Author note: 'Reaver in a cake' was the only prompt I needed for this little number, and really what better way to return to this site than with a fanfiction about nothing more substantial than Reaver in a cake? Well, truthfully, I'm sure there's much better ways but; Reaver. Cake. Amazing. Enjoy!
The air was permeated with warm, decadent smells. To every table there were several women in aprons and bonnets were hunched over bowls and trays, mixing together gooey batter that smelled of chocolate. One would think that this was a rather preferable way to spend the afternoon. Obviously one did not work in Reaver's home and perhaps forgot that the once hero of Albion was striding up and down the rows of tables, his prized Dragonstomper .48 in his hand and cane in the other. He would occasional tap his gun to the back of one of his servant's heads and chide them in a low, unnervingly cheerful voice.
"That simply will not do," He would say, "This must be just right, you do know my skin can't be exposed to just any cake. Must I make an example of you?"
"Please, Sir, I'm t-t-trying…" Would be the whimpered response.
"Remember, Mon Chers," He spread his arms theatrically, his words echoing to the high ceiling, "This cake must, must, must be seven feet tall. If I'm unsatisfied I will make examples of all of you!"
"I'm sorry, Sir…how tall?"
It was of course the Queen's birthday, or one of the royalties, and really- Reaver had decided to himself- both the Queen and Logan were tasty little creatures and his alcohol could have either (Or better, both) in bed with him before this birthday was through. Reaver chuckled to himself and turned the corner, coming upon his doorman leaning against the wall, his head lolling and a grating snore rising and falling.
"What do I pay you for?" Reaver tutted, "And honestly, can you not breath through your nose?"
He jabbed the end of his cane into the unsuspecting man's stomach, and he gave a jolt and a yelp, staring around him with wide eyes. When he caught sight of his employer his posture got noticeable straighter; Reaver liked to shoot people he thought showed poor posture. Reaver smirked, satisfied.
"Check on the dining hall, and the foyer if you may, everything must be perfect."
"But Sir," The man's lips quirked downward into a slight frown, a slight one, Reaver shot frowners too, "I checked last hour. It was-"
Reaver looked down at him with such a cold stare, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched, that he actually took a step back.
"My good man," Reaver allowed himself another little chuckle, "An hour ago is plenty of time for those beautiful beasts I keep in the cages to break free and ruin everything. In another three minutes I they will see to it that the balverines are ripping your limbs off. Or should I just kill you now and save them the trouble?"
The doorman scampered off immediately, trembling in a satisfying manner.
Feeling pleased with himself, Reaver sauntered off to check on his cake. His fingers caressing the polished wooden grip of Dragonstomper.
Servants and guests mingled, the former dressed in sleek; white uniforms and golden masks in the shapes of madly grinning cats and twisted demons, the latter in trailing dresses and tailcoats, their own masks ornate and bejewelled, glittering in the candlelight. Reaver had simply insisted on hosting the Queen's-Or Logan's…blasted assistant, he must remember to put a bullet in her head- birthday party. After all, one hero must show the utmost hospitality to another. Then where was their gracious host? Logan watched as the Queen, his sister, excused herself, a sour look on her face. He could relate, Reaver's party were nothing but foreplay to drunken orgies. Some would appreciate it, he supposed. His gaze drifted across the once-Captain Ben Finn, one arm around a reluctant looking Page and the other nursing a bottle of some murky liquid. He was talking, and grinning, and generally ignoring the venomous looks of warning the rebel was casting him. Logan looked away in disgust, and a man in a Balverine faced mask approached him, bowing low.
"M'Lord," He murmured, "Sir Reaver told me to get the…the Royalty for the grand finale. Would you please follow me to the dining hall."
The servant led him away before he could get much more than the first syllables of protest out, through the towering doors and into a different hall. Party goers were slumped over the table, caught in gales of drunken laughter and a haze of expensive wine. At the end of the room stood a majestic cake; the fluffy layers coated with thick, sweet icing and plump, syrup drenched berries. Logan was brought to stand before it and he once again tried to explain that this was all for his sister. Damn her, where was she? Suddenly, as if the noise had been leeched from the world, the room went eerily silent. Even the crackle of the fire seemed not to exist. Logan tilt his head and frowned, had the cake just…? There it was again. It seemed to be moving. Logan tensed, prepared to fling himself away. Reaver was twisted, he had no doubt that the man would bake an army of hobbes into the cake and call it a harmless jest. It gave one final tremor and stood still for a moment. Then…
"Happy Birthday, my dear, succulent Queen! I bring you a present fit for such a radiant being as yourself!"
Logan shielded his eyes as some unknown force sent the top of the cake exploding into several directions; the confectionery shrapnel hit the walls and a few of the closer guests with a moist thud, and red syrup dribbled down the walls like blood. When Logan had brushed cake from his uniform and looked up, he was tempted to hide his head once more. Reaver, his pale muscles dripping with the same sugary goo, had come from inside the cake. Inside the cake. That wasn't even the worst bit, Reaver had come from inside the cake not wearing a shred of clothing.
"Well, my sweet song bird, no thank you for the wonderful gift? Are you that much in awe my sweet Quee-"
The words died immediately, and the deathly silence filled the air again, Reaver was looking at Logan with something that almost could be called surprise, though very little seemed to phase the man. Logan's eyes narrowed dangerously, and a sycophantic smile spread across his face. He leaned forward and put his elbows against the cake, obviously unbothered by how it buckled slightly beneath him. He put his cheek against his knuckles and made a soft, disapproving sound in his throat; the smile never leaving his face.
"Why Logan, this is an unfortunate surprise, you see I was rather expecting your sister to be standing there, where you are at this moment." He shot a look at the servant that had brought Logan in, "Apparently somebodY misunderstood me, hmm?"
Ignoring Logan's glares, Reaver licked the icing off his fingers. Honestly, how hard was it to find good help these days? Perhaps he'd killed them all already.