection without a mirror.

#Jesus Christ this was hot #Simon needs someone to match his crazy fr #ghost #rb

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ccrites · 10 months ago

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Honey, don’t feed me, I will come back

Based on this post I made a while ago that has been haunting me ever since

recently-dumped simon riley joins a cooking class chef!reader teaches. you get more than you bargained for.

Length: 11.7k words - one shot

Also on Ao3 (commenters will be offered a kind smooch)

CW/tags: Dubious Consent, Groping, Voyeurism, Masturbation, Manipulation, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, dubious / inappropriate bird fingering (trust me it'll make sense later), Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Kidnapping, Light Dom/sub, Multiple POVs, fat reader (always), Cooking Lessons (simon riley is bad at cooking), Feeding (but its not as a kink more like a 'you can't take care of yourself so im doing it for you'), Riding

as always, please let ne know if I forgot anything!

Big thanks to Elle @gild-ui for the beta, ily

“God damn it,” you hiss through clenched teeth as your foot sinks into a too-deep puddle.

Droplets of rain pearl on your lashes as you dash between stationary cars. Ignoring loud horns and ugly glares, you cross the busy street with nothing more than a glance at the opposing traffic. Since this morning, it seemed like September had decided to rain all of the month’s water, spitefully drenching you to the bone without a single worry for your souring mood.

And now your right sock is soaked. Brilliant.

There are days when everything goes right. Your sleep is restful, the commute goes smoothly, traffic lights’ timers align with your walking speed, the pantry is fully stocked and ready, and every second in the kitchen is a carefully choreographed symphony of spices and sauces, without as much as a spill on your white apron.

But then, of course, there are also days like today. Days when, for some reason, your brain justifies that it couldn’t possibly rain today, not with the sunrays streaming across your face, waking you up after dozens of angry rings of your cellphone alarm couldn't. Days when, in the rush of getting ready—omitting, of course, to pack a fucking umbrella—you notice the empty jute sac fallen over, cursing the fact that if you don’t restock on both potatoes and shallots today, there’d be a week before you’d have the time to rebuy some. Days when you have to trade the luxury of a lunch break, which—fine, okay, it happens, you can snack on tasting the saltiness of your dishes, no big deal—but it still puts a damper on your mood to replace a much-needed break for something as trivial as a grocery run, barely making it in time to the restaurant to start prepping for the night.

And days when, instead of getting to head home after an exhausting evening shift, brainlessly watching some late-night reality show re-run to decompress, you remember too late—like a fucking idiot, already going down the stairs of the nearest subway station—that today was the day a new intake of your adult cooking classes was meant to start.

You finally shift past umbrellas outside, sliding past a porter clearing out the trash for the night and excusing yourself for bumping people out of your way. By the time you finally make your way toward the back of the kitchen, it had already almost emptied out. You peel wet clothes off of you until all you’re left wearing are your soaked jeans and the tanktop underneath your sweater. The sopping fabric molds to your tummy and back uncomfortably, yet you ignore the feeling as you grab the uniform and the toque you’d shed off not even twenty minutes ago. Out of breath, you’re still buttoning your white uniform and apron when you finally reach the swinging doors, kicking them open with a swing of your hip and a strategic block with your foot.

“Sorry for the delay, everyone!” you call out to the dozen adults sitting scattered across the empty restaurant. “Come in, now, come in, we have lots to cover tonight!”

The lack of enthusiasm as tired-looking men and women rise to their feed and shuffle towards the open door doesn’t put a damper on the cheery mood you’ve fabricated, if not to mask your own exhaustion, then at least to motivate them. They’re going to learn to cook, and they’re going to like it.

As they walk past, grabbing from the pile of aprons you point at after shaking too many clammy hands, you finally spot him.

Rising from his seat in the furthest corner of the restaurant from the kitchen, a tall blond man sulks over. A black N95 is covering the lower half of his face, though it barely seems note-worthy when he approaches, broad shoulders almost completely obscuring your vision. He doesn’t bother to look at your outstretched hand, and instead ducks his head under the doorframe, disappearing into your kitchen. Pointedly ignoring the last apron in the box.

Oh, this is going to be a long night.

You move with the distinct grace of someone familiar with this environment, he thinks, watching you with half-lidded eyes from his perch on the stool at the furthest station from the front of the kitchen serving as a classroom.

There’s something vaguely fascinating about the way you explain the use of each tool— every spoon, pan, and knife deserving of praise for the task they help achieve. It’s the same with every job, he supposes. Given the same opportunity, he might actually enjoy explaining the variables and specifics of each firearm in his arsenal to an interested crowd that wasn’t comprised of gullible eighteen-year-olds.

Alas, that’s never going to happen. And he’d rather be at home, shoving a pathetic microwaved meal into his mouth than think of the reasons he was where he was, watching a soft little round woman teach about the dangers of a dull knife.

(He’d kindly disagree. Though he supposes a sharp blade would be less painful for the uses reserved for it on the field.)

Fucking Clara.

Was it too much to ask for a warm meal twice a year, when a long deployment ended and before he could finally let exhaustion roll off his muscles as he bounced her soft little body on his cock?

Was it too fucking much not to yap and nag at him for expecting a loving welcome home, a kiss on the lips, and a soft, delicate hand wrapped around his aching cock, the sparkle of the rock on her ring finger a reminder of how easy it was to make him happy?

Was it too much to let him sleep? Be a lamb, and leave said rock on the counter with a bloody stupid paper note— breaking his failure of an engagement off simply and painlessly—instead of causing a ruckus like a paranoid bitch? Cheating bastard, she’d called him. As if she’d really know if he’d actually cheated. Fat chance.

Fucking Captain.

Was it too much to let him work, do his job like a machine, let him hide the man behind the mask, and take the decisions away?

Was it too much, to not only force him back on leave, when he attempted to return early, but also not threaten him with bullshit disciplinary action (as if Price’d fucking even dare) if he were to return?

And was it too much, to keep his nose outta his business, and not try to make Simon a better man, independence be damned? Tesco’s meal deals were absolutely enough to survive on.

And maybe that’s what made Price tick. Survival. Was it really a relaxing leave for probably the most important asset of the British military if it was only surviving?

Survival of the fittest, my ass, Price had grumbled. You’d burn an MRE to ash if its instructions weren’t written down.

He’d handed Ghost a piece of paper, a torn little white rectangle, clearly ripped from a hand-made poster somewhere in the city.

ADULT COOKING CLASSES

LATE NIGHT AT THE WILSON HOTEL RESTAURANT

22:00 -> 00:00

CALL/EMAIL BELOW TO INQUIRE

He’d have hoped the Chef would be a boring old man. Maybe someone like Price. Gruff, stiff, authoritarian.

As seconds tick by, he can only focus on the way your soft arms jiggle as you display knife after knife, slightly pudgy fingers pointing at the curve of a weirdly misshapen knife, or each groove of a serrated knife. The words coming out of your mouth were perhaps instructive to the other students, but they only fell on deaf ears for him.

“Now, everyone, please grab the chef’s knife on your station, we will learn together some sharpening techniques!”

Even when speaking loud enough for everyone to hear, the ring of your voice is still soft as a feather to him. Smooth as honey, and twice as sweet. The grating yells—prickling pins, small stabs in his ears, worse than unsuppressed gunshots—that Clara had let out not even a week prior were long forgotten.

“Sir? You in the back? It’s the big knife to your right, the one with the wooden handle?” you call tentatively, making his head snap towards you. He pays no attention to the way you flinch slightly in automatic response, yet still continue your approach toward his station. His cold, brown eyes follow your every movement, fascinated by the kind furrow of your brows, the anxious way your fingers pick at the corner of your apron that was fraying at the seams. You pick up the knife by the dull side, the one almost as long as your forearm, and hand it to him with the handle towards him, ready for him to only grab.

Oh, sweet little lamb, ready to be butchered.

He lazily slides down the wooden stool, wrapping his fingers around the knife slowly and inspecting it under your watchful eyes. He taps the pads of his fingers along the length, flexing his jaw as calluses tug at the dull edge. There would barely be a cut if he ran his skin along the blade all the way to the tip.

You briefly pause, keen eyes ready to correct a mistake that doesn’t come, then, once you’re satisfied, you turn on your heels to continue your explanations in a stronger tone, being in your element once more, oozing confidence and authority.

With a silent huff, Ghost starts his own routine. Standard procedure.

It didn’t matter what you said, or how much you paced between stations, stopping by to help a younger woman or an older gentleman, Ghost remained in his element. Each swish of the blade, grating on the sharpening stone gave the rhythm for his heart to beat to. All thoughts, slowly but surely silenced by the soothing back and forth, water blackened by minuscule steel powder, dripping on the counter.

Almost as nice as a good fuckin’.

At one point, you stopped by, stopping his movements with a gentle touch to his forearm. The muscles tightened, painfully coiled and ready to spring. Yet, you simply pulled the sanding stone away from him, placing a neatly folded wet towel in its place, before setting it back atop the new surface. He doesn’t recall noticing your face, nor even looking at you, but you scurry away moments later like a doe scrambling away from the sound of a twig breaking in the distance.

(The snap of your neck would sound so much sweeter…)

Time passes fast, faster than he’d like. For once, he doesn’t notice much happening around him. Perhaps you stop multiple times by his station, perhaps not. Honestly, he couldn’t recall a single thing going on in this kitchen aside from the slight ache in his arms.

His eyes water, but the movement stays constant. The push at the specific angle, the pull mirroring it. The light towel is now blackened grey, like soot staining a blanket of snow. Edges that once were pure white, getting grimier by the second. It would be so easy to let the blade slip the next time you approached, let red soak into the fabric…

“Sir?” you interrupt his thoughts.

His eyes snap to yours. You look much more tired. The energy meant for educating the class dissolved into a kind, subdued expression. There is a gentle smile tugging at your lips, a contrast to the darkening bags under your eyes.

“The rest of the class has already cut their onion, and cleaned up,” you say, and he blinks the veil of tears clouding his vision to glance around. The last of the men and women were cleaning up at the front. “I believe your knife is sharp enough to give it a try together, don’t you think? I’d hate for you to leave the first class having not done any cooking.”

He stares at the round bulb on the kitchen worktop.

“You can start by cutting the tops. See your work of art in action, ready?” you encourage him so sweetly.

He tentatively bounces the handle of the knife in his hand, his grasp loose and familiar. Muscle memory would have him flipping it in preparation for a precise throw, or a rapid slice through skin, muscle, and sinews.

You mistake his fight against bloodthirsty violence for hesitation.

“Here, let me guide you.”

In an instant, you’ve already ducked underneath his massive frame, sliding under his arm and wrapping your soft hands outside of his. The contact burns his skin worse than fire, yet you thoughtlessly guide him like a puppet, pressing the knife down in his place. It slides through the onion like butter. The tips of your fingers guide him with little room for error, the feel of familiar calluses and confident strokes making his heart beat faster.

You let go for only a few seconds, peeling off brown layers, revealing the shiny, pale, smooth inside.

He feels himself starting to tent his pants, and he tentatively pulls away, but you grab his hands firmly again, guiding him through the criss-cross pattern.

Hot sweat pulls at the back of his neck, and he feels his palms grow moist. You continue cutting the onion for him, minuscule dice falling on the counter, his eyes starting to water, again. Greed gnaws at his stomach, the urge to bite, to consume, to feel you struggle against him.

He can’t do this, he needs to pull away, to leave, he needs to–

In the blink of an eye, he’s pulled himself away from your grasp, letting your fingers splayed on the counter in surprise. With two violent cuts, the rest of the bulb falls into rough misshapen cubes on the counter, the force of his own desperation destroying the hard work he’d done on the blade for the past hour as it pushes against the wooden surface.

Before he can decide if he should say something or not, the tip of the knife lodges itself between your fingers, an inch deep into the counter. Had you flinched, there’d be a missing knuckle.

“Sir?!” you gasp, the indignant sound so sweet to his ears.

The knot in his throat only lets him utter a rough “Simon” as he pulls away and turns his back to you, running out the door without a second look back.

* * *

The pain of romantic rejection is understandable in your field of work. A woman, a chef no less, refusing to cook at home? When her entire job revolves around cooking daily for dozens of rich snobs for an undignified salary from the poshest hotel in the city?

Still, never mind the sexist implications of such refusal to enter any romantic involvement with someone whose working hours never aligned with theirs, it still hurt less than the rejection of a polite, platonic tentative offer to help a student who voluntarily enrolled in your cooking class.

Perhaps a more sane way of thinking of things would be to count whatever happened last week as attempted assault. That man, Simon, he told you, could very well be some sort of convict, a seasoned criminal dropping out of god knows what shit-hole, stumbling into random public spaces to terrorize gullible women.

Or perhaps he was simply a man, traumatized by societal standards, with a probably (and very much not unlikely) rough upbringing, paired with a whole lot of coddling from his entourage simmering to adulthood a perfectly overcooked man-child with the communication skills of a boiled potato.

Maybe it was naive to hope for the second option, but that was your best approach, coming up to the second class.

Rough nights at the restaurant had only brought more weight to the bags under your eyes, the steam from standing above pots and pans all day melting away any attempts at camouflaging them with concealer. It would be insensible to complain about the job you prayed and cried for, suffering through years of culinary school just for the pride of wearing a toque, yet when the joy of cooking gets stripped away by the horrors of… customer service…

Teaching brings back that joy. Home cooking brings back that joy.

And if you have to drill through those students the joy of tiny whisks and the exquisite smell of perfectly prepared mirepoix, maybe it would be worth almost getting your hand chopped off.

He’s perfectly silent when he enters the kitchen, shoulders high and tight. As if embarrassed. At least, you think, the probability of last time’s incident being due to the first option keeps declining.

For the second class, you delve into the basics. Chopping onions is fun and all, but these people are here to learn how to cook. Aromatics, temperatures, seasonings, you go through everything that can potentially help them enhance the skills they already have. They’re all here to learn something new, whether they’re a nurse, a mechanic, a bank teller, a student.

A potential criminal.

You go through the steps to make a simple stew. Potatoes and carrots get peeled, onions get chopped, aromatics get chosen and pre-portioned. You provide them with already chopped and cleaned chicken thighs. As you walk through the stations, your heart swells with pride seeing them already advance from clueless to beginner.

Until you get to his station.

The potato is peeled in angular, rough shapes, the same as the carrot. You don’t see the peeler on his station.

“Hey there,” you try softly. He keeps his head down, looking to where he’s working on peeling the onion, hands stiff. You see him throw a quick glance at you, so you count that as a win. “You did this harder on yourself, peeling all of this with just a knife. Great job, by the way!” you say, keeping your voice low despite the excitement you try to convey. “I would suggest trying the peeler next time, it’s good at what his name suggests.”

He’s done peeling the onion, and he simply sets it on the counter, where it rolls towards you. You stop it from falling off with the heel of your palm.

Oh, so he’s not gonna ask for help.

“Do you need me to help with the onion again? I agree, it’s a tough one at first.”

The silence around the two of you stretches, and if you paid more attention to your surroundings, you’d perhaps notice the glances from the others.

But you don’t, so you assume the same position as last time, sliding under his massive frame and guiding his fingers into position, interlacing yours with his. Everything feels too tender, too raw and vulnerable, but as you drive the knife down together, you sink in the sounds and smells of the bustling kitchen, the sizzle of the first onions hitting pans surrounding you in pleasant and comfortable warmth.

Behind you, his warm body is still stiff, as if unsure what your next step is going to be, but as the onion disintegrates into small, equal cubes on the counter, you feel him slowly relax.

As much as you’d prefer to stay for the duration of the entire two hours in his tense embrace, you have to be realistic. You extract yourself awkwardly from his grasp, avoiding looking at what you imagine are disappointed eyes.

This man has barely spoken to you, yet you feel the need to get him to warm up to you as quickly as you have gotten warmed up to him. Despite his intimidating stature, you sense a boy inside him, a desire to do good. To follow your lead.

By the end of the class, it doesn’t matter how underseasoned and almost burnt (how was it even possible?) his stew is, blackened pieces of garlic and bland potatoes swimming in too much stock, there is pride in getting him to this level.

You avoid his gaze as he resharpens his knife at the end of the class, long after the other students have left. The echo of metal sliding on stone feels oddly comforting, the rhythm all-consuming. Safe.

You’re not exactly sure what prompts you to speak, yet you do.

“You know, I’m glad people like you are still eager to learn these kinds of things,” you say, almost to yourself, voice quiet over the sound of running water, as you clean the last of the dishes. Your mother would’ve scolded you for using such hot water without gloves, but the feel of sweaty rubber is worse than a bit of dryness.

At first, you doubt he even heard you, and for a second, your thoughts start to run wild, hoping he didn’t hear, that he didn’t take it the wrong way, god forbid–

You don’t even realize when the weight of your toque disappears off your head, only hearing a whoosh and a thud. By the time you lift your head to look up– eyes widening at the sight of the large chef’s knife pinning the material to the fucking brick wall– heavy footsteps rush behind you, and a large presence looms above as blood freezes in your veins.

“Wot d’you mean, ‘people like me’?”

There are no thoughts in your head dictating your movements, only an eerie sense of dread. Look where running your mouth got you this time. You slowly turn the knob off, the beat of your heart in your eardrums overpowering even the sudden silence.

You don’t look at him as you speak, the damage’s already done, if he’s going to kill you right here and now, so be it. He did just throw a knife at your head, after all.

You clear your throat, a meager attempt to control the shaking in your voice.

“I don’t know! People who come to this class do it out of, uh-… usually it’s desperation. Having survived so long on premade stuff, missing out on a true, warm homemade meal…” you say longingly. Even as a fucking chef, there’s nothing better than grandma’s cooking. You don’t even know if he can relate, or if it’s something he doesn’t care about. “Realizing that the only way they can feel joy eating again is by doing it like their mothers did it.”

You remain stood like you are, belly pressed against the sink, but you turn your head towards him over your shoulder, keeping your eyes down for a few seconds before sighing and closing them out of fear of facing him.

“At first, I pegged you for the type to have someone in your life cooking for them. A mother. A wife. A girlfriend. Men like that don’t bother learning.”

The warmth behind your back cools down slightly, and you don’t have to open your eyes to know he took a step back.

“Though I feel like you don’t have the same desire to impress like other students do. There’s something else… Maybe?”

You’re less afraid now that the words are out. Now that you’ve explained what should’ve only been an offhanded comment, or perhaps bullshitted your way out of whatever word vomit escaped out of your mouth, you hope he takes it kindly, and not like some sort of backhanded compliment.

After a few seconds pass by, and only after you’d swallowed back three or twenty other attempts at justifying yourself, maybe hoping for a real answer, you dare open your eyes. The sight of the white tile on the ground makes a shiver run through your spine. There’s no sign of him when you look back, twisting the other way around in surprise to stare at an empty kitchen.

The breath you didn’t know you were holding has you sagging against the counter on a long exhale, heart beating fast and blood running warm again. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

However, when you turn back to the sink to finish things up, you notice the toque is no longer pinned to the wall. Instead, it and the knife running through it are haphazardly placed on the table nearby, the only indication that whatever just happened was real.

* * *

Days and days and days pass by without seeing him again. He’s absent from the next course, and the next one. Your life feels normal again, yet you’re not sure if that’s what you want.

The restaurant busies your life instead, and you find yourself sinking into routine again, the fleeting memory of fear and a rushing heartbeat in your chest nothing more than a hiccup.

Mornings at ten start with prep, and prep, oh, and more prep. The midday lunch rush flies by way too fast. Your four o'clock lunch has you standing in the cold room eating a piece of bread with leftover parmesan from a dish, toasted on leftover cuts of meat from another dish, and a tomato slice. (That tomato was just for you). The sweat on your forehead makes your hair cling to your skin, and the coolness feels freezing on your overheated cheeks, but at least it’s peaceful.

At night, public transportation remains a struggle, empty busses not being any better than crowded ones, other than the fact that getting your wallet pickpocketed again or being told to “watch it, fatass!” was less likely.

Still, you can’t exactly forget him, not with the constant feeling of being watched following you.

You’re less careful.

The first burn is accidental. The second one too.

But when even the Chef tells you that you’ve started “dreaming around”, and your conscious efforts to move quickly and efficiently don’t work, you think maybe there’s something wrong with you.

Until, three weeks after you last saw him, he appears at his station, silent as a ghost, hands grasped loosely at his back like a soldier at ease.

All tension slips from your shoulders.

He’s not mad at you. He came back, and he’s not mad at what you said, or what you did.

In the few lessons he’s been absent, you’d guided the class through increasingly advanced techniques. There have been temperature guides, braising, batch cooking tips, even plating hacks to make everything look better. It was a big source of pride helping each of them through it.

But this class was the one you were planning to introduce meat prep.

Butchering.

You bring the chicken out of the cold room, while the sounds of knives getting sharpened fill the room.

“Cuts of meat that aren’t prepped will always be cheaper in the long run. That’s where supermarket chains get their biggest profit, by banking on the fact you either don’t know or don’t want to. I’ll show you how easy it is, and if you can walk out of here confident in your knife skills, then I’ll have done my job.”

You’re certain he’s looking at you with that stare even though you’re not looking at him. The intensity of feeling his eyes on you as you demonstrate at the front of the class has your neck flushed red instantly. The vivid image of him standing at your back, dangerous, predatory, unwavering… it has you taking deep breaths between explanations, trying to keep your voice smooth and clear.

The moment you dreaded comes too soon, and you walk between tables to help each student. Their blades not sharp enough, their limp hands not strong enough. The chickens get butchered in the wrong sense of the word. You try to help, but if you were to stop and do each chicken for them you’d be better off dismissing them instead.

By the time you reach the last station, you almost feel feverish with defeat and deep-rooted frustration. Had these been people in your kitchen, you would’ve probably already lashed out. Maybe knowing that they’re doing this for the first time should be reason enough to be gentle with them, but when you stop by Simon’s right side, you feel nauseous.

“You’ve missed a lot of lessons,” you comment simply, placing your elbows on the table, both hands supporting your head as you sigh.

“‘ve been away,” he responds in a gruff whisper. He looks as tired as you feel, looking at the way his brows furrow as he twists the hen in his massive hands.

God, this is going to be a long night.

“Do you need me to show you again?”

His eyes jump to yours again, and sharp and all-consuming. “No.” He holds your gaze for a few more seconds, then, right as you’re about to pull away, grabs onto the wing and gives it a sharp twist.

The crack of cartilage is loud and unforgiving. Your hands move before you can stop them.

“No, no, no! That’s not right,” you say, reaching to grab the meat from his hands, but he pulls it away.

“I can break off a few legs jus’ fine,” he grumbles, switching the positions of his hands and rotating the thigh around the articulation faster than you can move around the table. He doesn’t resist as you snatch it from him, inspecting the damage.

“You tore the muscle and the skin,” you say, trying to keep the accusatory tilt of your voice.

He hums in response.

God give me strength.

“Come here,” you motion as you set the hen on the cutting board. He steps behind you, centimeters away from touching you. You feel the warmth of his presence, the ghost of his breath on your neck.

“You have to feel for the bones, and then press delicately on the joint.”

“‘S wot I did.”

“You broke it off. Shards of bone are going to end up in the roof of the mouth of whoever’s eating this.” You shake your head and hold your hand out. At first, he just stands there, behind you, but after a few excruciatingly long seconds, he places his hand in your awaiting palm, and you grab the knife he’s so carefully sharpened. You feel around with your free hand around the broken articulation. “Here’s where the actual cut should be.”

With the tip of the knife, you press carefully into the elastic skin. “Feel that? There’s already barely any resistance. And we just–” together, you press down, the blade cutting smoothly between cartilage and skin “- cut here.”

You examine the drumstick you separated from the body. The epiphysis was cracked, tiny shards poking into the skin. You hand it to Simon, who lets it hang limply in his hand.

“See? Raw force will do that to a poor chicken’s bone. A well-placed cut won’t have all that, do you understand?”

You almost yelp when you feel a hand grab at your hipbone. His fingers dig into your skin, mimicking your earlier movements on the bird.

His voice is deep when he bends to whisper in your ear. “Here?”

You swallow the whine that builds in your throat, crispated hand on his as you nod furiously, eyes closed to keep tears of pain from escaping. His grip is firm, relentlessly poking and prodding. You feel smaller than the raw bird on the counter, powerless.

He pulls his hand away from your hip, chuckling in response, and moves his hand that’s still holding the knife, yours stuck on him as he pushes the blade down.

The crack of the bone vibrates through you and a quiet no! escapes your lips as you exhale, eyes already scrunched shut.

After a few agonizingly long seconds, you open your eyes, expecting a carnage in front of you.

Instead, the hen is neatly separated into smooth cuts. The white of the bone glistens as you bring it up slowly to examine the drumstick, and you feel the self-satisfied smirk behind you without even seeing it.

“Guess I spoke too soon.”

He simply hums in response.

Slowly, stiffly, you extract yourself from his hold. “Good knife skills, Simon,” you whisper, unable to find it in yourself to make your voice sound more encouraging.

Maybe the creasing in the corner of his eyes is from amusement. You’d like to think he smiles often enough for it to wrinkle someday.

You more likely decide he doesn’t.

He’s forced away the next day, a call from Price and an encrypted message arriving on his secured laptop. Any other day, he would’ve gladly accepted without a second thought. He still does, he’s out on the road in less than half an hour. Yet… You are the second thought.

The thoughts of you alone in the city eat at him the whole while.

The cameras hidden in your apartment barely ease his unease.

It doesn’t matter how many side glances he sees Gaz and Soap repeatedly throw his way, he goes through every single knife in his arsenal during the flight.

He’s never had sharper knives.

He thinks of you when Price has him join him on an “interrogation”. He idly thinks of the preparations you’d had him do in your kitchen, and how the chicken was already dead. The screams of the man Price is getting information from only annoy him, as he fails to draw from it the same pleasure he once did. The crack of phalanges only sounds eerily similar to that of a broken wing. The twist of a neck too silent, too easy.

Your sweet voice is what’s missing, he figures.

And just like that, the seed of that idea takes root deep inside. He hears your voice, your surprised inhale maybe, as he stabs a guard on his way to infiltrating the enemy base. The slit of another one’s throat makes blood bubble with their dying breath, and it reminds him of the way the stew you had them cook boiled away.

For someone who’s never been much of a poet, he can draw so many parallels between your kitchen and his murder-filled life.

However, there’s nothing more comforting than bunking down in some little safe house, his phone on mute, illuminating the bone of his mask in the darkness.

For someone so fast and organized in your work kitchen, you look so different in your home one. Slowly padding barefoot from your couch to bring a pot to a boil. His eyes graze the small, pixelated screen as you unscrew the cap of a jar and dump its contents in a large bowl, stirring with a wooden spoon.

You crash back on the couch, visibly exhausted. He can’t see much of what the TV’s displaying on the other side of the room, but he can see that you don’t pay much attention to it as you spoon some food into your mouth directly out of the pot. Besides him, Soap looks at him quizzingly, clearly surprised that his Lieutenant is not using his allotted sleep time to actually sleep while he keeps first watch. Ghost scowls behind his mask, shuffling over to turn the screen away from his prying eyes, and Soap seems to understand that it's none of his business, turning back to his laptop screen where the views of four cameras stream from around their location.

When Ghost finally looks back at you, he has to choke back a groan as he sees you, pajama pants shoved down to your ankles, glowing screen of your phone shining from your left hand as the right one disappears in your panties.

He feels lightheaded suddenly, and the subconscious shift of his hips makes the flimsy bed underneath him creak. Soap doesn’t acknowledge it this time, and he turns his focus back to you.

You don’t writhe, or move much besides tensing your muscles. He sees the way you sometimes puff your chest out on a deep inhale, holding your breath for a few seconds, before your mouth opens on a shuddered exhale he doesn’t hear.

Damn him for not investing in mics.

You go on like that for a few minutes, and he squeezes at the base of his cock through the fabric of his cargo pants. He can’t afford much more with the lack of privacy, but he dreams of what he’d do to you. When you go stiff for a few moments, letting the hand holding your phone go limp on the couch, he has to take a mouthful of his mask between his teeth to keep from making noise. Then, you relax suddenly, ending the show much too early. Through small pixels, he catches a glimpse of your frustrated face as you wipe your hand on your thigh before pulling your pants back on. Envy burns through him, crawling hot from his core to his neck, feeling like if he doesn’t get to lick and taste you like the most gourmet meal he’s ever had, he’ll spontaneously combust.

You need someone to take care of you, poor thing, just like he needs someone to take care of him. Maybe you can cook for him, spoon-feed him the most deliciously crafted delicacies you serve to people who don’t know the reason they can safely build their capitalist empires is people like him, and in return perhaps you’ll let him lick your cunt, let him devour you whole and allow him to greedily gorge himself on the taste of your skin, sweat, and tears, make you feel thousands of times better than what little pleasure he’s seen you give yourself.

It’s decided, he thinks, locking the small device and burrowing into the sleeping bag, the feel of his sharp knife sitting flush against his hip a small reminder of what brings him and you together.

If he can’t have you whole, bite-sized pieces will do.

* * *

He doesn’t fucking show up to the next classes again, the bastard, his absence feeling larger than it is, and occupying much too much of your daily capita of thoughts.

You’re tired, and thinking of him, of what he’s done the few times you’ve seen him tires you to your core, until at night, a bone-deep exhaustion eats at you until you fall asleep on the couch to mediocre porn and reruns of Gossip Girl. The tips of your fingers are not enough… (not big enough, not rough enough, not– fuck) and your lone vibrator is long out of batteries, weeks gone past with you always forgetting to add triple-As to your grocery list. Frustration builds atop of loneliness, and you feel both empty and ready to crawl out of your own skin.

Some nights, you don’t feel hungry enough to be worth dirtying a whole pot for food, so you eat handfuls of shredded cheese straight out of the fridge, snacking on a few branches of celery. You’ve given up on any kind of diet, figuring that your fucked up circadian rhythm and a definite lack of dopamine was enough to deal with, and tasting food all day at work didn’t really match with the whole “intermittent fasting” thing your doctor had recommended years ago.

Perhaps the whole “feeling your bone through your fat” had been his way of saying that he wasn't attracted to you, a not-so-subtle hint that maybe you should stop trying.

Were you even trying?

Maybe.

Did it hurt nevertheless?

Yeah. Especially when he looked at you with a hunger in his eyes rivaling that of the most starved man. If he was trying to flirt, he was definitely not clear enough, and if he was trying to push you away, that most definitely wasn’t clear, either.

Thinking of him, of your feelings, of the persistent emotional drain, had you completely unaware of your surroundings, the mechanical move of your hand holding your chef’s knife, chopping through blocks and blocks of onion, not stopping till the burning pain in your fingertips awoke you enough to scream in pain.

The sounds of the kitchen go silent, and the heavy footsteps of the Chef rushing up to you vibrate through the floor, making your heartbeat stutter to the rhythm of your silent sobs as you choke back any noise.

“What’s this?” Chef roars in your ear.

“C-cut myself, Che-” you manage through tears.

“I know what you did, I saw!” he cuts you off. “I’m asking what the hell is all of this,” he gestures at the whole of you, as you clutch your hand closer to your chest, bloodying your white apron, “you’ve been distracted, mopin’ around and makin’ mistakes that have no place to be in my kitchen, contaminating my food with your blood and tears, all of that and using my good knives to teach poor little women how to be housemaids!”

The stab to your late-night activities hurts more than the feel of cutting your own fingertips off, when Chef had been the first to encourage you to do it, with the condition that you left it all spotless by morning (which you have, mind you!)

Chef sighs deeply, his right hand rubbing roughly over scrunched-shut eyes, dragging his already sagging skin further down his cheek in exasperation. You don’t have to look and see the gesture he makes with his left hand that has the whole kitchen slowly gaining movement again, breaking the inertia of a commonly held breath. A maestro, letting his orchestra continue playing to the tune of moving pots and pans and rhythmic chopping.

Hot tears keep running down your cheek, slow hiccups escaping your clenched teeth, as he lowers himself down to your ear.

“We have a long guest list tonight,” he whispers, harsh consonants blowing warm air on your cheek. You don’t flinch away. “I will let you finish this shift, then I do not want to see you here for a week. When you’re back, you’ll be busting suds for a month, and then, maybe then, I’ll see you back as my sous-chef, understood?”

You nod quickly, lips pressed tight to avoid letting out any embarrassing noises of despair, before remembering this pretentious asshole most likely wants a verbal answer.

“Chef, oui Chef.”

The line of his lips twitches at the tremble in your voice, but then he taps his large hand over your shoulder, speaking loud enough for others to hear him say, “Go clean up, darling.”

Bastard.

The rest of your shift goes without any other major hiccups, but the burning gaze of your Chef keeps you slow, more careful than usual. He spoke true, it’s a full house tonight, both large groups and smaller pairs, burning through the stocked pantry in record time, having commis work hard to replenish home-made vinaigrette bottles and sauciers whisking overtime.

By the time you get to catch a break, the Chef’s gone out to smoke, and you just know you won’t see him back anytime soon. The last of the risottos are being tossed in the air, deposited in small spoonfuls, topped with green espuma and snowflakes of aged cheeses, the last flambé dims, and the last stoves are being turned off. The dishwashers are– ahem, busting their last suds, and you find yourself stalling as you wipe down your station, before walking around the kitchen for a last check.

Your hair sticks to the toque, strands out of place after the rush, and you hold the material close to your chest, thumbing through the bandage at the stitches forming your name on the inside.

“Ehrm, Sous-chef?” comes a timid voice from somewhere behind you. It’s just Emma, the newest waitress, fresh out of college and too gentle to be in this field alone. You’d been encouraging her, teaching her tricks on how to work with difficult customers, and she’s become a sort of friend.

Tonight was the first time she’s seen the cruelty of the kitchen be directed at you.

“What is it, Emma?” you sigh tiredly. There’s no malice intended in your question, but you’re too done with today to even try masking the venom you wish to spit on anyone trying to comfort you today.

“The customer who ordered theeeee-,” she starts, fumbling for her notepad, “volaille fourrée aux chanterelles sur son lit de sauce aux marrrons-”

“Get on with it.”

“Yeah, well, he wishes to speak with you,” she says, clicking her tongue, the sliver of her personality peeking through after the carnage of French-sounding choking with which she liked mocking you.

“Me?”

“You’re the one who made it? Then yeah, he wants to see you.”

You sigh deeply, tired and wanting to finish today before you get the murderous desire to through the knife at someone’s toque (aiming preferably lower).

“Better not be a critic,” you grumble under your breath, giving your toque a perfunctory shake, untying the now dirty apron, and tucking your hair behind your ears before setting it back atop your head.

As the swinging doors swish closed behind you, and the fluorescent white of the kitchen gives way to soft luminaires and sophisticated gold and burgundy, you automatically head to one of the last tables still seated, not paying attention to whoever wanted to see you, just wanting to get this over with–

“Good evening, birdie,” startles you, the grit of the voice deep like tar and too familiar to you.

Your gaze meets his feet first, as his large legs stretch way out from under the white cover of the table. As you look up, you don’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly was not this.

He looks disheveled. The black of his hoodie is covered in dark splotches (could that be– blood? No, it couldn’t, nevermind), but the grey of his jeans is dusty, like he’s kneeled in sand while wearing them.

Most importantly, he’s not wearing the usual mask (would be hard to eat, you figure), instead, a black balaclava is pushed up his nose, revealing a nasty cut on his lip, moving as he chews. Despite that, you recognize him, and simultaneously don’t. The dark brown of his eyes, behind smudged eyeblack, is the same, though the width of his shoulders seems broader as he sits relaxed, not crouched in on himself like he did in the kitchen you just came out of. The sharpness of his gaze, the same, the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, different.

“What’re you doing here?” you manage through your teeth after a few seconds of disbelief.

You stand in front of him, feeling frozen in place. Do you tell him to fuck off, after playing all hot’n’cold with you? Do you ask him if he liked his food? Do you ask him why he keeps acting like nothing happened?

He finishes chewing and wipes with the fabric napkin roughly at the corner of his lips, before crumpling it in a ball and tossing it across the table. It bears a vague resemblance to the onion, rolling to the edge, ready to fall, to embarrass you. Instead, it doesn’t, stopping a mere centimeter away, as if to taunt you.

You look back to the kitchen, the sneaky suspicion that you’re being watched confirmed by the side eye you notice Chef’s throwing you from behind the glass pane. There’s a heated discussion he’s a part of, and you find yourself not wanting to know who it is about. With a sigh, you straighten your back, pick up the napkin from the edge of the table—maybe the edge of your sanity, at this point—and cross your arms behind your back. You can taste bile at the back of your throat, or maybe it’s a bit of blue cheese attempting to choke you on its way down your esophagus, but your voice is less confident than you try to make it.

“What I meant to ask, sir, was everything to your liking?”

You notice the way his jaw twitches as his eyebrows raise. His gaze jumps from your face to somewhere behind you, and he sits up straighter, his knee disappearing behind the white tablecloth.

“Y’can drop the act with me, love.”

Love, is it now? “I really can’t, sir.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes. Then, with a softer look at you, he hooks his ankle underneath the chair in front, pulling it to the side. He waits a bit when you don’t immediately sit down, then reluctantly adds a soft, quiet, “I liked it.”

You sit down.

As you bring your arms to fold them in your lap, you throw another look back and don’t see Chef anymore. Relief floods through you, but you have no time to relish in the feeling when a large hand pulls you by the arm and a surprised gasp escapes your lips.

“Hey–”

“An’ what happened to you?” he asks roughly, twisting your arm to look at the piss-poor job you did of bandaging your fingers. You’d used four bandaids per finger, trying to keep as much mobility, but the result had only slowly unstuck over time, no matter how much you tried putting it back together.

“Workplace accident,” you joke grimly. The whites in his eyes only make his gaze sharper as he focuses back on you. “I cut myself on accident,” you admit.

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue disappointingly. “Is that what all o’ that was about?” he asks, jutting his chin towards the kitchen.

You nod. “Chef’s mad that I’m teaching ‘little housemaids how to cook’,” you mock around air quotes. “Guess he’s never met you to disprove that,” you add, motioning at him.

Simon hums in response. He appears in thought, passing his tongue in front of his teeth. The dim light highlights another white scar on his top lip when he does.

“Sounds like you’d like to be one.”

You bite back a bitter laugh, matching your sarcasm with his. “Yeah, right, tell my mom that. She hates that I cook professionally and don't have the time to be a proper lil’ housewife. Wait till she finally learns this is not the same economy as in the fifties. I’m too tired for a second full-time job.”

He nods thoughtfully.

“One’s enough,” he comments simply. “Exactly! One is enough.”

Finally, someone who understands. Maybe you do like this guy.

“So…” he starts, after a moment. You notice he’s been twirling the knife (how long has he been doing that?) expertly, right as the movement stops, and he points the tip of it to his now empty plate. “How’d you make this?”

Your eyebrows rise. And he is an interested student? It’s almost flattering enough to forgive him for all that he’s done.

Almost.

“Well, it’s just a cornish hen. Stuffed. There’s onion, and carrot, and three types of mushrooms. Pop in an oven. The chestnuts are out of a can, even here. But, y’know, it’s a fancy can that costs more than it should. Make a sauce out of that. Dress it all pretty. And yeah.”

You almost stop your blabbering.

“You’d know if you came to last week’s class.”

His gaze darkens instantly.

There it is. The straw that broke the camel’s back. Why the fuck can’t you keep your mouth closed? Why do you have to ruin everything for yourself and–

Instead, what comes next out of his mouth is unexpected.

“Private lessons work for me.”

Your mouth dries out. What?

The way he seems to unravel your inner turmoil with just a pointed look should be worrying. Scratch that, the way he pulls the black mask down—a balaclava with a printed skull– should be downright horrifying, thick arms crossing across his chest as he leans back, jutting his chin towards the kitchen once again. “Well? You should be getting up now.” It feels like an order.

You do, though it’s not up to his standards, when he frowns at the way you appear unsure of what to do.

On the one hand, it’s not like you have anywhere else to be besides home, and not like you’d have anything else to do for the next week, courtesy of your Chef.

On the other, should you be getting up? Following this– ‘stranger’ feels wrong at this point, after all, ‘student’ feels wrong-er– man anywhere should feel like a deathwish, but the smolder in his gaze, the warmth of his fingers as he grasped your arm to examine you…

“How about we patch those pretty little fingers up, and y’can catch me up instead, hmm pet?” he purrs, and you finally melt.

With a feeble nod and a squeeze of your hand, he lets you let go first, turning to pack your things.

The weight of your knife inside the soft leather roll somehow burns more than the holes Chef’s gaze burns into the back of your head as the doors swing closed behind you.

The act he puts on is sweet.

A perfect gentleman. He’s on the edge of something he so desperately needs, a cloying want stuffing his gut, a greed so strong he barely makes it through the first night.

You so timidly offer your hand when he opens the door of the car for you, having spent the ride all folded in on yourself. Shy, almost. So much unlike the persona in the kitchen. Scared to offer yourself to him like he wants you to.

When he patches your fingers up that night, gorging himself on every sweet whimper you let out for him, every tiny hiss of pain, followed by a brave little ‘I’m fine, just stings’, he has to stop himself from taking you right then and there. He dreams of shoving his cock right down your throat, have you taste it and force you to admit it’s better than gourmet.

He stifles it all.

Right choice, he thinks, when you fall asleep on the couch, so insistent on not taking his bed– could’ve shared it, but that wasn’t the plan. A wounded noise escapes your throat later that night, just a small whine when he softly puts the thin cover on your soft body, and it cracks his resolve– the itch he wants to scratch, to bite, to eat.

You rub your thighs together, and he all but rips it away from you.

But he waits. Prowls. Bites the growl rising in his throat.

He’ll have you soon enough. His plan will unfold, and you’ll be his, and only his.

* * The next morning, he rises early enough to make sure you wake up to the smell of a mouth-watering breakfast. He’s done the recon. Learned enough. What you like. Sweet and salty, just like you.

You pad through the flat, bare-footed and slightly confused, a frown digging at your features until you see him. Shirt foregone, mask discarded. Cooking for you.

Worry dissipates off your face immediately.

When you inspect his fridge as he plates the pancakes– off-brand mix– and bacon– cheapest grade, barely real meat– he feels the trickle of pride, self-satisfied and burning hot, melting down his spine as you notice the pair of pigeon carcasses and brown bags filled with fancy mushrooms. He even bought a sample pack of spices, some twenty-odd round cases smaller than bullets. He can tell you like it.

“Someone went shopping,” you comment, and the haze of want almost blinds him. So close, yet so far. The target, in line to be hit, shimmering bull’s eye, begging to be destroyed–

“Ready for my lesson, ‘m I not?”

You smile so sweetly, so innocently. So proud. “You are! Let’s do this.”

You don’t comment on the way he stares at the cushion of your stomach when you sit to eat. He tastes the pungent aroma of iron in his mouth like an exquisite wine as he bites his cheek to keep himself from pouncing too quickly. “Good?” he asks. You nod as you chew, letting out a satisfied groan that burns him from the inside.

He also washes the dishes, gets you all ready and relaxed for him. You, in your element, him, in his. You don’t comment on the perfectly sharpened knives, nor on the spin he does when you have him cut the mushrooms into pieces. He’s learned, he knows just enough of what’ll make you happy. The pieces aren’t perfect, but they don’t need to be.

And when you step in front of him, the only thing separating his massive figure from the puny little pigeon, he’s got you exactly where he wants to.

You speak to him. So sweetly. So softly. There’s no need for you to make your voice carry explanations over an entire room. Your voice is only for him to hear, to drink, to get drunk on. You don’t comment when he wraps his arms around your midsection, large palms kneading you for comfort.

As your fingers separate the yellow skin from the breast of the bird, his hand does the same under your shirt.

“Simon!” you squeal, though not indignant. There’s softened butter under your fingertips, herbs under your nails.

“Shh, keep talking,” he soothes.

“How will you learn?”

“Same as before.”

And he does.

“You massa–ahh–ge, the butter Simon!” you melt under him, but he keeps you upright.

“Keep going.”

And you obey so easily, it’s almost pathetic, what he’d endured before. Each pass of your fingers over the slimy meat, he mimics on your skin, callused palms pressing on your chest, squeezing your tits. You moan and puff at him about distracting you, yet you keep going. Saying he needs to get every crevasse covered, for better taste.

“‘S that so?” he mumbles, lips pressed to your neck. It’s slightly salty. A bit sweaty. Better seasoned than anything he’s ever eaten. He feels the moan erupt from your chest before he hears it, and in that moment, he knows his hunger will never be fully satisfied, not when he's got the chance to taste you once.

When you grab a handful of the prepared mushrooms and aromatics, ready to stuff it into the bird’s cavity, he pulls your hips back and widens your stance in one smooth movement. “Most important part,” he whispers in your ear before you have the chance to say anything. “Show me exactly ‘ow you do it.”

“S-Simon…” you whine, and clumps of mushrooms fall out of your trembling fingers onto the counter as his hand slides under the boxers he lent you last night.

“Go on,” he presses, hooking his chin over your other shoulder, devouring your resolve and making you his with the low register of his voice. Clara liked it too, once.

“We– We stuff the bird f-full–”

“Mhmm,” he slides his fingers down the seam of your pussy, forefinger and ring finger spreading you open for the middle to press right at your opening in a meager copy of what you were struggling to do to the bird.

The bandages on your left hand were tight. Clean. He did them for you, after all.

And they only made you struggle to handle his food.

“Y’can do it one-handed, come on. Jus’ like you do it alone.”

He swallows the gasp you let out with a kiss at the corner of your lips, sliding his finger further in. You’re sopping wet, just from him toying with you.

Your hand shakes, but you manage to keep the bird open, pressing your thumb to make a ball with the stuffing. He mimics the movement on your clit, and you almost fold in half, but his other arm keeps you upright.

“Come on,” he purrs, “put it in.”

When you finally press the smallest amount inside the bird’s cavity, he off-handedly thinks that it’s finally time to put you out of your misery.

You moan loudly when the first finger slides inside your wet little pussy, followed by two more. No amount of teasing could’ve gotten you ready for the size of him, yet you still take him like a champ, voice so sweet, asking him for more when he doesn’t move.

“Show me how,” he groans, rutting against you as he repositions you in his hold, lifting your belly slightly to reach deeper with his fingers. “Fill it,” he says, knowing you both know he’s not talking about the pigeon, but about his bird.

His hand mimics your every movement, prodding deeper, curling to press at the spot that makes you sound so sweet, just as you press in more of the mushroom mix, compacting it inside the cavity to make room for more. Your slick runs down and pools in his palm, and he thinks of how much he wants to lick it, but he waits, learns, repeats.

You’re such a good teacher, when you teach only to him. Each ball of stuffing gets messier than the last, though he can’t blame you. Making a right mess of the counter, just as he is of you. Sweet moans erupt from your throat, and the hold he has on you is the only thing that keeps you upright as you press more and more in, and he mimics the movement inside you.

It feels exactly right.

By the time you’re done with the first bird, your legs are shaking.

“Simon, please,” you beg, and he smiles as he takes in the scent of your sweat at the base of your neck, coaxing more pretty sounds out of you.

“Show me one more. One more, pretty bird.”

You tense around him, squeezing his fingers in such a way that he almost comes on the spot at the thought of you doing the same to him, but you obey. He palms at your tits again, pinching your nipples and kissing your shoulders, reveling in your softness, surrounded by your smell as you repeat the motions with the other carcass. He never wants to eat anything again if it’s not made by you, the same way.

You moan and you curse when he pumps his fingers inside you, and he notices how you stuff the second bird more fully, pressing the stuffing inside, hard and messy. Harder. Messier. Deeper. He bites back a chuckle, he knows what you need, and he wants to give it to you. Your fingers tremble and push inside, and he does the same, but it’s not enough. Never enough for his greedy toy.

You plead, and you beg, and he’s almost there. Ready for the unraveling.

“After we eat, pet. Y’must be hungry,” he adds, a touch of condescension as he squeezes at your belly just to feel the way your stomach clenches and your pussy flutters around him.

The squelch is obnoxious when he removes his fingers from inside you, and you whine at the loss, but then he simply pats your ass twice in rapid succession, says something about letting you finish up, and goes to lay down on the couch, ignoring your inquisitive hum and slightly disappointed look in your eyes.

It’s all right. You’ll figure the rest out by yourself, soon enough.

The two of you devour the food when it comes out of the oven, some half an hour later. You’ve never realized how starved you were.

Starved of affection. Starved of touch. Starved by the literal food you made but never ate.

“This is better than I remembered,” you comment, trying to make conversation with the behemoth of a man who touched you so perfectly. He grunts in response, and you’d never figured he was the same man from only a moment ago.

He’s a fast eater, though, and soon his plate only contains a few thin bones, licked clean and haphazardly discarded. You’ve barely made a dent in your plate, unable to focus on anything but the dampness in your panties.

“Y’need to finish your plate,” he states matter-of-factly. You cut up another piece of the breast, spearing it on your fork with more of the chestnut sauce.

“I eat slow,” you respond. What you don’t say is how you’ve conditioned yourself to eat as slowly as possible, just to make the fullness feeling come quicker, but when he rises to his feet suddenly, making your glasses shake and his cutlery fall to the floor, you forget what you were going to say.

“C’mere,” he says, not waiting for your answer to pull you up and slide in your chair, setting you back on his lap like you were nothing but a doll for him to play with. There’s an unmistakable bulge under your ass, and you whine as you settle back, but he is not having any of it. His large hands surround you, snatching your fork and knife from your hands in one swift movement. “‘Ave to do everythin’ ‘round ‘ere,” he grumbles, but he cuts into your pigeon carefully, and you open your mouth for him.

It somehow tastes better this way, or maybe the aroma of his scent—musky and slightly tangy, somehow burnt and almost spicy—marries perfectly with the meal you made, and you soon relax in his hold. He hums in response, content to feed you like this. After a while, his hand wraps around your stomach again, pulling you close when you try to shift away, starting to feel full.

“None o’ that, birdie,” he murmurs in your ear. “Stay like that. You ate, now lemme ‘ave my fill.”

You’re pliant when he shifts his hips under you, the clink of a belt buckle the only indication of what he’s doing. When he palms your pussy through the layers separating you from him, you whine and squirm, sleepy from the food yet still so needy after all the teasing from earlier.

By the time he lifts you to sink you on his cock, you sigh with satisfaction when it slides in without much resistance, him responding with a similar groan.

“Tha’s it. That’s my pretty li’l pet. Perfect for me.”

He bounces you like that, one hand cupping your sex, occasionally swiping his thumb through your folds as he maneuvers you like you’re weightless to him, the other massaging your tummy and breasts, holding you close when the feeling of him gets too much, when his cock reaches too deep.

“Simon, Simon,” you whine, because it’s all so good, and you tell him so, tell him how perfectly he fills you. You sometimes get a grunt in response, but when you squeeze around him, feeling yourself approach the precipice of euphoria, he bites your shoulder with a snarl, pushing his hips up, up, up, and it’s the last thing you need to push you over the edge.

It’s not clear how much time passes after that, but the next time you come to your senses, you’re spread in a bed, Simon’s tongue deep inside you. A high-pitched whine resonates in the dark room, and it takes you a while to realize that it’s coming from you. He slurps at you, and you dig your heels into his back, spurring him on. He latches onto your clit, sucking harder when you jolt away, and you realize that he needs this as much as you do.

If some light cooking is what it takes to get some action like that, Christ, you should’ve been listening to your mother long ago.

He makes you finish too many times to count. Lips, tongue, and fingers, then his cock again sometime through the night. It seems like a dream, especially when he growls all those pet names directly into your cunt, the vibration of his low voice too much to handle as you come again and again.

When he’s finally done with you, endorphins floating through your veins as he scoops you from behind and pulls your back close to him, he mirrors your satisfied sigh. You shuffle back and he answers with a last squeeze around your mid-section.

Going back to the kitchen’s going to be torture in a week.

But for now, you can only fall asleep in his arms.

The beast is sated.

That morning, he packs his stuff quickly and efficiently, satisfied with having received the package in time. The electronic bracelet sits flush with your skin, tightly wrapped around your ankle.

He’s almost sad to leave so soon after bagging the most precious prize he could’ve hoped for, but duty calls. A paper note sits ready on the counter. There’s a list of the butcher’s name that does delivery, the grocer’s email, the laptop’s password –with a duly installed child control– and a pre-paid card. Right now, there’s only a hundred pounds on there, but it should be enough to last you till he comes back. Laswell said this would be a quick one.

He kisses your forehead before leaving, silently rejoicing at the small, content whine you let out. If you’re good for him, maybe he’ll have you wearing your own rock on your ring finger soon enough.

And, well, with just one job now, it should be easy.

It’s been a few months since Ghost’s been on leave, Price grouses silently to himself one night, sweating like a sinner in a church somewhere in the Amazonian forest. Brass has been on his ass to give his crew their leave soon, while still going on about urgent stuff that also needs to be cared for.

Fucking muppets.

There’s a fire outside his tent, silent chatter as soldiers prepare for a long night. They’re closing in on the target, and if this is the last night he has to spend getting mosquito bites where the sun don’t shine, then he’ll be happier than getting a fresh box of Maduros.

When he emerges, Soap’s handing a few privates their rations. Stocks have been getting low, but the mission’s almost over. He sulks over to the dark corner where his Lieutenant’s sitting, shoveling food into his exposed mouth.

Through the corner of his eye, he notices Ghost pocket a small shaker. Sitting with a grunt, he outstretches his hand, and Ghost hands him his portion. Opening it with a cautious sniff, he can’t help the grimace that spreads on his face.

“‘Ere,” Ghost says.

Price takes what he’s handed. “Y’ve got contraband, now, Simon?”

The man chuckles darkly, spooning another bite of grey mush into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Price examines the bottle.

It’s Maggi bouillon powder. He laughs.

“That’s what those cooking classes taught you? I expected more.”

With a grunt, Simon swipes the packet back pettily, rising to his full height.

“That and so much more, Cap’n,” he spits without animosity. “Enjoy.”

Price shakes his head, and eats without a complaint.

Maybe he ought to join next year.

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