Sources for images: |Ace| |Kid| |Zoro| |Law| |Sanji|
MASTERLIST
Hello everyone! I'm Pandora and if you like to read "Reader x" fics, you are in the right place!
I'm thirty-something, a mother of a little boy, a mother of two cats, and a wife to a loving husband!
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A warning before you delve into my den, English is NOT my first-language. So you might find some grammar and spelling mistakes, I apologise in advance for those.
Thank you so much for reading this far! Updated Masterlist bellow the cut!
Tags: Fem!Reader; Lots and lots of swearing; Mature Audiences (I'll always tag the NSFW chapters); Modern Day AU; Anger issues; Emotionally constipated reader; Emotional trauma; Abandonment issues; Eventual fluff;
Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.
Summary: You working at Baratie never felt like a choice; it was an obligation after Zeff took you off the streets. And since cooking was the only thing that eased the constant anger gnawing at you, you were fine with it. Until a mysterious bandana-covered biker walked in and turned everything upside down.
Notes: I know I keep saying this, but I really am sorry about the delay. Here's the final chapter. The epilogue. I sincerely hope you enjoyed this unexpected journey into Killer's Meet-Cute and this feisty reader. Please, let me know all about it in the comments. They're very much appreciated!
The winter wind blew harshly, flapping his jacket and seeping through under his helmet, turning his skin into a pebbled mass of goosebumps. Even though Killer was fully equipped to withstand the chill, numbness crept along his fingertips and into his extremities. He should stop soon. But he was so close to home.
He’d been driving for weeks now and was about to ride into the familiar region of the Calm Belt. Kid’s garage was roughly an hour away. He’d left you behind in that cold, impersonal hospital, gotten on his bike, and ridden home without looking back.
Your idea, really, not his.
He told you he would wait until Zeff was dismissed, that he wanted to keep you company—be there in case you needed him—but you wouldn’t hear it. Deep down, Killer knew you just didn’t want to face another gut-wrenching goodbye when your talk in the waiting room had already felt so final.
You didn’t do vulnerability. He knew that.
It still stung.
No matter how many times he reminded himself he wasn’t supposed to get attached, it had happened. Every day, he woke up thinking about you, and you were the last thought before he fell asleep.
Fuck, he hadn’t allowed himself to feel like this for years. And all that felt like a very distant past. It all stirred thoughts inside him that he didn’t want to contemplate, like the fact that maybe he wasn’t meant to belong to someone—that his path was one he had to walk alone.
Nah.
He was being an idiot. He wasn’t alone. He had Kid and his girl, some friends he’d made on his travels, and even Shanks called once in a while to know how he was doing.
The only thing he was missing was romantic companionship.
Yet, he always managed to fall for the wrong person.
Dr. Crocus used to call him a fixer. He said that he saw someone broken and in pain and felt the need to repair them. ‘Loving someone doesn’t make you responsible for them,’ he’d often say. ‘You can’t force people to heal. You’ll burn yourself out trying.’
He thought he’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Apparently not.
What his therapist had also wanted him to realize was that he couldn’t help anyone fix themselves unless he was whole first.
Pride filled him when he considered the progress he’d made since he’d gotten back from the army physically and mentally shattered, with so many broken pieces of himself that he’d really thought he was beyond repair. Yet, he healed. Slowly but surely, he put most of his trauma in the past.
However, there was still a long way to go before he felt strong enough to throw his bandanas in the trash. And until then…
Maybe life would keep throwing him curveballs.
Killer slowed down his bike as he left the freeway, the chill more pronounced out in the open fields. Heavy clouds floated above him, promising hail or snow. It was a good thing he was almost home.
Farm fields stretched all around him, but there wasn’t a single soul working them, and with the sun hidden behind threatening clouds, not even the animals were out grazing.
He sped up a little to make it to Kid’s Garage before the snow did, and when the familiar building loomed in the distance, he sighed in relief.
God, he’d missed this place.
The garage gate was closed, so he killed the engine and rolled his bike under the aluminum awning to keep it protected from the elements. A smirk twisted his lips as he observed the front of the garage and its surroundings. Kid had painted the building and replaced the ‘Damned Punk Garage’ sign with a much cleaner, more modern version. The surrounding trees were decorated with Christmas lights and ornaments, and there was even a Santa figure climbing the garage roof.
This time, Killer couldn’t avoid a chuckle. Kid was so whipped for his girl.
He removed his helmet, adjusted his bandana, and pushed the door with the ‘open’ sign, taking a deep, somewhat nervous breath. It had been three years since he’d been face-to-face with his brother.
The familiar sound of old-school metal and a high-pitched grinder assaulted his ears, stretching his grin. Kid was in the back of the garage, his back toward the door, in a tank top even when the chill from outside seeped through the cracks into the garage. He didn’t turn, oblivious to the jingle of the door over the ruckus, so Killer observed the space, taking in the small changes rather than making himself known.
The garage was as clean as a garage could get. The usual oil and paint stains dotted the floor, but there wasn’t a speck of dust in sight. Even the cans and tools had proper places and labels. The old couch still sat in the back, though the upholstery seemed new and it had a few simple pillows on it.
Killer’s brow quirked up. Why the hell hadn’t they ever thought to put pillows on the couch where they constantly napped?
“Well, I’ll be damned, you’re a regular housewife now, ain’t you?” he teased when Kid turned off the grinder. The only telltale sign that the redhead was startled was the widening of his eyes once he spotted him.
Kid huffed out a laugh, wiping his hands on his grease-stained jeans.
“Someone had to take the job after ye quit, ye arse.”
Warmth filled Killer’s chest. One weekly phone call hadn’t been enough to appease the connection he and Kid had.
“Dick.”
“Fucker.”
They met with a hug, equal grins stretching their cheeks while they patted each other’s back.
“Missed yer motherfuckin’ arse.”
“Aye, missed you too.”
“How’ve ye been?” Kid asked as they broke the embrace. “Ye could’ve let me know ye were close to home. All I got are these fizzy arse sodas in the fridge.”
Killer grabbed a can of orange soda Kid threw at him before plopping down on the couch.
“Aye, it’s fine. I’m glad you’re sticking to your no-alcohol rule, man. Proud of you.” Kid sat down next to him, and they touched cans before taking a sip. “I was going to call ahead, but I’ve been riding all night. Couldn’t wait to get home.”
Kid tilted his head to the side, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Ridin’ all night? Ye know that shite’s dangerous.”
Killer scoffed, taking a sip of the drink from under the bandana. “Kettle, meet pot.”
“Fuck off.”
“You fuck off.”
But Kid didn’t fuck off. He tilted his head further and stared a beat too long. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Nothing,” he answered too fast.
“Bullshite,” Kid scoffed.
Still, Killer deflected. “I like what you did with the place. Feels more like a garage. Less like a chop shop.”
Kid’s grin fell back into place, letting go of the subject for the moment as he scanned their surroundings with wistful eyes. “Aye. I can’t take all credit, though. Sparkles did most of the shite. Insisted on the Christmas lights, too. Wanted to make it a yearly tradition or somethin’ like that.”
Kid tried to sound reluctant but failed spectacularly. He sounded truly smitten instead.
“Told you she’s good for you, arsehole. Should’ve listened to me immediately.”
“Aye.”
He agreed, but they were both glad he didn’t listen to them. Despite all the suffering to get where he was now, if Kid hadn’t gone through all of the shit he did, he might not be the same man he was now. A man on the healing path.
They caught up on life over a few more cans of soda. Afterward, Killer rolled up his sleeves and even helped Kid fix Benn Beckman’s truck. He felt exhausted, but lately, sleep always came with visions of you and what could’ve been if life hadn’t intervened.
So he wanted to postpone that moment a bit longer.
“So yer stayin’ till spring? That was the plan, aye?”
Killer washed his hands at the small bathroom sink, getting rid of the grease and all kinds of oils he’d missed removing from under his nails before they headed upstairs to Kid’s apartment for dinner.
“That was the initial plan,” Killer admitted sheepishly. “I might leave earlier.”
“What do ye mean? What the fuck changed?”
A sigh escaped his lips as he wiped his hands on a towel and leaned against the sink. “I… it’s complicated.”
“Kill…”
He pushed off the sink, passing Kid in the doorway, and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. Where the fuck was his hair tie?
“I need some time to myself again. That’s all. Let it go, man.”
“Fuck that. Ye didn’t let go when I was havin’ trouble, did ye? Ye fuckin’ pushed. So tell me what’s got ye lookin’ like a stray who got kicked one too many times.”
“Kid!” Killer turned to him, running another hand through his hair. “Fuck!”
Kid silently observed him for a moment. Then, huffing a sigh, he crooked his lips into a knowing smirk. “Ye fell for someone, didn’t ye?”
This fucker…
“Drop it.”
“Nah. I know that look, man. What the fuck happened?”
Killer dropped on the couch only to get up a moment later, as if he couldn’t sit still with all the pent-up energy bustling inside him. Kid wouldn’t stop questioning him until he relented. He knew that. Might as well indulge his friend.
“She’s a chef—” Killer sighed, finally giving in. “Well, not really, but she’s an amazing cook. She… she’s got big dreams, man, big heart too, no matter how hard she tries to hide it… I—We… well… we… got a little close.”
Kid watched him with furrowed brows and crossed arms.
“Anyway, I casually suggested she should come with me and see the world—she wanted much more than the restaurant life could offer her—but…” Killer sighed, rubbing his hand across his chest where a nagging ache sat under his ribs.
“She turned ye down?”
“No…”
Kid’s brow shot up, confusion lining his features.
“A personal emergency held her back. Her family. I… she stayed and… well, I don’t think we’re meant to meet again. I don’t know…” He finally slumped back down on the couch, wearing a defeated expression.
Kid shook his head, a confused grimace twisting his lips. “That all?”
“What do you mean ‘that all’?”
“I mean: Is. That. All?” Kid said each word slowly. “Thought she had dumped yer ass, or somethin’.” Kid scoffed. “So life got in the way! Big, fuckin’ whoop. Yer talkin’ like it’s all over.”
Killer’s head shot up. “Well… She’s not here, is she?”
“Aye, she’s not. But if ye rode halfway across the world once, ye sure as shit can do it again.”
He could. Couldn’t he? But… did you want him to? Your goodbye had seemed so final. Plus, would you feel comfortable leaving Zeff behind, knowing he was susceptible to suffering more heart attacks? Probably not…
“It’s—”
“Complicated? Fuck yeah it is, dipshit. Life’s fuckin’ messy. Ye taught me that, remember? And that’s why it’s worth livin’. Do ye love her?”
An ache akin to a stab pressed down on his sternum, and he rubbed the spot again. Did he?
“Aye,” he answered genuinely, surprising even himself. Why bother denying it? Sure, it had only been a couple of weeks, but sometimes that’s all it took. He sure as hell knew love came in different forms.
“Did ye tell her?”
Killer’s shoulders sagged. It didn’t exactly feel good to be on this end of a serious conversation.
“No.”
“Did ye at least hint at it? Fuck, did ye even kiss her?”
Killer felt his cheeks warm up at the thought of all the things he did to you. “I—fuck. Aye, I kissed her.”
Kid squinted his eyes. “Ye only horny-kissed her, didn’t ye?”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Well?”
“Kid!”
“Did ye kiss her goodbye or not?”
Killer groaned, burying his head in his hands.
“Fuckin’ dumbass.” Killer couldn’t agree more. “Ye think she would’ve come if the personal emergency hadn’t kept her there?”
“Aye.” His muffled answer came with no hesitation. Killer knew you would’ve left with him. You told him as much in the waiting room of the hospital.
“Then don’t act as if the world ended. She didn’t reject ye. She didn’t pick somebody else. She just stayed where she was needed.”
Kid’s words made sense. Hell, he had reasoned with himself with similar ones on the long road home. But hearing someone else speak them dislodged the boulder pressing down on his chest, relieving the ache there by a fraction.
What was worse was that Killer’s brain understood and respected why you’d stayed behind. It was the right thing to do. His heart, though, was taking a hell of a lot longer to get the message.
He released his face from his hands with a deep sigh. “Since when are you the wise one?”
Kid guffawed, slapping Killer on the shoulder. “Guess I ain’t such a hard head anymore, Kill. I’ve evolved.”
That pulled a chuckle from his lips.
“Now let’s go upstairs, or my girl will be serving my head on a platter instead of actual food.”
-*-
Zeff left the hospital after three days, even after you complained to anyone who would listen that it was still too soon for him to go home, and that he was old as shit, so he needed to be monitored closely by doctors and nurses.
That outburst got you nowhere.
During the first week, Zeff got winded just walking from the bed to the couch, but you were still there, insisting on little walks without too much exertion. Zeff argued that listening to you yap was exertion enough to give him another heart attack.
You subtly reminded him that it was still too fucking soon to joke about that shit. He agreed. For about half an hour.
By the second week, he was able to withstand longer walks, so you dragged him outside to see the first snow. It was peaceful until some kids thought it was fun to build a one-legged snowman and use a branch to mimic Zeff’s missing leg. A hint of red crossed your vision as you yelled at the unruly kids before Zeff laughed it off and dragged you home.
You returned to your routine shortly after. The restaurant was always emptier during winter, but you needed the distraction. Every day you eyed your little recipe notebook hanging by the shelf, and every day you’d say you’d mail it to Kid’s garage after service.
And by the end of every single day, it was still there. With another lame-ass excuse as to why you didn’t ship it.
Zeff sat down at the Baratie’s kitchen to peel potatoes by the third week, and no matter how hard you yelled at him, he wouldn’t budge. He said his hands had been too idle, and sitting around on his ass was giving him calluses where no callus should ever exist.
He watched you cook in silence, not commenting on your food, but you could still feel his judgmental gaze burning on your back.
Three weeks bled into four, then into five.
Christmas was around the corner, but you felt far from festive. You felt… exhausted. Every day was the same. Every hour held the same sixty boring minutes, and your life was nothing but stagnant monotony.
“This shit tastes like cardboard,” Zeff complained.
Red lit up your vision.
These days, everything seemed gray and dull, and no matter how hard you wanted to blame the winter on lack of color, you knew it was deeper than that.
Even if you didn’t want to acknowledge it.
At least you were used to red. It was familiar, somehow, despite not being comforting anymore.
“Yes, it does,” you admitted, fussing over the blood pressure monitor, trying to put it back in its box and leaving it within reach for a last time check before you both headed home later. “You have to cut back on the salt, remember?”
Zeff grumbled over his spoonful of chicken soup, and you pretended not to hear him.
“Now eat your soup like a good grumpy old man and shut up.” Your break was over, so you opened Zeff’s office door and stepped out, already tying your apron around your waist. “And if I see you in the kitchen before you finish that and drink that full glass of water, you’ll never hear the end of it!”
He grumbled nonsense into his spoon again, but it quickly turned into a soft chuckle. Zeff was used to your fussing by now. You had been all over his ass ever since the heart attack, and, frankly, you were too scared to leave him alone. You’d been reading about heart attacks and how often a second one sneaked up if the patient wasn’t careful, which was something you wanted to avoid at all costs. Even if it meant hovering over Zeff twenty-four seven.
“Order in,” Patty said, grabbing the ticket that whirred from the machine. You walked behind him and snatched it from his hands, ignoring his protests as you started on the dish.
Pasta Carbonara.
Your stomach flipped. Could it be…?
No.
Don’t be stupid.
“Patty, since when do we serve carbonara?” Had your voice always sounded so wobbly?
“Well, today, actually,” Patty answered. “Zeff wanted to add a few easy and warming pasta dishes to fight off the cold outside. Didn’t you study the menu before service?”
A growl rumbled in your chest. “I didn’t have time! Fuck off. I’m on it.” Your hands moved automatically, but they couldn’t distract you from the whirring in your brain.
You weren’t disappointed. You weren’t. You were just tired. That was all.
Preparing the dish took no effort at all, but it didn’t provide you with excitement either. Everything was cooked down to perfection. Timed. Measured. Garnished.
So.
Fucking.
Boring.
“Order up!” you called, ringing the bell by the counter.
When the kitchen door opened, the waitress rushed in, cheeks flushed from the bustle at the front of the house. “Here you go, Pig—erm, Shirahoshi. Table 4.”
You’d learned her name. You forced yourself to. She finally grew the fuck up and turned those annoying pigtails into a much more professional bun. That made her less of a crybaby than she had been in the past.
Of course, it might have also had to do with the fact that you stopped yelling at her.
It was a toss of the coin, really.
She thanked you and left, leaving you to wipe down your station as you prepared for another ticket. Zeff wandered out of his office, and you held back a reprimand when you saw him walk slowly, leaning on his cane harder than he had since they gave it to him at the hospital.
“You feeling okay, old fart?”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m just full, and my ass is numb. Let me walk this off.”
Full? Had he actually eaten the whole bowl of soup? You had filled it to the rim in the hopes he would, because he’d lost a lot of weight, but you had your suspicions.
“I’ll grab your dirty dishes, then,” you baited, waiting for him to tell Carne or Patty to go instead, but he only grumbled in agreement.
When you reached his office, astonishment widened your eyes, your chest expanding with barely contained relief. He had eaten the whole thing.
Small victories.
You headed back into the kitchen and nearly collided with a frantic Shirahoshi as she barged inside looking for you.
“Oh, here you are. The patron at table 4 asked for the chef.”
The bowl slipped from your fingers and shattered into tiny pieces at your feet. Your throat tightened up so painfully that it was hard to breathe.
It couldn’t be.
It wasn’t him.
“Why?” you croaked out, kneeling beside Shirahoshi, who was already picking up the shattered pieces.
“He didn’t say.”
You nodded, feeling how suddenly your body was as stiff as a board.
“Okay.”
Shirahoshi secured all the broken pieces as you wiped your hands in your apron. Halfway through fixing your hair, you scoffed. What the fuck were you doing?
With a growl, you pushed the doors and eyed the restaurant. Table 4. There.
Your heart skipped a beat, your breath lost somewhere between your lungs and your mouth.
Once you spotted a broad back and long, blonde hair, the stupid, useless organ inside your chest returned to a dizzyingly fast thud, thud, thud.
Hesitation stalled your steps; nerves tingled in the tips of your fingers.
But you still walked toward the table.
The man turned.
You held your breath again.
“Ah, there you are.”
Something deflated in your chest, and you confused pain with relief as all the air suddenly whooshed out of your mouth.
Wrong voice.
No bandana.
No scarred smile.
No Killer.
“I wanted to congratulate the chef. This pasta is delicious.”
You forced a smile that never reached your eyes and tried to accept the compliment, but it felt impossible when your heart was lying at your feet. You hadn’t even realized how hopeful you were feeling. Why the fuck would he come back anyway? It wasn’t like you were expecting him to.
The man kept talking, and you kept nodding, but his words blurred together into nothing but polite noise. Wonderful meal, amazing choice of ingredients. Fragments of his speech made it through the fog clouding your ears, but your mind was far, far away.
“Thank you,” you muttered. “I—I—excuse me. I have to go.”
You rushed past the kitchen and out through the service door. When the winter wind slapped your face and sobered you up, you leaned your hands on your knees, taking deep lungfuls of air to keep the nausea at bay.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
Why did it hurt like this? Why did you feel so empty?
“It was just sex! Fuck!”
So why the hell were you expecting him?
You inhaled a few more deep breaths because the snow on the ground was turning red, and the shaking in your hands was intensifying; that familiar burn in your chest giving way to all the anger bottled inside your frame.
“Idiot!”
Why were you the idiot? Because you had dared to hope? Because you’d allowed yourself to feel? Or because you’d given up on your dreams.
“Fuck it all!”
You raged, kicking a few pieces of loose snow, half hoping one of them was hiding a rock because pain was an old friend and might just fill the void in your chest.
You didn’t hit a rock.
But pain still crawled under your ribs and settled there, making itself at home, reclaiming the same spot it had all those years ago when you thought you weren’t lovable.
After a few minutes, you went back inside. Mostly because all your extremities were at risk of frostbite, but also because you needed a distraction and, honestly, where else would you go but back to Baratie?
You picked up a ticket without uttering a word, ignoring Patty and Carne’s worried looks and giving a silent thanks to whichever guardian was watching over you because Zeff had returned to his office and wasn’t here to witness your meltdown.
The next tickets were dealt with fast and methodically. Precise cuts, perfect temperatures. Technical.
And angry.
Oh, you were so angry.
Chopping the onions felt more like stabbing something, tossing the ingredients in the pan worked all your muscles, and plating the food wore your patience into a thin thread.
You didn’t even notice when a shadow loomed too close. Weren’t nowhere nearly prepared when Zeff whipped a spoon from god-knows-where and dipped it into your sauce.
“Hey! That has too much salt for you!” you growled.
His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth. A frown downturned his eyes in such a way that you swore new wrinkles had appeared where there were none before.
“It tastes like ass.”
The fucking nerve!
“Fuck off!” you scoffed, dripping a bit of the sauce onto the back of your hand and tasting it. “It’s perfectly fine! What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Since when have you settled for perfectly fine?”
What?
“I’ve seen you grow as a cook so fast and so naturally that I knew you were a prodigy. Then you stopped. You stopped caring. You stopped achieving. You stopped reaching for your dreams.” His eyebrows rose knowingly. “Until you didn’t.”
Killer…
You swallowed hard and went back to stirring the sauce, trying to ignore Zeff and his harsh truths. “Leave it the fuck alone. I’m fine. The food’s fine. Stop trying to fix me.”
Zeff scoffed, turning off the stove despite your loud protests. “I never tried to fix you! I gave you an apron and a knife set and taught you skills to go with them. You fixed yourself. But now you’re cooking angry again, like an idiot.”
“How else am I supposed to cook?” you yelled, absently noticing how Patty and Carne tried to blend with the background, too busy to abandon their stations, but trying to go unnoticed. “This is all I fucking know! This rinse-and-repeat act! Get up, prep, cook, clean, go to bed exhausted, and repeat the same fucking thing the next day! I’m cooking angry because I am angry! I’m furious!”
A hint of a smile twitched Zeff’s moustache. “Who are you furious with?”
You spluttered over the next words. Everyone? No one? Yourself?
“A few weeks back, I watched you find your spark again. You cooked with joy and wonder. You experimented instead of performing. It was the first time in years that your cooking went from great to excellent—your food tasted alive. And now…?”
Red everywhere. Again. In your heart, in your mind, in your eyes. So much red that it made your vision blur and the back of your eyes prickle.
“I thought you’d finally figured it out, that it had sunk in after our talk. You are in your own way. No one else.”
Zeff had told you that in the hospital. It had made sense. But it was one thing knowing what the obstacle was and another entirely to have the strength to push it out of the way.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you hiccuped. “I thought I wanted to chase my dreams, but I don’t know how to leave without feeling like I’m leaving you behind.”
The kitchen became quiet. Too quiet.
Zeff sighed, grabbed you by the elbow, and walked into his office. “Get back to work, numbnuts!” he shouted over his shoulder. Immediately, the sound of pots, pans, and sizzling food refilled the kitchen.
He closed the door while you slumped down on one of the chairs. Your eyes were still prickling, so you forced the palms of your hands against them to make the stupid feeling go away.
Zeff placed his hand on your shoulder. “Kid… if I had died that day—” you started to protest, but he ignored you, “—would you have stopped living?”
A cold chill went down your spine. You didn’t even want to consider that thought.
“No, but—”
“Then why the fuck are you doing it while I’m still right here?”
Cold realization weighed down on your stomach. He was right. Life would have gone on either way. But, mercifully, life hadn’t taken him from you, so why were you acting as if it had?
You met his gaze through blurred vision, words all but slipping your mind entirely.
Zeff grunted as he knelt beside you, awkwardly patting your knee.
“You were always too big for Baratie, kid. Grab your things and just… go. Your dream is out there, not here.”
“But you’re here…” Your face felt damp. Tears?
“And I’ll still be here tomorrow! And the day after that. And next year.” Another pat. Another tear. “This will always be your home. But I’ll be damned if it will be your prison, too.”
“Zeff…”
He cupped your cheek, a rare, sincere smile crooking his moustache. “You ain’t leaving me alone. Those idiots out there care for me too, you know?”
You nodded through tears that didn’t seem to stop. The ache in your chest was all but gone, your guilt and anger washed away with it. Patty, Carne, hell, even Shirahoshi would look after him. Anyway you looked at it, they were Zeff’s family, too.
“And you’ll come back, right? Maybe then you’ll manage to cook me something half-decent instead of the slop you’ve been cooking.”
You almost choked on an indignant laugh.
“You can’t have salty food, old fart! It’s not my fault.”
His hand dropped, his eyes strangely shiny under the bright office lights. “Yes, yes, I know.” Silence filled the gap between you as you sniffed your sorrow away. Then a frown turned his smile upside down. “Now quit your whining. You’re making me look soft. Go finish your shift, brat!”
Lightness crept up inside your chest as you made up your mind. You would start living. It was time to chase your dreams and choose yourself.
As you wiped your face on your apron and headed back into the kitchen, you realized that you weren’t dreading tomorrow anymore.
Another day would dawn and with it, new possibilities.
-*-
Kid banged his hammer so loudly in the back of the garage that the sound muffled the music coming from the speakers. Christmas had come and gone. The New Year, too. Spring was still a month away, but Killer was too restless to stick around longer.
It was time to leave again. Finish that recipe book and use the rest of his travels to figure out his next path.
Killer closed the saddlebag on the bike’s side and locked it. He’d already checked the tire pressure and the oil levels. She was as ready as he was to get on the road.
All he needed to do was say goodbye and—
“Hey,” a feminine voice greeted him from the garage door, and his heart skipped a beat at the familiarity of it before he lifted his eyes. “What’s up, Stabby?”
No way.
If his hand hadn’t been on the bike, his knees would’ve given out. What were you doing here?
“Hi,” he croaked, surprise making his voice tremble as he wasn’t exactly sure if you were real or just another figment of his imagination.
“I, hum—” you bit your lower lip nervously, taking a step forward and extending a battered old notebook toward him. “I brought you Zeff’s recipes.”
He stared at you, unmoving. Inside his chest, his heart was beating in an uneven, frightening tempo.
“You came all the way here just to give me these?”
“Figured these were too special to send in the mail and, hum, no offense, but from what you told me, your brother looks like the type to lose important shit. I didn’t want to risk it.”
Killer laughed, the tension in his shoulders loosening somewhat. “Aye. He absolutely does.”
You showed him a lopsided smile, and he stepped closer, taking the notebook from your extended hand. Silence spread around you, interspaced with Kid’s banging. Though Killer was sure he was listening in on the conversation since the frequency of the bangs had slowed exponentially.
He opened the notebook reverently and noticed that the margins held notes, and the recipes were crossed out with uneven lines, written over and over as if they’d been tested dozens of times. This notebook wasn’t Zeff’s. It was yours.
Which made it all the more special.
“And Zeff was okay with you handing these over?” He stepped closer again, relishing in the way your scent hadn’t changed and just now realizing how much he’d missed it.
“Well… when I told him I planned to give them to the crazy biker who’d stopped by a few months back, he protested at first. But then I told him what you meant to me and…” You looked at your feet as if trying to gather courage before your next words. “He said that if some idiot was special enough to deserve my praise, and my lo—affection, then he was definitely worthy of his recipes.”
Fuck, he wanted to kiss you. That was about as close to a confession as you were going to get; he was certain of it.
“I’m the idiot?”
“Hey, look at the bright side: best to be an idiot than a serial killer! Which I finally decided that you’re not. Silver linings and all that shit.”
Killer laughed, but his eyes were locked on your mouth.
“Also,” you continued, crossing your arms over your chest and scrunching your brows. “What kind of person has sex with another without knowing their name? I crossed out serial killer, but the jury is still out on whether you’re a creep.”
His eyes widened, shame turning the tips of his ears crimson. “You can’t blame that on me! You were the one who didn’t want to share it.”
“Hmm… blaming it all on me. What a gentleman,” you teased. When he groaned in exasperation, you worried your lower lip between your teeth and pondered for a moment before finally whispering your name.
“Nice to meet you,” Killer chuckled, repeating your name and extending his hand toward yours.
“A bit late for niceties, no?” You took his hand, nonetheless.
“Hmm… you think?” He let go of your hand but his fingers trailed a path up your arm instead. He wasn’t quite sure why you were there, but he wouldn’t waste the opportunity this time.
He needed you to know how he felt.
Your body relaxed into him, briefly melting against his touch. But then you looked down and patted the saddle of the bike.
“Stabby?”
“Hmm?” Christ, your eyes were magnificent. He couldn’t peel his gaze off you, lest you disappear over the next blink.
“Is there room on your bike for a chef?”
His heart jumped out of his chest and he let out a shaky breath instead of grabbing you and kissing you senseless like he wanted to.
“Thought you were not a chef?” He placed his other hand over yours and felt you shudder beneath his touch.
“I changed my mind. I’m fucking good at what I do, and it’s time to own it. I also want to see the world. I figured I need to scope out the competition if I want to be the best chef ever.”
You pressed yourself fully against him, and when your bodies touched, it felt like coming home. He hadn’t wanted to think about you these last few months because he’d already counted you out of his life. He had decided, once again, to move on because time healed all wounds.
Yet, you had come back to him. You had decided to meld your dream with his and ride into the unknown.
It felt unreal.
Killer’s hand reached to cup your cheek, and your eyes fluttered closed. His throat nearly clogged with emotion.
“That’s a dream I can get behind.”
You smiled at his words. A genuine smile, nothing fake or defensive. Just open and vulnerable. All for him.
“OI! KILL!” Kid yelled from the back of the garage. Killer closed his eyes for a brief moment as if asking heaven for patience. “Is that the girl ye’ve been yappin’ about?”
Killer groaned, and you huffed out an undignified snort.
“IS SHE THE ONE?” Kid yelled again, and this time you laughed out loud, your finger bunching the fabric of his shirt familiarly and pulling him even closer.
But Killer’s whole demeanour changed. He straightened, locking his eyes with yours with such intensity that even the smile slipped from your lips. With a movement of his hand, he untied the bandana and threw it behind his back.
No more hiding.
He was finally done.
You gasped inaudibly, your eyes softening at the trust he was placing in you. Then he cupped both your cheeks in his hands, thumbs tracing the skin reverently as his forehead touched yours.
“Aye,” he murmured. “She’s the one.”
When his lips met yours, you melted into his kiss, and he felt whole again.
-*-
“This tastes like heaven!” You smacked your lips together, pouring more coffee into the tin mug. “And you insisted we didn’t need to bring the coffee pot.” A disappointed tut clicked on your tongue. “Ready to admit I’m always right, Stabby?”
Killer chuckled behind you, scraping perfectly golden scrambled eggs from a worn-out frying pan onto your plate. “You’re always right, baby. I ain’t gonna argue.” His lips pressed softly against your temple, and the residual heat from his touch traveled and settled all the way inside your chest.
You were camped in an overlook. Its views stretched as far as the eye could see. Mountains, rivers, and blooming flowers surrounded you, along with tall trees with singing birds.
You’d been on the road for months, and summer was just around the corner. You’d learned a lot of new cooking techniques and brushed up on older ones and were even creating recipes with Killer’s help. You both shared a notebook that Killer suggested turning into a proper cookbook after he finished his.
You’d also learned a lot about chasing your dreams and becoming the person you were always meant to be: to allow yourself to become comfortable with all the colors that filled your vision instead of settling for an angry red.
Killer handed you a plate with eggs, bacon, and a perfectly ripe avocado you’d handpicked at a farmers market yesterday, and you almost drooled. It was a simple, tried-and-true meal. Nothing fancy, restaurant-worthy, or brimming with creativity and amazing technique. But it was filled with flavor and love. So much love.
You watched as Killer’s blue gaze followed the path of the fork from the plate to your mouth, as he drank in each tiny micro-expression on your face and waited for your reaction before eating his own food.
“Meh, it’s missing something…” You taunted him, barely containing the smirk quirking your lips.
“What?” He frantically scooped up a bit of egg and shoved the food into his mouth.
Your eyes softened as you watched him. Ever since the day he’d thrown the bandana behind his back to kiss you, he’d never put it on again. In the beginning, you sensed his apprehension as you walked into new towns and interacted with the locals, but once no one commented on his scarred features, he began to relax.
“What the hell are you talking about, baby? This is perfectly seasoned! The bacon’s crisp, the avocado is ripe! I don’t—”
You leaned forward and shut him up with a firm kiss on his lips.
His muffled words died and morphed into a groan as he tangled his fingers in your hair and deepened the kiss. When you pulled back with a smirk, the endless blue in his eyes had softened.
“There. It tastes perfect now.”
“That’s what was missing?”
You snorted. “Guess so.”
“That’s not very ‘chef-y’ of you.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a chef,” you said. Killer arched a brow, and you couldn’t hold your smug grin back. “...yet!”
Easy.
Life with Killer wasn’t always effortless, but it was simple in all the ways that mattered. Even when your temper flared or his old fears crept back in, you’d find a way to cheer each other up. To challenge one another, to grow, to keep moving forward.
After breakfast, Killer cleaned up the utensils and put out the fire. You rolled the sleeping bags and packed them into the bike’s saddlebag. Your trusty notebook lay carefully packed in your backpack—your little book of dreams.
“Ready, chef?” Killer asked, reaching to zip up your leather jacket.
“Always.”
He smiled, cupping your cheek and letting his thumb trace the shape of your cheekbone.
“Where to?”
You looked around, eyeing the open road, following it as it wound around the mountains and into the unknown.
“Everywhere.”
To wherever new dreams lay. To wherever new recipes waited. To wherever the road decided to take you next.
You locked eyes with Killer again, and he leaned down to press his forehead to yours.
“I’m so glad you stopped by for carbonara, Kill.”
He nuzzled your nose with his, chuckling. “Still one of the best meals I’ve ever had.” Your lips met softly in a tender kiss.
“Damn right.”
Killer helped you with your helmet, and after a last-minute checkup to see if nothing was left behind, the motorcycle roared to life beneath you. You wrapped your arms around his broad frame and rested your head against his shoulder blades.
Once, routine, repetition and anger had filled your days. Now, you felt light as a feather, even if you had no idea where you’d stop for lunch.
Tags: Fem!Reader; Lots and lots of swearing; Mature Audiences (I'll always tag the NSFW chapters); Modern Day AU; Anger issues; Emotionally constipated reader; Emotional trauma; Abandonment issues; Eventual fluff;
Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.
Summary: You working at Baratie never felt like a choice; it was an obligation after Zeff took you off the streets. And since cooking was the only thing that eased the constant anger gnawing at you, you were fine with it. Until a mysterious bandana-covered biker walked in and turned everything upside down.
Notes: I'm so, so sorry for the delay in this chapter! I know it's small, and it doesn't make up for the wait, but I'm hoping to post the epilogue soon. That's right, we're only missing the epilogue! I hope you enjoy this one!
The waiting room smelled sterile. A pungent scent of disinfectant masked the odour of blood, sweat, and stale coffee. There was a stain right at your feet, dark, rusty-brown—probably dried blood—with the most particular pattern. It resembled a withering tree with broken branches and dried roots. You couldn’t stop staring at it.
The paper cup in your hands was still half-full with coffee gone cold, and the pressure that had settled behind your eyes once you found Zeff had spread to the back of your head and temples.
Heart attack.
That was what the EMTs had said once they arrived. But nobody told you anything else. You rode in the back of the ambulance, holding Zeff’s cold and unresponsive hand in a drive that lasted for the longest ten minutes of your life.
And now you were waiting. Just waiting. This was the most useless you’ve ever felt in your entire life.
Patty and Carne showed up once you called them, and even Pigtails sent a text. But you ordered them all away because Zeff wouldn’t want them fussing over him when there was a restaurant to be managed. You wouldn’t hear their protests when they said it was perfectly understandable to shut the restaurant down for the day, and eventually they left.
You couldn’t talk to anyone. Not when all you could see was red. Not when your heart was beating so fast it seemed like it was ready to jump right out of your mouth.
One of the nurses came over to check your blood pressure and gave you pain medicine for your throbbing headache when you complained, but she didn’t have any news on Zeff, so you were a bit gruff and told her to fuck off until she had news on the old man.
That didn’t earn you any sympathy points with the staff. And still, you waited.
Another half hour passed, and you couldn’t stand still anymore. Badgering every nurse you saw got you an update, but nothing conclusive. They were doing a procedure on the old man, but he was stable for now.
It was the ‘for now’ that almost undid you.
Your throat felt so tight it hurt, your eyes prickled intensely with the need to cry out your frustration. But anger wouldn’t fix this. You had no idea what would.
“Hey, the restaurant staff told me where to find you.”
Killer.
Your knees buckled so hard you had to sit down.
“They told me what happened.” His eyes narrowed with visible concern. “How are you? What do you need?”
Killer had always been gentle to you, but today his voice was so soft it was almost a caress. You hated it. The red spread further, and you pressed the heels of your palms over your eyes to try to quell it.
“Nothing. You can go. I want to be alone.”
“No one should be alone at a time like this.” He sat down on the chair next to you. “It’s okay, we don’t have to talk. I can just sit here and keep you company.”
Why was he so understanding? Why was he so practical? God!
Your head jerked to the side, and your features twisted into a raging grimace. “I don’t want you here, Killer. You can go.”
“Have you eaten? I can grab you a sandwich or—”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” you snapped, shooting to your feet. “Take a fucking hint! Go away!” His eyes widened, and your heart lurched with emotion you didn’t want to deal with right now. “This is all your fucking fault, you know?”
Killer rose slowly, meeting you halfway while tilting his head to the side. “Zeff’s heart attack is my fault?”
Well, it sounded stupid when he said it.
“Yes!” You jabbed a finger into Killer’s chest. “You were the one who put these ideas of leaving in my head! I was going to leave Zeff! I was going to go away and leave him behind! To just live my fucking life while he stayed home! You asked me to come! You!”
Your fist was balled, and you kept hitting Killer’s chest with it. He didn’t even try to stop you, but he wasn’t touching you either.
“Baby, you’re projecting.”
Again with the fucking soft voice.
“Don’t fucking ‘baby’ me and stop playing therapist!”
“You’re angry. You’re in mourning—”
“I’m not mourning!” you gasped. “Zeff is alive!” You almost choked on the words.
“You’re mourning because you just lost a future you didn’t even know you wanted. And because you almost lost the man who means everything to you.”
How come he was always right? Always!
Your fists loosened, and you bunched the fabric of his shirt so tight you almost heard ripping.
“It’s alright to be angry. You should be mad. The world is unjust…” For the first time since you met him, he sounded angry, too.
And that’s what broke you. Because Killer was never rattled.
A wail left your lips. Something so pained it couldn’t have come from you. Except it did.
All strength left your body, and you knew you were about to collapse on the floor. But Killer’s hand wrapped tightly around your waist, the other one curling on the nape of your neck.
Your first instinct was to push him away. You weren’t soft and helpless, and you definitely weren’t one of those fairytale princesses in distress, waiting for Prince Charming. You could handle your own shit.
But you couldn’t help but feel safe and protected in his arms, as if he could shield you from all the grief and pain of the world, and it was all too much. You buried your face in his chest and simply couldn’t contain the force that was the first sob tearing through your throat.
You weren’t even angry anymore. You were just sad.
And powerless.
Killer cradled the back of your head as if you were something precious, pulling you even closer to him.
“Shh… It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” His voice, usually so steady, was rough and shaky, as if watching you fall apart broke something in him, too. “Cry it all out. It will help.”
Your fingers twisted the fabric of his shirt as ugly sobs tore through your throat—one after the other without pause or consideration. You couldn’t even remember the last time you cried.
And now that you’d started, you couldn’t stop.
“I was going to leave him, Kill—” you choked, your words barely making sense, garbled between sobs. “The last thing I did was fucking fight him! I told him—” A loud whimper interrupted you as you shook your head. “I told him he shouldn’t have taken me in! I practically rejected him! I—”
Killer pulled you even closer. His hand rubbed your back up and down in a soothing motion.
“I’m sure he knows you didn’t mean it.”
“But what if that was the last thing I told him? What if he fucking dies, and those were my parting words? I—FUCK!”
He lowered his head until his cheek was pressed against your head. You felt his sigh more than you heard it. “We can’t control any of the last words we say to our loved ones. We never know they will be our last.”
That only made you sob harder.
He gently maneuvered you until the back of your knees hit the chair. When he sat down on his own chair, he pulled you protectively against his side.
Someone laughed shrilly down the corridor before being shushed by someone else. How cruel was it that their world kept spinning when yours was shattering?
“Don’t dwell on that. Zeff is alive. He’ll be alright, and you can tell him how much he means to you once he wakes up.”
You nodded against his shirt and cried more. Your throat felt so tight that nothing other than hiccups and sobs made it past the lump. You had no idea how long you remained in his embrace, crying your eyes out.
Killer didn’t complain. He never stopped comforting you or moved you an inch, not even when the imprint of your wet face was visible in his light blue shirt.
After a while, you had no more tears to cry. Shaky sobs still rattled your shoulders, but you pulled away from him, feeling all the adrenaline and fight from before draining out of you and leaving a bone-deep exhaustion in its stead.
“Hey, are you feeling a little better?” he murmured, tilting his head to look into your eyes as he brushed your wet cheeks with his thumbs.
“Fuck, no,” you answered in a wobbly voice.
He chuckled softly, his hands still cradling your face.
“Aye, that’s fair. Stupid question. Sorry.”
You pulled away completely with a deep breath and leaned against the back of the chair, closing your eyes for a minute to try to process your new reality. Silence settled around you, soothing the throbbing inside your head—inside your chest.
You opened your eyes, feeling your lips tremble. The words stumbled out before you could stop them.
“I can’t leave with you…”
Killer inhaled, nodding slowly as he, too, got comfortable in the chair. “Aye. I know.”
“I—”
“Don’t. You don’t have to explain anything. Zeff needs you.”
Something inside your chest trembled and broke. If only for a small amount of time, you had envisioned a life where you could chase your dreams. The reason why you were so upset every time Killer called you ‘chef’ was because deep down, you wanted to be one. Not just a line cook.
And if that was an immediate dream, then what was the next one? Being a better chef? Being ‘the best’ chef? For a minute there, with the storm raging and the richness of the stew sweetening your mouth, you had dared to dream. The sky was the fucking limit.
And now…
Now you couldn’t leave.
“I’ll still get you those recipes, okay? Once Zeff is back on his feet, I’ll ask for them.”
Killer nodded again. “I hate to leave you like this, but I’ll have to go. Soon.” His voice nearly faltered on the last word.
That ache in your chest spread wider. “Yeah… okay. Give me an address so I can mail them.”
This whole conversation felt wrong. Yesterday, Killer kept saying you shouldn’t get attached, and you weren’t going to! It was just sex. And then maybe an adventure. But it seemed your heart hadn’t gotten the memo because just thinking about him leaving got you feeling miserable all over again.
He pulled out a random receipt from his back pocket, and you handed him a pen from your bag. When he returned the items to you, your fingers brushed, and you lingered.
“That’s the address for Kid’s garage. He’ll hold on to them if I’m not there.”
You nodded. Fuck why did this feel so much like goodbye?
Because it fucking was!
He reached for you, turning your face gently toward him with a hand on your cheek. “You know, a few years back, I postponed every single one of my dreams to help my brother get his feet back on the ground. And I kept postponing them. Over and over again. Every single time I thought about leaving and putting myself first, guilt dragged my arse back to him. And I don’t regret that—he needed my help.”
You stared into the blue of his eyes, trying to commit that exact shade to memory.
“Eventually, when he got better, I still thought about staying. Because I was afraid of what I could become if I finally chased my dreams, because he was my family, my home, my roots. But then I realized something…”
His throat bobbed, and his eyes crinkled slightly.
“Roots shouldn’t trap you. They help you grow—keep you grounded. If I kept living my life based on his needs, neither of us would have space to grow. We would suffocate. So I left. And I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Because my roots are still there, waiting for me to get back, fully grown and healthy.”
You almost made fun of the analogy, trying to lighten the moment, or call him out on how he was always trying to ‘therapize’ everything. Except what he said resonated within you. Deeply.
You nodded into his hands, too overwhelmed to say anything.
After a moment, he leaned back again, letting silence settle.
“Kill…”
“Hmm?”
“I’m so fucking scared…”
He grabbed your hand, entwining your fingers with his and bringing them to his bandana-covered lips.
“I know, baby.”
Somehow, the powerless feeling that had overtaken you since you’d found Zeff unconscious on the cold kitchen floor wasn’t overwhelming anymore. You were terrified, but you would face this. Whatever came.
You weren’t alone anymore.
-*-
You stood in front of the wooden door as if rooted to the floor.
Killer had left the hospital after the doctor had come to talk to you, about an hour ago, saying Zeff was stable and recovering from the procedure. He then talked about stents, angioplasty, and something about a catheter. You zoned out as soon as you heard him say Zeff was going to make a full recovery.
About ten minutes ago, a nurse came to fetch you, saying Zeff was cleared for your visit, but you couldn’t be there for long. Just a quick hello.
You couldn’t even make it past the door.
What a fucking coward.
“I can hear you pacing,” Zeff’s voice reached you, even muffled through the door. So tired and frail—so unlike him.
Your lips twitched into a soft smile. With a deep breath and your forehead pressed against the cool door, you pushed it open and entered the small room.
Zeff—larger-than-life Zeff—looked so small. Old. Tired. Ill.
Monitors, wires, and IV poles surrounded him. He had a cannula on his nose, helping him breathe, and the dreary hospital gown made his skin look pale and waxy.
This wasn’t your Zeff.
Your Zeff was invincible—a force of nature.
This was a sickly old man. What. The. Fuck?
“You fucking asshole,” you gritted through your teeth as you took a wobbly step toward his bed. “I’m so fucking mad at you.”
His lips twitched slightly. The braids on his moustache looked messy and nearly undone.
“You could’ve died!” The words left your lips in a screeching accusation before you slapped your palm against your mouth to stifle a barrage of unwanted sobs.
Nothing was holding your tears back, though, nor the unrelenting shaking of your shoulders.
Zeff’s eyes narrowed as he looked at you.
“And t-the last t-thing I told you—fuck!” You furiously wiped your eyes with the back of your hands, ugly sobs making it hard to speak. If you thought you had cried it all out in Killer’s arms, you were dead wrong. “I s-said you shouldn’t h-have taken me i-in!”
“Yes, you did.” He nodded while his lips twitched again. “That hurt my feelings, you brat. Nearly killed me.” Zeff grinned.
“Fuck off!”
“Too soon?”
“Zeff!”
He let out a tired, raspy chuckle and allowed you a moment for your tears to stop. You pretended to be busy by pulling his blankets up and fixing his pillow.
“I’m alive, kid,” he trapped your hand in his to stop your fussing and squeezed.
Another traitorous tear fell down your cheek, and you averted his gaze. “But you almost weren’t!”
You gritted your teeth together, trying to force the tears back.
“I didn’t mean what I said, you know? The best years of my fucking life were spent with you.” Your voice came out so quietly, you weren’t even sure he could hear you.
“And you were right… I was angry. Angry at you, at me, at every-fucking-one! And it was so much easier to just blame it all on you instead of looking at myself. I messed up.” Your hand trembled underneath his, but you kept your eyes pinned on your joined limbs. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
He was quiet for so long you thought he had fallen asleep, but when you raised your eyes to look at him, he was watching you. Fondness and something else warring inside his eyes.
“You think a stupid little fight like that is going to hurt me?” Anticipation clogged up your throat as you waited for Zeff to finish speaking. His words came out slurred and slow, and it took a toll on his breathing. “I know you. I know that’s how you show you care. Exactly like the feral beast you were when I took you in.”
A watery snort left your lips before silence filled the space. For a moment, all you could hear was Zeff’s ragged breathing, the hums of the equipment, and the annoying beeps of his heart monitor.
“I do care,” you admitted softly, baring yourself to the man you owed everything to and never thanked.
Zeff patted your hand tenderly. “I know.”
Tears filled your eyes again, and you bit your cheek so hard you tasted copper.
“If I thought you were an ungrateful brat, I would’ve thrown you out years ago. I didn’t because I saw something in you back then. Something special.”
“Yeah. I always knew I reminded you of Sanji, and that’s why—”
“You’re wrong,” he interrupted. “You don’t remind me of the little eggplant. You remind me of myself.”
Lead filled your stomach. But somehow, your heart seemed lighter.
You always thought you had some big shoes to fill because Sanji was Zeff’s prodigal child, even if he didn’t carry his blood. Turns out you’d been measuring yourself against the wrong person all along.
“Back then, you had that glint in your eyes. The hunger.” He turned to look at the window, his gaze lost in memories of the past as he paused to catch his breath. “You wanted more than what was in front of you. It was never enough.”
You nearly stopped breathing.
“Until it was. Until it became a chore.”
The words landed like a punch in the gut. You gazed at your shoes, shame clawing inside your chest.
“For years, I’ve watched you send out dishes that tasted like anger and pent-up frustration. Were they good? Fuck yes. But they tasted like you were trying to prove something.”
He paused again. He looked exhausted.
“But lately… your cooking—and your attitude—were different. Your food was daring. You weren’t trying to prove anything else anymore. You were just having fun.”
He was right.
So fucking right.
Your eyes widened when realization hit you. Killer’s laid-back way of cooking had rubbed off on you. Somewhere along your interactions with him, cooking at Baratie had stopped feeling like an unrewarding duty and felt more like…
…finding your way back home.
Something must’ve flickered in your face because Zeff chuckled. “You just figured it out now?” he asked, pulling you out of your head.
“What?”
“Thank fuck. Thought I was going to kick the bucket before you got there.”
“Would you stop with the fucking dying jokes?” you screeched. “They’re not as funny as you think!”
“Yeah, they are.”
You were about to argue back when he squeezed your hand. There was barely any strength left in his hold. You should be thinking about leaving him to rest, but you didn’t want to.
“Listen here, kid.” He inhaled. “You’re good.”
“Zeff—”
“Shut up. The old man is talking now.”
You pressed your lips together to either hold back a laugh or a swear before he continued.
“You’re so much better than half the nitwits calling themselves chefs out there.”
Your heart did something weird in your chest, like it jumped an entire beat. Was that praise? You didn’t fucking know what to do with it.
“Half?”
“I’m being generous.”
You laughed at him, so much more at ease with his light disposition. “You’re being stingy.”
“Fine. More than half. Three quarters.” He raised an eyebrow, and you nodded in agreement. Then his gaze burned into you, something akin to pride making his irises glint. “The only thing standing in your way has always been you.”
You froze.
You wanted to mock him, to tell him he was throwing out platitudes at you to see which one would stick. But you found that you couldn’t.
Because he was right.
You were the one who wanted to be so perfect that you lost your true essence along the way. You were the one using anger to mask how you were really feeling. You were the one stopping yourself from dreaming big.
You.
“Fuck.”
Zeff chuckled, closing his eyes and resting his head back on the pillow. As if on cue, the door cracked open, and a nurse poked her head inside.
“Sorry to disturb you, visiting time is over. Mr. Zeff needs to rest. You can see him tomorrow.”
Your muscles tensed immediately. No, no. You couldn’t leave him here alone. What if—
“Hey, I’ll try not to die, kid. Don’t look like that.”
“I told you to stop with the jokes, you old fart!”
But your reply had no bite in it. And the nurse was right. He needed to rest. And if the weight on your shoulders and the heaviness on your lids were any indication, so did you.
You hesitated for a moment, taking in the paleness on Zeff’s skin, all the tubes coming out of his body, and the weary look in his eyes. Then, brimming with awkwardness, you leaned down to wrap your arms around him. Slowly. Steadily. Like he might shatter if you pressed too hard.
He tensed beneath your touch, but gently wrapped his right arm around your back.
It felt like stitching a gaping wound.
“I love you, old man.”
The words were harmless, but they burned your throat as they came up.
Zeff stilled under your touch.
“Fuck. Don’t make it weird,” you pleaded with an embarrassed groan.
You had never said these words to anyone. You weren’t even sure if you would again. But he needed to know it.
His chest trembled with a worn-out chuckle. “I love you too, brat. Always have. Always will.”
Ahhh I know! I'm so sorry! I've been extra busy with other stuff these last few days! Hopefully, sometime later this week I'll be able to finish it (it's half done!)
Hi! Do you have any plans to add more of Sanji’s story to the meet cute series? Love your work by the way!
Hello, Anon!
Thank you so much for your lovely ask! Yes! I will add a Meet-Cute story for Sanji. In fact, I have it mostly planned out, too, and it's going to be angsty. (Fun how these were all supposed to be lighthearted rom-coms... THAT backfired LOL)
Anyway, I have two more chapters on Killer's spinoff (one chapter and the epilogue), and then I will post Ichiji's prequel fic. Now this is important because I will reference readers' past with Ichiji in Sanji's fic. There will be some events with the Vinsmokes (especially Judge) that will be important in Sanji's Meet-Cute!
All this to say that my sweet, sweet blondie isn't forgotten. He will be taken care of. Eventually. 😬😬
I just read Rooted's last chapter and is soooooo f***ing beautiful😍😍 finally the love and lust that Killer deserves. I just wanted to compliment you and also ask you if you are planning a happy ending like for Kid's story. Otherwise I would be shattered to pieces😢 I'm imagining the amazing dynamic of the two of them with Kid and Sparkles once they are all reunited. They could have a family again😍🥺
Omg, Anon...! First of all, thank you so much for your kind words! I'm so happy you enjoyed this chapter! Killer deserves his happiness, poor baby! 😍
And yes! I feel like I need to assure everyone that this story (as with all Meet-Cutes) will have a happy ending! I couldn't be so mean as to create a spinoff for Killer and then emotionally destroy him! ........Right?....... 😶
To be honest, I had a fairly simpler ending in mind. In fact, this story was supposed to be even smaller than it has turned out to be. I planned for a five-chapter fic. But it evolved. Apparently, I need angst in my fics to survive. I wasn't even going to go there, it just happened! (Not complaining, though! I think I've improved the ending, but you guys will be the judges when the time comes).
That's all I will share for what I have planned for the final chapter, though 😬 It won't be long, now!
Again, thank you so much for your ask, for reading, and for letting me know you're enjoying it! I cannot stress enough how important it is for authors to receive feedback! It feels less like we're writing for 'the void'.
Tags: Fem!Reader; Lots and lots of swearing; Mature Audiences (I'll always tag the NSFW chapters); Modern Day AU; Anger issues; Emotionally constipated reader; Emotional trauma; Abandonment issues; Eventual fluff;
Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.
Summary: You working at Baratie never felt like a choice; it was an obligation after Zeff took you off the streets. And since cooking was the only thing that eased the constant anger gnawing at you, you were fine with it. Until a mysterious bandana-covered biker walked in and turned everything upside down.
Notes: Okay, I debated about splitting this chapter because it really is long. But it's so emotionally packed with actions and reactions that tumble one from another that I just couldn't find a good place to do it without it being clunky and breaking rythm. I hope you don't mind. There's an AO3 account link in my pinned post if it's easier to read there. Also, fair warning: NSFW CONTENT AHEAD. I tried really hard not to make this insta love/lust, but in a shorter fic than usual, I still wanted to deliver the goods. I hope I did well 😎 More notes at the end, hmmkay? Now go have fun!
Divider by @cafekitsune
The following days fell into an odd sort of routine. You woke up early to help at the soup kitchen, then went home to rest for a bit before dragging yourself to the Baratie for your shift. You rarely ran into Zeff because you were avoiding each other. Carne tried to bridge the gap between you, informing you how worked up Zeff had seemed these last few days, or how tired he had looked, but you tried to ignore it and stuck to your cooking.
After your shifts, you always found yourself a little too eager to test Killer’s resolve in obtaining Zeff’s recipes. He was always there early, waiting, as if he didn’t want to prove you right by being one second late and finding you turning tail. Sometimes he brought bags of ingredients and left whatever extras you didn’t use in the pantry.
You tested him relentlessly, but he was always prepared. Sauces, doughs, knife skills, prep work—anything and everything you could think of.
And every time you thought you finally had him, he surprised you.
Then there were those nights when everything went sideways, and the red threatened to overpower your vision. It was like Killer had a sixth sense for it. He always knew how to shift your focus and calm you down.
“You call that a punch?” he’d tease. “I punch the dough harder than that.”
“You’re enjoying this a little too much, Stabby!” you’d growl back and punch him harder just to hear him grunt.
His poor hands got so beaten up that you almost felt guilty afterward, especially when you caught him massaging his palms before picking up the knife again.
Almost.
Yet, somehow, he always kept the red at bay.
Zeff returned to the kitchen after a few days of sticking to his office, claiming he was too tired to deal with bullshit, which in reality was code for ‘he didn’t really want to deal with you’, and that was fine.
Except now it was not, because he was hovering. His leg thumped away behind you as he checked what you were doing with intense scrutiny. But you remained calm.
Strangely enough.
The shift had been going smoothly, your movements easy and practiced as you replayed last night’s events in your mind and planned for tonight’s test, completely absorbed in the task at hand.
Until Zeff decided to taste the sauce for the duck special, and gave you the most peculiar look you’d ever seen. He didn’t say anything: no critique, no remark, no praise. Just… a look.
And a second taste.
A second taste of your sauce. You could almost hear the praise on the tip of his tongue; you saw his throat bob, his lips part. But he didn’t say anything…
You knew what he was thinking: your cooking was better. Lately, you had been cooking with emotion instead of maniacal precision, with heart instead of spite, and fuck it… It showed.
You would’ve admitted to it if it didn’t destroy your pride. It was even harder to admit that you were changing. That you weren’t so quick to anger anymore and that you were finally learning to control your emotions.
And that there was one particular masked biker you should be thanking for it.
So you didn’t.
And time went on.
-*-
Killer overslept.
He was an early riser, always had been, even before his army days, when he was a scraggly teenager and Kid still slept half the day away. He was the one who rose bright and early—sometimes even before the sunrise.
Today, the clock read 11:00, its numbers glowing red like a warning, and he was still lying in tangled sheets. His shirt clung desperately to his back, drenched in sweat—a testament to the nightmares that had plagued him, as they always did around this time of the year.
Killer groaned, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow as reality sank in. If he could erase October 18th from the calendar, he would.
As if on cue, his phone vibrated on the chipped nightstand.
“Aye?” he answered, voice raspy and throat raw. He must’ve screamed like a banshee during the night.
“Mornin’ asshole!” came the reply from the other end of the line, pulling a smile from him. “Or should I say, afternoon? I called ye three times already. Thought ye were dead in a ditch somewhere, was gettin’ ready to call all the fuckin’ motels in the area, but Sparkles here told me to chill the fuck out—”
“Those weren’t exactly my words!” Another voice chimed in from the background—sweeter and amused.
“—that maybe yer sorry ass was tired, and I should wait. I waited. How are ye?”
Killer sat up, running a hand through his wild hair, and let out a deep sigh. He could say that everything was fine—it wasn’t—but he didn’t lie to his best friend.
“Woke up feeling like shit. You know it’s like my body never forgets this day, no matter how distracted I am. I don’t think I even need to look at the calendar anymore.” He sighed again and rose to open the curtains, watching as the sun weakly tried to peek behind dark rain clouds. “You?”
Kid was silent for a minute, his heavy breathing the only indication that he was still there. This day was hell for both of them.
“I ain’t gonna lie. The bottle’s been callin’ to me all mornin’. Ye’d think this shit gets easier with every year that goes by…”
“It doesn’t.” Killer finished for him.
“Aye. Never does.” Another pause. “Sparkles’ been keepin’ me entertained, if ye know what I mean.”
“KID!”
Killer chuckled, hearing a female shriek from the other side of the line at the implied innuendo in his friend’s words.
“But I was worried about ye.”
“I’ll be alright, Kid. Don’t worry your empty head over me, aye?”
“Fucker.”
They both laughed over the line until another pause filled the space.
“I miss ’em,” Kid admitted. “Every fuckin’ day. Not just today.”
“I know, brother. Me too.”
Outside, a cat stretched, emerging from behind some bushes to sprawl in the tiny square of sunshine that lined the pavement.
“We ain’t even got a place to pay our respects. What’s left of ‘em is half a world away, buried in a military cemetery where no one looks out for ‘em. Fuck this shite.”
The anniversary of their friends' deaths always seemed unjust, like a prank gone too far. Hadn’t they suffered enough? When would the pain lessen?
It wouldn’t…
“We honor them in our hearts, Kid. Like we always did.”
Kid grumbled. Killer took a deep breath, trying to fill the space in his heart, the one that felt like an unending chasm on this day.
“Yer right. As always.”
“Good of you to admit that, asshole. I am the superior brother. About time you realized it.”
“Oi, fucker! I will still kick yer ass when you return from yer trip.”
“You can try…” Killer goaded him, and they bantered some more.
“Gotta go, brother. Talk soon, aye?”
“Always. If you need anything, I’m a call away, Kid.”
Killer said his goodbyes to Kid and his girl, the empty space inside his chest growing larger by the minute, and then he started his morning routine with a nice, long shower.
Everything always felt heavier on October 18th. The day his family died. The day he died. He didn’t remember much from the day itself or the days after, just endless pain everywhere. His body ached, but his soul bled.
He had been broken, picked apart physically and mentally. And every year without fail, that pain came back tenfold, as if all the years he’d spent in therapy had been of no use.
Sometimes he spiraled.
Other times, he blanked out.
Today, he needed to pull through, though. It was meant to be his final test with you before you deemed him worthy of Zeff’s recipes. And, to be honest, he wanted to see you again.
This world trip he’d been on had been fulfilling and enlightening: he’d learned more about himself in those three years than he had in the rest of his life. He felt free. And happy.
But he also couldn’t deny the lightness he felt when he spent time with you. You kept him on his toes. Rare was the time he knew what you were going to do or say—you were totally unpredictable. And that thrilled him in a way he wasn’t expecting or looking for when he stopped at Baratie almost two weeks ago.
Now he was eager to see you.
And he shouldn’t. Soon, he’d have to be back on the road, and he certainly shouldn’t get attached.
However, thoughts of you didn’t linger at the forefront of his mind. Not today. Not when his chest kept tightening. Not when his mouth kept drying up at the thought of his former squad. His brothers and sisters. His family.
He wasted the day away, trying not to overthink, with naps and mind-numbing television, before a thought hit him. It was past dinnertime, and he was too worked up to eat, but while doomscrolling through his phone, he realized there was still time to honor his fallen friends. A quick search online gave him the directions he was looking for, and ten minutes later, his bike was rumbling down the street and into a quieter place.
The cemetery was small and fairly unkempt. Headstones rose in uneven lines—some were so old he couldn’t even read the names carved on them. Wild grass grew in between the graves, and somewhere far, an owl hooted ominously. The air felt heavy, as if a storm were brewing, which was very fitting for how Killer was feeling.
He chose a nameless, abandoned grave with a star carved into the stone—it seemed like the oldest one in the plot—and sat down next to it. Opening the convenience store bag, he started to pull out the items he’d just bought: a beer can for Wire, a pack of gum for Bubblegum, cigarettes for Heat, a fake bullet necklace for Reck, a red lipstick for Quincy, and a pick for Hip’s guitar.
He stared at the star on the marker for a while and then let out a loud sigh. “I miss you guys a lot.” The words came out raw and raspy, scratching his throat and drying up his mouth. His hands kept busy, pulling up some weeds around the marker and scratching at the moss covering the illegible lettering. “I brought some stuff you guys liked. Heat, buddy, I couldn’t find any joints, but I know you like ‘em cheap cigarettes, too.”
Killer pulled out a cigarette and lit it up, taking a drag and grimacing at the taste. “Got you some of that crappy North Blue beer you like, Wire. Watch me gag on this shit.” With another sigh, he cracked open the can of beer and took a swig. “Aye. Still tastes like crap.”
Then he arranged the other items in front of the grave and poured some of the beer onto the ground, letting it soak up. “For those who are dead but never forgotten.”
He took another sip and looked up at the dark sky, trying to find solace in the stars. There were none. The sky was heavy with rain clouds, threatening to pour at any minute. He leaned his shoulder against the grave, rotating the can in his hands slowly.
“Kid’s doing better than ever, but you guys already know that, aye? I’m so glad he managed to pull himself together. It was touch-and-go for a bit there. I was fucking worried… I’m sorry we haven’t chatted in a while. I’ve been busy. Finally chasing that old dream of seeing the world,” his lips pulled up behind the bandana. “It’s been amazing.”
He sipped more beer and pulled a few more weeds, tidying up a grave that wasn’t his to mourn.
“I… uh—I met someone,” he scoffed. “Aye. She’s… something. Got a nasty temper. Much like you, Hip. You, Quincy, and her would gang up on us in five minutes. I just know it. She’s also such a good fucking cook. You know all those fancy things you were always asking me to make, Bubblegum? Aye, you’d love that.”
Killer’s head hit the marker, and he sighed heavily. “Doesn’t matter, though.” His fingers tightened around the can. “Nothing’s made to last, anyway.”
He closed his eyes, something heavy settling on his chest, as if his body remembered what it felt like to give up ten years ago. “I wish I could talk to you guys just one more time…”
Silence stretched out in the quiet cemetery. The kind of quiet that pulled grief from deep inside his chest. Killer stood still for a while. The beer forgotten, the cigarette burned to the butt.
He didn’t even notice time go by.
But he smelled the rain before it hit. Damp earth and wet grass. He inhaled and prepared for it. But the thunder came first. Rumbling in the distance—far away.
The sound was what pulled him back to reality, and when he checked the time on his wristwatch, the world suddenly snapped back into focus.
He was fucking late, and you were going to leave.
-*-
“You’re late.”
“Shite, aye, I know. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
He looked haggard. Nothing like the confident, self-assured biker you were used to. His jacket looked heavy with water from the steady rain, and even though he’d pulled the hood from his sweater over his head, his hair was damp. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and the way he carried himself across the parking lot—dragging, not strolling—hinted at something wrong.
“Don’t care. I told you that if you were late—”
“You’d leave. Aye. Sorry again.” He reached you in two long strides and looked at his wristwatch, cursing. “It’s only been fifteen minutes,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“Oh, big guy can tell the time after all? Didn’t seem like it.”
“I said sorry,” he sighed, sagging forward with the loud exhale. “But you’re still here…”
You tipped your chin in defiance. “Yes.” That was it. No explanation for why you waited or that you were secretly worried he’d had some sort of accident or just… left without saying goodbye. “Come on, I’m getting fucking drenched.”
You turned and entered without looking back, but before he crossed the threshold, lightning split the sky, illuminating you both with a bright flash.
“Oh, wow! That was a big one,” Killer stated, looking over his shoulder.
“How nice that the forecast predicted clear skies. Fuckers.”
As you made your way into the kitchen, you heard Killer snicker softly behind you as he shed his jacket and sweater and looked at the counter.
“Something funny?” you snarled, shaking off the rain with exaggerated gestures.
“No, not at all.”
But you knew why he was acting so smug. You were all talk. You’d told him over and over again that you’d leave if he were ever late. But here you were, fifteen minutes after midnight, and with ingredients already meticulously organized in the cooking stations, as if you were sure he would never bail on you.
“What’s all this then?” Even his voice sounded tired. What the hell had happened to him tonight?
“Tonight’s challenge, ladies and germs.”
He perked up slightly, rolling up the sleeves of his thin black shirt. “Which is?”
“You’re going to tell me,” you smugly announced, leaning against the counter with a challenging smirk lining your lips. You noticed how his gaze lingered on your mouth before turning back to the food. “What would you cook with these ingredients?”
A bright spark lit up the blue in his eyes as he moved closer to the counter. “Okay, so you’ve got your staples: olive oil, garlic, lemon, and basil for flavor. Duck, rice, and eggs for protein, mushrooms, and cherry tomatoes for your veggies.”
You nodded. “Don’t forget the red wine.”
Another thunder rumbled outside, this one closer. The lights flickered once.
“Well,” Killer started, making his way to the cabinet and removing two very regular-looking tumbler glasses from the shelf. “The red wine seems perfect for taking the edge off, don’t you think?”
You accepted a glass when he offered. “Cheers.” You clinked glasses, and he downed his in a long gulp.
Then, he poured another two fingers into his glass and downed it again with a heavy exhale.
“Alright, let’s get this party started, then.” He moved closer to the food and started smelling and touching the ingredients. You watched him intently. He was more distracted than usual, with a glazed look in his eyes. “Risotto.”
You quirked your eyebrows, moving closer to him with a shrug. “Isn’t it too predictable?”
“Sure. But good predictable. Everybody loves a good risotto. Now, to elevate it to your standards, I would crisp up the duck skin until all the fat and juices lined the pan, and use it instead of butter for the risotto. The mushrooms should be roasted first, so they have a chance to release all their natural flavor. Finish with lemon zest for some acidity and pair it with a fresh tomato basil salad—simplicity to balance out the richness of the risotto.”
You stared at him in awe. He knew your brain. He knew how you operated. Killer had immediately singled out everything you would’ve done with these ingredients and, somehow, you knew that none of that would be his first choice.
“First of all—hot.”
He chuckled at your candor. “Cooking really gets you going, huh?”
“Nuh-uh. Competence gets me going, big guy.” You liked how easily jokes flowed between you now. And how they’d turned flirty over the last few nights you spent together.
“Secondly,” you continued. “Your answer was perfect. But it was meant to please me.”
You saw his eyes crinkle with the simple joke, but as the gentleman he was, he kept his lips shut.
“I want to know what you would do with the ingredients, not what you think I would want to see.”
His laugh came out at the same time as another clap of thunder. The storm was getting closer and louder.
“It really wouldn’t be up to your standards, chef.”
You bristled at the nickname. “Try me.”
He leaned his back against the counter, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes, allowing his head to fall back, as if in deep thought. “I would cook a simple, hearty stew. I would sear the duck and render all that juicy fat from the skin, then sauté the mushrooms, garlic, and the tomatoes. Ideally, I’d use some chicken stock for more flavor, but if you strictly wanted me to stick to these ingredients, then I’d add wine and fill the rest of the pot with water. Leave it alone for a couple of hours, then serve over steamed lemon rice.”
“Homely food.”
“You know how I operate by now.”
A chuckle escaped your lips. He was right. You knew he was going to go for comfort food: a stew, soup, or even mix the duck with the rice. Simple, heart-warming, and not restaurant-worthy unless thoroughly elevated.
“Shall we battle it out, then? I’ll tackle the risotto, and you go for the stew?”
His eyes met yours again. “The stew will take hours.”
The flash outside was so strong that it lit up the kitchen through the small rectangular windows, overpowering the brightness of the fluorescent lights above you, before thunder rattled them. Immediately after, heavy rain cascaded against them, the downpour so strong it echoed deafeningly through the space.
“I don’t think we’re going anywhere soon. I’m not walking home through that, and you sure as shit ain’t going to drive with zero visibility.”
His eyes crinkled in that familiar smile—one you ached to see—even if it felt strained and tired. Maybe you shouldn’t have proposed an all-nighter. He looked like he’d been through shit.
“That actually sounds great. Tonight’s not a very good night to be alone.”
You wanted to pry. You wanted to know why. But you weren’t going to butt into his business. He’d share if—or when—he wanted to.
“Let’s get to it, then.”
-*-
It wasn’t a battle. Not even close. Since the risotto you wanted to make would take less time to cook than the stew, you helped Killer prepare his meal and even allowed him some indulgences, like carrots, onions, and the chicken stock he’d mentioned earlier to make it richer.
The wine kept being poured into your glasses instead of the food, and Killer was very thankful for the numbness it provided. He was acting like a hypocrite; he knew that. Just earlier, he’d talked Kid out of using alcohol as a band-aid for his grief, and now here he was, doing the same thing.
But you—fuck! You were better than alcohol.
Somewhere along the line, you’d gone from a feisty little chef who intrigued him to someone he genuinely looked forward to being around. You were smart, funny, witty, and brilliant. Not to mention downright gorgeous—and he had no idea what to do with that.
It had been so damn long since he’d kissed someone—hell, it had been a lifetime since he’d been close enough to someone, let alone intimate.
But why the fuck were these thoughts in his head at all? He wasn’t going to act on them. He was leaving. This—whatever it was—had an expiration date. That was it.
He stirred the contents of the pot gently, tasting the flavors before adding a small pinch of salt. It was done. Now they just needed to let it simmer for at least an hour and a half, and it would be perfect.
“So is this something you’d make back in the army?”
He did not want to talk about it tonight.
Or did he? Talking had always helped. He had talked with Dr. Crocus and the vet’s group at the church. Lately, he’d also opened up to Kid. But tonight, with the tenth anniversary, it all felt so overwhelming and heavy. He really should’ve returned home earlier.
He turned to you, and you were right next to him, shoulders almost touching, the little crease between your eyebrows pronounced as if you were in deep thought—your intoxicating scent flooding his senses.
The wine had made him lightheaded. The rain outside had lulled him into a sort of trance. That was the only explanation he had for the sudden urge he had to grab your cheeks and press his lips against yours.
Get a fucking grip, Kill.
But his eyes lingered on your lips. His exhale carried longing in it—a longing he couldn’t even begin to explain. Touch. Intimacy. Understanding. Companionship.
This fucking day.
He gravitated closer until your bodies brushed, pretending not to notice the slight shiver that coursed through you.
“Aye. A bit different, though. Chicken or beef instead of duck, more veggies to fill you up properly, and a few potatoes, too. I’d make a lot with little and fill up those big bellies. Get ‘em all ready for whatever was coming that day.”
You tilted your head, and your mouth moved without sound. He knew you were curious; you wore your emotions on your sleeves, and he read you perfectly. He wasn’t acting exactly like himself, and that was puzzling you.
“You seem different tonight,” you stated so casually that it almost threw him off balance. “More guarded. Quieter. Sad, even.” You turned and leaned your back against the counter, your elbow propped up nonchalantly as your gaze pinned his with scrutiny.
There was still harshness in your stance. You were prying into his thoughts, so you were open—not vulnerable.
Killer placed his elbows on the counter, too, bringing your faces closer than they’d been all night, and fidgeted with the empty wine glass.
“Tonight’s a hard night.”
Thunder boomed outside, as if supporting Killer’s words.
“You don’t like gloomy weather?”
“I don’t. But that ain’t it.”
He didn’t elaborate, even if the words were right there on the tip of his tongue. He could share his grief, his pain, and see how you’d take it. At this point, he wasn’t even sure if he didn’t want to share because he was afraid you’d mock him for it, or he just didn’t want to become too attached.
“Well, turn that frown upside down, Stabby!” He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Are you even frowning? I can’t tell. The whole south of your face is an enigma.”
Somehow, you leaned even closer to him, narrowing your eyes as if trying to see through the bandana.
“I ain’t frowning.”
You ignored him. “Do you even have lips? Seriously, what is it?”
Fuck yeah, he had lips. And the whole array of unholy things he’d thought about using them for was surfacing along the wine buzz. “What do you think is under it?”
“Could be anything at this point. Bad breath? Tiny mouth? Curly mustache? A dick tattoo?”
He laughed at that one. A real, unfiltered laugh.
“You have a wild imagination.”
Your hand brushed his forearm as you tapped the counter, but you didn’t move it, and he didn’t gaze away from your eyes. “So I didn’t get it right?” His eyes crinkled again. He knew you could read his smile there. “Fuck. I was so sure about the dick tatt.”
An easy silence filled the little space between you. Rain was still battering against the windows, and the flashes of lightning were so quickly followed by a crack and a boom that even the floor trembled slightly from the magnitude of it all.
“It’s just scar tissue…” he admitted, the words turning his tongue to sandpaper. “It happened ten years ago, during an ambush on a mission. The whole unit went down, and I was hit by a grenade blast.” He exhaled slowly. “It burned part of my face and neck, part of my arm and chest, too. I went into cardiac arrest a while after because reinforcements took too long to reach us.”
His fingers tightened around the glass. So hard he thought he might crack it.
Killer couldn’t look away from your face if he wanted to. He saw the shift, the way any hint of amusement left your expression, and you straightened. He was waiting for pity—it was inevitable. But your face hardened instead as you pursed your lips and scrunched your brows, nodding in understanding.
“It’s not that I’m ashamed of how I look, I just—”
“Want to avoid the pity-stares? The way everyone suddenly thinks they can relate to your pain or to what you went through? How they think they know how you feel because they can empathize?”
Exactly.
You scoffed. “As if imagining someone’s pain were enough to tell them how to feel.”
The ache that had settled in Killer’s chest all day felt suddenly easier to bear. “Aye.” That was all he could manage.
Another loud boom filled the silence again. The lights flickered out a second too long, then came back up as if nothing had happened. You were still staring at him.
“I don’t want to say I understand your pain or that I can relate to it. But you’re certainly not alone. I’m no stranger to suffering.”
Killer held his breath, willing himself still, afraid that any sudden movement might spook you. You, however, looked down at your feet, too vulnerable to share his gaze.
“I was homeless for a while, growing up. I’ll spare you the pitiful details of a child having no roof over her head or food in her belly, but I knew pain, then. That’s when I started getting angry at the world, I guess. How could a world be so cruel as to leave one of its children alone and desperate? I couldn’t wrap my mind around it: why couldn’t I go to school and have a proper education like the other kids? Why wasn’t there a parent around to love me? I—”
Killer moved even closer, showing his support without interrupting you.
“Zeff found me when I was a preteen, and something flipped in him. Don’t know what—I never bothered to ask, and he never explained it.”
“Anyway,” you continued, your words harsh and detached, as if you were telling someone else’s story instead of your own. “He took me into his house, said he could make adoption legal if I wanted, but he’d take care of me either way. His house was tiny with one bedroom and a spare space he had filled with maritime memorabilia and boxes full of books and god-knew-what. Zeff made some room there, threw some blankets on the floor, and I thought that was it. Nothing fancy, but at least it was warm and not the back of some dingy alley.”
An involuntary smile made its way to your lips, softening your features.
“When the old fart took the fucking blankets for himself and told me to sleep in his bed, all I could feel was anger. How dare he? How could he give up his own room, put a fucking roof above my head, feed me, and then sleep on the floor? The absolute fucker.”
You were so angry at the world that you even questioned a warm gesture and turned it into fury.
“You’d expect someone in my situation to be grateful and whatnot, but no. Oh, no. I made Zeff’s life a living hell from day one. And he still cared for me. Education, cooking lessons, fucking life lessons…”
Your eyes glazed over, as if suddenly you weren’t in this kitchen anymore, a shadow of regret darkening your eyes. Were you thinking about Zeff right now? You had mentioned some sort of disagreement in passing, but hadn’t made a big deal out of it.
Killer opened his mouth to speak, but a booming thunder interrupted him—one so loud it felt like it had hit the building. The lights flickered and went pitch black; the hum of the refrigerator died down, and the patter of the rain increased.
“Fuck. That was a big one,” he said in wonder, looking around, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
You unconsciously leaned toward Killer, your hand braced against his forearm, as you tried to look out the window. “The power lines must’ve gone down. Fucking storm.”
Heat seeped from your fingers and through the thin material of his shirt. His breath quickened.
“The generator should kick in any second now.” Your words were more than a prediction, because they were barely out of your mouth when a shaky, unsteady hum brought the lights back on. “They’re old, but they usually—”
Vwoosh.
Silence. Darkness. Then another flash of light followed by the crack of thunder as your fingers squeezed him harder.
The generator wasn’t old. By the sound of it, the damn thing was ancient. He could have a look at it and see if he could fix it, but… he didn’t want to.
He wanted to be here, in this moment where the only light came from the occasional flash of lightning and the steady blue flame of the gas stove. Where you looked vulnerable, the lines of your face softened under the dimness, the light in your eyes somehow even brighter.
Here, where his heart beat so steadily, unlike ten years ago when it had just given out. He was alive. And right now—fuck—more than anything, he wanted you.
-*-
Killer’s frame was nothing but a massive silhouette. The stove’s flame bathed him in bluish tones; the same shade you had instinctively compared his eyes to. All the sharpness of the hard planes of his body was gone.
You tightened your grip on his forearm, feeling his muscles tense beneath your fingers.
He moved his arm, retreating it until your hand lay over the back of his, then he flipped his palm up. When you touched, a soft, trembling gasp left your lips, seemingly louder than the thunderstorm outside, but Killer didn’t seem startled.
You were so absorbed in the way his massive hand seemed to engulf yours, especially when the light was so dim you could only make out rough shapes, that you didn’t notice when he lifted his other hand toward the bandana covering his face and pulled the fabric down.
“Killer,” you whispered. You could feel the way your heart was pounding against your chest—brutal and unforgiving, but with a much softer cadence than when you were seeing red.
“It’s okay,” he whispered back, and you heard the fear in his voice. More than that, you could feel how extremely aware of his surroundings he was at this moment—how vulnerable.
It was dark. Way too dark to see much more than some scars pulling tightly at his lips and traveling across his jaw. A wound old and healed, but so fresh in his mind that he had to keep it covered.
His hand trembled beneath yours, but you didn’t look away from him. You could almost feel him bracing back for the flinch, the disgust, or whatever the hell he was used to imagining how people would react to him. Your heart squeezed painfully at the thought of him carrying this alone.
A flash of lightning lit up the space, and you squinted at the sudden brightness, but not before taking him all in. He was unfairly beautiful. Even with the uneven, jagged scars—fuck, they only made him more alluring.
Killer pulled back, but you invaded his space all the same. The kitchen plunged into darkness too soon, and your eyes were still adjusting, but you reached for him anyway. When your fingertips met the marred skin on his face, he made a choked sound, as if he wasn’t expecting the sudden contact, but he didn’t pull away.
“Do you know how fucking hot you look?” you asked, both to break the tension and because it was simply true.
A strangled sound—half groan, half laugh—escaped him, and you breathed in relief. “That’s not—”
“You say that’s not true, and I will knee you in the balls, got it?”
His chest deflated, losing tension he probably hadn’t noticed he’d accumulated. Something flashed brightly in his eyes before his hand came up to your neck, his fingers burying themselves in your hair.
“You shouldn’t say shit like that to me, not tonight…”
“Oh, really?” you scoffed. The stew bubbled softly as it simmered, and rain kept battering against the windows. “Nobody tells me what to—”
—do.
That’s what you were going to say.
Right before Killer’s lips came crashing down, claiming yours with a gentleness you wouldn’t pin on him over sight alone.
You were startled and stiff for a moment. And then you mellowed into him with a soft sigh. He pressed closer but didn’t deepen the kiss; he was so gentle you could feel his lower lip tremble against yours.
Then he pushed back, his forehead touching yours as his hands came up to cup your cheeks.
“I—fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t—I should’ve—”
You didn’t even let him finish his half-assed excuses. You longed for this—for him. His touch, his understanding, his companionship. Him. Him. Him.
He kept the red away. You needed him.
A groan climbed up your throat as you stood on the tips of your toes and pulled him roughly down, your fingers tangling in his hair as you got lost in the taste of his lips—bitter wine and the richness of the stew. His sinful, addictive lips.
Fuck, you were a goner.
You swallowed his gasp and pulled him harder against you, melding your body to his, craving his touch, needing to feel anchored and wanted.
He melted into you immediately. One hand lowering to your waist, the other tightening his grip on your cheek. Another thunder boomed loudly, and this time you didn’t even see the lightning. You were too lost in the way his tongue swirled against yours and in how cold the counter he’d pinned you against felt on your feverish skin as your shirt rode up.
When his roaming fingers met the softness of your skin, he let out another strangled sound and pulled back again.
He was breathless. A wildness and lack of control you’d yet to see in him showing through the cracks.
His eyes roamed your face and yours his. You could see all of him now, even if shadowed and coated in darkness as he was—somehow, it fit him. His throat bobbed up and down as your fingers trailed the scars on his face. You could tell he wasn’t used to being touched; the skin was probably extra sensitive there.
“We can stop. We should stop. You don’t have to—”
“Shut the fuck up and kiss me,” you replied, a surge of want travelling to your lower belly and into your core.
“Feisty,” he mumbled, and just when you parted your lips to laugh, his own drowned the sound, turning it into a moan.
He pressed harder into you, and you winced, trapped against the counter. With a muffled apology, Killer eased back just to lift you, hands on your hips, and sat you on the counter. Instinctively, you opened your legs so he could slot himself there, but he hesitated again.
You bristled. “Killer, a no goes both ways, you know? If you don’t want this, we can stop.”
He ran a hand over his face, a pained expression twisting his lips into a frown you’d never seen, only felt. “You’re so wrong. There’s nothing else I want more.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
He sighed, his hands going up and down your thighs. “We’ve been drinking. It’s the anniversary of my squad’s death. I don’t know if we’re thinking clearly and—” His forehead pressed yours again. “I leave in a few days…”
“A few glasses of wine won’t hinder my judgement. I want this. Do you?”
“Fuck yes,” he whispered reverently, and you knew it wasn't mere lust. He needed your touch as much as you needed his. Whatever was happening between you was new, tentative, and still very much surface-level. But you couldn’t deny the intensity.
With a movement so quick you were sure he didn’t anticipate it, you removed your shirt, throwing it carelessly on the floor before wrapping your fingers in his hair again, loosening the knot keeping the wild, blond mane in place.
“About you leaving, we’ll deal with it when the time comes.”
“You’re avoiding the subject,” he said in his mellow, therapist-like voice, but instead of being angry, you felt like laughing at that. When you deftly unclasped your bra and let it fall to the floor, Killer lost any semblance of nonchalance he was trying to achieve. “You’re playing dirty,” he rasped, his eyes fixed on your tits.
You smirked. “Well, I am a dirty girl, Kill.”
His throat bobbed again. Whether from the nickname or the meaning of your sentence, you didn’t know. His eyes roamed your naked skin with desire, and the moment felt so intimate with the rain and the small blue flame on the stove that something inside your chest unclenched.
“We shouldn’t get attached,” he stated, his control flickering again as one hand climbed gently up your bare back.
“Fine,” you sighed, closing your eyes as his touch began to stoke the flame in your core. “Maybe I’ll just make this a night of rash decisions and go with you when you leave.”
As your fingers bunched the hem of his shirt, trying to pry it off his skin, you felt him tense.
“I know you’re joking, but—”
“Just fuck me, Killer. Do I have to beg? Does that get you going? I’m not above it!” You let out an exasperated sigh. “Didn’t you say you wanted this, too?”
He chuckled softly, his mouth latching against your neck and nipping softly, teasingly. “You have such a dirty mouth, too.”
He kissed a sweet spot, and you moaned loudly, hooking your feet against the back of his thighs to feel the friction of his strained cock against your aching center.
“Just imagine what else I can do with this mouth,” you teased as he finally helped you remove his shirt. “Fuck.” Any hint of amusement flew out the window and washed away in the rain when you took in all his muscles. The skin across his chest was uneven and raised with scar tissue too, but still so goddamned perfect.
He tensed again as your eyes roamed his scarred body, but before he could even protest, you leaned forward, pressing gentle kisses and teasing licks all along his pecs.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mumbled, his forehead dropping down and resting against your shoulder in abandon. “What are you doing to me?”
You let out a scoff, pushing away from him so you could take off the apron and your bottoms. “Oh, Stabby, I’ve barely begun.” When you hooked your fingers on his jeans, meaning to unbutton them, you almost let out a loud curse at the way the fabric was straining. “Fucking hell, Kill. You’re packing.”
It was his time to chuckle, but once you reached to help him out of his boxers, he grabbed your wrist. “Wait—shit. I don’t have any condoms on me, I—” He frowned. “I haven’t been with anybody in a while, and I’m clean. But I understand if you—”
“Same. It’s been embarrassingly long since someone other than me made me come,” you admitted with an awkward laugh. “And don’t worry, I won’t get knocked up.”
He nodded, finally pulling his pants all the way down and stepping out of them. Your clit throbbed at the sight, and you bit your lower lip in anticipation. He was fucking glorious.
Killer stood for a moment, just taking in your dishevelled form, and you were about to beg for him to touch you when he literally pounced. Your bodies fit together like a missing ingredient in a recipe. His fingers tangled in the strands of your hair, gripping you by the nape as the warmth of his lips consumed yours in a fierce claim.
His palm was hot as he pressed it on your waist, but then his fingertips brushed your skin gently, climbing higher and finding your breasts. His tongue moved against yours with the same rythm as his thumb and forefinger teased your nipple, and you arched into him, melting against the sensations.
Fuck, it had been too damn long.
Your legs parted more in a silent plea for him to touch you, your nails dug into his back with desperate need. Killer pulled away from the kiss, panting, trailing kisses down your collarbone and the swell of your breasts.
“Kill—”
“Hang on, baby, I’ve got you.” His tongue came out as he licked your nipple, teasing it between his teeth until you were bucking your hips against him, seeking some sort of friction. His other hand held your hip, keeping you from getting too close. “Eager, are you?”
“Fuck you, Killer. Just—fuck. Put it in!” You lowered your hands, gripping his cock and pumping up and down, your thumb caressing the tip with reverence.
His groan was so primal and coated in want that you immediately sought to coax another similar sound. But he gripped your hand, stopping your ministrations. “I want to taste you first.”
What?
Before you had time to properly process his words, Killer leaned down, prying your thighs further apart. A flash of lightning illuminated the space, and a wave of heat travelled through your belly so fast you moaned before he even touched you. He had a hungry look in his eyes, the blue in them overshadowed by dark desire.
You whimpered as he licked a long swipe across your pussy. “Oh my fucking God. That’s so fucking good.” He repeated the motion, and you cried out, burying your fingers in his long hair and pressing him harder against your center.
He made another sound, a mix of a grunt and a moan, and that alone almost undid you. “You taste so sweet, fuck. I could eat you for hours.”
“Please!” You had no idea what you were begging for at this point. “Kill!”
He sucked on your clit, pulling it between his teeth and releasing it before flattening his tongue and pressing. It was a maddening dance that sent waves of heat through every single nerve. Your thighs clenched around his face, your breaths coming so fast you feared there wasn’t enough air in the world to keep you sane. When he inserted two fingers into your wet core, your orgasm crashed through you, making you cry out his name and arch even further into his touch, gripping his hair so hard you were sure there’d be strands clinging to your sweaty hands by the end of it.
You didn’t care.
Your eyes were still clenched shut, your body so light it felt as if it were floating, your limbs so numb you lost sense of time and space. For a moment, you thought you were going to topple off the counter, but in the next breath, Killer’s lips were pressed against yours, and you could taste the sweetness he was talking about. You parted your lips to let out a soft sigh, but he chose that moment to sheath himself inside you, making you cry out instead.
“Fuck!”
“Jesus fuck!”
You both cursed at the same time. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your foreheads pressed together as your breaths mingled. Outside, the thunderstorm raged right above you, the rain clattering so hard it made the windows tremble. But none of that mattered. There was only you and the scarred, handsome biker in your arms. Even if he were leaving in a few days, and this was a one-time thing. It didn’t matter. You were going to make it fucking count.
Killer’s body was damp with sweat. He hadn’t moved yet, his hands gripping your hips so hard you were sure there’d be indentations of his fingers left behind.
“Fuck, fuck, look at you taking me so well, baby.”
You moaned at his words, trying to move your hips, but he held you still.
“It’s been a while. This might be over too quickly,” he confessed.
“I don’t fucking care, Killer. Just, for the love of God, move—” Your plea turned into a dragged groan as he pulled out and slowly pushed his cock in again.
The rythm was torturous but oh so fucking glorious. You could feel every ridge of his veins against your walls, every drag of his cock as he thrust in and out. One of his hands cupped your cheek, and he stared into the depths of your eyes.
You swallowed hard, feeling pressure on your chest. He was being too gentle. It was too much.
“Kill—”
“That’s it. Can you feel how much I want you?” He kissed your nose, your cheeks, the corner of your lips. His worship was so at odds with the bruising grip his other hand had on your hip that you barely knew what to make of it.
Your mouth felt dry, your eyes stung, and your chest ached. This was more than sex, even if you didn’t want to admit it. And that scared you.
“I—”
“Shit. I’m almost—are you there, too?” Killer whispered, his lips brushing yours as he lowered his hand and started circling your clit. His pace increased, and it was like he was touching all the right spots at once.
Your eyes closed. Your neck arched as you gripped his forearms, nails digging so hard they drew blood.
“Fuck, Kill! Yes!” Pressure built low on your belly, something stronger than before, as if his slow drags pulled pleasure from the depths of your soul.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, latching his lips on your exposed neck, anchoring his hand at your lower back, and pumping so fast and hard you fell completely undone.
Dark spots danced across your vision as your climax soared through your body. Killer stilled inside you, emptying himself into your heat and immediately pulling you tightly against his hold.
Your head rested against his shoulder as you both fought to catch your breath.
A cold dread settled in your chest as you came to a stark realization. Fucking, fuck. You could get addicted to this man really fast and really hard. This was fucking dangerous.
-*-
The thunderstorm had finally quieted down, and the soft pitter-patter against the window was nothing more than a gentle reminder of the previous storm.
Killer rested with his back against the cabinets under the counter, and you faced him with your legs crossed, wearing nothing but his shirt. There was a bowl of stew between his legs, and spoons in your hands.
The stew was motherfucking delicious, and it just hit the spot. Especially after the mind-blowing orgasms he’d pulled from you. You were still chewing softly on the tender piece of duck, practically having a food orgasm, when he addressed the topic again.
“Come away with me.”
You opened your eyes, craning your head slightly to look at him. He was dead serious.
“Killer, I—”
“I know you meant nothing when you said it earlier, but I can’t get it out of my mind. I know it’s only been what—two weeks? But we don’t even gotta label it. We’ll just be two people travelling, eating, and cooking.”
Your stomach lurched violently. Yes, you had said it as a joke earlier, but similar thoughts had already crossed your mind, even before Killer had come along. Every time you and Zeff argued and you threatened to leave and not come back, your mind wandered to what else the world had to offer you. Obviously, you were grateful to Zeff and loved working at the Baratie, but sometimes you felt like you had outgrown the restaurant.
“I don’t know…”
“I know you feel obligated toward Zeff. He’s family and Baratie is home. But… don’t you ever wonder how much more you could grow if you weren’t limited to four walls? Cliché as it is, the world is your oyster…”
A different kind of flame sparked inside you at his words. Could you do this? Could you leave all you knew behind and explore the world?
“We just met. I still don’t know if you’re a serial killer or not.”
Killer chuckled softly, and the sound made your stomach twist. Since when had you been looking forward to any kind of noise coming from him? In a way, Killer was right. You didn’t have to label anything. You’d just be two friends on a journey. Two friends who happened to have seen each other naked. And had sex. Mind-blowing, amazing sex.
And would definitely do it again.
“I think if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it by now. We’ve spent a lot of time alone already.”
“Fair.”
“So?”
A heavy sigh left your lips as Killer set the bowl aside and pulled you into his lap. “When are you leaving?” you asked, opening your legs to straddle him.
“Depends. You still haven’t given me any recipe, and I worked my ass off to earn those.”
A laugh bubbled up in your chest, washing away a bit of the anxiety that had just built. “The fucking recipes! Yeah, I think your ass worked enough to deserve them. Especially tonight.”
His scarred lips pulled slightly at the corner in a half-smirk as he slid his hands beneath your shirt. “I’m leaving in two days, tops,” Killer added. “I really need to get going if I want to make it home for Christmas. The road’s long.”
Two days. Your chest clenched painfully. You didn’t want your time with Killer to end. He was good for you—he kept you grounded and made you feel alive. Suddenly, anger was not all that kept you afloat.
“I’ll think about it,” you finally said, gasping when his fingers brushed the inside of your thigh.
“That’s all I ask,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your pulse and humming softly. The vibration of his hum tingled against your skin. Fuck, you could get used to this.
You really could…
-*-
By the time you cleaned everything and packed the leftover stew, the lights were back on, and Killer’s bandana was safely in place. You said a quick goodbye and declined his offer to drive you home. You had somewhere else to be, and you had to do this alone.
It was about time.
The first rays of the sun were tentatively coming up on the horizon, and the morning felt warmer than the last few days, probably because of last night’s rain. Puddles lined the sidewalk and filled the potholes in the middle of the street, but everything felt strangely calm.
There was no red in sight.
Your heart felt steady, and you had a direction. You were going to take Killer up on his offer. You liked the way he made you feel, as if you were special and not just angry. You liked to talk to him about food, and he understood you as no one else ever had. He was worth a chance. And you, too, were worthy of a chance to grow and spread your wings.
But first, you and Zeff needed to have a long, hard conversation. Or at least that was the plan. Most conversations between you and him ended in a shouting match, so this had about a fifty percent chance of being a civil exchange.
Yet, you felt the lightest you’ve ever been while climbing the steps to his apartment.
Knock, knock.
It was early. Too damn early, actually, but you knew Zeff was a morning person. He liked to hit the food markets at the crack of dawn and see what was fresh enough to make it into the special of the day. But the lights were still off.
Strange…
You knocked again, harder this time—more insistent. “Hey, old fart, it’s me! Open up. I don’t want to fight.”
You waved into the peephole for good measure, even though you’d noticed if he had approached the other side of the door.
“Zeff?”
A vine of apprehension wrapped around your heart, squeezing. What the fuck? Maybe he spent the night at the Baratie. It wasn’t the first time he’d fallen asleep after a hard shift. And since the weather had taken such a turn yesterday, it seemed likely.
Yeah, that had to be it.
Still, a nagging feeling kept prickling the back of your neck, so much so that you knew you wouldn’t rest until you checked for yourself.
Digging through your bag, you reached for the old set of keys to his apartment—ones you hadn’t used in a while—and opened the door. Locked. Was he home?
“Zeff? I’m coming in. You better not be butt naked! I have enough trauma as is, thank you very much.”
The windows were still drawn, and the small apartment was bathed in a dim light coming from the kitchen. You followed it like a beacon. Unconsciously, you knew something was wrong, but you were so very unprepared for the image that greeted you.
Zeff’s favorite mug was shattered on the floor, and black coffee had splattered on the counters. His phone lay just out of reach, haphazardly thrown, as if he’d reached for it and smacked it instead. And Zeff…
Oh, God!
Zeff lay face down, one hand pressed against his chest, and a grimace twisted across his face. He looked slightly grey and sweaty, clearly unconscious.
“ZEFF!” you shouted, running the remaining steps and kneeling by him so hard pain exploded through your knees. “Wha—fuck! Don’t do this to me, don’t! Don’t!”
Your hands shook violently as you grabbed his shoulders and turned him to the side. He felt cold. Clammy. Wrong.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Please!”
He didn’t move.
You started to shake, tears blurring your vision. Was he fucking breathing?
Your eyes darted around the kitchen wildly. He had been drinking coffee. Maybe he had just collapsed.
911.
You needed to call for help. You needed—fuck.
You needed him to live.
Note 2: Hmmkay, for the sex scene, I didn't want to point out that reader was on the pill, because there are so many birth control methods that I really didn't want to be specific. So I left it very vague, I hope that doesn't weird any of you out. Also, we're looking at two more chapters, and that's it. I think. Please let me know all your thoughts on this! ❤️
Tags: Fem!Reader; Lots and lots of swearing; Mature Audiences (I'll always tag the NSFW chapters); Modern Day AU; Anger issues; Emotionally constipated reader; Emotional trauma; Abandonment issues; Eventual fluff;
Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.
Summary: You working at Baratie never felt like a choice; it was an obligation after Zeff took you off the streets. And since cooking was the only thing that eased the constant anger gnawing at you, you were fine with it. Until a mysterious bandana-covered biker walked in and turned everything upside down.
Notes: Alright, guys, sorry for the delay on this chapter! I have to say I just had the most heart-wrenching idea for the end of this story 😬 I mean, I had an ending in mind, and it was okay... but this one... hmm... ohhhh I do want to make you all cry. Let's keep our fingers crossed, shall we? Also, sidenote, I had loads of fun writing the dialogue in this chapter. Maybe I overdid it? It was still fun, though. I hope you guys enjoy it! Thank you for reading!
Sleep eluded you throughout the rest of the night. You chalked it up to the lingering argument you and Zeff had had, and not to the fluttering sensation in your stomach every time you thought about Killer.
So what if he was a good cook? So what if he got so under your skin that his presence was actually soothing instead of triggering? You didn’t need this kind of positivity in your life, thank you very much. You were doing a mighty fine job of half-assing your way through life on your own terms.
A dried-up, bitter laugh escaped your lips as you kicked the covers off and made a beeline for the bathroom to get ready for another shitty day.
You were all kinds of fucked up.
Even your thoughts were angry and unhinged. No wonder Zeff wished he had never taken you in. You were simply unlovable. And that had been fine growing up. It had thickened your skin when you needed it most, helping you survive through the harshness of winters and the coldness of human indifference.
But now…
Were you allowed to want more? Were you worth more?
Killer’s words echoed unbidden in your mind: ‘I’ve decided that what I want matters.’
Was the masked man up to something with this insight? And even if he was, it begged the question: what the fuck did you truly want, anyway?
-*-
You were not an indecisive person. Usually, once your mind was set on a goal, you’d just go for it. If there were a dish you knew you could perfect, you wouldn’t stop until you had mastered it to the tiniest detail: from the cooking times to how thinly the julienne needed to be sliced to the freshness of the ingredients.
Yet now, standing in front of the back entrance of The Baratie, you couldn’t decide if you should go inside or remain in this very spot until roots sprouted from the soles of your feet.
Worse: if you decided to go inside, should you apologize to Zeff—even though you weren’t the only one in the wrong—or should you act as if nothing happened? You had stormed out, announcing to anyone who could hear that ‘you were gone’. Would you be a hypocrite by coming back as if nothing had happened?
Fuck it.
You weren’t in the wrong. Zeff had been the one who’d taken things too far. So you would go inside—because this was still your job, your routine, your passion—and you would cook.
You wouldn’t even open your mouth. You’d act like a complacent little thing: just another cook in line. Ordinary.
“Yeah, fuck it,” you whispered, hyping yourself up to take those two steps separating you from the door. “Fuck it all.”
Breathe in.
Out.
Go.
You unapologetically pushed the doors open and strode into the place as if you owned it, grunting and nodding at Carne and Patty as a greeting and setting up your knives at your usual station. Your coworkers mumbled a greeting back as they continued fetching ingredients for prep work. Zeff was nowhere in sight.
Good. Perfect. You could do this.
With a practiced movement, you grabbed an apron, tied it around your waist with two sharp knots, and started to prep your station.
“Behind you!” Carne shouted as he carried a pot of boiling water. Once he sent the water down the drain next to you, he wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm and grinned. “You good?”
An unsolicited growl escaped your lips. “Yeah, I’m good. Why do you ask?”
“I mean, you left the kitchen in a hurry yesterday after—”
“Hey!” you cut him off. “I came in to work, not for a fucking therapy session. Mind your business, and I’ll mind mine!”
After that, neither Carne nor Patty interrupted you again, and prep time rolled by slowly. At first, you were very aware of your surroundings, searching for that familiar thump of wood against the floor and the disapproving hum that usually accompanied it. When it didn’t come, you started to relax. Prep was easy; it was routine—you could do it in your sleep.
So when a sharp bark jolted you from your daydream, you weren’t ready for it.
“Watch your fingers—”
But it was too late.
A hiss of pain slipped past your pursed lips as you immediately put pressure on the wound and rushed to the sink, letting the running water wash away the blood and the sting. Luckily, it wasn’t deep.
“Rookie mistake,” Zeff said, his gaze on your hands and not on your face. “No matter how mundane the task is, your head is in the game or out of my kitchen. You know that.”
He didn’t yell. He didn’t even raise his voice, and somehow, that was even worse than if he had. You thrived on confrontation; you lived for a shouting match. This coldness was unlike Zeff—something he only reserved for cooks he wasn’t interested in keeping—and it rubbed you the wrong way.
“I fucking know that. I was distracted.”
“Do better.”
“Fuck this!” you cried out, wrapping your bleeding finger in some kitchen paper before heading to the bathroom to clean and wrap it properly.
The red was just there. On your fingers, on the bandage, on the edge of your vision. But it wasn’t overpowering. Not yet enough to drown out every doubt, every possibility—but almost there.
Zeff passed by the door as you were about to leave. “Leave the chopping to Carne. Prepare the sauces. I’m sure you can’t mess that up.”
He turned to leave, and the red in your vision expanded. “That’s it?”
He hummed an agreement, not even bothering to look you in the eye. Heat crawled beneath your skin, ready to be let out in a flaming burst. Rage gathered at your edges, and it was almost what you needed.
But when you stepped back into your station, Zeff was nowhere to be seen.
-*-
“Order up!”
“Careful, hot pan behind!”
The kitchen was alive with the dinner rush, and the restaurant was full. It was Saturday—the busiest day of the week—and all hands were on deck.
Even Zeff had put on his ridiculously big hat to help send out the dishes. He hadn’t said another word to you, and he hadn’t deigned to give you a look either. It all felt wrong. He was hurt, and indifference was his way of showing it, but it wasn’t fair! You were also hurt! And the wound just sat there between you, open and festering, making you all kinds of nauseous.
Despite his eyes being averted, you could still feel him watching everything.
“Take that off the heat before you ruin it,” he rasped, his eyes still glued to the plate in front of him, one wrinkled hand expertly wiping it to perfection.
“I’ve got it under control, for fuck’s sake!”
“You would, if you focused.” His words were calmer than ever. You’d never heard him speak like this in your life. That’s how you knew how fucked up this all was.
A scoff left your lips before you even had time to trap it.
“Focus my ass…” you mumbled, turning off the heat because he was right and the food was about to be ruined.
Focus. Just like that. As if shoving your errant thoughts and harsh words back down your throat was as easy as breathing, as if you weren’t burning up for a fight.
But you sucked it up and plated the dish without any more mistakes, your teeth grinding together so loudly you swore you could hear it over the banging of pots and pans.
You dropped the plate near Zeff so he could add the garnish and do his final inspection. He hummed, finished plating it, and placed it on the counter. “Table six!” he shouted to Pigtails, who had just entered the kitchen.
He had no word to offer. No advice. No correction. No approval.
Just coldness.
Your throat tightened with unwanted emotions. You couldn’t handle this—didn’t know how to. You were used to yelling—that you could deal with. Not this.
Not apathy.
-*-
Service went by much the same. You weren’t even interacting directly with the waiters, so you had no outlet for your anger other than cooking. And you didn’t know what Zeff thought about your cooking tonight because he was so hellbent on not telling you anything!
Frustration was bursting through every pore of your skin by the time the last order got out, so much so that you scrubbed every surface vigorously before deeming it clean enough.
When the time came to roll up your knives and take off your apron, Carne and Patty were already heading out the door, and Zeff was reviewing the cash flow for the day.
Now was your chance to say something, to comment on what had happened yesterday, to retract the sting your words had left and make everything right. You stared at his back, willing him to say something. To yell, to start a fight, to fix things, to fucking apologize!
Or maybe you should go first… You opened your mouth…
…and closed it again.
Why should you be the one to grovel when he had also been in the wrong? In fact, he was even more to blame after this miserable shift! Fuck him and fuck this!
You scrunched up your apron and threw it in the dirty pile before grabbing your stuff and heading outside without so much as a goodbye.
When the cool air hit your face, you were glad for the distraction Killer would bring. You could take out all your anger and frustration on him instead.
-*-
“Go on and set up in the same place as yesterday, Stabby. I need to drop some things in the office,” you waved toward a door at the end of the kitchen as you walked past him.
Tonight he was wearing another long-sleeved shirt—white, this time. And somehow, the stupid thing was even tighter than the one he wore yesterday. His bangs were slightly damp from the drizzle outside, and, somehow, that intoxicating citrusy smell still managed to cling to your nose every time he was near.
You hadn’t had any time to calm down after leaving Baratie. Having stayed until the end of the shift meant you had to rush to the soup kitchen to meet Killer, so you didn’t even have time to slither out of your whites.
Stepping inside the familiar office, you placed a closed envelope on the top drawer: your weekly donation for the ingredients. Then, you took off your chef’s coat and stuffed it in your backpack, leaving you only with the shirt underneath.
Red was still clinging to the edge of your vision. Tonight’s shift had been miserable. You almost thought it might’ve been better to have just stayed home. Why did you think Zeff would be considerate of you? Well, the truth is, you didn’t. You wanted him to engage, to shout, and feed your anger. Instead, he had left you feeling empty, frustrated, and buzzing with unspent energy.
After a few minutes, you sighed deeply and headed outside, ready to see what else Stabby was capable of. At least he was good entertainment and easy on the eyes.
“What are you doing?” you asked, approaching the sink to wash your hands. Killer had flour all over his hands and was halfway into kneading a piece of dough.
“Dumplings.”
You snickered. “That’s not exactly quick, but okay, I’m game. Let’s battle it out.”
“Nuh, uh. We’re cooking together tonight.”
You stopped, the dish towel still hanging limp in your hands as you studied his half-covered face. The small crinkles of the telltale sign he was smiling were there, but he didn’t sound like he was teasing you.
“Excuse me, what?”
His movements were precise. His fingers gathered the dough into a ball, and then he pressed the heels of his hands into it, rolling it and rotating it, repeating the process in a hypnotic way. You couldn’t help but notice how the veins in his forearms bulged, and his muscles tensed with the action.
Fucking, fuckity, fuck.
“You want to test my abilities, right? I figured this could be a good way for us to continue where we left off yesterday. You’re not the one being tested, I am.”
You threw the dish towel over the counter and crossed your arms, forcing your gaze away from the mesmerizing rhythmic motion of his hands.
“Yeah, okay, that sounds good. But why do I need to cook with you?”
“Many reasons, actually. You love to cook, you love a challenge, and I can physically feel how stressed you are tonight.”
Seriously?
“Therapy cooking?”
A small chuckle actually left his lips. “Isn’t all cooking therapeutic?”
Touché.
With a sigh, you tied an apron around your waist and grabbed a meat chopping board. “Pork or beef?”
“Beef.”
In the time it took you to go into the walk-in cooler and come back with the beef, Killer had managed to turn himself into a glistening, sweaty piece of meat himself from all the kneading.
What in all the fuckery is this?
You closed your eyes for a second to regain your bearings. Your frustration needed an outlet. Be it screaming, cooking, or sexual release. Something had to give for you to calm down. Tonight, there had been no screaming, the cooking hadn’t hit the spot, and your horny self was starting to show.
Down, girl! Come on!
You slammed the beef chuck piece over the cutting board with a loud bang and took out one of your knives to prep it for mincing.
“Whoa there, careful with the big sword,” Killer joked. “It looks like you’ve already knicked yourself once tonight. Maybe we should switch?” As he said it, he moved closer to you, and now that citrusy scent had an undertone of very manly musk that was doing things to you that you would much rather ignore.
“I’ve got this,” you seethed between clenched teeth, and he backed off.
After that close encounter, both of you worked in silence for a while. When the time came to shape the dumplings, you were fuming again. More red threatened to overcome you, your heart pounding wildly in your chest, turning your movements sharper and sloppier.
You tore a dumpling, and the filling came crashing down over the counter.
“For fuck’s sake… Rookie mistakes all the time, what the fuck is wrong with me…?” you muttered in a soft voice.
Deep breaths. Try again.
Another one ripped. “FUCK!”
“Careful. You need to be gentle with it. You’re overstuffing them.”
“It’s fine! I’ve cooked dumplings before!” Barely. Zeff was more into pasta and fish, or other elegant cuisine.
“I was just trying to give you some helpful pointers, Jalapeño.”
You physically cringed and barely avoided crushing the dumpling in your hand. “What?”
“No?” He shrugged. “It’s a cute nickname, you’ve got to give me that.”
“It’s not!” you bristled.
“It fits you! Spicy, sharp…” A pause. “Punches you in the throat if you’re not careful.”
A laugh bubbled up inside your chest, but you tamped it down.
“That’s not cute.”
“Spicy nacho?”
“No.”
“Hot dumpling?”
“Now you’re just reaching.”
“Angry meatball?”
Your lip quivered. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard. Cut it out, or I’ll cut you. Got it?”
“I got it.” Another pause. This one filled with amusement. “Firecracker,” he stated with conviction.
Your fingers stilled for a moment, something warm lodging in your ribs as the red in your vision went completely out of reach.
Then the dumpling just fell apart in your hands and shattered your peace all over again.
“Motherfu—”
“You’re forcing them. Too much pressure, too much filling. Here—” Killer dusted off his hands and came up behind you, his arms reaching around so he could take your hands and help you fold the dumpling.
A lot of things happened at once. Your heart stilled, your cheeks flared, and something hot pressed low in your belly.
You tried to stay completely still as Killer helped you fold the dumpling shut perfectly. “There. You got it?”
The smallest of breaths left your parted lips.
“You seem to be in a bit of a mood tonight,” he continued, still behind you, now helping you form another perfect dumpling. “I thought this methodical task would help ground you. But you still won’t relax.”
How could you relax with him pressing his body against yours?
You slowly twisted your head so you could look over your shoulder and into his eyes. Fuck, they were so big and blue. You stared for a second, the warmth of his chest pressing on your back, the gentleness of his calloused hands over yours…
…and then you elbowed him in the gut and shoved him off.
“Fuck you. Stop psychoanalyzing me! This is the second time tonight someone’s tried to play therapist with me!”
Killer raised his hands in a defensive position and stepped back into his station next to you, seemingly unbothered.
“I was just stating facts. I wanted to help you.”
“Help me? Or fix me?”
Killer’s body tensed. “I don’t want to fix you. I’m done with that.”
You were too worked up to try to analyze the meaning of his words.
“I just want to help you,” he assured.
Your hands slammed down on the counter, a growl already pushing through your too-tight throat. “You wanna help, big-guy?”
Killer nodded, tilting his head to the side, looking for any vulnerability you might give him.
“Fine! Good!” You wiped your hands against the apron furiously. “Let’s fuck, then!”
Crap. Fuck. Had you really said that out loud?
Even if your cheeks felt too hot and your skin too tight for your overworked body, you held your ground, crossing your arms and raising your chin in defiance.
Killer stood frozen, eyebrows quirked in surprise, pupils slightly dilated. “What are you—”
“You’re hot, I’m pissed, it seems like a perfect combination. I really need to work out this stress. Instead of talking me through it, fuck me through it. How about it?”
Too direct. Too damn to the point. Too… you.
Killer let out a breath so heavy that even his bandana flapped. “You’re deflecting.”
A bitter laugh laced your words. “Buddy, I’m heading straight to the point. I couldn’t be more direct if I tried.”
“Not… that!” He gestured, acting awkward and embarrassed for the first time since you’ve met him. “I mean, you’re trying to escape your emotions by turning your frustration into sexual release.”
“You got the therapist talk all memorized, don’t you? But yes, that’s exactly it. Shall we?” You pulled the hem of your shirt up, releasing it from the tight hold of the apron, but Killer’s hand stopped yours without a second thought.
“No. You don’t really want this.” His hand clenched yours; the blue in his eyes gave way to more black. His touch was electric.
“There you go, thinking you know what I want.” You jerked your hand off and pushed him away, red swallowing your vision whole. “Now I don’t want it anymore! Goddamnit!”
“Listen…” he fumbled. You still hadn’t told him your name, and he didn’t know what to call you. “I get it. You’re so angry that you need to release pressure—like a valve. It’s all perfectly natural.”
You opened your mouth, ready to explode and release all that pressure he was talking about in a very, perfectly natural way, but he cut you off by raising his hands in the air, palm open.
“Punch my hands.”
What the royal fuck?
“I don’t—”
He widened his stance and nodded once. “Just punch them. Don’t think. Hit.”
“Killer, I—”
“You’ve been itching to hit something all night, haven’t you? Come on.”
“Fine!” you growled, rolling your shoulders. All thoughts left your mind, you just closed your hand into a fist and slammed it into his palm. Little motes of flour swirled in the air in front of you with the motion.
The angle of your swing was off, the punch weak, but he didn’t comment on it.
“Again.”
An exasperated, noisy sigh escaped your lips before you swung again. Harder this time.
It felt good.
“Again.”
You did. Harder even. More precise.
Your body jolted with adrenaline and release. The red receded slightly. So you hit him again. And again. And again.
You stopped. Breath ragged, hands braced over your knees as your eyes burned beneath closed eyelids.
The red was gone.
“Good,” Killer shook his hands but was otherwise unaffected. “Feel better?”
You stood in silence, chest heaving with effort.
“Yes.” A heavy pause filled the room while you caught your breath. “Fuck you.” He chuckled. “And thank you.”
He nodded. Just once again, as if that simple gesture was enough to pick your pieces up and put them back together. Then he returned to the dumplings as if the last minutes hadn’t completely rattled your world.
Fuck. You’d really fucked up this time. Had you really just asked him to fuck you? You groaned and took a deep breath.
Just the cherry on top of your shitty life cake.
You composed your clothes and your hair, then washed your hands and splashed your face before returning to the dumplings. This time, it came out perfectly on the first try.
“Well, that was fucking weird. I’m sorry for propositioning you like some kind of man-whore.”
The laugh that came out, muffled by the bandana, was genuine and louder than any he’d ever released in front of you.
“Aye, aye. No problem. It was good for the ego, though. You really think I’m hot?”
“Don’t push it, Stabby,” you warned, a hint of amusement in your words. “I still don’t know what you’re hiding under that bandana. I’ll reserve my judgment until then.”
He didn’t laugh this time, but the amusement didn’t leave his eyes. “It’s only fair.”
“Back to work.”
“Aye, aye, chef.”
Silence fell over the work station again. Not heavy, not shrouded in awkwardness or tension. Soothing. Calming, even.
When the dumplings were ready, and you tasted them, you really had nothing to say. He’d proven, once again, that he was a worthy cook, not just an amateur riding a lucky streak.
“You intrigue me…” You started, picking at your dumpling with a fork, not courageous enough to meet his eyes.
“The bandana again?”
“Hmm, not just that. Your whole demeanour…” You paused, searching for words. Everything came out of your mouth more easily when you were angry. But your heart was beating so steadily now that it was almost as if it belonged to someone else. “You’re the most put-together person I’ve ever met. And… and you still care. Why do you care?”
“About what?” He gently placed the fork on the plate, looking at you as if you were an enigma he couldn’t solve, a mirrored expression of the one on your face.
“Me…” you whispered. “I mean… You saw an angry girl in the middle of a restaurant and still engaged me. You’ve witnessed my anger outbursts and didn’t give a shit. I’ve put you through a test, and I still haven’t committed to giving you what you want—not to mention my verbal sexual assault earlier and—”
“You’re familiar.” You raised your eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. “My brother was the same. I’m very familiar with anger and the hurt it usually masks. It’s very easy to dismiss it and brush it off as a temper tantrum or just part of your personality. It’s not easy to peel it back and see what’s underneath.”
Pressure built in your throat, every instinct telling you to change the conversation, to snap or flee. But you stood still, watching the blue in his eyes soften, watching them crinkle imperceptibly with the softest of smiles.
“Most of the time you find treasure, if you peel it back enough.”
Treasure? Were you precious underneath all the red? Did he see that in you?
“Are you ever angry?” Your question was barely a mumble.
“Aye. I am.”
“How do you keep it leashed?”
“I don’t. I find outlets. You were trying to do that earlier, but you were deflecting your anger into unhealthy outlets. You need to find something that soothes your soul and your restlessness.”
“Like cooking.” You finished for him.
“Aye. That usually does the trick. I also like to punch things, as I’ve shown you, and I’m pretty good at cleaning and organizing.”
You smirked. “I can already picture you holding a feather duster in a pink, frilly apron while cleaning your home.”
“Damn. Are you a psychic? Because I do have a pink, frilly apron.”
“I knew it.”
Easy.
This was so much simpler than allowing the red to take over. Killer was so easy to talk to. But what were you doing? The man was leaving in a few days, you couldn’t—shouldn’t—get attached.
Better to deflect. Again.
“How come you love cooking so much? You seem like a badass biker type who probably works for an underground mob business or something like that.”
He popped a dumpling under his bandana and chewed before answering you. “I’m a mechanic. Not a mobster.”
“Shame. Mobsters make good money.”
“Good mechanics do, too.”
“Are you a good mechanic?” You teased.
“Decent. Kid’s the real prodigy. My brother—well, not by blood, but in every way that matters.”
His hands flew to his chest, and he fidgeted with his shirt. Were those dog tags beneath the fabric?
“I got into cooking when we were growing up, forced to live on our own. There were days when we had nothing but a handful of stuff that didn’t resemble a proper meal. So I rolled up my sleeves and made something from nothing. Kid always loved my cooking.” He let out a loud snort. “But then again, Kid doesn’t have a very picky palate. The man will eat anything. Doesn’t even have to be hot or properly cooked.”
You laughed with him. It seemed like he loved his brother very much.
“Anyway, once we joined the army and we got our own unit, I became the designated cook. It was my way of controlling the uncontrollable. I couldn’t control the pathway of a bullet or the blast of a grenade. But I could control the temperature of the stove and the combination of flavors in the pot.”
His hand moved toward the plate again, but just hovered there.
“When you’re out there… anything can go wrong in a moment. One wrong call, a bad move, and—” he sighed. “Someone dies.” A small sound caught your ear, something between a chuckle and a snort. “You can’t die over burnt garlic. Cooking felt safer in a world that was anything but.”
You could sense the pain beneath his words. So you moved your hand closer to his, almost touching.
“Sounds like you burnt a lot of garlic back then.” Your fingers brushed his softly. “Or like someone died…”
He tensed. His unblinking eyes were set on the way your skin was touching his. His thumb traced a soft circle on the back of your hand, and you held a shaky gasp back.
“Aye.” Killer didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push. “How about you? Why cooking?”
You scoffed, retreating your hand back. Flashes of life on the streets, of fighting animals and people over scraps filled your vision.
“Because I’m damn good at it.” Another deflection. And he knew it. Your throat ached when you swallowed down the heavy lump. “And if I’m not good at it, then what the fuck am I doing with my life?”
It was damn-near a confession. You really had no clue what you were doing. Where were you headed? Did you want to stay in Baratie forever? Did you need to spread your wings?
You loved Zeff, but you also knew your constant headbutting was hindering any real progress. On the other hand, who were you without him? Just that homeless girl again? With no direction, no way to go but down?
“You are good at it. You’re excellent.”
You locked eyes with him, letting the silence fill all the unsaid words as doubts swirled inside your head. The hum of the appliances in the kitchen and the occasional car outside were the only sounds against the backdrop of this quiet conversation.
It was late. You were tired—exhausted even. But somehow, it was the clearest your head had been in days. A quiet sense of contentment filled every empty space inside your chest.
And you owed it all to the masked stranger in front of you.
“We should go,” you whispered. “It’s late.”
“Aye,” he answered.
But you lingered a while longer before cleaning up and leaving. Because somewhere along the line, this masked stranger wasn’t a stranger anymore.
I literally come to your blog everyday to see if the new chapter for rooted is out (I also did this for your other fics lol). I love them so so much and just wanted to say I can't wait for whatever you post next 💜
Ahhhh omg! Well, NOW I need to go work on chapter 4 ASAP! 🥺
Thank you so, so much for your words! You have no idea how I needed them 🥰 ❤️
Aaaaa, damn cold! I hope you feel better soon, Pandora! 💕🫶🏻❤️ Sending you warm tea and soup.
Hehehehe, you opened the Pandora's box (ha, get it?) with this ask game hehehe 😈😈
🦩🦩
So, number 15 question!
15 ⧽. if you wrote a fic called Great Pretender (Meet Cute) - Doflamingo's Story with Doflamingo/Reader what do you think it might be about?
HEHEHEHEHE I GOT YOU NOW PANDORA I GOT YOU NOW! (evil triumphant Doffy laughter)
YOU CAN NEVER ESCAPE IT! I WILL ASK FOR GREAT PRETENDER DOFFY IN HIS PINK SUIT x Reader FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE FROM YOU!
Love you 💕🥰🦩
Ohhhh whyyyy youuuu! 😈😈
Fizzy, Fizzy, Fizzy. You made me laugh out loud, which prompted a stupid coughing fit, so imagine if you were responsible for my early demise? No more Great Pretender Doffy for you! Nuh uh! 😂
What could a Meet-Cute with asshole, entitled Doffy from Great Pretender be about...?
Here's what I'm thinking:
The Reader from The Great Pretender has a friend she left behind in the city, you know, one of those friends you can always count on, even if you haven't talked for ages! The friend whom you see reels about and then send them with a stupid caption: 'ahah, us' or 'this is you, dumbass'. THAT is going to be Doffy's Meet-Cute Reader. And yes, we're talking about age gap (love me one of those) because Doffy is an older Daddy.
The Plot: You heard about what Doffy did to Law (who's now your bff's fiancé) and to your bff, and if there's one thing you can't stand is entitled assholes getting in the way of the people you love. Since you still live in the city, you have the perfect place to spy on Doffy and his business and to plan a revenge plan for all the hurt he's caused your bff. Doffy doesn't even know who you are, anyway.
The Plan: Get the great, mighty Donquixote Doflamingo on his knees and madly in love with you. Will it backfire? Obviously. Will you get some great spicy time out of it 5/5 🌶
Meh, I don't know. Just sort of pulled this one out of my 🍑, but it sounded fun. Hope you enjoy thinking about the possibilities! Muahahah!
Thank you so much for entering this silly game! It did make me laugh and turned a crappy day into a brighter one ❤️❤️ Love ya!
Hi Pandora! I’m so sorry to hear you’re not feeling well. I really hope you feel better soon 💕 To help cheer you up a little, how about giving us your answer to question 14? ☺️
Hi Armilia! Thank you so much for the well wishes. I really hope to feel better soon! 😭 Okay, here we go:
14 ⧽. is there anything outside of your normal content that you want to write?
Since my normal content is fanfiction, I guess I can say that wanting to write my own stories with my own characters is something outside my 'normal'. 😅 That's where I'm going with!
I already managed to finish (still editing, though, and that process is a pain in the 🍑) one short book. I'm currently dabbing on book 2 of the same series, and I have a different series planned, too. The first series is a mafia romance, the second series will focus on contemporary romance, and I also have two different fantasy books I would like to write (someday, hopefully) aaaaand I guess that's it...
Yeah... my head never stops... imagine the party that goes on inside my brain every night 😂
Thank you so, so much for participating in this silly game, Armi! Love ya! ❤️❤️
hiiii Pandora! @igiulss here, I hope you get well soon 🩷 because this is no time to be sick! 🥺 meanwhile... I saw the ask game, so here I am: asking about number 4 and number 10!
I must return to work... I guess 🫠 I hope your day gets better with you!!
Hi Giuls!
Ahahah, thank you so much for indulging me in this silly little game! Here we go:
4 ⧽. is there an au or trope that you haven't written before, but would want to try?
Oh, I want to try the dark romance enemies-to-lovers sort of thing, but I have that planned out with Ichiji's prequel (though it won't be hardcore enemies-to-lovers, because I feel like that trope needs to be sooo fleshed out. It needs to be long with lots of slow burn and yearning, and my fic won't be long enough for that). I also would like to try the time-loop AU thingie, because that's been stuck in my head, but I already told you about that idea, and I guess that's why it's so ingrained in my brain! I think a Gods/Humans AU would be super amazing, too... but I don't even want to go down that rabbit hole. I might get lost! You're making me think about more stories! I can't do thisssssssss! 😂
10 ⧽. what genre is generally the easiest or most enjoyable for you to write? which is the hardest?
This question is the hardest. NEXT!
Nah, I kid 😂 Okay, romance is the easiest to write, obviously, angst is my most enjoyable one. I do love some drama and heartbreak. You all know how much I love to toy with characters' emotions and feelings (sorry, not sorry!). As for the hardest: ACTION SCENES! Gawd, I hate writing fights! It's always fast-paced, and then there are lots of gestures, and I have to be aware of where everything is and how everyone's positioned, and then of what works for the scene or not. I swear... It gets on my nerves, and I always think I did it wrong! Zoro's fight scene with the stalker - who shall not be named for those who haven't read yet - was so hard to put into page! 😭
Thank you so much for the lovely questions, Giuls! Go, go, worker bee. Go back to work 😅❤️❤️
Hi Pandora!! I hope you get well from your cold soon ^^ how about number 7 and 13 for the ask game?
Thank you so much. It currently feels like my nose is going to melt off my face. But it shall soon pass! 🤞
7 ⧽. is there a fic you wish you received feedback on, but didn't get any/much? this ask game is asking someone else to then give feedback on said fic, pretty pretty please!!
This one: |Entangled| 🔞 It was my first time ever writing MMF, and I was a bit self-conscious about it. Granted, this fic is pure filth and not everyone wants to comment that 😂 so I totally understand! It was also very self-indulgent, another reason why I suspect I got little interaction with it.
13 ⧽. do you have any writing projects/goals/plans you're working on/want to work on?
SOOOOOOOOO many! Omg, where do I even begin??? I want to finish my Killer x Reader spinoff first and foremost, so that one is the main focus for now, and then I plan to focus on my Ichiji x Reader prequel (sooo dark romance coded. We're gonna love the villain, guys... we know Ichiji sucks and will suck even harder, but we'll still fall in love with the bastard. Hopefully we'll understand him a bit better then... It's going to have total: 'I'll burn the fucking world for you' vibes because Ichiji won't care for anyone else but you... how lovely and not creepy at all). And then I want to give attention to poor Sanji's Meet-Cute because he deserves it, and I want to finish the series! And I also want to finish my Doffy/Rosi/Law x Reader Mafia AU, because I have filthy plans for that very self-indulgent fic, too.
I'm not even including personal projects or fics with ships I have going on with my other account. *siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh* I'm also not including other ideas I have that I really wanted to look into, such as that Kid King of Hell fic that's been plaguing my mind for YEARS!
I got this, boo... Somehow, someway... I got this! 😎
Thank you so, so much for the lovely distraction! I had a fun time answering these! ❤️❤️
