I know it's a bad idea to even attempt this. However, Cordelia has been making louder and increasingly more obnoxious comments about holiday bonuses and the lack thereof. Wesley hasn't been any help either, mind you, waxing melodramatic about the traditional celebration back home with his family and their precious time spent together.
I can see it now, all of the Wyndham-Price clan gathered 'round their tree, wassail punch in crystal mugs, enough revelry in tweed to choke a draft horse. It makes me want to hide in the suite and make Spike go down there and tell them all I've gone on vacation.
But of course I won't do that. Forget the fact that he would simply refuse to do it and therefore add to my increasing stress level. Forget the fact that I'll have to deal with his chiding me about being afraid of the Princess and the Bookworm, as he is wont to call them. It all boils down to one inescapable fact.
If I don't give them some kind of Christmas Office party, there's going to be a jihad of epic proportions, led by Cordelia in whatever happens to be fashionable terrorist attire this month.
*~*~*~*~*
Peaches is doing some serious brooding these last few days, and it's getting to be right annoying. I had to stroll around naked for at least 5 minutes before he took notice and quirked his eyebrow at me, signaling his wild untamed desire.
That's just too bloody long to wait, and I've had about enough of it.
It's the sodding Christmas party that's got his knickers all in a twist. After everything else that's happened here during this holiday season from hell, you'd think he'd wise up. Just shell out some bucks, set the Princess loose a few hours early with a token bonus in her hot little hand. Tell the Watcher what a fine upstanding help he's been to vamp and country, send him off with a happy thought, a tear in his eye and if I'm not wrong - and I'm not - a nice mental picture tto wank off to later that night. My Sire is kinda slow on the uptake; he's got no clue that Watcherboy has the hots for him.
But no, instead of the easy way out, we've got to do the whole holiday office party routine. He's decorating the lobby...again. Another tree, I'm not sure if this is the third or the fourth- we had to return to the tree farm *again* after Jeffrey ate the last one. More lights, more holly, and those damn red flowers that never die are everywhere. I think he's trying to cover up some of the smoke and water damage by creating a greehouse effect. The halls are duly decked, give the man a check mark in the preparation column.
Not that it's a bad show watching him decorate, mind you. He gets up on the ladder and gets down to the whole wire wrapping, precise draping event and I get to stare at his tight ass in those expensive black trousers he loves so much. Can't say I begrudge him his choice in wardrobe from this angle, although I think he'd be twice as sexy in some nice faded denims. Suggested it to him once and I can *still* see the look of horror on his face. Might have thought I asked him to shave his bloody head.
He's working so hard at this whole thing, I almost feel sorry for him. He hasn't clued in to the obvious curse we're under in this damn place. Everything related to making merry that has been attempted here has gone right round the bend. I've been banned from the fridge, put on warning about getting within 5 feet of the tree, and generally pushed off whenever I offer to help.
I'll just have to surprise him at the party, that's all. He left me no choice, really. Someone's got to be sure there's entertainment at the bloody thing or we'll be forced to sit around and listen to carols being massacred on the radio while Princess reminisces about the past, and Wussley regales us with another tale of hearth and home in jolly old England.
I might have to kill them both.
*~*~*~*~*
Spike has that gleam in his eye whenever the party is mentioned, and I don't like the looks of it. It's trouble of the worst kind when he won't even brag about it to me. I should be worried and I am. The party is tomorrow night and he's already told me he'll be out at dusk and back before 8:00. How much damage can one vampire do in two hours?
I refuse to consider the possibilities.
Meanwhile, he has taken to walking around the suite stark naked, and has to be forced to put his clothes on before going downstairs. Not that I'm complaining much. The one amazing thing about Spike is that despite his bragging and bravura, he has no idea how truly beautiful his nude body is.
I'll light candles just so I can stare in delight in the way the flickering lights cast darkness over the hollows of his cheeks, highlight the ripple of lean muscle on his back, shadow the sweet curve of his bent neck. He's golden in the candle's glow, illusion of warmth on cool skin, so different from the way he appears in moonlight.
In moonglow he's ice and silver, an artist's model in indigo and white. Each step causes the light to pick out every line of muscle and sinew in his legs, to make it glimmer like an ice sculpture brought to life. When I touch him in moonlight, I am always shocked to find his skin doesn't leave frost bite.
Either way, he knows I cannot resist him for long and pull him to the bed, press him into the comforter. Lick all the dark shadowed places and touch all the highlighted ones with eager hands and nimble fingers. When I have him groaning and purring under me, and I slide the length of him into my mouth, there's nothing else in the world for me to think about but the way he sounds, tastes, feels.
The growl of pleasure in his chest is answered by my own and I let it slip up my throat until I'm humming around him, sucking and vibrating until his eyes roll back in his head and he's gasping my name when he comes.
For a while, I can forget all about the impending doom that is the Angel Investigations Office party.
*~*~*~*~*
When Angel gets uptight like this, he is hell on wheels in bed. And he wonders why I irritate him? He can be such a git sometimes.
But not now. Not when he's under me, beads of sweat gathering on the taut muscles of his shoulders and sliding slowly down to the small of his back, pooling in the small dimples there. They just beg to be licked. And I intend to get to that later.
Right now though, I'm occupied with sliding deeper inside of him as he encourages me with growls and whispered pleas that I'm not really sure he's even aware he's making. I pull him up on his knees, press him back against me so I can suckle and torture the spot behind his ear that makes him insane. One of his hands reaches back to wrap around my thigh and he's panting, trying to control himself. I can see how hard he is, and when I finally reach around and begin to stroke him in long slow gliding motions that match the measured thrust of my hips, my hand feels like it's been coated in oil. He's drenched with it, he's throbbing with his need to come, and I do what has to be done.
I slow down even more. Lighten my grip to a barely closed fist, tease up and down his shaft. Pull all the way out of him until just the tip of my cock is inside. Wrap my hand in his hair, turn his head to the side and mark a trail of hot, wet open mouthed kisses from his ear to the place where his neck meets his shoulder.
I guarantee you he is no longer thinking about the fucking office party.
When he finally groans my name out in that special tone of his, the one that says there is no way he can wait anymore, and he's going to go right over the edge whether I come with him for the ride or not, I push myself as deep inside of him as I can possibly get, let him fuck himself into my hand and back against my cock and let myself go right after he does. Freefall together.
Now maybe, if I'm lucky, when he recovers he'll flip over and repay me in kind. That's what I'm counting on at any rate.
*~*~*~*~*
If I needed to breathe, I'd be taking huge gulps of air in right now; Spike has been gone for about thirty minutes past too-long. It just reeks of badness, him and all this free time coupled with that smirk on his face.
He also took my credit card with him. Again.
If I could put that out of my mind, things would actually be nice. Cordelia and Wesley aren't fighting like three year olds in a sandbox, thanks to David Nabbit dropping by and leaving off little gifts for everyone. I haven't opened mine but Cordelia's is gold and sparkly and she's been showing all 32 teeth since she put it on. Wesley hasn't opened his, either, but he's charmed by the gesture and about one drink away from having to spend the night here in the hotel.
The lobby looks pretty good, all things considered. The poinsettias hide most of the damage from the fire. The new tree is not nearly as impressive as the last one was, but it's fresh and it's decorated with nice, safe, normal ornaments from the Penny Pincher. It's well watered, that's for damn sure. We learned our lesson the hard way the last time.
Now if Spike would just get here, I'm almost certain things would be complete.
*~*~*~*~*
When Angel sees his surprise, I know
he's going to forget all about the effort he put into worrying this thing
to death. The party might be a clunker until I get there, but once I walk
through the door with these
babies, it's going to be a major
event.
Hell, Peaches might even smile.
*~*~*~*~*
When Spike walks through the door, I am completely astounded. The man has done some amazingly idiotic things in his unlifetime, but this might be the crowning achievement, the star in his crown of stupidity.
He kicks the doors open, a grin on his face so broad that it threatens to meet behind his ears and let the top of his head fall off. He's got two of the squirming things with him, one under each arm.
The man has brought chickens into the hotel.
Before I can even let loose with the flurry of obscenities that are crowded in my throat, Cordelia arches an eyebrow at him. "Spike, if you got those at KFC, they're a little under done."
"Sod off, Princess. This here's the evening's entertainment."
"Entertainment? You have *so* got to be kidding me." She points her finger at him accusingly. "What the hell do you think you're going to do with them? Have you lost the few fuctioning brain cells you had left?"
He pulls them forward with a snort of disgust at her inability to read his mind, as if a closer view would make a lightbulb click on in her brain. I know I took a step backwards to compensate, but I couldn't help it.
I might have been the Scourge of Europe, my name might have been whispered in terror from hundreds of peasant lips, but there's one thing I absolutely refuse to deal with. And that would be chickens.
Gah, just having them here in the same room with me is making my skin try to crawl off my body. Look at them, they're just hideous, all beaks and scaly feet and feathers. And I don't even want to *know* about that flap of skin on their head.
Wesley ventures a question. "How do you plan to entertain us with the chickens, Spike?" He looks genuinely curious, and appears to not even notice that I've managed to put his body between me and the damn things.
Spike snorts at him, gesturing with the birds and causing them to squawk and flap their wings in protest. "I thought *you'd* at least know what these are, Watcher. They're not chickens, you wanker. They're game cocks."
"That's it! I'm outta here." Cordelia grabs her purse and heads for the door. She seems more annoyed by the word 'cock' than the fowl themselves because she's right there next to Spike, trying to get past him and out the door. I'd join her if it didn't involve actually getting closer to them before getting away.
"Oh go sit down, Princess. You're upsetting the birds."
And they must have been extremely upset to have it brought to everyone's attention as they choose that moment to peck wildly at Spike's hands. He swears loudly, and drops the things.
Oh fuck. They're loose.
*~*~*~*~*
I've never seen Angel move quite so fast before in my entire time with him. He's outrun lynch mobs at a more leisurely pace than he adopted when the cocks got away from me. Later I will savor the vision of him leaping to the top of the counter in game face when one of the birds runs in his direction. Right now I've got to get them together so they'll stop flapping around the lobby and get down to a proper duel to the death.
Cordelia's voice could shatter glass when she starts demanding that we get the birds out of there before they ruin the hotel. I think she's more worried about them shitting on her desk, but frankly with the way Angel is hovering over there I would say she had other things to worry about. If he hits that desk in another bird-evasion tactical leap, he's liable to collapse the thing with his weight.
If she'd stop her bloody screeching I could get the birds calmed down. I tell her that, more or less in that same phrasing although it comes out a little more colorfully when it leaves my mouth. Wesley seems the least upset of them all, and I guess I have to give him a little credit. After all, his heart's desire is a basket case on the counter behind him, full game face on as he is threatened by the evil fowl from hell, and Wes is being In Control. I think I'll get him one of those plastic pin-on name tags: 'Hi, my name is Wesley and I'm In Control."
One of the little buggers comes running by, crowing its stupid head off, and I lean down to grab it by the feet. It's about that time that I decide it might not have been the best plan to put the fighting razors on them before I got them settled into the place and used to their surroundings. The damn thing slices into my hand and I drop it again, spraying blood soaked chicken feathers in an arc as the thing goes running, jumping and flying towards Cordelia.
She does not take it well.
*~*~*~*~*
I'm trying not to have a complete break down here, but if one of those fucking things comes near me again, I'm making an exit any way I can, even if I have to punch through the ceiling and escape to the first floor that way.
I was almost feeling that things were going to be OK when I saw Spike grab one of the dirty little bastards by its scabby feet. I risked a glance to see where the other one was and spied its trail by the smashed poinsettias and dangling holly boughs it left in its wake.
"Bloody hell!"
When I whip my head back around at the sound of Spike's angry swearing, I see chicken, feathers and blood all describe a perfect, oblong graceful arc towards Cordelia. She is obviously too stunned to move and stares at it in openmouthed amazement as it smashes into her forehead, knocking her right onto her ass in the middle of a pyramid of pink and white marbled plants. The chicken continues its flight unperturbed by the speedbump that is Cordelia.
When she gets up out of the ruined flowers, smashed pottery and smeared potting soil, she has a gash on her forehead, dirt on her cheek, and blood and feathers everywhere. I can hear her blood pressure rising from over here, but there's not a chance in hell I'm getting down to help her. Let Wesley handle it.
Wesley is trying his damnedest not to laugh. "Cordelia," he chokes out with a little throat clearing at the end to cover his chuckle. "Let me help you." He's stepping over the mess on the floor and has his arms out in a comforting, placating manner. She looks at him, and he stops dead in his tracks. Backsteps hurriedly and there is a squawk and an audible crunch.
One down.
The other bird is perched on the railing by the tree. Wesley approaches it from the left, Spike from the right. Cordelia comes at it head on, death and revenge written plainly on her face. I'd cheer her on if I didn't think she'd turn and stake me where I stand. Or where I hover, I suppose is a more accurate term, since I'm hunched over, ready to leap again if the cock gets past the three of them and comes near me again.
"Really, Spike, what were you thinking? Cock fighting is against the law, you could get us all in a lot of trouble just by purchasing these birds." Wesley is whispering. Maybe he doesn't want to insult the damn thing. I don't care. I just wish they'd get on with it.
"I was thinking we'd have a spot of fun. Cock fighting was the sport of the gentry, you know." Spike is whispering, too. Maybe it's part of the plan. They had better have a God damn plan. I can't stand here all night.
Cordelia growls at him. "There's no gentry here, you asshole. I take back what I said earlier, you obviously have *no* functioning brain cells. If the cops come in here looking for you, I'm turning you over and asking them to give you a cell with a picture window facing east!" Her voice raises at the end of her statement and the cock crows alarmingly. All three of them stop, wait for it to settle before creeping towards it again.
"This is your idea of fun, Spike?" Cordelia never knows when to shut up. She'll keep running her mouth until someone snaps. It might be me.
"IT WASN'T ILLEGAL BACK WHEN I WAS ALIVE!" he bellows at her. Wesley jumps at the sudden noise, loses his footing and goes down amid the wrecked poinsettias. The bird spreads its wings and leaps towards its new favorite target: Cordelia's face. With a shriek, she turns to flee and runs flat into Spike. The momentum of his forward motion as he makes a grab for the bird's neck sends Cordelia reeling and she goes down again, this time taking out the Christmas tree.
Another fucking tree ruined. I hear the ornaments shattering as it tumbles, branches snapping as she struggles to get up, adding pine needles and silver icicles to the mess that covers her.
A hole in the ceiling is looking really good right now.
*~*~*~*~*
The stupid bint runs right into me and then hits the tree, going arse over tits and smashing it. I didn't think she had enough meat on her bones to actually cause that kind of damage. Guess I was wrong; the tree is fucked.
But I've got the bird by its neck and I snap it before it can do anymore damage. I toss the body to Wesley where he's laying on the floor next to the one he's killed and brush feathers from my duster.
"You can get down now, Peaches."
His gameface is gone now that I've defeated the apparently evil chicken beasts. His head turns slowly as he surveys the room, and he looks so stricken that I do a recon, too.
Feathers everywhere, stuck rather nicely in amongst what parts of the holly still hang about. Clumps of bloody ones here and there from where the damn thing cut me, but I'll take the blame for that. I didn't think ahead on that point. Angel's climbing down slowly, looking like someone just told him that there's no Santa Claus, or that they're discontinuing his favorite brand of hair gel.
This one's going to take a bit of making up.