Fic: Housewifely Qualities
Title: Housewifely Qualities
Author: cattiechaos
Recipient: rosetteroulette
Pairing: fem!Austria/fem!Hungary, AU
Prompt: fem!Hungary bakes sachertorte to impress fem!Austria.
I do apologize that this is a day late, my dear! I hope you enjoy nonetheless :)
((A/N: Having had the pleasure of sampling sachertorte in a Viennese café, I couldn’t resist this prompt! This is my first time writing femmslash, so I hope you can forgive any errors and enjoy nonetheless. I gave fem!Austria the name Maria, after Empress Maria Theresa.))
“I don’t get it; how am I supposed to separate the whites from the yolk?”
Erzsébet stared confusedly at the egg in her hand, as if she fully expected it to begin tap dancing if she set it down.
Maria tittered from her position on the gleaming kitchen countertop, where she was perched with slender legs crossed at the ankles in a typically ladylike fashion. “You’re supposed to do it by hand, silly,” the brunette replied, peering at her cooking partner from over rectangular spectacles. “Are you sure you’ve done this before?”
“Oh, um...of course I have!” Erzsébet exclaimed, nodding enthusiastically as she cracked the egg down on the countertop, wincing as it shattered into a dripping mass of broken egg shell and splattered yolk. “Ah…I’ll clean that up later, shall I?”
“We could have bought sachertorte from the bakery down the street, you know,” the Austrian continued primly, a small smile dancing around the corners of her lips. “It probably could have saved us some trouble.” It really was quite sweet that Erzsébet was trying to make sachertorte for her, but she also didn’t want the apartment to burn down. It was hard enough getting a nice apartment in Brooklyn, especially one that had such a good parking spot.
Erzsébet laughed nervously. “Trouble? What trouble? There’s no trouble at all!” She cracked another egg - more gently, this time - and crowed in delight as it landed perfectly in the ceramic bowl set out in front of her. “Okay, separate the yolk from the white...I can do this! Er...”
Maria watched with some amusement as the Hungarian woman chased the yolk around the bowl with her hand, trying to trap it into a corner and separate it from the whites. The process was repeated three more times, with only one other egg slipping from her grasp and splattering on the floor. “What does it say next?”
“‘Using a wire whisk, whip the egg yolks with 1 ounce of sugar until light and ribbony, then beat gently into the chocolate mixture,’” Maria read, fighting to keep her expression composed. Erzsébet certainly was a sight to behold at the moment, although not for the normal reasons: the woman wore a housewifely white apron splattered with melted chocolate, clouds of flour, and what appeared to be the remnants of an egg yolk. Her thick, abundant hair was restrained by a white cap, although strands of brunette had managed to escape and now framed her slightly flushed face. Domesticity suited her, Maria decided. She had no idea what possessed the woman to invite her over in order to bake sachertorte, of all things. The recipe was ridiculously tricky, and she hadn’t been under the impression that Erzsébet used her frying pan for anything other than hitting Gilbert over the head with it - except now, it was to be used for making apricot glaze.
“Erzsébet,” Maria asked casually, as the other woman hunted through cupboards and cabinets to find the object in question: an electric whisk. “Was there any…ah, particular reason you wanted me to come over?”
“I found the whisk!” came the enthusiastic reply, as Erzsébet emerged from her search under the lower cupboards. “And what do you mean? We’re here to bake sachertorte, of course.”
“Yes, but why?” Maria continued patiently, with an air of exaggerated patience. “You…you pulled me aside after Vargas’ class and tried to tell me something, but then you ran away muttering some ridiculous excuse about leaving your car unlocked! And then you invite me to your apartment to bake pastries?”
Erzsébet winced slightly at the reference to the unfortunate incident outside of Vargas’ classroom and attempted to cover her embarrassment by turning on the electric whisk. Unfortunately, the whisk was on its highest setting possible, leading to a tornado of frenzied yolk flying through the air and splattering on all conceivable surfaces, including humans.
A stunned silence descended, as Erzsébet frantically switched off the maniacal whisk. Never again was she going to use electric appliances in the kitchen, she vowed. “Sorry,” she apologized lamely, reaching over to brush the offending substance off of Maria’s cheek. “I didn’t know I would be so bad at this.”
“What made you think you had to be good at it, anyway?”
A slight blush colored Erzsébet’s flour-covered cheeks. “I, ah…I heard that you preferred...domestic women.” The last two words were spoken so quietly that Maria would have completely missed them, had she not been watching Erzsébet’s lips. They were unnaturally reddened because Erzsébet kept biting on them nervously, and they looked rather appealing, if she was being honest with herself.
“Domestic women,” Maria repeated, allowing a touch of incredulity to creep into her voice.
“Yes,” Erzsébet replied lamely, closing her eyes briefly. “I thought that if I showed you my domestic side, I might be able to get you to...” She trailed off, but only because Maria was looking at her with undisguised shock in her vivid violet eyes.
“I never thought you were the type to change yourself for someone,” she replied, and there was a half-critical, half-wondering note to her voice.
“I’m not!” Erzsébet protested defensively, biting her lip again. “But I know I don’t act feminine at all, and Gilbert kept telling me that I was sabotaging my love life…”
Maria raised one aristocratic eyebrow. “You listened to something Gilbert said?” she asked, and her prim tone left no doubt as to what she thought of that. Erzsébet smiled sheepishly.
“So...” Maria continued delicately, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Am I to understand that you wish to...ah, what is the term...” she cleared her throat, staring up at the ceiling instead of making eye contact. “...‘take me out on a date’?”
“Ah...this was supposed to be a date,” Erzsébet confessed, heat rushing to her face. “I think I failed dismally.”
“Maybe not dismally,” Maria reasoned charitably, reaching over to brush the flour from Erzsébet’s face. “Perhaps next time we ought to go to the cinema instead.”
“Or the opera.”
“You hate the opera.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Erzsébet exclaimed, her eyebrows shooting up.
“I overheard you talking to Herakles Karpusi. He’s not your type, then?”
“No, I guess not. I’m a skirt-chaser,” the Hungarian woman replied, laughing.
Maria scoffed. “How elegantly stated,” she replied drily, although there was humor in her eyes. “We certainly make an interesting pair.”
“Well-behaved women rarely make history,” Erzsébet quoted, untying her apron and pushing aside the bowl of abandoned eggs. “Maybe we can make an omelet out of these or something. I am rather good at making omelets, I promise; it’s just the baking that does me in every time.”
“Leave the baking to me, then,” came the gracious reply, “and Erzsébet? Domesticity suits you quite well, actually.”
Well, she’d be damned.
Author: cattiechaos
Recipient: rosetteroulette
Pairing: fem!Austria/fem!Hungary, AU
Prompt: fem!Hungary bakes sachertorte to impress fem!Austria.
I do apologize that this is a day late, my dear! I hope you enjoy nonetheless :)
((A/N: Having had the pleasure of sampling sachertorte in a Viennese café, I couldn’t resist this prompt! This is my first time writing femmslash, so I hope you can forgive any errors and enjoy nonetheless. I gave fem!Austria the name Maria, after Empress Maria Theresa.))
“I don’t get it; how am I supposed to separate the whites from the yolk?”
Erzsébet stared confusedly at the egg in her hand, as if she fully expected it to begin tap dancing if she set it down.
Maria tittered from her position on the gleaming kitchen countertop, where she was perched with slender legs crossed at the ankles in a typically ladylike fashion. “You’re supposed to do it by hand, silly,” the brunette replied, peering at her cooking partner from over rectangular spectacles. “Are you sure you’ve done this before?”
“Oh, um...of course I have!” Erzsébet exclaimed, nodding enthusiastically as she cracked the egg down on the countertop, wincing as it shattered into a dripping mass of broken egg shell and splattered yolk. “Ah…I’ll clean that up later, shall I?”
“We could have bought sachertorte from the bakery down the street, you know,” the Austrian continued primly, a small smile dancing around the corners of her lips. “It probably could have saved us some trouble.” It really was quite sweet that Erzsébet was trying to make sachertorte for her, but she also didn’t want the apartment to burn down. It was hard enough getting a nice apartment in Brooklyn, especially one that had such a good parking spot.
Erzsébet laughed nervously. “Trouble? What trouble? There’s no trouble at all!” She cracked another egg - more gently, this time - and crowed in delight as it landed perfectly in the ceramic bowl set out in front of her. “Okay, separate the yolk from the white...I can do this! Er...”
Maria watched with some amusement as the Hungarian woman chased the yolk around the bowl with her hand, trying to trap it into a corner and separate it from the whites. The process was repeated three more times, with only one other egg slipping from her grasp and splattering on the floor. “What does it say next?”
“‘Using a wire whisk, whip the egg yolks with 1 ounce of sugar until light and ribbony, then beat gently into the chocolate mixture,’” Maria read, fighting to keep her expression composed. Erzsébet certainly was a sight to behold at the moment, although not for the normal reasons: the woman wore a housewifely white apron splattered with melted chocolate, clouds of flour, and what appeared to be the remnants of an egg yolk. Her thick, abundant hair was restrained by a white cap, although strands of brunette had managed to escape and now framed her slightly flushed face. Domesticity suited her, Maria decided. She had no idea what possessed the woman to invite her over in order to bake sachertorte, of all things. The recipe was ridiculously tricky, and she hadn’t been under the impression that Erzsébet used her frying pan for anything other than hitting Gilbert over the head with it - except now, it was to be used for making apricot glaze.
“Erzsébet,” Maria asked casually, as the other woman hunted through cupboards and cabinets to find the object in question: an electric whisk. “Was there any…ah, particular reason you wanted me to come over?”
“I found the whisk!” came the enthusiastic reply, as Erzsébet emerged from her search under the lower cupboards. “And what do you mean? We’re here to bake sachertorte, of course.”
“Yes, but why?” Maria continued patiently, with an air of exaggerated patience. “You…you pulled me aside after Vargas’ class and tried to tell me something, but then you ran away muttering some ridiculous excuse about leaving your car unlocked! And then you invite me to your apartment to bake pastries?”
Erzsébet winced slightly at the reference to the unfortunate incident outside of Vargas’ classroom and attempted to cover her embarrassment by turning on the electric whisk. Unfortunately, the whisk was on its highest setting possible, leading to a tornado of frenzied yolk flying through the air and splattering on all conceivable surfaces, including humans.
A stunned silence descended, as Erzsébet frantically switched off the maniacal whisk. Never again was she going to use electric appliances in the kitchen, she vowed. “Sorry,” she apologized lamely, reaching over to brush the offending substance off of Maria’s cheek. “I didn’t know I would be so bad at this.”
“What made you think you had to be good at it, anyway?”
A slight blush colored Erzsébet’s flour-covered cheeks. “I, ah…I heard that you preferred...domestic women.” The last two words were spoken so quietly that Maria would have completely missed them, had she not been watching Erzsébet’s lips. They were unnaturally reddened because Erzsébet kept biting on them nervously, and they looked rather appealing, if she was being honest with herself.
“Domestic women,” Maria repeated, allowing a touch of incredulity to creep into her voice.
“Yes,” Erzsébet replied lamely, closing her eyes briefly. “I thought that if I showed you my domestic side, I might be able to get you to...” She trailed off, but only because Maria was looking at her with undisguised shock in her vivid violet eyes.
“I never thought you were the type to change yourself for someone,” she replied, and there was a half-critical, half-wondering note to her voice.
“I’m not!” Erzsébet protested defensively, biting her lip again. “But I know I don’t act feminine at all, and Gilbert kept telling me that I was sabotaging my love life…”
Maria raised one aristocratic eyebrow. “You listened to something Gilbert said?” she asked, and her prim tone left no doubt as to what she thought of that. Erzsébet smiled sheepishly.
“So...” Maria continued delicately, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Am I to understand that you wish to...ah, what is the term...” she cleared her throat, staring up at the ceiling instead of making eye contact. “...‘take me out on a date’?”
“Ah...this was supposed to be a date,” Erzsébet confessed, heat rushing to her face. “I think I failed dismally.”
“Maybe not dismally,” Maria reasoned charitably, reaching over to brush the flour from Erzsébet’s face. “Perhaps next time we ought to go to the cinema instead.”
“Or the opera.”
“You hate the opera.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Erzsébet exclaimed, her eyebrows shooting up.
“I overheard you talking to Herakles Karpusi. He’s not your type, then?”
“No, I guess not. I’m a skirt-chaser,” the Hungarian woman replied, laughing.
Maria scoffed. “How elegantly stated,” she replied drily, although there was humor in her eyes. “We certainly make an interesting pair.”
“Well-behaved women rarely make history,” Erzsébet quoted, untying her apron and pushing aside the bowl of abandoned eggs. “Maybe we can make an omelet out of these or something. I am rather good at making omelets, I promise; it’s just the baking that does me in every time.”
“Leave the baking to me, then,” came the gracious reply, “and Erzsébet? Domesticity suits you quite well, actually.”
Well, she’d be damned.