cajun-lover:

sifangelica:

Sif shook her head at his story, still grinning as she kicked her shoes off and left them under the table, so that she could curl her feet up comfortably under her on the couch. “You flunked, and made up for it with chocolate.” She repeated, still shaking her head in wonder. “Only you.”

She rolled her eyes, swallowing the rest of her glass as if to make a point, even if she wasn’t sure what that point exactly was, before answering. “That’s because I know I’ll talk when I do, and I didn’t feel like it yet. I don’t really care now.” She spoke in an off-handed tone, holding out her glass for him to pour her some of what he was drinking.

“I am a motherfuckin’ boss in the kitchen and you fuckin’ know it.” Fandral smiled broadly. “I make the best stuff ever. I am a fuckin’ boss in the kitchen, everyone knows this fact, Sif. Everybody. Even Pluto knows the Kitchen is my bitch. And Pluto’s not even a planet anymore-which is still bullshit if ya ask me.” He was beginning to ramble. The alcohol was starting to mingle with his blood and make him feel all loopy and hot and delicious. Like Cake. Fandral was cake. “I am cake.” He stated and set his bottle down and took off his shirt. He wasn’t wasted, but he was getting warm, and he was thinking about food. He didn’t give a shit right now if he sounded like an idiot. He tugged his tank down a bit and dropped his shirt down on the ground. “Sorry, it’s getting warm. And I’m getting buzzed. And I want to make cake but I want to eat it now. I’m not making sense. Whatever, you wanted me to talk right?” He grabbed the bottle and topped Sif off. “This is what you get. Oh hey, I think I have some flavored liqueur somewhere.”

“You are boss in the kitchen,” Sif readily agreed as she watched her glass fill with alcohol, at Fandral’s doing. Not only did she not want to argue with him when they were both drinking, she wouldn’t argue with him over this, anyway. She took a sip from her glass, wincing as the potent strength of the alcohol hit the back of her throat, before taking another sip and enjoying that one a little, once the initial surprise had passed. She could feel it travelling like heat down he throat, and took a third, even longer sip, catching sigh of Fandral’s shirt on the floor when she lowered the glass.

“I wanted you to talk, so you turned into cake and started to strip?” She joked, shaking her head of the sudden mental image of Fandral as a hired stripper busting out of a cardboard cake. She wondered who’s birthday it was in this mental image, before deciding she really didn’t want to know and really didn’t want it to continue, which warranted a fourth sip. “You should but the liqueur in the cake, then I’d take over talking.”