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sunflowerseedsandscience · 6 years

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Au Cafe Pequod: Chapter One

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE EARLY DECEMBER 1943

He has been coming to this tiny corner cafe every night for weeks, and every time he's here, he notices something new about her.

At first, it's superficial things, general things anyone would notice: the red of her hair, the way it constantly tries to escape the kerchief she often ties over it, her narrow waist with her apron cinched around it, her tiny size, the way she barely comes up to his shoulder in the low heels she wears to work.

Later, it's smaller things: the intense blue of her eyes, the little mole above her lip, the girlish dusting of freckles across her nose, the thin brows that arch so expressively.

Now, after two weeks' nightly observation, he's begun cataloguing more minute details. She is markedly cool to the many German officers who frequent her cafe, but never rude, which is wise. Her business is surprisingly well-stocked with provisions, especially given the current food shortages that abound, so she must be a resourceful and savvy businesswoman. He's well aware that many women throughout occupied France have reached "arrangements" with German officers in a desperate attempt to feed their families, but she does not appear to have resorted to such measures. He's heard her addressed by locals as "Mademoiselle Scully," which intrigues him, because Scully is not a French name.

And judging by the way her jaw clenches every time the soldiers dining in her cafe make crude remarks to one another regarding the lovely shape of her ass, he's fairly certain she speaks quite a bit more German than she lets on.

The cafe itself is relatively nondescript, a small establishment in an equally small town. It sits on the corner of the high street, an awning covering a handful of outdoor tables that stand deserted in the winter chill. The swinging sign above the door is white, wooden, and carved in the shape of a whale, bearing the name "Cafe Pequod." He's well-read, quite familiar with Melville's novel, and he'd love to find out how this rustic little restaurant ended up being named for Captain Ahab's famous ship.

Obersoldat Fox Mueller- or Mulder, depending on who you ask- has been in one part of occupied France or another for over three years now, since being on the front lines of the Wehrmacht as it pushed its way into the country. First it was Reims, then Vichy, then Dijon, then Limoges, and now, for the past month, it's been Oradour-sur-Glane. Mulder had thought the worst was over once he was no longer in battle... but in reality, the horrors were only beginning.

Mulder has witnessed true atrocities as a part of the invading army. France has been forced by Germany to pay for its own occupation, and the resulting food shortages are slowly but surely starving many of the country's citizens. Mulder has seen "undesirables" being rounded up, rooted out of hiding, beaten, shot, herded onto trains and shipped to what he knows will be a slow and horrible death. The Resistance has been a constant thorn in the Wehrmacht's side, and in retaliation, Mulder has seen innocent French citizens abducted, starved, and tortured.

He is not sure how much longer he can go on. He had never planned to remain alive this far into the war.

The Mulder family changed its name to Mueller some three or four generations earlier, when they emigrated from their Dutch homeland and re-established themselves in Berlin. Fox had defiantly written "Mulder" on his conscription paperwork, reasoning that in spite of his parents' determination to ignore the past at all costs, he was equally determined to hang onto it. It is as much rebellion as he has been able to muster the strength for, and as he was assigned to a unit commanded by his father's closest friend, who will not refer to him as anything but "Mueller," it has been largely lost. Mulder's captain, on the other hand, a strict but fair man who lacks the predilection for cruelty so evident in their commander, is more than happy to refer to Mulder by any name he wishes, and he counts this as a victory.

Mulder's captain, Hauptmann Walther Skinner, can frequently be found at the Cafe Pequod, though he is not present this evening. Mulder finds himself wishing Skinner were here, because tonight's gathering of soldiers is proving to be rowdier than usual, and he doesn't like the looks some of them are throwing the harried Miss Scully as she threads her way through the tables. One of them, an ugly little troll Mulder knows by sight but not by name, actually reaches out and tries to grab her backside as she passes en route to Mulder's table with his latest cup of coffee. She whirls around, pinning the man (who seems to have visited the tavern before coming here) with a glare so icy, Mulder is surprised the man's cappuccino doesn't freeze in its cup. "Vous garderez vos mains a vous-meme," she snaps, and then switches to German for emphasis. "Do not touch me." She turns and continues to Mulder's table without sparing the man or his companions a second glance. "Votre cafe, Monsieur," she says, her fury effortlessly switched off, her formerly cool and detached manner reigning supreme once more.

"Is that man troubling you?" Mulder asks, his French perfect, his accent almost nonexistent. She raises her eyebrows in surprise. They have barely exchanged ten words until tonight, and always pertaining to his order, nothing more.

"It's nothing I can't handle," she responds with a shrug of her shoulders, and she leaves before Mulder can think of something to say to get her to linger. In her absence he lapses back into brooding silence, watching Miss Scully as she winds her way through the tables, staring blankly out the windows into the cold December night whenever she disappears into the kitchen. The cafe begins to empty slowly around him as the hour grows later, until finally, the only patrons left are Mulder, the troll-faced soldier (who is loudly extolling the virtues of French prostitutes), and three of his companions.

"That's the thing about France now," he's saying, his face red with drink. "When it comes to French women, there's no difference between the whores and the rest of them. This whole country's spread its legs for us, it's ours for the taking!" Scully is facing Mulder, clearing off a table halfway between him and the men, and the way she squares her shoulders at these words removes any remaining doubt in his mind that she understands German. She looks up, catching his eye, her face full, for a moment, of an unfathomable sadness.

"Ashamed" is far too mild a word for what he feels right now.

She turns away, her arms laden with dirty plates and mugs, and heads for the kitchen again, passing by the soldiers, who are laughing loudly at their comrade's crude remarks. Suddenly, the man stands and reaches out, grabbing her around the waist, sending her armload of crockery crashing to the floor as she is yanked back towards the table, landing in her attacker's lap as he resumes his seat.

"Take this one, for example," he says, as she struggles to free herself. "She's turned down every man in here, but when her precious little cafe runs out of supplies, she'll come running. It's all in knowing what they-" But this is as far as he gets before Mulder, a red haze of fury clouding his vision, charges across the cafe and breaks the man's nose with a single well-placed punch. Miss Scully springs free as the man falls backwards in his chair, and Mulder stands over him, fists up, ready to bodily throw this pitiful excuse for a human being out of the cafe if he proves unwilling to leave on his own.

It's a noble, valiant thought, but in conceiving it, Mulder forgot to take the man's companions into account, a fact that occurs to him just as one of them breaks a wine bottle over the back of his head, and the world goes dark.

--------

Bright sunlight assaults his eyes when he wakes, and at first, he can see little. He's aware of lying on a soft surface, far too soft to be his cot at the encampment. There is a dull, throbbing ache at the back of his head, and a piercing pain somewhere above his right eyebrow. It takes a moment for him to realize that the pitiful moaning noise he hears is coming from his own throat.

"Shhhh." A soft hand strokes the uninjured side of his brow. "It's all right," says a gentle voice, in French. He recognizes it immediately, struggles to sit up. A firm hand on his chest stops him. "Just relax," she says. "You've been out cold all night." As his vision adjusts to the bright light, he can make out a pair of impossibly blue eyes set in a pale face. He closes his eyes and swallows hard.

"Mademoiselle," he croaks. His throat is incredibly dry. "Where am I?"

"You're in my apartment, above the cafe," she says. "Do you remember anything from last night?" Mulder closes his eyes. A series of disjointed images come to him slowly- the drunken soldier grabbing Scully, the satisfying crack of his nose under Mulder's knuckles, the blow to his head... then, much more fuzzy, the memory of leaning on the much smaller woman's shoulders, staggering up a dimly lit staircase. As he looks around, his surroundings begin to come into focus. He is lying on a sofa in a small, cozy sitting room, bright sunlight pouring in through tall, thin windows. Scully is sitting on the edge of the sofa, and when she sees his throat working as he struggles to form words, she reaches over and retrieves a glass of water from a nearby table, holding it to his lips.

"Just a little at a time," she cautions him, as he tries to guzzle the full contents at once. "With a head injury, you could be nauseous." He continues to try to sit up, and she removes the glass and supports his shoulders until he's steady. He can feel the warmth of her small hands through the back of his undershirt- his uniform jacket has been stripped off- and he feels the loss when she moves them back to her lap. He tries to swing his legs down onto the floor, but she stops him. "You should rest longer," she says. "That was quite the blow to the head you took, and you hit the other side on your way down, as well."

"Is that what I feel on my forehead?" he asks. He reaches up and touches a strip of bandage wrapped around his head. Scully nods.

"You caught the edge of a chair as you fell," she says. "I had to put in a few sutures. You were quite unconscious by then, thankfully." Mulder looks up at her in surprise.

"You're a nurse?"

"A doctor," she corrects him. "I studied medicine in Paris, before the war." His surprise must be evident on his face, because she immediately admonishes him, "There's no need to look so shocked."

"I'm impressed, not shocked," he says. "I promise." She smiles at him, and his breath catches in his throat. For a moment, the pounding in his head recedes.

She is breathtaking.

"So how did you end up running this place?" Mulder asks. "Instead of practicing medicine?" He hopes the question is not too personal, but Scully doesn't seem to mind his asking.

"My mother owns this cafe," she says. "She became ill about five years ago, and none of my siblings were able to be here to care for her. And once she'd recovered...." Scully sighs, looking out the windows pensively. "I don't think she feels safe working here, not now. After last night I'm sure you can see why."

"I am so, so sorry for what happened," says Mulder. "That man's actions were inexcusable and I feel terrible that that happened to you."

"My understanding, from whatever history I've studied, is that this is what an invading force does," she says with an offhanded shrug, looking away from him. And you are a part of that invading force, she doesn't say, but he hears it as clearly as if she had.

"That doesn't mean I agree with it," he says. She arches her left eyebrow skeptically.

"You volunteered for this duty?" she asks pointedly. "Or were you conscripted?"

"Conscripted," he says firmly. "And assigned to this unit against my strong protests, because the commander is a friend of my father's. I wanted to serve at a military hospital instead." The right eyebrow joins its mate on her forehead.

"You're a doctor as well?"

"A psychologist," he says. He catches sight of the clock on her mantlepiece and groans. "I need to get back to the encampment," he says. "I've missed the morning roll call, they'll think I've taken off." He swings his legs to the floor and spies his boots next to the couch. He begins lacing them up. Scully stands and retrieves his uniform shirt from a nearby chair, handing it to him.

"I'll come with you," she says. "And explain to your captain the reason for your absence. You're under Hauptmann Skinner, correct?" He looks up at her, surprised.

"How do you know that?" he asks.

"He speaks with you when he comes here," she says. "I've overheard you once or twice. He seems a very even-headed man; I'm sure he'll understand once I explain what happened."

"You don't have to do that," says Mulder. The idea of her coming into the encampment, being around the same men who attacked her last night, frightens him.

"I want to," she says, and she smiles at him again. "Your knight in shining armor routine was quite dashing last night. Making sure you don't get in any more trouble for it is the least I can do." Mulder grins.

"It seems a bit late for introductions, now that you've already taken off my shirt and boots," he says, and she blushes, "but my name's Fox Mulder." She raises her eyebrows.

"Fox?"

"Don't ask. Best to just go with Mulder."

"Dana Scully," she says, reaching out to shake his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

"How does a Frenchwoman come by such a thoroughly un-French name?" asks Mulder.

"By having an American sailor for a father," says Scully.

"Ahhh," he says. "Wartime romance?"

"He swept my mother right off her feet," says Scully. "But that's a story for another time, I think. We need to get you back to your encampment before someone comes looking for you." She helps him slowly to his feet, still holding his hand in hers. He's wondering how long she'll allow him this familiarity, but she lets go as soon as he finds his footing. He's unsteady at first, but she is patient, and together they slowly make their way downstairs and out into the cold December morning.

----------

The encampment lies just outside the western edge of town, spread out over a farm that had been confiscated when the region had fallen to Germany. The unit commander and his staff have taken over the farmhouse; the tents of the captains and their men surround it. Mulder leads Scully to his own unit, determinedly ignoring the stares and whistles of the men around him, and finds Skinner sitting outside of his tent, reading a letter. He stands as Mulder approaches, his face unreadable. Mulder salutes him.

"Obersoldat Mulder," he says gruffly. "I was told you were involved in an incident last night."

"Yes, Sir, I was."

"I understand that you assaulted another officer- that you broke his nose- because you were jealous of the attentions he was receiving from a local woman." Mulder and Scully look at one another, eyebrows raised. "I take it that's not quite accurate?"

"No, Sir, not at all," says Mulder.

"Herr Skinner, Obersoldat Mulder defended me last night when another soldier made unwelcome physical advances. He was injured when one of that soldier's friends hit him over the head with a bottle, and I kept him overnight at my cafe to suture his wounds and care for him." Skinner says nothing, only looks back and forth between their faces, as though weighing the validity of their version of events. Finally, he nods curtly.

"Very well," he says. "Mulder, keep that wound clean. I don't feel like losing you to something as stupid as infection, not when you're so determined to find a thousand other stupid ways to die."

"Yes, Sir," says Mulder, smiling slightly in spite of himself.

"And Fraulein Scully," Skinner continues, turning to her, "rest assured that the soldier who bothered you will not be returning to your establishment. If he does, please let me know immediately." He glances at Mulder. "Or perhaps Obersoldat Mulder will keep me informed, since I'm sure he'll continue to haunt that back table nightly." Mulder ducks his head sheepishly.

"I suppose I'll see you soon, then, Mulder," says Scully, smiling warmly at him.

"Count on it, Miss Scully," he says. She laughs.

"I think we'd better make it just Scully, if you're going to make me call you Mulder," she says. "And you should be off your feet for at least awhile yet. That was a nasty knock on the head."

"You heard her, Mulder," says Skinner. "I'll escort Fraulein Scully back to the cafe. Get yourself back to your tent immediately."

Perhaps it's the lingering aftereffects of the head injury, but Mulder makes it all the way back to his tent and is lying on his cot before he realizes that the entire conversation between himself, Scully, and Skinner had been conducted entirely in German. His earlier suspicion was correct: she is completely fluent, and hiding it from most of her customers.

Mulder is drifting off to sleep before he comes to a second realization: none of this was at all a surprise to Hauptmann Skinner.

Next chapter >

#My fic #GOD it feels weird to see this version again

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attheitaliantable · 3 years

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At The Italian Table: Hire a Private Chef in Sydney

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sserpente · 7 years

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A/N: That escalated quickly.

8th October: Pumpkin spice. 🎃 | feat. Loki

Words: 2296 (and it was supposed to be below 1k words… xD) Warnings: none

“Now I usually would not bother to ask but what are you doing?” Giggling, you watched the God of Mischief enter the kitchen. It was paradise, really—Tony rarely ever used it to actually cook something and after asking FRIDAY for the ingredients, you had the whole place for yourself to make some delicious pumpkin spiced cupcakes. It was a tradition you had begun practising every year during October, usually shortly before Halloween; and since the Avengers had left for a council meeting with Fury and a couple of other apparently “highly important” government lickspittles, you might as well kill time by baking.

You knew Loki had been excluded as well but he never left the room Tony had reluctantly put him in after Thor had brought him along. He spent most of his time reading and in fact never bothered about what the rest of this house’ inhabitants did all day long. It was strange he seemed to be starting to now.

“I’m making cupcakes. Care to help me?” You offered with a timid smile. Now you didn’t expect him to say yes. Loki had made it very clear as to what opinion he had of you all but unfortunately, that still didn’t stop you from fancying him. His sorcery and illusions impressed you, his wickedness and mischief intrigued you. He was quite handsome too. Oh no, scratch that, he was outrageously handsome.

“I’d much rather watch you and then try what you fabricated after.” Loki replied with a cheeky smirk as he leaned against the counter. Rolling your eyes, you turned back to the weigh and poured in the amount of sugar that was required according to the recipe you had scribbled on a piece of paper. Once that was done, you mixed it with the eggs in a separate bowl.

“What are you making these for?” You suddenly heard his voice again. He almost confused you. Loki never made an effort to start conversations with anyone. Was he bored? You felt flattered he sought out you for some entertainment. Hopefully, he wouldn’t start tricking and teasing you. Even if that would be quite hot… No, stop it!

“It’s Halloween soon. I always make them for the occasion. They’re pumpkin flavoured. I used to make them with my best friend before I moved here to occasionally save the world with the Avengers.” You explained casually, glancing at him over your shoulder to give him a provoking smile.

“You mean All Hallow’s Eve? The night before All Saint’s Day. As I recall it, the reason for this holiday is to honour the dead and scare away unholy ghosts who disturb the spirits of fallen warriors and family members. Why in Valhalla would you bake… cupcakes for this occasion?”

Quite impressed by his knowledge of Midgardian holidays, you pouted at your sugar bowl. He had joined you at the counter now to look you in the eye. Instantly, you felt your heart beat faster. It wasn’t fear that shot through your body but much rather arousal. He was even taller when he stood that close and oddly, he smelled wonderful. Like leather, expensive fabric and some kind of tree you weren’t familiar with. He wouldn’t even have to try and seduce you.

“We celebrate it a little different here,” you began while adding some vanilla sugar to the mixture and starting to stir. “Usually, we wear scary costumes and go to parties to drink. Children go from house to house to do trick or treating. They ask for candy and if you don’t give it to them, you basically give them permission to throw rotten eggs at your house. There’s Haunted mansions with actual actors, scary movies, apple fishing and other traditions. Nobody really mourns dead spirits.”

Loki tilted his head as he thought about it for a second and you took the time to properly mix the ingredients in your bowl.

“That does not sound right. Except for the trick or treating maybe,” He added with a smirk. Giggling once more, you nodded.

“I figured you might like that part, Trickster. Now if you aren’t going to help me, I need you to step out of the way. You’re blocking the kitchen cabinets.”

The God of Mischief sighed in response. “What do you need me to do?” Startled, you looked at him.

“You really want to help?” You asked, perhaps a little too enthusiastic. Your question was met with utter amusement. Loki, King of Asgard and God of Trickery and Lies was going to bake cupcakes with you. Someone fetch the camera. No one will believe me when I tell them, you thought, still giggling quietly.

“You can start by pouring flour into the weigh.” You suggested, still stirring your eggs. They were almost finished and fluffy now.

Loki grabbed the flour on the counter. Without hesitation, he poured its white content into the bowl. Only he didn’t stop once the display showed the required amount.

“Loki, stop! Not everything!” You exclaimed, hurrying to take the flour from his hands. In the process, his skin brushed against yours. His hands are so soft… god damn it, (Y/N), concentrate!

“You told me to put the flour in!” He complained with his brows furrowed.

“Well, how many cupcakes do you want to make? A hundred? We only need five hundred gram. See the weigh?” You laughed when he frowned and you removed a bit of the flour with a spoon to put it back into the package.

“Now add one of these little sachets. It’s baking powder. Makes the dough fluffy in the oven.”

Loki nodded and did as he was told, this time without any mistakes. It was nearly cute how he fumbled around with the sachet to pour it to the flour.

“Thank you. We’ll mix it all together now, then add the pumpkin mush. It’s been sweetened already.” Smiling, you pointed at one of the cans on the counter. The sticker showed a rich pumpkin patch along with orange letters spelling pumpkin mash.

Quickly, you plugged in the mixer and got to work. In the meantime, Loki was watching your every move so intently pleasant shivers ran up and down your spine. He was actually… interested.

“You’ve never baked before, now have you?”

“The maids took care of it. I would sometimes sneak into the kitchens and steal the treats they prepared for feasts.”

Grinning at the mixer, you imagined a raven haired little boy with blue eyes using one of his famous illusions to secretly munch on candy.

“What’s so funny about that?” He asked. There was a threatening tone in his voice although you could tell he was rather amused.

Shrugging, you put the mixer away and used a spoon to scratch off the last bit of the sticky dough of the beaters before tossing them into the sink.

“Nothing. I’m just imagining a little Loki with sugar all over his mouth, leaving the maids wondering where all the candy has gone.”

Loki smirked. No, he smiled. He actually smiled. Planes took off in your stomach. God, why did he have to be so handsome?!

“You can help me put the dough into those muffin moulds. I put them on the baking plate already.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Well, I’d suggest you use a spoon but I’d be even more impressed if you used your magic.” You mused. This time it was a smirk.

“As you wish,” he purred. With a quick movement of his hand, mouth-sized bits of the dough hovered in the air with a start, floating over to the moulds without spilling a drop, where they squelched in neatly. A green shimmer surrounded them. You only watched Loki in awe, completely forgetting about wanting to put the dirty bowls and cutlery into the dishwasher right away.

Within seconds, the task was done and you were, after retreating from your trance, ready to put the baking plate into the preheated oven. Twenty minutes would suffice, until then, you had enough time to clean up the kitchen and talk to Loki.

“Tell me more about your Halloween.” He suddenly started. Swiftly, you grabbed the bowls and put them in the dishwasher.

“Well… usually, what you do every year is carve out a pumpkin. A Jack’o’Lantern. Families go to the pumpkin patch to pick one. It’s a win-win situation. After carving them out and cutting a scary face into them, you can use the flesh for pumpkin spice dishes. The pumpkin is lit up with candles so it looks spooky at night.”

There, almost done. Having put all of the crockery in the dishwasher, you moved back to the counter to wipe it clean from all the flour, sugar and any leftovers of the dough.

You flinched when you suddenly felt him right behind you. When had he moved, for Fuck’s sake? Pressing yourself against the counter, you bit your lower lip. His whole body seemed to be made of stone. You could feel the fabric of his clothing brushing against your t-shirt and your pants, didn’t dare to move.

Loki chuckled when he noticed your sudden discomfort, his hot breath grazing your neck. Casually, he placed his hands on the counter, trapping you between it and his body. You took a deep breath before you turned around.

The closeness startled you. His face was only mere inches from yours, his blue eyes boring into yours so intensely you feared to faint.

“Loki… what are you doing?” You managed to whisper, your voice barely audible. He smirked mischievously in response, moving even closer instead of answering.

His hands were resting on your hips now, pulling you flush against him. Before you knew what was happening, he had lifted you up and sat you onto the counter, with him pushing your knees apart to step between them.

“How long…” he began quietly, his face brushing your cheek as he muttered into your ear, “…I wonder, have you been fancying me, pet?”

What? How would he know? You’d been totally discreet this whole time! Right?

“I’m not… what makes you think I…” You failed to finish your sentence, for Loki’s hands were travelling now. His soft, long and delicate fingers caressed your thighs in a compelling manner. You could feel his lips on your neck. A soft mouth tasting your warm skin, a hot and moist tongue licking over your pulse. Your breathing quickened immediately. He hadn’t even touched you properly yet and here you were, panting so loudly it sounded like you had just run a marathon. You were practically a puddle in his arms.

“I did not know when I came to the kitchen for some distraction. But you are being horribly obvious, pet.”

The way he called you. Pet. For Fuck’s sake, this man would be the death of you! What had given you away? And, much more important than that, what… was he going to do? Was he about to do what you were hoping he would do?

Biting your lower lip once more, your eyes fell to his soft lips.

“What is it you want, pet?” He asked with a smirk as he followed your longing gaze. “Say it,”

One deep breath. No one would know, right? You had dreamed of a moment like this, wondered what his cool lips would taste like…

“Kiss me…” you whispered out of breath. It sounded like a prayer. Loki was a god, after all… would he hear it? His malicious smirk was answer enough. “Please…”

His eyes sparkling with a sudden desire, he cupped your neck with his hands and pulled you close. Only the fraction of a second later, his mouth came crashing down on yours. He tasted even better than you had imagined.

Closing your eyes, you let the kiss consume you. His tongue sneaked into your mouth, brushing against your lower lip over and over as his mouth massaged yours. Soon, both your tongues were fighting a playful battle, your composure all but lost. A moan escaped your lips when he attempted to pull away to let you catch your breath.

You didn’t even think about accepting that. Instead, you dug your nails into his armour so he couldn’t pull away—your eagerness even evaporated his condescending smile. You lost sense of time, didn’t know for how long you had been kissing, for how long you had been devouring each other. The loud ringing noise in the background was hardly disturbing when you wrapped your legs around his torso, the urge to rip off his clothes growing with every second that passed…

“Shit! My cupcakes!” You screamed into his mouth when you finally realised. Loki laughed—he laughed like he had never tried to take over your planet, like there was no grief and anger within him. The sound of it warmed your heart and still, even though you were giggling yourself, you finally managed to push him away from you to jump off the counter and open the oven.

“Where are the fucking gloves?!” Looking around frenziedly, you hurried to get your cupcakes out. They had just the right colour and the pumpkin spiced smell was downright delicious—only you couldn’t find the bloody kitchen gloves!

Loki chuckled once more. Without hesitation, he reached forward and bent down, grabbing the hot baking plate with his bare hands.

“Right… Frost Giant…” You murmured absently. The God of Mischief put them on the counter, enjoying the smell, so it seemed, as well.

“Now, pet, how about you let these cool down before you decorate them? In the meantime… we could do something else, preferably in your bedroom.”

Your heart jumped at the thought. Maybe you should have baked some cupcakes and thereby attract Loki’s attention way earlier…

#loki #loki imagine #loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson imagine #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #tom hiddleston #thor #thor imagine #the avengers #the avengers imagine #thor ragnarok #marvel #marvel imagine #halloween special

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hesyungblud · 7 years

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Wide Eyed

A/N: i hope everyone enjoys this one as much as Dusk Till Dawn and keep your eyes peeled at the end for a surprise ;) aesthetic is made by me as always so if you’re gonna steal it, at least credit ya girl please. thanks to @sensualshawn for always helping me write. i try my best to get rid of all typo’s but there are probably some still hiding in there. please bare in mind that i am british and some spellings may be different to american spelling. enjoy!

- word count: 1,887 - warnings: none, kinda smutty - blurb: shawn frustrates his new housemate with his annoying habits but end up getting a little too close during a house party

You slammed the toilet seat down for what felt like the millionth time this week. Sighing and adjusting the towel at your chest, feeling somewhat frustrated and even a little angry. You marched your way from the bathroom along the short corridor into the open plan lounge and kitchen where you set your eyes on your new housemate.

“Shawn,” You began, running a hand through your wet hair, sighing as though you wondered why you were bothering telling him off again. “For the umpteenth time, when you use the toilet - would it kill you to put the seat back down?”

He looked at you sheepishly as he scoffed a piece of toast, a mug of coffee in his hand as he brought it to his lips, sipping it quickly. The smirk behind the small ceramic piece of crockery was clearly evident.

“Sorry,” He chuckled, shrugging his shoulders with a smile as he dried his damp hair with a towel and he gave you one of those looks you’d become accustomed to over the last week.

Gross, you thought. Boys are gross.

you were also lying to yourself, you wanted to think he was gross but quite frankly - seeing him stood in the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweats, his skin still damp from the shower, smirking at your the way he did, he was definitely not gross. Anything but gross.

“And next time, could you warn me if you’re going to have a shower at the same time as me? I had to cut mine short and the water went freezing cold,” You shivered, throwing Shawn an unimpressed look as you made your way back to your bedroom, feeling his eyes burning through you.

You usually wouldn’t have made a fuss, but after everything else he’d done that had pissed you off this week, you had to say something. Even if you were looking like something out of a horror movie with panda eyes because you couldn’t be bothered to take your makeup off last night.

You barely knew the guy, a week if that but he made you want to scream every time he did even the slightest thing to annoy yours. (And he also made you want to scream by how damn good looking he was). This wasn’t what you signed up for. To have the potential to start to fall for a guy who was clearly out of reach. He spent most of his life on the road, performing to his adoring fans. you weren't even looking for anything, you were happy being single and when a relationship was to arise in the future, you doubted it would be with your pop sensation housemate and his 27 thousand annoying habits.

First, he stole your favourite mug and left it in his bedroom for 3 days. Then he continued to let his crockery pile up in the sink without giving a thought to wash them. The late nights, staying up until 2, sometimes even 3 in the morning in his studio playing his guitar, piano, singing, trying to get the right words out for his new album. You wondered if he was ever going to learn, or at least spare a thought for his neighbours (and yourself) and buy a pair of headphones.

You didn’t quite grasp what you’d gotten yourself into, until yesterday when you stepped out of the new complex you were living in, to be greeted by a group of fans. They were asking after Shawn, to which you gave them a bemused look and excused yourself as you carried on with your day. You knew he was somewhat famous, but you were unaware just how famous. You’d been speaking to Shawn’s manager, Andrew since the day you saw the advert for a room to rent in a beautiful condo overlooking Toronto (not to mention, smack bang in the view of the CN Tower).

You thought this place would be perfect for you, knowing your housemate was away on tour etc throughout most of the year. You’d get the entire place to yourself the majority of your time so if you could just get through this whilst Shawn was around, you could get through anything.

You could appreciate how and why people got infatuated by him. His voice and talent improved more and more with every time that you heard him sing or heard him play the piano, the guitar. He was attractive, traditionally good looking and you could see why he had so many fans all over the globe. You should count yourself lucky, getting to live with him but in all honesty, you didn’t really understand it and you paid no mind to it, pop star or not. We’re all the same on the inside. Maybe you were too old and had outgrown those types of phases.

And if you were really being honest, if he continued to look at you the way he’d been looking at your for the past week, you knew it wasn’t going to end well.

“I can tell this is turning you on, you know,” You froze, the breath hitching in your throat as Shawn’s lips made their way to that damn weak spot on your neck again. Your legs were about to give way, your insides were quaking. You were turned on, there was no lie about that - but you didn’t want to give in to him this easily. It was just a house party, the two of you weren’t the only people who may have had a few too many drinks and ended up making out.

“What are you talking about?” You breathed out, barely a whisper as his lips pressed into your skin, again and again, making you arch your back. With your mouth slightly parted, you wanted to moan as loud as you could but also desperately not wanting to give in to this feeling just yet, so you sucked a breath in silently.

“Your pulse is racing, I can feel it,” He licked, sucked and grazed his teeth over the space on your skin as the blood pumped through the vein in your neck. At the same time, he ran his thumb gently across your wrist, pushing against the vein as he sort of pinned you to the window. Your mind was running away with you, wondering what else he could do with that seemingly very skilled mouth of his from what you’d experienced so far.

“I’m just cold, we are outside on the balcony in case you’d forgotten, it is night time,” You laughed, trying to make up some lame excuse to cover up the fact that yes, your pulse was racing so fast that you weren't sure if it was the alcohol that was making your dizzy or the adrenaline running through your veins.

“It’s like, 21 degrees out. How can you be cold?” Shawn muttered into your skin as his lips moved expertly to the column of your throat. If you were going to moan, now wouldn’t be the time because he could feel even the slightest little sound from vibrations as his lips grazed over your voice box. You were still trying to act coy for some unknown other reason, it almost felt like a challenge for you trying to keep quiet and you kind of liked it. It made Shawn more determined to keep trying to get you to react to his actions and you weren’t complaining.

“You’ve got me pressed up against a window pane at night, this dress is backless, I think I have a right to be cold,” You grabbed at his chest, fisting the bunched up material of his shirt in your palm as you pulled his body closer to you, even though there was no more space between your bodies, it wasn’t enough.

“I mean, I can stop if you w-”

“No, no, don’t fucking stop,” You half moaned, half pleaded in the heat of the moment. As soon as you heard him say the word stop, your body went into overdrive not wanting to lose the contact you already had with him. He chuckled, his breath tickling your neck and you swear he’s already wrecked you. Completely ruined you.

“Alright, no need to beg me,” He teased, one of his hands threading through your hair at the back of your neck as he kissed you on the mouth hard, catching you off guard as he swallowed a moan. Finally, you thought. You’d given into him and there was no going back now.

“You’re such an asshole,” You muttered against his lips as he took your bottom lip between his lips, biting it softly as his fingers danced up your thighs to your lips, where they rested firmly.

“You love it though,” Shawn cooed, his eyes pouring into yours as he subconsciously ran his tongue over his bottom lip. It drove you crazy, it made you ache to wonder what else that tongue could do to you as you got distracted by it.

“Is it that obvious?” You almost slurred, unable to string a sentence together with the feeling of having Shawn this close to you. He threw his head back and laughed. Like an actual full-blown, throaty, cheeky giggle. You wanted to pounce on him more than anything right now but you didn’t want to seem like that kind of girl, you were probably already reeking of desperation and that was the last thing you wanted but you couldn’t help the way your new housemate made you feel.

“No, not really honey, don’t worry,” He laughed deep into his throat which made your stomach flip. “But I’m pretty sure this will tell me if you love it though,”

And with those words, all in the space of a few seconds - his fingers dragged over your dress from your hip, down to the skin on your inner thigh and further. You bit your lip, looking up at Shawn and he pretty much asked for your permission with the look in his eyes, which could talk a thousand words with how expressive he was. You nodded, wanting him to touch you and he did, he dragged his thumb over your underwear and you bit your lip hard, a little too hard as you tasted blood. You tried to hold your moan in but it didn’t work as well as you hoped.

“It’s hot when you do that, you should do it more,” Shawn cooed as he moved his thumb over you again, now knowing how completely and utterly soaked you were for him and you couldn’t play it coy anymore. He’d broken down those walls you’d built up in no time at all and you didn’t even mind.

“How did we end up here?” You mumbled against his lips as his thumb moved away from where you craved his touch the most and you almost felt a little deflated, sighing heavily as you broke off the kiss.

“I don’t know, but I need to get rid of everyone inside. I need to take you to bed, I want you,” Shawn’s voice was now somewhat hungry as he kissed you one last time before heading back inside, leaving you alone with your thoughts, wondering what the rest of the night with him would bring.

SURPRISE! THERE MAY (PROBABLY) BE A PART 2 COMING SOON WHERE THE SMUTTINESS ENSUES...

IF YOU WANT TO REQUEST A SHORT BLURB OR AN AESTHETIC, PLEASE CLICK HERE FOR THE RULES AND HERE TO GO TO MY ASK.

#shawn mendes #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes smut #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes imagine #my writing

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mermaidweddingdress · 5 years

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captainmarblekinguniverse-blog · 5 years

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theas-bedtime-stories · 7 years

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Underestimated

Summary: AU in which Sam returned to Stanford where he met the reader and they move in together Pairing: Sam x reader Word Count: 1,727 Warnings: None A/N: This is my very belated entry for the competition held by @casbabydontgoineedyou to celebrate 1,000 followers. You deserve so many more you are amazing! To think you are now hosting a 2k follower challenge, I am so proud of you <3 I am sorry it is late but I finally got a new laptop, this isn’t what I had originally written as that file is still to be recovered but I hope you like this. Prompt I got was #14 “Don’t let my dramatic entrance fool you - I have no idea what I am doing”

A/N 2: Shout out to @rosey-persephone for being my inspiration due to her amazing musical talent.

“Food’s ready!” You shout to the empty room as you pull your famous pasta bake out of the oven. You can hear the scrambling stampede which is your fiancé as he rushes to break-free from all the paperwork that he is undoubtedly buried in.

You are both in your final year at Stanford although you are doing completely different degrees. Whilst your fiancé is studying law you opted for a more creative, and debatably difficult, subject; music. You spent most of your time composing and practicing whilst he revised on the couch or up in the bedroom. You had been lucky that, upon announcing your engagement to your parents your father had become flustered and furious. Worried that he still hadn’t come to terms that you were with someone of a lower status to yourself you dragged him out of your parents living room; ready for a shouting match. It was then that your father had called for his secretary, mumbling indistinguishably about something being unacceptable and how you deserved better.

The feeling of warm, strong, arms wrapping around your waist brought you back to the present. Resting your head against the shoulder behind you for a moment, you can’t help but voice just how blessed you truly are.

“Sit down, I will finish serving up” Smiling you go to disagree only to be interrupted by a finger on your lips. A comfortable silence falls between the two of you as sit, waiting for him to finish piling the food onto your plates.

“Are you happy?” you mutter as he lays your plate before you. His eyebrows knit together as he lowers himself into his chair. “I mean here. Are you happy here?” You rush to get your words out as he opens his mouth to respond. “I mean I know this isn’t the lifestyle you were used to, nor was it what you expected I just...”

“We could be living in a box on the streets and I would be happy along as you were there Y/N.” A soft smile reaches his eyes as he studies you, eyes flickering from your nose to your ears to your eyes and your lips. “We should eat before this gets cold, I don’t know about you but I’m starving.”

It’s not vain to think this is the best thing you have ever tasted, you tell yourself as the hot cheese hits your tongue, swiftly followed by the tomato and basil sauce. A small moan of appreciation escapes your companions throat, just another small trait of his that barely sees the light of day but every time it does you fall deeper in love with him. “How’s the revision going Sammy?” you inquire once he stops for breath.

“Good exams not for another few weeks so I have plenty of time to finish going over the last two modules. Would you mind testing me a bit in a few days?”

“Of course I don’t mind. Although I do need to do some more composition and need to record it. Do you mind filming me tomorrow before dinner so I can see how the whole thing sounds when digitised?”

“I mean yeah but it’s not like it’s too difficult, it sounds pretty amazing already and that’s without the piano added to the vocals.” You can see the gears clicking in his head as he fashions some white lie, you wait patiently with almost a feeling of excitement alongside your anticipation to see what he comes up with this time. You are the creative one in the relationship but he isn’t half bad when it comes to creating an image with is imagination. “Did I ever tell you that I am classically trained on the grand piano?”

Stifling a laugh, you play along, never before has he tried to step foot in your genre, your territory. “Oh wow, no you never told me. When was this? Where did you train?”

“You remember me saying I took a gap year after high school before staring at Stanford?” You hum as you remember the mystery behind where he went and why. He had told you that it had been a family thing that his brother dragged him on. “Well I went to England for a year and did a crash course at the Royal Academy of Music, I was such a fast learner that I only needed to stay a year before I had mastered all of Beethoven’s symphonies.”

“Any?” You ask, bowing your head as you get up so as to hide the smirk which has begun to make an appearance.

“Any.” He nods in agreement.

Humming thoughtfully to yourself, you begin to clear the table, placing the dirty crockery in the dishwasher you decide to have a little fun with this.

“So you can play Beethoven’s 21st Sonata? I have always loved that piece, it is so intricate and beautiful.” You ask, putting on your best voice of innocence as you link your fingers together. “It would be nice to have someone playing me the music for once.” With a flutter of your eyelashes you know you have him bending to your will.

He chews his lip before responding. “Remind me which one that is then of course I will show you what a highly trained classical pianist is capable of.”

“Babe it’s Waldstein one of his most complicated pieces ever.” With that he picks you up, plonking you into your favourite of the armchairs that face your piano. He tells you to wait there, and cover your eyes so that it is a better surprise.

Your mind wanders back to the conversation with your father. He had been so disgruntled, you would never have guessed that it was not your choice in man that had upset him, but the idea of you growing up and starting your life together in his crappy little apartment that you two had been sharing because it was nearer to campus then yours and neither of you could afford a car. Within an hour he had found you a four bedroom, luxury home in Faxon First, only a 10-minute drive from the university. It was ridiculously bigger than what you needed, with over 9,500 square feet of land for yourselves. It was the stunning pool in the back garden that had you entranced with the place, Sam, being the fitness freak he is, was in complete admiration of the gym, pool and tennis courts. Without batting an eye lid your dad spent nineteen million dollars on buying it alone, refusing to tell you the cost of all the other items he was adding such as a brand new, state of the art, grand piano to go in the living room. It was a massive upgrade from the one-bedroom apartment you had been living out of, despite the disapproval of your parents, and was even a little overwhelming. When you had tried to argue that there was no way you would have time to clean it he waved a hand to silence you, saying that no Y/L/N should ever do their own housework. You moved in a few weeks later to find your new housemaid awaiting your instructions. You and Sam had allowed her to stay in one of the spare rooms, deciding that she should get to live in this excellent home that she was keeping clean. You had grown quite fond of Charlie, and though she very rarely ate with you guys, she had become more a friend then a member of staff. The thing that showed you how much he really accepted Sam into the family though was when he brought Sam a 1967 Chevy Impala, just like the one his brother had inherited of their father.

A loud crash from the master bedroom brought you back to the present. You were almost convinced that you had imagined it when it happened again but before you have a chance to ask what has happened Sam shouts a lightly breathless yet also triumphant “I’m Okay!” down the stairs. His declaration is followed by what sounds like the rolling of thunder, and, if you weren’t mistaken, a cat yowling.

A moment later you hear the soft fall of his feet as he makes his way down the stairs. “Open your eyes Y/N”. He needn’t tell you twice before your head whips round to look at him.

He’s standing on the middle of the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other behind his back. He looks utterly ridiculous in the tailcoat that you bought him for family gatherings, white gloves stretch around his hands and to match he has a white waistcoat and white bowtie on top of one of his white shirts. He has his best Italian shoes on and a….

“Is that a Top-hat?” You demand, despite knowing full well that it was, as you point at the atrocity on his head. Despite this his hair manages to still look majestic as it has been slicked back and tucked behind his ears.

With a wink, Sam tips his hat before robotically descending the rest of the stairs and making his way towards the piano, sharply throwing the tail of his coat in the air as he drops onto the piano stool which is several inches too high for his long legs but he doesn’t seem to care. As your breath catches in your throat with anticipation, wondering how he is going to pull it off this time, he snaps his head in your direction; making intense eye contact as he lifts his hands into the air, letting them hover above the keys. He maintains the deep eye contact as you tuck your legs beneath you and he slams his hands on the keys. The jarring sound makes you wince in discomfort. Somehow he manages to keep a straight face through the entire ordeal, pressing random keys and using the pedals to cause utter chaos.

It is only when you can no longer contain your laughter that he breaks his stoic portrayal. “Don’t let my dramatic entrance fool you – I have no idea what I’m doing” he shrugs as you struggle to form words through your laughter.

“You don’t say” you finally manage to squeeze out.

With a playful smirk he begins to rid himself of his, interesting, attire, it is whilst you are admiring the strong muscles on his back that you realise something. “Babe?” He pauses to look at you, stood on one leg whilst he tackles the other to remove his trousers. “We don’t have a cat...”

Tags: @aiaranradnay , @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid

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onlinemeditationgurublog · 5 years

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New Year Traditions around the World

Learn more: http://www.abilenerunners.com

Living in Bali among locals and expats, our New Year traditions are becoming like a coat of many colours. A lot of expats bring traditional customs from their native country and, coupled with that of your other expat and Balinese friends, it becomes an ear-exploding riot of experience and colour. The Balinese themselves have incorporated a few expat practices in their own celebrations. Unfortunately it seems they are much taken to exploding fireworks with an enthusiasm that is seldom seen anywhere else. Even though the government is wisely putting some boundaries on the use of fireworks, these regulations are blithely ignored in the week leading up to New Year's Eve and –sigh- for a few days afterwards.

Welcoming the New Year in style is an age-old ritual incorporating many pagan and religious beliefs and around the world it is celebrated in various ways. In the western hemisphere the festivities contain 5 traditional elements: fireworks, popping a bottle of champagne, singing Auld Lang Syne, kissing your friends and family to wish them happiness and prosperity in the coming year and last, those ubiquitous New Year resolutions.

Other countries mark the occasion with some peculiar celebratory habits which have some interesting parallels in other cultures, including Balinese. For instance, in Ecuador they celebrate the New Year by burning paper-filled scarecrows at midnight in the name of good fortune. Panamanians have a similar practice. They create effigies of famous personalities, hated politicians and anyone not in their favour and set them on fire. Typically the dolls are stuffed with firecrackers in order to really express an opinion and get the festivities cranking.

In Japan, Joya no Kane is a Buddhist ritual that involves ringing a bell exactly 108 times at midnight on New Year's Eve. Buddhists believe that humans are entrapped by 108 different desires that keep us suffering. By ringing the bell for each of these undesirable passions the accumulation of bad karma or spirits from the previous year is chased away and the individual is purified. All ready to start with a clean slate for the next batch of temptations!

Spain's New Year's tradition for good luck revolves around grapes. People eat 12 grapes – one at each stroke of the clock at midnight. Each grape represents good luck for one month of the coming year. In bigger cities like Madrid and Barcelona, people gather in the main squares to eat their grapes together and pass around bottles of cava.

The people in the Philippines also eat grapes and any round shaped fruit because, according to local belief, round shapes bring prosperity. On New Year's Eve they like to dress up in anything sporting polka dots and fill their pockets with coins, in the hope that the coming year will be prosperous.

Latin Americans like to don new underwear of many colours to symbolise coveted benefits in the new year. In Brazil, as well as other countries like Mexico, Ecuador, Bolivia, and Venezuela, the lucky underwear colours are red, thought to bring love in the New Year, yellow to bring money, and green to bring luck. The Turks believe the same thing: wearing red underwear at midnight on New Year's Eve is crucial to bring good luck in the coming year.

In Denmark they don't go in for coloured underwear but they save all of their unused or broken dishes and plates until the 31st of December when they affectionately shatter them against the doors of all their friends and family, ostensibly to ward off bad spirits. A big heap of broken crockery at your front door indicates you have many well-wishers. Another convention is to climb on top of chairs and literally “jump” into the New Year to bring good luck.

In Bolivia coins are baked into sweets and whoever finds the coins has good luck for the next year. This is similar to the famous French tradition of serving a Galette des Rois (Kings Cake) – cake with a baked-in coin or small trinket – on the day of Epiphany which marks the end of the holiday season on 6 January. The person who gets the piece of cake with the trinket becomes king or queen for the day and enjoys various privileges.

In some parts of South Africa they throw old furniture out the window, a custom which sounds familiar with the practice in Singapore where, at the time of Chinese new year, all old furniture is put out on the curb in order to bring in something new and invite good luck into the home.

Many countries welcome in the new year with an invigorating swim in a nearby river, lake or sea – as cure for hangovers, perhaps? From Scotland to Siberia, in the Americas and Australia, these polar bear plunges attract young and old and are kept lively and entertaining by the wearing of some fancy or strange apparel, like santa hats, fin-de-siècle bathing costumes or disguises from your favourite cartoon characters. Some countries like France do it with undisguised flair, fancy dress and chilled champagne.

In many countries NYE celebrations are a public affair. The ball dropping in New York's Time Square is televised around the world. Other instagramable celebrations are Hogmanay in Scotland where young men go around the town swinging fireballs and the Sydney Harbour Light Parade at midnight. Amsterdam hosts one of the world's largest street parties on New Year's Eve with music, firework, beer tents and oliebollen, a deep-fried confection of dough that is a staple in the Netherlands. Tradition holds that eating these deep fried dough balls will ward off evil spirits in the New Year.

The New Year merriment goes on for a long time as there are 39 time zones in the world. Based on the International Date Line, the islands of Samoa and Kiribati are the first places on Earth to start the party. The last place to celebrate is Baker Island and Howland Island, two uninhabited wildlife refuges located about halfway between Hawaii and Australia. Lucky inhabitants as they probably don't go in for fireworks to raise the dead.

By Ines Wynn

You can read all past articles of

BA Feature Article at www.BaliAdvertiser.biz

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ieplists · 5 years

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New Year Traditions around the World

Learn more: http://www.abilenerunners.com

By Ines Wynn

You can read all past articles of

BA Feature Article at www.BaliAdvertiser.biz

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mundibooks · 5 years

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New Year Traditions around the World

Learn more: http://www.abilenerunners.com

By Ines Wynn

You can read all past articles of

BA Feature Article at www.BaliAdvertiser.biz

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dcbecu · 5 years

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New Year Traditions around the World

Learn more: http://www.abilenerunners.com

By Ines Wynn

You can read all past articles of

BA Feature Article at www.BaliAdvertiser.biz

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mclanelabes · 5 years

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New Year Traditions around the World

Learn more: http://www.abilenerunners.com

By Ines Wynn

You can read all past articles of

BA Feature Article at www.BaliAdvertiser.biz

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instantdeerlover · 4 years

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The 15 Best Afternoon Teas In London added to Google Docs

The 15 Best Afternoon Teas In London

From an outsider’s point of view, the tradition of afternoon tea must seem downright peculiar. Why would you eat a stack of sandwiches, followed by a cream tea, followed by an ungodly amount of cake at 4pm? Because we’re British and that’s what Anna, the seventh Duchess of Bedford, inventor of the afternoon tea, would want us to do.

These days, afternoon tea is an activity we sort of engage in by default, whether it be to show off our Britishness to a friend visiting England for the first time, or for the annual and inevitable catch-up with your godmother. But this guide is here to remind you that we really should be partaking in this activity more frequently - it turns out that afternoon tea is actually quite lovely. So next time you feel like sacking off an afternoon to drink tea and eat a tonne of cake, here’s where to go.

The All time Classics Claridge's ££££ Brook Street

From £70 per person

We’re pretty sure that the Queen was born in Claridges. That, or, someone comes from the palace to spray the place with royal air once a week. That’s one of the reasons why you’re going to be paying £70 for tea here. Another is the Mayfair location, the live pianist and cellist, and the fact that everything here - from the sandwiches to the scones - tastes just a bit better than it does almost everywhere else. You’re also going to definitely want to spend some time with the pastries. The vanilla bourbon religieuse alone blows the sweet section of every other afternoon tea out of the water.

The Goring ££££ 15 Beeston Place

From £50 per person

If you dream of being fanned and fed grapes in a room that looks like the set of the Princess Diaries, then you should book the afternoon tea at The Goring, a five-star hotel in Belgravia. You’ll get the typical fluffy scones and mini cakes, but you’re not really here for the food. You’re here to have your tea poured for you and your plate changed whenever a crumb gets too close to it. And mostly, you’re here for your temporary guardian angel-cum-server who appears out of nowhere if your smile so much as wavers. Typically, the idea of someone hovering over you, and swooping in to check if everything’s okay every millisecond might be invasive, but at the Goring, you won’t even notice. And it’s that effortlessly excellent service that makes The Goring so popular, meaning you should book well in advance, especially for weekends.

The Ritz ££££ 150 Piccadilly

From £60 per person

The Ritz is everything you expect it to be. Assuming that you expect gold detailing, excellent service, and a human tie generator. The afternoon tea is excellent, the pastries and cakes are particularly good, and if you’ve got an extreme sweet tooth, you’ll be happy to know that there’s a cake trolley that’s driven to your table offering whichever cakes they have that day. It’s easy to get carried away and spend a good couple of hours here, and you definitely should. It’s great for a birthday treat, or if you just want to dress up and try one of the best afternoon teas London has to offer. Just some things to keep in mind: it’s usually booked out weeks in advance, and they have a serious dress code.

The Langham ££££ 1c Portland Pl.

From £62 per person

If you’ve been around the afternoon tea block, The Langham is the best place to have a chilled out one in London. This isn’t to say that the surroundings are casual - the mirrored, pillared Palm Court room is very fancy, as is the Wedgwood crockery your tea’s served on. That said, this is a place you can feel comfortable hanging for a while with your pals without worrying about disturbing others around you. It’s even a good place to bring kids, which helps if your sister absolutely insists on bringing your constantly-in-motion nephews.

Fortnum & Mason ££££ 181 Piccadilly

From £60 per person

Fortnum & Mason is a department store that’s famous for supplying the royals with their tea, and at times can feel like a very posh human zoo - until you sit down for the extremely pleasant tea service. While most tea services are held in whatever old drawing room a hotel could come up with, the entire fifth floor at Fortnum & Mason was clearly designed for the sole purpose of afternoon tea. Come for a classy experience, or if you’re with someone who refuses to eat clotted cream, they’ll accommodate pretty much any dietary requirement here. Don’t turn up expecting a table (remember, this place is a human zoo), but you can usually book online the day before and get a table, so do that.

The Wolseley £ £ £ £ Modern European in Mayfair ££££ 160 Piccadilly 7.9 /10

From £29.75 per person

The Wolseley is excellent at anything you throw at it - a fancy breakfast, a business lunch, a late night dinner, and yes, an afternoon tea. It’s always lively here, and the space, a converted 1920s car showroom with high ceilings and marble columns, would make even a paperclip convention seem like an exciting event. It does get extremely busy and a tad touristy at times, but that’s only because everyone knows The Wolseley is always a good idea.

The Connaught Hotel ££££ Carlos Pl

From £58 per person

The Connaught is the ultimate chic afternoon tea spot. But despite all the five-star formalities, you don’t feel like you’re expected to be serious. It’s lively, there are people having lunch next to you, there are groups enjoying a glass of champagne at half one in the afternoon. And if you ask to be seated by the windows - which you should - there will be people walking down the street with designer shopping bags, while all you’re expected to do is sit back, eat their delicious sandwiches and scones, and have a good time.

Ham Yard Hotel ££££ 1 Ham Yard

From £24 per person

We mentioned that you should never do afternoon tea on the cheap, but if you’re tight on the pennies and still want a decent one, The Ham Yard is where you should book. They have a sliding price range, starting at £22 and going up depending on the amount of additional savouries, bubbles, or cocktails you add to your set-up. This is also one of the most flexible afternoon teas in London. Haven’t booked? They can squeeze you in the bar lounge. Need an alternative date idea? Here’s your spot. Allergic to gluten, dairy, sugar, meat, pollen, or politics? They’ve got you.

Four Seasons Hotel London At Ten Trinity Square ££££ 10 Trinity Square

From £38 per person

Most traditions are pretty rigid and afternoon tea is no exception. But afternoon tea at Four Seasons at Ten Trinity Square is more like that fun aunt that accepts that traditions exist but lets you do what you want anyway. Here, rather than offering a single price that gets you everything, you can just pick the parts you want. You want some scones and tea but you’re not interested in little sandwiches? Easy, order the cream tea for a tenner. And it doesn’t hurt that the hotel has majestic pillars, a live singer, and is a five minute walk from the Tower of London.

Epic Spaces Café Royal Hotel ££££ 68 Regent St

From £55 per person

We like to think the design brief for the Oscar Wilde room at Hotel Café Royal went a little like this: ‘Dearest Designer, We have way too much money - please design a room that looks like our wealth threw up in it’. With its gold, velvet, and mirrors, this is by far the most opulent room hosting afternoon tea in London. When you sit down, the high society person inside you just can’t help but click into action - look at you nibbling at excellent savouries and sweets all fancy. You’ll want to keep the champagne flowing. To do otherwise would be sacrilege.

Savoy Hotel ££££ Strand

From £75 per person

The Savoy is the best representation of old London glamour in the city, and as you may suspect, having afternoon tea here makes you feel like a real life aristocrat. The Thames Foyer, where you’ll have your tea, is a beautiful space, and it’s easy to get carried away with the whole experience because they look after you so well. There’s no extra charge for refills here, so go ahead and ask for another round of sandwiches and cake.

The Corinthia Hotel ££££ 10 Whitehall Place

From £55 per person

Despite sounding like a hippy yoga tent at Glasto, The Crystal Moon Lounge, where they serve tea in The Corinthia Hotel, is actually a very elegant spot. The humongous globe-like chandelier that makes the centre of the room would distract you totally from the task at hand if it weren’t for the cakes, which are more ‘diabetes-inducing creative confectionary’ than actual cake. The Corinthia’s also a great place for people watching, and there’s always a high chance of spotting the mum of that celebrity you stalk religiously on Instagram.

THEMED AFTERNOON TEAS Madhatter's Tea Party ££££ 50 Berners St.

From £48 per person

Yes, we were initially skeptical of the Alice In Wonderland-themed Mad Hatter’s Afternoon Tea at the Sanderson Hotel - it sounds like an activity you would be emotionally manipulated into by your five-year-old goddaughter. But this is actually one of our favourites in London. Tea is served in the courtyard of the hotel, making it one of the few afternoon teas you can have outside, and they also objectively serve the best scones in town.

Rosewood London ££££ 252 High Holborn

From £65 per person

The afternoon tea at The Rosewood is art-themed and comes in the form of cakes inspired by Yayoi Kusama, Damien Hirst, Alexander Calder, Banksy, and Mark Rothko. The whole thing goes down in a beautiful mirror-filled room, so consider bringing the narcissistic, art-loving person in your life. Everyone has one of those.

The Athenaeum Hotel ££££ 116 Piccadilly

From £39 per person

The Athenaeum Hotel does a couple of tea menus, most notably a savoury ‘Gentleman’s Tea’ that includes a serving of whiskey on the side. We don’t really believe afternoon tea should be gendered, but there’s a lot to like here regardless: the elegant and laid-back setting, the bonus glass of champagne, and the value for money (£39 all in). They do a ‘normal’ afternoon tea as well, but it’s definitely one to keep in mind if you’re with someone who claims they don’t get down with sugar.

via The Infatuation Feed https://www.theinfatuation.com/london/guides/best-afternoon-tea-london Nhà hàng Hương Sen chuyên buffet hải sản cao cấp✅ Tổ chức tiệc cưới✅ Hội nghị, hội thảo✅ Tiệc lưu động✅ Sự kiện mang tầm cỡ quốc gia 52 Phố Miếu Đầm, Mễ Tr��, Nam Từ Liêm, Hà Nội http://huongsen.vn/ 0904988999 http://huongsen.vn/to-chuc-tiec-hoi-nghi/ https://trello.com/userhuongsen

Created March 3, 2020 at 07:07PM /huong sen View Google Doc Nhà hàng Hương Sen chuyên buffet hải sản cao cấp✅ Tổ chức tiệc cưới✅ Hội nghị, hội thảo✅ Tiệc lưu động✅ Sự kiện mang tầm cỡ quốc gia 52 Phố Miếu Đầm, Mễ Trì, Nam Từ Liêm, Hà Nội http://huongsen.vn/ 0904988999 http://huongsen.vn/to-chuc-tiec-hoi-nghi/ https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1xa6sRugRZk4MDSyctcqusGYBv1lXYkrF

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