There are absoultly no Slavic!Reader fanfics or headcannons anywhere in any fandom that I'm in, so I'ma change that for my own sanity.
I present to you: Mac x Polish!Reader Domestic Fluff (Pierogi line kurwa maćććć)
Nothing I write is proofread, pls get used to it
Fic under the cut, purely SFW!
It was a hurried November evening, trying to get all preparations done before the annual Thanksgiving feast that your family had to have; except, this time, you decided to host it. Worst idea of your entire life. Of course, everyone was bringing something to some extent, but your stress was still through the roof. Most of the food wasn’t even Thanksgiving related; czernina, cabbage and mushrooms, fried beets, homemade pickles, kapusta zasmażana…the list goes on. Of course, you wouldn’t have to worry about buying alcohol either, your family always had that covered. Though, this year, things were going to be different. Your family had yet to meet your partner, Mac, and you figured that this would be the perfect opportunity! Once they found out that they would be sitting at a table with your entire family around them, they were a nervous wreck.
Mac was almost angry with you that you wouldn’t discuss this with them beforehand, but they couldn’t. They could never be mad at you. Besides, this was bound to happen one way or the other, the sooner the better. It would be somewhat easier anyways, drunk people are usually easier to get along with; that is, if they aren’t an angry drunk. You would be there if anything went wrong regardless, so that relieved some of their nerves. Not a lot, but it did help a little bit. Mac had a lot of questions to ask about them before their arrival however, “Is your mom nice? What’s your sister’s favorite perfume? Does your brother really like Adidas or is that just a stereotype? Is your uncle a fun drunk or a depressing drunk? Would your auntie be offended if I got her chocolate? Flowers? Is it true that your grandmother bodyshames you? Why the hell can’t you sit on anything cold?!” It was really cute, honestly. They just want to be accepted by their partner's somewhat strict family so, so bad.
This mere fact is how you both ended up here, in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, ingredients everywhere, in a pierogi assembly line. If Mac wanted to impress your family, food was the only solid option, a famous cultural food at that. You’ve learned over the countless Christmases and Easters at Babcia’s house that dumpling folding was an art of its own, and that art wasn’t as easy as it seemed. It was almost frustrating how those small circles of dough always stuck to your hands and never itself, how the tiniest bit of access filling could mess up your folding technique. All of these things led Mac to be the filler and you to be the folder, it was in your blood after all.
While Mac was getting more and more stressed out about meeting your serious yet rambunctious family, their heart swelled with warmth to be included in an almost write-of-passage ritual from your culture. They’ve tried numerous amounts of questionable dishes from post-Soviet Poland, and they decently enjoyed most of them! Though, they refuse to try meat jelly or any dish with pigs feet in it, I mean, who wouldn’t? Though, Mac’s favorites would be rosół, gołąbki, and bigos, though they aren’t opposed to a potato pancake as a snack. Exploring your culture at your side is a huge highlight of being with you, it’s apart of who you are and they get to learn about something new every time you cook! Mac wasn't the happiest sailor when you served them a steaming hot bowl of barszcz in the middle of summer, however.
Mac watched carefully as you portioned balls of sticky, pale dough with ease, how each one was almost perfect compared to the last. They wanted to learn for you, they hope to make these by themselves for you one day. Would they ever be as good as your Babcia or Dziadek? No, probably not, but the effort is worth every mistake.
“Alright, so, I got everything ready. All you need to do is put heaping spoonful of this filling into the middle of the dough, just like this…” you explain, making a pieróg by yourself to give a visual example of the process, “And then you can hand it right over to me, and I’ll fold it and cook them when we’re all finished. I believe in you, Mac.” You gave them a warm smile as you folded the dumpling with ease, your hands and fingers moving quick, almost like it was a reflex. First pieróg down, about fifty more to go…
Mac was terrible at portioning filling to say the least. The first dumpling they ever made, they put so much filling in it that when you went to fold it, it went all over the counter when you tried to close it with your thumbs. Mac gave a shy smile at your laugh, apologizing profusely at their mistake. The second time around, they put too little inside, making basically 80% dough and only 20% filling. You started genuinely laughing at how unskilled they were at proportioning, giving them a quick peck on the cheek before giving them a technique; the filling should be about the size of your thumb, and then press it more inward to the middle of the dough.
“Ah, this explanation is definitely more efficient than your last one, beloved.” Mac exclaimed with understanding, “I’ll be sure not to mess it up this time.”
They eventually got the hang of it, filling one dumpling at a time while you oiled the sides and pinched them in. As you both became more focused, it became quiet, a comfortable silence. The only noises that could be heard was the scraping of a spoon against a bowl, plastic hitting a glass bowl, and the shuffle of hands against an apron once in a while. Once in a while, you two would sneak a few kisses into the mix as a small mind break. It was sweet, it was domestic, it was everything you both wanted and so, so much more.