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“It very important to taste all you cooking. Do it. At least once, better more than that, ideally frequently through the whole cooking. Keep taste balanced that way, and you less hungry when done, hahaa!” Janosh cackles, waving his designated tasting spoon around merrily. There's a pot bubbling on the stove in front of him, full of beautifully thick, dark stew; a camera on a sturdy tall tripod stands just off to the side, close enough to capture the pot and its contents clearly but just far enough away to not be affected by the rising steam or any occasional splashes.
A little ding of the oven signals the homemade bread should be done, so he adjusts the camera's angle and peers into the oven to check for himself. The bread has risen marvelously, as it almost always does for him, and the crust is dark golden and inviting; with his trusty oven mitts on, he taps the bottom of the loaf and lets out a soft, pleased grunt at the sound.
“Nice ring, so we know it done,” he narrates for his invisible audience, depositing the fresh bread carefully, almost religiously, on the grate to cool off. “Now it need cooling a bit, need time to settle nicely before we cut. Remember never cut bread when still hot. It harder to do anyway, but also make tummy hurt and we not want to spoil the good food with aching belly, hey?”
He readjusts the camera back to film the bubbling pot once again, gives the stew a few deep stirs, and then pulls out his phone to take a few pictures of the lovely bready masterpiece.
The mouth-watering scent of freshly baked bread is so enticing it lures in a visitor, and Janosh soon finds himself burdened with a living, breathing blanket of a boyfriend draped over his shoulders like a parody of royal ermine cloak. Far too used to Adder's antics, he just ignores the additional weight and carries on like nothing's changed at all.
He takes a few more photos from different angles and pockets the phone, reaching for the wooden spoon. The motion jostles his unique backpack, as does the vigorous stirring that follows. Adder grunts in discontent but stays plastered all over Janosh's back like an especially determined leech.
The wooden spoon gets deposited on the sink's rim and replaced by the tasting spoon once more. Adder mutters something indistinguishable and buries his nose in the divot behind Janosh's ear, his tongue darting out for a quick lick at the damp prickly skin there. He hums his appreciation of the taste, just like Janosh is humming his, licking the little spoon clean of all the residue, savoring the rich bite of the well-seasoned stew.
“What you doin', anyway?” Adder murmurs right into the shell of that ear; it's right there, and it's sensitive, so sensitive just his breath sends little shivers along Janosh's throat. It's followed with another tongue-flick, then a barely-felt nip at the cartilage.
“Next video footage, so shut up, you gnat,” Janosh replies, and his voice is surprisingly steady. There's no frustration, no annoyance, no bite in it at all. No breathiness either, despite the sped-up rise and fall of his chest.
Adder snickers and licks more of the stubbly skin on offer, down from the ear, all along the jawbone. His tongue prickles and aches as it drags over the thick dark hairs and soft pillowy skin there. He clamps his lips over that and sucks a little, not enough to leave a lasting mark, just to enjoy the taste to the fullest.
Janosh rumbles, pleased and entertained, and sidesteps to the chopping board. Adder sways with him, impossible to shake off, though he does slide his arms from Janosh's broad shoulders to clamp them securely around his waist, squeezing just a little. The onion juices released by Janosh's swift, vigorous chopping make his eyes water, so he hides his face in the familiar musk of the other's throat and breathes deeply what is offered there. He snuffles and mouths along the tendons and muscles, his tongue occasionally darting out to make the taste and feel and smell more vibrant, leaving tiny shimmering patches of fast-drying saliva on the skin, like post stamps showing where he's trekked before.
Janosh starts humming in earnest, a proper melody, albeit a little crackly and out of tune one. It's a bit hard to decypher at first, but when random words pop up here and there to form loose verses, Adder recognizes it as one of those songs that would've been on Janosh's “guilty pleasure playlist” if he ever actually felt guilty or ashamed of the sappy music he loved blasting from time to time.
Adder sniggers and bites down on the meat of Janosh's nape to muffle the sound, yet only manages to turn the snickers into gurgling snorts reminiscent of a phlegmy boar. Janosh happily ignores him, chopping away and warbling even louder.
“Your taste in music sucks,” Adder teases as he detaches his teeth from the other's saliva-drenched skin. The rest of him stays firmly stuck to Janosh's soft frame, even when a surprisingly fast elbow collides painfully with his ribs.
“Taste in music perfect,” Janosh declares, sweeping the chopped up onion into a neat pile at one end of the chopping board. “Taste in men shit.”
Adder just cackles more at this, squeezes even tighter. Janosh hums louder and waltzes back over to the bubbling pot. One more taste, perfect; reaches for the big ladle hanging above the stove, and that's a cue for Adder to finally unstick himself and go grab the deep plates because dinner is about to be served and not even he is strong enough to resist such a temptation.