"For fuck's sake, Goth. If you're gonna keep talking about holy poultry for the rest of the fucking night, then get out of my damn apartment. You doin' the nasty isn't something I need to hear about while handling food." After a reflective glance down at the cutting board, Punk grimaced.
"Or knives." He let her putter around. So long as she didn't get in the way -- unlikely in the kitchen if nowhere else -- Punk could care less. It was just when she hammered home her sexual misadventures that Punk felt like vomiting messily.
The tall god reached up high and grabbed a monster of a plate, setting it to one side before he effortlessly moved around Goth to reach inside the refrigerator. Out came a bowl of sweet fresh peas and bright snow peas mixed with crème fraîche, lemon juice and pungent chopped mint. While Punk folded all that onto the plate, he shot Goth a contemplative look and was damn sure not to hide it.
She'd talk seriously when she felt like it. Punk had no desire to push and prod for information. That wasn't his style when things got personal. So he watched, and he waited, and in the meantime he cooked. The goat cheese-slathered bread toasting in the oven was just about ready to be checked on. Truth of the matter was, Punk would much rather focus on that than hear Goth pine for some fucking angelic nancy.