Before the next episode of Let Them Eat Cake commenced filming, the director, Clive Hemsworth, wanted to have a word with Anthony. "We need to talk" was never good, and Anthony braced himself.
"Ratings are down," Clive informed him.
"Ah." As a rule, Anthony didn't read about himself in the news or on social media, with rare exceptions, like an interview where Simon Cowell had praised him.
"They're not down by too much, but just enough to be of concern. The main complaint we keep seeing from critics and fans is that you're not being mean enough."
Anthony's eyebrows shot up, and then he rubbed his chin, trying to analyze what was behind that, since he didn't think he was any less snarky than he'd been in previous series. "I made the first two eliminations cry, for fuck's sake."
"Yeah, I know."
Anthony folded his arms. "Must be the pandemic, people seem to have gotten a lot nastier since it started. Hoarding water and toilet paper at the beginning, then saying they don't care about killing Grandma or cancer patients because their need to eat at Mc-Bloody-Donald's is more important." Anthony didn't have a lot of patience for the anti-mask, anti-vax crowd - all of his contestants had to show proof of vaccination - or those who wanted to hurry the re-opening of businesses or not have anything closed at all; "herd immunity" had killed a lot of the vulnerable in Sweden. Anthony had noticed that the issue of masks, vaccines, and lockdowns had divided the population like never before, which was already increasingly polarized on social and economic issues, some people were convinced Brexit was going to start a civil war eventually. Everyone was mad at everyone, everyone was the enemy, the world seemed to be seething with hostility.
Anthony got it. People watched television as an escape, and his snark was a proxy for people to let out their bitterness. He tried to be as natural and unscripted as possible on his show - his normal amount of snark - and he was uncomfortable with playing it up and acting, but he read between the lines of what Clive was saying. Ratings were down, pandemic-crazed people wanted him to be nastier, and if he didn't, the show would probably get canceled.
There were lines Anthony was not willing to cross, like mocking a contestant's appearance or their ethnicity, age, religion, disability, class, sexual or gender orientation, but he supposed he could up his criticism game on the cakes and preparation thereof, just a little bit. He didn't need the show, he had enough money from his restaurants, this was more for fun and additional PR, but...
"Duly noted," Anthony said with an exasperated sigh. Clive nodded and patted Anthony on the back, who rolled his eyes before he walked out in his chef uniform to face his contestants.
Today's theme was "Back To School", catering a party for a dozen UCL students who'd been randomly selected. As usual Anthony made his rounds as the chefs were working on putting together the ingredients, careful to find the balance of just enough pressure to make them try harder and excel, not hovering so much it would scare them.
The two nicest cakes from last week had been Vivian and Sören - Anthony was pleased Sören had found a way to tone down the ginger in his batter, that improved the flavor - and they were a contrast in opposites. The elegant and slightly nerdy Vivian crafted her batter with serenity and poise, the rough and rock-star-looking Sören was a whirlwind of motion and determination.
These two were clearly the shining stars of the show - Anthony could usually tell by the third or fourth episode of a series who would survive to the end. He tried, of course, to not play favorites and give everyone a fair chance, sometimes people won a round who weren't in the top three, but the best and brightest talents proved consistent each round. It was going to be Vivian or Sören who won at the end of the season, Anthony was sure of it.
That meant he had to goad them more. While he was loath to do it too hard, not wanting to discourage them, he remembered what Clive said about the audience wanting to see more snark.
"Don't rest on those laurels too much," Anthony warned Vivian. "You're not scared enough."
Vivian smirked. "You're not scary enough."
Anthony made claws with his hands and bared his teeth with a hiss, and Vivian laughed. Then Anthony looked into Vivian's bowl, where it looked like she was mixing a lemon cake. "That batter looks kind of scary," he said. Actually, it looked like regular lemon cake batter and would probably be fine, but, ratings. Anthony glanced into the camera with an eyebrow raised, hoping the public would appreciate it.
Vivian remained calm, giving him a polite little smile - one that did not meet her eyes - and Anthony knew he'd ruffled her feathers. He hoped that would be enough both to please the snark-craving audience and prod Vivian to create excellence.
Anthony went to visit Sören, who stopped what he was doing to give Anthony a look like "you mind?" Anthony took a peek at Sören's bowl and it looked like chocolate; it seemed like after Anthony's criticism last time, Sören was going with the safer option. There was nothing wrong with chocolate cake, of course, Anthony had a weakness for it, and the UCL students would probably love it.
Anthony made a "wait here" gesture - as if Sören was going anywhere - and he stalked over to the big table of ingredients, where the chefs could take whatever they needed. Anthony had an idea for how to turn the heat up with Sören. He grabbed the jar of ginger, and came back over to Sören, who once again stopped mixing to give him a look.
"I think you forgot something," Anthony said, holding out the ginger. Then he pulled it back, bringing it close to his ear, and he said, "What's that?", making the ginger jar bounce up and down and shake back and forth like it was talking. Anthony nodded and then he said, "It says of course you forgot it, because you know nothing, Jon Snow."
Sören narrowed his eyes and his nostrils flared, his jaw set as he squared his shoulders. Sören was already very easy on the eyes, but Anthony had to admit that when Sören was annoyed or angry, he looked even sexier.
"I know something," Sören gritted out. "I know you're a dick." With that, Sören got back to work, not looking at Anthony, purposely ignoring him.
Anthony felt slightly stung - he knew he could be harsh, but he didn't think he was a dick. Boris Johnson was a dick. Donald Trump was a dick. Piers Morgan was a dick. He couldn't be as bad as that, surely?
And yet, Anthony was also somewhat pleased by Sören's reaction. There was fire in him, an "I'll show you" posture that meant Sören would go far. Anthony liked that spitfire attitude. That, too, was sexy.
Anthony's cock woke up, feeling a surge of lust. His cheeks burned. Now he was the one to feel a little intimidated, like Sören was the celebrity and he was not. People took it from him but they rarely dished it out. Sören gave no fucks and Anthony found that strangely erotic.
Anthony got the sense Sören was a real firecracker in bed, a bratty sub, a beast that was a challenge to tame but worth it.
You need to stop thinking like that immediately. He is a contestant. You have to keep this professional.
Anthony walked away without a response. His cock was responding for him, and he needed to get it under control before his erection was noticeable.
The winner of the round was Vivian, again, who had shaped her lemon cake batter into a stack of old books, though Sören was a close contender with his caramel-chocolate owl, which the UCL students raved about.
The elimination had been a world map sheet cake made by a young Australian named Julian - it confused the hell out of Anthony how Julian had made a lovely, if twee, spring garden cake for Team Earth last week and yet made such a gloppy mess with a map of the world, but Julian had to go.
"We could play Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego? and you'd never bloody find her because she could just hide in a pile of frosting," Anthony quipped.
They were down to sixteen contestants now.
Sören was a good sport, congratulating Vivian, but Sören gave Anthony one last death glare before the filming stopped. Once again, Anthony couldn't help thinking Sören was sexy when he glowered like that, even as it pained him somewhat to think Sören had him on the same mental tier as Donald Trump.
Clive's words echoed in Anthony's head. The main complaint we keep seeing from critics and fans is that you're not being mean enough.
Anthony sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
When Anthony came home, after he fed his cats and gave them pettings and skritches, he went for a run, which he tried to do at least three times a week to stay healthy. When he got back he took a long shower, and being naked reminded him of Mark... and how he hadn't been touched in so long. Trying not to feel sorry for himself, he made breakfast for dinner - an omelet of sausage, potato, mushroom, onion, peppers and cheese, with hash browns, and afterwards he did yoga while listening to the grunge rock of his angsty teenage years.
He tried to unwind by curling up on the couch with his kitties, watching mindless TV... and he kept thinking of Sören.
Thinking of the way his body responded to that sexy glare. The barbed wit.
Anthony was getting hard again. He knew that even more than the endorphins from the run and the yoga, he could blow off some steam with a good wank. He reached down his pants, freeing his cock, and as he stroked his mind's eye replayed times with Mark: kissing, sucking, being sucked, fucking, being fucked. Mark's gorgeous body, his delicious moans, the heat in those silver eyes as Mark lost himself in passion.
Anthony hated himself for still missing Mark, all these years later, after he was left, abandoned. For still wanting Mark, fantasizing of his ex when he relieved himself.
Suddenly, in his mind's eye Mark became Sören, his mind tormenting him with wicked thoughts of kissing Sören, naked, hard cock rubbing hard cock. Taking Sören's bratty ass over his knee and spanking it. Taking Sören from behind, pulling his curls and showing him who was in charge. Sören riding him like a wild bull, painting him with cum.
Hot shame burned Anthony's cheeks, and yet he couldn't stop the debauched fantasies... he stroked himself harder, faster, biting his lip, hearing himself whimper as he got dangerously close. He tried to shove Sören out of his mind and return to Mark. And then his mind's eye conjured the mental images of him and Sören rolling around on the floor, rubbing their cocks together, wrestling for dominance until Anthony pinned him, pounded him hard with Sören's legs propped up on his shoulders. Anthony came hard, an arc of his cum hitting the wall, letting out a shuddery gasp as his toes curled and the pleasure throbbed and throbbed.
He had crossed a line, thinking about Sören like this.
It was just a fantasy. Nobody needs to know. It doesn't have to get in the way of professionalism.
It still felt like he'd done something wrong. And now the hurt of losing Mark had a new, fresh hurt to compete with it - wanting something he couldn't have.
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