#gordon ramsay x reader

[misterfic]

Hiii! I was wondering if you’d do a kitchen nightmares oneshot, maybe where the reader is a waitress at a failing restaurant and she’s super sweet so gordon immediately takes a liking to her but she’s treated terribly by her boss. Maybe her boss is yelling at her and gordon comes to her defense, sort of hurt/comfort. (I really hope this makes sense 😖)

A/N: Am I crazy to write about Gordon?

Title: Under Fire in the Kitchen

Summary: When celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay steps into a struggling restaurant, he discovers more than bad food—he finds a waitress with a heart of gold and a toxic boss in need of a wake-up call.

Pairing: Gordon Ramsay × Reader

Tags: Conflict.

The small, dimly lit restaurant had seen better days. The tables were scratched, the menus sticky, and the air carried the faint scent of desperation mixed with grease. You had been working here for a year now, trying your best to bring a little kindness to the weary customers who still trickled in. But it wasn’t easy—not with a boss like Dan, whose temper was as short as the restaurant’s dwindling finances.

When Gordon Ramsay swept through the doors for his first visit, his piercing blue eyes took in every detail with a sharpness that made everyone—including you—stand a little straighter. He barked orders, questioned decisions, and tore apart the menu with his usual fervor. But when he spoke to you, his tone softened, his voice dipping into a low warmth that caught you off guard.

“What’s your name, love?” he asked, tilting his blond head as he studied you.

You told him, your voice hesitant under his intense gaze.

“Well, you’re the first bloody smile I’ve seen in this place,” he said, his lips twitching into a grin. “At least someone here knows how to treat a customer.”

His words sent a warmth through you, a small smile tugging at your lips as you guided him to a table near the back of the restaurant, away from the louder, busier section. “I’ll take your order,” you said softly, trying not to let the slight tremor in your voice betray the nervous energy buzzing beneath your skin.

Gordon’s piercing blue eyes stayed fixed on you as he sat down, his expression softening but still sharp enough to make you feel like he was peeling back your layers. “So, love,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, almost conspiratorial tone, “what’s the story here? What’s keeping this place afloat—besides your smile?”

You laughed quietly, glancing briefly toward the cameras mounted in the corners of the room. You’d almost forgotten about them in the flurry of his arrival. “Dan’s both the owner and head chef,” you explained, keeping your tone professional but warm. “He’s… passionate about what he does. But it’s been hard. Business has been slow, and—” You hesitated, carefully choosing your words. “Let’s just say, morale could be better.”

Gordon nodded, his sharp jawline tightening slightly as he listened. “Head chef and owner, eh?” he muttered, glancing toward the kitchen doors. “That’s usually where the problems start.”

You shifted awkwardly, unwilling to badmouth Dan but unable to deny the truth in Gordon’s observation. “He tries,” you offered diplomatically. “But it’s been overwhelming. We’re all hoping you can help turn things around.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile as he picked up the sticky menu, his long fingers skimming over the laminated pages. “Let’s see what we’re working with, then. What’s the most popular dish here? Or… what do you think is the most popular?”

You leaned slightly closer, lowering your voice as you pointed to an item on the menu. “The chicken Alfredo gets ordered the most. It’s… not terrible, but it’s heavy, and the sauce tends to separate if it sits too long.”

Gordon let out a low chuckle, his blue eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Not terrible,” he repeated, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. “That’s a glowing endorsement if I’ve ever heard one.”

You blushed slightly, unable to help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “I guess I’m just being honest. But you’ll see for yourself.”

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest as he studied you for a moment. “You’re a rare one,” he said, his tone softening. “Most people in your position would be running for the hills, but you actually care about this place.”

“It’s not just the restaurant,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “It’s the people. The customers, the staff… even Dan. I want this to work—for all of them.”

Gordon’s expression shifted, his usual intensity giving way to something warmer, almost fond. “You’ve got a good heart, love,” he said quietly. “Let’s hope the food can match it.”

The sound of plates clattering in the kitchen broke the moment, and you straightened, suddenly hyper-aware of the cameras. “I’ll get that order in,” you said, stepping back toward the kitchen.

As you turned, you heard Gordon mutter under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch. “Beautiful and kind. Bloody hell, what a combination.”

You smiled to yourself, your heart racing slightly as you pushed through the swinging kitchen doors. He might have been the fiery, no-nonsense chef the world knew and feared, but there was a charm to him—a warmth beneath the surface—that left you feeling flustered in the best possible way. But for now, you reminded yourself, you had a job to do. And if anyone could save this place, it was Gordon Ramsay.

○○○○○○○○○○○

The dinner rush had started as a steady trickle but quickly turned into a chaotic flood, the kitchen barely able to keep up. The orders came in fast, and the tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. You moved quickly and efficiently, balancing plates and drinks with practiced ease, even as Dan’s voice bellowed orders from the kitchen.

Gordon Ramsay stood in the corner, arms crossed and blue eyes sharp, silently observing the madness. His presence alone was enough to keep everyone on edge, though his focus was clearly on assessing every crack in the restaurant’s foundation.

By the time the third dish of the night was returned—a soggy, undercooked lasagna—you could feel the frustration radiating from the kitchen like a heatwave. With a deep breath, you carried the plate back to Dan, carefully placing it on the counter.

“What the hell is this?” Dan snarled, his face red as he gestured wildly at the dish. “Are you trying to ruin me?”

“It was sent back,” you said gently, trying to maintain your professionalism. “The customer said it’s undercooked—”

“Of course, they said that!” Dan snapped, slamming his fist on the counter. “Because you probably sold it wrong! God, you’re useless sometimes!”

You flinched at the venom in his voice, your hands tightening around the tray you carried. “I didn’t sell anything wrong, Dan,” you replied quietly, but firmly. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Oh, doing your job, are you?” he sneered, stepping closer. “You call this doing your job? You’re standing out there smiling like an idiot while I’m back here trying to keep this place afloat!”

The kitchen fell silent. Every chef and line cook froze, their eyes darting between you and Dan. And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Gordon move.

“That’s enough,” Gordon said, his voice low and cutting as he stepped forward. His blue eyes blazed with fury, the authority in his tone making even Dan shrink back slightly. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

Dan opened his mouth to respond, but Gordon cut him off with a sharp gesture. “No, don’t speak. I’ve stood here all night, watching you run this place into the ground, and now you’re blaming her for your mistakes? Are you joking?”

Dan spluttered, his confidence faltering under Gordon’s intense glare. “I—I’m just trying to keep things running—”

“By screaming at the one person who’s been holding this place together?” Gordon’s voice rose, sharp and commanding. He turned to you, his expression softening slightly. “Go outside, love. Take a breath. I’ll handle this.”

You hesitated, glancing between Gordon and Dan, but the quiet encouragement in Gordon’s gaze gave you the strength to nod. As you pushed through the kitchen doors, the cameraman followed, the sound of Gordon’s booming voice trailing behind you.

Once outside, the cool night air hit your flushed cheeks, and you exhaled shakily, leaning against the brick wall. Moments later, the door swung open, and Gordon stepped out, his tall frame towering over you as he approached.

“Hey,” he said softly, his usual gruffness tempered by concern. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, though your trembling hands betrayed you. “I’m fine. It’s just… it’s hard sometimes. I care about this place, but Dan—he’s so angry all the time, and I just—” Your voice broke, and you quickly looked away, blinking back tears.

Gordon moved closer, his hand coming to rest gently on your shoulder. “You don’t deserve that,” he said firmly, his blue eyes locking onto yours. “You’re the only one in there who’s giving a damn about this place. Without you, it’d already be sunk.”

His words brought a lump to your throat, and you managed a weak smile. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

He chuckled softly, his hand sliding down to briefly squeeze your arm. “I mean it, love. You’re the heart of that restaurant, and it’s about bloody time someone acknowledged it.”

You felt a blush creep up your neck, and you quickly glanced away, aware of the cameraman lingering nearby. “I just… I want to believe this place can be better,” you murmured.

“It can be,” Gordon said, his voice dropping into a warm, reassuring tone. “But not with someone like Dan dragging it down. You’re better than this. Don’t let him make you feel like you’re not.”

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade away. There was something in the way he looked at you—something unspoken but undeniable. His hand lingered just a moment longer on your arm before he stepped back, breaking the spell.

“Come on,” he said, his tone lightening as he gestured toward the door. “Let’s get back in there. I’ve got a few words for your boss.”

You smiled faintly, your heart a little lighter as you followed him inside. Whatever happened next, you knew Gordon Ramsay was on your side—and for the first time in a long while, that gave you hope.

[sailorsenshishitposter]

Lady x Reader

I swear I thought I uploaded this but apparently not. Highly cursed so enjoy.

Lady

You and Lady were at devil may cry, waiting for Dante so he could give Lady what he owed her. In case he went down fighting you had a sealed jar of olives and a water gun filled with holy water. You had been standing there for 20 minutes and said "I'll go see what's taking him so long." and you then climbed up the stair case. You knocked down the door with your boot and held the water gun in the air only to drop it and stare in confusion and horror. To your disgust, Dante was making out with his body pillow of Guy Fieri and was moaning something about going to flavor town. Your eyes made contact and then you ran back downstairs to where Lady was. Before she could ask what happened you shouted "INTERVENTION. NOW!".

You weren't sure on how to go about this so Lady called Vergil and informed him of the situation. Suddenly there was a flash of light as something made a cut in the air and the older twin popped out. "I can't believe I'm doing this..." he grumbled. You all waited until Dante was sleeping and then ambushed his room. You held the water gun and yelled "DON'T MOVE OR I'LL SHOOT!". Dante was about to question what was going on when Vergil sat down next to him. "Brother... Your friends called me and I think it's time we had a talk. You know Guy Fieri is never going to get rid of the restraining order don't you? Why don't you just hand me the pillow."

Dante hugged his body pillow tighter and yelled "YOU TOLD HIM?! YOU TRAITORS!". Vergil put a hand on his brothers shoulder. "It's alright Dante, we're not here to laugh at you. I understand. I used to have a crush on Gordon Ramsay.". Dante laughed at his brother and said "man you have shit taste in husbandos huh? Well then, if you want it, then you'll have to take it!" Vergil unsheathed Yamato and said "That's fine by me." and then quickly stabbed his brother in the chest.Lady picked them up by the back of their coats  and said "Fighting is for outside, you know the rules! Now you're both being put in the time out room!" She dragged them to the bathroom and set each twin in a corner. "Now think about what you've done" she said as she locked the door. Vergil then started to claw at it pleading for her to let him out because Dantes toilet was clogged and he refuses to be in a room with "two pieces of putrid waste". Dante then sniffed at his armpit and yelled "HEY! I HAD A BATH LAST WEEK, I'M NOT THAT DIRTY!"

They both began to squabble and the two of you decided you would just rob Dante and take some money out of the cash register. You opened it up only to be greeted by spiderwebs. Lady then dragged you outside and got a can of gasoline. She lit a match and soon all of devil may cry was burning. You looked at Lady and said "Good thing Dante has house insurance."

[igotanidea]

Simple complexity: Jason Todd X reader

Aka: the one when you're getting a lecture and a personal chef

Ok, but have you ever thought about Jason going feral seeing you eat instant "powder" dishes?

Giving you a full lecture about macronutrients and micronutrients and vitamins and carbs and fats and protein and -

"Jason--!"

"What? This is important shit, y/n! You gotta eat healthy, I intend to keep that pretty body in shape." He smirked, playfully smacking her butt.

"i don't have any ambition to become a nutritionist!"

"clearly you have an ambition to become a corpse by killing yourself with the preservatives."

"I don't have time for cooking -"

"first things first, you don't have *skills* for cooking. Then you don't have time. Ouch! Stop hiting me! It's true !"

"I know it's true, but it's not enough of an argument to miss the opportunity of -"

"getting your hands on me?" He grinned mischievously

"Jason!"

"I have time." He shrugged, stating the most obvious thing. "You work days, I work night, I have time in abundance".

"ok, and -?"

"use that pretty brain of yours. I'm offering to be your chief."

"my Gordon Ramsay, yelling at me for putting too much salt into soup or making slack-baked cake?"

"well yes, that too. But mostly I just want to show you the good food."

"good food? What does that even mean?"

"oh you know, the basics. Shrimps, truffles, some smelly cheese imported from France -"

'simple food in Waynes household huh?"

"exactly".

Luckily, the next day it turned out he was obviously joking. Before she could go out to work he handed her tightly packaged up lunchbox, forcing a promise she won't open it before eating (no sneaking a peak).

And if anything, considering Jason's background and history and his character, there was never any risk that y/n would have an octopus springing at her from the box.

Because her boyfriend was clearly a miracle worker when it came to creating cuisine from simplest ingredients.

Unfortunately for him, this was about to turn into a regular kitchen work though.

(this is totally not written over the cup of steaming instant Mac and cheese)

[wvyik]

S’MORE THAN YOU CAN HANDLE.

dean winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: dean takes you on a ‘proper date’ which apparently involves fire, sugar, and him trying to one-up you in marshmallow roasting.

♯ warnings: fluff, banter, marshmallow chaos, sticky kisses, fire safety violations, dean being competitive over s’mores, reader nearly burning the forest down (affectionate), pre-established relationship, idiots in love.

♯ notes: this is just soft chaos and sweet nothings by the fire. dean’s a menace. you love him anyway. thank you for reading, I hope this made you smile!

You’re halfway convinced this is just an excuse for Dean to play with fire and eat chocolate, but you’re not mad about it.

The Impala’s parked near this little clearing he found off a back road, far enough from town that it’s quiet except for the crickets and the occasional owl that hoots like it’s judging you. He’s got a fire going like it’s second nature, and you’re sitting on a worn blanket, legs stretched out in front of you, hoodie zipped halfway up, and Dean’s flannel draped over your shoulders because “you always steal it anyway, might as well make it official.”

He’s crouched in front of the fire now, focused like he’s defusing a bomb, turning a marshmallow slowly over the flames. His tongue is poking out a little in concentration and it’s so unnecessarily cute, you’re kind of obsessed.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” you note, eyebrows raised.

Dean doesn’t even look at you. “Sweetheart, if we’re doin’ this, we’re doin’ it right. No charred marshmallow nonsense. I have standards.”

You lean back on your hands, grinning. “Okay, Gordon Ramsay. Impress me.”

“Oh, I will.”

A minute later, he’s stacking the marshmallow between graham crackers with a square of chocolate that’s already melting in the fire’s heat. He finishes and holds it out to you like it’s a priceless gift. “For you, m’lady.”

You snort, “I feel so honored.” as you take a dramatic bite, your eyes widen. “Oh my gosh. This is amazing.”

Dean puffs his chest like a smug golden retriever. “Told ya. Ten outta ten.”

“Okay, my turn,” you say, already grabbing your stick. “Let’s see if I can live up to your high-class marshmallow standards.”

You try to mimic what he did, but yours catches on fire almost immediately, burning like a tiny marshmallow torch.

“Whoa—oh my God—” You start flailing the stick around like you can put it out by waving. Dean’s already laughing, grabbing the stick from your hand and blowing on it dramatically until the flames die.

“You were supposed to toast it, not summon Satan,” he teases, dropping the blackened marshmallow into the grass.

“I panicked!” you cry, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “It escalated fast!”

Dean’s grinning at you, full dimples, all bright eyes and boyish charm. He brushes his fingers through your hair quickly, like he just can’t help touching you. “You’re dangerous with a sugar stick, babe.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “You still love me.”

He smirks. “That’s true. But I’m making your s’mores from now on. For safety reasons.”

You roll your eyes, but let him build another one for you anyway. This time, you feed it to him, smearing chocolate on his lip on purpose just so you can lean in and kiss it off, giggling against his mouth.

He licks his lips afterwards, and like he’s in heaven— flops back onto the blanket. “You’re killin’ me, woman.”

You crawl over and lay beside him, resting your head on his chest while he steals another marshmallow straight from the bag and pops it into his mouth. He offers you one too; no stick, no roasting, just plain and pillowy, and you take it with a happy little hum.

The stars are crazy bright, the fire’s still crackling, and Dean’s arm curls around you like he was made to fit there.

And sure, your fingers are sticky, your hoodie smells like smoke, and there’s chocolate on your jeans, but it’s still the best night ever.

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @littlesoulshine @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @pieandflannel @twelveyearsofit @tinas111 @unstable-cucumber @everythingisaspectrum @pennywatsonlafayette @lunaleah ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡

[celestie0]

gordon ramsay x reader where he slaps the raw chicken in demonstration of how he will be slapping your ass later tonight

[rose24207]

You don’t deserve her

Summary: Lando steps in to defend a waitress being cruelly humiliated and insulted by her boss, leading to her being fired, while Lando ensures she knows she deserves better.

Genre: angst, fluff

TW: reader is being bullied and public humiliated

A/N: let me know if you recognise the character Amy ;) English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

The restaurant was buzzing with Friday night energy, packed with diners enjoying warm meals and lively conversations. In the corner, a table of familiar faces was in the middle of a rare evening together: Lando, Charles, Alex, Carlos and Rebecca. They laughed between bites, enjoying the easy camaraderie and the chance to unwind.

“Carlos, you’ve outdone yourself,” Alex said, gesturing to her empty plate. “This place is fantastic.”

Rebecca nodded in agreement. “The food is great, and the vibe is perfect.”

“See?” Carlos said with a smug grin. “I know how to pick a good restaurant.”

Lando chuckled, but his focus wasn’t entirely on the table. His gaze kept drifting toward you—a waitress moving quickly between tables with a tray balanced on one hand. Your face was drawn in a tight smile, the kind that hid the exhaustion and tension in your shoulders.

“She looks stressed,” Alex said softly, following Lando’s gaze.

Before anyone could reply, a piercing shout cut through the restaurant.

“Are you out of your mind?”

The voice, shrill and furious, silenced the entire room. Every head turned toward the counter, where Amy, the restaurant’s owner, stood with her arms crossed and a look of pure venom directed at you.

You froze, holding a notepad in your hand, your face pale. “I just wanted to—”

“You just wanted to what?” Amy snapped, her voice rising even higher. “Waste more of my time? Make this restaurant look like a joke? Because that’s exactly what you’re doing!”

Lando stiffened in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he watched the scene unfold.

“What the hell is her problem?” Carlos muttered, his easygoing demeanor replaced with a frown.

“She’s unhinged,” Rebecca said under her breath.

Amy wasn’t done. She marched toward you, her heels clicking against the floor with purpose. “How hard is it to take an order? How hard is it to use your brain for once in your miserable life?”

“I—I just wanted to double-check the allergy order for Table 3,” you stammered, your voice barely audible.

Amy threw her hands in the air, her face contorted with rage. “Double-check? Oh, how thoughtful of you. Maybe if you weren’t so incompetent, you wouldn’t need to double-check anything! Do you realize how behind we are because of you? You’re a walking disaster!”

At their table, Alex’s jaw dropped. “She’s completely crazy.”

Charles nodded, his brow furrowed. “This is way out of line.”

Lando leaned forward, his fists clenched under the table. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Amy wasn’t slowing down. Her voice grew louder, her insults sharper with each word.

“You’re an embarrassment,” Amy spat, her face inches from yours. “I don’t even know why I keep you around. You can’t take orders without screwing them up, you can’t carry plates without tripping over your own feet, and you sure as hell can’t handle even the simplest tasks without turning it into a catastrophe!”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you kept your head down, refusing to let them fall.

“Do you have any idea how many complaints I get because of you?” Amy continued, her voice dripping with venom. “Customers hate you. They don’t want to deal with your pathetic attitude or your slow service. You’re lucky I don’t fire you on the spot!”

“That’s enough,” Lando muttered, pushing back his chair.

“Don’t,” Charles said quickly, grabbing Lando’s arm.

“She’s humiliating her in front of everyone,” Lando shot back, his voice tight with anger.

Meanwhile, Amy leaned closer to you, her voice dropping to a low, menacing hiss. “You’re not just bad at your job. You’re a failure. And if you think anyone else would hire you after this, you’re delusional.”

At that, Lando stood abruptly, striding toward the counter. “Hey!” he called out, his voice ringing across the room.

Amy turned, her eyes narrowing as she looked him up and down. “What do you want?”

“I want you to stop screaming at her,” Lando said, his tone calm but firm.

Amy crossed her arms. “And who the hell are you to tell me how to run my business?”

“I’m someone who knows how to treat people with respect,” Lando said, his gaze steady.

Amy scoffed. “Respect? Don’t make me laugh. This girl doesn’t deserve respect. She can’t even do her job properly!”

Lando stepped closer, his voice hardening. “She’s doing her best, and all you’re doing is tearing her down. You’re not helping anyone. You’re just a bully.”

Amy’s face flushed red with anger. “You think you know how hard it is to run a business? You think you have any idea what I go through to keep this place afloat? She’s lucky to even have a job here!”

“No,” Lando said sharply. “She’s not lucky. She’s surviving, in spite of you.”

Amy let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t know anything about her. She’s useless. She’s always been useless. And if you think she’s worth defending, you’re just as stupid as she is.”

The room was deathly silent, all eyes on Lando and Amy.

“Here’s what I know,” Lando said, his voice steady and measured. “She’s been running around all night, trying to keep up, while you stand here and yell at her. She’s probably the reason half your customers haven’t walked out already. And instead of thanking her, you’re humiliating her in front of everyone.”

Amy opened her mouth to reply, but Lando cut her off.

“You don’t deserve employees like her,” he said. “And if this is how you treat people, you don’t deserve a business, either.”

Amy glared at him, her chest heaving with fury. “Get out of my restaurant,” she snarled.

Lando turned to you, his expression softening. “Come on,” he said gently. “You don’t need to stay here.”

Your eyes widened. “I—I can’t just leave,” you stammered.

“Yes, you can,” Lando said, his voice firm but kind. “You don’t owe her anything.”

Amy let out another bitter laugh. “Go ahead, leave. But don’t think for a second that you’ll find another job after this. No one wants a whiny, incompetent little—”

“Enough,” Lando snapped, his voice ringing with authority.

You hesitated, glancing between Amy and Lando. Finally, you took a deep breath and nodded.

Lando placed a reassuring hand on your back, guiding you toward the door. As you walked away, the restaurant erupted into applause, a show of support from the other diners who had witnessed the ordeal.

Outside, you finally let the tears fall, your shoulders shaking as you leaned against the wall.

“Hey,” Lando said softly, stepping in front of you. “You’re okay now. She can’t hurt you anymore.”

You looked up at him, your voice trembling. “Why did you do that?”

“Because you deserve better,” Lando said simply.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Lando smiled back. “Anytime.”

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hxxi3, @same1995, @amatswimming

[bibblebobblebabble]

Jeff the Killer: GO TO SLEEP

Gordon Ramsay: Fuck off

Jeff the Killer: Yes chef

[dipperscavern]

speaking of assertive cregan and neck stuff, i think if he ever sees you being bratty, a glove is coming off and that paw he calls a hand is going straight to covering your whole neck. the wolf instinct comes over him and he's holding you like a direwolf holding a pup by the scruff. his thumb creeps into your hairline and rubs circles there while his grip gets tighter. the first time he did it was mid-convo in front of other people and it was so humiliating for you. not because it's embarrassing that he's scolding you like this but because this is what he does when you're on your knees crying from wanting to blow him AAHHH i need him 🫦

i had to put down my phone and genuinely run laps around the block after reading this. “the paw he calls a hand” 🫦🫦 i’m naming you gordon ramsay anon because this is DELICIOUS. THIS IS SO YUMMY. ARF ARFA RF (btw i stole a sentence from u i’m sorry it was too good become a writer)

sometimes the glove doesn’t even come off. you just make a snarky comment, or start giving attitude in the middle of something important & he just reaches over, leaning closer to put a gloved hand over the back of your neck. its not even to embarrass you, it’s truly your reset button. it’s just habit for cregan, when a direwolf pup is acting up to hold them by the scruff. and what do you know, you’re the same way.

he doesn’t even break eye contact with the men he’s speaking with, and the men he’s speaking with don’t say anything. they barely bat an eye. someone asks you a question, and you hesitate in your response, lost in his touch. his thumb creeps into your hairline, beginning to rub small circles as his grip tightens to elicit a response front you. you eventually pull yourself together, stammering a response that you hope is sufficient to get their attention focused on something else. they exchange small looks, before clearing their throats and continuing. cregans grip loosens slightly, going back to just comfortably resting.

his hand is big. the weight of it & warmth seeping through his glove makes you dizzy. you get distracted, remembering the last time he had a hand on your neck was when you were on your knees in front of him.

[misterfic]

Hey there! Hope you’re doing great. I have a fun one-shot idea for Hell’s Kitchen Season 6. In this story, Gordon’s wife is the third sous chef. She’s 26, and she and Gordon got together when she was 20, marrying at 22. Because of her kind and caring nature, she’s really close to Heather and Scott, who are just as protective of her as Gordon is.

In this scene, Joseph takes things too far by insulting and even threatening her, which sets off a big confrontation. Gordon’s ready to jump in to defend her, and Heather and Scott’s protectiveness escalates the situation. I’d love to see how this plays out with all the usual Hell’s Kitchen intensity! Thanks so much for considering this—I’d really appreciate it!

But if you don’t feel comfortable with it, please let me know!

A/N: As I’ve said before, I don’t watch Hell’s Kitchen🥲, so I hope this pleases you.

Title: Hell Hath No Fury Like Gordon Ramsay's

Summary: A contestant's attitude toward Gordon's wife pushes the fiery chef to his limit, proving that some battles are more personal than professional.

Pairing: Gordon Ramsay × Reader

Tags: Conflict

It was the sixth season of Hell’s Kitchen, and you were living right in the thick of the action. As Gordon Ramsay’s wife and third sous chef, you had your hands full, moving between the red and blue kitchens, helping wherever you were needed. Your soft, nurturing approach balanced the kitchen’s intensity, especially in contrast to Gordon’s fiery persona. Your role was often the one to soothe tempers and diffuse the storm Gordon would sometimes whip up. Despite his bark, you knew your husband well enough to see through it; when it was just the two of you, he was nothing but a gentleman, and his touch was tender, leaving you breathless in ways only Gordon Ramsay knew how.

The heat was on as the dinner service began, and the teams were floundering. Gordon, already wound up, was pacing back and forth, shouting instructions with his usual unfiltered intensity. “Come on! Move it! You call that cooking?” he roared, his blue eyes flashing as he berated a contestant. You saw the tension ripple through the kitchen, and you sensed it was time to step in.

Gordon shot you a look as you approached him, a glint of irritation in his eyes, but you caught his arm, your touch firm but gentle. “Gordon,” you murmured, your voice steady, “they’re trying. Let’s give them a second to catch their breath.” He sighed heavily, running a hand through his blond hair, but softened just slightly under your touch, your quiet presence calming his storm.

“Alright, love,” he muttered, pulling back as he gave you a begrudging nod. “But only because you’re bloody distracting me.” His tone was low, carrying a playful hint, and you felt a blush rise to your cheeks as he let his hand linger on your waist for a moment longer than necessary.

Moving over to Scott in the blue kitchen, you caught him shooting Gordon an amused glance as he leaned in. “Always the one keeping him in line, huh?” Scott teased, smirking as he looked at you with a mixture of respect and admiration. You chuckled, giving Scott a playful nudge. “Someone has to, right?” you replied with a wink.

Heather was equally protective in the red kitchen, always hovering close to you, watching the contestants carefully, especially when they’d make snide remarks about your role in the kitchen. “Don’t let them bother you,” she’d whisper, shooting you a reassuring smile. “You’re the only one who can handle him,” she said with a chuckle. And as she said it, she wasn’t wrong.

That night, the pressure seemed relentless. With tempers flaring and mistakes piling up, Gordon’s patience finally snapped. “Are you lot trying to kill me?” he barked, his face flushed as he slammed his hand on the counter, startling everyone in earshot. You saw him glance toward you briefly, a flicker of something softer passing over his face as he took in your calm expression. It was as if your very presence grounded him, tempering his frustration.

As the dinner service heated up, Gordon’s attention shifted to the red kitchen, leaving you in charge of rallying the blue team. It was a challenge, given the tension hanging in the air, but you had managed to build a quiet respect with the contestants over the season. Most, at least. Joseph, however, had always been prickly, and tonight he seemed particularly agitated.

As you moved past him, helping another contestant with his station, Joseph huffed loudly, his voice dripping with irritation. “Could you quit hovering? You’re getting in the way,” he snapped, his words biting. You kept your composure, brushing off his tone with a calm expression. After all, this wasn’t the first time you’d dealt with outbursts on Hell’s Kitchen.

You turned to face him, maintaining your professionalism. “I’m here to help you succeed, Joseph,” you replied steadily, “so let’s focus on getting these dishes out.”

But he wasn’t having it. “Helping? You’re messing things up. If we lose tonight, it’ll be on your head,” he sneered, crossing his arms and glaring down at you. The insult stung, but you took a breath, refusing to let him see your frustration. The other chefs shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension escalating.

Before you could respond, Scott stepped in, his expression cold as he positioned himself between you and Joseph. “Back off, Joseph,” Scott growled, his protective nature flaring up. “If you think this is her fault, then maybe you need to take a good look at yourself. She’s here to help, and she’s doing more for this team than you have all night.”

Joseph’s face reddened with anger. “Oh, I get it now,” he spat, his voice laced with contempt. “You’re all just here to back her up, aren’t you? Doesn’t matter if she screws us over; you’re ready to throw yourselves at her defense. Pathetic.” His words were sharp, meant to rile you up, but you felt your confidence waver as his insults grew nastier.

Heather, who had been watching from across the kitchen, noticed the confrontation building and immediately darted over to Gordon, who was busy berating the red team. Tugging his sleeve, she leaned close and muttered something in his ear. His face darkened instantly.

Gordon’s blue eyes flashed as he dropped what he was doing and marched straight toward the blue kitchen, his presence like a thunderstorm. “Joseph!” he barked, his voice echoing through the kitchen. “What the bloody hell is going on over here?”

Joseph opened his mouth to speak, but Gordon cut him off, his face a mask of fury. “You think it’s alright to talk to her like that? You’re gonna run your mouth at my wife?” His voice was like steel, every word laced with barely contained anger. “You’ve got some balls, haven’t you?”

Joseph tried to stammer a response, but Gordon stepped in closer, towering over him. “You’re gonna insult the one bloody person in this kitchen who’s keeping you from falling apart?” he growled, his tone dangerously low. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but she’s here because she’s good at what she does—better than you’ll ever be if you keep running that big mouth of yours.”

As Joseph shrank back under Gordon’s withering stare, Gordon’s expression softened only slightly as he turned to you. “Are you alright, love?” he murmured, his voice dropping, almost gentle. His hand found your shoulder, his touch grounding you, reminding you of the care he kept so carefully concealed when others were around.

You managed a nod, your heart racing from the intensity of the moment. “Yes, I’m fine,” you whispered, but your voice shook slightly, betraying your nerves. Gordon’s face hardened again as he turned back to Joseph.

“Listen here,” Gordon hissed, his voice a low growl that only Joseph could hear. “You don’t speak to her like that. Ever. You’re lucky she has the patience to put up with a hot-headed twit like you. If it were up to me, you’d be out of here already.”

As Gordon straightened, his gaze still icy, he looked back at the rest of the blue team. “Now, all of you,” he commanded, his voice booming, “get your arses in gear and start working together. You don’t like it? There’s the bloody door.”

As Gordon stormed back to the red kitchen, the tension in the air was thick, but you felt a wave of relief wash over you. Scott and Heather both gave you reassuring nods, their silent support meaning more than words in that moment.

As the night wore on and the kitchen’s frantic energy settled, Gordon pulled you aside for a moment of privacy. “You don’t let anyone talk down to you, yeah?” he murmured, his blue eyes warm as they met yours. “You’re far too damn good for that.”

You managed a smile, your pulse quickening at his protective words. “Thank you, Gordon,” you whispered, your voice soft. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close, his touch sending a familiar thrill through you.

“Any time, love,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that familiar, intimate tone that only you knew. “And next time anyone tries it, you just send them to me. I’ll remind them who they’re dealing with.” He brushed a kiss against your forehead, his affection clear even amid the chaos around you.

As the dinner service finally drew to a close, you knew that no matter how intense things became, you’d always have Gordon by your side, ready to defend you with that fierce loyalty and passion that left you breathless every single time.

[roguelov]

I get the feeling that hob looooves to cook, especially for the people that he loves. so there would be so many dinner and cooking dates at his or y/ns place or in the dreaming

also if y/n struggles with eating? he would be sooo caring and would always make sure they eat enough throughout the day, making little lunches for them to take with them to work🥰

I wholeheartedly agree with you! Hob loves to cook and he can cook really well!

Hob with all his years being alive has picked up on quite a few skills and passions and cooking is one of them. He definitely goes through phases of trying new techniques and flavor combinations which you will taste test and they always manage to be so good

Sometimes you’ll come into the kitchen and maybe just watch him cook because he looks so at ease and maybe sometimes you’ll just hug him from behind never letting him go. If you do hug him from behind he doesn’t care, he loves it, and will turn his head to kiss your cheek or top of your head then ask how you’re day has been and that dinner will be done shortly (you may even do an odd shuffle dance if you don’t want to let go but Hob just laughs and lets it happen)

If you are a picky eater or certain textures don’t sit right with you he will accommodate you and still manage to make the best meals imaginable. If you want to try something new he’ll make it but he’ll never force it on you. Dietary restrictions? Not a problem for him he takes it all in strides and he loves doing this for you, to take a little weight off your shoulders that you now don’t have to worry about

If you are struggling in anyway, he’s making small snacks to get something in your belly and praising you for eating and will comfort you and love you tirelessly

Cooking for Hob is showing his love, and he loves you so dearly

[lustagel]

for my gordon ramsay lovers, mwah. know some of my moots love him and i have to support my friends <3

[whatitshouldvebeen]

When people write stuff based off my headcanon about the character and tag me in it, I watch their posts with just as much love and attention as I do my own posts ❤️

Because if there's one thing I hope for when I write for a fandom is that people will make MORE CONTENT for me to obsess over.

[verstappenverse]

Can you do one where max is teaching reader how to sim race and is really bad but when max is gone to races reader is secretly using his sim setup to get better and one day reader surprises max showing they got better? I feel like this made no sense 😭 I really love your writing thought you could make this idea come to mind 🫶🏻❤️

Ghost Laps

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: What starts as Max teasing you over your terrible sim racing attempts turns into a secret mission to impress him. (Requested)

1.8k words / Alternate Scene / Masterlist

You’re awful at this. Comically bad. You spin out in the first corner, crash into a wall in the second, and somehow end up driving in the wrong direction before Max can even stop laughing.

“I just don’t get it,” you groan, half-laughing, half-threatening to throw the wheel across the room. “How am I already off track? I haven’t even hit the first corner yet!”

From the couch behind you, Max chuckles. He’s draped lazily across the cushions, an arm slung over the backrest and one leg bouncing with idle amusement. “You missed your braking point again,” he says, far too calmly for someone witnessing you virtually crash for the third time in five minutes.

“Maybe if you gave better instructions—”

“You’re the one who missed the turn,” he deadpans.

You spin around in the seat to glare at him, cheeks warm. “Because you said left while pointing right!.”

Max bites back a grin, eyes crinkling. “Come on, you can figure it out. You’ve watched me race a million times.”

“You don’t watch Gordon Ramsay and magically become a chef,” you shoot back, gesturing wildly to the sim setup. “This thing is terrifying. Why is it so sensitive?.”

Max gets up and saunters over with that usual quiet confidence that borders on cocky. He rests his hand on your shoulder and leans down, his voice lower now. “I think you’d rather argue with me than try again.”

You tilt your head up, lips quirking. “Oh because you’re so patient and humble when I spin off into a wall.”

Max laughs, soft and warm. “Alright, fair. But you’re doing better than you think.”

“Really?”

He hesitates. Then lies. “Sure.”

You shove his hand off your shoulder, laughing. “You’re the worst.”

“Okay, maybe this is not my calling,” you mutter, yanking off the headset.

Max kisses your temple, still smirking. “Told you. But hey, it was cute watching you try.”

You should be annoyed, but you know he’s not actually trying to mock you and it’s impossible to stay mad when he looks at you like that, so instead you lean into his side and grin.

“I’ll find a different hobby,” you say.

But later, when he leaves for the next Grand Prix weekend something tugs at you. You find yourself staring at the sim rig after he goes. You are bad at it. Really bad. But maybe not hopeless. And Max, for all his teasing, had been annoyingly kind about it.

The screens glow in standby mode, waiting. Your fingers hover over the power switch.

Just one lap.

That’s how it starts.

You drive.

You crash.

You swear.

You adjust the pedals, crack your knuckles, and whisper to yourself: don’t spin it this time.

And you try again.

Max's sim rig is intimidating, and you know it’s expensive, plus it’s precise and utterly punishing. You don't dare touch his settings, so you make do. One YouTube tutorial turns into five that tuns into ten. Then you’re watching old onboards, listening to the pitch of engine sounds like you actually know what you’re doing. You’re scouring the web late into the night researching for any tips or tricks you can find.

You stop crashing by Day 4. By the end of the week, you can finish a lap. A clean one. You start setting decent lap times by Day 9. By Day 12, you’re doing consistent laps

Two weeks in, you're chasing ghosts. Literally, you race against Max’s stored ghost laps on Spa, watching the glowing blue car pull away in Sector 2 and vowing to close the gap. Every night after work it's a routine, tie your hair up, grab a water bottle, and boot up iRacing like you're training for something. You even start logging your lap times in your notes app like a serious amateur.

It becomes your own secret ritual. A way of being close to him when he’s away that doesn’t hurt so much.

Max texts you in bursts during the two week. Voice notes between debriefs, a quick facetime from the paddock, a few rants about tyre degradation and setup frustrations. He always asks how you’re doing, what you’re up to, and every time you somehow manage not to mention the hours you’re now secretly spending in his sim.

Can’t believe it’s been two weeks since you traumatised the virtual car. time flies. would 100% pay to watch it again.

You’re grinning when you read that one, but you keep the secret anyway.

You don’t know why you’re keeping it a secret. Maybe it’s because it started as a bit of fun, or maybe it’s because you want to surprise him. But part of you also just wants to do something for yourself. Just to prove you can.

He comes home on a Monday.

His flight arrives at midnight, and you meet him at the door, hair a mess from waiting up and eyes barely open. He’s still in his team hoodie, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and when he sees you, he drops everything just to pull you into a hug.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against your hair.

He looks exhausted, eyes rimmed with fatigue, but he’s smiling like he’s never been happier to be home. You help him carry his stuff inside, and once he’s showered and curled up beside you in bed, he finally asks:

“So… do I get another performance on the sim this week?” Max grins, nudging your side. “Could use a good laugh.”

You shrug casually. “Might’ve had a little go while you were away.”

That gets his attention. He sits up slightly. “Wait, seriously?”

You toss him a look, still deliberately casual. “You were gone, I was bored. Figured I’d mess around a bit without the peanut gallery laughing this time.” You narrow your eyes at him, just for emphasis.

“I never laughed at you,” he insists, way too fast.

You raise a brow. “Max, you wheezed. I thought you were going to pass out.”

He winces, then grins. “Okay… maybe a little.”

Your heart stutters, but you smother it with a smirk. “Wanna see or not?”

His brows draw together, curious now. “Right now?”

You’re already sliding out of bed. “Come on champ.”

You lead him to the sim, flick on the lights, and sit down in the chair. The screens flicker to life, the whirring of the pedals and wheel now familiar.

Max watches from behind you, arms crossed, leaning against the chair but sweatpants and a sleepy smile.

“Alright Verstappen,” you say. “Watch and learn.”

You load into Austria. Red Bull Ring. Home turf.

The loading screen fades, and you place your hands on the wheel. Your shoulders relax. You take a breath.

And then you start.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches.

You hit turn one with precision, clipping the apex just right. Brake late into turn three, hold your nerve through the uphill. You’re smooth on throttle. Confident in your braking points. Sector by sector, you thread the lap with a rhythm that feels second nature, because it is now.

By the time you cross the line, Max is no longer smiling. He’s blinking at you like you’ve just grown a second head. He’s still now, standing upright. Eyes fixed on the screen. His smile has slipped into something else entirely, something bordering on disbelief.

You spin around in your seat, heart pounding, breath a little tight in your chest. “Surprised?”

“What the fuck?” he breathes.

You laugh, unable to hold it back. “That bad?”

“That good,” he mutters, eyes flicking from you to the sim, then back again. “That was… really good.”

You beam. “No crashing this time.”

“That was more than just not crashing. That was… I mean you nailed every corner.” He cuts himself off, watching the replay. “You practiced this much?”

You nod, a little shy now. “Every day while you were gone.”

His brows shoot up. “Every day?”

“Morning. Night. Whenever I had time.” You shrug, trying not to sound self-conscious. “Just wanted to see if I could do it.”

Max stares at you. Then at the sim. Then back at you.

“You practiced,” he says again, but this time it’s not disbelief. It’s something closer to delight.

“While you were away, yeah.” you repeat, gentler.

He glances at the sim again, then back to you, voice almost reverent. “You used my rig.”

“Every day.”

He narrows his eyes. “Did you change the settings?”

“I never touched your settings,” you say quickly, hands raised in mock surrender. “I'm not suicidal.”

Max laughs, breathless. “Holy shit.”

You grin, smug. “Wanna see how good I am?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches out and cups your face in his hands, his touch suddenly soft, steady.

“You’re insane,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours.

“Thank you,”

“I love it.” He pauses, then adds, quieter now, “And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel bad. I was just messing around, but if I made you feel silly—”

“You didn’t,” you say, but he presses on, voice rougher now.

“I love you and I love that you care about something I care about. That you even tried. That means more than you think.”

Your cheeks flush, but you lean into his touch, heart thudding.

“Maybe I wanted to impress you,” you admit.

He grins. “Well consider me impressed. And slightly terrified.”

You laugh. “Terrified?”

Max kisses your forehead. “Yeah. If you’re this good already, you’re gonna start beating my lap times soon.”

He pauses after that, smile softening, something quieter flickering behind his eyes. Pride. Admiration. Maybe even awe.

Then, without a word, he takes your hand and pulls you gently up. He slides into the rig like it’s second nature then reaches for you again, tugging you back down into his lap. His arms wrap securely around your waist, chin settling on your shoulder.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and lazy against your neck, “we should do a proper race. Side by side. Full setup. Winner picks dinner for a week.”

You raise a brow, fighting your smile. “You sure? I am pretty good now.”

“I’ll just punt you into turn one,” he says, without an ounce of shame.

You gasp, dramatic. “Cheater.”

“Champion,” he corrects with a wink, far too pleased with himself.

You laugh, loud and honest, your head tipping back against his shoulder. The sound vibrates between you, soft and full of affection. You don’t move right away content to just sit there, cocooned in the moment. The hum of the rig beneath you, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back, the smell of his shampoo and the way he still hasn’t stopped touching you.

Maybe it started as a joke. A way to prove something to yourself.

But now?

Now it’s just another thing you love doing together. Another reason to love him. Another way he loves you.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo

[misterfic]

A/N: Honestly, I have no idea why I wrote this. I saw a Gordon Ramsay edit on TikTok and just had to channel my inner chef! 🍳😅 This is just a work of fan fiction. It is not intended to offend anyone.

Title: Unrequited No More

Summary: A secretary's hidden love for her boss, Gordon Ramsay, is met with jealousy and desire, leading to an explosive revelation.

Pairing: Gordon Ramsay × Fem! Reader

Tags: Jealousy.

________________

You watched as Ramsay posed for the photographer, effortlessly exuding confidence and charm. The famous London magazine had chosen him for a feature, and it was no surprise. He looked every bit the part of a successful, sophisticated chef. As his personal secretary and driver, you stood on the sidelines, silently admiring him.

Why did he have to be so handsome? you thought, your eyes tracing the strong lines of his jaw, the way his blonde hair caught the light, and the ease with which he commanded the room. You had to keep reminding yourself that he was out of your league, and that left you a little discouraged, but that was the reality. You were nothing, just a secretary, while he could date any woman he wanted—rich, tall, beautiful, and blonde.

Your gaze lingered on him, watching the way he interacted with the crew, his voice carrying easily across the room. He joked with the photographer, his laughter infectious, and you couldn't help but smile. But that smile quickly faded as you remembered his date scheduled for that night with some model. You had written it down in his diary that morning, as he had asked you to.

"Make sure to remind me about dinner tonight," he had said, flashing you that charming smile that always made your heart flutter. "I've got a date with that model—what's her name again?"

"Claudia," you had replied, trying to keep your tone professional. "Dinner at 8 pm at The Savoy."

"Right, Claudia," he had repeated, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Thanks, love. Couldn't keep my schedule straight without you."

You had forced a smile, nodding as you made a note in his diary. "Of course, Mr. Ramsay. Anything else you need?"

"That's all for now," he had said, giving you a wink. "Don't know what I'd do without you."

Now, as you watched him, those words echoed in your mind. You couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy and sadness. He had everything—a successful career, wealth, and the ability to charm anyone he met. Meanwhile, you were just the one keeping his life organized, silently longing for something more.

He could have any woman he wanted, and it wasn't difficult for him to have whoever he desired. The way he carried himself, the way he looked—everything about him screamed confidence and success. You felt small in comparison, insignificant.

The photo shoot wrapped up, and Ramsay walked over to you, a grin on his face. "How did I do?" he asked, his voice full of playful arrogance.

"You were perfect, as always," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Thanks, love," he said, patting your shoulder. "Couldn't have done it without you."

You smiled weakly, your heart aching with unspoken feelings. "You're welcome, Mr. Ramsay."

"Don't forget to remind me about that dinner tonight," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Wouldn't want to stand Claudia up."

"I won't forget," you promised, feeling a heavy weight in your chest.

As you drove him back to his next appointment, you couldn't help but steal glances at him in the rearview mirror. Why did he have to be so perfect? And why did you have to fall for someone who was so clearly out of your reach? The reality was harsh, but it was all you had. For now, you would continue to be the best secretary you could be, even if it meant hiding your true feelings behind a professional facade.

Hours later, you said goodbye to Ramsay, making sure he was ready for his date before you left. "Don't forget, Mr. Ramsay, dinner at 8 pm with Claudia at The Savoy," you reminded him, forcing a smile as he adjusted his tie in the mirror.

"Thanks, love," he said, giving you that charming smile that always made your heart skip a beat. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You nodded and left, feeling the weight of the day's emotions pressing down on you. As you tiredly entered your apartment, you threw yourself on the couch, letting out a deep sigh. The apartment was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of Ramsay's world. You closed your eyes, trying to shake off the lingering thoughts of him.

Suddenly, your cell phone rang, and you picked it up instantly, hoping it was Ramsay. But it was just your group of friends, planning to go out that night to a nightclub. They were asking you to join them at the new club that had opened recently, a place that had been crowded the last few weeks.

You hesitated, biting your lip. It had been a while since you went out to have fun, being too worried about work and the bills to pay. But you deserved to have fun once in a while, didn't you? Maybe it would be good, maybe it would get your mind off Ramsay and the damn date he was having.

You typed out a quick response, accepting the invitation. "Alright, I'll join you guys tonight. What time are we meeting?"

"Fantastic! Meet us at 9 pm at the club," came the enthusiastic reply.

You glanced at the clock, realizing you had a couple of hours to get ready. Standing up, you felt a surge of excitement mixed with nervousness. It had been too long since you'd let loose and enjoyed yourself. Tonight could be a chance to forget about Ramsay, if only for a few hours.

Heading to your bedroom, you rummaged through your closet, looking for the perfect outfit. You settled on a sleek black dress that hugged your curves just right, pairing it with your favorite heels. As you applied your makeup, you felt a sense of anticipation building. Tonight, you were going to focus on having a good time and leaving your worries behind.

With a final touch of lipstick, you looked at yourself in the mirror, feeling a newfound confidence. You were more than just a secretary; you were a woman who deserved to enjoy life. And tonight, you were going to do just that.

Grabbing your purse, you headed out the door, ready to meet your friends and embrace the night. The music, the laughter, and the energy of the club awaited you, promising a brief escape from the reality of your unrequited feelings. As you walked down the street, you couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. Maybe tonight, you would find a way to move on from Ramsay and discover a new side of yourself.

Later that evening, you found yourself standing outside the club with your three friends. The neon lights illuminated the bustling street, and the thumping bass of the music from inside the club sent vibrations through the ground. As you approached, you were met with a long line of people waiting to get in.

"Wow, look at that line," one of your friends, Emily, exclaimed, her eyes wide with disbelief. "There's no way we're getting in with that huge line!"

Your other friend, Sarah, rolled her eyes and grinned confidently. "Relax, ladies. I know the bouncer. He owes me a favor. We'll get in, no problem."

The three of you exchanged doubtful looks but decided to trust Sarah. She led the way, weaving through the crowd with determination. The line seemed to stretch on forever, and you couldn't help but feel a little skeptical. But as you got closer to the entrance, Sarah's confident stride didn't waver.

When you finally reached the front, the bouncer's stern expression softened as soon as he saw Sarah. "Hey, Sarah," he greeted her with a nod.

"Hey, Mike," Sarah replied with a wink. "Think you can do me a solid and let us through?"

Mike glanced at the line behind you and then back at Sarah. "For you? Always," he said, lifting the velvet rope and motioning for the four of you to enter.

You and your friends cheered excitedly, your earlier doubts melting away. "Thanks, Mike!" you shouted as you walked past him, laughing and high-fiving each other.

Once inside, the club's vibrant atmosphere enveloped you. The flashing lights, the pounding music, and the sea of dancing bodies created an intoxicating energy. You felt a rush of excitement as you made your way to the dance floor with your friends.

"This is amazing!" Emily shouted over the music, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "We have to find some hot guys tonight!"

"I second that!" your third friend, Lily, chimed in, her smile wide. "Let's dance and have some fun!"

You laughed, feeling a sense of liberation wash over you. The weight of your feelings for Ramsay seemed to lighten with each passing moment. "Let's do it!" you agreed, raising your glass in a toast. "To a night of fun and forgetting our worries!"

As the four of you hit the dance floor, the music pulsed through your veins, and the worries of the day faded away. You moved to the beat, letting the rhythm take over, and for the first time in a long while, you felt truly free. The night was young, and the possibilities were endless. And maybe, just maybe, you'd find a way to move on from Ramsay and embrace a new chapter in your life.

You had fun with your friends, drinking, talking, and laughing, but you couldn't help feeling a little jealous at how easily they found guys to talk to while you were alone at the table, nursing your martini. Watching Emily and Sarah flirt and laugh with a couple of handsome men, you felt a pang of loneliness. Despite your best efforts, you couldn't shake the thoughts of Ramsay that kept creeping back into your mind.

"Why am I thinking about him?" you muttered to yourself, scolding your thoughts. You downed the entire glass of your martini, feeling the alcohol's warmth spread through you. "No more moping," you decided, standing up with newfound determination. "I'm here to have fun."

You made your way to the dance floor, the music thumping through your body. You let the rhythm take over, moving to the beat and losing yourself in the crowd. The flashing lights, the pulsing bass, it all felt liberating. You danced with abandon, not caring about anything in the world.

Suddenly, you felt a pair of hands on your hips. You turned around to see an unfamiliar but handsome man smiling at you. He had dark hair and a chiseled jawline, and his eyes held a mischievous glint. You didn't care who he was; you just wanted to keep dancing.

The dance became more sensual as you ground against him, his hands firmly on your hips. You felt a rush of excitement and adrenaline, letting go of your inhibitions. The man's grip tightened slightly, and you felt a thrill at the connection.

But just as quickly, his hands let go, and you were pulled into a solid chest. You protested, turning to see who had interrupted your dance, but your words caught in your throat when you looked up and saw Ramsay. "What the hell are you doing here?" you blurted out, your surprise mingling with the alcohol-induced haze.

Ramsay's face was a mask of fury, but his anger wasn't directed at you. He glared at the man you had been dancing with, his eyes blazing. "Stay away from her," he warned, his voice carrying over the music. The man raised his hands in surrender, stepping back.

"Sorry, mate," the man said, his tone apologetic. "Didn't know she was accompanied."

As the man walked away, you looked up at Ramsay, confused and still a bit drunk. "Why did you do that?" you demanded, your voice slurring slightly. "I was having fun!"

Ramsay didn't answer immediately, his grip on your arm firm but not painful. "Come on," he said, pulling you off the dance floor. "We're leaving."

"No!" you protested, trying to pull away. "I want to dance!"

Ramsay stopped and looked at you, his eyes intense. "You're drunk," he said, his voice softer but still firm. "And you're coming with me."

You pouted and walked away from him, heading back to the dance floor, determined to have a good time. You heard Ramsay's irritated sigh behind you, but you ignored it, losing yourself in the music once more. Moments later, you felt his hand grip your arm again, more forcefully this time. He bent down, his breath hot against your ear as he spoke.

"You are fucking coming with me," he growled, his voice laced with anger. "Even if I have to carry you out of this damn club."

You pulled away from him, glaring up at him defiantly. "Why the hell are you here, Ramsay?" you shouted over the music. "Weren't you supposed to be on a damn date with that model?"

Ramsay's jaw tightened, his eyes blazing with a mix of frustration and jealousy. "Yeah, the worst fucking date of my life," he admitted, his voice dripping with disdain. "That woman couldn't hold a decent conversation if her life depended on it. I was bored out of my mind."

You felt a pang of confusion and a flicker of hope. "Then why did you even invite her?" you demanded, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and curiosity.

Ramsay’s expression darkened, a mixture of anger and something else—something more vulnerable. "I invited her because I was trying to make you jealous, you idiot," he admitted, his voice low and filled with bitterness. "But you didn’t even fucking react. I left her at the table, bored out of my skull, just to come here and drown my sorrows. And what do I find? You, dancing with another man, looking like you’re having the time of your life."

The intensity of his words made your head spin. "You wanted to make me jealous?" you asked, incredulous.

He leaned closer, his voice a harsh whisper. "Yes, damn it. I wanted to see if you felt anything for me. But here you are, letting some random guy put his hands all over you." His eyes flashed with jealousy. "I won’t have it. Not when I…"

You frowned, confusion and hurt warring within you. "Not when you what, Ramsay? What do you care who I dance with?"

His grip tightened, and his eyes bored into yours. "Because I care about you, you idiot. I’ve cared for a long time. Seeing you with someone else makes me want to rip my hair out."

Your heart pounded in your chest as his words sank in. "You… care about me?" you repeated, struggling to process his confession.

"Yes," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "And seeing you like this, with another man’s hands on you, makes me lose my fucking mind."

You stared at him, the world spinning around you. The club’s loud music and flashing lights seemed to fade into the background as you focused on Ramsay’s intense gaze. "I didn’t know," you whispered, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "I thought you didn’t see me that way."

His grip softened, and he cupped your face in his hands. "How could I not see you that way? You’re everything to me," he said, his voice tender now. "I’ve just been too much of a coward to tell you."

Your heart swelled with emotion, and you leaned into his touch. "Gordon, I…"

Before you could finish, he pulled you into a fierce kiss, his lips capturing yours with a desperate need. The kiss was rough and possessive, filled with all the emotions he had been holding back. You responded in kind, pouring all your pent-up feelings into the kiss.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless. "Let’s get out of here," he said, his voice husky. "I don’t want to share you with anyone else tonight."

You nodded, feeling a sense of clarity and relief. "Okay," you whispered. "Let’s go."

As he led you out of the club, you felt a rush of anticipation. This was the beginning of something new, something real. And for the first time in a long while, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[vanillasweetpie]

spudsy’s shifts and dumbass rabbits (jax x reader)

i watched episode 4 and couldn’t resist writing this lil silly fic because i hate jax <3

you swear you’re gonna kill him.  

you don’t even care what happens after that, Caine can throw you in the void or force you into a therapy session with him, or whatever horrifying punishment his ai brain comes up with. it’d be worth it. it’d be so worth it if it meant shutting Jax up for five goddamn minutes. 

he’s been sitting at the counter, feet kicked up onto the register looking like he’s on fucking vacation, while you scramble around Spudsy’s kitchen. the fryer’s spitting oil, the soda machine’s doing that weird gurgling thing again

and Jax does nothing all shift except make snide comments about your “technique”, pretending to be Gordon Ramsay trapped in a rabbit’s body.  

“you’re gonna burn them,” he drawls, spinning one of the ketchup bottles like it’s a fidget toy, watching you flipping the fries.

you slam the fryer basket down harder than necessary and whirl around to glare at him. “maybe if you got off your lazy ass and helped, they’d come out looking better.”  

Jax snickers, tilting his head back to look at you upside-down. his ears flop over the back of the chair, and he grins widely. “nah, why would I do that when you’re doing such a great job on your own?”  

“Jax, I swear to #@?!—”  

“language, language!” he interrupts, wagging a finger at you. “what would Caine think if he heard you talking like that?”  

you grab the nearest ketchup bottle and launch it at him. and honestly, it’s more satisfying than it should be when it hits him square in the chest, splattering his black uniform with bright red.  

“oh, wow.” he looks down at the mess and then up at you, opening his eyes wide in fake surprise. “was that supposed to hurt my feelings? because it’s just pathetic, sweetie, really.”  

“pathetic?!” you’re halfway across the counter before you even realise what you’re doing, hands grabbing at his stupid clothes to yank him closer, practically face to face, however this damn bastard is taller than you, but you don’t back down.

Jax doesn’t fight it. in fact, he leans into it, daring you to say something else.

his stupid sharp smile only growing wider. “aww, isn’t it romantic. you’re starting to sound so obsessed with me, sweetheart.”

“obsessed with killing you, maybe.” your grip tightens on his shirt. Jax’s smile fades for a moment and his ears twitch what makes you think he might actually shut up.  

but no. of course not.  

“if i knew getting you riled up was this easy, I’d’ve started weeks ago,” his tone is so insufferably casual that you’re losing your temper.

you shove him back, harder than you meant to and he stumbles, nearly tripping over the chair he’s been lounging in all shift. you expect him to snap at you or at least throw some sarcastic quip your way, but instead—  

he laughs.

it throws you off just long enough for him to close the distance between you, his hands catching yours before you can storm off.  

“hey, you’ve got a little ketchup—” Jax swipes a gloved finger across your cheek, smudging red sauce where there definitely wasn’t any before “—right there.”  

you glare at him, opening your mouth to yell, but before you can say anything, he leans down and—  

oh.

it’s quick. as if he’s testing the waters, but the kiss leaves you frozen in place. his grin is back in full force when he pulls away, his eyes half-lidded. you stand there, dumbfounded, looking at his infuriatingly pleased face. the fryer beeps in the background and the soda machine gurgles again.

“there. now we’re even,” he says, stepping back and slipping out of your reach before you can punch him in the face.  

“you’re such a—”  

“Jax! y/n! get back to work!” Gangle's voice sounds.

you fucking hate him. probably.

[st4rofeden]

Cooking with disaster (and love) ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

they..cook. and bake.

au!characters: phainon, baker mydei, anaxa x reader

════════════════════════════════════════════

⋅⊰ ∙ ∘ ☽- - PHAINON - -☾ ∘ ∙ ⊱ ⋅

Your shared kitchen in a lazy weekend morning, warm light spilling across the floor. You let Phainon take over breakfast. you knew it was a gamble. He insisted he could cook. You had doubts. Now the smoke alarm is crying.

you're flapping a dish towel at it while he goes and stands in the corner just like you told him to.

"I followed the recipe exactly." he defends, clutching the spatula tight.

you lift the scorched pan. "You put cinnamon in scrambled eggs..?"

"I...thought it would be adventurous!"

you squint down at the pan's contents that was supposed to be eggs. blackened bits clings like regret.

"it smells like someone set autumn on fire."

you're dying to hold your laugh as he dramatically sulks in the corner, apron tied messily around his waist

"dont worry. I still love you." you went to his corner, pinching the fat of his cheeks softly.

"even if your eggs taste like trauma"

the invisible puppy ears perked up as he peeks up with puppy eyes"

"tragic. betrayed by spice, but adored by you. I'll survive."

You end up cooking together, he tries again under your guidance. this time: it's edible! he feeds you a bite like he just reinvented the culinary universe.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎--༻ MYDEIMOS ༺--༒︎⊰‿̩͙ Gordon Ramsay?

a warm, rustic bakery that you and Mydei own together in a quiet corner of town. it's nearly morning, the world's still asleep, and he's already kneading dough in the soft golden light of the kitchen. you come down in your pajamas, half asleep, drawn by the smell of dough.

The bell above the bakery’s back door chimes softly as you pad into the kitchen. He’s there— apron tied low around his hips, shirtless, hands dusted in flour, focused entirely on a batch of shaped brioche.

you lean against the doorway.

"did you even sleep?" your soft voice rings his ears

Mydei, eyes pinned on the dough. "an hour. I wanted the dough to rise evenly."

you shuffle over, nudging your cheek to his arm, he shifts, letting you to rest there.

"You always smell like the sheets in the mornings" he breaks the comfortable silence

"you always smell like sugar and firewood."

a kiss pressed to his jaw. He doesn't pause kneading— but you feel him smile. Later, you sit on the counter, watching as he pipes soft filling into pastries, careful and precise. he shoots a glance.

"you're staring"

"you're good with your hands." he pauses, arches a brow and you smiled.

"...at baking".

His smirk deepens.

He walks over with one perfect tart on a ceramic plate. holds it infront of you

"try it."

You do, it's warm, flaky, filled with dark chocolate and pomegranate. your heart flutters.

"Did you, make this for me?" you asked, which he shrugs, but his eyes soften.

"Everything sweet in this place is for you, sweetheart."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━⊱༒︎ ANAXAGORAS ༒︎⊰━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Sunlight pours into the small kitchen of your shared apartment near. You wake up to the scent of something burning — and a very flustered, flour-dusted philosopher at war with a baking tray.

you rushed into the kitchen, hair still a mess.

"is that smoke?"

"the reaction temperature adjusted by exactly four degrees. that should not result in combustion." me mutters sharply.

you open your eyes from sleep, there's flour in his hair. he's wearing an apron with "I Bake, Therefore I Am" on it. you didn't buy that. someone must've gifted the professor as a joke— probably Phainon.

you looked over his shoulder. a tray of cupcakes sits in the oven— or rather, that was supposed to be cupcakes. they've collapsed like dying stars.

"did they.. implode?"

"it was a hypothesis. they were meant to be dense."

"they look like they've entered a philosophical crisis."

He narrows his eyes at you. you smile. he returns it bitterly.

"Your commentary is noted. Kindly pass me the spatula."

He opens the oven, a small puff of black smoke escaped. hitting you face. he waves it away while crouching there staring, utterly betrayed by batter.

"Maybe I should help?"

"You once tried to sauté soup.."

"You're burning cake, Anaxagoras."

His spine straightened up, grumbles something about structural integrity and sugar ratios, dark clouds on top of his head.

you sneak behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, squishing your cheek on his back, he stiffens.

"lets try again. together. you do the science, I'll do the chaos."

he smiles faintly.