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imagine-loki · 4 years

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The Better Man

TITLE: THE BETTER MAN

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: SUBMITTED ONE SHOT

AUTHOR: amaru163

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine that you want to pursue Loki, but have no idea what to do to make him see you as more than a friend. Thor inadvertently finds you looking at Loki from a distance with lovestruck eyes. He decides to get himself involved in helping you pursue Loki. Hijinks ensue.

Possible situation: Loki notices that you and Thor are spending more time together, and feels somewhat left out/suspicious that you and Thor are in a relationship.

RATING: FLUFF

NOTES/WARNINGS: none really, brief mention of fighting, one curse word (I know, scandalous, right?)

When Loki breezed by you in the hallway on his way to the kitchen, you couldn’t help but turn to watch him for a moment. The scent of the subtle cologne he wore caused you to take several deep breaths, just so you could commit it to memory. You resisted the urge to close your eyes, though, but when the smell dissipated, you sighed and started toward your original destination, which was your own apartment. Once there, you’d probably take a moment to compose yourself before leaving again.

When you did face forward, you were startled to find Thor standing a few feet away, silently watching. You couldn’t stop your face heating up in embarrassment, and you dearly hoped that he hadn’t seen you mooning over his brother.

“Hi, Thor,” you greeted him softly, mentally begging him not to say anything to you, or more importantly, to Loki.

“Good morning,” he replied, smiling at you. “Were you coming to breakfast?”

“Yes, I just needed to take care of something really quick. I’ll be right there.”

“Good. I’ll save you a seat.” He nodded slightly before continuing on his way.

Ten minutes later, you returned to the kitchen to find that Thor had indeed saved you a seat, right beside him and opposite Loki. You usually sat on the same side as Loki, with someone between you so that you weren’t tempted to steal glances at him, and so that he wouldn’t be witness to any clumsiness on your part if he were to look your way.

Thor stood to hold the chair for you, and then helped to slide it forward. He’d never done that before, since meals together were always pretty casual, and you wondered why he did it now. He made a show of serving your plate as food was passed around, and would lean over to say something in your ear, making sure that no one heard him. All the while, the heat never left your cheeks. You also noted that Loki would give you two just the barest of glances. When his eyes landed on Thor, they hardened before he turned his attention to his plate.

From then on, Thor made a point to be near you when in the common rooms, or even during missions, which everyone noticed. After a time, your embarrassment eased because Thor was simply too likable and approachable, like a big ol’ puppy. The only person who *could* stay angry at him was Loki, who made it a fine art.

— — —

Today, about a week after Thor had caught you ogling Loki, you had made banana nut muffins, and they were just out of the oven. You were just taking them out of the pan when Thor sat at the breakfast bar to watch.

When you had time and the ingredients, you loved to bake and would often have cakes, pies or even homemade bread in the oven. Once, you’d made a banana pudding, which Steve and Bucky went nuts over simply because it reminded them of their younger days. You’d learned then to double up on most of the baked goods, because a shortage caused good natured elbowing between them.

“What kind of glorious treat do you have for us now?” He asked, his gaze intent on the muffins.

“Banana nut muffins,” you replied, putting one on a napkin in front of him. “It’s still hot, be careful.”

— —

The smell of the muffins caught Loki’s attention when he stepped off the elevator after he returned from the training room. He started toward the kitchen, but paused when he heard you and Thor speaking. No one else was there, so he was certain that Thor was looking at you with doe eyes, and going overboard with the chivalry.

That thought caused him to scowl for a moment before he schooled his features so that his face wouldn’t give away his churning thoughts. He hated it when Thor found a new love interest because Thor would always extol about said interest’s charms, and about how clever they were, or even other things that were simply TMI.

When they were younger, there was a rivalry between them, causing them to try to steal the other’s current interest. He liked you too much to play that type of game. He also didn’t want to hear anything about you from Thor’s lips, because now he was resigned to watch from the sidelines, and try to bear it now that Thor had shown an interest in you.

When Loki walked into the kitchen, you were leaning forward on your elbows, with your face mere inches from Thor’s. Loki just barely managed not to growl when he walked through to get bottled water. He was gone in the few seconds it took for you to turn, muffins in hand, to offer him one. Only Thor noticed that your shoulders dropped slightly, and he averted his gaze when you turned around again.

“You like him, don’t you?” He asked, while selecting another muffin. He’d nearly eaten them all by now, and you hoped that they were gone before Steve or Bucky returned, or that he’d save some for the others, which seemed unlikely.

“Wh-what?” You asked, surprised and wary of the question.

“I’ve seen you watching him,” he replied, his gaze never leaving your face.

“You’re mistaken,” you responded, while taking the pan to the sink in order to wash it.

“I don’t think so.”

His voice came from directly behind you, and when you jumped and turned around, you collided with his broad chest. He quickly caught you by the elbows to keep you from hitting the floor.

“Sorry about that,” he said, but didn’t let you go.

“For a big guy, you sure are quiet,” you told him, as you looked up, your eyes meeting his while he continued to hold onto you.

That prompted him to wink and squeeze your arms slightly. You stayed still, not wanting to hurt his feelings if you shrugged out of his grip. Thor then turned his head slightly, as if listening for something, before he picked you up effortlessly and set you on the countertop so that your eyes were level with his.

You started to say something, but then Loki walked in. He faltered before coming to a dead standstill. Once he gathered himself, he turned and left. Thor chuckled softly while you just dropped your head in dejection.

“I will help you.” His hands rested on your shoulders for a moment before he rubbed your arms gently.

“He’s not very tolerant of humans, and I’d rather just leave him alone,” you replied.

“Loki says many things that he doesn’t mean,” Thor commented. “You shouldn’t take it to heart.”

You shook your head with a shrug and started to slide off the counter, but his hands on your knees stopped you. Before you fainted from the shock, he tilted your face upwards so that your gaze met his.

“I believe he will come around, just follow my lead, hmmm?”

— ——

Three weeks later, Loki was almost ecstatic when a mission came up. He’d had to witness Thor showing you all kinds of attention, and was quite ready to blow stuff up, or get stabby with someone. His temper got the best of him, and almost everyone felt the sting of it. Except for you, he couldn’t bring himself to snap at you, so he limited his contact to avoid doing it.

First, there was movie night, when his brother sat beside you (too closely in his opinion), and shared your popcorn bowl. Then, during an outing at a nightclub, hosted by Stark, he’d watched in silence when Thor guided you to the dance floor. He took a small amount of comfort in seeing that Thor struggled with the Midgardian dances, but the fact that his brother held you in his arms (again, *much* too closely) nearly made him lose control.

Finally, there were the flowers that Thor gave you, apparently not knowing that you were allergic. You had sneezed violently for several hours before the vase was “accidentally” knocked off the dining table and to the floor, where it broke. The flowers ended up in the garbage, and Loki felt much better after that.

Now everyone was on the quinjet, with Thor inevitably beside you. For the most part, the trip was silent and allowed everyone to check their gear and to get their minds locked into what needed to be done.

A Hydra facility had been found, which needed to be neutralized, and any data retrieved from the computers. That task fell to you and Natasha, so she handed you an encrypted thumb drive, which you carefully secured in a pocket. Together, you both poured over the map of the facility, plotting the quickest way in and out once you had what you’d been assigned to get. You’d take separate routes so that if one couldn’t get there, the other could get the data.

— —

Loki was to meet up with Steve in a tunnel close to the computer rooms, so he silently slipped past other rooms and entrance points, taking care not to make any noise. When he drew closer to the target, he heard fighting up ahead. He grew even more cautious as he moved toward the sounds.

It only took a split second for him to recognize that you were fighting with a Hydra agent, and that two more of them were on the ground, quite still. You fought with a sharp dagger in each hand, and held your own against the larger man. As he watched, he thought that the way you moved, with conservative motions that saved your energy, was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. He had watched before while you trained, or even during other missions, but he’d never actually *seen* you. Now, though, he was ready to toss Thor aside in order to take his place.

You’d defeated your opponent, and now stood looking at the three men on the floor in order to make sure that they were out of commission. A movement in your peripheral caught your attention, and you turned quickly.

“Loki! I’m—“

You were interrupted when he snaked an arm around your waist and lifted you off the floor. His lips found yours in a fierce kiss, surprising you by the move. After a moment, your arms slid over his shoulders as he pulled back to look into your eyes.

“What was that for?“ you asked, breathlessly.

“So that you will *forget* my brother,” he growled.

You blinked before you kissed him back with an intensity that matched his.

“Forget who?” You asked.

“Minx,” he said, rolling his eyes.

You couldn’t help but laugh, which drew a smile from him.

“I suppose that I should give him the bad news,” you remarked.

“The sooner the better,” Loki told you, firmly.

“Have I ever told you just how *hot* you look in your armor?” You asked, deciding just to go for it.

“No, I don’t believe so,” he replied, pretending to mull that over.

Before you could respond to that, there came a reminder that there was a job to do.

“Hey, you two, this is not the time nor place to play kissy face!” Tony’s voice came over the comm units.

Loki rolled his eyes again before setting you on your feet.

— —

After the facility had been secured and left in the hands of the support unit, the quinjet carried the team home. Before take off, Loki guided you to a seat, and sat down beside you. When Thor sat across the aisle, Loki put an arm around your shoulders in order to pull you closer, all the while staring at Thor, daring him to say or do something.

When your head fell against his neck, Loki’s attention moved to you, and he found that you’d fallen asleep already. Thor still watched the two of you, with a slight smile on his face.

“It seems that the better man has won,” Thor finally commented.

*Damn straight,* Loki thought.

#Loki #Others #Submission #Submitted one shot #the better man #amaru163 #submission

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whindsor · 4 years

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gbbo au, part 1

i’ve been thinking about this for a whole year and now the au idea got even better so you know what, i’m just gonna do it, cause i miss mika and bucky A Whole Lot. this is completely self indulgent and unedited and just for fun. So here we go!

note: i’m not gonna add like, the real contestants on this season. cause like, they’re real people. and that’s a lil weird.

another note: i have no idea how the competition is run, how the baking bubble works, or really what’s going on. i’m winging it and having a great time.

week one: cake week

This was, no doubt, the longest two weeks of her life.

Mika wasn’t sure how she, an expat from a little town in Romania, had gotten chosen for The Great British Bake Off. Or Bake Off, as everyone called it. Apparently, being in the UK implied the Great British part.

Thanks to the stupid plague running rampant around the world, the contestants were invited to actually live at the Bake Off this year - at least, until they were removed from the competition. She hadn’t actually got to meet any of the contestants yet, since they were stuck quarantining in their little flats. They’d tested her when she’d first gotten there of course - negative, thank God - and every couple days since. She’d seen a few people leave under the cover of night, a car taking them away from the Baking Bubble. She wondered how many people were in the building, and if one day they would come in and tell her that sorry, you’re still negative for coronavirus, but you actually placed thirteenth in the ranking so you need to leave now.

But then, she got an email. A wonderful, glorious email.

Congratulations, Mika! You are a final contestant on The Great British Bake Off!

She wasn’t quite sure what it said after that - something about logistics and contacts and services and what not - all she knew was that she had to get to work. Now.

The next few days were a flurry of flour and frantic phone calls and internet searches, and as slow as the quarantine period had been, those few days flew by fast. She began to see inklings of other people then; one man got up and went for a run about the time she was sipping on her first cup of coffee. The woman next door practiced yoga on the balcony. At one point, a distinct burning smell emanated from the floors below her. They were all here, and all ready to bake.

She chose her outfit carefully. She needed to feel confident, but also comfortable. So she slid on jeans and boots, and eventually decided on a printed top her sister had given her, hoping it would remind her to just have fun. After all, Nicoletta was the one who signed her up for this in the first place, and was also the inspiration for her first Signature Challenge.

Interviews were first. It was chilly outside, and just a little breezy, so she slid on a leather jacket. Her mother would hate that she wore it, but it was her favorite, and made her feel much cooler and more hard core than she actually was. Down the lawn, Morning Jogger was also in his interview. He looked rather calm and collected, with his flannel and man bun and hand tucked into his pocket. Lucky duck. She turned her attention back in front of her. The interviewer asked a few introductory questions to get her acclimated to the camera in her face; it helped if she just talked to him, rather than to the lens. He assured her that was just fine.

“So, how are you feeling about starting the Bake Off?” he asked, finally getting into the nitty-gritty.

“Terrified.” she said immediately, giggling nervously after that. God, she hoped she came across as endearing rather than annoying. That road was a dangerous one to go down, so she took a sharp left. “But I’m so excited to finally get in there and see if I’m any good, or if my friends and family have been lying this whole time.”

That would be the nugget they used for her introduction. As expected, her mother wouldn’t care for it. But her sister thought she was cute and that her hair looked extra glossy, which was always a plus.

She finally got to go into the tent, glad she’d chosen to wear sturdy shoes instead of heels because her legs felt like they were made of jelly. And not even the good jelly like she made - the jelly her friend Elena made, which usually ended up being more of a soak for toast. Morning Jogger was also there, stationed at the back right bench, tapping the fingers of his right hand against the butcher block surface.

His left arm, however, was suspiciously missing.

Mika caught herself staring, her eyes flicking up to his before dropping with her chagrin. Get a grip, girl. It’s not like he was the first amputee she’d ever seen! Just the first on the Bake Off. She kept her eyes down as she went to her bench, which of course was right next to his. Dammit.

“Back of the class kids, huh?” he said. When she gave him a hesitant smile, he added, “It’s okay, I know it’s a shock.” His voice was quiet, but somehow still confident. She instantly knew that he was way tougher than she would ever be.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.” she said, looking at him again and owning up to her mistake. He shrugged.

“It happens.” he said. He didn’t sound sad, or angry. It was just matter-of-fact.

“I’m Mika,” she said, changing the topic. “What’s your name?”

“Technically, James Barnes.” he said, then added, “But my friends call me Bucky.”

“Are we friends, James Bucky Barnes?” she asked with a perked eyebrow, amazed that she was able to flirt with someone at a time like this. Arm or no arm, he was very handsome. He smirked, apparently happy with her response.

“Perhaps not yet.” he said. “I guess we’re enemies for now.”

“Then are you ready to battle?” she said, trying to be extra dramatic in an effort to make his smile bigger. It worked.

“I think I’m ready, but I feel like I’m forgetting something.” he said, glancing down at the place where he used to have another hand. She snorted in laughter once before covering her mouth with her hand.

“I feel like I’m not supposed to laugh at that.” she said, her voice muffled.

“Please laugh, otherwise I’ll be too embarrassed to bake.” he said, his expression making her give in to the humor. Nerves also helped that, but she would never admit it. He gave her a conspiratory smile that she returned; now she understood how the contestants all seemed like allies.

The other contestants trickled in, and Mika felt a weird sense of protectiveness every time people spotted his arm, or lack thereof. He took it all in stride; she wondered how many times a day he got looks like that. Of course, she didn’t have time to ask, because before she knew it, the judges and hosts stood in a line at the front of the tent, welcoming them all to the competition. She hadn’t realized that there would be a new host this year, and she was grateful that the hosts managed to break some of the tension in the room. Then, it was time for their first challenge.

Battenberg cakes.

Mika was not ashamed to admit that she had to Google what a Battenberg cake was. At first glance, it didn’t seem that difficult, but then she remembered that she was baking for two of the most respected chefs in the UK, and that she had literally no margin for error. That made it a little more difficult.

They told her to bake, so she baked. She started whipping her butter and sugars, then added her eggs and flour and flavorings. She could see the judges and hosts making their way down the line, talking to the contestants and asking about their bakes. She tried to stay calm and collected, like Bucky next to her. His easy tone when talking to them helped to soothe her, especially when they brought up his obvious disability. There was no way their conversations would be the same, so she didn’t have to worry about comparisons.

“Hello there, Mika.” the female judge said with a grin. Mika gave the best smile she could manage, reminding herself to stay calm and somewhat focused.

“Alo, how are you?” she said. Her accent was extra thick with her nerves. Dammit.

“What have you got for us today?” the male judge asked after exchanging pleasantries. She took a deep breath, willing herself not to stumble over her words. She glanced over to Bucky, who gave her an encouraging smile.

“Well, my sister has been my biggest champion, so this is for her.” she explained, dumping ground up freeze dried strawberries into half of her batter. “She loves strawberries and cream, so that’s what I’m making today.”

“Simple.” the male judge said, a little bit of surprise in his voice. Her stomach dropped to approximately her knees. It must have shown on her face, because the female judge patted her hand in a comforting manner.

“As long as it’s done perfectly, it doesn’t matter how simple it is.” she said, winking behind her thick, bright blue glasses. Mika managed a hesitant smile.

“Right. Just perfection.” she said nervously, making them laugh. They bid her good luck and moved on to the next bench, the taller of the two hosts putting an arm around her shoulders and leaving an encouraging word before moving on. Okay, so all she had to achieve was perfection. That was fine. She shut out all the other distractions, barely hearing the time calls as they came. She focused on getting her cake in the oven, getting her marzipan nice and pink marbled, and making her filling. The cakes looked good when she pulled them out of the oven, and thank God they were done. Everything seemed to be going to according to plan.

“Twenty minutes left!” one of the hosts called. Shit!

She quickly pulled her cakes from the tin; they were still warm, but they would have to do. She pulled her secret weapon - dental floss - out, and tried not to sweat as she cut the squares. She put them on the marzipan, put in her filling, and started the careful process of rolling it. When she managed to get the marzipan just right, she finally let out a sigh of relief. She glanced over at Bucky, curious as to how he was getting on. His movements were carefully coordinated and meticulous, and she noticed he used every square millimeter of his hand (and a little bit of his torso, which had a distinct line of flour and food coloring) to get things to move the way he wanted. Impressive. She turned back to her own work, whipping and piping some cream and artfully fanning out strawberries. With a minute to spare, she finished.

Now for the judging.

It was so stressful to watch the judges go from table to table, sampling the cakes and giving critique. Most of the contestants got glowing reviews, and only a couple had negative feedback. She held her breath when they got to her buddy in the back of the room, amazed that he could look so calm.

“Rosemary and lemon,” the male judge announced, nodding towards the cake. It was covered in a simple yellow marzipan, a few rosemary sprigs tied with a gold ribbon and placed on top.

“An unusual flavor combination for a cake.” the female judge added, watching as the first judge cut a large square from the cake. The colors were a distinct white and yellow checkerboard, which was one of the requirements. Bucky shrugged.

“I wanted to try something different.” he said.

“Bit simplistic on the decoration.” the female judge said, pushing the rosemary sprigs. Mika had thought it looked elegant, but she supposed that’s why she wasn’t one of the judges.

“Decoration isn’t my strong suit.” he said, his grin widening at the vague look of discomfort they gave him. “I’m not particularly artistic. All left brain, I’m afraid.” That seemed to assuage their fears a bit, and they turned to the plates in front of them while Mika tried not to giggle at his jokes. They took a bite from the cake, both of their eyebrows raising as the flavors hit them.

“Wow. That is...surprising.” the female judge said. The male judge nodded. “The texture is just a touch tough, but for me the flavor makes it worth it.”

“Rosemary is very floral and usually does well with more savory applications, but it works really well with the lemon here. Well done.” the male judge added. They bid farewells, and Mika was so distracted by Bucky actually displaying an emotion (relief) that she forgot for a moment that they were coming for her.

“Alright, Mika, your turn.” the female judge said. She had a very kind smile, despite her position.

“Remind us what we have here.” the male judge said. His gaze was very intense, and much more intimidating that when they spoke earlier. She cleared her throat, holding her hands together so they couldn’t see them shaking.

“Strawberries and cream, for my sister.” she said, keeping her answer short in case her English failed her. The female judge gestured to the bushels of strawberries and whipped cream all over the cake.

“This is a bit much.” she said. “I would have done the marbled marzipan or the strawberries, but to have both is a little...over the top.”

Mika’s stomach turned to stone. Now that she looked at it, it did seem a bit garish. She forced a smile and nodded. “Okay, yes, I see that now.”

“I like it. I enjoy extra snacks with my cake.” the host said, reaching out and pulling one of the strawberries off, making sure to take a large dollop of whipped cream with it before popping the whole thing - green and all - into his mouth. She was grateful for the humor, and for the bit of validation.

“Right. Let’s get to the cake then.” the male judge said, cutting a slice. Thank goodness the pink and white squares were perfect and distinct. First box ticked. She held her breath as they ate it, her vision starting to swim slightly when they finally looked at her.

“That is beautifully soft.” the female judge said, adding, “and the flavors aren’t overdone at all.”

“It’s very difficult to add freeze dried strawberries to a recipe and avoid a granulated texture in it.” the male judge said. “But you’ve managed to pull it off. I like this a lot.”

“I think I’ll have another bit before we go.” the female judge said, taking another forkful. Mika visibly sank in relief, her smile genuine this time.

“Thank you, thank you so much.” she said, slouching as soon as their backs turned. She glanced over at Bucky, who gave her a thumbs up. The gesture made her cheeks warm, and she returned the gesture before settling back on to the stool. Once everyone was judged, they were instructed to take a two hour break. Mika couldn’t help but hop over to the bench next to hers, a slice of cake on a plate.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” she said with a grin, making Bucky choke on a laugh. He cut her a slice as well, handing it over.

“I actually don’t really care for sweets. But I do want to hear what you think of this.” he said with a self deprecating smile. Her eyebrows shot up.

“Don’t care for sweets? How did you make it then?” she asked, taking a large bite of his cake. Dammit, it was really good.

“I have a few reliable critics. What do you think of the cake?”

“It’s terrible. You should drop out.” she said, mouth full of another bite. “I’m definitely not terrified of you.”

He laughed again, and Mika thought that he had a very nice smile. She would have commented on it, but figured that would probably be weird after meeting just a couple hours before. So she just let herself be ushered out of the tent and into an open area, with lunch plates all waiting for them.

All of them were carefully spaced around an empty fire pit. Some of the other contestants had grouped up a little, but Bucky was sitting on his own, his plate carefully positioned on his lap and a book perched precariously on his knee. Mika chose the seat next to him, giving him a warm smile when he looked up before turning to her own lunch. She was sure the other contestants were nice, but she was drained after the morning, and the thought of having to smile and socialize was not particularly enticing. She pulled out her phone, scrolling through recent news and reading the articles that interested her. Bucky continued with his book, though she realized it had been a long moment since he’d turned a page. She glanced over to catch him looking at her, his eyes dropping quickly once she caught him. She couldn’t help but grin...and also make sure that there was nothing on her face.

All too soon, they returned to the tent for the technical challenge. This was what Mika was most excited about; she could follow vague directions (one of the few helpful skills her mother developed), and had decently good instincts. Usually. The judges and hosts lined up, and when she looked over at Bucky before they spoke, she made sure to throw another smile his way. He grinned back, which was a better confidence boost than the well wishes from the judges and hosts.

Pineapple upside down cake? She’d seen it once, on an episode long ago. She remember thinking it sounded delicious - and then promptly forgot everything about it. She could figure it out, right?...Right? She glanced to Bucky out of the corner of her eye, and the man was still grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Dammit, that was the look of someone who’d made this before.

Whatever. She was smart! She had a degree! And she watched a lot of television! She could do this!

She started on the sponge, the easy part. It was the caramel she was worried about. The cameras stopped on her, the interviewer asking, “Are you familiar with this technical challenge?”

“I’ve heard of it, yes.” she said, giving them a nervous grin. It was still awkward to talk to the camera, so she instead focused on the man asking the question. “Have I made it? No. Have I eaten it? Also no. But it sounds good.”

They gave her sympathetic smiles, moving on to talk to Bucky. She let out a breath of relief, knowing that now she could focus on the caramel. All she had to do was watch it. And pull it off at the right moment. And not let it crystalize.

Which is exactly what it did.

“Fuck a duck.” she muttered in Romanian, glad that she both hid in her native language and that the cameras were far away.

“Watch your tongue.” Bucky said, also in perfect Romanian. She nearly dropped the pan of crystalized caramel, looking at him in shock. The cameramen noticed the movement, and carefully slid back to them.

“You speak Romanian?” she asked, shock evident in her face.

“Yes, I do.” he replied, and just hearing the language helped calm her in a weird way. The piece of home was exactly what she needed. He nodded toward her bench. “Fix your caramel.”

“Dammit!” Mika said, back in English now. She weighed out the sugar and water, putting it back on the stove. The cameras were still there, and the interviewer asked,

“What was that about?”

“He speaks Romanian! It’s very exciting.” she said, this time giving them a genuine smile. They quickly panned over to Bucky.

“How do you know Romanian?” they asked. He had a long knife in his hand, carefully resting the pineapple on the bench and managing to slowly, but expertly, cut it.

“I’ve done a lot of traveling. I actually speak eight languages.” he replied casually. “Well, conversationally at least.” he added. He flipped the knife, laying it aside a safe distance away from them. The camera man gulped, and decided not to ask any more questions. Mika, realizing she should probably get back to her bake and not worry about Bucky’s life story, quickly turned to find, thank God, her caramel looked good. Pale, maybe, but good. It would darken in the oven for sure.

She carefully placed the pineapple and the cherry in the bottom of the greased tins, using a spoon to add in the still hot caramel. She had a fair bit left over, but she didn’t want to risk drowning the cake. So, she followed her gut and ladled in the sponge mix, putting them in the oven before she could think too much about it. Bucky, of course, was already pulling his out. Damn him.

“Thirty minutes remain!” one of the hosts called, balancing a rolling pin on his head. She appreciated the humor, she really did, but she was very stressed right now and seeing a rolling pin in such a precarious position was not exactly helpful. She checked her oven; the cakes were probably halfway finished. There was no way they would be cool in time for her to put the cream...but she’d have to try.

The last few minutes the cakes were in the oven, she whipped up the cream. If she was honest, she nearly overwhipped it into butter, but caught it just in time. As soon as the timer went off she got the tray from the oven, nearly sliding the tins off the edge. She gasped, nearly choking on her heart in her throat as she caught it just in time, placing the tray on the counter before putting her hand over her heart.

“Slow down, Mika.” she said to herself, shaking her head for a second. Of course the cameras caught the moment - she could feel them pointed towards her - but she refused to look up at them. Her stress was through the roof, and if she was honest, she was trying very hard not to cry.

She started fanning the little tins, trying to get them to cool down enough to remove the cakes. “Fifteen minutes!” the host called, and she actually, verbally eeked and grabbed the closest cake. The cup was still ferociously hot, but she didn’t have time to think about burning off her fingerprints. Instead, she focused on getting the cakes out and onto the platter. The caramel didn’t darken like she hoped, but she didn’t have time to care. She was back to furiously fanning, trying to get it cool enough for the cream. She made the mistake of glancing over to Bucky - he was already putting little rosettes of cream on his, cool as a cucumber. Dammit!

“One minute left!” the host called. It was the moment of truth. She prayed her cream wouldn’t melt, swiftly piping it onto the little cakes. They smelled delicious for sure...would they be allowed to try one afterwards?

“Time’s up!” the call felt like a knife through her gut. They all had cream on them, but it was very hasty work, and definitely not her best. She let out a frustrated sigh, the little hairs that escaped her braid floating around her face. There was nothing she could do now, except wait to get judged. This time, the judges would not know who made which one...which could make their feedback all the more honest.

“Well, well,” the male judge said, clapping his hands together. His eyes ran over the plates in front of him, his face already giving away his feelings. The female judge’s eyebrows rose over her thick glasses, as if she were surprised. Whether it was a good or bad surprise remained to be seen. “Right. Let’s get started.”

Mika watched in abject horror as they ripped apart every plate in front of them. The good ones were good, and the bad ones - luckily hers didn’t quite fit in there - were, well, bad. Bucky, of course, got glowing reviews. When they stopped at Mika’s, she held her breath.

“Caramel is too light.” the female judge said, poking at it with her fork. The male judge cut it in half, and even from a few feet away Mika could see that the cake was held together only by her dreams.

“It’s baked. Barely.” he said shortly, chuckling to himself. They took a bite, mulling it over for a moment until he added, “Not bad. If the caramel was a little more done on the stove and the cakes in the oven a couple more minutes, it would have been pretty good.”

Not bad. She could work with “not bad”. Hopefully.

Out of the twelve bakers, she ended up placing seventh. Almost top half! Though she would have much preferred to place first (which was where Bucky placed), she really deserved to be much lower than her rank. At that point she seemed to be sitting in the middle of the pack, which was just as well with her. She just needed to get past the nerves of this first week. As long as she wasn’t the first one to go, she could do better. At least, she hoped so. Really, her goal was to make it to bread week. If she made it there, she would consider this adventure a success, and could go home happy.

The dismissal was such a relief that she forgot about the Showstopper challenge the following day. The bakers gathered their things, returning to the big house and heading for their apartments. Mika looked forward to a shower, some comfier pants, and one single stiff drink. She hanged back a little, waiting for Bucky to catch up to her.

“Do you know where they keep the key to the liquor cabinet?” she asked, making him raise his brows.

“No, but I can pick a lock pretty well. And if that doesn’t work, I do have some whiskey in my rooms.” he said. He stepped back slightly, holding his hand out in a placating gesture. “Not that I - I mean, we can meet at a neutral place to share a glass, if you would like.”

Mika, not expecting him to get flustered that easily, busted out laughing. “You can relax. A drink would be nice, then maybe I can sleep a little before tomorrow.”

“I’ve got just the thing for that.” he said with a grin. He nodded towards the fire pit, where a groundskeeper was building a fire. “There, after supper?”

“Sounds good.” she said. A friend! She had an ally! She smiled, going to her rooms and rinsing off the day, cooking up a good enough microwave meal to keep her from dying and making sure any last minute preparations she needed for tomorrow were finished. Once she felt she’d waited an appropriate amount of time, she pulled on a jacket and went back downstairs.

Bucky was already waiting at the fire pit, as were a couple other bakers. They were busy talking about the next day, and gave her a warm welcome when she arrived. Bucky looked up from his book, trying to hide his relief that she actually came to this little meet up. When she sat down in the chair next to him, he reached down and got a glass, handing it to her. He then retrieved his own glass and set it on the arm of the chair before getting the all important bottle of whiskey. She thought to offer to open it, but he wedged it between his legs and removed the cap with practiced ease. Clearly his injury was not new.

“Four years ago. War accident.” he said in Romanian, answering her unspoken question. Her eyebrows shot up and her cheeks warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the fire, but he didn’t seem to be bothered. He just reached out, filling the glass that she dumbly held out.

“I’m sorry.” she said, not knowing what else to say. He shrugged, filling his own glass before recapping the drink and setting the bottle down.

“It’s fine. I’ve adapted.” he said, taking a sip. She did as well, if only to have something to do with her hands. “I’ve also learned over the years to just address it, rather than wait for people to be brave enough to ask.”

“Do a lot of people get brave enough to ask?” she said, genuinely surprised. Thanks to his easy going demeanor, she was able to relax into the conversation as well.

“Nope. But I do play this fun game with myself where I count how many times they glance at my shoulder during a conversation.” he said. With that admission, she had a strong desire to glance down at said shoulder, but stifled it. Luckily, the way his blue eyes danced in the firelight was distracting enough.

“Who’s the highest scorer?”

“The guy at the local coffee place. Every time he looks up from the order it’s not at my face. It’s pretty impressive.” he said. “Kids are the best though. They notice and just screech about it.”

“Oh no!”

“Oh, yes. The parents are...” he paused, swishing his glass around and taking another sip for dramatic effect. “...so embarrassed.”

The whiskey, while not making her tipsy yet, certainly made her feel a little warmer inside, and she couldn’t help but giggle. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m short a limb, I have to have fun with it otherwise I’ll lose my mind.” he said, smiling even though his statement was completely true.

“Well clearly you’ve got a handle on it, so I think you’ll be okay.” she said, gesturing to the tent. A second later, she realized that he might think her choice of words intentional, and her own hand flew to cover her mouth. “I didn’t - that wasn’t -”

Thank goodness Bucky thought her reaction was funny. “Don’t worry about it. It happens so much more often than you would think.” he said. He settled back into the chair, and decided to change the topic before they got too in depth about his lack of an arm. “So what made you apply for this?”

“My sister. She actually sent the preliminary stuff in for me - without telling me.” she replied. After a few years living in the UK, it was nice to talk to someone besides her mother in her native language. “You?”

“Best friend. He did the same thing.” he said. Mika scoffed appreciatively.

“They’re made for each other, the meddling assholes.” she said, making him laugh again.

“You said it, not me.”

“I guess I shouldn’t assume your friend is an asshole.”

“Oh no, it’s completely fair to assume he’s an asshole.”

“Then what does that say about us?”

Bucky paused at her question, then shook his head. “Dammit. I guess we’re assholes too.”

His tone was so dry that Mika couldn’t help but bust out laughing. Of course, the whiskey also helped with that. She was a little over halfway through her glass - not enough to be tipsy, but still feeling it - and knew that she would have to stop after the one. Bucky was almost finished with his, but he held on to the last few drops, if only for an excuse to stay and talk with her.

“But we’re assholes who can bake.” Mika said, toasting him with her glass. He tapped his near-empty glass against hers, taking just the smallest sip so he still had some left.

“Allegedly. We may find out tomorrow that we can’t.”

“You’ve already beaten me in both challenges. How in the hell did you make such good pineapple upside down cake?” she asked, putting just the right amount of incredulity in her tone so he would think she was kidding.

“I dated a girl from the South once, in America. You’d be surprised the crazy things they can cook up.” he said. Mika leaned onto the arm of her chair, resting her chin on her hand.

“Oh, that sounds like a story.” she probed. He shook his head.

“Nah, we had a good run and then it ended amicably. We were just in different places in life.” he said. “But way to pry about my love life on the first day.”

“It’s a gift, what can I say.” she replied, though she could feel her chagrin creeping up the back of her neck.

“So how did your last relationship end?” he countered, noticing too late that he’d accidentally finished his drink. But that didn’t mean he had to leave. Mika let out a bark of a laugh, followed by taking a gulp of her drink.

“Terribly.” she admitted. His face dropped, and then it was his turn to be embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-”

“Don’t apologize, it’s all good now.” she said, just a touch too easily. “Cheating bastard is off in...Greece I think now, after being dumped by the other woman. And I’m participating in the biggest baking competition in the world, so I think I’m winning the break up.”

“That you are.” Bucky agreed. He eyed his own empty glass, as well as Mika’s. Were this any other time, he would offer another one. As if Mika read his mind, she gave her empty glass back to him.

“Speaking of which, we should probably sleep well before said competition, right?” she said. She didn’t want to go inside. She wanted to stay out here and chat with her back row buddy. But they did technically have a competition to worry about.

“It’s not a bad idea.” he agreed, taking the glass from her. He made sure the cap was tight on the bottle before pressing it and his book under his arm, holding the two glasses in one hand. Mika thought she should offer to help, but again he did everything with such ease that she figured he would not see the offer as help, but pity. And perhaps, at this point, it was.

“Not my worst by far.” she said, standing up with him. They bid goodnight to the other bakers still out there, then went back inside, splitting off to their separate rooms. Now that she was alone, all she could think about was the next day. She should have just stayed out there, she probably would have been better rested than the meager sleep she got that night.

The Showstopper challenge was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Art was not her strong suit, so creating a bust of her favorite celebrity hero was something of a nightmare. The preparation required many trials, many failures, and many crying FaceTime calls to her actual artist sister, asking for help.

But now she was in the tent, with no access to her cell phone and halfway through a challenge that might be her undoing. She’d claimed that she was making the likeness of Lady Gaga, and she’d chosen her both for the wonderful message she sang and for the good she was trying to do in the world. And also because the woman loved to dress differently and abstractly, which would maybe give her a bit of artistic license. Maybe. Hopefully.

The cake part was easy enough. It was her favorite chocolate mocha cake recipe, with mint buttercream frosting. It was something she’d made a hundred times before, and since it went smoothly, it lulled her into a false sense of security. But now it was the time to decorate, which was no doubt the very worst part of all of this. She didn’t know how anyone else in the tent was doing; at this point, she was doing her best not to break down and cry.

“How’s it going?” one of the hosts said, coming over and putting an arm around her shoulders.

“Well, it could be worse,” she said, her voice wavering and her accent thick. “But it also could be a lot better.”

“Mix the optimism with the reality, I dig it.” he said. “So far, it does look like...a human.”

“That’s a good start.” she agreed, laughing slightly.

“Which human is it supposed to be?” he asked lightly.

“Lady Gaga?”

“Ah yes, I totally see it.”

“No you don’t.”

“Well it doesn’t matter if I see it.”

“But if you can’t see it, how will the judges see it?”

“Stop being smarter than me and work on your cake.” he said. They stared at each other for a second before she gave in and giggled, shaking her head.

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s the spirit.” he said, giving her a brotherly punch on the shoulder before wandering off. Okay, maybe she could do this.

“Half an hour left!”

There was no way she could do this.

But she was sure as hell gonna try.

She tried to remember everything her sister told her, and while she could definitely see the difference between what she was making and what it looked like in her mind’s eye, it was kind of, almost, slightly reminiscent of the pop star. When they called the time, she wasn’t completely happy with her cake, but she had to admit it went better than she thought it would. Of course, all that optimism went right out the window when she was called to bring her cake up to the judges. The silence as they took it all in threatened to smother her, and she took a deep breath to try and hold herself together.

“Well, I can see the Lady Gaga.” the female judge said, though she didn’t quite sound like she believed the statement.

“Or someone like it.” the male judge had to say, taking what little was left of Mika’s confidence and throwing it right out the window.

“She’s very eclectic, so I tried to emulate that.” she said, gesturing with her hands until she realized they were shaking, then clasping them in front of her so they wouldn’t notice. They laughed appreciatively, admitting that she wasn’t wrong. “I promise it tastes infinitely better than it looks.”

“Infinitely, eh?” the male judge said, piercing her with her eyes before piercing her cake with a knife. “And this is mint chocolate mocha, correct?”

“Yes.” she said, taking in another sharp breath before she passed out. It seemed to take them a thousand years to eat it, both of them raising their eyebrows in surprise.

“I expected it to taste like coffee and toothpaste, but it’s very pleasant.” the female judge said, taking another bite for good measure. The male judge nodded in agreement.

“It’s not something I would normally expect in a cake, but you’ve managed to pull it off spectacularly. The cake is tender, and the buttercream isn’t overly flavored. Very well done.”

“Thank you, thank you so much.” she said, honestly lightheaded after the whole thing. She collected her cake, going back to the back of the room. Only then did she look up at Bucky, who gave her an encouraging smile and nodded towards her cake. She sent back an exaggerated relieved face, though she still wasn’t sure if she would make it past the first week.

Bucky was next, and though she didn’t know the person he’d chosen, she had to admit that his artistry was much better than hers. She supposed she should feel bad that he had clearly beat her in that category, but after their moment of friendship the night before, she found herself rooting for him.

“This is impressive.” the male judge said, with an unspoken even despite your disability. She was glad they left that bit off.

“Thank you.” Bucky said softly. He still exuded his quiet confidence, but she could see his thumb picking at a thread on his shirt.

“And this is fondant?” the female judge asked.

“Marshmallow fondant. It’s a little more forgiving.” he said with a wry grin. They seemed to appreciate the joke, but not for long before cutting into the cake. It was a spice cake, he said. With cream cheese frosting. Since he didn’t care for sweets, Mika wasn’t surprised that he went for something like that. She also really wanted to try it whenever they got finished.

“Hm. I’m getting too much of...something.” the male judge said.

“Allspice.” the female judge agreed. Bucky’s shoulders dropped the tiniest bit, though his face hid any emotions.

“The texture though is spot on, and the icing goes very well with it. Decoration was great. Just watch your spices.” the male judge said. Bucky nodded, picking up his sculpture and bringing it to the back of the room.

“You’re fine.” she whispered, waving him off like of course he was. Then again, they liked his signature and he won the technical, so he really was fine. He gave her a twitch of a smile, settling back onto his stool to watch the rest of the judgements. They thought they might chill out when the judges went off to deliberate, but everyone just seemed more tense.

“Relax.” Bucky muttered, watching Mika pace up and down the back of the tent.

“Relax? How can I relax?” she asked. “My cake was decent, but I can’t decorate for shit and my technical was terrible!”

“You’re fine.” Bucky reiterated. “I’m not losing my back of the room buddy. I paid them off to pass you through.”

“Asshole.” she said, making him laugh. She paused. “Did you really?”

“I can’t afford that, I’m sorry.” he said, making her groan.

“I’m gone. I know it.” she said. She wanted to think that she was the middle of the pack, that she could make it, but she was also deathly afraid that she missed something.

“Well, let’s find out.” he surprised her, drawing her attention to where the producers were lining up their stools. Mika gulped audibly, following Bucky on numb legs and sitting down. She crossed her legs, pressing her hands in between them to hold them still. Next to her, Bucky positioned his leg so his knee was gently touching her thigh - a bit of comfort as they awaited judgement.

In the end, she was neither Star Baker, nor sent home. Relief immediately washed over her, her shoulders sagging as exhaustion from the past two days piled onto her. “Holy fuck.” she muttered, covering her face with her hands.

“And we’ve got to do it again next week.” Bucky said. She dropped her hands, looking him dead in the eye.

“What in the hell have we gotten ourselves into?”

#gbbo au #week one #cake week

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thepeachgreentea · 6 years

Text

A Rose By Any Other Name...

...would not smell as sweet as the inside of the Tom & Sabine Boulangerie-Patisserie.

Rating: E ( for Excessively Explicit Exposition of Edibles ) ((i.e.: literary food p o r n))

Ao3 Link

If you had asked the Adrien of five minutes ago what love was he would have waxed poetic about freedom, laughter, a girl with the brightest blue eyes and the sweetest sprinkling of freckles, the color red. He would have ranted about banter, puns, awkward flirtations, and sassy retorts. He knew what love was, what being in love felt like. He knew the feelings that stirred in the soul, the butterflies in the stomach, the champagne in the veins. He felt that startling, intoxicating, heady mix of fear and joy that could only come from finding, falling for, a special person.

But that was then.

This was now and he was actually able to spend time in the Dupain-Cheng’s bakery instead of being pulled through the storefront by one person or another. This was an entirely new feeling and it was amazing. There was a strumming of the nerves in his body, and he could feel his blood rushing, his pulse pounding, echoing his excitement.

The smells that wrapped around him, making themselves at home in his nose and on his tongue were the type that calls for poems upon sonnets upon odes upon ballads to be written.

That heady, heavy scent of flour that means freshly baked bread which starts to fill you up before even taking a bite.

The ever expected light, teasing scent of sugar that knowingly leads you towards buying and eating more than is probably reasonable for one person, for a single meal. It dances around the senses, pulling attention from one thing to another, calling attention to all of the different dancing partners, teasing, cajoling, shouting at Adrien’s unquenchable sweet tooth that he might find success in satiating that bottomless craving, but only here.

Cinnamon winding its way to the forefront, setting up camp and sparking a warm fire. The smell evoking feelings of comfort and sweet, gentle heat. It whispered promises of what could be, what will be once he makes a choice.

Lavender settling in his throat, but not cloying and suffocating as he has often found the scent to be when encountered previously. Instead, it calms him, even just slightly, gives him a reason to relax, to breathe. Here, with the Dupain-Chengs, it is perfect, relaxing. That proper balance of floral and herb, of sweet and earthy. It doesn’t overwhelm but instead soothes, giving a guarantee to do More if he takes even

just…

one…

bite.

And, oh god, when the tempting siren scent of chocolate hit him on top of everything else he was the closest to heaven that he had ever been. That bittersweet smell that stuck to the tongue, to the roof of the mouth, with his mouth drying because now he was parched and needed that lovely aroma to be tangible so he could drown himself in it, in hope of maybe satiating his desire. The heavier smokiness of dark chocolate, the milky cocoa of lighter chocolates, and that almost too sweet essence of white chocolate. He could die if he tried to satisfy the desire that he had for the smell, let alone the taste, of chocolate. And what a sweet death it would be...

As he shifted, taking in another deep breath to try and taste everything just from the redolent air, the scents of different fruits finally reached him. The sweetly sharp and biting smell of orange dancing through his nose and throat. The sugary tang of raspberries wedging its way in with everything else, sticking between his teeth. The comforting and hominess of baked apples wrapping around him.

Oh god, focusing on the smells that he was so quickly falling deeper and deeper in love with were doing nothing for his self-control.

Finally taking the chance to look around him at the tantalizing display cases as he attempted to shake himself from his seductive scent induced daze, Adrien realized this was only going to get harder. Seeing all of the delicious delectables he was currently surrounded with was not going to help his… situation.

The croissants were the epitome of perfection. He could all too easily picture the flakes of airy pastry sticking to his face, his fingers, his shirt. Bites would melt away leaving behind butter, butter, and more butter. He could feel his arteries clogging just from the smell, let alone consuming one or ten or as many as he could get his hands on Right. Now. and it was glorious. Let alone the pains au chocolat, which glistened in the light with all of that butter in the pastry, but with the added seduction of chocolate, a temptation he was so rarely able to give into, unable to indulge in all of his tantalizing and delicious fantasies.

And the chocolate chip cookies - they are that perfect (purrfect) golden brown color but still oh so soft. And you can tell they are soft just looking at them because Tom and Sabine are masterful culinary magicians… the delicious smells curling their way over to him indicating just how fresh they are - a note of heat that said how recently they had been pulled from the ovens and put on display. And he just knew that the chocolate was still perfectly melty, so he can already picture the smears on his hands and face, and the act of lovingly licking away all those traces.

The macarons looking like something out of a fairy tale, or even just lifted directly from his dreams. All fantastical colors and flavors, worth every bit of affection, love, and adoration he could heap at their altar. Some the traditional and time-honored, others more trendy or the result of toiling experimentation by their divine creators, but every single one something he could, wanted, needed to sink his teeth into.

Turning slightly from the tantalizing morsels he was soon captivated again. He could all too easily imagine a wonderful candlelit table, just for him and a tarte Tatin. The caramelization on the apples glinting in the low light, like much more tantalizing jewels. The lovely blend of sweet and tart with the buttery goodness that was just begging to clog his arteries and he was so very weak to that. The pastry flaking, prompting images of a trail leading all the way…

… right into his mouth, causing him to stifle a moan down into a soft whimper because that delectable fantasy was almost too much for his control.

Oh, mon Dieu, those large, mouthwatering baguettes...

The darling cake pops that were pridefully flaunting themselves in their display jar, promised to be the best thing he could wrap his lips around.

And, God, those pain au chocolat, catching his eye (again) with the tantalizing peek of chocolate, were begging to make a mess of him, leaving flecks on his lips, his face. He could think of all sorts of indecent things to do with them…

…Like eating a couple dozen in one sitting.

But those baguettes... They continuously called a yeasty siren song, bringing his focus back to them, that promised to satisfy his hunger with lascivious carbohydrates wrapped up in a perfectly hard, thick crust that had his mind, stomach, and soul begging to be able to get his mouth around it, to be able to sink his teeth into one to get the prize inside.

Which led Adrien to the éclairs... The beguiling batons of pastry perfection with that oh so special filling. The ambrosia of the glossy chocolate frosting or the delectable caramel that merely hinted at what was secreted away inside an airy pastry. Because in this pastry wonderland the magicians who crafted each delicacy were not satisfied with vanilla and chocolate custards, no matter how amazing, how heavenly they may be. Raspberry, pistachio, lemon, hazelnut, and matcha custards and creams vamping alongside the vanilla, chocolate, and caramel éclairs-next-door. All begging, promising to make a mess of his face, his hands, his pants. To make a mess of him.

The bright colors of the fruit skewers caught his attention when he shook his head to try and push that fantasy to the back of his mind. The label on the jar reading, “糖葫芦 ~ tanghulu,” only caught his attention for a second before he marveled at the various fruits speared together - strawberries, kiwis, mandarins, grapes, pineapple, blueberries - and while not dangerously seductive like many of the others (that were still calling to him, begging him for attention and to devour them slowly or quickly, savoring and gentle, hard and fast, to satisfy all his urges) they were still so very tempting. The candied coating of sugar glistening in the ample sunlight, covering sweet and firm flesh, gently charming him with pleasing curves one after another and tempting sharp bursts of flavorful bliss if even just nibbled.

The gorgeous stained glass rosettes of the fruit tarts caught the light out of the corner of his eye. Various kaleidoscopes of bright morsels of fruit in varying patterns and designs, all nestled into a sumptuous cream that Adrien nearly fell to his knees with how much he wanted to dig into it, to get a taste, to truly be the cat that got the cream. The different notes of tart and sweet, the textures of each section - the lovely crumbly crust, the smooth vanilla cream, each bit of fruit slightly different - all coming together to make a symphony of flavorful seduction that he was so weak against, vulnerable to all the enticements that abound and surround him.

There were just so many temptations in terms of creams that he just knew would kill him trying to choose, they all hit upon his needs, his cravings, his desires. Perched above a placard for sfogliatella, nestled on top of one another were small fans of amazingly layered and flaky pastry. The fillings almost bursting out of the pastry shell, some with a beautiful orange tinted custard - or something, Adrien was too busy picturing biting into the delicious dessert during a sunset, in a secluded corner of a park to figure out what it actually was - and others a perfect and pristine cream that was ready and willing to trickle out the side of his mouth when he finally got his lips on it. And that powdered sugar that graced the tops of them all would get on his hands, his shirt, his pants giving him a reminder of just what had happened and, o h d i e u x, did he want that…

His eyes, and tastes, paused and then skipped right over the small but diverse selection of cheese tarts and breads, sending a much less tasteful or desired shiver down his spine at the fleeting thought, as he was just not into those…

He was, however, very interested in the madeleines, clafoutis, and other various gateaux and the like. But, Adrien was most especially drawn to the mille-feuille. The delicate structure and complex flavors he wanted to savor, let roll around on his tongue. Sugared cream and fruit, or more sassy chocolate or coffee, or maybe a bit of gently sweet and nutty almonds. The options were almost overwhelming with the thought of slowly wrecking the treat with his hands and mouth, eventually having to clean away all traces of the event, licking away at his fingers, scraping up traces around his lips...

And, good Lord, he felt like he needed to go to church as he looked at the -

“Oh, Adrien, dear, I’m sorry you had to wait. So, how can I help you? Anything, in particular, catch your eye?” Adrien startled at the seemingly sudden question from Sabine. He looked around and realized that while he was fantasizing, attention bounding around the shop, from case to jar to basket, the few other people that had been in the bakery had cleared out. Nino was off to the side and very well might have known what was going on inside his head if his stifled snickers were anything to go by.

Sheepishly he turned back to Sabine who was still staring at him patiently, if a little questioningly. While his hand crept up to rub at the back of his neck, Adrien managed to eke out a response, though he almost immediately regretted it as his own embarrassment managed to spike and Nino’s scoffs turned into guffaws.

“I guess one of everything you’ve made is a little much, right?”

#ml fic #mine #i write sometimes #it took me a year and a half to write edit and publish this #A Rose By Any Other Name #Adrien #food #so many food mentions #Nino and Sabine are there for the Briefest Amount of Time #the ending is a little lacking in my opinion but oh well #also featuring a ridiculous amount of italics #im not sorry #also hella innuendo #ml

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galadrieljones · 7 years

Text

A fic commission for @laskulls.

Inquisitor Hal Lavellan has a strange dream, in which he is forced to come to some difficult realizations about his life, as well as his relationship with Solas. This takes place during the Inquisition, before What Pride had Wrought.

(Thank you so much, laskull, for giving me the opportunity to write such a glorious creature as Hal. It was a pleasure to work with you. <3 -gala)

Absinthe

Some rooms are fit for Chantry sisters, their golds enveloping and made for storybook days in which childhood is something to cherish. Holding candles among the women and the people who love you—no matter who they are, you are protected from the wilds, the masked evils, the witches who mourn the death of the simple days, when children came into their ovens on the promise of sweets, of their own volition. Some rooms are wintry and sweet, cozy with the scent of balsam. People come and they go, all a family, and even when one is not there, the others know that he will soon return. Everything seems to be made of heavy, soft fabrics, lush but uncomplicated in the way they wrap you tight.

This was a different kind of room, however. Here, there were wolves.

There was red smoke, high in the corners of the ceiling, as if filled with eyes, and it watched him enter. Hal thought he had invited only twenty, maybe thirty to the party, but at some point, the guest list must have gotten away from him, as this was a party of hundreds. Maybe thousands. The chateau was big, and the chandeliers were beautiful, so who knew? There were tables and chairs, all of a cold, steely wood painted blue or painted white. Huge cakes in the shapes of summer animals—a bear, a lion, a serpent. They smelled divine, but they were untouched, as the fountains of champagne and the grand silver bowls of yellow pills, and potions in the punch, spiky and sweet with remorse and seduction.

Everything untouched and yet everyone around him seemed to be drunk, and getting drunker, and they embraced and hung off of one another like saplings. Some of the women seemed made of sunlight as they touched him. They were warm, and they whispered sweet, melancholy nothings with their breath that smelled of absinthe.

Hal had never tried absinthe. He liked alcohol in small quantities, though he found the effect dizzying. In this one simple sense, moderation suited him. But absinthe—was that an alcohol, or was that a drug? He couldn’t be sure. He knew people who’d had it before. It was a common drink in Orlais, and once he had been close to Solas who’d been sipping it out of a silver cap at the Winter Palace, and his breath smelled like black licorice after. Hal longed to taste it on his tongue. The effect put him into a daydream. But can you daydream past your regular dreaming? Nobody knows for sure, and so now he was looking around the party, looking for Solas. If this was his party, then Solas had to be there, somewhere. Didn’t he?

Their masks looked like their faces, but their faces looked like their masks. Cole had said something like this—once. Sometimes Hal got lost in the haves and have nots, that which was and that which he only imagined. He found himself at the center of a small circle of people—Orlesians. The word was thick and pink, and he could hear it best in Sera’s voice. These Fereldans and their crass accents, he thought. A man dressed as a fanged beast holding a heavy glass approached Hal then and put his mask back. He was handsome and flaxen, Orlesian and human. He was a great big man, even bigger than Hal, and he had to lean down a little to put his voice in Hal’s ear.

“There are women here, young Inquisitor. They will give you whatever you want.”

Hal blushed and tsk’ed the man. “You know better,” he said. But did he? The man seemed familiar somehow, like one of the noble shits who liked to strut around Val Royeaux, flashing his jewelry. Hal was enchanted, but Solas, he knew, was somewhere. “I must go.”

“Wait,” said the Orlesian. He held Hal by the wrist, gently, but sure. He handed him a glass of something very bright and green. “For you.”

“Is it absinthe?” said Hal.

The Orlesian smiled. His whole mouth seemed to turn up. His face was, at times, rocky. Other times, it was smooth and Hal longed to touch it though he could not locate the reason. “No, no,” said the Orlesian. No, no. “Nothing of the sort, Inquisitor. Look closer.”

Hal peered deep into the glass. He felt his head fill with mystery. He squinted at the man. “What is it?”

“Chartreuse,” said the Orlesian. “Smell it. Like plants, no?”

Hal thought it smelled like metal. “It must be shit,” he said, and he smirked. “I smell blood.”

The man enjoyed this. The boy was catching on. “I have seen foxes run wild in all of Orlais, Inquisitor,” he said. “None run as wild as you.”

“Is that a theory? Is this your guesswork?”

“I do not wish to impose,” said the man, even as he did. He softened, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He was not a bad man, but he was…motivated. He drew closer, and his breath reeked of cold. “But it is a theory, indeed, one I would hasten to test.”

“In what context?” said Hal.

“This,” said the man.

The man leaned forward, and he kissed him. At first, Hal felt warmth. Invigorated, he let go, and the feeling was good. This was a feeling he could learn to recognize in the long chilly nights of Skyhold. Somebody to take him close? Remind him where he came from. Like a tree that grew up and up until it forgot its roots. They were down there, somewhere. Perhaps an anchor? Then he could go down and be reminded of what they looked like.

But then he heard the cooing of the women, and a strange noise from overhead, and he knew that it was a mistake. This was not right. Clouds gathered to the sound of crumpling paper. But wasn’t this indoors? He felt repulsed. He pushed the man away.

“I’m sorry,” said Hal. “I can’t.”

“Don’t go,” said the man.

But no matter how Hal looked, he couldn’t see the man’s face anymore. His back had turned. Every angle he approached, it was only the man’s back, and then he knew that it was wrong. All of it. This man did not want him. He wanted a fox. So Hal reached for a glass of champagne to dull the edges. A pretty girl had passed, a Dalish elf holding a silver tray, and she seemed nice and knowing toward him.

“Ser Solas waits,” she said, smiling. She was warm, like autumn, and beautiful and young. Just like him. Her smile was pink. “Do I know you?”

“I’m not sure,” said Hal. “You said he waits? Where?”

“Outside,” she said. “In the garden. Are you sure we don’t know each other?”

“Many people think they know me,” said Hal. “They assume.”

“I think I know you from childhood,” she said. She held out her hand. In it, she held a twig. “Mahalen. You used to light the barn on fire.”

This almost made him laugh as he took the twig. What was she talking about? He found his legs with her. She was familiar, in any case. A Dalish girl, but a servant? This did not make sense. She said her name was River.

“River?” he said. “That is your name?”

“Follow me,” she said.

She took his hand.

They went down a long corridor that he could not remember. Candelabras on all sides. This was a chateau he had purchased, with riches he had earned. He should have known this hallway. He should have decorated. There were cobwebs in the corner that disgusted him.

What the fuck was this reverie, anyway? He longed to get out of there. He followed the girl with a feeling like she was his sister. He wanted her to stop and to give him something, like a hug, or perhaps a flower. They continued down the corridor until they found an old gate made of brass that stretched all the way up to the sky.

“Through there,” she said. And then she told him a secret. It was the secret of his whole life. He would wake up soon and never remember.

Beyond the gate, one after another after another, he saw butterflies. There were thousands. Like onlookers, and the sky was gray. It had begun to snow. Hal saw him.

He wore a strange mask—that of a raven, and he was very tall. And yet, somehow, Hal knew that it was Solas. Standing alone, leaning against the fountain, debonair in a silver tuxedo. Crushed with relief, Hal could feel his heart beating in his throat.

“Solas,” he said.

Hands in his pockets, Solas straightened up as Hal approached.

Hal, still holding that glass of champagne from the Dalish girl named River, glanced down at his shoes. He could feel Solas watching him, though the mask was deceiving. When he was right up close, Hal offered him the glass of champagne.

Solas lifted the mask, pushed it back so that Hal could see. It was him. Only taller, and more beautiful than before. Solas took the champagne and nodded in gratitude. Then, he sipped and surveyed the butterfly garden.

“I heard you had a run-in with a wolf,” he said, glancing. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said Hal, breathless. “It was nothing. The man was caught over his head. I stopped him.”

Solas smirked into his champagne. “I see.”

“What are you doing out here all alone?” said Hal. “You should come inside.”

“Would you like me to come inside?”

“Certainly,” said Hal. “I don’t seem to know anybody else.”

“You seem to know the serving girl. She is Dalish, is she not?”

Hal glanced over his shoulder. She was nowhere to be seen. “Her name is River,” he said. “I think she might be from another time.”

“I prefer the garden,” said Solas, confident. “The butterflies flock to this place, as if in worship. Spring is near. I can sense your uneasiness, Mahalen. I wish you would tell me the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“About the wolf inside.”

“Inside?”

“Inside the chateau.”

Hal swallowed some air. Solas was very cavalier and very upright, as a man. He had never been taller than Hal, not until this moment, and yet, for some reason, it seemed he had always been taller than Hal and suddenly, Hal found himself wondering once again at reality and everything that had been stolen from him. “I’m all right,” he said. “Though I could use some comfort, in any case.” He smiled. He tried to appear demure.

“Your drama suits the event,” said Solas, seeing right through him. “I missed you a great deal. The butterflies are pretty, but they are terrible with conversation.”

Hal laughed at this, low, and he blushed hard. The snow was gathering on his eyelashes, though he could barely feel the cold at all. He felt Solas’s hand instead, big and warm inside his own, and very sudden, but casual. When he looked down at their fingers, interlaced, Hal felt his heart grow and burst and the warmth of it catch in his throat. He looked up at Solas, and he said, “Is this on purpose?”

“Of course,” said Solas. Very cool, unconcerned. “I do very little that is not on purpose, Mahalen. Though I wish you would remove your mask.”

“I am not wearing a mask.”

“Not anymore,” said Solas.

Hal looked up at him then, and he felt protected. He did not need a mask here, and Solas lifted his chin to get a better look. Hal could feel his callused palms, wondered what he could have done to make them so rough like that. A mage with rough hands? Hal’s hands were soft. Hal’s hands were untouched until now.

“May I?” said Solas.

“May you what?”

“Kiss you,” he said. “Now that you have removed your mask. Of course, if the answer is no, please just say so. I take only that which is offered to me, and freely given.” He was so sure of himself. So strong, earnest in his request.

Hal shuddered, and his spine whispered away into the snowy landscape.

“Yes,” he said, a whisper.

His mouth was dry. Solas made a small smile, relieved, and then he leaned in and closed his eyes. It seemed to last forever, this moment in-between, but then their mouths touched in a quiet bit of undoing. It was everything, and it was all the world and time come to a halt for Hal. The snowflakes stood still in the air like exploding stars, and a red butterfly perched on Solas’s shoulder as if in possession. Hal felt the kiss deepen and then fade. They parted, slowly. Solas smiled down at him, satisfied and warm, tucking the hair behind Hal’s ear. The touch was slight, but Hal could feel it in his bones.

“It’s a beautiful day,” said Solas then as he glanced around, regarding the greenery where it pressed into the snow. His hand still lingered there, at the cut of Hal’s jaw, and he had tasted like black licorice, thought Hal. Black licorice. Absinthe. At last.

But the sky was coming down. Hal could hardly hear him now as the snow kicked up, or was it the butterflies? Maybe he’d never know, and in any case, he could feel the sunlight melting through the high windows, making a home in his bedsheets where he slept alone.

“When did we get home?” he said. “Solas?”

“Yes, vhenan?”

Awake.

Hal opened his eyes in the quiet of his Skyhold bedroom. It was past dawn, and the ice was melting off the windows like a prelude to summer. He touched his fingers to his mouth, waited for the reminder. Had it been the Fade?

No.

His heart sank. He knew in an instant that it had been simple dreaming, that the man Solas, who he loved desperately but with a kind of abandon that had begun to burn too bright into the void, was not here. Unrequited. Somebody was knocking on the door. This business of his, lurking in the shadows, beckoning him further and further away from the place he came from, it startled him back to reality.

It was Josephine, she said through the door, there to sketch out a social affair with some smug Comtesse from the Imperial Court. He was supposed to be excited, and so that is how he would force himself to appear, but in the space between the wolven specter of his dreams and a kiss from the lover who simply would not love him back, Hal had got lost. Could a dream be so telling, or the face of things to come? He hoped so, and yet he did not. Like all coins, this one had two sides. He pushed the hair off his face, rumpled the expensive cotton of the sheets. One thousand thread count, imported by his own personal request from Val Royeaux. Hal remembered the day they arrived in the mail, wrapped in brown paper and twine, and how he told Solas, all too excited. Solas, however, did not even glance up from his book.

Sheets, is it? he said. They’d been having coffee in the garden, were sitting at a little table with the Chantry sisters showing the children how to plant seeds in the soil.

Not just sheets, said Hal. One thousand threads.

I once slept on sheets spun by Antivan silk worms, he said, though he offered no context as he turned the page. Their threads are so small as to be innumerable. I itched by morning.

What does that mean? said Hal, growing impatient.

Spend your days counting thread, Mahalen, while the surgeons want for gauze in the sick bay. He glanced up. He smirked, but he was very serious. I think you hear me. Do you hear me, lethal’lin?

Lethal’lin. It would be a long time before Hal heard him. For now, Josephine had ceased her knocking and slipped a note under the door. Hal dug his fists into his eyes. Time to wake up. The Comtesse was expecting him at noon.

Proceeds for this commission will be donated to members of the fandom in need. Thank you so much, laskull, for your donation. <3

Want me to write you something? For more details on commissions, just message me on tumblr, or email me at [email protected]. <3

-gala

#commission #solavellan #mahalen lavellan #hal lavellan #solas #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfic #dream sequence #orlais #surrealism #thanks so much again!!#<3

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shespoly · 7 years

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Muffins

I made blue berry muffins this morning. Remixed the recipe to use milk and butter instead of water and oil. Knowing it will make it more cake like, that it will make it more fattening and it will taste so much better. I mixed in the blue berries, folded them in carefully to make sure they didn’t fall apart in the mix. I measured out the spoonfulls of batter into the cupcake pan, dusted the tops with strudel. Set the oven timer for 15 minutes, and basked in the glorious smell engulfing the apartment. And when the oven beeped, I took them out, perfectly cooked, still soft and moist. I let them cool. I set a few aside for M and S for when they come home, or if they want to take some to school or work. I left one out for me. It looked the best. Perfectly even all around with just the right amount of strudel.

Its been an hour now… and I’m still holding the same muffin in a napkin in my hands while my eyes spontaneously burst into tears. One bite. I’ve had one bite and I can’t think to take another. And I keep holding it, as if feeling it, looking at it, smelling it will pique my appetite and my interest to no avail. I’m just standing in the middle of the living room, the napkin now moistened from my hands gripping it so hard, shaking and falling apart.

Stupid, perfect muffin.

Everything is falling apart. I feel like I am standing on quick sand, trying desperately to keep my feet moving so I don’t sink inside to never be found again. But God I’m so tired. My feet are tired from moving so fast. My body is tired. My mind is tired. From trying to fix so many things all at once. And I can’t fix them. I don’t know how. But I keep trying, and trying, and trying, and trying to figure out a way to juggle everything that is overwhelming my life. Why can’t there be just one? Why can’t it be only my marriage to worry about, only my relationship with E to worry about, only my sexuality to worry about, only finding a job I like to worry about? Why can’t it be simple? The world hit me all at once, and I never saw it coming.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to save myself from drowning.

#writers on tumblr #my writing #writers #writers community #writers circle #polyamorus #poly relationships #coming out #lesbian relationships

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nootnootandthesaurusscamander · 7 years

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Bonded enemies || Closed rp with vehuhia

@vehuhia

Percival Graves had become cocky. It was to be expected, really. One couldn’t be the most powerful auror of their time, become Director of Magical Security and head of MACUSA’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement without becoming overconfident. Percival knew it, and he didn’t hide it. Wasn’t ashamed of it. That was a part of who he was, now.

But he had become cocky, and that had been his biggest mistake.

When Gellert Grindelwald had appeared in an empty alleyway where Percival had been investigating the disparition of his friend, Theseus Scamander - disparition, yes, because he wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead, he was just missing, it was all, and Percival would bring him home safe and sound, thank you very much -, Percival hadn’t run away. Hadn’t called out for help.

Because, honestly, if there was someone who could bring down Gellert Grindelwald, greatest wizard of their time, it was him. Percival Graves. So he had merely smirked, drawn out his wand - and he could already imagine Picquery’s face when he would brought her Grindelwald, wrists bound and fury clear into his mismatched eyes -

Except that the fight that ensues wasn’t at all what Percival had imagined. He had known that Grindelwald was an excellent duelist, and yet, it seemed that he had underestimated him. It actually didn’t take long for the man to disarm Percival - less than twenty minutes, that was pathetic - and to bring him to his knees.

Percival had been so sure he was going to die there and then, and he had already made peace with his destiny. He had always known that this was how he was going to go: in a glorious fight against evil.

But Grindelwald hadn’t killed him. No. He had knocked him out, and brought him into a miserable cell, where he had tortured him, trying to extract informations from him. Again. And again. And again. For what had felt like months. But Percival had kept his mouth shut, his mental wards up, and hadn’t revealed any secret. Hadn’t allowed the bastard into his head, despite the hunger, the pain, the exhaustion, the fear.

If he was going to die there, he wasn’t going to talk. Never. The man had taken everything from him, he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction to open his mouth.

That was in this state of mind that he opened his eyes, one day - night? -, lifting his chin defiantly as Grindelwald entered his cell, looking at him in the eye, fury making his magic swirl furiously inside him - But the chains on his wrists and ankles didn’t allow him to use it. It was furious inside him, and it was useless, and it drained Percival more surely than any torture Grindelwald had up his sleeve.

He wasn’t going to show the man how scared he really was. He had fought during the war, damn it. He didn’t fear a fucking mismatched eyed albino.

But that time… something was wrong. All of his instincts screamed it to him. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. There was a smell, a smell he knew all too well, and the wolf in him clawed at his insides and whined as he realized that it wasn’t right. There was Theseus’ smell, but… it was wrong, somehow. Different. He smelled like death. He smelled like blood.

He smelled like vampires.

And his doubts were only confirmed when the auror, his friend, stepped into the room, eyes wide and mad, dry blood creaking in his chin and fangs pointing between his full lips.

And Percival suddenly wanted to be sick.

“What did they do to you…?”, he breathed, his heart clenching painfully in his chest, his voice made hoarse by too many hours spent screaming in agony. So worried and furious in his friend’s behalf that he forgot to be scared, forgot that he was in the same room as a vampire lost in a blood frenzy.

Had he always smelled like that? Theseus cocked his head to the side and breathed in deeply, trying to pinpoint the exact smell. But he couldn’t, he’d never smelled that scent before, couldn’t pinpoint it even with his sensitive nose. He just knew Percival's scent was deeper, like the forest, pine, musky, but also the slight smell of wet dog, which was just off putting.

At the same time, his blood smelled tantalizing. Rich, deep, like velvet chocolate cake fresh out of the oven. It made him hum with excitement as he slowly moved closer, waiting for his master to give him space before moving in.

“Bite him and feed, but don’t drain him. I need him alive...” His master and creator took their leave and he was left alone with poor little Percy.

Theseus smirked at the question, at the look of horror on Percival’s face. He carefully reached out and stroked the warm cheek, feeling the blood thrum in its veins underneath his fingers.

“So now you want to know?” He chuckled, anger churning inside of him. Percy had abandoned him, had never even bothered to find him. Both his creator and master had made that abundantly clear and Theseus had no reason to distrust them at this point. “I spend seventy six hours in agony, Percy...

Do you know how fast we turn? Within twenty four hours... but not me. Oh no, no I turned in three days. Because fate doesn’t give a fuck about me. And neither did you.”

He leaned in, pressing his nose against Percival’s cheek and inhaled. Groaning at the conflicting smells he picked up. Confusion settled on his features and he leaned back slightly, cupping the wizard’s cheeks to make eye contact. “Your blood smells divine, but you....”

Theseus scoffed “You smell like wet dog.”

“Why?”

#vehuhia #closed rp #theseus rp #thesival rp #vampire au #vampire/werewolf au #bonded enemies #thes is so confused by this

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deathbyvalentine · 7 years

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Slayers Prompts:

(Pre- Social)

Baking Up a Storm The kitchen was filled with delicate white clouds of icing sugar and flour. It coated his dark hair, making it look almost as if it had been snowing on the boy. Throughout the house the smell of sweet baking permeated. Cupcakes dripped with white icing on drying racks. The oven hummed with heat. He took out a pan full of brownies with oven gloves, depositing them next to the other two trays and three cakes.

Tommy was not someone that dealt with sustained stress well. So he ignored it, bottling it up and shelving it next to his anger and pessimism, never to escape. But it had to express somehow. And this was usually by taking care of others. Making sure they were fed and comforted.

He knew Michael would have been being worn down to the bone, recovering from the chaos magic that had corrupted his blood and venturing into the labyrinth. And as well as being soothed by the act of baking, he wanted to let him know he cared. That he didn’t owe someone, that there was someone looking out for him.

Oddly, unbidden, an image came to him of Olerin, bringing his master food when candles had burnt down to their holders, in a room full of maps and paper. He had loved Michael, that much was obvious, but how did he care for him? Or was it the other way around. Was the apprentice the one who needed reminders that his health too was important?

Carefully, Tommy boxed up some of the brownies. Luckily, he didn’t need taking care of.

Chaotic Bitchiness

This was objectively, fucking ridiculous.

He was twenty one. Why was he standing, alone, in the corridor of a party he had been invited to, with tears dripping down his nose, desperate to go home? He felt younger than he had done in years. He sniffed, furiously, wiping tears from his face with the sleeve of his softest jumper.

He was reminded of what mums in kid’s programs say. That if they make you feel bad, they’re not really your friends. But they were the closest thing to friends he had, and he wasn’t likely to get any more, was he? So he had to swallow it down, and stop acting like a child. If Tori and Lydia knew they had upset him, they would only sink in their teeth more. They didn’t like weakness apparently, and it poured off him like water.

He took a few deep steadying breaths. He clenched his hands tightly and released them again, an old technique for managing pain. He dipped into the bathroom to check his face in the mirror - his eyes a little red, his cheeks a little splotchy, but not noticeably. Not if you weren’t looking for it.

“You’re fine.” He murmured to the mirror, looking at the white of the porcelain sink. “You’re fine.”

Who’s The Lyre Now? It was one of the unfortunate days when he had to go outside to the shop. Usually Jones kept them well supplied in milk and bread, picking up a few things on her way back from work, but she had been working so late the past few days, the corner shop had been shut. And Tommy Madding could work without a lot of things, but he could not work without tea. So he put on his boots, and put on his hat, and braved the outside world.

All told, it was quite pleasant. The sun was shining gently, with the wind providing a cooling breeze. Birds were singing, and flowers were starting to bloom, sprinkling patches of grass with riotous colour. He liked walking too - feeling strength in his limbs and spine was still novel, despite it being two years since he had lacked it.

So when he had retrieved the milk (and a bar of chocolate for Jones, in case it had been a hard day), he didn’t feel the need to retreat home right away. The strip of shops was still empty enough he didn’t feel overwhelmed. He walked on, following his fancy into a charity shop.

He loved charity shops. He loved the jumpers there, the sense of age that hung off so many items. He liked imagining what the person who had owned the trinkets he had. Sometimes, recently, if he held them in his hand and closed his eyes, and focused, he swore he could feel something of them. But maybe not.

The shop was cool, dust motes gently sprinkling through the air, the room devoid of any bustle from the streets. It was cluttered and beautiful, ran by an older lady who usually insisted on pinching Tommy’s cheeks, though this was not as unusual an occurrence as one might expect. There were shelves of yellowing books, tables filled with broken jewelry, little boxes full of trinkets that were precious once.

He nodded to the owner, and traced his usual circuit around the shop, trailing his fingers along the surfaces, gathering dust on his skin. He saw it peeping out of a box, a small corner of the polished wood catching the sun. He crouched, and with careful hands, pulled it out and dusted it off.

A lyre sat, innocently. All it’s strings intact, unchipped and unblemished. It was unusual in colour - not dark or light brown, but jet black, with the detail being in shining gold. It felt right in his hands, like it fitted perfectly. When he plucked at it experimentally, the note was pure and fresh. He took it up to the counter, not even noticing until he got to the desk that a necklace had caught on the bag that had been tucked under it. A triskele. He frowned. He didn’t believe in coincidences.

“How much for these two?”

Emails

*Ping* Tommy looked up blearily from his bed. His laptop sat on his bedside drawers, glowing in the half-light of the evening. He hadn’t expected Lydia to reply back so quickly - he always messaged her with the assumption she had to get to civilization first. He used to get a lot of emails; all his friends being online sort of caused that. But since real life had taken over, he had been on his chatroom less, and he had gotten less emails.

He sat up, pulling it over and onto his lap. And blinked.

‘A Friend.’ Address not saved in his address book, no subject line. After reading it, for ten glorious minutes, he thought it was Him. And then he realised the irregularities in the text, the way A had never communicated with anything but dreams or letters. His face coloured pink, and he shot back another email.

*Ping.* So began his days. His days of waiting for the next, pouring his heart and soul into every one. The stranger seemed to care about him, and asked questions about /him/. They didn’t want anything from him, they didn’t make fun of him. And they told good stories, even if they cut so close to the bone Tommy had to check if he was bleeding. He didn’t want them to stop, even as growing unease bloomed along his skin like poisonous flowers. Nobody else could understand how it made him feel. They would tear it apart.

So for a little while, he kept it a secret. He wanted something he didn’t have to share. Something that was just his.

(Post Social)

Mask/Ecstasy

His heart pounded and he could hear drumming in his ears. He felt vital, he felt alive, he felt like his body had found a purpose other than existing. Every touch was heightened, every sense changed. He was out of his mind, but closer to his body.

Oh, and closer to Lydia too. How could this not be worship? This was as holy as fasting, as denial. Many holiness was all in the absolutes - the yes or the no, the deities they loved were just on other ends of the spectrum. He loved her with his whole heart then, because he finally understood her. He had been inching closer to understanding for a while now, but this was a part of her you couldn’t learn from observing.

The MDMA made him realise how much he adored everyone earlier, how much he valued each life above his own, how much he would give for all of them. It didn’t feel good. It felt like a wound he couldn’t heal down the middle of his chest. Because he couldn’t save all of them, and he would watch nearly all of them die, in one way or another. How do any of them bear it? How could the mortals stand to be so, feeling their cells rot and decay constantly? How were they all not as determined not to die as he was?

Lydia touched his hand, and he jolted himself out of the spiraling thoughts, and danced with her. And thought of her patron, and his masks. And how Tommy wished he was here too, so he could see how beautiful she was. He could see Jones watching them, expression unfathomable. A pang of guilt then. He was doing wrong, somehow.

But just once, just once, he didn’t want to have to think or worry or be cautious or be good. He just wanted to be. Did that make him bad? Did it make him awful? He would pray for all the forgiveness he needed. But honestly? Lydia needed someone right now. And there was nothing worse than not being there for a friend.

Physical/Touch/Flirt

He woke up, covered in sweat. His breath elevated. His heart jumping. His mind guilty. He knew what he had been dreaming about.

‘- fingers trailing across his skin, a soft and insistent mouth on his, fingertips pressing into his hips just short of hard enough to bruise - ‘

He needed a cold shower.

He wasn’t sure when he had started craving this. Not just sexual forms of contact, though holy hell that had hit him like a freight train. No. He just wanted physical affection. He wanted arms around him, hair touching, holding hands, kissing, oh gosh, so much kissing. He would like the first things from friends, and so much more from Asclepius. But even the first things might cause jealousy he knew. He got a pang of guilt whenever he needed anything from someone else, let alone this stuff.

After the shower, he reread the letter, tracing the offending line with his finger. Could it mean what he thought it meant? He couldn’t imagine himself ever being an object of desire. He was gawky looking, always awkward, covered in scars from various surgeries, and didn’t know how to hold himself. He hid in jumpers that swamped his shape, hid his curls in hats, his face behind glasses he didn’t even need anymore. A was a God. Why would he want him like that?

He groaned, flopping back onto his bed. He could do without this delayed puberty bullshit. First, the does he like me or like like me. Then the social awkwardness at parties. Now, the being bloody terrified and curious and desperate all at the same time about sex. He had never felt like this towards anyone before - there had only ever been him. He didn’t even get crushes growing up.

What now? Everyone said he should talk to him. But what if he was wrong, and Asclepius thought badly of him? Even thinking of saying the words out loud made him flush and his stutter ramp up to a hundred. No. It was settled. He wouldn’t bring it up first.

Teeth

It hurt in a way he had never felt before, rendering him almost curious. Her teeth sunk into his arm and suddenly blood started pouring. It would heal in five minutes. No scar would remain. Nothing to remind him this happened.

Just this memory of Lydia with blood on her teeth and wine in her hand. Just this memory of dancing with her, with drugs rushing through his system like stardust. This was a ritual, he realised now, with a dull shock that didn’t seem so very important. For him, but for her as well. They was drugs, there was music, and now there was blood. Witch blood.

He wondered if Dionysus felt this somewhere. Felt that he had bled for him, drank for him, danced for him. He hoped he felt the weight of his care and knew Lydia was not the only ally he had in this strange world, so different from the ancient.

High/Attic Room

When he wanted to feel at home, he went to his and Jones’s place. When he wanted to be alone, he went to Tori’s house.

He had slightly fallen in love with the lonliness of the place. An old victorian townhouse, complete with slightly peeling paint and a wild garden, where ivy crept over stone, and it whispered in the wind. You could feel the history in the bones of the place. In the sullen twilight, walking on talkative floorboards, he felt like a ghost, haunting the still-empty rooms.

His house was the attic room made habitable. The windows had been fixed so they no longer whistled, and the radiators repaired so he wouldn’t freeze in winter. He could hear people coming up the narrow stairs, he could lock the door, he could keep himself occupied.

Right now, alone time was all he desired. His skin felt too tight around others, and he currently had a tendency towards distraction and losing the thread of conversations. He sent his emails, he wrote his rituals, and he had fleeting meetings with other members of SSBC.

That’s why the sleepover caught him so very unawares. He looked around in mild bewilderment, clutching his milkshake and blanket close to him. Lydia had her head in his lap while she idly threw popcorn at Bloom. Nate lounging on a chair, swapping swigs of whiskey with Angela. Jacob sat on the floor offering surprisingly insightful commentary on Lord Of The Rings.

Did these people like him? Were they just bored? Either way, a bit of a warm flicker flared in his chest as he settled back against the wall, starting to pet Lydia’s hair. This, this type of social he could do.

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine. All his friends were going to die, or be unhappy, or be harmed in some way that stuck with them. He was in a coma, his boyfriend was never around, and he was getting emails from someone who knew him more than he knew himself. His visions were getting more and more graphic, and could kill him at any moment apparently. Apollo still couldn’t remember who he was, Dionysus was still mortal, and he hadn’t talked to Loki in months.

The world was going to be filled with an all manner of horrors if he didn’t fix it soon, he wasn’t clever enough or quick enough or brave enough. The curse could come back at any moment and he could be coughing up blood, his twin still hated him, his parents were still oblivious. Jones worked too hard, Lydia loved too hard, Tori hated too hard, Zac lied too hard and Daniel was the one sane man amongst them.

He felt a moment away from greatness or a moment away from breaking, and the needle was swinging towards the latter as every day got harder and harder.

But he couldn’t tell anybody this.

They had enough to worry about.

“This is what’s real.”

He jolted awake into his darkened bedroom, and did his usual checks. Breathing - elevated but fine. Temperature - elevated but fine. He could move his fingers and toes, he could sit up, he could see clearly, his hands weren’t shaking. The room was not white, there was no noise other than the ticking of the clock, and his mother was not beside his bed.

He had not woken up yet.

Slowly, he lay back down, heart rate calming. A hand went to the bedside drawer and found a letter. Even though he had only had it a few weeks, it was beginning to look worn from reading and rereading.

It didn’t help in terms of his sense of reality. But it reminded him that it was better not to wake up. That everything he ever wanted was within this dream.

Plaster

The bramble caught his cheek, and drew a thin, dangerous line of blood. Shocked, Tommy raised his fingers to the warmth, and blinked at the scarlet he found on his fingertips. This patch of land really didn’t want him here. The bad feeling permeated everything, even the soil. But he wouldn’t be frightened away. He stared at the two yew trees tangled together and with a small flump, sat down and began to sketch them.

His feet had brought him here somewhat accidentally. He was of the belief that if you wanted to know a place’s history, look at it’s graveyards. And he had learnt something. Heywater’s troubled past was not easily hidden. A second motive had encouraged him too. He found graveyards uniquely comforting. After his condition, they were an avoided promise, a debt not yet paid. It kept him from spending too much time studying too, the frequent walking breaks.

He couldn’t wait for winter, when his knitwear and jumpers would cease to be something of note, and the temperature would be comfortable. Right now he was uncommonly hot and bothered, and the heat from his wounded cheek didn’t help. In five minutes, it would be healed, Asclepius’s blessing removing even the hint of a scar. But he still put on a plaster, carefully following instructions Jones had told him about never touching the bandage part.

It had Superman on it, and it made him feel a little braver in this hostile place.

Apprentice

He loved Michael with a fierceness that surprised even him. It was a love that wanted him to be better, wanted him to stop disappointing him. His main disappointment came from his inability to share, to trust, to let someone else have a little of the burden. He wanted to scream at him sometimes - to let him help, that he wasn’t a child, that he wasn’t breakable.

A smaller part thought that he would be better going into the labyrinth. Michael had so many that cared for him and so much skill the world still needed. He was small and insignificant in a way Michael was not. And if they stripped it down to the bare bones of the matter, Tommy did not want his mantle. He wanted him not to die.

He came up with a hundred plans and schemes to prevent it, none that would work, but all he would try. Talking to his staff, talking to the others, magical wards or tricks - but then Jones would have the same problem.

No matter what he chose, he chose wrong. And he hated it. He hated feeling powerless and alone and out of his depth when a job was pushed into his hands that he had to accept, but hadn’t the skill for. But an apprentice had to learn, and he supposed he was going to learn fast. He hoped Michael was a good teacher.

He remembered Olerin’s face and knew he was.

#slayers #fic #drabbles #prose #prompts

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