#garlic cloves fic

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The House Guest 5

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary: an old acquaintance calls in a favour, leaving you with an unexpected house guest.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The speaker drones lowly, your playlist cycling through your most listened. You fall into your routine. You always liked cooking. It was always comforting. Your grandmother taught you all her favourite recipes whenever you came around. The familiar aromas bring back what can never truly be. 

You split the squash with a large knife, the thunk jarring you. You might not be the safest person in the kitchen but you’ve yet to do worse than a few nicks. You gut the seeds from inside and scoop in a heap of butter and brown sugar, then drizzle the rest with maple syrup. You’ll bake that while you work on the roast. 

The back door clatters and makes you flinch. Somehow, you almost forgot. That needling presence never really fades completely but you felt somewhat normal. 

You listen as Bucky lingers at the back door. He appears in the kitchen door as you look over. His grey jacket is streaked in dirt and his hands are similarly filthy. You give him a curious squint. 

“Got rid of that dead stump. Rot’s not good to keep around,” he explains. 

“Oh, right, you... wait? How did you do that? I was supposed to borrow Ian’s axe--” 

“Don’t need an axe,” he wiggles his vibranium fingers at you. “Gonna wash up. Anything I can help out with in here?” 

“Think I’m good,” you assure him, “I’m almost done.” 

“Mm, smells good,” he glances the pan of squash. 

“Hope so,” you reply. 

He watches you a moment before he turns away. His footsteps echo after him and fade into the soft music. You carry on, putting quartered onions and garlic cloves round the cut of meat. You baste and season, then put it all in the stove. 

You gather up the peels and seeds into your hands and head down the hall to toss it all in the compost. You get to the back door and clamour through, dumping it all into the barrel. You dust your hands off before you head inside. 

You didn’t notice the open door before. You’re slightly embarrassed as you glance over and catch Bucky lathering up his hands in the sink. You quickly flit away without another look. Oops. 

Cramped quarters are bound to get awkward but you hadn’t expected that sight. Bucky, shirtless, focused on his hands as he scrubbed away the dirt. You can see it vividly as you try not to think of it.  

The tortured flesh around his left shoulder, trimming the dark metal of his prosthetic, his other arm as hard as the other, firm and rounded with muscle. His chest full and just as taut, though his middle was softer. The little bit that stuck out over his pants and the extra layer of padding up his stomach filled him out, though there was strength woven into his entire body. 

You shake your head and swallow. You wipe down the counter and rinse off the used dishes and cutlery. You busy yourself and do your best to forget. 

You open the fridge and take out a bottle of sparkling water. You close it and nearly cry out as Bucky stands behind the door. He reaches up to grip the top of the fridge. He wears a fresh ribbed tank top, his arm flexing as he looms over you. 

“Mind grabbing me a beer, please and thanks.” 

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” you open the door again and take out a bottle of beer.  

“Sorry?” He echoes as the fridge closes with a nudge of your elbow, “for what?” 

“Um, nothing, just, didn’t hear you, I guess.” 

“Ah, so it’s not that Canadian thing you do?” 

“Canadian thing?” 

“You apologised for tripping earlier.” He shrugs as he accepts the beer. 

“Oh? Habit, maybe. I didn’t notice.” 

He chortles, “you know, I served with some Canadians. Good soldiers. They always show up.” 

“Wow, I... makes sense... my great grandfather served. Came back and drove a truck after,” you say. “My grandmother talked about him a lot but I was too young to remember him before he passed.” 

“Sorry,” he says, “ha, there I go, huh? Or is it eh?” You give him a look. He uncaps his beer and arches a brow. “What’s that for?” 

“What?” You wonder. 

“That look? Sam did say you could be a bit... never mind.” 

“He said I could be a bit what?” You twist of the plastic lid of your flavoured water. 

“Nothing, he always says shit, you know? Tells everybody I’m a grumpy old man. I’m old and I’m tired, not grumpy,” he insists as he leans on the counter and drinks his beer. As he does, he lifts his vibranium hand and picks at his thumb with the index. “Mm,” he pulls his lips off the neck, “you got a cuticle stick or something? This damn thing collects dirt like a broom.” 

“I might have something. Got Q-Tips,” you offer. 

“Whatever you got. I should probably clean this thing before dinner,” he says. 

“Sure, let me just go look.” 

You put your water down and squeeze past him. He doesn’t shy away, crowding you as you pass him. You don’t know if he’s just not paying attention or what.  

You go down to the bathroom and pull out the drawer. You wince as something rolls against the front. Shit. You really hope he wasn’t looking around already. You reach inside and take out the suction toy you shove it up your sleeve. Would he know what the silicon rose was? 

You search around and find a nail kit. You bought it thinking you were going to go camping but that never happened. Maybe next year. 

You dip into your room and tuck the silicon toy on the bookshelf then head back to the kitchen. You hand him the small case. “Brand new. You can keep it.” 

“Oh, uh, thanks,” he accepts it, wiggling it between his fingers, “I’ll just go... take care of this.” 

He drinks again from his beer and sidles through the doorway next to you. You slip through and retreat to the stove as warmth blooms around it. Is it the cooking that’s making you sweat or something else? 

[skzdust]

Garlic Pasta (As a Form of Love)

This one's a bit shorter but it made me so happy to write! Sorry it took a few days! This fic was an anonymous request, check my masterlist to see if requests are currently open!

Summary: You and your boyfriend Chan are cooking together, and Chan never adds enough garlic for your taste.

Pairing: boyfriend!Chan x gn!reader

Word Count: 600

Taglist (Comment on a post/send an ask if you'd like to be added): @weirdowithaphone, @caught-in-the-afterglow, @palindrome969, @skzstan12345, @katsukis1wife

Includes: Boyfriend Chan, blond Chan (bc I'm in love with him), cooking pasta, "I love you"s, affectionate teasing

Reblogs, likes, comments all appreciated!

Masterlist

----

You watch as Chan adds oil and garlic to the pan. “More garlic.” You judge.

“More garlic?” He raises his eyebrows. “I think it looks fine.”

“You always think it looks fine.” You jump up to sit on the counter. “And then it always needs more garlic. What are you, a vampire?”

Chan does fangs with his fingers, lunging at you. You squeak and lean back. He laughs, and you’re struck by how much you love him. The way he looks at the floor when he laughs, the way he runs his hands through his hair, the way he teases you. You love everything about him.

You never thought you’d be dating Chan. He’s so… he’s everything. Handsome, funny, so sweet and protective. You’d convinced him to bleach his hair not too long ago, and you hadn’t thought he could get any more attractive, but you’d been proven wrong.

He faces his own challenges, you know that. He struggles with self-love, but you’ve been there for him, encouraging him to be kind to himself and cut himself some slack. He puts so much pressure on himself to be perfect—the perfect leader, the perfect songwriter, the perfect boyfriend. And as much as you believe he’s perfect, you always tell him he doesn’t have to be—he just has to give his best and not push himself too hard.

That doesn’t make him safe from some teasing, though.

“You are a vampire! Vampire Chan who doesn’t know how to make pasta. It’s garlic pasta. That’s the recipe. The point is the garlic.” You say, leaning back towards him.

“Fine. More it is.” Chan pokes your arm as he turns around, grabbing another clove of garlic and starting to chop it into small pieces. He misses your self-satisfied smile.

The smell of garlic begins to fill the kitchen; you can’t tell if it’s from what’s currently cooking in the saucepan or what Chan’s cutting, but it’s lovely. “That smells delicious already.”

“Glad you like it, baby.” He scrapes the cutting board into the saucepan, and the sizzling sound gets louder as he begins to stir it with a wooden spatula.

You hop off the counter and step behind Chan, draping your arms around his waist and perching your face beside his arm, watching what he’s doing. He glances down at you, but in that glance, you catch something deeper.

He looks at you like you’re his world. He looks at you like he loves you in the way that you love him—wholly, unconditionally. The affectionate smile on his lips, in his eyes, lets you know that your love is not one-sided.

He stirs the sauce he’s making. “Can you get the heavy cream for me, my love?”

You press a kiss to his (remarkably buff) arm. “Sure.” You get it from the fridge, screw off the lid, and put it beside him on the counter.

“Thank you.” He picks it up, his attention on the saucepan as he pours it in, stirring as he does so.

“Looks delicious.”

“Think it’s got enough garlic now?” He’s still looking at the pan, but there’s a smile in his voice.

You nod. “I think it’s good now.”

“Wonderful. I live to make your perfect pasta.”

“You’re doing a great job.” You say, and then, softer, “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” Chan glances up for a moment to press a haphazard kiss to your face. It lands beside your eye, and you giggle.

Those words, that kiss—you’re his, completely.

And he’s yours.

[fanaticsnail]

Hey! Hope you’re doing well this fine day~ I had a cute idea if u just wanna hear me rant about it.

So imagine teaching Killer a new pasta recipe whether that is a new sauce or new way to cook it and making it for him and watching him literally LIGHT UP with pure glee over how good it is. I say this as I’ve made my grandma’s spaghetti sauce which is STRAIGHT UP ADDICTING every time I make it and gobble it all up. Like the reader can be like a straw hat or kid pirate who is like hey I have this really yummy pasta recipe if you wanna try and afterwards she keeps on exchanging recipes with Killer and lowkey he in love with her mwahahaha (cause as they say in Princess and the Frog “the quickest way to a man’s heart, is through his stomach”). And she cooks it for him since he is always cooking 🥹🥹🥹

Also! I do have to add how much IM OBSESSED with the recent Hey Doc Drabble. Idk if you saw my tags but man I was GOING THROUGH IT. All the sweet nicknames and just the pure desperation for doc to be okay like 😭😭😭 and POOR HEAT AND BUBBLEGUM LIKE AWWWW I need a part 2 to that or SOMETHING just to see an aftermath if you will. Wire calling them “honey” had me WEAK.

Alright imma head out now, have a marvelous day/night 🏃🏽‍♀️🏃🏽‍♀️🏃🏽‍♀️

How did I miss this 😭. Thank you for your beautiful compliments on the 'Hey Doc' series. It's been an absolute joy to write. Reading through tags and reblogs are my favourite: especially when it's as enthusiastic as yours has been. You're so much fun, and I very much appreciate the time you take to read and go through my silly things. I can't write a full fic, but I hope this little drabble satiates the need of cooking with Killer 🖤.

Pasta

Masterlist Here

Word Count: mini-fic, just a little one.

Themes: Killer x reader, fluff, cooking, food, Killer is in awe, you are cooking, and I am hungry.

The one thing he hasn't managed to perfect is a pure, unadulterated Marinara. Anything to do with crushed tomato he finds too acidic, and over compensates with far too much salt to cut the tannins. He's tried everything: more onion, less herbs, malted brown sugar, refining his own salt by storing sea water on the oven, everything. He just can't seem to get it right.

Killer and pasta: his one weakness.

He would never admit it, but he has been attempting to perfect each recipe he comes upon. Pesto is all made from scratch: crushed fresh basil, the purest of virgin olive oils, a parmesan wheel with crispy salt crystals, oven toasted pine nuts, cloves of bulbed garlic, everything perfected by his skill in his kitchen. His pesto pasta is better than Sanji's, and the curly-browed chef is both impressed and intimidated by it.

Watching from a safe distance as you bounce gleefully within the dominion of the kitchen, he hunches his back and places his whiskered chin over his laced fingertips. He was unsure as to why you offered to cook for the crew, but your enthusiasm had him step aside to watch you work. It was the initial confession of homesickness that did it for him. Knowing food can aid in emotional regulation and comfort, he was more than happy to watch from his position sitting at the kitchen island.

And then the smell hit him.

The sweetness of roasting tomatoes, onion, garlic, and the herbal aromatics of thyme, rosemary and sage. The soft waft had his heart swell and beat in his chest and eyes twinkle in curiousity. Stirring the rotund vegetables in the pot and expertly crushing them with the blunt tip of the wooden spoon had him sit up attentively in his seat, watching you as you attend to the sauce from muscle memory alone.

He was in awe, perplexed, and intrigued.

Each time you would move on to another element of the dish, Killer would move a little closer. Each time your back was turned, he would perch himself just a little more towards the simmering pot. When you moved to the pantry to decide which shape of pasta to begin to boil, you could barely make out the shape of Killer's mask being partially elevated over his lips and nose by one large hand. Using a fresh spoon, he dips it into the sauce and puckers his purple-tinted lips and extends a breath of cool air to stifle the heat.

As soon as the first drops meet his tongue, he can't help the soft moan that escapes him at the flavor. Upon your return with a bag of penne in hand, you are immediately hoisted into the air with Killer's hands beneath your arms. Gently spinning you before placing you on the ground, he claps his arms over your shoulders and leans down closer. The purple hue of his lips is stretched up in a smile, his joy at your sauce immediately having him taken aback and fullfilled in the knowledge that he now has the answer he desperately seeks.

"Teach me. Please."

And who were you to deny him? It was a family recipe, and this crew aboard the Victoria Punk was your new family. Gently raising one of your hands to cup over his on your shoulder, you crinkle your nose at him and nod with a smile to match his own.

"Yes, chef."

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady

[the-kr8tor]

could i get garlic cloves and a ❣️ for hobie? r is trying to sneak him somewhere as a bat. or maybe sneak him out of animal control or smth? -@thesevenofstaves

YEEESSS MORE VAMP HOBIE!!! I wrote this with IPOB in mind, I hope that's okay! Thank you, bestie 🩷

Pairing: Vampire! Hobie Brown X fem! Reader

Word count: 1.3 k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, Set around my vampire Hobie series (In pursuit of blood), CW blood, mockumentary AU, Wwdits AU, Fluff!

In Pursuit of Blood fic

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

“So yeah, that's how I found out that my great aunt was a succubus—” you stop talking suddenly, blinking, eyes roaming around the walls of Hobie's mansion. The camera crew follows you as you look under the couch and even peek inside the grand piano. “Do you guys fucking hear that?”

The camera shakes its head. You look at it weirdly, “you could just say no, Jason, like a normal person—” you gasp, “there it is again!” You frantically move books from the bookshelves, making the crew dodge oncoming hardbounds. “Is this a prank? Am I getting punk’d right now?!” You scream, footsteps heavy as you trudge along the big living room, tossing and turning things around. “Hobie! Where the fuck did you put the speakers you mythical bloodsucking straw!”

You suddenly straighten up, finger scratching your ear, eyes turning from confusion to amusement. “Oh you fucking idiot!” You guffaw, palm slapping your knees in laughter. The crew look at each other, not knowing what to do when their subject turns cuckoo. “Okay, I'll—” you breathe for air, tears in your eyes as you laugh. “I'll save you, you big ancient baby.” Nodding, you roll your eyes, “fine, I'll be subtle. No explosions, yep…wait not even a little? I bought this new thing from amazon— yeah okay, bye! Close the fucking link I don't want you in my brain!”

Your shoulders sag, smiling at the befuddled camera crew. “Good news I'm not crazy! That was Hobie talking to me telepathically and he— you know what, I should just show you what he wants.” You beckon them over to the front door while you put on your jacket and take your keys. “It's called the mind gift,” based on the producer's eyes, you already know that she was about to ask you the question. “You get old enough, you start getting different abilities. Don't ask me how, that's just the way it is with vampires.”

The camera hard cuts to you driving in your new kia. In the corner of the shot you can see the camera man's hand gripping tightly around his seatbelt as you drive recklessly, like you just learned how to drive yesterday. Or you just knew what a car is.

“Relax,” you say, smiling sweetly at the camera even though you pass a red light. “No one's even on the road this late at night. So calm down.”

Hobie's voice once again appears in your mind, ‘hurry up, love, I think this chihuahua next to my cage wants me. And it's not the hunger type of want.’ You snort at his comment. ‘Please? I'll make it worth your while.’ he says with flirty undertones, making you roll your eyes, cheeks warm.

The camera visibly shakes. The mic picks up a faint ‘I’m gonna die.’ The crew following behind you with their own van can barely keep up with you. They pity Jason right now.

“Okay, listen.” You start, the car is zooming past the road beyond the speed limit. “Hobie wanted to hunt some poor rich sap but,” there's rapid honking around you, “something happened, he wouldn't tell me exactly what, so he had to get out quickly and turn into his vampire form. Now animal control caught him at the park because he was too hungry to return to his form.” The car suddenly screeches to a halt, making Jason the camera man almost fly off his seat.

You park your car at an animal control center, the camera zooms in your determined face. “Operation: save my idiot vampire roommate has begun.” Your head quickly swivels towards Jason who seems like all the colour on his face has gone. “Don't fuck this up for us, Jason.” You point at his still chest.

You exit your car with the slam of the door. The rest of the crew follow closely behind you as you enter the animal control center with an uncanny smile that has the front desk worker perturbed.

“Hi, this might sound weird—”

“What's up with the camera crew, lady?” The man asks, blinking away the bright lights, weirded out by the whole situation.

“Oh, we're making a documentary.”

“About what?” The man brightens up, subtly fixing his hair with his hand.

“Uh…” you look at the crew for answers, they're not helping with their empty looks. “...About bats, yeah, bats. We're from national geographic actually.” You hear Hobie in your head ‘national geographic? Really, love? You don't look like the Steve Irwin type. Although, you'd look good in some khaki shorts.’ Blinking him away, you continue to convince the man. “And one of our bats escaped from their enclosure. You see that man over there?” Raising your finger to point at Jason, you accuse him as he stands there awkwardly. “His name is Hobie,” Hobie's laughter in your mind echoes. “And he's an idiot y’know, he's a nephew of our director so we just had to take him in. You get me?”

The man in the front desk nods, judging ‘Hobie.’ “Yeah, I know the type.” He whispers to you. “We have someone like him here too.”

You nod in understanding. “They're not the brightest, right?” Hobie's cackling laughter buries deep in your mind, almost making you laugh too. ‘you're making me have it, huh?’ Jason frowns at you while he zooms in your apologetic face.

Tapping the desk, you smile at the man again. “So! Our bat, please?”

“I'd ask for papers like usual but I'm too lazy.” Now it's you judging the man. “If you can get him from the back yourself without getting rabies then you're free to take him.”

“Yeah, okay.” You shrug, and you hear Hobie breathe a sigh of relief. Opening the doors, you're greeted by a dozen small animals, all angrily calling out to you. “Wow, this reminds me of my cousin's room!”

Your eyes roam over the cages, looking for a familiar bat. The producer points at a bat on your right, she has her hand on the lock but you stop her midway. “That's clearly not him. Good try though.” The bat squeaks, lunging at the cage, almost biting the producer's hand.

Hobie's voice calls out to you, then you see a black bat with large wings rattle its cage. That's Hobie alright. “Aww,” you tease, “is it just me or you look extra adorable right now?”

‘Open the bloody door!’ Hobie telepathically screams at you, continuing to rattle at his cage. Squeaking angrily. You guess that he's starving now that he has tossed being sweet.

“In a minute.” You say, pulling out your phone to take numerous pictures of him. There's selfies of you with the angry bat, and even a group picture of the crew and bat Hobie. With one final click of the camera, you finally open the cage.

Hobie comes flying off towards your face, clinging to you, claws holding on to you and his tiny bat body covering your entire head. ‘Thank you, lovie.’ He says in your mind, his tiny fanged face nuzzling you sweetly. The camera crew takes numerous angles of the whole ordeal. ‘Take me home, ‘m hungry.’

“Will you let go of my face first?” Your voice is muffled by his fuzzy bat body.

‘nah, you're too comfortable.’

“No blood for you then.” You warn, and it works as he reluctantly moves over to your shoulders instead. ‘Fine,’ he grumbles, squeaking disappointedly.

Waving goodbye to the front desk who again stares at you all confused, you have successfully rescued your idiot vampire roommate. Placing him on your passenger seat, he shakes his head when you coax him into turning back to his form.

Jason records from the backseat, eyes flicking from you and the agitated bat. He knows exactly what's about to happen.

“What am I supposed to do? Let you drink from me again?”

There's a bout of silence, and then Hobie the bat nods his tiny head.

With a huff, you give him your hand to bite into. “One sip, Hobie, enough to turn you human.” He nods, mouth opening to take a bite. You look over your shoulder towards the camera. “Cut the fucking camera, Jason.”

Hobie sinks his teeth into you just as the camera shuts off. But not the mic though.

[blacklegsanjiii]

•°♤°• Any Zosan Fic Recommendeds?

Here's some! (And one ZoLuSan because i'm me) Some are unfinished, some are classics. Either way these are the ones I always go back to!

Learning to Listen by three_days_late

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

For as long as Zoro's felt his soulmate echoes he's hated them. He doesn't know why Sanji, or the rest of his crew mates, care so damn much.

Broke the Yolk by 3oClockSnacc (TobiSterling)

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

Sanji has a nasty habit of denying himself little luxuries. Sleeping in, hot food, the unconditional love of his crew. He's used to it though; used to getting up at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast, used to working on an empty stomach to ensure everyone else is fed, used to serving up pieces of himself and getting nothing in return. He can't afford those luxuries. Not even on his birthday.

Digital Footprint 100 Miles Wide by yellowrubberboots

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

[Profile Picture Description: A MS Paint drawing of a cartoon skull. The skull is wearing a yellow straw hat with a red band around the base.] TheStrawhats Last live 2 days ago video games and other random shit // we stream when we stream. 6.2M followers

Unwritten Recipes by aririnas

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

Ingredients 2 fat garlic cloves, crushed 2 red chillies, deseeded and finely chopped 150ml white wine (not optional) 175g dried spaghetti 140g mussels, washed and beards removed 140g clams, washed chilli oil or olive oil, for drizzling ½ small pack parsley, roughly chopped (..) or Sanji writes everyone's favourite food in a recipe book

You'll Whisper Lies to Me (and One of Them Will be True) by Veto_power_over_clocks

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

Sanji introduces Zoro to Two Truths and a Lie. He only ever plays with Zoro, and all his lies are shit. (Alternatively: Sanji subjects himself to the mortifying ordeal of being known by Zoro. He does everything in his power to ensure Zoro doesn't realize that's what's happening.)

Green with Envy Blues by adietxt

General Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply

Zoro thinks he’s a pretty loyal person. All things considered, he’s a faithful crewmember and swordsman of the Strawhat Pirates. Zoro looks up just in time to see Luffy launching himself at Sanji, wrapping his stretched limbs all over Sanji’s body. Sanji has just walked out of the galley carrying a plate full of fancy-looking drinks and he’s extending his arm as far away as possible from Luffy’s grasp, and Luffy leans over his shoulder, their cheeks pressed against each other’s, their lips almost touching — Zoro is seriously considering mutiny.

Switching Places by TranqilChaos

Mature

Graphic Depictions of Violence

All it takes is one desperate battle in the jungle for Zoro to finally be on the other side. For him to be the one worrying at a bedside. For him to be the one waiting hours for the slightest sign of anything. For him to be the one missing meals and skipping showers and sleeping in the infirmary chair. Or Luffy, Zoro, and Sanji fight a tough battle in the forest that leaves all, but Zoro, horribly injured.

Your Eyes are Liquor, Your Body is Gold by Astauria

Not Rated

Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings

It was a stupid idea, Zoro had known it all along and now he was really wondering why he had accepted such a proposal. No amount of alcohol in the world could ever be worth the decomposition he would see in Sanji's eyes when he learned the truth. Zoro had bet on him, for one fucking drink.

Rewind (Be Kind) by donutsandcoffee

Teen and Up

No Archive Warnings Apply

What should be a run-of-the-mill skirmish with a devil fruit user turned Sanji into an eight-year-old, and the Strawhats are suddenly faced with a version of Sanji they have never met before: a Sanji before the Strawhats, before the floating restaurant, but after—something. Zoro observes, learns, and relearns.

[thot-writes]

MORE WEREWOLF X VAMPIRE FICS!! *slams fists on the table* I DEMAND MORE WEREWOLF X VAMPIRE FICS!!!!

how astarion would treat his werewolf gf (SFW);

Astarion is not as surprised as one might’ve expected him to be. he’s likely had a lot of experience with lycanthropes of all kinds through Cazador (that bitch)

when you’re revealed to be a werewolf, the cogs in his mind are already turning for suggestive jokes he can make about it

you actually hear him (thanks to your superior hearing) in front of his tent mumbling them to himself as he workshops them

“‘Every good dog deserves a bone…’ hm… no, that sounds too seedy. Maybe… ‘if you’re a good little pup I’ll give you a… treat’? Gods, why is this so much harder than I thought?”

you have to cover your mouth to stop your hideous snickering. hearing his process on his meticulously crafted persona is simply too cute

you always end up turning the lines back onto him anyways. after all, if you’re the dog but he’s the one on all fours and begging, what does that make him?

astarion is a little disappointed that you can never wear silver, and he tells you so. it burns you to the touch, but also it would look so good on your gorgeous skin— isn’t a little bit of pain worth it for the fashion?

you throw garlic cloves at him for suggesting it. luckily for him the tadpole negates what damage that would normally do.

loves the bloodthirst. he’ll cheer you on when you’re getting worked up & rabid during battles

occasionally you’ll have bouts where all you crave is extreme violence. it’s quite manageable, they normally only happen when a full moon is close or when you’re in the middle of a particularly nasty fight.

one time, you tackled a man who’d targeted astarion and bit half his face off. you don’t even know why you did it, it just felt like the right thing to do at the time— and your adrenaline was running too fast for you to stop and think for a second

if astarion’s heart was still beating, he was sure it would’ve fluttered at that moment. seeing you defend him with such aggression was so… romantic

he had to resist the urge to pull you in for a kiss. at least while you still had the man’s face-skin in your mouth (did you eat it or spit it out?)

as your relationship shifts less from lust and more to love, he starts to express concerns over the darker parts of your curse.

astarion knows that while lycanthropy has a cure they’re often hard to find— and you’ve little interest in one at this point anyway. but doesn’t mean that doesn’t mean he can’t help you in other ways

when a full moon is coming and a horrific, agonising transformation is upon you, astarion stays by your side and tries to alleviate the pain by showing you have his support

after attempts of trying stronger and stronger pain-killing elixirs failed to make much of a difference, he decided that perhaps just being there with you was the better option

he’s by your side and resting your head on his lap, stroking your hair and offering the occasional word of encouragement

when it’s time to transform you get magically restrained and even still, he remains. sometimes he passes the hours with reading or embroidery, sometimes he tries to talk with you to see if you’re still in there

he hopes by doing this that you’ll learn to retain some control over yourself and you won’t need to be restrained each full moon. and it’s kind of working! once, he managed to calm you down enough to give you a little pat on the head— and that’s enough proof for him that you can best the beast

you’re not entirely sure if you believe him when he tells you that though

and as if astarion needed yet another reason to hate the gur, now he has one.

as a monster, they’ll be just as likely to hunt you. he won’t let them.

even if you have no strong feelings for the gur, astarion is brimming with more than enough spite and vitriol for both of you.

honestly, being a werewolf has made you two even closer than before. you can relate on certain issues now— you’re both bloodthirsty monsters, capable of losing all sense of control and reason, and when night falls is when the people of faerun should be the most fearful— for the night is your personal hunting ground.

astarion is very supportive of a lycanthrope partner (much like he is with a durge one) and will not judge you for it. when your control lapses, he reins you in, when you’re dealing with the pain of a pre and post-transformation, he helps you through it.

on the surface, you’re two fearsome, monstrous beasts that would send an average person running— but beneath, you’re two people madly in love, trying to temper the negative effects of your respective curses. for each other.

[smallraindrops-blog]

Sacred Ingredients

Zagreus/Male!reader 

Fandom: Hades (2019 game)

Word count: 3.3k

Summary: There was a new cook in the house

warnings: Implied reader death, no beta.

Notes:

The fic that is the reason yall have been seeing so many food posts lately.

This is the first response for the wholesome Zagreus x male reader request. I took my time with this since I wasn’t sure if I was following the prompt.

To the anon, thanks for the wait. If this isn’t what you wanted, please lmk and I will be happy to redo it. I do hope you enjoy this one.

Important: often people would use other names for the gods to avoid bringing unnecessary attention to themselves. Our reader is one of those people.

Enjoy!

~

One of your first memories was of your Mom holding a small bit of cake between her fingers. 

It was made of thin layers of dough, heavy with sheep cheese, crushed nuts and honey, so heavy with it that the dipping honey caught the sunlight just before you bit in.

Sweet. Creamy. Nutty. All combining together in your mouth as you chew.

You groaned in pure delight as she laughed, getting you a plate with a much bigger piece. See? I told you that you would like it. Mama is never wrong. Not with food.

Just like that, food had became your life. To you, there was no better way to say ‘I love you’ than by cooking someone a good meal.

You learned how to perfectly roast fishes, how to stuffed chicken, the right moment to add herbs or how to use olive oils or butter to add rich flavors to the dish. You learned how to knead the bread, how to time the rise just right and the best spots in the stone ovens to place the loaf. 

Food was everything. It was the bittersweet memory of your mama’s hand on your cheek after a sickness took her far too soon, it was a way to feed your family while working hard as a fisherman, it was a way to earn your place among warriors and kings. 

You loved all of it, even as the other men had scoffed at you for enjoying women’ work. However they never turned away a meal you cooked, at home or in the war tents.

The very last thing you cooked, a recipe your mama taught you, was a simple bread, meant for dipping in wine. 

Barley flour. Dry yeast from the grapes. Then you added the simple spice mix you came up with and always added in. The one that had people waiting outside for your bakery before the markets opened.

Parsley. Rosemary. Oregano. Garlic cloves smashed up and added into the bread, and just a little dash of salt.

You had set one aside for yourself for later.

You never got to eat it. 

~

When the news came that the terrifying god of the underworld was looking for a new cook, you didn’t hesitate.

To get a spot in the house of the gods was prime time. It meant respect, a place to live and most importantly it meant regular income. That was money you can send to your mama and sisters so they can get into a better area of Asphodel.

You had spent hours over the cake. 

You made sure that each layer of the dough was perfect, thin and flakey with a satisfying bite, that the cheese was the perfect amount of tangy creaminess, that nuts were crushed to the right size, that the honey was placed in the perfect spot to complement the cheese and nuts.

This had to work because your family worked hard to get the coin to order such things from the expensive shop of the boatman.

Even the neighbors had pitched in, with the promise that you will pay them back.

You took a nervous breath as you shifted on your feet, winced as the terrifying King of Below tossed aside the meal someone brought him, promptly dismissing them. 

“And another one bites the dust.” The sleep god muttered as he crossed something off a list.

He looked up, blinking heavy downturned eyes at them. You and the other commoners were careful to keep their gazes low, not willing to show any disrespect to any of the gods.

The gentle one huffed and gestured for the one before you to go ahead. You were up after this, assuming that the person before you didn’t have something amazing. 

The underworld King made a loud gagging sound and wordlessly dismissed the shade. Gentle one only clicked his tongue as he crossed out another line and shook his head, white curls flopping around. 

“Good luck, buddy.” He told you with a cheerful grin, using his quill to point to the desk.

Did the gods normally call people buddy?

With a deep breath, you went to the looming desk, feeling like you were meeting the fates themselves. 

“And what is this?” The King of those below growled, his haunting eyes locked onto you like a predatory bird. His hellhound shifted next to him, their three noses twitching at the food.

“This is a plakous, my lord.” You said, proud that your voice was stronger than you expected. “Made with wheat dough, rich honey-“

The King held up a large hand and you stopped speaking, fearing you had already lost your chance. A shade took the plate from you and brought it to their master. 

You held your breath as he took the first bite, your heart no longer beat but you swore you felt it in that moment, slamming against your chest. He chewed slowly and his bloody red eyes slowly went wide.

A hush fell over the grand hall.

Then the King did something he didn’t do with any other meal, he went back for a second bite.

After that bite, he peered down at you for a long, long time.

“Is this all you can cook?” His voice broke over you like thunder. You shook your head, your hands curled up nervously 

“No, my lord. I have created meals for kings and I can cook many things. Meat of all kinds. And bread, vegetables and so on.” You wished you were a more eloquent man, but that had never been needed before.

Not to mention such an education was beyond your reach.

And your food alway did the talking for you. 

The king took a third bite then tossed the rest to the hellhound, the animal eating in a single swipe of its tongue. The tail wagged once, thumping on the floor. 

The Wealthy One nodded slowly.  “You may start today.”

~

The kitchen size alone would have made your mama weep with joy. The amount of fresh produce, herbs and clean grains along with plenty of meat made your jaw drop. 

You clapped your hand together in thought then…You hit the ground running. 

There was an endless list of tasks to be done before the kitchen would be ready to open and you went through all the tasks with horse blinders on, determination fueling you.

The first meal you officially served Master was a few of salted and peppered trout with a garlic lemon sauce with butter and herbs along with a hearty lentils soup, warm sourdough bread for the soup and sauce.

You added a fresh cucumber salad along with a large plate filled with cheeses and fruits that would compliment the fish.

When the plates came back, clean of even a drop of sauce, you felt something loosen in your chest. 

~

Eventually you began to learn the house's routine and the many shades. You learned to always have some type of bread readied with olive oil. 

You learned what went fast and what you had to jazz up to get rid of. 

The most important lesson you had learned in life and one that remained unchanged even now was that most souls just wanted something that tasted like home. 

It was toward the end of the kitchen hours when you heard someone take a seat.

Even at this late hour and working alone, you weren’t one to turn away a hungry soul so after wiping your hands on your apron, you turned with a smile.

“Welcome! What can I…” your words trailed off, your eyes going wide as you realized who was sitting in one of the barstools.

The Prince of the underworld gave you an exhausted, crooked grin. There was a curious gleam in those mismatched eyes, the strong lines of his cheeks softened by the dim lights of the lounge.

He was inhumanly beautiful in the ways all divine beings were.

But there was something different to his handsomeness.

Unlike the soft loveliness of Sleep, the sleek grace of the Fury or the dark shocking beauty of Night herself, this god before looked almost moral like. It was his eyes that revealed his godhood. It was the power in his broad shoulders.

You were surprised by how much you liked it.

“So you are the new cook everyone is raving about.” The Prince said, leaning on his forearms to peer at you. You saw the strength in his arms, his quick grace as he moved. Strong and muscular with thick tendons upward from the knuckles. 

It was clear this god was a warrior of a sort.

Your eyes flickered down in embarrassment when you realized you were being disrespectful in your staring. 

“I believe so, your highness.” You said, bowing your head in a show of respect for his position. “How may I serve you?” 

“Honestly?” The Prince leaned, scanning the area behind you. “Whatever you have will work. The last cook we had working here would just give us sliced onions if we came in this late. Once he gave Hypnos a single apple peel for daring to ask for something else.”

He sounded amused, chuckling to himself at the memory. It was a nice laugh, deep and rich.

You couldn’t imagine being so rude to the gods. Your mom was a pious woman and even a quiet sigh during prayers would get you a disapproving look.

With a nod, you went to get the Prince his meal and drink.

Thankfully you had a leftover trout and tossed one onto the grill to cook as you prepared a bowl of cabbage for him, added in spices along with honey vinegar and silphium.

You had some bread and garlic cheese so you plated those as well with olives and grapes.

You decided to give him a rich red that most enjoyed, filling it up to the brim.

“Oh wow.” The prince muttered as you set everything in front of him and with a bow, you rushed back to the fish, flipping it over. Once it was ready with some garlic butter sauce, you brought it to him. 

“Please let me know if you would like for me to serve you more or cook something else for you.” You told him and the prince blinked at you, his mouth filled with bread and cheese. 

The prince waved a hand before you left him for his meal. He drank the wine deeply before placing it back down. You immediately refilled it. “This is plenty, my good shade. Thank you.”

With a respectful nod, you resumed cleaning up the kitchen. Counters got wiped down, supplies restocked but it wasn’t the usual relaxing routine it normally was.

You felt the weight of those divine eyes on you. The Prince was quiet as he ate but you caught quick glimpses of his curious gaze on the shine of the plates, or reflection in your knives.

It was only when the Prince left that you let yourself breathe.

~

Master liked large meals but only if they could be eaten quickly. The only thing you had been warned never to add was pomegranates. No one would tell you why.

The Gorgon, the creature was surprisingly sweet for all the horrible tales you heard of her kind, ate in a rush as well.

If you were smarter, maybe you could have made a clever joke about how the lowest server and the King of the Underworld ate the same way.

But one look into her smiling face held your tongue. She was always kind so you would be so in return.

The Fury was a regular companion of hers, requesting simple meals of fish and some types of roasted vegetables. Mostly she would drink deeply, often you would have a pitcher of wine put aside for her. 

Sometimes Dreaded Death would join her, unwelcoming to all and cool. He rarely ordered any food, his fingers drumming on the table sounded like funeral marches to your ears. 

His twin was the complete opposite, Gentle Sleep had a sweet tooth unlike anything else you have seen. Often he would ignore the dinner option altogether and eat slices of cake, candied figs or honeycombs. 

If you weren’t careful around the god, plates of cookies that were meant for the whole house would go missing around him. 

You still haven’t found the last two plates he stole from you.

And...

There was The Prince himself. 

He was a regular now, always sitting close to wherever your work station was that day. He also was the only one who ate anything you put on a plate for him, and would shove the meal into his mouth like a starving creature. You always made sure to give him larger servings.

“Tell me your name.”  He ordered you one day. His tone was deep, firm. Making it clear he wouldn’t take no for an answer.  “You keep feeding me delicious food, no matter the hour. And I don't know what to call you.”

Then he added with raised eyebrows, sounding more like a playful suitor than a Chthonic god. “Please?”

You considered it, your hands still on the bowl of the hardy stew just placed before the god. You stared at the stew for a moment, then at him.

Or just past him, not willing to meet the god’s eyes, life and death danced in those unusual eyes of his.

You were a moral, a simple one at that. 

You never picked up a sword, never learned all the fancy learnings that a prince might, never learned much beyond what you needed to but you knew names had powers, could decide whole destinies before a babe even wailed out their first cry. 

Names could summon the gods themselves.

Quietly, you told him.

The prince grinned at you, his smile fierce and beautiful like a victorious lion. Your breath hitched, forgetting that one was to never look the gods in the eye.

Then the next words he spoke early jumped started your heart into beating once more. 

“It suits you, my good cook. Call me Zagreus.” 

~

Later, alone in the kitchen, recipes laid in front of you, you tried to will yourself to focus.

Schooling was too costly for your family especially after your Mother’s death. Your reading went far as basic words and numbers, just enough to get by in the markets.

You never needed much. 

Right now, however, the recipes might as well be another language. 

You were too lost in thought, several times you had already caught yourself even daring to think The Prince’s name in your mind.

What would happen if you dare to…

Zagreus.

A soft noise came behind you and You whirled around, glancing everywhere as if expecting him to appear right behind you. 

He didn’t. 

You realized you heard the sounds of the Wretched Broker restocking his shelves. Thankfully, he was too busy to realize that the House’s cook had gone mad simply by learning a God’s name. 

Maybe you should start wearing a pot on your head.

“Zagreus.” You whispered, fingernails digging your palm nervously. “Zagreus.”

When the god didn’t appear, you didn’t know if you were disappointed or relieved.

~

Slowly, you learned more. 

There were the loud fights between Father and Son that would cause the house to rattle. Many shades would escape into the lounge, hands over their ears.

”Tell me, do you get along with your father?” Zagreus grumbled, his plate cleared of any crumbs. His legs were bouncing, filled with an endless energy you knew you would never be able to match. 

“No.” You said, not wanting to think of that man. You knew he was somewhere in the underworld but the less you knew, the better. “I suspect few do.”

Once, over a glass of white wine and a simple meal of sourdough bread and warm vegetable soup, He told you was looking for his mother.  

“You will find her. I know you will.” You told him quietly, holding his stare. “Have faith, Zagreus.”

Another time, over a cake from a new recipe you came up with, Zagreus asked about you. Maybe it was the exhaustion after a successful dinner rush but you told him everything. 

His smile was warm, his eyes watchful of your every move as you told him of your family and their new place you brought for them. 

Your cheeks flushed when you realized he was staring at you.

“I will have to stop by then.” He teased, his hand almost brushing against yours. 

“Yes.” You agreed in a whisper, your mouth suddenly dry.

~

“Cook me your favorite meal.” Zagreus ordered one day, not even bothering to sit down. You lifted a cool eyebrow, well used to his impulsiveness by now.  

“Hello, Zagreus.” You greeted dryly, wiping your hands on your apron, not actually that upset.

Not too long ago, you would have wilted from the thought of being so playful with a divine creature but things changed.

Zagreus brought it out of you somehow simply by being himself. 

“I am doing well, thank you.” You continued to teased despite his oddly serious expression.

Zagreus blinked, then chuckled with a bright grin. “I am a horrible influence on you, I fear.”

You laughed, cheeks flushing at his smile. “I am afraid so, your Highness. Now what is this about a favorite meal?”

“Yours. I want to know what your favorite food is.” 

“Oh.” You grabbed an apple, rolling it in your hands for something to do. Butterflies dancing in your stomach as Zagreus leaned in, his hands on the counter. This close, you caught the scent of copper.

unwillingly, your gaze tangled with his, caught like a fly in a complex web. A stray thought reached you, could a mere fly understand the geometric structure, beauty of such things?

You swallowed nervously. “It’s nothing special, Zagreus. Just something my mom cooked up for me.”

Zagreus narrowed his eyes, his jaw firm in his resolve. “Excellent, then. I trust you have all the ingredients you need?”

You nodded but opened your mouth to dissuade the prince from his idea, however he was already walking away, “I expect a meal to be waiting for me when I get back!”

~

One day, staring at a wooden spoon in your hand, cake batter dipping from the tip, you realized that Zagreus had became someone very, very dear to you. 

Morals and gods didn't mix together well. At least, not for the morals. Cracked eggs and spilled milk and all left would be a big mess with no one to clean it. 

What did it mean when a shade, a mere ghost of who you were, was in love with a god that shone like the sun, whose very presence made you felt like you were alive once more?

~

When Zagreus returned, his hair was still damp from the Styx river and you had to look away from his beauty.

Quietly, you put the final touches on your favorite meal. You swallowed nervously as you picked up the plate and went over to him. 

Thin layers of dough. Creamy cheese. Crushed nuts. Honey.

A long ago memory of your mom's smiling face as she watched you take a bite. Sunlight made her golden and immortal in that singular moment in your very heart.

You offered it up like the cake was a sacrifice, like you were offering yourself up to the god to make the final decision of the worth of your mortal soul.

“This is the first thing I can remember my mom making for me.” You whispered, your work rough fingers curled nervously against the counter. “This meal is what got me a job here. I got to know you because of this cake.”

Zagreus took a small bite, then closed his eyes in bliss. He said your name with a weight that you never heard before. 

When he looked at you, his expression gentle and hopelessly fond, there was no need for more words. 

~

When he kissed you for the first time, he tasted like home. 

[alotofpockets]

Cooking class | Wanda Maximoff

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: You meet Wanda at a cooking class that she teaches.

A/n: A special thank you to @catasha, without your ideas I would not have been able to finish this fic!

Masterlist | Marvel masterlist | Words: 2.8K

You recently discovered your love for cooking. You found it both relaxing and exhilarating, being able to add all these ingredients together to create a beautiful dish. Growing up your parents never really taught you how to cook, so you started by learning some cooking videos that you had seen online but the videos were general and not that fun, so you were searching for other ways to learn more cooking techniques. In your search for options you came across a cooking class taught by Wanda Maximoff, just a few blocks over.

When you entered the building you were in awe of the place. There were rows of stove tops, ovens and counters, all basked in sunlight from the floor to ceiling windows. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The women that walked up to you said. “Yeah, it looks great. I love the way the light enters the space.” The woman nods in agreement. “Everything is so fancy here, I can’t wait to cook here.” Wanda smiles, “Oh, trust me, cooking here is amazing.” The woman answers. “Oh, have you taken classes here before?” In response she holds out her hand, you shake it with a confused look plastered on your face. “Wanda, nice to meet you.” That’s when the puzzle pieces click, you were talking to the owner of the place. “Oh, haha, well Wanda, you have a beautiful place here. I’m y/n.”

The first class starts, and after some quick introductions, Wanda starts telling you about what you will be learning during these few classes. You were going to start easy and work your way up to some more intricate dishes. You were going to be making a dish each week for the duration of the four week starters course. Today you were going to focus on some cutting techniques, since you will be using that throughout the whole course. 

Wanda shows everyone how to hold the knives and how to get the best results and tells you to try it out for yourselves on the carrots in front of you. She goes around the kitchen islands giving everyone pointers and compliments. The dish for this week's class was vegetable soup, which meant lots of veggies to be cut. When you were done with the carrots, you chopped up leeks, tomatoes, and parsley. All that was left to cut were the garlic gloves. You felt quite comfortable with your chopping skills after the carrots, Wanda noticed and gave you a compliment, “Nice work, y/n, keep it up!” 

You continued to make the soup step by step, as Wanda told you more about what each of the steps would do for the dish, taste, texture, etc. She was an amazing teacher, she explained not only with the end goal of a dish in mind but also transferred her knowledge on certain ingredients as well as in what different ways they could be used. You enjoyed your first class very much, and the soup you created was delicious. 

Next week you arrive at the kitchen again, not realizing that you were there a bit too early until you saw that Wanda was still setting up the counters. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was so early.” You say as Wanda looks over. “Don’t worry, darling, come on in.” You blush slightly at the nickname. “I was just setting up the ingredients for today’s class.” She smiles in your direction. “Need a hand?” You say as you place your bag in the corner, “I’m here now anyways.” Wanda is very grateful for the help as she started a bit late with setting up herself, she showed you what each cooking station needed and you got to work while continuing the conversation with her. You placed thyme, bay leaves, sugar, worcestershire sauce and a beef cube on every station, while Wanda distributed the beef, canned tomatoes, onion, garlic cloves, tomato paste, and a small block of parmesan cheese. 

The dish for today was a spaghetti bolognese, with the main focus for the class being the making of the sauce. Wanda started by letting you cut your onions and mince the garlic, like how she taught you in the previous class. Then step for step she walked you through making the bolognese sauce. You loved pasta dishes, at home you always made them with store bought pasta sauce but now that you knew this recipe you were for sure going to use it. It was so much richer in flavor, while the cooking time wasn’t even that much longer. 

Before ending the class, Wanda announced next week's plans. “Next week we are going to have a little friendly competition.You are all going to create a dip of your own choosing. Email me the ingredients you will need before Friday, and I will make sure that they are ready for you on your counters next week!”

You were searching through recipe books and recipes online for a dip that would really impress Wanda. Most of the dips you found looked good but were still pretty basic. A couple of days went by without any ideas and then it hit you, during one of your conversations Wanda had mentioned that she was from Sokovia. You immediately started searching for Sokovian recipes and found the perfect dip. However, you saw that it would take a bit longer than a regular dip to make, so you decided to ask Wanda if maybe you would be able to come in earlier to use the oven to prepare your main ingredient. Wanda let you know that it would be no problem, and that she would be there starting 1pm, so any time after that would work. When you got her message back, you sent her the list of ingredients that you would need for your dip. 

That Sunday you arrive forty minutes before the official start of the class. “Hi, y/n, how have you been?” Wanda asks with a smile. “Hey, Wanda, I’ve been well, thank you. How about yourself?” Wanda waves you in before answering, “I’ve been doing good, thanks. I put your ingredients on your station, so feel free to start whenever you’d like.” You sent her an appreciative smile. “Thank you, Wanda, I really appreciate this.” 

You start working on your dip. The beets you need for it had to go in the oven for thirty minutes and would have to cool down for another twenty before you could use them. You start by poking some holes in the beet with a fork, and put them in some foil, before putting them on a baking tray. You are so focussed on your preparations that you don’t hear Wanda approaching, who was previously getting some things from a back room. Once you’ve put the tray into the oven and look up you finally realize that she is standing there, leaning against one of the other counters, admiring the focus you had. You feel a blush making its way to your cheeks again but quickly cover it up by turning around and cleaning up some of the things you won’t need to use in the recipe anymore. 

After that all there was left to do was wait for the beets to bake. So, you decided to see if there was anything you could do to help Wanda prepare for the upcoming class. Together you set up the ingredients on the other stations, while you were asking Wanda questions about what got her started on cooking. You learned that her mother loved to cook, and that after she passed away when Wanda was younger. Wanda shared that she felt closest to her while she was cooking, which is how she got into cooking. You shared how you got into cooking, and wanting to learn more about her. The conversation flowed so easily you hadn’t noticed that half an hour had passed until the oven beeped. 

You take out the tray with beets and let them cool down on the counter. The conversation with Wanda not faltering while you walk around in the kitchen. Soon after the rest of the class walks in. Wanda greets everyone separately before starting the contest. “Alright, I’ve seen some delicious ingredients in your lists, and I cannot wait to try the dips you have come up with! Is everybody ready?” The class cheers. “Ready, set go!” Wanda jokes, she was having so much fun with the competition. She walked around the counters to see what everybody was working on, lingering a bit longer at your counter. You add some yogurt to your grated beets and stir the mixture together. To give the dip some extra flavor, you add some finely chopped garling, some pepper and a pinch of salt. Finally, to top it off, you chop up some spring onion and sprinkle it over the top of your Sokovian purple beetroot dip.

Everyone presents their dip to the class, and Wanda tastes all of them. You could see that she had some clear favorites, and got a little nervous for her to taste yours. Those nerves went away once you saw the sparkle in her eyes after she tried it. You give her a knowing smile, before she moves to the next counter. 

“You have all made some incredible dips, I am very impressed. I am also very proud of the creativity you all put into these recipes. However, there can only be one winner, and that is…” Wanda looks at all the dips in front of her, before picking up yours. “Y/n!” The class applauds, and congratulates you on your win. The class ends and everyone starts walking out. You clean up extra slow, hoping to spend some more time with Wanda. She notices and walks over, “So, did you pick a Sokovian dish to impress me?” You laugh, “Depends, did it work?” Wanda laughs with you. “It did, the flavor brought me right back to my childhood. I remember this dip being present on every birthday platter.” You smile as she talks about her connection with the dish that you made. “Yeah, I hoped to be a step ahead with the Sokovian origin but the dip actually tastes amazing.” 

“Hey y/n, if I’m out of line here, please let me know but I was wondering if maybe you would like to come over to my place and cook dinner together tonight?” Wanda looks up at you hesitantly. “Yeah, that sounds wonderful.” The corners of her lips perk up slightly, “Like as I date, I mean.” You place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “Yes, I would love that.” You exchange numbers so Wanda can send you her address. “Oh, and you can bring your dip, that way we can use it in the starter.” You tell her that you think that’s a great idea. “I’ll make some flatbread for it and then we can cook the main course together.”

A couple hours later, you make your way over to Wanda’s house. You ring the doorbell, and just seconds later Wanda opens the door. “Hi, y/n, come in. The flatbread is almost ready, and do you want a drink? Wine? Water? Oh, I can put on some music, maybe?” Your heart warms at the way Wanda is so clearly nervous rambling. You reach out your hand to take a hold of hers, in order to ground her. “I’ll have whatever you are having, and music sounds nice.” Wanda looks down at your hands, her cheeks flushed. The moment gets interrupted by the ding of the oven. “Oh, I have to get that.” Wanda says and rushes off, leaving you on the doorstep. You smile and shake your head, as you let yourself in and close the door behind you. While Wanda was in the kitchen, you walked around her living room, admiring the way she decorated the space. 

Wanda walks back into the living room with a tray in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “You have a beautiful place, Wanda.” She thanks you as she places two wine glasses, and a platter with the flatbread down on the table. You place the beetroot dip next to them, and reach for the bottle of wine when Wanda walks to the side to turn on some music. You fill up the glasses and hand Wanda one when she walks back and sits down on the couch next to you. Wanda relaxes more as the conversation starts up.

You sip on your wine, as you enjoy your starter together before going to the kitchen with Wanda to cook the main course. You're cutting up some vegetables, while Wanda walks around gathering pots and pans, utensils, spices, and the rest of the ingredients. She moves behind you, placing a hand on your back, making sure that she wouldn't bump into you while you're holding a chef's knife. Instead the gentle touch just distracts you from the chopping, as a blush crept up your cheeks. Wanda does this a couple more times as she walks from side to side in the kitchen, noticing your flustered state every time her hand touches your back.

"Hey, Wands, how can I best cut these?" You say as you move onto the next vegetable. She tells you how she would cut them, and you give it a try. Failing at your first two attempts, not being used to holding the knife in that way. "Want me to show you?" Wanda offers. "Yes, please." You expected Wanda to take the knife from you as she reached out for it but instead she takes a hold of your hand, and moves her body to stand behind you. Your breath hitches, when Wanda says, "Follow my lead." next to your ear. She starts moving your hand in the motion of the cut besides the vegetable before you actually slice into the vegetable on your cutting board together. Focusing on the technique is nearly impossible with Wanda pressed against your back. "See, easy as that. Now you try." Wanda keeps standing behind you but leans to the side and puts her hand on the counter, looking over your shoulder. Though you had trouble focussing for a moment, you practiced the motion Wanda just showed you once besides the vegetable again, before you tried it for real. “Yeah, that’s it! Nice work.” Wanda compliments you. You look over at Wanda with a proud smile plastered on your face. She smiles back at you and leans in to place a soft kiss on your cheek. Your cheeks instantly redden. “I hope that was okay.” Wanda says nervously. You smile at her again, “It was more than okay, Wands.”

The dinner came along nicely, you made a great team in the kitchen. You were sipping on your wine and swaying to the music as you effortlessly danced around each other in the kitchen. Wanda set the table along with some candles. The food tasted amazing, you were so happy with how it turned out. 

You cleaned up the dishes together before it was time for you to go home. Wanda only lived a couple of blocks away, so after the few glasses of wine that you had had, you could easily walk home again. Wanda walked you to the door, plans for seeing each other next already made. “Hey, Wanda, I know this was only the first date but can I kiss you?” In response Wanda smiles and leans in. You meet her half way into a soft kiss. You smile into the kiss and feel Wanda doing the same, making the butterflies in your stomach go crazy. On your walk home you can’t stop smiling. Once you enter your home, you text Wanda to let her know that you made it home safely.

Before the last cooking class the next Sunday, you had met up with Wanda many times again. You went on a picnic date on your day off, and enjoyed some snacks by the waterfront. Wanda joined you to try out one of your hobbies. Besides that you spend most evenings after work together, either watching a movie or just hanging out. When Sunday came around, it felt like you had known Wanda for years. When the class was over, you helped her clean up once again, and went home with her after another movie night. 

What you thought would be a one time cooking class to learn something new, turned into dating an incredible chef who would teach you all about it from the comfort of both your homes. Signing up for that class, had led to meeting your new favorite person, and you could not be happier.

💗 If you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a tip 💗

[brabblesblog]

Without garlic I simply would not care to live, or

The vampire ascendant discovers the virtues of the humble garlic.

Here's a small AA/batstarion x reader fic that I wrote for a giveaway on Twitter!

Read on AO3

The slice was laid out before him, plated carefully by the chamberlain, accompanied by a small block of butter and a knife.

The smell was familiar, although it no longer had that acrid tang that made his lip curl. Instead it was… pleasant, in the way the smell of blood did - soft notes of toasted bread, accompanied with that scent, the one he’d avoided for centuries - it made his mouth water.

From your usual seat, you inclined your head at him.

“Are you going to keep staring at it, or are you going to take a bite?’

Astarion shot you a glare, scoffing. “I am savouring it.”

“You could savor it once you’ve actually tasted it.” You reached for your own slice and bit down, chewing aggressively at him. He pointedly ignored you in favor of lifting his piece between thumb and forefinger, staring at it as if it would suddenly strike him.

Pausing with bated breath, you waited.

He narrowed his eyes at you one last time, and sank his teeth in.

That was the last time you’ve had a meal that didn’t involve garlic in some major way. If you were honest, it was to be expected. Astarion was always a man who chose to indulge himself; it just so happened that garlic was his new vice.

Almost every meal now came with it, and slowly you began to… not hate it. If you were honest you never really could hate it-

Tire of it. Yes, that was the word.

You grumbled every meal as the mind link was opened, the taste of garlic suffusing your senses as he bit down and moaned.

Shaking your head, you grumbled. “How much longer, until this obsession fades, love?”

“Until I’ve at least tried every dish involving it, and even then, only perhaps.”

“Have you considered eating it raw?” The thought wasn’t purely out of simple beneficence; you figured the taste would be so bad it would snap him out of this obsession.

Gods. You had taken a sip from his wineglass the other day, and almost gagged - even the blood had been infused with it!

To any normal vampire that would have meant retching. To you, it seemed as if he had extended his immunity to garlic. There was that, at least. The mixture, however, still felt… unholy, and you bit back a snarl as you set his drink down.

“Astarion! Gods- what is this?”

He flicked his eyes over at you, a smirk toying at his lips. “It was an experiment. There are two things I love most in this world-” his eyes raked over you, “other than you, of course. Blood, and well…”

“Garlic,” you supplied for him. Unbelievable. He nodded.

“It didn’t take long for this idea to take hold. Were I to combine both, something no other vampire could do… would it taste heavenly, or…”

He waved his hand. You sensed hesitation there, and prodded.

“It tasted like shit, didn’t it?”

Astarion refused to answer, and you snorted. “I don’t need the mental link to know how rancid this mixture is, given how it smells.”

“Then I need not provide you with further answers, do I?”

You had tackled him with a kiss at that point, too annoyed and amused to do much else.

His voice brought you out of your thoughts. “Darling?”

“Sorry. Still thinking about that whole… garlic-infused monstrosity you had the other day. You were saying?”

“Raw,” he repeated. “It might be a tad too strong, considering the scent, but I would not mind trying.”

Before you could say much else he already waved a servant over, asking for one from the kitchens. You placed your chin on your palm, the smallest shake of the head the only thing you managed to say in response.

“Astarion… I was kidding.” At his raised eyebrow, you sighed. “Perhaps half-kidding, then.”

He hummed in assent. “And yet some places do ingest their garlic raw. Besides, what harm could it do?”

The answer, as it turned out, was a lot.

He ate a clove, commenting on how it burned on its way down - much like fine vintage, which made you groan - but the watering of his eyes told you everything you needed to know. That, and the way he put the rest of it aside, gingerly pushing the plate away with his index and middle finger, as though it were some caustic, poisonous thing.

A small well of satisfaction filled you. Perhaps the days of smelling garlic every meal would be over. Astarion ate the rest of his meal in relative silence, one you were all too happy to let stretch.

“I must be off,” came his voice, breaking the silence. He looked at you, eyes soft, hand reaching to cover your own. “A quick meeting, a survey of the new balustrade… you wouldn’t miss me too much, would you?”

You pushed your plate away and took a small sip from your goblet. “Probably not.”

You would, of course. But he and you both enjoyed this little game. Astarion huffed and stood, buttoning his suit jacket. Leaning in for a kiss, he whispered into your ear.

“Be a dear and await me in our bedchambers, my love. I assure you your… patience, if you do so, will be generously rewarded.”

As sweet as those words were, however, his breath was anything but. The tang of garlic filled your nostrils and you hissed, pushing him away with a playful swat of your hand.

“Gods, no. Maybe another day?”

He paused, sniffing his own breath, eyebrows raising in surprise and amusement. “Mm. Perhaps await me in the bathroom, then? I could always bathe and clean myself before coming to you.”

“Brush your teeth twice,” you held up a finger, “and I’ll consider letting you kiss me.”

The laugh that answered you as he left the dining room was nothing short of music to your ears.

When he finally came to the bedroom, it was as a white bat, flying in through the open windows. But he did so in such an ungainly manner, wings flapping as he fought to right himself, landing on the bed with a graceless thump.

You looked down at him, watching his ears lie flat against his skull. He had caught you by surprise - his usual schedule meant that you had not expected him to come back for another hour. A small, plaintive squeak answered your silent inquiry.

My stomach.

He folded his wings, curling into himself, resembling a small, rather fuzzy ball. Concern won out; you picked him up and set him on your belly, peering at him.

What happened?

Those large eyes refused to meet yours. Tucking his head under a wing, he burbled.

The garlic did not seem to agree with this… physiology.

Ah. You ran your index finger down his back, from the mop of fur resembling the usual swoop of his hair, down his spine. He shivered pleasantly, eyes peeking out at you from a velvety wing.

You must find this amusing. The eyes narrowed, and he chittered. Don’t you?

You shook your head, your hand continuing its slow, gentle strokes. He leaned against your touch, pressing his small body against your fingers. No- ow!

He had nipped you. Sighing, you shrugged. Okay. Perhaps a little. I do honestly think you’ve overdone this whole… garlic thing.

My love, came the response, decidedly exasperated even through the mental link, I have not had it in centuries. You can’t possibly blame me for indulging!

You reached towards his front, gently poking his belly. I think you indulge far too much for a little bat.

That was met by a squawk of surprise and offense; fangs sank into your finger again, and you allowed him to latch onto it. He sucked, eyes narrowed, as the blood no doubt soothed his upset stomach. You rubbed his back again, a gesture of atonement. That was rewarded by a much happier squeak. There was a flutter of wings as he shifted, getting a better angle to feed.

Better? The silence had been filled by the sounds of his feeding, and the feel of his downy fur. It was now sticking up everywhere, and as his fangs detached from your finger he shook himself, attempting to rearrange it.

Spreading his wings he looked down at himself, sighing dejectedly when the fur still looked mussed. Baleful eyes fixed on yours.

You ruined my hair.

At least your stomach doesn’t hurt anymore?

There was a small huff, one that amazed you - even in this form his penchant for dramatics was not lessened one bit. He flopped down against you. I suppose I can accept that compromise.

No one’s going to see you anyway, you retort.

The smallest tilt of his head was a sign of begrudging acquiescence. He shut his eyes, ears flicking lazily as he eased into your embrace. Running your hands down his back, you scratched behind his ears. A coo escaped him at this, his snout pressed against your body.

If there was one thing about this whole debacle that you liked, you thought, it was getting your little bat to come cuddle far earlier in the day than he usually would.

Between that, and the small, sleepy purr he just made as he nuzzled you, the endless days of tasting garlic were worth it.

[cranberrymoons]

breaking frozen ground

prompt: uncle wayne adopts steve (@steddieholidaydrabbles) word count: 998 rated: t tags: fluff, gardening, appalachian wayne!! notes: this is part of the future fic series! it stands alone but takes place after Day 18 – a home for the holidays

welcome to Day 23 of the fic advent calendar – bite-sized fics posting every day during the month of december. enjoy!

It’s a quiet morning, early enough that Eddie had just grunted and curled further around his pillow when Steve slipped out of bed and stumbled around the room looking for clothes. 

But Wayne’s awake, feet propped on the coffee table and paging through the local paper with a cup of coffee at his elbow.

He looks up when Steve enters, lifts his chin in greeting then turns over a page in his paper and goes back to it without a word. Steve pours himself a cup of coffee from the pot in the kitchen and carries it into the living room, curling in the corner at the other end of the couch. 

After a moment, when Wayne’s finished with his section of the paper, he folds it neatly in half and holds it out toward Steve, waiting for him to take it before moving on to the next.

They sit like that in comfortable silence for a long time, until Steve’s finished his coffee and Wayne has passed him the sports section before collecting both their mugs to carry them into the kitchen for a refill.

“Milk?” Wayne asks over his shoulder. It’s the first word either of them have said. Steve smiles to himself.

“I take it black, actually,” he says. Then, flipping over to read the score from last night’s Colts game, “Thank you.”

Wayne just grunts, giving him the small lift of a smile as he fills their cups. He squints out the window over the sink as he does. 

“Supposed to be warm out today,” he says, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Could use some help in the garden, if you’re up for getting your hands a little dirty.”

“Sure,” Steve says, accepting the refilled mug from Wayne. It’s the one that’s become his in the past few months, ever since he started sometimes spending the night here. It’s nothing special, just a faded Hawkins Tigers logo, but he likes the weight of it in his hand. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you wouldn’t mind some help, but I didn’t think there’d be anything to do until Spring.”

Wayne hums, nodding slightly. “Always something to do, son.”

---

Eddie’s still all but dead to the world when Steve reenters the bedroom to find something warm enough to wear outside – it might be a sunny day for December, but it is still December, after all. He stirs a little when Steve perches on the edge of the bed to tug on a thick pair of socks, head popping up from his nest of pillows, hair frizzing out around his head.

“Wha’s ‘at?”

Steve just grins, leaning over to brush a kiss over his lips. Eddie shuffles closer, drawing him in, until Steve places a hand on his chest and pulls back a few inches. 

“I’m going to help Wayne in the garden for a while,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”

“I’m awake now, though,” Eddie says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “And way more interesting than a pile of old dirt in the backyard.”

He swipes his thumb over Eddie’s bottom lip then follows it up with another kiss before slipping out of his hold to tug his sweater on over the faded Sabbath shirt that he’s got tucked into his jeans. Eddie groans and makes grabby hands for him, but Steve just smiles as he runs a last hand back through his own hair.

“Come meet us outside,” he says. “You can heckle us from the back porch, if you want.”

---

Wayne’s busy dragging piles of dead brush out of the beds when Steve makes his way to the backyard, and Steve pulls on a pair of work gloves before joining him, shoulder to shoulder as they pile sticks and pieces of fallen limbs against the side of the house for chopping into firewood. 

“Garlic has to freeze to grow,” Wayne tells him as they poke individual cloves into little holes in the freshly-revealed dirt before spreading a layer of leaves over the earth to cover it up. “It’ll be ready to pull up by the summer.”

Steve glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Where did you learn all this?” 

Wayne sits back on his heels, pulling his work gloves off before running a hand back through his hair. He squints up at the thin sunlight overhead where it’s peeking through the clouds. 

“My dad,” he says after a moment. “Got us through the Depression like this, just sticking stuff in the dirt and waiting to see what popped up.”

Steve feels a small smile spread across his face, and he tilts his head to the side. “Did you grow up around here?” he asks. “Eddie’s never really said.”

Wayne lets out a little laugh, cheek dimpling on one side in the same way Eddie’s does whenever he’s thinking something through. 

“Nah,” he says after a moment. “We were down in West Virginia until after the war, then our parents packed us in the car and came here for better jobs.” He laughs again. “That turned out about as well as you think.”

Steve takes a breath and nods a little. The ground is cold under his knees, and his cheeks feel flushed from the chill in the air, the light sweat from the work they’ve been doing drying tight on his skin. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you did,” he says. “You know.”

He casts a look back at the house where he can see Eddie puttering around the kitchen, pulling breakfast together. When he looks back, Wayne is watching him with a quiet expression on his face, and Steve feels himself flush. He shrugs. 

Before either of them can say anything else, the back door slides open, and Eddie sticks his head out the door, hair pulled back from his face. He gives an exaggerated shiver. 

“I made pancakes,” he says. “For whenever you two are done rolling around in the mud.”

[also on ao3]

[wikiangela]

WIP Wednesday

tagged by @daffi-990 @jamespearce9-1-1 💖

more sick eddie (I think i'm gonna finish this one before getting back to any other wips haha) for context, Buck is trying to get Eddie to eat raw garlic for his cold bc I'm Polish hahaha (btw i'm giving buck all my polish ways of dealing with a cold idgaf lmao - all of what he does in the fic is literally what I always do haha)

prev snippet

___

 “I’m not kissing you, either, at least not tonight, while you’re sick, so you really don’t have to worry about your breath.”

“Wait, what was that?” Eddie’s eyes widen, and he just stares at Buck in surprise. 

“You heard me.” Buck smirks, turning towards the fridge to retrieve garlic.

“Uh, I think- I think my ears might be a bit clogged, too, so you might have to repeat that.” he says quietly, with something akin to disbelief and hope in his voice. Buck’s glad he didn’t interpret anything wrong here.

“We’ll talk when you’re not sick.” he responds, quickly peeling a garlic clove. They’ll talk. Finally. They’ve been dancing around this for long enough, and he’s excited to move it further. Now he’s even more determined to get Eddie better quicker.

“But I’m not sick.” Eddie pouts.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @diazblunt @911onabc @eddiediaztho @housewifebuck @gayhoediaz @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @monsterrae1 @ladydorian05 @honestlydarkprincess @wildlife4life @theotherbuckley @underwater-ninja-13 @eowon @jeeyuns @forthewolves @hoodie-buck @giddyupbuck @exhuastedpigeon @hippolotamus @lover-of-mine @fortheloveofbuddie @weewootruck @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks @loserdiaz @jesuisici33 @thewolvesof1998 @evanbegins @steadfastsaturnsrings

[httpknjoon]

reading thirst tweets | ksj

plot | You and Jin read thirst tweets to each other.

words | 1739

genres | humor/crack, barely fluff, actors!au

pairing | actor!jin x famous!reader

warning | language, suggestive theme

disclaimer | usernames used in the fic are all fictional.

note | a random thought while on my midterm break. have fun reading, loves.

main masterlist | drabble series

“Hi! I’m Jin.” you began, raising a hand.

And Jin, who sat next to you, raised his hand too, “And I’m Y/N. We’re here at Buzzfeed…”

“...to read some thirst tweets.” you raised your eyebrows up and down while squinting at the camera.

“With a twist!” Jin exclaimed.

“What’s the twist?” you asked turning to the producers, who were off-screen.

You and Jin have nothing to promote for this event. Jin was just announced to be cast in a limited series days ago while you just finished a press junket for your latest movie a month ago. But out of big demand, you two were invited to do this segment. Hailey lets you decide on your own since you’re doing it with Jin anyway. 

Normally, as your manager, she would scan through everything you will do for the press like interviews. She would advise you on what to do and don’t. But since this one is with Jin and you two already did a lot of clutter together, Hailey just gave up and made you choose to go or not. Of course, you accepted the invitation. 

You and Jin sat there side by side, listening to their instructions. “You two will read thirst tweets for one another and say it while looking directly at each others’ eyes.”

“So, it’s like a chemistry test…” you mumbled.

Jin nodded and winked at the camera while pointing finger guns, “But steamier…”

“Also, the one who has the less reaction at the end of the video wins.” the producer added.

Before the reading began, you two were asked to turn your chairs and sit in front of one another. There is a safe two feet of distance between you. There is also a wooden stool on the side, where the bucket of tweets sat. You see Jin smirking as you two sat on your seats. He seemed pretty confident with this and you feel excited. You don’t really read anything about yourself on Twitter since it can be terrifying. So, hopefully, this will be fun. It’s just thirst tweets. You’ve seen videos of your other colleagues doing it and it’s embarrassing and funny at the same time.

“Okay, who’s going first?” you asked.

Jin handed you the bucket, “Ladies first.”

“Oh, thank you, Jinnie.” you chuckled.

As soon as you ran your eyes to the small piece of paper, you had to stop yourself from laughing. Jin crossed his arms over his chest, internally excited based on your reactions.

“Thank God Jin isn’t a real vampire because what if I start moaning while he’s sucking the life out of me?!”

Instead of being flushed, Jin laughed hard. His wide shoulders shook. He heard theories about him being a vampire. Simply because, they said, he doesn’t seem to get older after years of being in the spotlight. People on the internet always compare his pictures from a decade ago to his recent ones.

“Who said Jin isn’t a real vampire?” you turned to the camera. “I thought I already proved that he is one of them. I have the video, right? Plus, this is an old man right here. I swear, he is three thousand and ninety-two years old.”

Jin shook his head, “No, what happened in that video was an attack. And again, I’m just three years older than you. Quit calling me old man.”

“Still old.” you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

The video that you two were referencing was the one you posted around last year’s Halloween. In the clip, you, who’s recording, were running after Jin while throwing cloves of garlic in his direction. You screamed behind him, “I know that you’re a vampire! Admit it!”. It was a chaotic scenario that you captioned: pov you’re trying to kill some vampire in your backyard.

“Whatever. Okay, I’m next.” Jin reached for a tweet. He didn’t give off any reaction when he read it to himself at first. Then, he turned to you before reciting the tweet with more emotions, “Y/N is a goddess, a queen, and a legend. She’s the fucking icon that this world needs. She is the most beautiful human ever. Goodbye.”

While he was saying those words, you mirrored Jin’s expressions exaggeratedly. It was obvious that you were just playing along as you stared at him with dazed eyes, even putting your hand on your chest. Like you have fallen in love.

When he was done repeating it, you gasped, “That’s not a thirst tweet! That’s too sweet and kind. Thank you so much to whoever tweeted that.”

You blew a kiss on the camera. You picked another tweet and your eyes instantly widened as you read it quietly. It made Jin wonder what was in there.

“Now, this is thirst!” you exclaimed. You turned to your leading man, “Oh, man. You’re going to lose at this… This is a message for Jin. If you're reading this, please know that I would love to have your hand as a necklace, sir. Hashtag choke me sir.”

Jin tried not to react. But he could feel the heat rising in his body out of embarrassment. He knows that you are aware of how easily he can be shy about things. Especially with this. He read worse in his posts’ comment section. But this type of aggressive review from people never fails to make his cheeks blush.

“Any thoughts on that, sir?” you stressed on the nickname, trying to stifle a laugh as you look at him.

He shook his head, “Just– No… I would prefer using my hand to give a high five to you all.”

He smiled at your giggle at his answer. He rolled up the sleeves of his sweater before fishing for another piece of paper. His eyes lightened up when he read it.

“Oh my god. Y/N could strangle me with that Versace gown and I would still say thank you.” he repeated.

“Honey, that’s murder,” you replied with concern. “I would not strangle anyone. That’s unnecessary. I don’t think I’m into strangling anyone.”

Jin held back a laugh as you said the last sentence like a slow realization. You raised an eyebrow at him, “Why are you laughing? Are you into choking anyone?”

Your question obviously had some suggestive theme. But you asked with an innocent expression. Jin can already feel the stress from both of your PR managers with this video.

“No. No, I am not.” Jin replied.

“That’s good to know. You got me a little worried there, buddy.” you winked and gave a pat on his shoulder before getting another tweet. “Imagine getting paid to kiss Kim Seokjin and his pretty lips, how does it feel to be in heaven?”

Jin was ready to reply, “Well–”

“Ah, based on my experience, as someone who had down thousand of movies with Mr. Kim Seokjin, heaven tasted like a tuna-mayo sandwich.” you cut him off with a matter-of-fact tone.

He gasped dramatically, “What? I don’t eat anything before any kissing scene. You’re the one who always eats the most disgusting meal before our kissing scenes.”

“Shhh! Stop with the lies, liar. It’s fine. I understand that you have a big heart for tuna-mayo sandwiches.” you shut him off.

“For the record, I am a very hygienic person.” 

The camera zoomed to Jin as he explained himself. Just like how the camera would point at Jim in The Office. There are just few papers left. 

“This was a reply on one of your tweets. Ready?” he began as he reads the tweet quietly with his eyes.

“Sure.”

“Why? Why would anyone tweet this?!” he suddenly complained, sounding embarrassed and annoyed at the same time. “Do people really call you this?”

You laughed even though you don’t know what he was talking about, “I won’t know if you won’t read it!  Just go, Jinnie.”

After letting out a big sigh, he cleared his throat before reading, “Mommy? Sorry. Mommy? Sorry. Oh, excuse me! Mommy? Sorry.”

Jin’s ears were already red as tomatoes when he finished saying that. He never called anyone mommy even his mom, who simply called as mom or ma. He never planned on calling anyone it, especially you. 

“Ah, yes, my lovely children from Twitter.” you reacted so calmly like the term was already normal to you. “I’m so sorry, kids. I think only Francheskat can call me that.”

There was still a last piece of tweet in the small bucket. Jin was supposed to read it. But based on his head hanging low, an effort to hide his still-flustered face, you made a decision to just do it.

“Okay since Jin right here cannot read anymore, I’ll take this last one.” you winked at the camera while Jin turned his head up to wordlessly read it with you. “I want someone to look at me the way Y/N and Jin look at each other.”

After that, you and Jin slowly looked at each other. You were smiling like an idiot as you know that you already won in this game. While Jim playfully glared at you. It was a cute and childish interaction. Still, everyone in the room cannot deny the chemistry between the two actors. Everyone was in awe before you broke eye contact.

“Oh my god, Jin. Look at your ears!” you pointed out, giggling. “Someone give him a glass of water!”

The video reached a million views in less that eight hours. The comments were filled not just by your massive and active fans but also, the general audience.

MoonlightBaby  2 hours ago

This video made me look up for that vampire video

Kim SeokjinFan  7 hours ago

poor jinnie 🤣 i always love their chaotic energy

YNJIN1208  1 hour ago

OMG DID SHE CALLED HIM BABY?????

▼ 1 reply

Levi  5 minutes ago

I think she said buddy.

natalia r.  5 hours ago

not a fan here, can someone tell me these two are dating. I mean, they gotta be dating!!

▼2 replies

catladyfan 5 hours ago

no one knows 😭😭😭

cornelia street  3 hours ago

it will be a mystery forever

Penelope P.  8 hours ago 

I don’t think these two will agree on doing this without each other HAHAHA

Harry’sHouse  4 hours ago 

not y/n implying that jin have a choking kink 💀

being a fangirl  2 hours ago

y/n really enjoyed calling him sir for a whole minute there...

taglist rules

THE A-LISTERS TAGLIST

@seolaquotes @fatimaaaaa129 @bangtannieshope @jub-jub @yoontaethings @kissme-ornot @sleepy-daydreams @veronawrites @cuteipat @ratherbefangirling @babystarcandy-gcf @akirawhore @alpacaparkaseok @rjsmochii @prlan @lovesickbangtan @zealouslightcookiebasketball @rapmonie2047 @btsiguess-kpop @angelarin @walkinganxiety0 @tpwk-280 @mediumcatt @bloopkook

PERMANENT TAGLIST

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[garlicsoupweek]

Hey folks! We forgot to announce this earlier, but for anyone who's interested, we're running a cozy little TealOranges & Garlic Soup autumn event over on Twitter and Bluesky!

Garlic Soup Autumn Bingo is a fandom event where we don't create anything, but instead focusing on enjoying what we already have! We'll have a bingo card, a bingo card generator, and daily prompts focusing on fics, other fan creations, and self-care!

Please note that this event will mainly be running on Twitter/X and Bluesky. Links to both accounts are above, and also in our profile. We'll post the bingo card here, but otherwise we simply don't have the engagement on Tumblr to warrant daily posts! Go follow us on our other accounts to see the daily posts and share your cards <3

[ID copied from alt text: An autumn-themed title card that reads:

Coming Soon Garlic Soup Autumn Bingo An autumn-themed bingo event focused on getting cozy and enjoying all the wonderful TealOranges and Garlic Soup that our fandom has to offer! November 10-16

Details around the card include fall leaves, garlic cloves, and the Garlic Soup Week logo in the bottom corner (which is a soup bowl with oranges and garlic). End ID.]

[bluiex]

Some Angst/Drama, what if Charlie tried to steak Pim at a Breakroom Party only to confuse everyone else and nobody believes Pim is a vampire, instead everyone is mad at Charlie for scaring Pim and making him cry (Alan and Glep assume he got drunk and stupid, Zoey breaks up with him and Mr. Boss deducts his pay)

BRO YES. Here me out

The next time Charlie sees Pim is at this party as well. He called off work that day to, he was too in his head over the new found information of Pim being one of those monsters he grew up believing were horrid evil things that need to be slain. How could his best friend of seven years be one them? He's so conflicted but years of conditioning win over how distraught he is and he's dead set on killing this monster. Because that's obviously the reason he's so upset, he's gotta kill it.

So he gathers his things, hides the stakes in his pockets, cloves of garlic (this bit isn't real just a myth but Charlie doesn't know that) to protect himself and his trusted cross around his neck. He goes to the party as normal greets everyone, eyes everywhere looking for Pim who can't be found (he's off getting the punch refilled). He's shifty and anxious to the point Allan speaks up about it and Charlie just shrugs him off.

Then Pim appears. Charlie strikes as Pim puts down the refilled punch. It causes a huge commotion, the punch bowl being knocked to the floor among other things as Charlie's got Pim pinned to the floor stake aimed at his heart. Pim is screaming for help, hands holding Charlie's wrist back long enough for Allan and Mr.Boss to pull him off Pim.

Pim is shaking, sat on the floor, tears streaming down his face as he stares at his friend in shock. Glep is at his side speaking quickly. Charlie's yelling trying to fight his way out of Allan and Mr. Boss' grip about how Pim's a monster and all that shit. Zoey's there shocked at Charlie, angry and yelling at him to stop it while crouching in front of Pim to protect him.

Allan's assuming Charlie's drunk or high or something Cuz Pim? A vampire? Laughable. Mr. Boss is able to get Charlie out of the room, and gives him a stern talking too and suspends him for a week without pay.

Zoey breaks up with him, unable to forgive Charlie for trying to kill someone like that. Even if Pim is a vampire, who gives him the right to end his life? What's Pim ever done that is bad? And that gets Charlie thinking, feeling extremely guilty and just down right miserable.

Charlie, during his time off eventually comes to the conclusion to his feelings. Why he felt so devastated his friend was a monster.. He liked Pim, a lot. A lot more than a friend should. And growing up, being taught to kill these things all his life, well it blocked out these emotions. He really needs to apologize to Pim but why would Pim ever wanna see Charlie after what he tried to do? So he's sulking, heavily considering quitting his job to the point he messaged Allan about it. Which Allan told Pim about.

This is getting so long- imma end that there LOL maybe I'll indulge and write this as a fic if ppl are interested.

[wander-over-the-words]

BioFluff Week 2023 Fic #3

Title: Hey, Good Lookin’

Prompt: Food/Cooking

Summary: The one where Sinclair has a secret dinner date.

Characters: Augustus Sinclair, Johnny Topside; mentions of Sander Cohen, Andrew Ryan, Stanley Poole, Frank Fontaine, Grace Holloway, Tasha Denu, Gilbert Alexander.

Pairing: Augustus Sinclair/Johnny Topside.

Warnings: alcohol consumption; mentioned sex (no actual nsfw or ‘fade to black’ happens, but like. it’s date night, it’s gonna happen and they both know it, and also it’s mentioned they’ve banged before), kidnapping, period-typical homophobia, forced imprisonment.

Notes: Third submission for a new BioFluff Week! Here’s the response to the prompt ‘Cooking’! Take this as a sort of preview of an AU I’ve had in my back pocket for a while now. You could also say this is the first time Delta’s ever spoken in one of my fics ;3

Songs used: Night and Day, Crazy He Calls Me and Easy Living, all by Billie Holiday.

All material belongs to Irrational Games.

Fic also available on AO3.

…

It’s a thirty-seventy split on how often Sinclair cooks for himself and how often he dines at one of the many restaurants out in Rapture. He’s a capable man, ain’t one of those fellas who leaves the kitchen work to the lady of the house (and not just because there ain’t a chance in hell of there ever being a lady in his house), and he does honestly enjoy the art of cooking. Got tons of recipes stored away in his mind, some from his childhood and some adopted from his time building up his riches after he’d moved to Georgia, alongside his accent and perfect English.

But then he’s also a man who enjoys being rich, and he enjoys what he’s capable of doing since he’s rich; one of those things is the ability to afford wining and dining whenever he damn well pleases. One doesn’t get a tummy like his without spoiling themselves, after all.

Tonight, though, wining and dining isn’t an option, unless Sinclair wants the rumour mill to downright implode upon itself.

He’s humming along to the record gently spinning on its player in the living room as he prepares a sauce for the pasta he’s planning on cooking, apron tied around his neck and waist to protect his date night getup: a nice formal ensemble, complete with navy blue waistcoat and matching slacks, red tie, shiny black shoes and, embedded in the cuffs of his perfectly white shirt, a pair of gold cufflinks in the shapes of sharks that he’d bought for himself as a birthday present (and he’s sure his date will appreciate them, even if the kid’s favourite animals are actually whales; will probably see ‘em and immediately ask if Sinclair would like to hear an interesting fact about sharks, bless him).

The finely-chopped beef and onions have browned within the pan, and Sinclair’s added the tomato sauce and tomato paste; he glances at the clock to check the time - five minutes until seven o’clock - before he grabs a bulb of garlic, loosens it, then picks out three of its cloves to mince and add to the sauce. A few more seasonings, a dash of sugar and a bit of a mix later, and Sinclair adjusts the temperature to let the sauce simmer.

He grabs a tall pot from the cupboard next to his left knee and fills it halfway with water from the tap, then sets it upon a ring on his stove, flicks the temperature up and prepares to wait for it to boil.

And good timing, too - because there comes a sound at his front door.

Knock, knock, knock.

Sinclair pauses immediately, looking toward the entryway to the kitchen behind him without turning his head, waits for a second, then he slowly holds up an index finger.

Knock, knock, knock.

Second finger goes up. Wait.

There’s a beat where nothing happens, and Sinclair cocks his head, arching an eyebrow, and then…

…Knock, knock, knock. 

Three fingers, and Sinclair bobs his head in a pleased nod as he grins.

He whisks his apron off and steps out of his kitchen, making his way to the front door; the knock selected for their code is finished, which means Sinclair knows exactly who it is.

He stands in front of the door and composes himself, holds out his hands and shuts his eyes, then hovers a hand in front of his face and wipes downwards in the air. As his hand moves, his grin is replaced with an irritated frown, and only once he’s confident that he can keep that frown in place does he open the door.

“For the love of God, kid!” he immediately says to the tall man standing on his doorstep, stern and purposely loud, with his hands on his hips. “I thought I informed you of the rules when yer workin’ for me: namely, that none of the folks on my payroll are allowed anywhere near my place of residence unless it’s a dire emergency!” 

“Oh, I’m awful sorry to bother you at this late hour, Mr. Sinclair,” Johnny Topside says, looking so frightfully worried and embarrassed, with his shoulders lifted like he’s trying to hide behind them, clutching a pile of papers tied with string to his chest as he looks anywhere but Sinclair, “but I just…I just can’t wrap my head around this paperwork you wanted me to sort out and I-I didn’t wanna screw anything up, so I…I thought it best to bring it to you, just in case…!”

Sinclair huffs a sigh as he leans a hand against his doorway, using his other hand to pinch his brow.

“This is the third time this has happened, son,” he says, then drops his hand from his face so that he can frown sharply at Topside. “Personally, I’m startin’ to think I’m gonna need to look for a new assistant.”

“Oh - Oh, no, p-please, don’t fire me, Mr. Sinclair!” Topside exclaims, looking at Sinclair in the face now. “I-I really need this job, it’s the best one I’ve been offered! I swear, I’ll get better at it, if you…i-if you just show me how…?”

Sinclair sighs again and looks away as he considers it, then he looks back at Topside as he nods to gesture at his apartment. He steps aside.

“Fine. Get on in here, quick - before I end up changin’ my mind.”

“Thank you, sir…” Topside mumbles as he hurries into the apartment, nearly dropping his stack of papers as he goes.

As casually as he can, Sinclair glances around the hall of the Mercury Suites to check for witnesses, then he steps back into his apartment proper and clicks to shut and lock the door - and the second the door is closed, he turns on his heel, marches over to Topside, snatches the papers from Topside’s hands and nonchalantly throws them aside, then he reaches up to grab the lapels of Topside’s overcoat in his hands and pulls him down for a kiss.

Topside allows himself to be pulled in, fully expecting it, and reciprocates immediately. He settles into the smooch with one hand cupping the back of Sinclair’s neck while the other arm wraps itself around his waist.

They lock lips for several long moments, repeatedly breaking and restarting kisses, until Sinclair leans back and opens his eyes to grin up at him.

“Five star performance as always, kid,” he says, reaching up and resting his wrists on Topside’s shoulders to loosely hug his neck with his hands. “Are you sure you don’t wanna head back down to the theatre an’ tell ol’ Cohen you’ve reconsidered his offer ta go up on stage?”

“Oh, gosh, no,” Topside replies, “I’m nervous enough goin’ up on the small stage. Besides, uh,” his brow furrows as he looks away, “he, uh…he upsets me.”

“Aww. You don’t like the fella responsible for your new name?” Sinclair asks, and when he receives a displeased frown - borderline pout - in return, he chuckles and adds, “I’m just messin’, honey - and don’t worry ‘bout it, that man upsets the lot of us.”

Then he presses another kiss to Topside’s mouth.

More kisses are shared, then Topside’s breaking the pattern to turn his head in the direction of the kitchen, still so close that Sinclair is two inches away from kissing his cheek.

“Somethin’ smells heavenly, though!” 

“Mm-hmm. Makin’ spaghetti.”

“Oh, goodie,” Topside says cheerfully, and Sinclair has to chuckle at his unbridled enthusiasm for something as simple as spaghetti, let alone the fact that he chooses to use the word ‘goodie’. “I’m famished.”

“Well, that’s good news for the both of us, cause I went an’ stopped by the bakery on my way home too. Picked up a li’l sweet somethin’ for dessert. An’ then after that, well…” there’s a twinkle in his eye as he smirks thoughtfully, looking at Topside from under his eyelashes, “we’ll just hafta see where the night takes us next, now, won’t we?”

He slides his hands across Topside’s shoulders and down his arms with a deliberate slowness, pressing down upon Topside’s flesh in a massage that can’t even be disguised as casual - especially not with the fact that Sinclair isn’t at all shy nor subtle in the way he rakes his gaze up and down Topside’s body.

“Could just be, chief,” Sinclair goes on, lifting his gaze to Topside’s rounded, beet-red face, “that one of your awful headaches comes around ta ruin our dinner plans, an’ you’ll end up havin’ ta stay the night…”

Smirk widening, he winks, as if Topside needs a hint on what Sinclair means, as if they haven’t done this kind of rendezvous several times already. It’s just fun to mess with the kid, that’s all - he gets all shy.

On cue, Topside gives a hard enough swallow that his Adam’s apple does a jump in his throat.

“...Just might,” he says slowly, “be feelin’ one coming on already…” then he adds, “boss.”

“Hm. Well, from my experience, I know how painful they are for ya,” Sinclair puts a hand to his heart, all humble-like, while his other hand lays itself on Topside’s chest, “and I just cannot - with my dear conscience intact - allow one o’ my finest employees to try an’ make it home on his own, in such a terrible condition.”

Topside gulps again, then nods.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Sinclair.”

“It is kind o’ me, isn’t it?” 

Sinclair chuckles as he drops the joke, then leans up to press a final kiss to Topside’s mouth before he winks again and turns to go. 

“I’ll go on an’ fetch you some wine, honey - you go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

Sinclair pulls himself from Topside’s arms, starting a saunter to the kitchen, but stops when he catches sight of the papers he’d flung to the floor earlier; he’d thought they were just blank pages, but now that he takes a closer look at them, he sees they’re covered with writing and numbers.

He arches a brow, then looks to Topside over his shoulder.

“Where did you say you got these papers?”

“Oh, uh, I didn’t, but I ripped ‘em out of a phonebook,” Topside says, fiddling with his tie with one hand. “Figured it’d be the most, ah, believable - though, I suppose I should put ‘em back, otherwise I won’t be able to, ah, heh…call anyone. Heh.”

Topside moves to stoop down to pick up the papers as Sinclair sincerely laughs at the joke, then cocks his head, setting a hand on his hip. 

“An’ you’re always tellin’ me you ain’t brainy, lookit you.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Topside replies with a casualness that Sinclair dislikes, head down as he straightens the pile of pages, the string having loosened when Sinclair tossed them, before he stands back up with the papers held to his chest. “Ask any o’ my old schoolteachers, they’ll tell you. Good with my hands, not my brain.”

Sinclair scoffs at the notion, then realises the record that’s been playing since he’d started prepping the meal is starting to wind down, and so before going to get that wine for the two of them, he strolls over to the player to change the record.

“Well, I’ll vouch for that first skill you mentioned,” Sinclair says as he sets the new record down on the turntable, then delicately picks up the needle to get the music back, “but I choose to politely ignore that second part.”

Topside smiles at him, then turns around to put the papers on the nearby coffee table. He pats them twice, like he’s telling them to stay, then straightens up and follows Sinclair into the kitchen.

Immediately, Sinclair fetches the bottle of wine he’d set aside for the evening - a dark, rich brand that had cost a pretty penny - and opens the drawer by his hip to grab the corkscrew. 

Topside’s gaze drifts over the counter space that Sinclair has used to prepare their meal, then winces, sucks a breath through his teeth and rubs the back of his neck with one hand.

“Y’know, I’m, uh…I’m startin’ to feel a little guilty here,” Topside says.

Sinclair arches an eyebrow, stabbing the screw into the wine’s cork.

“And what would you be feelin’ guilty about, honey?”

“Well,” Topside doesn’t look at Sinclair as he speaks, still holding his neck, letting his hand hang off of it by its fingers, “you’ve cooked for me a good handful o’ times now, and I feel like I’m not…playin’ equal, as it were.”

Sinclair scoffs, a sound that’s nearly completely overshadowed by the pop of the cork coming free from the wine bottle’s lips. 

“Now, that’s not true. You’ve cooked for me before, remember?” he says as he reaches up above himself to retrieve two crystal wine glasses from the cabinet, then starts pouring the wine. “I do: made me a mighty delicious breakfast each mornin’ you’ve woken up in my apartment - unless, of course, I’m thinkin’ of some other cuddlebug who I allow to lay between my sheets.”

(And what a treat that first time had been, waking up to the smell of bacon and eggs and toast and walking into his kitchen to find the man who’d made him worry about the thickness of his apartment’s walls cooking for him - and to add the bow to that present, Topside had elected to only dress in his drawers and Sinclair’s apron, like he was trying to make Sinclair’s version of Heaven a reality. He’d said it was because he was distracted by his own idea of cooking breakfast on the way back from the bathroom, and Sinclair believes him because God knows, the man’s mind moves a mile a minute, but…well. Yeah, Sinclair had been late to work that morning - and was wearing his shirt collar suspiciously high.)

Red in the face, Topside briefly gets distracted by the nickname, uttering a small “Oh, gosh…!” as he grins and looks down at his twiddling thumbs, flustered, before he clears his throat and forces himself to focus on what they were just discussing.

“But that’s breakfast, that’s…that feels a lot easier than a big dinner like this.” He gestures at all that Sinclair’s done. “Dinner feels more…more special, y’know?”

“Well, pumpkin,” Sinclair carries the glasses over to him, offering one out that’s taken immediately with a hushed word of thanks, “if we were to have these rendezvous at your place, folks would be wonderin’ why I’m suddenly so partial to spendin’ nights at my own hotel. Not to mention, the walls are a lot thinner there and, well, that’s no good for anybody involved, now, is it? Whole point of meetin’ here is so we don’t get into any trouble that we can’t afford ta be in. I dunno ‘bout you, but I’m not too keen on speakin’ in whispers the whole evenin’ we spend together.” 

“Oh, I know, I just…I wanna cook for you.”

Sinclair watches as Topside clears his throat and looks Sinclair in the eye, then frowns with determination and straightens up, puffing out his chest.

“You should, uh. Lemme cook for you. Properly.”

Sinclair smiles into his wine glass at the sight of him: his fella, who’s always shy and reserved, not wanting to take up much space or bother anybody, who’s always mild-mannered and careful not to offend, with that big ol’ serious look on his face.

Only time Sinclair’s ever seen him drop the gentlemanly approach was when they first met, at the Sinclair Spirits down in Fort Frolic, and that had only been because Topside was full of booze from drowning his sorrows.

“Well - I’d never turn down the offer of a good-lookin’ man wantin’ to cook me a dinner,” Sinclair says, his words cracking the confidence Topside’s applied; he sees the kid’s face bloom bright red and his frown and straightened posture falter. “You’ll hafta share with me the recipe, though. Whole plan’ll fall apart quicker ‘an a house o’ playin’ cards if anybody spots you turnin’ up at my door with armfuls of groceries.”

“I’ll pay for ‘em,” Topside says the instant Sinclair’s stopped speaking, still frowning. “Pay you back for ‘em.”

Sinclair hums through another smile and sips his wine.

“In the meantime,” Topside says, and the confident mask falls as he rubs his neck again, “is there any way I can help right now?”

Sinclair huffs a laugh, then gestures towards the small, round, mahogany table off to the side of the kitchen, initially used for whenever Sinclair needed extra space when preparing meals or wanted a different view than the one in the actual dining room, now used whenever Topside stops by for a date.

“If it means that much to you, sugar, the table needs settin’.”

Topside looks over at it, then nods once.

“I can do that,” he says happily, then sets his glass of wine on the counter and goes off to do just that.

Sinclair titters as he turns back to where dinner’s cooking, setting his glass of wine aside for now. He retrieves his apron and ties it back around himself, then collects the spaghetti from a separate cabinet; water’s more than boiled by now. He turns down the temperature, lest the water boil over, but before he can put the spaghetti in the pot, he finds himself distracted, looking over his shoulder at his fella.

Topside’s collected a tablecloth from the cupboard he knows they’re kept in and now he’s unfolding it, then wafting it through the air to straighten it out before gently laying it over the table. He pats and smooths out creases, then grabs a couple of coasters from the pile of them that Sinclair leaves on the far end of the kitchen counter, next to the fridge, and takes them back to the table, placing them carefully down like he’s balancing them precariously. He then collects his glass and places it down on one of them, in front of the seat that faces Sinclair.

Topside shrugs off his black overcoat and the blazer he wears underneath that, then lays both of them over one of the two chairs at the table. He then pops the buttons on his cuffs and rolls them over before drawing his sleeves up to his elbows, and as Topside goes back to the cupboard he’d gotten the tablecloth from to get placemats, Sinclair lets out a soft sigh at the sight of those broad forearms.

Hell, everything about Topside is broad. His shoulders, his chest, his arms and legs; the first time Sinclair had seen him without his shirt, muscles on full display, he hadn’t hid his admiration for the shape the kid is in, and Topside had just shrugged and given a shy “I work out.”

They ain’t just for show, either: he’d lifted Sinclair into his arms no problem to carry him to his bedroom (something no man has ever done before; it’d honestly left him more than speechless), and besides, he was a diver before accidentally coming to Rapture, with the needed strength to carry one of those big suits on his back. 

But the nicest thing about Topside’s physical form is that he isn’t like some of those boxers who take part in competitions down at The Fighting McDonagh’s Tavern, with their muscles so large that they look like they’ll break out of their skin at any moment, veins all popping and limbs abnormally bulky - an obvious case of ADAM usage (and maybe over-usage, in some).

Sinclair likes muscles on a man, but their kind just makes him wrinkle his nose a little in disgust; he can’t look at them without wondering how they’re so comfortable like that. 

Topside, though - he did everything right when it came to bulking himself up because he’s muscular, but he’s lean as well, to the point that his muscles aren’t immediately noticeable when he’s got his overcoat and blazer on, but good God, they become noticeable after he takes off those outer layers and you can see the definition of his biceps and thighs in their respective sleeves, how wide his chest and shoulders are. All so natural that he could tell Sinclair that he’d popped out of his mother like that and Sinclair would believe him.

Besides, if there’s anything one notices when they first see him, it’s Topside’s height. Sinclair’s never met a man so tall before; Sinclair himself is a couple of inches off the average height of a man his age and he just barely reaches Topside’s shoulder, if they’re standing straight and not counting any lifts like shoes or hairstyles. A full foot over him, and he’s only seven years Sinclair’s junior.

His stature is part of why he’s ended up with the ‘Johnny Topside’ moniker: Johnny Topside was the name of the protagonist of one of Cohen’s films, a piece of propaganda for Ryan that he hadn’t dared allow Ryan to see beforehand, calling it his magnum opus. Ryan had put his trust in Cohen, and that had all been a mistake. It’d been a film about a diver discovering Rapture, falling in love with it the second his feet had touched Rapture’s floors, and abandoning his ideals and his life on (a wildly exaggerated version of) the surface entirely. 

The film had been short-lived because Ryan took issue with someone coming to Rapture without an invitation, even when Cohen genuinely hadn’t meant offence, and all records of the film and its merchandise and posters had all been hurriedly hidden away somewhere in Fort Frolic. But it was too late: enough people had seen it that there were reviews in the papers and kids wanting to be ‘just like Johnny Topside’. From that point onward, Ryan saw it fit to instate an official rule that he see every piece of media produced in the city before it’s released to the public, the whole thing had been a great embarrassment to both Ryan and Cohen - and of course, Sinclair had gotten a laugh out of seeing the whole thing crash and burn.

The fella who played Johnny Topside in the movie was big too (not as big, but still big), as is Cohen’s preference in his leading men, and so when this diver had shown up in Rapture - in a suit nearly identical to the one of the character’s, with a similar build and seemingly living out the events of the long-lost film - everybody was convinced on what to ‘jokingly’ call him: this man is the real Johnny Topside. And thanks to some work from Stanley Poole and the Rapture Tribune, nearly everybody calls him that.

The only people who don’t are the ones Topside’s managed to personally befriend - because they’d been the ones to listen when he mentioned he actually hates being referred to by that nickname. Even Sinclair uses his real name, when he isn’t using the host of pet names he has for him.

And Sinclair doesn’t blame him for getting upset about it: a man’s allowed to hear his own name, after all. He personally hates it when people use any shortened form of Augustus, as the likes of Fontaine are wont to do (which is why Sinclair hates speaking with him; his name is not ‘Gus’). Besides, Sinclair saw that film when it premiered; gave it two stars at best, he’d fallen asleep during the second act and only woke up in time to see the very last scene.

Of course, Topside’s vastly aware of how big he is too; he’s always making sure he’s not in people’s personal space and trying to come off as friendly as possible from the quickdraw, so nobody gets intimidated by him. Not his fault he’s built so big, and the muscles are just used for heavy-lifting and the odd bit of DIY.

Topside’s already informed him of how he’d overheard some workers complaining about carrying a recent shipment and offered his help, thus spending a whole day down in Fontaine Fisheries lifting crates for no pay, and he remembers Topside telling him about how he’d help folks build anything from furniture to their garden sheds back on the surface - “And I’d only ask for a glass of lemonade in return.”

Sinclair had been the one to pay for Topside’s wardrobe, since the kid had come to him in a suit that was obviously too small for him (because all clothes are too small for him), and he still remembers the looks on the tailors’s faces when they’d measured Topside up. 

Still, they’d worked their magic alright, and Topside’s now got a wardrobe that actually fits him comfortably. He’s come to Sinclair this evening in a black suit, patterned with white pinstripes; since he’s removed the blazer, his crisp, white shirt is exposed, alongside the dark grey sweater vest he’s got pulled over the top of it and the navy blue tie at his throat. 

(Topside is also the only man Sinclair’s ever met that could make a sweater vest look attractive, the way it’s stretched over his pectorals until it’s taut, fitting but only just, in the same way that Topside’s rolled-up sleeves hug his biceps and his trousers hug his thighs.)

As he walks about Sinclair’s kitchen, collecting the salt and pepper shakers and the basket of napkins and placing them down in the centre of the table, his shiny, black shoes clack against the floor tiles. His dark hair also catches the light due to freshly-applied hair gel that he’s used to mould his hair into an impressive pompadour, like a large tube of spiralled hair atop his head, long enough that it stands out from Topside’s forehead, if just slightly, and loose enough that a few strands stick out at odd angles in a way that gives the style a little more charm. The hairstyle’s apparently all the rage up on the surface nowadays, but either way, Sinclair’s always appreciated a man who knows how to style his ‘do.

Got the body of a thug, the style and personality of a gentleman, and the gentleness of a lamb. 

Could he be anymore Sinclair’s type?

The song on the album fades out. After a few seconds of silence, the next song - Billie Holiday’s Night and Day - blares and as he goes about collecting two plates from the higher cupboards and bringing them over to the table to put down upon the placemats, Topside starts quietly singing along, with a look on his face that clearly says he’s not aware he’s doing so.

“Night and day, 

You are the one,

Only you beneath the moon 

And under the sun

Whether near to me or far,

It’s no matter, darling, where you are

I think of you…”

There’s another thing: the pipes on this man.

Topside came to him one day, during the photoshoot for the newest line of Sinclair Spirits advertisements (the initial reason that the two of them have spoken beyond the one conversation), telling him how he’s gonna be getting up on stage down in Pauper’s Drop and would Sinclair like to come and watch. 

Sinclair had elected to - and admittedly, the biggest reason for doing so was to keep the morale up amongst his workers. Topside was and still is the new ‘it’ celebrity in Rapture, and practically every business worth its salt wanted him to be a part of them for the profits he’d bring in, attaching his name and face to their products. Sinclair wanted to ensure Topside remained part of the Sinclair business family, and if taking an hour or two out of his day to listen to some singing was what it took to boost the kid’s opinion of him, then so be it.

(Not that that opinion hadn’t been high already; it couldn’t have been more obvious that Topside was carrying a torch for him.)

What he hadn’t counted on, however, was melting the second Topside had opened his mouth up on that stage. His plastered-on smile had fallen into open-mouthed shock and wide eyes.

Mother of mercy, he’d thought in awe, if he ain’t got the voice of an angel…!

He’s almost annoyed that Grace Holloway had discovered the man before he could (not that he has a music-based business, but - Sinclair Records?...There’s an idea, keep that one in his back pocket). Topside used to be the bartender in the Limbo Room and apparently, Grace had overheard him singing along to one of her rehearsals and had immediately gone out, grabbed him and pushed him up onto the stage. 

Smart woman - the Limbo Room’s seen more traffic than ever. Topside doesn’t go on every night like Grace, but when he does, the place is swarming with folks who wanna come see him, either for his voice or his reputation. Almost makes Pauper’s Drop look less like a slum town - almost.

(He does wish Topside had taken his offer of getting him out of that town, but Topside had said he’d made friends there, and he’d feel like he was betraying them if he just went away like that on another man’s dime. The closest Sinclair got to convincing him to go elsewhere was changing the location of his bartending job, from the Limbo Room to the El Dorado Lounge over in Ryan Amusements; the least he can do, in the meantime, is make sure Topside’s got all he needs over in the Sinclair Deluxe. If anybody accuses him of having favourites, he’ll admit to it and point out that Topside is a dear employee of his, even if that hasn’t actually been the case for a while.)

Maybe he should be thanking Grace also, since hearing Topside sing for the first time had been the moment the ‘keep it professional’ lenses had been slapped away from his eyes, but then he could also laugh in her face about it, considering her well-known opinion of Augustus Sinclair.

Thank you, Miss Holloway, for making his life better. How thoughtful of you.

“Honey,” Sinclair says, interrupting Topside’s quiet singing as he gets back to dinner, putting the spaghetti into the pot, “when is it that you’re next showin’ your face at the Limbo Room?” 

“Uhhh,” Topside says, staring into space as he ponders, clutching a fistful of cutlery and a lone fork in the other hand, “Friday, I believe. I’ll hafta ask Grace.” 

He looks to Sinclair.

“Are - Are you gonna come watch?”

“Don’t I always?” Sinclair replies smoothly, eyeing the strands of spaghetti.

“Sure, but - but y’know, you don’t have to. If you’re busy, and all.”

Topside goes back to quietly setting down cutlery, adding, “I don’t wanna get in the way of your work.”

Sinclair smiles. “Please - you’re not gettin’ in the way of anything. Whole point o’ me showin’ up is that I’ve got nothin’ goin’ on worth missin’ your performance. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away - or whatever the Rapture version of that phrase may be.” 

He swears he can feel the heat coming from Topside’s face because he knows Topside’s getting flustered again, and it makes him smirk.

“O-Oh, well…that’s good…that you like my singin’,” Topside says after a moment, “cause it makes me feel a whole lot better about bein’ on stage when you’re in the audience, so I can look at you. You make me feel…more confident.”

Sinclair cocks his head with a flattered smile, then stirs the spaghetti sauce as he replies, “Could help ya feel more confident on the El Dorado’s stage too. Ain’t too far from my neck of the woods (much as I could do without a stroll through Andy’s mirror maze). I figure it’s handier singin’ there when you’re up workin’ the bar too.”

“Oh - Oh, gosh, no,” Topside adamantly shakes his head, baulking at the mere thought, “no, there’re…too many people in there for me to sing in front of. I struggled enough getting up on the Limbo Room’s stage, I can’t get up there.”

“Hm. Well, I reckon it’s down to you in the long run, but trust me when I say you could bring the house down, wherever you’re singin’.” 

“Oh,” Topside says, grinning bashfully at the compliment. “Well, it’s not really about my singin’, more about my nerves. But it’s okay, though! I like singin’ in the Limbo Room. It’s small and mostly quiet, me an’ Grace get to sing together sometimes, and I get to help out Pauper’s Drop. It’s a, heh, win for everybody, I guess.”

It’s quiet between them as the spaghetti sinks into the water and the table is finished being prepared for dinner, then the clacking of Topside’s shoes come closer, and then there’re big, strong arms wrapped around Sinclair’s middle and a freshly-shaven chin is rested atop his head.

Sinclair smiles at the warmth he’s suddenly encompassed in - Topside’s like a walking heater, so he’s naturally splendid to cuddle with - and says, “Careful. Don’t muss up my hair, now.”

Topside chuckles. “Always careful not to.”

It’s almost unconsciously that Topside starts to rock him back and forth, swaying gently at the hips along to the song, and Sinclair grins, shuts his eyes and leans his head back against Topside’s chest, hands coming to rest over Topside’s arms as Topside resumes quietly singing along to the last trek of Billie Holiday’s tune.

“Night and day,

Under the hide of me,

There’s an, oh, such a hungry yearning

Burning inside of me

And its torment won’t be through

‘Til you let me spend my life

Making love to you

Day and night, night and day…”

“Easy there, chief,” Sinclair says as the song ends, tilting his head to look toward Topside over his shoulder, “keep this goin’, and you’ll have me passin’ out in this dinner I’m makin’ you.”

“It’s alright,” Topside says, “I’ll catch you.”

Sinclair titters, then reaches over to retrieve his wooden spoon so that he can stir the sauce again.

After a few seconds where the only sound is of the food cooking, the record in the living room starts to play Crazy He Calls Me, another by Billie Holiday, along to which Topside starts to sing, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Sinclair that Topside gives his waist a little squeeze when he sings about moving mountains if ‘he’ wants them moved.

“Size that you are, honey, I reckon you could move ‘em easier than a God,” he says, and Topside chuckles.

After a few more lines, he interrupts his own singing to say lazily into Sinclair’s hair, “I should be thinking of what I’m gonna cook for you.”

Sinclair puffs out a tiny laugh at Topside’s sheer insistence on this meal he wants to make.

“Hard to go wrong in the food department, chief - there ain’t much I won’t eat.”

“Well, I wanna make it special for you,” Topside replies. “Maybe try and recreate one of my old family recipes or somethin’.”

“In that case, it already sounds like a treat and a half.”

Sinclair grabs for a new wooden spoon from the drawer by his hip to scoop up a small amount of his spaghetti sauce, bringing it up in the air and turning just so he can hold the spoon up to Topside’s face.

“Here, honey. Give this a taste for me.”

Topside leans forward and puts his lips to the spoon, pulling off the little blob of sauce and leaning back as he smacks and licks his lips quietly, then he hums and smiles wide. He rests his head back atop Sinclair’s, this time tilting it so his cheek is pressed into Sinclair’s hair instead of his chin.

“Now, that,” he says, “that is just heavenly. Is there anythin’ you can’t do, Augustus?”

Augustus scoffs out a laugh. 

“Plenty I can’t do, pumpkin, I think you’ll find.”

“I don’t believe that.”

The music continues to croon, as Topside keeps on with his gentle swaying of them both. Sinclair feels awkward that he’s going to have to ask Topside to stop soon, so he can finish up their dinner, and to be honest, he feels reluctant. 

If the public were nicer about people like them, they wouldn’t have to pretend Topside suffers with headaches just so he can stay the night with nobody commenting on it (well, Christ knows, the paparazzi would, if they caught him, but that’s what Sinclair’s paying Stanley Poole for). They could be like this for longer too, not just sharing a night together before having to separate. 

Topside can be snuck into his office with the excuse of him being his ‘assistant’, they just have to think of a lie for why the door gets locked behind them, and sometimes, they can get away with going on dates in public, so long as they aren’t too touchy-feely about it. Sinclair’s taken Topside to several of his favourite restaurants, and even taken him on a special trip down to Arcadia, where Topside had fallen to his knees in near tears at seeing grass again. Sinclair had even bribed Tasha Denu to allow them to see the bees when no one else was around, and they’d each been allowed to take home a jar of honey (and that was easier to get away with, if only because Tasha’s in the same boat they are).

Such is the way down here, no matter what Ryan believes.

“I missed you today, Augustus,” Topside says quietly.

Sinclair glances over his shoulder at him.

“You saw me just yesterday, sugar,” Sinclair replies.

“I know, but…” Topside gives a small sigh, struggling briefly with his words, before he goes on, “It’s just…I see tons of faces every day - at the bar or up on stage - but…I still always feel real lonely when you aren’t around, y’know? You’re one of the few people down here that I feel comfortable around, and...the only person I feel like I can just be myself around. Maybe I’m just bein’ foolish, but…it’s how I feel…”

Sinclair is briefly left at a loss for words; Topside’s the first man to ever see it fit to wax poetic to him. The few men he’s taken to dinner had been upfront when they’d asked him out, and he likes that, but none of them had made him feel all…fuzzy and warm and…loved like Topside does. Like he’s brought the colour into Sinclair’s life. 

It’s a little overwhelming at times, but he’s getting used to it, and more importantly, he enjoys it.

“Well…if it’s foolish, then they’ll call us both fools,” Sinclair replies, turning in Topside’s arms to face him, planting his hands on Topside’s chest, “cause I’ve been missin’ you as well, pumpkin. Lord knows, you’re the only fella in this city that I can stand ta spend any personal time with, outside o’ bein’ cooped up in a meetin’. Well - ‘cept maybe Gil.”

“Gil…? Oh. That fella you’re working on that…project with. The machines an’ all.”

“Mm-hm.” Sinclair shrugs a shoulder. “But you don’t see him with an invitation to my apartment, so I guess you’re just a special case, aren’t you, puddin’?”

He winks, and Topside smiles extra wide, looking at Sinclair in such a way that Sinclair can picture cartoon love hearts floating about his face. The thought’s amusing enough that it makes it extra disheartening when Topside’s smile falls into a thoughtful little frown.

“...You’re makin’ living in this city worth it,” he says quietly.

Sinclair’s face falls. 

Predictably, Topside never got used to living in Rapture; it was the entire reason Sinclair found him nearly passed out on the bartop of Fort Frolic’s Sinclair Spirits. Of course, Sinclair doesn’t blame him for still having his misgivings about the city. After all, they all came here of their own volition, while Topside…well, if they’re all completely honest, they essentially kidnapped him. 

It hasn’t all been bad, even setting their relationship aside - that trip to Arcadia they’d taken and how close Topside now is to sealife are the big standouts. 

The first time he’d seen a whale up close had been in the middle of the night, and he’d excitedly woken Sinclair up, telling him to come look, quickly. Sinclair’s been here for far longer than him, so whales are no longer anything he fusses over, but Topside was glued to the wall-sized window beside his bed, nearly reduced to tears when hearing the whale sing, and then waving goodbye and wishing the whale safe journeys as it swam out of view. As a diver, he’d said, he’d never been allowed to get that close to the bigger sea animals; that whale had been near enough for him to touch, if he’d had his suit.

But Sinclair knows that no matter how many happy moments Topside has down here, if someone offered him the chance to go back to the surface, he’d take it in a heartbeat, and he’d hesitate only because he’d want Sinclair (and perhaps his other friends) to come with him.

“I’m still worried of what Mr. Ryan thinks of me.” Topside confesses.

“Now, don’t get yourself all worked up about that,” Sinclair says, leaning up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his mouth.

Ryan’s been questioning Sinclair since Topside’s image went up with Sinclair’s name slapped beside it, like he wants Sinclair to act as some fucking double agent, to find out what Topside ‘intends to do with Rapture’. Sinclair could only spew lies that Topside is just like his namesake: he loves Rapture and wants no harm to come to it, he’d hated his life up top, he’s a working man and a responsible employee who just wants to make his way down here. Anything to dissuade the paranoid bastard’s ideas.

He doesn’t hide his distaste for how often Ryan is choosing to talk to him, either - he misses when Ryan would swear they wouldn’t speak again, then call him up two months later because he had a problem he wanted Augustus to solve. His evident irritation at having broken his own word just…tickled Sinclair something silly.

Topside looks away, then adds, “He scares me.”

“Andy?” Sinclair gives a dismissive scoff. “Honey, he’s nothin’ but a kitty cat playin’ at bein’ a lion: can’t even muster up a roar when he wants ta.”

Topside looks him in the face. 

“Yeah, but…he’s got the most influence in the city and all, so…” 

Not accordin’ to some, Sinclair thinks, then shrugs a shoulder and reaches up to cup Topside’s cheek.

“Sure, but you know someone else who’s got some influence in this town, kid - and that’s me. More’n you think I do, even. I can getcha new jobs and another place ta lay your head, but most importantly, I offer protection from the other big names lookin’ to snatch you up - includin’ Ryan. So don’t waste time thinkin’ on him, sugar, cause you’re on my side now, and I’ve got everythin’ covered. Just stick with me, kid,” he gives a wink, “an’ we’ll be goin’ places, just like I told you.”

Cause I would sooner see Ryan rot down in Persephone than I’d see you doin’ so, Sinclair wants to add, but then he’d have to explain what Persephone is, and then…this date and this relationship would be over.

Topside stares at him for a moment, then nods.

“Nobody else I ever wanna be with,” Topside replies with a bashful smile, which makes that fuzzy feeling spread all over Sinclair’s body, and the two lean in to kiss.

Sinclair wraps his arms around Topside’s neck, hand carefully cupping the back of his head so as to not disturb his hairstyle, and one of Topside’s arms encircles Sinclair’s waist, while his other crosses over Sinclair’s shoulder blades, holding him nice and close; one little pull upwards, and he’d be taking Sinclair off his feet. 

They hold the kiss for several seconds, then break it to begin another, and then another and another, until Topside’s starting to run his hands down the slopes of Sinclair’s waist and Sinclair’s feeling heat bubble in his lower tummy, then Sinclair forces himself to pull back.

“Oughta go sit yourself down, chief,” he says with a small grin, “otherwise I’ll never finish cookin’ this here food, and we’ll be mussin’ up both our hairstyles ‘fore we planned to.”

Topside chuckles happily, and Sinclair’s hesitant to use the word ‘cute’ with anything another person does, but…his laugh is real cute.

Topside starts to pull back from him, but not before briefly cupping Sinclair’s cheek in one of his big hands, and Sinclair puts his hand over Topside’s and nuzzles into it with a warm smile, kissing the palm. He lets Topside go so that Topside can go and sit at the table, elbows atop it and resting his chin on the backs of his folded hands.

In all the conversation, Sinclair didn’t even notice the song had ended, and Billie Holiday’s Easy Living starts to play (what can Sinclair say? He’s a fan). They were distracted long enough that most of the instrumental beginning is done with, and when Miss Holiday soon starts to sing, Topside sings with her.

“Living for you is easy living

It’s easy to live when you’re in love

And I’m so in love

There’s nothing in life but you,”

Sinclair looks over at Topside as he graces Sinclair with his dulcet tone and he could just melt from the soft, adoring look Topside’s giving him as he sings. He’ll choose to blame it on the heat of the kitchen, though.

Focusing now back on dinner, Sinclair turns off the heat under the spaghetti, then uses a pair of tongs to transfer the spaghetti to the sauce, letting it cook the rest of the way in the pan instead. With a tablespoon, he takes some of the pasta water and mixes it into the pan alongside the sauce and pasta, to help get the sauce to just the right consistency. He ends up using about eight scoops of the water, then reaches for the butter to add a small pad of it to the pan as well to ensure the sauce becomes good and creamy.

He’s distinctly aware of Topside watching him and occasionally looks over at him as he mixes the pasta into the sauce, giving him little amused smirks as he sees Topside looking at him like he’s some master chef from whom Topside wants to learn. 

Silly, really, cause Topside’s already proved himself a good cook. Those breakfasts he’d made Sinclair had been heavenly.

When the spaghetti’s fully cooked and good and covered in sauce, Sinclair flicks off the heat entirely, then tells Topside to bring the plates over.

Topside does so, muttering about how silly he’d been to put the plates on the table when Sinclair would obviously need them, and Sinclair gives them each a good helping of spaghetti before dumping his tools into the sink to be washed later and throwing off his apron.

Topside’s a gentleman and takes both of their plates to the table, setting them back down on their respective placemats, and Sinclair gives him a thanks as he collects his glass of wine. They then sit opposite each other at the table.

Sinclair stuffs a napkin into the collar of his shirt to protect his clothing and goes to pick up the pepper shaker, only to stop himself when he sees Topside clasp his hands together in a prayer, shut his eyes and press his forehead to his hands, whispering grace.

Laying one arm atop the other, Sinclair doesn’t join him, simply waits until he’s done. 

The first time they ever went to dinner together - a business dinner, mind - Topside had tried saying grace too, and Sinclair had turned wide-eyed in a second, nervously looked around, then scrambled to stop him. Of course, Topside hadn’t understood, just politely told Sinclair it’s fine if he doesn’t want to do it too, this is just his faith, but Sinclair had quickly explained that they don’t…do religion in Rapture, and that Topside could get them both in serious trouble if he continues. 

Predictably, Topside had gotten upset, muttered how he’s not even allowed his religion down here, but relented with a slight huff and told Sinclair he’d make amends later, in the privacy of his hotel room. 

Here, in the safety of Sinclair’s apartment, Topside can do whatever he pleases, so Sinclair stays quiet and lets him get on with it.

Once he’s finished, Topside lifts his head and gives Sinclair a grateful smile, then Sinclair reaches for that pepper shaker.

“Oh!”

Sinclair looks up, lips a perfect ‘o’ in surprise.

“Your cufflinks!” Topside says, staring down at Sinclair’s arm. “I didn’t even notice before - they’re sharks!”

“Oh,” Sinclair says, tone just dripping with fake wonder. “Why, they are, aren’t they? I just,” he waves a hand dismissively, “ended up throwin’ on these old things.”

Topside grins at him, then.

“Do you wanna hear an interestin’ fact about sharks?” he asks.

With a smile, Sinclair goes through with sprinkling pepper on his spaghetti, then twirls his fork into his noodles, wrapping up the prongs, then lifts it to his lips.

“Lay it on me, honey.”

[banes-favourite]

A little part of the cooking scene where Gortash gets the idea to make Tear Gas from onions:

“Like this?’ Enver asked as he repeated the instructions with little issue, soon having a tiny pile of bits of garlic. 

“Yes, perfect!” Anya said as she cut her onion down the middle, making a collection of vertical lines but not quite cutting through the entire onion. She tilted her head up to try and avoid the sulfuric gas that released from the onion, and yet her eyes still watered.

“What-” Enver stopped himself from speaking before clearing his throat. A few more second’s passed and he noticed how the floodgates seemed to be ready to spill. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Onions make you cry when you cut them,” Anya said as she turned her head away, rubbing her eyes with her forearm. 

“They do?” Enver hummed. “How interesting… Do you know how?”

“Uh- well,” she went back to cutting, getting them into nice small pieces. Onions can be a bit more sulfuric and that can absorb into the amino acids, and when you cut it that releases and irritates the eyes.” 

“I never have given it much thought, but the more you tell me the more fascinating cooking becomes,” Enver admitted as he tossed the second chopped up clove into the pot. “Granted, it could just be the vegetables we are using.”

HEY IM SORRY FOR REPLYING TO THIS SO LATE BUT. OMG they're so soft,, have you finished the fic by any chance? bc i'd love to read it even if im late af 😭