The best joke in The Gentlemen is Raymond out-ghillieing Fletcher. It's such a funny camera pan with such serious dialogue that it makes me giggle every time!
Warnings: Implied violence. Please let me know if I missed any!
A/N: Holy shnikes, I've been writing Tech Tuesday for an entire year without skipping a week! Sure, I've had to fudge a few things, but I've been consistent! I'm kinda proud of myself for that!
Tech Tuesdays Masterlist
Ari Levinson (CEO)
"So it's a deal?" Ari smirks across the table at Tony Stark.
"It was a deal three days ago," Tony huffs.
"No, that was still negotiation," Ari counters. "Your 'deal' wouldn't have been enough compensation for the prioritization."
"You're lucky your company provides the best of the best when it comes to user friendly design," Tony grumbles, taking a sip of bourbon. "If people were smarter, I wouldn't need so much help translating my genius."
"Nor would you need to pay so much for us to prioritize your work over that of others," Ari purrs.
"I'm certain the money will be put to good use getting you a second house or something."
"Not a chance," Ari scoffs. Tony's eyebrows raise in surprise so he explains, "you know why my company is the best at what it does? It's because I make sure my employees are happy. Happy employees are loyal employees. Dedicated employees. With the money we're getting from this deal? We're either hiring some new people to ease workloads or giving everyone a nice bonus. Maybe a combination."
"Huh," Tony replies, stunned at the other man's response. "My dad coulda learned a thing or two from you."
Ari laughs at that before raising his glass. "To learning from mistakes."
"I can't raise my glass to that," Tony shakes his head. "I never actually learn."
Natasha Romanov (Head of HR) & Nick Fowler (Private Investigator)
Nick feels the air knocked out of his lungs as he hits the mat. While the life of a PI wasn't as exciting as the movies often make it out to be, regular sparring sessions were good for keeping his skills sharp.
Or they would be if his sparring partner wasn't also former CIA and in much better shape.
"C'mon Fowler. You've gone soft on me," Nat smirks.
"Yeah," he wheezes.
"Must be that new girlfriend of yours. She's keeping you so well fed you're becoming docile."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," he blushes.
She shrugs before helping him up.
"So what's the job?" Nick grunts.
"What makes you think this isn't just a workout?"
"You're being extra nice," he replies. "If it was 'just a workout' you wouldn't have helped me up."
"Maybe I feel bad for you." Nick raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "Okay, okay. I've gotten a couple of weird phone calls asking after one of our employees, Johnny Storm, and I'm worried he's in really big trouble."
"Can you define 'weird'?"
"I recognized one of the phone numbers from my CIA days."
"That is weird," he concedes. "Give me the number and I'll look into it after my date tonight."
"No, you'll look into it tomorrow," Nat smirks. "I'm not keeping your girl from getting some action."
Nick blushes as he heads to the locker-room to clean up.
Sam Wilson (CFO)
As Sam waits for his date to come back from the ladies' room, his meal is interrupted by a woman he wishes he didn't recognize.
"Linda Drysdale," he snorts.
"Well I should hope you know me," she snaps back. "I've been sending you a very high number of offers to buy your company."
"You've sent so many we're having legal look into harassment charges," he shoots back. "The company ain't for sale. You need to get that through your thick skull."
"Oh come on," Linda rolls her eyes. "Everyone has a price. I just haven't found the right one for you and Levinson."
"And you never will."
"Your company isn't making a lot of profit. I've seen the receipts."
Sam smirks and raises an eyebrow. If she's fishing for information on the rumors of the Stark deal, she'll have to look elsewhere. And the fact that she conflates "profit" with "revenue" is very revealing.
"Alright fine," she sighs, shoulders dropping. "In truth...The truth is..." she sniffles, but Sam doesn't react. "I just miss my son so much," she cries. "I've tried to get guest passes into the building, but they've all been declined. I don't know where he lives because he takes the bus! And I just..." Linda sobs into a napkin she took from Sam's table.
"Really Linda? You're trying to use crocodile tears on me?" he gibes.
Linda's shoulders stop shaking and she angrily throws the napkin back on the table.
"Well excuse me for being a concerned mother!"
"If you were actually concerned about your son, you'd accept that he's alive and leave him be until he's ready to talk," Sam argues. "As it is, if I see you again, I will be filing charges and you will be banned from the premises."
Linda glares at him, but Sam doesn't back down.
"Now, if you don't leave and let me get back to my meal, I will have the maître d' escort you outta here."
As Linda storms out, Sam's date returns to the table and he stands to greet her and pull her chair out for her.
Pairing: Raymond Smith x fem!assassin!Reader Word Count: 1.5k
Warnings/tags: slight frenemies, American!Reader, dark themes/topics, Reader has a dark past, secret mutual pining
Summary: Raymond never had much patience for you, but that didn't mean he wasn’t curious about the mysterious and eccentric assassin who's powerful father had temporarily given her to Pearson "on loan."
a/n: This is just a short little thing I threw together about the assassin!Reader and Ray because they've been living in my head for a year now. It's just a smidgen of a look into their world. Feeback is always appreciated!
“Sit.”
You pointed a firm finger down towards the white marble floor, watching as the purebred English Pointer immediately sat back on its spotted brown haunches, tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. A satisfied smile split across your lips as you stared down at the animal that you knew was nothing more than another possession amidst the grandness of this estate. Because as you'd come to learn on your outings with Pearson, there was always an overly obedient dog at these places.
“Good boy,” you praised.
You scratched the dog behind his ear and he closed his eyes while making a low, contented noise as your nails hit the right spot. But Raymond's sharp, derisive snort caused your gaze to shift sideways towards him, your smile fading at the condescending look on his face. He was standing near a tufted, deep purple chaise not too far from the bottom of an ornate staircase with his arms crossed over his broad chest. You were both waiting for Mickey to finish his meeting with Duke Whatever the Fuck His Name Was, given commands to stay put while he discussed the business of acquiring another estate for his work. Truthfully, you knew it was solely because your presence had a tendency to unsettle the British aristocracy.
The usual gleam of annoyance lingered in Raymond's blue eyes as he watched you interact with the duke's dog, aware that you were currently his only form of entertainment among all this extravagance. Turning your head over your shoulder as you continued petting the dog, you shot him a pointed look while arching a single perfect brow at him, surprised that he wasn’t intending to completely disregard you as he often did. Raymond was rather vocal about how much he disliked your boisterous, spontaneous nature even if Mickey and Ros deemed you an invigorating and welcome addition.
“You've gotten the dog to listen to you,” he deadpanned. “Well done.”
“You know, other living things might actually enjoy your company if you weren’t such a stringent sourdough,” you countered.
A humorless breath passed between his lips, his head shaking slowly from side to side. But despite the unbothered expression on his face, the way he reached up and tweaked his glasses along the bridge of his nose told you how he actually felt. You'd spent more than enough time silently studying Raymond to have learned each of his ticks, and this one meant that your attempts to needle him were succeeding even though you'd only just begun.
“Can you stop with the bread related insults?” he questioned. “They're rather lackluster.”
“Ahh, yes, because cunt is such an original insult,” you retorted, hand falling away from the dog. “You throw that one around quite liberally, Ray. Maybe it's time you refreshed your offensive vocabulary.”
“I immediately regret initiating a conversation with you,” he said tersely, turning marginally away from you to face the staircase. “You're too aggravating to waste breath on. I prefer the silence.”
“Oh come on, when did you lose your sense of whimsy, Ray?” you teased back. “At the tender age of ten?”
“And when did you lose your professionalism?” he shot back, staring straight ahead.
Your tongue gave a gentle cluck against the roof of your mouth, tsk-ing softly as you shook your head at him. “Poor young Ray,” you replied. “Or are you just jealous of the dog? Because if you'd like to sit on your knees for me, Raymond, I'll call you a good boy, too.”
The corner of his lip twitched to the side twice before you caught the way he blinked a little harder than usual behind his glasses. He uncrossed his arms, shifting on his dark brown Oxfords, before clasping his hands in front of himself. The corner of your own lips slowly drew back into a pleased grin, because Ray always visibly reacted whenever you blatantly flirted with him. While you found him attractive, he'd always verbally expressed his disinterest, but his body language often seemed to claim otherwise.
“Don't.”
“Don't be such a prude crumpet,” you chastised. “I'm just trying to get you to loosen up. You're always so tense. You're allowed to laugh, Ray. I hear it's actually good for your health. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
“And maybe Pearson should send you back to the States,” he quipped. His head turned marginally towards you but his body remained facing the stairs. “Back to your father. I think you've served more than your purpose here.”
The teasing smile vanished from your lips right before a cold chill crept up your spine. Always observant, Raymond's head tipped slightly to the side, his piercing eyes narrowing minutely behind his lenses. He knew the mention of your father always caused a shift in your demeanor, it was something he'd picked up on awhile ago. Whenever you really got on his nerves he'd mention him, aware that it would effectively shut you up even if he didn't understand why it did.
But he never pushed to ask the questions you could see dancing behind his eyes. Neither of you had ever done more than scratch the surface getting to know each other. You were just business partners who worked for Pearson, nothing more. You didn't need to know Ray any deeper even if you continually found yourself trying to push him a little past his boundaries.
Admittedly it was because you were envious of him. He lived his life here as Mickey's trusted right hand. He had money and luxury at his disposal, and an employer who genuinely cared about his well-being, yet he squandered all of it for the sake of remaining the tightly buttoned-up gentleman single-mindedly focused on work. You would have given anything for the type of freedom he held, a freedom you would never know.
You would always spend your life underneath your father's thumb. The daughter he didn't want, the one he'd spent his time and countless resources turning into a useful tool for his business, a blade that was an extension of his hand–merely a weapon to be dispatched. If you placed one single toe out of line or dismissed a single order, you'd cease to matter to him. You'd end up another tragic suicide story all over the news stations just like your mother had been when you were eight.
Which was why you spoke so freely ever since you'd been sent to England to help Pearson. You enjoyed the nightlife, saw the sights, explored every crevice of the cities with a wonder that bordered on childlike. You were currently on an indefinite “loan” to Pearson as a way to grow relations between your father's business and Mickey's, and it had been the closest to living your life that you'd ever been allowed, so you'd chosen not to let Raymond's insults dissuade you from it.
“Please tell me mom and dad aren't fighting again.”
At the booming, amused voice of Pearson, your attention snapped towards the massive staircase. You watched him descend the steps in his crisp suit with a broad grin on his face, but you could still feel Raymond's gaze probing at the side of your face as if he was trying to unravel all of your secrets. Forcing a smile onto your lips, you looked up at Mickey, trying to shove aside the inevitable truth that eventually you would have to return to your father's side.
“It only means you get more presents at Christmas if we split,” you joked to Pearson. “And personally, I think a holiday in Miami sounds more exciting than a cold ass winter in London with an uptight, surly baguette.”
Pearson chuckled at your usual playful insult at Raymond's expense, the delighted sound filling the foyer and brightening your mood. At least you weren't going home any time soon, and you vastly preferred Pearson's company to your father's.
“C'mon,” Pearson ordered, tipping his head towards the main doors as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Now that this is all sorted, I have a man I need you two to meet with for me.”
Raymond spun gracefully on his heels, casually falling into step after Mickey. You quietly fell into step beside him, ignoring how the scent of his expensive cologne enveloped you in its warmth and made your chest tighten. But you did make the mistake of glancing sideways at Ray only to discover that he was still studying you closely from the corner of his eye.
His lips had thinned out along his face, and the expression he wore told you that it had nothing to do with the fact that you'd once again called him a surly baguette and everything to do with the things you never said aloud. What was even more unsettling than his stare though was the temptation growing inside of you like a caged animal desperate to claw its way out and answer all of his unasked questions. Something that was desperate to finally see the light of day.
But that was a beast that remained under lock and key.
Warnings: this fic contains suggestions of addiction and withdrawal. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Raymond Smith + “You need to stop running away from the inevitable.”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
You watch the smoke curl up beneath the hazy evening sky. The smell of rain lingers on the pavement, water dripping from the eaves. You suck on the cigarette and let out another grey furl as your lashes droop.
You hum and keep from leaning to the side. A car passes and footsteps scrape up the sidewalk. You hover the smoke in front of your lips, hunching forward as your fingers nice away without meaning too. You catch yourself and your eyes pop open.
A blurry figure approaches and you snort. You inhale the tobacco and puff it out as your vision clears just enough to make out the man in his tweed jacket and glasses. You pull the cigarette away and salute with your other hand.
"Rrray..." You slut. "Fine night."
"Rain let up." He shrugs as he stops at the bottom step, just three below where you sit on the stoop. "How's it goin' then?"
"Goin'," you drone and take one last drag before you butt out the ashy tip. "You sellin' or cashin' out?"
He tilts his head. "Not selling what you're on, dear." He grabs the railing as he lifts a foot onto the bottom stair. "Told ya, you needs get off that stuff."
You giggle. "Easy 'nough to say if you never tried it, Ray Ray."
You reach up and latch onto the railing. You struggle to get yourself to your feet. You sway and stumble down one step. Raymond moves to catch you. You manage to stay upright and wave him off.
"Don't you worry for me," you point at him and sag. "I needa sleep. Thatsall."
You stick out your tongue and turn your back to him. You saunter up the stairs and stop at the door. You twist and look back at him.
"Comin' or gon' buzz up?" You prompt.
Raymond sighs and climbs the steps. "Coming." He answers as he hurried forward and grabs the door. "Listen, you ever get off them things, I'll get you some of my stock for free. Take the edge off." He crowds you as he pulls the grated door shut behind him. "Better 'n pharmaceuticals."
"Not strong enough," you scoff and turn up the staircase. "Tell Billy to open his damn windows. Tired of smelling that skunk.”
You lean on the railing as you climb and sway down the hallways to your door. You push through and close the door without any care for the dangling chain or lock. You yawn and smile at the numb ripple flowing through you.
You fall onto the couch and moan. Your eyes roll back in cloudy content. You sink further and further away from reality, not thinking, not feeling. Just lost in oblivion.
💜
You roll over, arm numb from the weight of your body, and groan. Your shoulder aches at the socket and your head swims with the dregs of the pills. This is the part you hate. When you have to feel again. When you have to get up and face the world.
You throw your hand over your eyes and think of popping half a perc with your coffee. Those losers at the shop can be patient while you find their brand. Especially that idiot who expects you to remember which lites he prefers.
You sniff and rub your cheek hard. You wonder if Tonya got her new script yet. You really don’t want to pay Gregory double for his grandma’s sock. You flop your arm down on the bed and open your eyes.
Your heart floods with adrenaline. Bed? You don’t remember getting that far and this is much cushier than the stiff old futon on the floor. And the wooden trim around the ceiling isn’t dusty and faded like the old plaster of your flat.
Where the fuck are you?
Sitting up makes your head pound. You blink and look around at the dark wainscotting. Shit, did you somehow wander off and break into someone’s estate? You’ve done some zany shit on pills but mostly you just sleep.
You shake your head and it pulses again. You groan and rub your temples. You cradle your skull as you move slowly to the edge of the bed. You’re still in your loose pajama bottoms and baggy tee.
You stretch your neck and stand. You grab onto the orb at the top of the footboard’s post to keep from tipping. You scan the room again.
The windows have iron grating across the outside…
You turn and stagger to the door. The long curled handle doesn’t turn. You grip with both hands and jiggle. You crank down as hard as you can. Nothing.
You huff and let go. You cross the room, tripping on the edge of the carpet, and grab the window frame. You can slide it open but the metal cage doesn’t budge on the other side. The hell?
This can’t be real. You back up and stomp back to the door. You thump on it with your hand and holler, “Hey!” The echo shakes your brain. You cup your ears and whine.
You back up and sit on the bed, bending over your lap as you rock. Goddammit. You need out of this place. You need pills.
You stay like that, slowly leaning to the side as your eyelids droop. You’re weak. The thunder in your head travels down your spine.
A click makes you flinch. You turn your head and peek out from under your arm. You force yourself up to stare at the man that steps inside. It’s Raymond.
“Ray..” you murmur.
He stares at you, eyes pensive, disapproving behind his lenses. He tilts his head. You gape back at him, confused.
“You need to stop running away from the inevitable.” He says. “I told you to quit that junk.”
You blink again.
“Ray Ray, what do y’mean?” You gurgle.
“I walked straight into your place. You never knew. Not the first time.” He crosses his arms. “Coulda been someone a lot damn worse than me.”
You frown and shake your head. “What are you doing? Where am I?”
He tuts. “Cleaning you up.” He backs up and turns to the door. “You’re welcome.”
A surge of terror and rage strikes in you. You lunge up to your feet and towards him as he grabs the handle. He easily elbows you away and you fall to the floor with a thud. You cough and look up at him.
“You can’t do this!” You cry out.
He calmly opens the door. He stops inside the frame and looks back at you. You shakily sit up.
“And who’s goin’ to look for you, dear.”
He spins and slams the door at his back. The lock clicks. You growl and kick your heels into the floor.
Holy shit.
💜
Click.
You’re ready this time. The door opens and you jump. He’s ready too.
Raymond catches you by your jaw, squeezing until you’re still as he balances a plate in his other hand. You groan as his grip thrums in your neck and skull. He marches you back to the wooden chair at the desk.
“Sit.” He demands.
You whimper. It’s been hours since you had anything. Getting close to a day. His thumb pushes in behind your jaw until you obey.
“You need to eat.” He lets go and places down the plate of food. Mandarin slices peeled and divided, cottage cheese dressed with pepper and sesame, and baked chicken sliced with zucchini and broccoli.
You growl through your teeth. “I need some damn pills.”
He lets go and taps your cheek, enough to just sting.
“No. Eat.”
You touch your cheek and glare at him. “What’s wrong with ya? Why are ya–”
“Helping you?” He interrupts and points at the plate. “Eat.”
“Let me go–”
“You can eat or I can feed you.” He warns and shoves you..
You look down at the plate and curl your lip. There’s a plastic utensil; one end a spoon, the other a curved spork. You sigh and reach for it.
You hover it over the bland white heap. You grip it tightly and act as if you might take a bite. Instead you twist and jump up, aiming the tines at his face. He catches you and knocks the utensil from your hand.
He grasps the back of your head and turns you back to the desk. He pinches your neck and forces you into the chair. He bends you over until your face is right over the plate.
“Act like an animal. Eat like one.” He smushes your face into the food. “I’m not leaving until the plate is clean.”
The cheese smears all over your face and a piece of broccoli nearly impales your nostril. You cough and grip the edge of the desk.
“You choose how this goes.” He snarls.
You wriggle and grunt. “Let me go. Ow! I’ll… eat.”
He pinches until you whine but relents. You sit up and he reaches into his pocket. He offers you a fabric kerchief. You rip it away from him and wipe your face.
You keep your head down, crumpling the cloth in your fist as you grab a mandarin wedge with your other hand. You put it in your mouth and bite down. You eat quietly. Your stomach churns at the smell of the broccoli. The taste only makes it worse.
You cover your mouth and your shoulders rack. He backs up and returns with the bin placed at the corner of the desk. He holds it patiently beside you. You turn and wretch into it.
“First few days will be bad. Week or so, you’ll feel better.” He pats your back and you stiffen. “Drink water. Stretch your legs when you can.”
“You’re an asshole.” You mutter into the bin.
“And you’re an addict.” He drones back smugly. “No one else’d do anything for ya.”
💜
“Hey, jerk! Hey, Hey!” You yell and stomp, stomping to hammer on the walls with your fist.
For hours, you laid in bed, restless and dizzy, until you just couldn’t stay still. Now you’re pissed. And sweating. Somehow soaked in sweat but freezing. You sniff through your clogged nose and hit the wall again.
“Lemmeouttttttt.” You shout so loud it makes your ears ache. “Lemme–”
You stop as your stomach clenches. Ugh. Not again. You hurry into the bathroom and panic. You don’t know what end it’s coming out of.
You end up sitting, curled over your knees, shaking and sniveling. When you’re done, you barely have the strength to get yourself off the bowl. You flush and wash your hands, shivering endlessly.
You’re light-headed. You stumble into the wall and turn your back to it. You slide down and hug your legs. You hang your head forward and close your eyes. You stay like that for a while, dazed and dull.
The scent of something sweet tickles your nose. You lift your head. You didn’t hear him. You’re embarrassed as Raymond lights three wicks of the candle and slides it back on the counter.
He turns to you. You stare dumbly. He picks you up and drags you to the tub. He sits you on the edge and grabs the top of your tee shirt.
“What’re you–”
“Told you to wash up, didn’t I?” He tears the cotton over your head. “You need to keep care of yourself.”
He exposes your chest and you quickly hug yourself. He tosses the shirt. You sway.
He takes your arms and you struggle to keep them closed. He shakes his head and forces them open and around his neck. He stands you up and pushes the elastic of your pajamas past your hips and ass. His palms graze your skin firmly.
It’s been days. He told you yesterday to take a bath. You ignored him, too anxious to do more than pace and ramble. What the fuck is this guy’s problem? Why is he doing this to you? Can’t he mind his damn business.
He leans you against the tub again. You lift your hand and he mirrors it with his own. He points at you.
“You do not want to do that.” He sneers.
You believe him. You drop your hand and look down. He bends over the porcelain and cranks on the faucet. He tests it with his thick fingers.
“Ray, why…”
“Does it matter why I’m helping you?” He stands up, his hands on his hips.
“I don’t want help. I want to be fucking high.”
“Ta!” He slaps your cheek lightly.
You recoil and cradle your cheek. You glower at him. His eyes bore into yours then drift down. You cower and cover your nudity.
“Get in.” He orders. “I don’t want to hurt you, otherwise I’d have left you as you were.”
“What do you care about me?” You scowl.
He’s quiet. He grabs your arm and forces you to turn. You lift your leg over the edge and he helps you down into the deep basin.
He stirs the water with his hand. You cross your arms and bend your legs. He stares into the clear ripples around his fingers. “You’ll feel better once you’re clean.”
💜
“You’ve been good.” Raymond declares as he enters. You sit on the bed, exhausted. You can’t shake the fatigue. “You can choose your reward; chocolate, caramel, or cherry?”
You stare at him. “I don’t care. I don’t want it. I want to go.”
He clucks. “You’re doing so well, don’t make me rescind the offer.”
You sigh. “Caramel.”
“Good girl.”
Later, he brings you a salted caramel sundae with your dinner. You don’t admit it out loud, but it’s delicious. You could cry. It’s much better than what he’s been serving you; unseasoned protein and fruit.
“If you’re good tomorrow, you can choose your supper too.” He says as he puts the empty dishes on the tray.
True to his word, he lets you choose supper the next night. You ask for Nandos. He acquiesces, though he seems less than impressed by the meal as he watches you eat. He clears away the remnants and tells you to brush your teeth and clean your face.
You don’t do either of those things until he returns to make sure. You don’t need him shoving the brush halfway down your throat again. He supervises you until you’re dressed in the satin nightie he brought you.
He kisses your cheek with a good night and leaves you to your cage. You don’t sleep. You shut off the lamp beside the bed and stare up at the shadowy ceiling as the static silence fills your ears.
You toss and turn. Rolling one way then the other. You just can’t settle down.
Your hand goes to your cheek. Why did he do that?
Click. You tense but don’t let on that you heard it. Maybe you didn’t. It can’t be.
It is. You hear him approach the bed behind you. Feel his weight dip at the edge. He whispers your name and touches your arm.
“You can’t sleep.” He says.
You don’t react. He spreads himself behind you, his warmth swathing over you.
“Can’t either.” He slings his arm around you. You twitch.
He lays like that, right against you, for a while. Quite, breathing in the scent of your hair, exhaling out his thoughts. He nuzzles behind your ear.
“You’re doing better. Do you feel better?” His lips graze the rim of your ear. You don’t answer. His hand stretches along your stomach and he pulls himself even closer. “I’m proud of you.”
You bite down. His touch slowly crawls higher, tickling you through the thin satin. You shift.
“You’re almost ready.” He purrs. He presses his palm over your tit. You growl and catch his hand.
“Ray…” you whisper.
“Shh,” he hushes you as rolls his hips. “I’ve not earned my reward yet.” He drags his hand off your chest and snakes his arm around you, squeezing you until you stop squirming. “Sleep, love. You’re almost there.”
Warnings: Flirting, food, mild bratty teasing, domestic tension
Words: 298 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles. Very excited, been dying to write Ray..
Prompt: June 29th - “But it’s just the price I pay.”
Ray cooked like he did most things.
Quietly. Precisely. But right now he was just browning butter.
It was annoying, really.
Attractive, obviously.
But annoying.
You sat at his kitchen counter with your chin in your hand, watching him move between stove and bench, sleeves rolled to his forearms, glasses catching the warm light every time he glanced down at the pan.
“It’s just thyme,” he spoke, as if you had asked.
“I didn’t say anything.” You snarked
“You were about to.” He counted
“and here I was about to compliment your humility..”
His mouth twitched. “Fresh thyme makes a difference.”
“Oh, does it?” You scoffed
“It does.”
“And the Maldon salt?” You eyed the jar
“Also makes a difference.”
“And the butter imported from some tiny farm with emotionally fulfilled cows?”
Ray paused with the spoon in his hand.
You smiled sweetly.
He looked at you over the top of his glasses. “Are you finished?”
“Unclear.”
“I’m trying to feed you.”
“You’re trying to seduce me with ingredients.”
“Is it working?” That shut you up for half a second, which was clearly his intention.
The sauce simmered between you, glossy and rich, filling the kitchen with garlic, wine, and something expensive enough that you refused to compliment it on principle.
Ray plated your dinner with calm, infuriating care.
Offering you a bite
Damn him.
Your eyes closed before you could stop them.
When you opened them, he was watching you with the smallest, smug curve of his mouth.
“Don’t,” you warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Ray set his palms on the counter and leaned in. “Good ingredients matter.”
“Git.”
“But it’s just the price I pay,” he stated mildly, “for having standards.”
You pointed your fork at him. “I hate that this is good.”
