Further Instruction in the Kitchen
Title: Further Instruction in the Kitchen
Author: septemberoses
Fandom: True Blood
Rating: PG13
Characters: Eric/Godric
Word Count: 1600
Summary: Food porn and fluff. Continuation of Watching the Clock ... just because I felt like it.
His pointless breathing sounded ragged in his ears. His heels drummed uselessly against the floor. His eyes stung; there was white powder everywhere, floating through the air. His hand was sticky, slimy … what was it? Whatever it was, he had crushed it to nothingness.
"Look at me." And he obeyed instantly, diving into the cool waters of the command.
Blood had dripped crimson from that mouth, from that tongue onto his. How long had he been here like this? He held his mouth open again, as wide as it would go, desperate, his throat parched.
"More?"
A thumb slid in, against his fangs, offered to him. He pierced it, swallowed the drops greedily. He was so thirsty. He had never been so thirsty. Dirty and sticky … paste and sweat. All those strange smells - the butter, rancid. The flour dust that made him want to sneeze. The chocolate, the salt, the eggs …
The egg. Crushed, so fragile. He'd broken the fucking egg, that was it. A web-like, delicate slug-trail across his hand-
Please
Please
The blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. His? Godric's? He wasn't sure anymore.
"Eric."
Eric cleared his throat, in a daze.
"Godric … did - did I scream?"
"Like a little girl. Let's hope the neighbors didn't call the police."
Godric's eyes were heavy-lidded, his face a study in concentration, as if the chaos around them - the motes of white powder in the air, the flour that clung to their damp skin, that made them look like living statues - as if none of it were there -
"I want to tell you something." Godric pressed forward, tongue out, and then the blood leaking from Eric's lips was suddenly gone, although Godric moved so quickly Eric hadn't caught it. Was Godric … was he getting faster? After all this time … surely it wasn't possible… the fuck, how did Godric do that to him anyway, work him up like that?
"-macarons. And those other things … all of them so delicate, like flowers. The candied violets, do you remember those? The lighting was poor through the window; but I'll never forget the way they glistened, the spun sugar coating them like --- I don't know." Godric frowned. "Like what. Dew on cobwebs, but that's not right, either. Brighter. I think. Somehow."
"Godric, I …"
"Ssssssshhhhhhhhh. Just listen." Even Godric's eyelashes were white. How had they made such a mess? Eric hadn't moved from where he was on the floor. "All these … all these centuries, Eric. Don't you think about it? What you could do if you were still human? I know you do, sometimes, even if you never say so to me. It's as if you think I'll feel bad about it - guilty somehow. Which is ludicrous. You know that, don't you?"
The small fingers, brushing against his lips.
"The sun. The sea when the sun shone. Sailing. You loved them. When you were a man … well, there are things I miss, too. Do you remember how much you loved to eat, Eric? I do." The dark hair, powdered white. The crooked smile. The eyes, gray and pink rimmed, so young and impossibly old as they darted away and back toward him. "I can't remember what it tastes like, any of it. I haven't been able to remember for hundreds of years."
Godric licked his own fingers then. Slid them back into Eric's mouth.
"Do you know what year Larousse Gastronomique came out? Do you?"
Eric shook his head, bewildered.
"It was nineteen thirty-eight, believe it or not. I've read it so many times now I have large parts of it memorized. The technique, the recipes… you know what's sad? I've never tasted a single thing in there, and I never will."
Godric lifted his hand, the other one, still coated with chocolate. Unsweetened, that's what he'd said. Of course it all tasted like dusty nothingness to Eric, although it smelled peculiar, a smell that brought up the desert, night-blooming cereus and the dirt beneath.
Godric cupped his palm and fingers to the side of Eric's face, then pulled it away. He appeared to be studying the effect, the sticky wetness; Eric imagined the handprint, darkness on light. He had flour in his throat. It tickled.
"Sit up." Godric's tone was gentle, as if Eric had been napping. Eric sat, hands on the floor, the ruined, sticky egg in his right fist proclaiming his failure of self-control. But he held the other one carefully in his left hand, loose but tight, like keeping a secret, even though he had already lost the game. He was curious. Godric was straddling him; the game hadn't finished yet, that much was clear. Eric liked it when his maker talked to him like this, rambling, thoughtful, his guard down, even when Eric (as he did right now) had no idea what the hell the topic was.
"French cooking, Eric." Godric raised himself up to his knees, inched closer, so they were eye to eye. He looked serious, but sometimes when he looked the most serious was precisely when he wasn't. "I may have mastered the art of French cooking, but an entire cuisine has eluded me. Along with so many others. It's heartbreaking." Was he serious? Eric melted against him, silent, pleading. He felt the light touch of fingertips on his back, and then, after a languid kiss, Godric's eyelashes brushed against his cheek.
"Any human," Godric said, his voice low, "in this neighborhood could walk in off the street and, at my invitation, sit down at my largely pointless kitchen table and enjoy a fine French meal. I can cook it, after all, and very well. I just can't eat it."
He slid his hand back toward Eric's mouth, slid his fingers against Eric's tongue, then out again, smearing the chocolate across Eric's lips, his chin, his cheeks. It felt peculiar, the dregs in his mouth, pasty and grainy and syrupy all at once.
Then Godric reached his hand back behind himself.
"If we were human, I would cook. I would cook every night, and we would be connoisseurs of French cuisine. We'd have a fancy wine cave in the cellar, and you'd keep your extensive wine collection in it."
Eric suppressed a moan.
"We'd be oenophiles." Those gray eyes again, cool, appraising, inches from his own. "We'd be the talk of Dallas, us and our dinner parties." The hand shifted again, followed by Godric's hips, lowering.
"I'd have a double oven, and one of those racks over the cooktop - the sort you hang copper pots from. And …"
Godric paused, his gaze distant as he made a careful, minute adjustment to his position. He raised both arms and rested them gently on Eric's shoulders.
"… and you could buy me that cookware that comes in all those pretty colors, the ones on the front of that cooking catalog I get. Le Creuset. That's what they're called."
Eric's hand tightened fractionally. He would not break the egg. He would not--
"Do you think we'd settle on one particular color? The pale blue? Or the red one, I think it's called flame, it would look nice in my kitchen … or maybe we wouldn't pick one color … why should we have to?" He looked at Eric questioningly. "Why shouldn't we have as many colors as we wanted? We could rotate them seasonally…"
Godric paused and then his hips began to rise again.
"I'd feed you something new and wonderful every single night, Eric. I remember … I remember how much - how much you loved meat. Well… I'd feed you venison and beef and lamb and … well, other things too, mussels and cheese and sauces and odd pickled fish until you weighed … three hundred and fifty pounds. And I'd still love you."
Eric gasped. His thighs were quivering - he couldn't --
"I'd love you every bit as much as I love you now, Eric." Godric nipped gently at his lower lip. "Although we've made a terrible mess in here, haven't we … it's a good thing I put that gateau in the pantry …"
"Godric-"
"Ssshhhhh. We're going to have to get cleaned up before we go back to the bedroom." Godric's arms shifted on either side of Eric's neck; he began to lower his hips again. He glanced down, and then back into Eric's eyes, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
"First … you're going to have to wash my feet, Eric. They're dirty. They're covered in flour, and chocolate, and you're going to have to clean them gently, I'll let you get a bowl of warm water …" Godric closed his eyes, his back arching slightly as he rose again, "… a bowl of water and kneel in front of me -- and perhaps - perhaps as punishment I'll even make you lick them first-"
And then there was the sound of the eggshell being crushed in Eric's hand, and his final, helpless growl, and one small thrust upward, all it took him to finish, and Godric's delighted laughter.
Author: septemberoses
Fandom: True Blood
Rating: PG13
Characters: Eric/Godric
Word Count: 1600
Summary: Food porn and fluff. Continuation of Watching the Clock ... just because I felt like it.
His pointless breathing sounded ragged in his ears. His heels drummed uselessly against the floor. His eyes stung; there was white powder everywhere, floating through the air. His hand was sticky, slimy … what was it? Whatever it was, he had crushed it to nothingness.
"Look at me." And he obeyed instantly, diving into the cool waters of the command.
Blood had dripped crimson from that mouth, from that tongue onto his. How long had he been here like this? He held his mouth open again, as wide as it would go, desperate, his throat parched.
"More?"
A thumb slid in, against his fangs, offered to him. He pierced it, swallowed the drops greedily. He was so thirsty. He had never been so thirsty. Dirty and sticky … paste and sweat. All those strange smells - the butter, rancid. The flour dust that made him want to sneeze. The chocolate, the salt, the eggs …
The egg. Crushed, so fragile. He'd broken the fucking egg, that was it. A web-like, delicate slug-trail across his hand-
Please
Please
The blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. His? Godric's? He wasn't sure anymore.
"Eric."
Eric cleared his throat, in a daze.
"Godric … did - did I scream?"
"Like a little girl. Let's hope the neighbors didn't call the police."
Godric's eyes were heavy-lidded, his face a study in concentration, as if the chaos around them - the motes of white powder in the air, the flour that clung to their damp skin, that made them look like living statues - as if none of it were there -
"I want to tell you something." Godric pressed forward, tongue out, and then the blood leaking from Eric's lips was suddenly gone, although Godric moved so quickly Eric hadn't caught it. Was Godric … was he getting faster? After all this time … surely it wasn't possible… the fuck, how did Godric do that to him anyway, work him up like that?
"-macarons. And those other things … all of them so delicate, like flowers. The candied violets, do you remember those? The lighting was poor through the window; but I'll never forget the way they glistened, the spun sugar coating them like --- I don't know." Godric frowned. "Like what. Dew on cobwebs, but that's not right, either. Brighter. I think. Somehow."
"Godric, I …"
"Ssssssshhhhhhhhh. Just listen." Even Godric's eyelashes were white. How had they made such a mess? Eric hadn't moved from where he was on the floor. "All these … all these centuries, Eric. Don't you think about it? What you could do if you were still human? I know you do, sometimes, even if you never say so to me. It's as if you think I'll feel bad about it - guilty somehow. Which is ludicrous. You know that, don't you?"
The small fingers, brushing against his lips.
"The sun. The sea when the sun shone. Sailing. You loved them. When you were a man … well, there are things I miss, too. Do you remember how much you loved to eat, Eric? I do." The dark hair, powdered white. The crooked smile. The eyes, gray and pink rimmed, so young and impossibly old as they darted away and back toward him. "I can't remember what it tastes like, any of it. I haven't been able to remember for hundreds of years."
Godric licked his own fingers then. Slid them back into Eric's mouth.
"Do you know what year Larousse Gastronomique came out? Do you?"
Eric shook his head, bewildered.
"It was nineteen thirty-eight, believe it or not. I've read it so many times now I have large parts of it memorized. The technique, the recipes… you know what's sad? I've never tasted a single thing in there, and I never will."
Godric lifted his hand, the other one, still coated with chocolate. Unsweetened, that's what he'd said. Of course it all tasted like dusty nothingness to Eric, although it smelled peculiar, a smell that brought up the desert, night-blooming cereus and the dirt beneath.
Godric cupped his palm and fingers to the side of Eric's face, then pulled it away. He appeared to be studying the effect, the sticky wetness; Eric imagined the handprint, darkness on light. He had flour in his throat. It tickled.
"Sit up." Godric's tone was gentle, as if Eric had been napping. Eric sat, hands on the floor, the ruined, sticky egg in his right fist proclaiming his failure of self-control. But he held the other one carefully in his left hand, loose but tight, like keeping a secret, even though he had already lost the game. He was curious. Godric was straddling him; the game hadn't finished yet, that much was clear. Eric liked it when his maker talked to him like this, rambling, thoughtful, his guard down, even when Eric (as he did right now) had no idea what the hell the topic was.
"French cooking, Eric." Godric raised himself up to his knees, inched closer, so they were eye to eye. He looked serious, but sometimes when he looked the most serious was precisely when he wasn't. "I may have mastered the art of French cooking, but an entire cuisine has eluded me. Along with so many others. It's heartbreaking." Was he serious? Eric melted against him, silent, pleading. He felt the light touch of fingertips on his back, and then, after a languid kiss, Godric's eyelashes brushed against his cheek.
"Any human," Godric said, his voice low, "in this neighborhood could walk in off the street and, at my invitation, sit down at my largely pointless kitchen table and enjoy a fine French meal. I can cook it, after all, and very well. I just can't eat it."
He slid his hand back toward Eric's mouth, slid his fingers against Eric's tongue, then out again, smearing the chocolate across Eric's lips, his chin, his cheeks. It felt peculiar, the dregs in his mouth, pasty and grainy and syrupy all at once.
Then Godric reached his hand back behind himself.
"If we were human, I would cook. I would cook every night, and we would be connoisseurs of French cuisine. We'd have a fancy wine cave in the cellar, and you'd keep your extensive wine collection in it."
Eric suppressed a moan.
"We'd be oenophiles." Those gray eyes again, cool, appraising, inches from his own. "We'd be the talk of Dallas, us and our dinner parties." The hand shifted again, followed by Godric's hips, lowering.
"I'd have a double oven, and one of those racks over the cooktop - the sort you hang copper pots from. And …"
Godric paused, his gaze distant as he made a careful, minute adjustment to his position. He raised both arms and rested them gently on Eric's shoulders.
"… and you could buy me that cookware that comes in all those pretty colors, the ones on the front of that cooking catalog I get. Le Creuset. That's what they're called."
Eric's hand tightened fractionally. He would not break the egg. He would not--
"Do you think we'd settle on one particular color? The pale blue? Or the red one, I think it's called flame, it would look nice in my kitchen … or maybe we wouldn't pick one color … why should we have to?" He looked at Eric questioningly. "Why shouldn't we have as many colors as we wanted? We could rotate them seasonally…"
Godric paused and then his hips began to rise again.
"I'd feed you something new and wonderful every single night, Eric. I remember … I remember how much - how much you loved meat. Well… I'd feed you venison and beef and lamb and … well, other things too, mussels and cheese and sauces and odd pickled fish until you weighed … three hundred and fifty pounds. And I'd still love you."
Eric gasped. His thighs were quivering - he couldn't --
"I'd love you every bit as much as I love you now, Eric." Godric nipped gently at his lower lip. "Although we've made a terrible mess in here, haven't we … it's a good thing I put that gateau in the pantry …"
"Godric-"
"Ssshhhhh. We're going to have to get cleaned up before we go back to the bedroom." Godric's arms shifted on either side of Eric's neck; he began to lower his hips again. He glanced down, and then back into Eric's eyes, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
"First … you're going to have to wash my feet, Eric. They're dirty. They're covered in flour, and chocolate, and you're going to have to clean them gently, I'll let you get a bowl of warm water …" Godric closed his eyes, his back arching slightly as he rose again, "… a bowl of water and kneel in front of me -- and perhaps - perhaps as punishment I'll even make you lick them first-"
And then there was the sound of the eggshell being crushed in Eric's hand, and his final, helpless growl, and one small thrust upward, all it took him to finish, and Godric's delighted laughter.