The kitchen looked like a goddamn tornado had ripped through it. There was flour dusting every surface like cocaine waiting to be snorted. Eggshells were scattered across the granite counters, and something sticky had created a minefield of amber traps for anyone stupid enough to walk barefoot. The scent of vanilla and cloying sweetness filled the air, which was almost enough to mask the lingering musk of weed and the unwashed flavor that followed Keagan like a bad hookup.
And there he stood, in his whole, big boy height of six feet one inch, a tattooed catastrophe wearing nothing but a fucking apron and his own skin. The strings could barely contained his lean frame, colorful ink crawling up his exposed sides and back like living art. His ass was completely bare, and very pale compared to the vibrant sleeves that painted his arms in violently offensive hues. The rat tail of his braid swayed with each aggressive movement as he essentially attacked the bowl in his hands.
"Fucking piece of shit batter," he muttered as his biceps flexed while he stirred the mixture with enough force to beat a man to death. The wooden spoon scratched against the ceramic. His eyes narrowed in irritated concentration. This wasn't supposed to be cooking. This was supposed to be... well sex—hardcore porno style fucking, not this domestic bullshit.
Yet here he was, looking like some twisted version of a 1950s housewife fantasy, except this fantasy involved much more visible dick and significantly more profanity. The apron he adorned read "Kiss the Cook" in faded letters, it was a hasty thrift store find that he'd probably shoplifted because why the fuck would he actually pay for kitchen accessories? Or anything, for that matter.
He paused his violent battery of baking goods to examine the mixture. It was smooth, finally fucking smooth. The lumps had surrendered to his aggressive technique, and the batter now had the consistency of something that wouldn't taste like chalk.
That's when he noticed the struggle behind him; their pathetic attempt at whatever the hell that thing in their bowl was supposed to be, it was even worse than his assault on the senses. His eyes rolled so hard he might have managed to catch a glimpse of his own fried brain. The sigh that escaped his lips carried the long time suffering of absolutely everything wrong with his life along with his moment.
"Really? Jesus fuckin’ Christ," he drawled while setting his own bowl aside with more care than he'd shown anything else all day. His bare feet danced the sticky minefield of the kitchen floor as he moved toward the disaster unfolding at the other counter.
Without any warning, his chest pressed against you’s back, the apron's fabric was now the only barrier between skin and skin. His arms came around from behind, his hands covering theirs on the mixing spoon. For once, fucking once, this wasn't about getting his dick wet. This was about preventing what looked like a culinary war crime.
"You're doing it all wrong," he whispered directly into their ear, his breath warm and carrying the faint scent of the joint he'd smoked nearly an hour ago now. His voice dropped to a purr. "You stir like my grandmother, and she's been rotting in the ground fuckin’ ground for ten years."
His hands guided the motion, showing them the proper technique through his own muscle memory. "Gentle at first, you fucking dumbass. Let the ingredients actually mix before you beat the shit outta them." The crude instruction was delivered in a tone that somehow managed to be both instructional and insulting. "Holy shit, did no one teach you basic kitchen skills, or were you raised by starving wolves who only knew how to order Doordash?"
