The Dark Lord and the Saucier (dark chocolate #1, sangria #24, cloves #5)
Title: The Dark Lord and the Saucier
Prompts: dark chocolate #1 "isolation", sangria #24 "On what wings of the terror of darkness he rideth - William Morris" , cloves #5 "meet your maker"
Pairing: Azarel/Anthony (M/M)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/enticements: mild language, references to bondage and spanking
Summary: Azarel Minamoto faces a peasant rebellion and is transported to another reality where he meets Anthony Garrett... who mistakes him for last weekend's one-night-stand... Azarel's alternate reality twin.
Anthony Garrett slipped off his apron at 1:17 that Friday night and tossed it into the washing bin. He scrubbed one hand through his short blond hair, smoothed his face, and tried to decide if he was more hungry or in the mood for a beer. Tonight was his first full night at a four star restaurant and he was exhausted, not so much because the work was difficult but because he'd spent the entire shift stressing out about whether or not he would do it right.
Because the stress still wanted to sleep at the base of his neck and between his shoulder-blades, Anthony decided on that beer. He clocked out, smiling back and returning the well-wishes and 'good-nights' of co-workers who said them to him. Chef was already gone, but the closing crew had begun to break down and clean everything, preparing for the next morning. He got his coat and went inside, drinking in the cool air and faint early autumn drizzle that felt so lovely after a day in a hot kitchen.
There were drinking establishments within walking distance of the restaurant, but all of a sudden Anthony was feeling lighter than air, so good he wanted to splurge a little of the money he'd make on this first pay check. He wanted a cocktail at Quoth, and although he wasn't quite dressed for it, he thought some of his club gear might still be in the trunk of his car. Sure enough, all the stuff from last month's pathetic 'weekend' was still there - not totally clean, but certainly fresh. Anthony grabbed what he wanted and dumped it in the passenger's seat, then motored on into downtown.
The rebels had entered the inner sanctum. Now they were a howling mob, their blasphemous songs punctuated by the smash and crack of broken furniture. The guards, cowards and traitors that they were, had fled after most of their number were killed. Not, Azarel thought, that such a thing would or could have happened, or the mob could have set one foot in his home, if he had not deliberately allowed them to do so. It would be an exquisite and excruciating lesson. For all of them.
A cold smile touched his lips.
When they burst in, the black-haired bitch general at the forefront, Azarel Minamoto sat unmoved and graceful upon his iron throne. His dark eyes, dispassionate, flicked over each of them and his expression shifted only slightly, with the sort of disgust one might display at witnessing a cockroach scuttling across the table.
"I do not recall having summoned any of you," he said.
Mirya Walker threw a spiked grenade across the room, aimed squarely at his head. Her deep green fatigues, the gear of a traitor or a spy, were darkened with sweat and her short bob mussed into her eyes. "Fight me, tyrant," she snarled.
Azarel drew the saber housed within his throne arm and blocked the grenade, snapping it up against the east wall, where it exploded in a small detonation of stone powder. He slowly rose to his feet. "Have you read your Barrie, Ms. Pan?" he said, sketching a perfunctory salute like a small flash in the air. "Death is the only adventure you have left."
She gritted her teeth and advanced, her unwashed masses not far behind her. Only one was close enough to seem eager to join the fight: a big, stubble-faced man wearing a bone necklace. Azarel made a note of him but focused on Mirya. He was going to feed her her kidneys this time, perhaps simmered in a nice rice wine.
The big man tripped over a loose stone and landed, skinning his hands, just as each sword clashed. Mirya went for her pistol and Azarel drew his own, sliding it from its leather holster with a serpentine hiss. A grenade slipped from the man's pocket, rolled across the floor, and came to rest beneath a swirling cerulean orb... a new experiment of Azarel's.
It drew his attention from Mirya. He raced away, trying to swat the grenade away before it exploded.
He was too late. There was dust and nausea and a horrible ringing in his ears, twisting into a base beat and synthesized... God, was that music?
As Azarel's vision cleared, he saw that Mirya and her mob were no longer around him. Instead there was a mass of bodies in sleek sateens and latexes, mostly black - pale bodies with gelled hair and black makeup. The music was so loud it seemed to welter in the air, forming its own cloud of humidity.
Both of his weapons had left his hands in the debacle, something Azarel did not find comforting in the slightest, but he did not sense danger from his surroundings. Just an oncoming headache. He turned and noted a bar, deepened in shadows and slightly less crowded. He made his way toward it, ignoring the occasional leer or soft-voiced advance as he did so. Clearly, no one here knew who he was.
There was only one stool left at the bar. It was at the furthest left, next to a good-looking young man with spiked blond hair wearing the sort of white-shirted, stockinged twink outfit that made Azarel want to tie his wrists to a shower head and beat him with a belt. He was exceptionally good looking as well, something Azarel couldn't help but notice as he leaned in to catch the bartender's attention and found the young man gazing at him with deep green eyes, smiling as if he couldn't imagine his luck.
"Kei!" he said, "I swear, this is the best night. I didn't think I'd see you again after last weekend. Can I get you a drink? Your hair looks amazing." He drew his fingers, with an insouciance Azarel simply could not believe, through Azarel's long straight auburn hair. "Extensions?"
Azarel's eyes lingered on the young man's martini glass. He could shatter it and make sure that the brat never so much as lifted a hand toward his hair without permission, but he wasn't sure precisely where he was and he had noticed the use of the name 'Kei.' Somehow, this young man seemed to think he knew him.
So he ignored the impertinence for the moment. He even smiled. "Do you remember what I drink?" he murmured, in a low teasing voice.
The blond shifted as if merely that had stirred his arousal. It was almost cute. "I... don't, I'm sorry, Kei."
Azarel was not concerned. It was better than drinking whatever swill Kei drank. "Top shelf single malt Scotch. The best they have. Straight."
"Butch," commented the blond, with a raise of eyebrows.
Azarel gave him a look. He knew he was not in his time or place, and he needed information, resources and a place to stay. The blond boy would do, if he could be trained to keep his mouth shut. Azarel was going to finish his drink, dig 'Kei's' nails in a little, and get taken home. The only trick would be that it was, doubtless, out of character for 'Kei' to slam Blondie's face into the bar for a monosyllable.
Prompts: dark chocolate #1 "isolation", sangria #24 "On what wings of the terror of darkness he rideth - William Morris" , cloves #5 "meet your maker"
Pairing: Azarel/Anthony (M/M)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/enticements: mild language, references to bondage and spanking
Summary: Azarel Minamoto faces a peasant rebellion and is transported to another reality where he meets Anthony Garrett... who mistakes him for last weekend's one-night-stand... Azarel's alternate reality twin.
Anthony Garrett slipped off his apron at 1:17 that Friday night and tossed it into the washing bin. He scrubbed one hand through his short blond hair, smoothed his face, and tried to decide if he was more hungry or in the mood for a beer. Tonight was his first full night at a four star restaurant and he was exhausted, not so much because the work was difficult but because he'd spent the entire shift stressing out about whether or not he would do it right.
Because the stress still wanted to sleep at the base of his neck and between his shoulder-blades, Anthony decided on that beer. He clocked out, smiling back and returning the well-wishes and 'good-nights' of co-workers who said them to him. Chef was already gone, but the closing crew had begun to break down and clean everything, preparing for the next morning. He got his coat and went inside, drinking in the cool air and faint early autumn drizzle that felt so lovely after a day in a hot kitchen.
There were drinking establishments within walking distance of the restaurant, but all of a sudden Anthony was feeling lighter than air, so good he wanted to splurge a little of the money he'd make on this first pay check. He wanted a cocktail at Quoth, and although he wasn't quite dressed for it, he thought some of his club gear might still be in the trunk of his car. Sure enough, all the stuff from last month's pathetic 'weekend' was still there - not totally clean, but certainly fresh. Anthony grabbed what he wanted and dumped it in the passenger's seat, then motored on into downtown.
The rebels had entered the inner sanctum. Now they were a howling mob, their blasphemous songs punctuated by the smash and crack of broken furniture. The guards, cowards and traitors that they were, had fled after most of their number were killed. Not, Azarel thought, that such a thing would or could have happened, or the mob could have set one foot in his home, if he had not deliberately allowed them to do so. It would be an exquisite and excruciating lesson. For all of them.
A cold smile touched his lips.
When they burst in, the black-haired bitch general at the forefront, Azarel Minamoto sat unmoved and graceful upon his iron throne. His dark eyes, dispassionate, flicked over each of them and his expression shifted only slightly, with the sort of disgust one might display at witnessing a cockroach scuttling across the table.
"I do not recall having summoned any of you," he said.
Mirya Walker threw a spiked grenade across the room, aimed squarely at his head. Her deep green fatigues, the gear of a traitor or a spy, were darkened with sweat and her short bob mussed into her eyes. "Fight me, tyrant," she snarled.
Azarel drew the saber housed within his throne arm and blocked the grenade, snapping it up against the east wall, where it exploded in a small detonation of stone powder. He slowly rose to his feet. "Have you read your Barrie, Ms. Pan?" he said, sketching a perfunctory salute like a small flash in the air. "Death is the only adventure you have left."
She gritted her teeth and advanced, her unwashed masses not far behind her. Only one was close enough to seem eager to join the fight: a big, stubble-faced man wearing a bone necklace. Azarel made a note of him but focused on Mirya. He was going to feed her her kidneys this time, perhaps simmered in a nice rice wine.
The big man tripped over a loose stone and landed, skinning his hands, just as each sword clashed. Mirya went for her pistol and Azarel drew his own, sliding it from its leather holster with a serpentine hiss. A grenade slipped from the man's pocket, rolled across the floor, and came to rest beneath a swirling cerulean orb... a new experiment of Azarel's.
It drew his attention from Mirya. He raced away, trying to swat the grenade away before it exploded.
He was too late. There was dust and nausea and a horrible ringing in his ears, twisting into a base beat and synthesized... God, was that music?
As Azarel's vision cleared, he saw that Mirya and her mob were no longer around him. Instead there was a mass of bodies in sleek sateens and latexes, mostly black - pale bodies with gelled hair and black makeup. The music was so loud it seemed to welter in the air, forming its own cloud of humidity.
Both of his weapons had left his hands in the debacle, something Azarel did not find comforting in the slightest, but he did not sense danger from his surroundings. Just an oncoming headache. He turned and noted a bar, deepened in shadows and slightly less crowded. He made his way toward it, ignoring the occasional leer or soft-voiced advance as he did so. Clearly, no one here knew who he was.
There was only one stool left at the bar. It was at the furthest left, next to a good-looking young man with spiked blond hair wearing the sort of white-shirted, stockinged twink outfit that made Azarel want to tie his wrists to a shower head and beat him with a belt. He was exceptionally good looking as well, something Azarel couldn't help but notice as he leaned in to catch the bartender's attention and found the young man gazing at him with deep green eyes, smiling as if he couldn't imagine his luck.
"Kei!" he said, "I swear, this is the best night. I didn't think I'd see you again after last weekend. Can I get you a drink? Your hair looks amazing." He drew his fingers, with an insouciance Azarel simply could not believe, through Azarel's long straight auburn hair. "Extensions?"
Azarel's eyes lingered on the young man's martini glass. He could shatter it and make sure that the brat never so much as lifted a hand toward his hair without permission, but he wasn't sure precisely where he was and he had noticed the use of the name 'Kei.' Somehow, this young man seemed to think he knew him.
So he ignored the impertinence for the moment. He even smiled. "Do you remember what I drink?" he murmured, in a low teasing voice.
The blond shifted as if merely that had stirred his arousal. It was almost cute. "I... don't, I'm sorry, Kei."
Azarel was not concerned. It was better than drinking whatever swill Kei drank. "Top shelf single malt Scotch. The best they have. Straight."
"Butch," commented the blond, with a raise of eyebrows.
Azarel gave him a look. He knew he was not in his time or place, and he needed information, resources and a place to stay. The blond boy would do, if he could be trained to keep his mouth shut. Azarel was going to finish his drink, dig 'Kei's' nails in a little, and get taken home. The only trick would be that it was, doubtless, out of character for 'Kei' to slam Blondie's face into the bar for a monosyllable.