#with like. Baby appropriate tasks like oh can you go grab This ingredient can you stir this for me etc. they will help out in the garden

[nomaishuttle]

ive been in my fantasy world where i have a child all day its whatever

[glacialswordsman-a]

Oh, so not only did Diluc plant Kaeya behind the bar, but now he was laughing.

LAUGHING, of all things! This isn’t his brother, this is a demon in disguise.

Scowling towards the other (out of embarrassment), he continued to keep his hands hovering at his sides. He looked like a baby deer learning how to walk, or someone beginning to learn how to ice skate. He was unsteady and nervous, terrified of taking that first step and risk face-planting against the counter and shattering a bunch of glass.

“Hey, remember all those times I offered to man the bar for you? Yeah, I expected you to never even entertain that thought because you knew how much of a bad idea it was, yet here you are wanting to suddenly teach me? Why? Are you dying? Is there some sort of terminal illness you need to tell me about? Am I on the will? Please tell me I’m on the will.”

He’s yapping, he knows he is. He’s trying to Not do whatever Diluc wanted him to do. He will never live down the lifelong humiliation of messing any of this up, especially if one day he may have to do this in front of regular patrons of the tavern. Oh, the mortification of breaking a glass in front of someone or spilling cocktails onto himself while trying to mix them—he thinks he’d rather be struck down by Celestia here and now than possibly deal with that in the future.

He whined—WHINED—when Diluc told him he was more than likely going to break something. Okay, when Charles or Diluc do it, they look dignified and immediately know how to recover. Kaeya doesn’t. This is uncharted territory for him and he hates knowing he’s not going to be perfect at it immediately.

With a slow, deep sigh that he expelled from his nose, he very carefully began to move, his hands shaking just a little. Okay. Sparkling berry juice…he can do that. He saw Charles make it many times before, as well as Diluc.

He paused, though. Where do they keep everything again? Archons, his mind was scrambled eggs.

Rummaging around, he eventually found the valberries for the drink as well as the sparkling water. Alright…step one of finding the ingredients, check. Now came the scary part of finding and grabbing a glass. Fortunately it didn’t take long for him to find one appropriate for this drink, nor did he break it! … This time.

“… Um.”

He was trying to remember the steps from watching the two other bartenders, but he was still a bit of a jumbled mess.

Putting the berries in the glass, he used a spoon to mash some of them while leaving others intact before pouring sparkling water over them. He mixed very, Very cautiously and slowly, squinting all the while as he concentrated on this one task. Once the water was sufficiently tinted red, he stared at the drink before him.

… Should—should he garnish it?

Ugh, fuck it, he can do that much.

Bringing out a lemon slice, he cut a small wedge into it before placing it on the rim of the glass. With a somewhat proud huff, he passed it over towards Diluc.

“Here, sir. One sparkling berry juice.”

@glacialswordsman | HEHE

"Hey. I'm being entirely serious."

Has he gone mad? Possibly.

Soft laughter bounces off of the walls of the empty tavern, and Diluc has to cover his mouth to compose himself. In this moment, he wishes he had a kamera on his person so that he could keep and frame the image of Kaeya stood dead-stiff behind the bar, refusing to jut an arm out either side for fear of ... breaking something, he supposes.

"Don't look so terrified. I thought this kind of thing would be right up your alley."

Any tavern worth its salt gets a steady supply of glassware sent in, and losses are so common that it's nothing to be all that ashamed about. Either they end up dropped, get a chip that makes them unsafe to drink from, shatter while cooling down from a hot wash, or they go walking across the city to someone's home. Sometimes they just spontaneously explode with as little as a look, just because.

But he doesn't expect Kaeya to know any of these things, nor how hard the job could actually be, at times.

"Not to terrify you, but you're probably going to break something."

Possibly several things.

"Comes with the job, but it's fine. I'll walk you through it."

Lounging back on the barstool, a gloved hand cradles his own chin as he contemplates something easy to start off with... For the both of them. It would be awkward if he drank too much immediately.

They'll move onto the harder stuff once Kaeya starts feeling a little more human again.

"Okay, here's a simple one: one sparkling berry juice, please."

[wyofabdoms]

Ten Days - Day Nine

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: Javier is shot and refuses to take his antibiotic while recuperating. You get creative and make him a deal that ensures he will take his medicine everyday: one kiss for one pill. It's gonna be a long 10 days.

Rating: Smut!

Warnings: Major character injury, slow burn, mutually unrequited, angst, swearing, domestic Javi, fingering, washing dishes gets a little out of hand

Word Count: 3105

Note: While you nurse a hangover, Javi tries his hand at being domestic.

Read the full series on Ao3

Javi knocks on your door late afternoon the next day.  You’ve been nursing your hangover headache most of the morning, lounging on the couch, reading your book and switching back between the news and some cheesy action movie.  Around 5 you hear the thumping against your door and groan when you stand and stagger to answer.  He stands slouching against your door jamb, a grocery bag in one arm.  

“Hey,” he says by way of greeting and doesn’t wait for you to invite him in before brushing past you into your kitchen.  

“Hey, Peña, come on in…” you mumble, closing the door.  You follow him into your kitchen and flop down in a chair, watching him pull items from the bag.  “You know you’re not supposed to be going anywhere, Peña.  I coulda gone and gotten whatever you needed.”  You see his taut shoulders lift in a shrug.

“I’m going crazy cooped up over there.  Needed to get out and get some air.  Figured you might need something if you kept at that whiskey bottle after you left last night...” His gaze flicks over to yours for an instant, then settles on the three empty wine bottles lined up neatly next to each other on the counter.  He smirks and moves to open a cupboard, rummaging around for cooking utensils.  “Looks like I wasn’t too far off.”  He chuckles under his breath as he dumps oil into a frying pan and lights your stove.  You appreciate the fact that he was thinking of you, but for a moment you’re a tad affronted by the way he’s waltzed in and made himself at home in your kitchen.

“You couldn’t have messed up your own kitchen and just called me to come over and eat?” You grumble as you stand and get yourself a glass of water.  You hear him laugh quietly.

“No frying pan.”  He says simply by way of explanation.  You turn away from the sink at the same moment that as he absentmindedly pivots to grab something, putting both of you awkwardly close to one another, well within the other’s personal space.  You feel your face flush and you quickly side step away from the counter, hiding your flush behind your glass as you gulp your water.  

“Well,” you say, trying to act normal.  “If you’re making dinner, I’m gonna take a shower.”  

You practically flee your own kitchen.

***

Within the hour you’re lured back into joining your partner again by the delicious smell permeating your apartment.  Pulling your wet hair up off of your neck, you don sweatpants and another old t-shirt (bra included this time!)  

“Are you making arepas?!”  You call out incredulously as you approach the kitchen, hearing the popping of oil and recognizing the familiar scent of warm cornmeal and fried pork.  Your mouth had started watering as soon as you had stepped out of the shower.

“Sorta…” He grunts back. “Didn’t make the dough from scratch but I think it’ll do the trick.”  Your excitement at Javi’s choice for dinner is suddenly dashed as you take in the state of your kitchen; your countertop is a small battlefield of ingredients and kitchenware.  It appears as though he’s used every single utensil and bowl you own.  You shake your head, but appreciate his gesture nonetheless.  Flopping back down into the same chair, you take a moment to revel in the feeling of domesticity: you in your favorite comfy clothes, your handsome partner cooking up your favorite snack, existing together in comfortable silence while he works on the food and as you studying the way his back muscles flex beneath his shirt…

You shake those thoughts away as he brings a plate piled with a stack of stuffed, corn flour pockets.  You're delighted to see he’s altered the traditional Columbian snack and made it more appropriate for your hangover, filling the creation with scrambled eggs, cheese and beef along with the chicharrón you had smelled earlier.  He’s included chopped avocado and tomato on the side to add if desired and you’re impressed by the well rounded meal your notoriously take-out eating, chain-smoking-for-every-meal partner has pulled together.

You tell him as much as he joins you at the table and he shrugs, snorting in self-derision, ducking his head as he digs in, shoveling food into his mouth rather than having to address your compliment.  You follow suit and the two of you enjoy your meal over general commentary about the food, idle chit-chat, and cursory work talk.  After making a substantial dent in the pile of arepas, you lean back in your chair and yawn, satiated and you rub the small bump in your belly that can only be described as a food baby.  Rubbing your stomach reminds you of something.

“Hey! How’re your stitches doing?  Is it healing up ok?”  You haven't seen his injury since that night on his bathroom floor, but you haven’t noticed him struggling to move or showing any indication of being in pain, so you’d almost forgotten the fact that he had been shot just over a week ago.  

Your thoughts stray to that day, remembering the sick bile that had risen in your throat when you had seen your partner flung off his feet by the force of the bullet hitting him, smacking into the ground; the panic that had bubbled in your stomach when you’d dropped to your knees next to him and seen the blood coming from him.  Your brain had quickly determined that the bullet had gone straight through the meaty area of his side and had most likely missed any of the vital organs there, but you’d still clamped your hands down on the wound as though willing your hands to keep the blood inside his body.  He had writhed and hollered at you to get off of him, but you had refused, screaming at a police officer to call an ambulance.  Your panic had not subsided until several hours later when the doctor had told you he was in no danger and would make a quick and complete recovery.

Lost in the frightening memory of that day, you stare blankly at the surface of the table, paying no attention to the way Javi’s eyes flicker as he remembers something, too.  You’re distantly aware of his hand reaching into his shirt pocket and retrieving something, but it isn’t until you catch sight of him sharply tossing his head back and gulping a large swallow of water that you realize he’d been moving.  He doesn’t look at you as he recaps the pill bottle and slips it back in his pocket.  Instead, he grabs both of your plates, taking them to the sink and filling the basin with warm, soapy water.

“You don’t need to do that, Peña, you take care of the counters, I’ll do the dishes,” you protest, dragging yourself to your feet and moving next to him at the sink.

“It’s no big deal.”  His voice is low and sounds sleepy.  You poke him in the (uninjured) side with your elbow and push him away from the sink with a gentle bump on the side of his leg with your hip.

“That’s not how it works around here, Agent Peña.”  You begin soaking dishes in the sudsy water, hyper aware that he hasn’t moved away from you, his leg still brushing yours.  He turns so he’s facing you and leans his hip into the counter, studying your profile.  You suddenly feel the need to be very focused on the sink so as not to drop a plate.

“Oh yeah?”  His voice is even lower now, which seems impossible, and it stirs that thing inside of you that you’ve been desperately trying to control for the last nine days...no...much longer than that.  “How exactly does it work around here?”  He asks teasingly.  You smirk, roll your eyes to distract yourself from the flush you feel throughout your body and jerk your head towards the mess he’d made while cooking.  

“The person who cooks never does the dishes.  Just clean up your mess over there and bring me those dishes and we’ll call it good.”  You feel equal pangs of relief and agony as he moves away from you but you concentrate on washing the dishes.  You both make quick work of your respective tasks.  As you set to work on the last pan he brings you, he finishes drying the plates with a towel and you’re once again struck by the comfortable feeling of domestic life you feel, standing in your kitchen side by side with him.  

Your mind wanders again: when you’re finished, the two of you would retire to the couch and you’d snuggle up into his chest as you watched a movie, his feet propped up on your coffee table and his arm around and you would both sink into sleep.  Not long after he would wake you by peppering kisses along the crown of your head, your forehead, your closed eyes and he would whisper sweet nothings to you in Spanish as he picked you and carried you to your bedroom…

A loud plopping clatter sounds and a splash of soapy water spouts out of the washbasin as the pan you’re scrubbing slips from your grasp.  You hear Javi chuckle softly next to you and he reaches over and swipes away soap suds that landed on the tip of your nose and directly below your eye.  You shiver at his touch and he notices; he pauses midway through pulling his hand back, leaving it hovering for a moment in the space between the two of you.  Hesitantly he reaches down and takes your soapy hand in his, lacing his fingers between yours and bringing them both to rest on the edge of the sink.

The feel of his strong hand over yours sends another shiver through you and you can’t look at him, instead keeping your face focused on the soapy water.  But you don’t pull away.  His hand connected with yours on the counter keeps you in place.  You feel your insides start to flutter and burn.

You’re dimly aware of him leaning towards you.  You feel his warm breath on your outstretched neck a half second before he places an open mouthed kiss there, on the spot below your ear, where your pulse suddenly thrums a thousand times faster than it had been.  You can’t stop yourself from gasping as you involuntarily clench your thighs together against the jolt of pleasure that zaps there, sent directly from the spot where his mouth touches you.

It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.  Of course you’ve had other men kiss you on the neck but this...this is HIM.  It’s him: with his stupid mustache that tickles along the sensitive skin and the tip of his tongue that swirls and traces the pounding pulse.  It’s him: the ambivalent Agent Javier Peña who never seems to care about anyone, but who you know possesses a well of emotion just below the carefully guarded surface of his persona.  Him: the sexy playboy whose  prowess in the bedroom is the stuff of legends among men and women alike at work...and in the brothels across Bogota.  Him: that you have refused to give in to for almost two years of your life, even as you’ve both grown weary and broken and sought comfort from all the wrong places.  These last eight days have been merely puffs of air into a balloon, filling it, expanding it...and now this feels like the final push of air that might make it pop...

...You let it pop.

You drop your head back against his shoulder and release a breathy sigh that rises from the very depths of your repressed desire for him, letting your whole body sag back into him.  Without taking his lips from your neck, he shifts himself so that he more solidly stands behind you.  Your other hand takes on a mind of its own and lifts to stroke the back of his neck, scratching your fingernails softly through the hair at the nape of neck, causing him to emit a sound from someplace deep within him, pressing the noise into the sensitive skin of your neck.  He still hasn’t removed his lips from your skin, afraid to break the connection and snapping you both out of this moment that you’ve been crashing towards for a long time.

You exist this way for several seconds, minutes, hours...you’re not sure.  You aren’t even conscious of the fact that you’re grinding your ass back into him until he suddenly rips his mouth from your neck and latches his teeth onto your earlobe.  A feral growl bursts from his throat as he grabs your hand from the back of his neck and smacks it down beneath his on the counter top as well, caging you between his arms and thrusting his pelvis into your backside, shoving both of your hips forward into the kitchen counter.  The feel of him suddenly so roughly pressed against you sends your breath rushing from your chest in a sharp and lusty moan and you freeze for a moment, neither of you moving, save for the soft twitching you can feel along the front of his pants.  

Your mouth hangs open and you gasp for a few short breaths.  Then you focus on the hand beneath his and move to thread your fingers through his to match your other hands.  Gripping him tightly for leverage, you forcefully push your ass back against him: grinding up and down, left and right, forward and backward against the steel outline of his erection.  He lets out a strangled cry, rocking his hips along with yours, occasionally snapping his hips forwards to create different friction.

You’re on fire everywhere.  Your brain is screaming at you to stop while you still can, but you’ve had enough of that.  As you both continue to gasp and push and rub and thrust against one another, the throbbing between your legs becomes too much.  Before you can think about it too much, you take his hand and draw it between your legs, pressing his palm against you, moving your hand over his, wordlessly begging him to rub you where you so desperately need.  He releases another strangled noise, this one higher and more desperate, then he rests his forehead against the back of your neck.

“F-fu-fuck!”  he bites out against your skin.  You’ve never heard him struggle with a curse, or any word, so much.  You let out a breathy moan in response, moving your hand away as he takes over rubbing you, relocating your hand to where it was previously, carding your fingers through his hair. He trails his mouth to your other ear, taking the lobe gently between his teeth as he did with the other.  You whimper when his warm palm leaves the space between your legs.  His fingers trail up your abdomen and trace along the elastic of your sweatpants...and stop, there hovering along the hem as his body stills, his mouth pulling away from you slightly, looking at you carefully.  You’re both panting frantically and he whispers into your ear: “Can I?”

It takes you a moment to realize what he means, but when you do, you turn your head towards him and nod, leaning back into his body again, your hips squirming in anticipation.

“Say it.” He growls into your ear.  You gulp, close your eyes and whisper:

“Touch me.”

His hand is immediately under the elastic, his finger buried inside your wetness, immediately finding that spot inside of you that makes you cry out and thrust your hips forward, seeking more.  

He gives it to you.

His thumb brushes over your clit, eliciting more cries and gasps.  Soon he adds a second finger into your folds and between the two broad digits and his expert touch with his thumb, you feel yourself quickly rising towards your release, your cries becoming louder, more desperate, babbling nonsense as he brings you closer to the edge. He snaps his own hips forward against your ass in rhythm with his fingers as he pumps them in and out of you, adding quiet hisses of affirmation against your neck, your ears, into your hair.  He growls your name as he asks you to cum for him and that’s enough to make you explode, feeling your walls contract around his fingers, your juices surging out of you and covering his hand. In the next instant you feel his thrusts against your backside become shallow and his moans turn into a series of staccato mewls and he presses himself against you and into the countertop, gasping into your hair.

He continues to stroke you with several more long strokes of his fingers as you both come down, the realization of what’s just happened settling over you both.  He slips his hand from beneath our sweatpants and rests it gently on your hip, squeezing your other hand gently; your hand had remained threaded with his the entire time, grounding you both together.  You can only stare at your clasped hands, feeling your face flush from the reality of what’s just occurred.  He moves to press a kiss against your neck again, the same act that had kicked all of this off to begin with and you shy away from him, lifting your shoulder to block his face, pulling away from him and unwedging yourself from between him and the counter.  You hear him quietly say your name and he tries to hang on to your hand, tries to pull you gently back towards him, but you snatch your hand away, crossing your arms across your chest and shaking your head, refusing to turn around and look at him.

“I think you should go.”  You say quietly after a few moments of silence.  You hear him take in a sharp breath, can feel him starting to say something.  

But he doesn’t say anything.

You move when he does, keeping the same equal distance between the two of you, heading towards your bedroom on the off chance that he might try to step closer and touch you on his way past you as he leaves.  You know if he touches you again you won’t be able to resist him...not now that you know what his touch feels like.  You hear him grab his jacket off the back of his chair as you move down your hallway and you lean against your bedroom door, listening for the sound of your front door closing.   

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Four

Day Five

Day Six

Day Seven

Day Eight

Day Ten

[captaindeadpoet]

BonRin Week Day 2: Secrets

Thanks

It had been difficult to sneak out of the dorm. It had been nearly impossible to get past the teachers and leave the campus. Yet Bon had managed to find the bus stop and lean against a street lamp, waiting to be picked up. His heart was racing and his chest was tight with guilt as he watched the scene around him. He had never left campus without permission before.  It wasn’t as if he snuck out to do anything wrong, though; he just needed to buy some supplies. Then he would return immediately and no one would be the wiser.

Bon’s internal turmoil was interrupted by the bus pulling up, brakes squealing. The doors opened and he climbed aboard. Finding a comfortable seat near the back, Bon settled in for the ride. His thoughts began to gather once more.

This is stupid. I should have ordered it online. Leaving campus could get me a detention, Bon thought. What if someone saw me? They might tell Okumura-sensei. He would put me on probation. Or what if they told Rin? God, if Rin found out, he’d be pissed. Well, maybe not pissed, but definitely worried.

Bon shook his head. No one was going to find out. He’d make sure of that. No one would know he left and if they did, they wouldn’t know why. He was safe.

The bus came to a stop and Bon made his way to the front, walking down the steps. He began heading down the street, hands in his pockets and his head low. His destination was only a few minutes away. It was already in view, with its rich purple awnings and its racks of bright colors and patterns. His heart flutter with anticipation instead of nervousness and guilt.

Finally, Bon stood in front of the store, staring at all the new items in the window display. His lips curled up slightly as he walked in.

“Welcome to Fabric Palace! Can I - oh, Ryuuchan, it’s you. I haven’t seen you in here lately! You always order online.” A feminine voice said.

Bon scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. Been busy with school. How you been, Katsuka?”

The woman, Katsuka, beamed. “I’ve been great! The shop is doing well. We even have a few classes now. Any chance you’ll come teach beginner’s sewing?”

“Nah. I got too much going on. I’m not even that good.”

“My daughter’s wedding gown begs to differ! You made it look so beautiful, Ryuuji. The beadwork was as stunning as the stitching, too!”

Bon looked to the ground, cheeks pink. “It wasn’t much. Just wanted to help. You made all those robes for the temple.”

“Enough about me, Ryuuchan! What are you doing lately? Do you like high school? Are you working on any new pieces?”

“School’s good. I’ve got straight A’s. I ain’t working on anything, but I want to make an apron.”

“You’re a good boy, Ryuuji. Let me show you some patterns. Who are you making it for?”

“Just some idiot. He likes to cook and he drops stuff in my dorm. Figured I should at least repay him.”

Katsuka smirked. She knew this ‘idiot’ was probably more than that, but she would keep it to herself. Bon would admit it when he was ready. She pulled a few patterns out of a filing cabinet and spread them on the counter for Bon to see. He cringed slightly.

“Katsuka, you got anything a little less…girly?” Bon asked.

Katsuka gave him a look. “What do you mean?”

“I like the patterns, but they’re kinda all ruffles and ribbon. I just want something a little more masculine. Rin’s kind of weird about that stuff sometimes. Plus the moron is prone to catching things on fire. I’m not putting that much effort into something that’ll end up destroyed.”

“Ah, so his name is Rin. I guess I could give you the pattern for a plain one. It won’t be as fun, though.”

Bon looked over the patterns once more. Maybe something a bit feminine wouldn’t be so awful. After all, Rin would probably look good in something frilly, maybe a baby blue apron with some pretty ribbon piping. Bon picked up a pattern for a simple apron with a ruffled edge. It would look nice.

“Good choice. I’m sure Rin will like it.” Katsuka said.

“Maybe. He gets defensive about people thinking he’s feminine.” Bon said.

“Sounds like a boy I know. About sixteen, looks like a delinquent, hates people knowing that he can sew because he thinks people will make fun of him for being girly. Let me tell you something: boy and girl activities don’t exist. Sure, you’ve got masculine and feminine, but that’s preferences. Anyone can do anything.”

Bon frowned and chose to ignore her. “Okay. I need baby blue fabric for this piece and maybe a white patterned piece for the pockets. Have anything that looks like toile? And lace piping.”

“And the genius is back. Follow me.”

Bon followed Katsuka through the aisles, picking out his materials. He couldn’t wait to see Rin’s face when he saw it.

****

“Nii-san, I will be back late tonight. Please stay in the dorm.” Yukio said.

Rin nodded as he watched Yukio shut his briefcase. His brother had nothing to worry about; Rin planned on staying in all night. He had his own plans, plans so shameful that he couldn’t even tell Yukio. Rin felt hot just thinking about them.

“No problem, Four-Eyes! I’ll make bentos for tomorrow!” Rin babbled happily.

Yukio offered a soft smile. “That sounds nice. Have fun.”

“Be careful, okay, Yukio?”

“Of course, Rin. I promise.”

With that, Yukio left for his mission, closing the door behind him. Rin rushed to the window. He watched, waiting for Yukio to leave the dorm entirely. Yukio turned back to wave at him and went on his way.

With his twin gone, Rin could finally do it.

Reaching under the bed, Rin pulled out a plain cardboard box and lifted the top. He began pulling out its contents, spreading them across the bed. Careful fingers ran over each item, enjoying the feel of soft fabric on his skin.

“Blue or yellow?” Rin asked himself, looking between his choices.

Before him were two simple dresses, one in blue and one in yellow. The blue one was Rin’s favorite; it had capped sleeves and the skirt fell to his knees, the mesh-like fabric swishing freely. The yellow one had its merits, too, though. It was sleeveless and the skirt was bowed out slightly, giving it a more formal look. It had a bit of glitter, which always made Rin feel pretty.

Rin’s hand hovered over both for a few moments before picking up the blue one. It would be the best one to cook in; Shiro had always called it his housewife dress.

The memory made Rin smile. The old man had found out about his hobby only a year after he had started it. He never teased Rin for liking feminine clothes. In fact, he had bought Rin a few dresses and skirts when he had the money to.

Pushing away the sadness swelling within his heart, Rin began to undress. He pulled on a pair of appropriate underwear - a pair Shiro had gotten him after he had caught Rin wearing boxers with a skirt - settling them on his hips before pulling the dress over his head. He smoothed out the skirt, twirling a bit.

Not bad. Wonder if I could find some cheap heels to go with it. It would probably make my ass look great, Rin thought, laughing to himself. He reached into the box and pulled out a pair of white flats, slipping them onto his feet. They would do for now.

Before he left for the kitchen, Rin stood in front of the mirror and grabbed the clip Bon had given him. He pinned his bangs back, wondering what Bon would think of his outfit. He’d probably get upset and say ‘what the hell are you wearing? Don’t you have any decency,’ Rin thought.

Rin headed to the kitchen, set on making rice balls for tomorrow’s bentos. He began taking out ingredients and placing them on the counter, ignoring Ukobach’s questioning eyes. Kuro hopped onto the counter and nuzzled Rin’s arm.

“You look pretty, Rin!” Kuro exclaimed.

Rin blushed. “Aw, thanks, Kuro.”

“Are you gonna make chicken rice balls? Can I have some?”

“You little jerk! You called me pretty for food!”

“Nuh-uh! I called you pretty because I meant it. Food was an afterthought.”

“Fine. I’ll save you some, okay?”

“Yay! Thanks, Rin!”

Rin smiled, stroking the demon’s fur before shooing him out of the kitchen. He began his work, humming happily and swaying his hips to make his dress swish around his legs.

****

It had taken some time to find a place to work on the apron in peace. The dorm had been out of the question; Konekomaru and Shima could barge in at any moment and catch Bon in the act. The library didn’t make the cut, either. Bon’s machine would be too loud and it also had the added risk of being full of people that could see him sewing. So, he searched high and low and finally found a fairly rundown classroom that he could use and have total privacy. He set up shop in the back corner and started his project.

“Tch, how tall is Okumura? He’s one of the shortest guys in the class. Screw it, I’ll just make it a large. If he doesn’t like it, he can kiss my ass.” Bon muttered to himself, cutting out the pattern carefully.

He began pinning the thin paper to the fabric, a frown of concentration on his face. Maybe he could make the bottom half of the apron flare out a little. It would only require adding onto the pattern slightly, so Bon pulled out a measuring tape and began drawing. He put a large curve on the bottom of the apron, giving it a dress-like appearance. Bon smirked. Wouldn’t Rin look cute, making his cookies and octopus hotdogs in his pretty apron?

When the hell did I start thinking Okumura would be cute ever? He looks like a monkey, Bon thought.

A small voice in the back of Bon’s mind seemed to laugh at him. Bon ignored it in favor of cutting the fabric. Once he had it cut and displayed, he fired up the machine and began the task of sewing it together.

****

“You made three bentos. Are going to eat extra tomorrow?” Kuro asked, nibbling at a rice ball.

“Huh? Nah. I made one for Bon.” Rin said absently, sprinkling some salt in the pot in front of him.

“For Bon? Why?”

Rin shrugged. “I wanted to. As a thank you for the hair clip.”

“But you made him cookies already. And sushi. And omelettes that time he came to see Yukio and he wasn’t here.”

“Look, Kuro, are you complaining about leftovers?”

Kuro shook his head. “No! But Shiro told me people cook for people they like. So do you like Bon?”

“That stupid rooster head? Hell no.”

“But you cook for him a lot. Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. Besides, Yukio would kill Bon if he ever thought I liked him.”

“Yukio wouldn’t be mad, I think, if you liked him.”

Rim smiled softly. “Probably not. But I don’t have to worry about it anyway. Since I don’t like anyone. Besides, I’m not into guys.”

“Liar! You have all those mangas with the boys kissing and holding hands!”

“Shut up and don’t go through my things, you rotten little cat!”

Kuro laughed as Rin pouted. Rin was so silly; why couldn’t he just admit that he had a crush? If he did, Bon would be able to see him in all of his dresses and skirts and then Bon could tell Rin how pretty he was. Actually, now that Kuro thought about it, he had never seen Rin wear these clothes near other people, not even Yukio. It was unfortunate. Rin always looked happy in his dresses.

****

Two days later, Bon’s masterpiece was complete. It had taken six hours, using a chair as a mannequin, and pricking his fingers so much that he bled, but it looked beautiful. He took a picture and sent it to Katsuka. She had sent back a winky face and the words ‘I bet Rin will love it. Might even get you a kiss.’ Bon grit his teeth and shoved his phone in his pocket. Sometimes Katsuka could be annoying as hell.

He put the apron in a plain cardboard box despite wanting to wrap it nicely. He didn’t want Rin thinking he actually put effort into it. That could give him away, and then the little hellspawn might think Bon actually liked him. That would be mortifying.

Alright, time to drop it off. That bastard better like it. I should make him wear it everywhere with how much time it took, Bon thought as he headed towards the Okumura dorm. The box tucked beneath his arm felt heavier than it should have been. Maybe it was due to the anxiousness Bon was feeling over someone finding out he had sewn the garment. Or, perhaps more likely, it was Katsuka’s words that had him worried. Did he like Rin? Is that why he had put so much effort into the apron?

****

Music blared from Rin’s phone, filling the kitchen with obnoxious bubble gum pop and techno beats. His black skirt swayed as he danced through the room, mixing ingredients and chopping vegetables. Ukobach was manning the oven, stirring simmering pots of sauce and porridge. Kuro was sitting on the counter watching them work, enjoying his job as taste tester.

“Yo, Ukobach, can you add some cinnamon to that pudding? Yukio likes it to be really strong.” Rin said.

Ukoback nodded and grabbed the spice, dumping in a healthy amount before mixing it in. Rin smiled in thanks and returned to chopping celery. Yasai no nikumaki was on the menu for tomorrow’s bentos and they were as time consuming as they were delicious. He was glad he had Ukobach’s help; he’d never get done otherwise.

“You’re making three again?” Kuro asked.

“Yeah, why?” Rin asked.

“Because you’ve been making three all week. Who’s this one for?”

Rin looked away from the cat, hiding his face. “Just someone.”

“Oh! For Bon!”

Rin groaned. “Yes, okay? It’s not because I like him or anything, though! He just helped me with some homework!”

“Whatever you say.”

Rin sighed, frustrated. Kuro was so fixated on him liking Bon. So what if he made the guy food? Rin liked cooking. Sometimes he had extra. It wasn’t some conspiracy. Rin pulled at his skirt a bit before bending down to grab another chopping board. The last thing he wanted was anyone seeing his panties, even if the only people around him were people that knew that he wore them.

Pulling out a package of beef from the refrigerator, Rin began slicing it into thin sheets to make the rolls. He threw a slice to Kuro, laughing as the cat scarfed it down.

“Yum! Your food is so good, Rin. I bet everyone loves it!” Kuro praised.

“I hope so. I used to make this for Dad all the time. He’d laugh because I made the carrots look like hearts. He said it was literally putting love into the food. I think he was crazy. Like I’d do that for him.” Rin said.

“You miss him a lot. I do, too.”

Rin smiled softly. “I guess we need to eat these in his honor, then, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Silence fell over the kitchen for a moment before Rin decided it was too much.

“Hey, being sad in the kitchen is not allowed! I’m going to crank up the Girl’s Generation!” He exclaimed.

****

Bon knocked on the door to the dorm no less than twenty times before giving up. He looked up to Rin’s window, hoping to see the other boy. Normally, Rin would be at his desk, twirling a pencil, chin resting in his hand. Whenever Bon saw him, he would flip him off, and Rin would respond with a stupid face. However, the curtains were closed. Bon huffed. He knew Rin was there, so what the hell was he doing that was so important that he couldn’t answer the door?

“Okumura! Come open the door, you moron!” Bon yelled, banging on the door.

No response came. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted, finding it open. Bon sighed, shaking his head. Rin really was an idiot, keeping his door unlocked when he was home alone. Bon stepped inside and toed off his shoes before making his way up the stairs.

He find Rin and Yukio’s room and knocked on the door. Again, there was no answer. Bon tried once more, receiving the same response.

“Damn it, Okumura! I’m not gonna wait around for you all night!” Bon snapped.

Bon stomped back down the stairs to continue his search. If Rin wasn’t in his room, the next possible place he could be was the kitchen. Bon walked down the hall, smirking when he heard music. He had found Rin. He quickened his pace, stepping into the kitchen only a minute later.

When he caught sight of Rin, he froze.

The black haired boy was dancing at the counter, his back to Bon. A knee-length black skirt was settled on his hips, swaying as Rin shook and shimmied. Black patent leather flats covered his feet, giving them an almost dainty look. A baseball shirt covered his top half, but it was about two sizes too big, causing it to fall off his shoulder. Bon gulped. What the hell had he walked into?

“Kuro, what’s wrong? I can’t understand you when you talk like that, it sounds like hissing.” Rin said.

Bon’s eyes flitted to the cat on the counter. He seemed to glare at Bon, as if he was personally offended by his presence. The cat let out a loud meow, finally causing Rin to turn around.

“Oh my God, Kuro, you can have some when -” Rin began.

His words trailed off as his blue eyes met Bon’s brown. Rin felt his cheeks heat up and he tried to pull down his skirt more, but the damage was done. Bon was staring at him, eyes fixated on his skirt, face unreadable.

“What the hell, Okumura?” Bon asked after a few minutes.

“Look, it’s not what you think - you know what? I don’t have to explain anything to you. Get out.” Rin said.

“Wait, I-”

“I said get out!”

“Shut up for a second! I don’t give a shit what you wear! Why didn’t you answer the goddamn door when I knocked?”

Rin’s eyes widened. “You - you aren’t mad? Not even a tiny bit?”

“I’m mad that you didn’t open the door.”

“But you aren’t mad about the skirt. You aren’t going to make fun of me.”

Bon snorted. “Like this is the weirdest thing you’ve done.”

Rin let out a sigh of relief. “Please don’t tell anyone. Not even Yukio knows, okay? You can’t tell.”

“Whatever. Here. This is for you. Thanks for the food.”

Bon tossed the box in his hands to Rin and shoved his hands in his pockets. Blue eyes looked at him curiously before opening the gift. Rin grinned as he pulled out the apron.

“Wow! This is so cool! Thanks, Bon!” Rin exclaimed.

Bon grimaced. “Don’t call me that. We aren’t friends.”

“Did you make it? I’ve never seen an apron like this.”

“What? Do I look like I know how to sew, Okumura? God, you’re a damn moron.”

Rin watched Bon’s eyes dart around, avoiding his eyes, and his smile widened. So Bon had made it. Rin didn’t see what he was embarrassed about; the apron looked awesome. Rin put the garment on, tying it around his waist.

“You’re pretty good. Who knew your big mitts could handle a needle?” Rin asked.

“I already told you I didn’t make it! And who knew your hairy damn monkey legs could look good in a skirt?” Bon shot back.

“You think I look good?”

Bon spluttered for a moment before crossing his arms. “No way in hell. Shut up.”

The two were silent for a moment, not looking at each other.

“Hey, uh, thanks. For the apron. And for promising not to tell.” Rin said quietly.

“Thanks for the food. You better keep your mouth shut about me being able to sew.” Bon said gruffly.

Rin simply nodded, taking what he could get. He smoothed out his apron and got back to work. Bon stood awkwardly in the doorway, contemplating what to do.

“Grab a knife, stupid. The cucumbers won’t cut themselves.” Rin said.

Bon grumbled as he followed Rin’s orders. He supposed he could do what the guy wanted just this once. It would be their secret.