What’s the formula for turkey per square oven?
Fucked if I know, cause this bird’s
too big and yeah, I know, nothing can actually be too big, but this is.
I’ve turned the sodding thing upside down, left and right, even come at
the oven when I didn’t think it
was watching, but it’s too big.
It won’t go in. And my Christmas dinner is going to be ruined cause I couldn’t
be bothered to listen to one little bit of
Irish wisdom.
‘It’s too big.’
Of course, smart-ass English chef,
master of thousands of dinners, (eating them, anyway) had to growl and
demand *that* one - biggest gaggler on the estate. So I flashed him THAT
grin and handed over the money Cordelia had forgotten about earlier. And
if she tries to come back to me on that one, it’s not my fault that she
left her purse in her coat where anyone could have taken it. Finder’s money,
anyway, she
should be bloody grateful.
All of which is frankly crap, because
I’m still stuck here with a turkey that won’t fit inside his wanky, bastard
Paddy style oven which must have been built for pigeons only. And only
then if it was a lame bird,
legs missing and all. Cause there’s
no way in hell that this is going to get cooked in time, even if I manage
to cut it up. Talking of which, how am I supposed to carve this thing?
Anything more aggressive than a
butter knife seems to have gone
on permanent walkabout.
And the Yorkshire puddings don’t
seem to be doing any better – I put them in, lost my eyelashes in a hot
fat wave and now the tray’s empty. Maybe there’s a demon of lost batter
or something, but they’re
gone, and if that veg even dares
to turn into mush, I’m going to garrote Wes with his own pinny. And force-feed
him raw poultry until New Year.
I lift the lid, glaring at the sorry
mess of green and try and remember how long it’s been since I turned culinary.
Too fucking long – the last time they didn’t have ‘best before’ dates.
Back then you just prayed
it wouldn’t go manky before you’d
eaten it as leftovers. Now you have to know about health regulations and
calorie counts. Who the fuck cares about protein? It’s not like it’s going
to kill me – it’d take a lot
more than an overdose of vitamin
C.
That’s an idea; maybe I can give him scurvy.
And now the clock’s showing I’ve
got about half an hour before he shows for his Yuletide feast and I’m still
stuck with Brando’s turkey equivalent. Maybe I could bung it in the microwave
if I chop it up.
Only this bendy bloody thing won’t
cut shit. Proper equipment, first rule of torture – if you’re going to
hack someone to bits, use a hacking-someone-to-bits device. Or if you’re
really stuck, use your
initiative.
Hang about; I’ve had a thought.
Yeah, I thought so – the wet pillock
didn’t lock up his weapons stash. Bad move that – make sure your enemy
can’t cook for himself but can still take your head off. He’s got no imagination,
that’s his
problem. Well that and me, but right
now I’m more worried about taking my thigh off if this axe is as sharp
as it seems.
((Whack))
Well, that’s the turkey taken care of.
Now how do I explain why the table’s down to three legs?
*~*~*~*~*
Apparently we’ve been infested with woodworm. Oh yeah, cursed woodworm, like that makes it any more believable.
And it’s not that I entirely object to the way he’s tried to fix it, but the stack of demon lore that’s propping up this end of the table isn’t exactly my idea of Christmas décor. I’m not sure what I’m more worried about – dripping gravy over any of the books Wesley calls his prized possessions, or eating the gravy itself.
If there’s a word that describes
food like this, I want to know it, just so that next time I can scream
it before I agree to his cooking. It’s beyond inedible – uber inedible?
Whatever, this is seriously bad food
and if he wasn’t glaring at me each
time I try and hide it under my serviette, I’d be scraping the whole thing
into the bin.
The gravy’s probably the least offensive
to the palette, the only question being how many lumps you want on the
side of your plate. The vegetables seem to have dissolved into soup...some
kind of consommé
maybe. I think there are carrots
in there, and from the watered down taste, I’m hazarding a guess at cabbage,
too. Aside from that, we’re playing potluck with murky green.
There are two separate piles of brown
round things; apparently one contains potatoes, the other is stuffing.
He’s watching me as I succumb to tasting it, doing my best to stop the
food coming in contact with my skin. I keep telling myself it’s not going
to kill me, it can’t do anything lethal to vampires, but trust has definitely
become an issue here. I wouldn’t trust
him to serve dog food properly.
Oh. Dear. God. It is dog food. Nothing
could possibly taste this bad and be fit for human consumption. It’s gritty
and has loose slippery fat pockets. And he’s watching me, daring me to
say anything about it,
just waiting for the pouf to admit
he can’t take his roast dinner. He’s not getting that pleasure. So I swallow,
trying not to bring it back up and turn resolutely to the turkey.
This is not a cooked turkey – I didn’t
see him carve it and I would have PAID to watch him use that butter knife
to slice breast onto my plate. But it arrived in what I can best describe
as road kill. It’s
suspiciously pink in places and
for such a big bird, there doesn’t seem to be an awful lot of meat on it.
Added to that, there seems to be a sheet of plastic attached to its side.
I don’t even want to ask what he
did with the giblets – they’ll probably
turn up as dessert.
He’s staring at me again; one eyebrow
raised in question, waiting for me to taste what has to be my last supper.
It’s a challenge and I’m damned if I’m rising to it. Nothing, not the best
shagging in the world is
worth tasting the contents of this
dish. There’s nothing he can do or say to make me eat that.
It’s as I’m thinking so determinedly
that he leans over to the sideboard and brings a covered plate onto the
table. And I can smell it before he even lifts the lid, can taste the fruity
tang...and the fork finds
its way to my mouth before he has
chance to speak.
Because he’s grinning at me like the moron childe he is and showing me what he’s made.
‘You reckon strawberry jello is as slippery as lime?’
Ah, now I know where the giblets are – still attached to the turkey.
*~*~*~*~*
I think he’s worked out how I’ve
cooked this bird. Well tough, I put the time and effort in to go along
with his tinsel fest, he can damn well eat it. I’ve got to give him credit
though – one slight mention of
the shag marathon I have in mind
and he’s eating away at dehydrated poultry. He’s a slave to his dick, he
knows it and I know it.
And now his stomach knows it too, cause from the look on his face, he’s been chewing on chicken a la plastic bag.
‘Everything all right, Peaches?’
I watch him swallow, (tricky it seems) and he attempts something like a grin. It comes out nearer that sheep statement he used last time I farted in bed.
‘It’s lovely.’
I have to snort. No one else can deliver that kind of crap deadpan. But since he’s playing it that way...
‘Do you think I cooked the roasts for long enough?’
Giving him credit for hiding the look of bewilderment he’s giving me. It’s there and gone quicker than any human would notice.
‘Oh yeah, they’re...full of...’ he picks up some of the stuffing with his fork and attempts to bite it, ‘roasty goodness.’
‘That’s the stuffing,’ I say, pushing the ‘hurt’ vibes as far as I can. ‘The potatoes are under the Yorkshire puddings.’
Ah yes, the Yorkshires – apparently
I’m too fucking good with a whisk, cause the damn things rose so much they
stuck to the roof of the oven. Burnt to a crunchy crisp they are, but he’s
game. He’s prodding
suspiciously at them, anyway.
‘They’re a bit well done.’
I raise an eyebrow and get ready to launch into an all out attack. This is just too good an opportunity to miss.
‘You saying I burnt them?’
And he’s trying to figure out how
to answer that one. Thing is, I figure he actually owes me for this, owes
me big time for just going along with all his Christmas cheer. Because
if it was just down to me,
I’d be doing nothing more than fucking
him him till next Michelmas.
Hell, maybe longer than that.
But he’s all keen on this sentiment
and I’m damned if I’m going to let him get up from this table without paying
me back big time. And if that’s sex or compliments, I’ll take it. Actually,
fuck the ‘or’,
I’ll take them both.
In my time.
‘Well?’
*~*~*~*~*
He’s trying to get me to say something
bad about this food. No, not bad, truthful. Because that way I’ll owe him.
And he’ll bring it back on me, day after day until next Millennium. It
could be a day at the mall
or, God help me, just getting it
on in front of Cordelia and Wesley, but it *will* be something that gives
me nightmares.
What I need is a distraction.
‘Shall we pull the crackers?’
No, I’m damn sure that hasn’t worked
– that eyebrow still seems glued to his hairline and I’m going to have
to say something. And when he’s staring at me with that mixture of amusement
and downright
smugness, I just want to wipe it
off the only way I can.
Of course, the way the table is right now, I’m not sure it can take two hoary old vamps shagging their way through the next hour. I’m going to have to comment and...
‘You think it’s crap, don’t you?’
//it’s dog food, dog food//
‘I just prefer my turkey to be...’
//edible//
‘...cooked for longer, that’s all.’
I smile, raising the cheery red to my lips and trying to drive away the taste of everything I’ve dared to touch in the last twenty minutes.
‘Cheers.’
He’s grinning at me, but I’ve got
him there – he can’t argue with taste. What am I talking about – this is
Spike, he can argue with anything. He argues with everything, and he’s
not going to let criticism pass
for one second. Wait, he’s raising
his glass.
‘Cheers, pet.’
And he’s sipping at it like a connoisseur,
flicking the end of his tongue inside the bulb of the glass and tasting
the bitter tang. And whilst I want to ask when he actually learnt how to
drink wine properly, I can’t
stop looking at that mouth. And
he’s got to know that, because he’s swirling the tip against the outer
rim, making me ask why I bother dressing at all. Because it’s going to
take all of three minutes before I try
and rip these pants off and fuck
him senseless.
Maybe I should invest in those Velcro sided affairs.
Oh God I need to think of something else.
I pick the cracker up and grip my
end tightly, proffering him the other side. He looks up at me and takes
a hold and we both know that the one left with the short end might as well
start begging now. And I’m
determined that won’t be me – I’ve
taken enough of his ‘look at my mammoth penis’ riffs for today. So I grip
it as tightly as I can and pull, as he does the same.
And it isn’t until the paper tears
that I realize that bracing myself against this hobbled table wasn’t perhaps
the best move. Because the whole thing’s tipping now and I jump up quickly,
kicking at the
solid wood and sending it flying
in the other direction.
His direction.
The entire thing slams over, sending
the dinner of the cursed over his head, gravy soaking his shirt, turkey
slices coating his shoulder. He’s got potatoes, (or possibly stuffing)
in his lap and green slimey veg
over his knees. And I watch as the
bronze mold sails in slow motion through the air, bouncing off his head
and spilling strawberry jello down his face.
I stare for a second as the mold finally comes to a spinning halt by his feet. And it’s then that I realize I’m still holding the tattered ends of a cracker.
‘I’ll let you wear the party hat.’
*~*~*~*~*
Bloody Irish Poufter!
I’m soaked in what has to be the
most God awful smelling dinner I’ve had and he’s standing over there, too
stunned to do anything but drop that ridiculous smirk. He wants to laugh,
I know he fucking does,
but he’s holding off until I have
some kind of reaction. And standing there, with that drooping tissue paper
in his hand, the not-so drooping package in his pants, he’s just begging
to be fucked.
I wipe the jello off my face and flash him a grin.
Waste not, want bloody not.
‘So, you gonna stand there all night or help me up?’
He hesitates for a second before
reaching an arm out. And it really is too easy. He should have known what
I was going to do – maybe he does and he just doesn’t are any more. Maybe
he’s just as horny as
I am.
Maybe it’s because he gets out of eating that dinner.
Whatever, because as soon as his
arm stretches out, I grab it and haul all hundred and eighty pounds or
so over the remains of the table. And although he yells hoarsely, I can
smell the pre-cum soaking his
pants, and you’d have to be fucking
blind to miss the tense muscles covering his body. He’s so tight right
now and the stupid bastard wouldn’t open his mouth to mention that he needs
it. He always needs it,
I’m just going to get him to promise
to be more vocal about it come New Year. Could add it to the list of resolutions
I’m making for him – put it under No.4 – all pajamas are useless, poufy
items I will not
wear.
But he’s here now, half sprawled
on top of me, his arse handy on my knee and I can’t resist it. Not that
I was ever trying. So I scrape a handful of jello off my face and shove
it down the back of pants. As he scrambles back to get away, to get something
to hit me with, those muscles aren’t half looking tense. And he can try
fighting with me later because my hands are on at his crotch, yanking the
zipper down and
away.
Because we skipped dinner – I’m damned if we skip dessert.
*~*~*~*~*
No hands are this good. No hands are this good. No hands are this good.
Oh fuck, yes they are.
Damn Spike. Damn all those years
I ever spent educating him. Because this feels too fucking good, but I’m
his sire and he shoved jello down the back of my pants for God’s sake.
These are things you just
don’t forgive. But dear God, his
hands are wrapped round my cock and he’s just grinning at me, daring me
to actually ask him to suck my engorged cock. And whilst I’ve bitten through
my lower lip cause it
feels so damn good, Hell will freeze
over and launch a bid for the Winter Olympics before I breathe his name
and beg.
‘...Spike...’
And just because I’m moaning his name in no way means the same as asking him. If he does it all by himself, it’s up to him, because I’m not begging, I’m not begging at all.
‘Something...’
//suck me//
‘...you want me...’
//suck me until my mind explodes//
‘...to do, Love?’
And I’m gritting my teeth again,
the fiery tang of my own blood seeping down my chin. I can feel jello sliding
between my ass cheeks and dear God it is slippery, it is cold and I just
want to possess and be
possessed and I just want him to
fucking do me!
‘I can’t think of anything, Spike.’
*~*~*~*~*
I’m kind of impressed at his self-control.
I can feel his dick throbbing like it’s going to blow, and his balls are
so damn tight that he could be a teenager in his bedroom, wanking over
the centerfold. There’s
blood running down his chin and
I lean forward, taking a lick, tasting him and he’s groaning again. I kiss
him hard, grinning as his tongue sinks forward, because his whole body
is begging, his mouth is
begging, but that damn voice won’t
say my name.
And I want to hear thick brogue begging me to suck him, to fuck him and he just won’t...
*~*~*~*~*
Oh, God. If he doesn’t stop that
I’m going to scream at him to *do* something, because stamina is one thing,
blue balls are another. And I thought I’d learnt my lesson, but my brain
doesn’t seem able to
function the way it should. I just
want to scream and shout and spread everything, or squeeze, but God dammit,
I just want to feel his skin and his body and I’m going to have to say
it.
I don’t want to be the begging one.
*~*~*~*~*
‘Please, Spike, please. Oh fuck, please.’
See I knew he had it in him somewhere.
There’s a nasty little urge in this one to just give in and let someone
else have control. Only for a moment, but it’s there. So I sink down gracefully
and plant deep wet
kisses over the end of his dripping
cock, smirking as his hips buck and he tries to get it deeper. I flick
at the slit with my tongue as salty mixes with the sweet tang of jello
on my lips. Then I remember just
where else there is jello and he’s
on his knees before his brain has the chance to process that fact, but
he’s not objecting. He’s not pushing me off, so it takes less than a handful
of seconds before I’ve got
my own cock in hand, testing out
that strawberry versus lime theory.
And pushing forward is like sliding
into ice cream, because he’s all cold and wet, and the jello doesn’t so
much lubricate as melt. When I groan, he moans, and my hands slide back
round to his cock before
his brain kicks back in. And before
I can draw back out and slam back into him, there’s this weird ringing
noise and we both turn to the sound, jello coated and intolerant.
It’s the fucking phone.
*~*~*~*~*
I think I’m melting, I think...I don’t think I’m thinking any more, because I can feel him pulling out and I just don’t want to let go right now. So that ringing can just fuck off, because I’m not answering any evil demons right now. This is my Christmas and my lunch and my fucking dessert. So it can go to Hell.
I push back to his surprised moan
and pick up the handiest thing I can find before hurling it towards the
plastic obscenity. It bangs against it and knocks the phone onto the floor,
clicking the switch as it
bounces and slips into silence.
He’s still slightly stunned by this, so I pull forward again, bouncing
back on him until he gets the hint. And the hand round my cock seems to
gain life again, so I can face this
evening because I’ve ruined the
table, ruined the dinner and strawberry jello is just as damn slippery
as lime.
He growls hard against my neck, and
I can feel his fangs graze, but they don’t dig in. But he’s licking the
injured skin and we both know he’s going to come any time now. Because
this is never about stamina,
it’s about need and want. And I
want him right now. I want his hands to keep moving, I want his cock to
keep pounding and I just want to be fucked senseless in a pile of trashed
out crockery and lumpy
gravy.
And this growl seems to come from
below my belly as I start spurting all over the textured floor. We’re all
vampire, all hard and coming all over my kitchen. I’m going to hate tidying
this in the morning, but the
now is too damn good. And I hear
him whimper and moan my name against my neck as he spills deep. I can feel
his cock twitching and the labored breathing he affects during sex is wearing
off.
‘Merry Christmas, Spike.’
He chuckles and gestures to the off the hook phone.
‘Nice targeting, pet.’
I grin as my shoulders seem to lose a good deal of their tension and sit back up slowly, aware of the sharp edges of crockery pressing into my thighs. I shrug it off – it’s unimportant.
‘Thanks.’
I turn to face him, noticing the red slime is still plastering his hair down. The prospect of showering brings a whole new and pleasant image, but he’s still grinning and looking at my abandoned projectile.
‘I didn’t know you could do *that* with a jello mold.’
And now it’s my turn to grin, because
I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be doing anything with jello except eat it.
But this is my childe and our Christmas, and there don’t seem to be any
rules here. So I just keep
grinning until the lights threaten
to blow and I have to broach the topic of what we’re doing this evening.
But until then, I’m wondering what other flavors he has stored up in the
cupboard.
And whether he wants to do a consumer test.