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bagged potatoes

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“What the fuck are you doing?”

The scene before Katsuki is straight up ridiculous. There in her six-inch snakeskin stilettos is his girlfriend, all dolled-up like she’s at some seedy, downtown club rather than cooped inside a college campus at 7PM on a Wednesday. Camie hovers around her miniscule, dorm kitchenette, weilding a gallon-sized ziploc bag full of olive oil, a myriad of dried spices and a couple pounds of raw, cubed potatoes. Potato skins litter the floor, and a dirty knife and cutting board are visible atop the mound of dirty dishes already there. With an air of confidence she zips the bag shut and starts to shake it. As he exits the bathroom after his shower and stands stock-still before her, she regards Katsuki with confusion as if he’s in the wrong here.

“I’m making dinner, sexy. Should be done in thirty,” Camie chirps. “Date night dinner. My specialty.”

Katsuki’s stomach knots as he watches her aggressively shake the bag. It doesn’t stop. The contents splatter around the translucent insides. Not only does he lose his appetite, but he grows increasingly nervous by the minute. Everything about this picture seems ominous.

He isn’t sure what to say. But the only thing that manages to exit his mouth is:

“I ain’t eating your bag of shit.”

“It’s not shit,” Camie huffs immediately, the incandescent lighting glinting off her glossy pout. “It’s rosemary, roasted potatoes. And they’re going to taste yummy as hell with my chicken cutlets and my side salad. I make it during the holidays for the fam and they all adore it. So suck it up”

Why is he even arguing with her? It’s a lost cause. In her delusional brain, things make complete sense. In Camie’s world, you cook vegetables in plastic bags and you dress like a low-end skank while doing it. It feels very Girl Scouts or trailer park. Whatever it is, Katsuki hates it. Where’d he leave his phone? He should order in Thai while he still has the chance.

But he’s not that much of an ingrate. Instead, he fidgets around with the drawstrings of his sweatpants, scratching the top of of his right, bare foot with his left one. Katsuki refuses to dwell on the fact that if anything, he looks the part of the slob more than his girlfriend does. She’s looking sexy while love laboring over here while he’s doing jack shit and complaining about it.


He sighs, walking closer to her in something that’s not quite silent defeat but not so far off. She doesn’t let up on the vigorous, and now defensive, spud jostling. Camie straight-up ignores him.

“Just,” he frowns after thirty seconds of potato shaking. “Why the bag?”

Finally, she stops.

“Coats everything evenly. Less of a mess to clean up.” With a certain cattiness, she opens the plastic and dumps the fragrant contents into the roasting pan set up on the tiny countertop. Camie throws out the bag with even more attitude, cocking her hip like the drama queen he knows (and certainly loves.) “See, big boy?”

He doesn’t respond as she precariously bends over in that too-tight mini skirt to open the oven and slide the pan inside. Katsuki observes as she clicks over to her mini fridge, and again, kneeling down like she’s some kind of contortionist, pulls out a packet of raw chicken breasts. Camie proceeds to rip open the plastic and drain the meat in the filthy sink. Forgoing to wash her hand, she starts tittering around. She sets up the egg wash, the breadcrumbs, the flour, the salt and pepper. The oiled-up frying pan on the one working burner.

She’s trying so hard. She’s trying to do good.

It’s a little late to tame his douchey behavior, but he tries. Katsuki fucking makes an effort as he wraps his arms around her waist from behind. She’s taller than him in those slutty clown shoes, but he’s used to it by now and opts to rest his chin on her shoulder. He kisses her bare neck and gets a gentle waft of her musky perfume straight in his face. God, she smells so good. And if he’s being honest, her dinner doesn’t smell half bad, either.

“We could have gotten takeout like we have for every other anniversary.”

Katsuki nuzzles the nape of neck as she starts giggling. Never forgetting how ticklish she is, he abuses that weakness until she drops the uncooked chicken back onto the fresh plate she had them on.

“Oh, c’mon, big boy.” Camie teases him and bumps her ass back against his stomach. “It’s our one year. If I can’t wifey this shit up and cook my man a feast, what’re we even doing, huh?”

Katsuki snorts. “I could’ve cooked. Or we could’ve done it together. Y’know. Like a couple.”

“Pssh,” she waves him off with her slimy, poultry-contaminated hand. “You always cook. It’s Mama’s turn.”

His lips are pack on her neck to breathe in her perfume. “Don’t fuck it up too bad, aight?”


He squeezes her stomach and pulls her more flush against him. They stand in relative silence as she semi-successfully breads both chicken breasts and begins to fry them in the hot pan. With the potatoes roasting and the chicken sizzling, her tiny dorm room starts to smell something close to delicious.

Katsuki kisses her ear after a while and her tiny, reactive giggle is a little cute. “It was nice your roommate fucked off and left us alone for a bit.”

Camie hums, flipping the chicken over with her hot pink spatula to brown the other side. “When I told her I was gonna have my hands full of raw cock tonight, she didn’t have any problems giving us the room for a few hours.”

Katsuki freezes as he replays her words over a few times in his head. Just to make sure he heard her correctly. Camie just keeps humming. He only lets himself get mad after he’s sure.

“You’re such a nasty bitch, oh my god.”

And then, true to her word, she pokes his nose with her salmonella hand. “Only for you, big boy.”

Katsuki screams and storms back into the bathroom to take another shower.