Imagine: Being A Cook At The Glade
Frypan X Reader
A/N: I rarely see any imagines with this cutie, so I decided to do a short one! Just look at the adorable smile! ____________________________________________________________________
Sighing heavily, you wiped your forehead with your forearm, your hands caked with flour. A couple pounds of lightly floured chicken chunks sat in front of you, a large bowl of different vegetables sat towards the right of the chicken. Huffing slightly, you turned towards the sink, rinsing your hands off, before heading towards the stove, lifting the lid to the large pot that sat on it. Glancing in, you nodded as you saw the brew had started to boil, before proceeding to add the chicken, and vegetables to create a thick stew with rice. After finishing the task, you took a step back, letting out a dramatic groan as you let your head fall back.
“Tired already?” A voice called out, grabbing your attention. Turning towards the kitchen door, you spotted Frypan leaning against the doorframe with a big grin. You smiled at him, leaning casually against the counter, holding out your hand towards the food.
“Yup, so you should take over. It’s chicken, rice and veggie stew, and it should be done in half and hour or so,” you said, walking towards the door. While passing Fry, you stuck out your tongue and pulled your ears. Frypan gave a light chuckle, shaking his head as he took a step back to block you.
“Teasing me will get you nowhere,” he said with a smirk, making you roll your eyes. Fry grabbed your wrist gently, his smile still present as he gazed into your eyes. You felt you breathing hitch, a pleasant shiver running down your spine as he leaned in. You closed your eyes, slightly pursing your lips in anticipation, only for his lips to lightly brush your cheek on their way to your ear.
“Two can play at that game,” he whispered huskily, before pulling away and walking to the stove. You stood still for a moment, completely shocked as he lifted the lid to the pot, stirring its contents. After processing what just happened, you stomped your feet, pouting.
“Jerk! That’s not fair!” You whined, earning a hearty chuckled from the boy.
“All’s fair in love and war,” he chimed. You stomped your feet for a few more seconds, before turning and leaving, the pout not leaving your face, as you tried to formulate a plan to get him back.
