I’m about to challenge you/break your heart as you write. Elriel fluff, pls?
“Is it supposed to look like that?” I frown at the mass of dough in front of me. I’m the cauldron-damned spymaster of the Night Court and I can’t make a single loaf of bread without messing it up. Elain looks up from her own dough–which looks perfect–to inspect my catastrophe on the counter. She tries to restrain it, I can see, but Elain giggles all the same.
“Don’t laugh at me, I’m trying my best.”
“It’ll still taste the same,” she offers. “Here, let me help you”
“I don’t need your help. I can shape my own bread.”
“Oh, hush now. It just needs a little rounding, a bit of a tug… there.” I don’t know how she does it, but Elain reshapes the dough with no effort at all. She makes it look so easy. Is it normal to be jealous of someone’s bread-making skills?
“Put that in the pan, and we’ll get these beauties cooking.”
“Maybe you should do it.”
Elain levels me with a look that tells me what she’s thinking without a word. Illyrian baby. Sighing, and avoiding the female’s eyes, I carefully place the dough in the pan. I only mess it up a little bit.
As Elain said, It’ll still taste the same.
“It’s really not as bad as you think, Az. Stop being so hard on yourself.”
“What, I’m not allowed to want to make a nice loaf of bread for you?”
“Right, because what I want most from you is bread. It’s the entire reason we’re together.” She washes the flour of her hands in the sink as she speaks. “‘Why did you marry Azriel, Elain?’ ‘Oh, I just wanted someone to make bread for me’” She moves aside, and I wash the flour off my own hands.
“Alright, I get it. But here I was, all this time, thinking you married me for my bread.” I close the remaining space between us, resting my hands on her hips.
“Trust me, I married you for so much more than your bread.”
“Like what?”
She taps a finger on my forehead. “Your brain.” Her hands travel down to my chest. “Your heart.” She presses her lips to mine, slow and sweet. “Your lips.” She smiles, that mischievous glint in her eye. “I could go on, but we might be here a while.”
“I’ve got time.”
The bread in the oven becomes forgotten in the time that follows. It comes out burnt, but that’s okay. She didn’t marry me for my bread, anyway. I know that for certain.
foxboylucien 