#winter cooking

"I could think of more than enough things we could be doing with my free time instead of baking cookies," Wolffe says bitterly, his hand coming to rest on the counter while you look up at him exasperated. 

"I told you already, we are going to do something besides fucking each other for the rest of the night, and I need to bake cookies, so quit whining and help me." You huff, turning back toward the rest of your ingredients. You can practically feel the tension rolling off him in waves of displeasure. Before you know it, his hands wrap around your waist, your back harshly colliding with the wall of muscle that is Wolffe. 

"Can't you keep it in your pants for an hour so I can make some goddamn cookies?" you insist while your frustration begins its dangerous climb. 

"Not when I'm around you, mesh'la," Wolffe huffs, his hands mapping their way across your waist before wandering to the valleys of your torso. His hands are warm and calloused as they glide effortlessly under your shirt and over the plush of your skin. They trace the outline of different dips as if his hands have memorized this path thousands of times. 

"Fuck," his words are a gravelly whisper, the undertone of want poking through. You're not about to lie and say the husky plea in his voice doesn't reduce you to a puddle of unsteady limbs, but that's far from the point. His hands dip lower, halting above your dripping sex, waiting. A needy whine falls from your lips before you can stop it as you grab the counter to regain some sense of stability. 

"You like that, don't you? Tell me what you need, pretty girl, my needy girl." 

"Fucking hell Wolffe, the cookies–"

"-can wait," he finishes with a growl, pressing himself against you. It's sinful how easily you crumble under your desire, how skillfully he can make you compliant and needy, and with your mind clouded over in the familiar haze of lust, you can't find it within yourself to care. 

You catch a glimpse of the flour as though it was mocking you for your joke of resolve to make cookies tonight. The cookies needed to be done by morning for Life Day, you promised your friend. Stupid cookies, you wordlessly grumble as You sigh and back away from his touch. 

Wolffe's hands fall to his side, his eye gleaming with unbridled lust meshed with his sexual frustration he couldn't seem to tame. 

"Cookies first," you declare, throwing your desire to the side while fixing your shirt, returning to the holopad. Wolffe would have admired your resolve and determination if he wasn't so restless. Of course, it was mainly because it was so fun to break, but now he's standing in the kitchen like an idiot with a hard-on pressed against the pants you had loaned him, he felt anything but admiration. 

The process of making cookies was reasonably straightforward, for the ingredients were simple with even easier steps, but with Wolffe's intense staring, every moment felt like a lifetime. 

But as time passed and you asked him to do something, he did so without complaining or rolling his eyes. He just remained uncharacteristically quiet and complacent. It was clear that he wanted something from you, but what? You didn't know the answer to that yet. 

With Wolffe's help, making the dough went faster than you anticipated. Then, with the cookies spread over a pan ready to be put in the oven, you began to clean up. That was until you were putting away the flour. You didn't know how it happened; you were just trying to close the bag when flour flew everywhere and hit a special someone: Wolffe. 

You both froze, neither moving as flour paints Wolffe's bare chest and face. It takes a moment for him to even register what has transpired as he stares wide-eyed at you before they turn black, darkened by something- annoyance, irritation- really anything besides gentle. His lips curl into a snarl wiping the white powder from his features with painstaking slowness. As if with each swipe of the powder, his irritability festers over your mistake. 

Your heart pounds against your ribcage, fast and furious, and the fear of what comes next is a cold, deadly brush, but you can't move. No matter how much you craved to put space between you and Wolffe, your feet betray you, defiantly rooted in their spot. 

"I'm sorry–" you didn't even begin to finish when Wolffe's hand reaches into the bag and hurls a handful of flour at you. The flour hits you roughly in the chest, spraying everywhere. You gape at Wolffe's smug face with a dumbfounded expression and parted lips in stunned surprise. His scowl travels with unnerving thoroughness over your form. All the while, his eyes still harbor the same darkness as before, except you can detect something wolfish carried in his stare that most definitely wasn't there earlier. It is enough to make a shiver run down the length of your spine, goosebumps prickling against your skin.

Finally, he takes a step forward, and your breath quickens. He notices it. He always catches the subtle changes in the air, in you, and how to use it to his advantage in his game of pride; to make you beg so sweetly for gratification is a thrill he could never slake. You can only imagine his every inflated ego growing over your subordination.

He stops in front of you. His presence is ever intimidating. Broad shoulders, dark eye brimming with carnal desire, and the intense silver of his cybernetic one are enough to make everyone question their next move when they are stared down by the burly commander, and you're no exception. 

"Filthy girl," Wolffe lewdly spits, his gaze turning predatory. "Making a mess of yourself." 

The cookies didn't even make it into the oven.

My grandmother’s recipe is really minimal in terms of instruction...

1 large onion 2 apples 1 large bag sauerkraut Garlic Brown sugar (to taste) Country style pork ribs

Saute first 5 ingredients, adding apples only at the end so they don’t disintegrate. Rub ribs with garlic, sprinkle with paprika and black pepper. Brown ribs. Place ribs on top of sauerkraut. Cover with foil. Bake at 350 for 1 hour.