Various x Ftm Reader

I Love You So Much, Now Please Get Out of My Kitchen ||Stephen Strange||

Cw: mentions of not binding/dysphoria near the end

When Stephen has the time, he genuinely likes to cook. Not that he doesn't appreciate you cooking for him or the two of you going out for dinner together—it just feels different when he prepares it himself. To be able to make something for you to enjoy—something tangible that he can see, and explain.

He does it on his good days, his better days, when his hands don't act up. It reminds him almost of doing surgery—making sure everything is perfect and prepared before producing a final outcome. Plus, it's something to do with his hands. Something good, something that you can enjoy and compliment. A way he's able to show off again. A way he's able to provide some sense of normalcy—some sense of worthiness.

And ever since the child came into your life, there had been less and less time for him to cook. He suddenly found himself tending to America more frequently—feeling obligated to help her control her powers, and to be the one keeping an eye on her progress. He simultaneously did his best to make her feel welcome in the Sanctum, while also trying to get her back to her moms. All of his on top of his own duties as a Sorcerer.

You tried to tell him he was overthinking how much the teenager needed him to take care of her. You were often the buffer between the two—the wall of reason when Stephen started feeling particularly stressed, and urged her to work harder. Especially when you could tell that all she needed was a break—you were the one to convince him to let her have the weekend off, or to take her out of the Sanctum for a few hours.

But, it led to days like this where the the smell of Stephen's cooking filled the kitchen, and the surrounding rooms—slightly warming up the kitchen. You could've just let him be—your partner being a househusband at heart, and being perfectly content cooking for you and America while listening to music playing through a speaker. But, you still had childish tendencies at heart that occasionally led to pranks, and as Stephen liked to say, you got along with America a little too well.

Which is how you ended up knocking on the frame of America's room with mischievous grin on your face. It was one of those days where she decided to leave her bedroom door open since she knew she'd be called out for dinner soon. And you knocked simply to announce your presence.

"Hey." You said, leaning against the frame.

"...hey?" She asked, turning to face you.

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Um...sure..." she replied skeptically, knowing that you were obviously up to something.

You beamed at her response. "Good. Come with me then."

You gestured for her to follow you. After a moment's hesitation she did so, careful to keep a few paces behind you until she could tell more or less what you were thinking. It was only once you were nearing the kitchen did she speed up—catching on that it must have something to do with Stephen.

You slowed your footsteps as you drew closer—Stephen had music playing in the kitchen as he always did when he cooked, but still, you didn't want to alert him of your presence. You crept up to the kitchen's doorframe, America close on your tail.

You turned and held a finger up to your lips, before gesturing for her to stay there.

You then turned, and swiftly but silently approached Stephen from behind. You knew to always be aware while of his hands while doing this—you made sure he was never holding or cutting anything when you caught him off guard. Especially rudely. And right now was the perfect time, as he was moving from one task to the next.

It was a climax in the song, and in one of the ones he liked. Needless to say, he was not aware of your presence behind him before he felt your hands suddenly digging into his sides—the sensation jolting him out of his thoughts, and sending an electric sensation through him.

Stephen let out a yelp, before spinning around to face you, his brow furrowed.

"Why? Why do you act like this?"

You only laughed in response. Stephen rolled his eyes.

"For the love of—I don't know why I put up with you."

You grinned up at him. "You love me."

Stephen sighed, before looking up at America who was doing more—though failing—to hide her amusement, more so at his exasperation than his almost-scream.

"America, do yourself a favor and don't date a man."

"Oh come on, you love me. Admit it." You repeated, only this time with more demands.

Stephen shook his head. "I don't know what you are talking about, now get out of my kitchen."

You composed yourself to give him an astonished look. "Your kitchen? Your kitchen? Does Wong know this is your kitchen?"

"Get out of the kitchen."

"I didn't hear you say please."

"Please what?"

Stephen gave you a sarcastic smile. "Please get out of the kitchen."

"Hmm, I don't know. I don't see your name on it or anything. I don't think I should get out. America?"

On cue, America decided to walk in, mirroring your sass right back at Stephen.

"Hmm, yeah, I dunno. It kind of looks like any old kitchen to me. Hey Stephen, what's in here?" She asked, reaching for the handle to the oven—both of you knowing how much he hated when people opened the oven while something was baking. Just use the oven light!

Stephen quickly stepped over, placing his hand firmly against the oven. The look he gave her was enough to make her back off.

"'Kay, fine. Touchy." She mumbled, raising her hands as she walked back towards you.

Stephen sighed, before saying your name. You hummed in response as he walked over, and kissed your forehead before looking down at you.

"I love you so much. Now please get out of my kitchen."

You only smiled innocently at him before turning to leave with no further complaints, knowing better than to push your luck with someone willingly making you food.

"Come on America. Let's go pick what movie we're going to watch." 

It was late when you three finally decided to go to bed. America hugged you both goodnight before disappearing into her room.

Stephen got undressed, wearing nothing except pajama pants to bed.

This was always a battle for you—Stephen knew it. You sighed as you took off your shirt, and your binder, just to put something on that you hoped would cover you up enough. He gave you a sympathetic smile as you climbed into bed.

"What?" You asked, seeing the thoughts brewing behind his eyes.

His hand reached up to cup your jaw. "I love you so much, but sometimes you look so uncomfortable."

"Yeah, I know," you said, defeated, leaning into his touch.

"Even though you pester me in the kitchen, and will likely be the death of me, you are a better boyfriend than I deserve." He placed a kiss on my nose.

"I don't know about that, but thank you."

"I know about it."

"Maybe me pranking you evens it out."

"Doubtful." He responded, but the amused smirk on his face said otherwise.

"You'll thank me later."

He shook his head. "It's late. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."