Jun 11
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heart go cronch (source post about the 2011 videos)
yes, chef
another one for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: brave
muggle AU | 956 words | M | ao3
The kitchen is quiet. There are only a few patrons left in the dining room, finishing up their coffee and cocktails. Harry stares at the back of a platinum blonde head, his knuckles white as he grips the stainless steel countertop. The blonde sits stock still at the table, his posture impeccable, his manners even more so.
Harry hasn’t seen his face yet. That’s part of his game. He makes reservations under a false name, keeps his online presence to an absolute minimum. No photos. But Harry’s heard the rumors. Draco Malfoy, toughest critic in the game, as icy in his reviews as he is in his appearance.
He watches Angelina pour Malfoy the wine they’ve chosen to accompany his chocolate torte. She nods at something he’s saying, her expression pleasant, but void of any real emotion. She leaves him alone and begins making her way back to the kitchen, eyes widening as she catches Harry’s through the expo.
Angelina bursts through the swinging door. “Your presence has been requested at table six, Chef.”
Harry’s heart drops. “I don't think he normally does that.”
Angelina shakes her head. “No, I don't think so either.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, then blows out a resigned breath. “He’s going by Molloy tonight?”
“Daniel Molloy,” Angelina confirms. Harry snorts. “He’s…” she starts to say, but trails off.
Harry raises a questioning brow at her.
“Well, to be frank, he’s really bloody attractive.”
Harry takes a deep breath and wipes his sweaty palms on his whites. “Great,” he says with a grimace. “Er, how do I look?”
Angelina scurries over. She wipes something from Harry’s chin with her thumb, pulls a strand of dark hair from beneath the bandana he wears to fall artfully onto his forehead. “Great. I’d totally shag you.”
A nervous laugh bubbles out of Harry, too loud and high pitched. “Thanks, Ange.”
“‘Course,” she says. She pats him on the shoulder. “Now go get ‘im.”
Harry, feet heavy and heart pounding, makes his way out to the dining room. He keeps his right palm pressed to his side in an attempt to staunch the sweat, anticipating a hand shake. He doesn't know why he’s so nervous. He’s met plenty of critics. Sure, Malfoy is harsh, but he’s mostly fair. Harry knows his staff provided top notch service that evening, and he knows the food was all delicious and cooked to perfection. But he can’t shake the feeling of dread that’s settled over him as he stands just behind Malfoy, close enough to reach out and touch.
Be brave, Harry, he tells himself. He’s just some guy.
But then Malfoy glances over his shoulder. Their eyes meet, and Malfoy stands to greet him, and Harry is pretty sure his soul leaves his body. Good God, he is not just some guy.
Angelina was right. Malfoy is really bloody attractive. He’s tall, broad shouldered with a narrow waist. Stormy blue eyes, a sharp jaw and cheekbones. He holds out his left hand for Harry to shake. Of course. Harry swears under his breath and wipes his palm surreptitiously against his trousers. Malfoy notices, but says nothing.
“Chef Potter,” Malfoy says, accepting Harry’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “Care to join me?”
“I’d be happy to,” Harry says, and he allows Malfoy to pull his chair out for him. Like they’re on a date. Like Malfoy is trying to woo him. God, he might actually throw up. He does his best to play it cool and raises a playful brow at Malfoy. “Daniel Molloy, is it? You strike me as more of a Lestat.”
Malfoy breathes a laugh. “Not my most creative pseudonym, I’ll admit, but a friend of a friend let me know about a cancellation and it was a bit of a mad rush to get myself on the books.”
“Eager to check us out?”
Malfoy smirks. He cocks his head to the side and picks up his wine glass, swirling it nonchalantly. “You could say that.”
Harry blushes, clears his throat. “You don’t typically speak to the chefs you review,” he says.
“No,” Malfoy says. He takes a sip of his wine, replaces the glass on the table. His lips are stained, cheeks flushed. His tongue darts out to lick away a stray drop and Harry has to stop himself from lunging across the table to suck it from his mouth. “The chefs I review don’t typically look like you.”
Harry blinks at him. “Oh.”
“Listen, Chef Potter-”
“Harry,” he says, his voice embarrassingly breathy and wrung out.
“Harry,” Malfoy says with a cheeky wink, “I’m sorry if this is terribly disappointing, but I won’t be publishing a review of your restaurant.”
Harry bristles. He squares his shoulders, narrows his eyes at Malfoy. “Why not?”
“I fear it would be a conflict of interest,” Malfoy says. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a teasing smirk. “My reputation would be ruined if I gave you a glowing review, but was spotted in a compromising position in your establishment the night of my reservation.”
“A compromising position,” Harry echoes.
“Mm,” Malfoy hums. He traces his long, thin finger around the lip of his glass. Harry takes in a slow, deep breath as he watches. God, those fingers. They’re all he can focus on. He stops breathing as Malfoy drags the middle one through the sticky remains of his pudding, then sucks the tip between his lips. Harry shifts in his seat as Malfoy pulls it out with a filthy pop . “I’m sure you could think of a few.”
Harry nods ardently. “Would you like a private tour of the facilities, Mr Malfoy?”
“Draco,” he amends, and his smirk stretches into something sinful. “I’d be delighted, Chef.”
Coming soon! From Spatulas to Sparks feat. Chef Harry from Seared.
Blurb: You’re new to Brooklyn & your apartment just happens to overlook a certain famed chef’s apartment. What happens when a request for a cup of sugar comes with a side of flirtation?
Blossomed
“Thought I’d find you here.”
He opened one eye slowly, blinking at the bright light. “Oh no. My secret hiding spot is ruined.”
Laughter rang through the orchard as a heavy figure landed next to him. Draco wasn’t sure if he’s been asleep, exactly, but it felt like waking up; the world was a bit hazy, fuzzy around the edges. The smell of apple blossoms now fused into something heavier, orange and musky.
“Alberto said you like to come here before your shifts.”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Alberto talks too much.”
“Nah, he’s alright. I sort of bribed him into it. There were pies involved and everything, I didn’t leave the poor bloke much of a choice.”
Now Draco opened both eyes. Po—Harry was leaning against a trunk beside him, and his whole face was one big smile.
“Well, that,” was all Draco managed for a minute and a half. “I mean. That’s cheating.”
That made him laugh. “I didn’t realise it was against the rules.”
“There aren’t rules. I just thought… why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you ask about me?” Draco wrapped an arm around his knees. That was the tip of the iceberg, really, of all the questions burning on his tongue: why are you still here and surely they miss you back home and was it on purpose, the other night?
Harry frowned like he didn’t understand. “Because I wanted to see you?”
Draco shook his head, and the shadow of the wide brimmed hat danced above his eyes. “You were supposed to go back last week. You have your recipes, there’s nothing more on the island for you.”
“Nothing more?” green eyes opened wide, sad.
“What more would you—” swallowing didn’t use to be such an ordeal—“want?”
Harry took a deep breath, and the nerves that were so evident on him a second ago melted into something comfortable and warm, something fond. “I thought I made that clear.”
“You don’t… be serious.”
“I am.” He scooted closer on the ground, and Draco didn’t know whether to lean towards him or run away. “I thought you knew why I came to the restaurant every day.”
“You wanted… Alberto has the…”
A hand startled him, gentle under his chin. Draco was so entranced by the smile he missed it coming. “He gave me everything I needed the first week. After that, I only came for you.”
He could only blink in response. Harry tipped Draco’s hat upwards, so it wouldn’t hit his nose. Then, with a groan, removed it altogether.
“You have to know, don’t you? How I feel. After that night.”
That night, in this very orchard, with only the stars and the apples to bear witness, when they danced to the chirping of grasshoppers and flies until they collapsed on the warm ground. Draco blinked at the smiling, freckled face.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Are you joking?” Harry asked, although he was the one laughing. “I’ve been so obvious, everyone—oh, Draco. You’re such a brilliant, wonderful idiot.”
“Takes one,” he murmured before he had any time to think. “Wait, so. The reason you stayed is… what you wanted was…”
“You, you marvelous twit,” now they were both laughing, with awe and relief and bewilderment, “I wanted you. Of course, for you.”
The light was so bright without his hat, it was harder to make the surroundings. Only Harry’s face, so close; only the little lines around his eyes, the unwavering way his smile went even wider, even softer.
“Alberto thought maybe you were settling in,” Draco admitted breathlessly. “That you wanted to open your own place down here.”
“Or maybe work with you,” was Harry’s impossible, nonsensical reply, and he was entirely serious. Draco’s heart did something strange in his chest, tight and weightless.
“If Alberto agrees.”
They shared a quick, almost-chuckle. “If you’ll have me.”
“Yes.” He said the first without thinking. Then, after a minute: “Yes, of course.”
They looked at each other. The world smelled of apple blossom, of oranges and sweat and smiles and soft hands. The orchard rang with the raucous beating of his heart: a chaotic, elated melody, of summer, of happiness.
Because Raúl would be an excellent Elphaba. Since the latest revival of Company's Bobby is a female, we can have Wicked's Elphaba be a man, right?
Upon request, here is a rec list of BL fics where Louis and/or Harry are chefs or cooks. If you enjoy this rec list, please be sure to like and reblog the post to help spread the word. Happy reading!
1) Whisk Me Off My Feet | Explicit | 5054 words
When Louis locks himself out of his apartment in just a pair of novelty underwear, he hopes his new neighbor can come to his rescue.
2) Cooking With Styles | Explicit | 9119 words
Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.
Anyone can cook— or so they say.
3) The Art of Submission | Explicit | 15034 words
The one where Harry is a dominant and a VIP member of his best friend's BDSM club. Add in a newly certified submissive who has been politely rejecting every dominant for a week now, waiting to be asked by only one man he wants to submit to.
Nevada and Caractacus / Chef Harry and Paul <3
How many Rauls are enough? Yes.
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Five Stars (Just don't mess around with the cook)
Hermione fully supports Harry's dream to become a Magical Master Chef! She finds books on all manner of magical cooking spells. Thanks to that, every time Voldemort meets Harry he dies to a vicious cooking spell. Fileting? Yup, at least once, maybe twice until Voldemort learned to shield better. Char broiling? Yup, that too. Corkscrewing? Definitely. Dicing? Sorta, due to duress it ended up being more like the vegetable chopping spell. But hey, if it works! The Final time he died it was to a vastly overpowered Cheese Grating spell. In front of all his minions. It was well known after that that no sane magical would dare mess around and find out in Harry and Hermione Potter's 5 Star Restaurant.