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Knife, Fork, Spoon by alyse [Reviews - 13]
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Category: Anthropomorfic, Miscellaneous
Characters: None
Rating: PG
Genres: Crack!fic, Humour
Warnings: None

Summary: It was difficult not to feel jealous of Knife and Fork.

Pairing: Knife/Fork, Dish/Spoon, sundry others



Story Notes:
Written for [community profile] mmom. In other words, here be wanking. Many thanks to [personal profile] aithine for looking over this for me.


It was difficult not to feel jealous of Knife and Fork. Sometimes they defined coupledom - no one ever seemed to talk about one without the other. Spoon heard it all of the time: 'pass the Knife and Fork'; 'where's my Knife and Fork?'; 'do you need a Knife and Fork?'

All Knife and Fork needed was each other. Spoon was nothing but an afterthought, something to pull out of the drawer at breakfast time when food wasn't something to savour but something to shovel down before you were out of the door. Spoon never got to see the best side of dinner, not these days. Desserts were persona non grata in the household and had been ever since the Diet Books appeared one day and commenced ruling the roost.

Spoon wasn't fond of them - they were too dry, too narrow and thin-spined for Spoon's taste. At night their pages would rustle as they spent the evening tearing down the denizens of the Kitchen cupboards. Salt was considered too coarse, a heartbreaker that sent the Diet Books' blood pressure soaring. Pepper was too spicy and flighty, always rushing off one place or another, its hot, Latin blood leaving tears in its wake. Oil was greasy and Butter was fat.

Spoon liked Butter, who was full bodied and just as full of the joys of dairy. Even Fork didn't complain when Knife got a chance to dip into Butter's luxurious body.

Spoon had no one. Yoghurts were but a memory. Ice Cream was a forbidden joy, turned into something furtive and dirty. And even the Diet Books' malicious whispering was preferable to staying in the drawer some nights. Those were the nights Knife and Fork were more than inseparable, when they appeared wedded together, all through dinner, all through the clean up afterwards, handles touching and rattling together with unspoken anticipation. More than once, on those nights, Spoon had come across Knife and Fork locked in a torrid embrace, Knife's blade sliding through Fork's tines, the pleasured screech of metal against metal filling the night air.

It was enough to make Spoon's silver tarnish but it didn't mean that it could look away. It didn't matter that the sight only enhanced its loneliness, making it long for someone to spoon with. What mattered was tracing the lines of Fork's arched neck, the way its tines flared out in luscious curves. Or the way that the light glinted off Knife's decorations, the scrollwork seeming to flex in the moonlight as Knife's blade sawed back and forth, making Fork scream with bliss.

Those were the nights when it became too much, when all Spoon could do was crawl into some dark, forgotten corner of the drawer, polishing frantically at its silver until the tarnish was all worn away and its bowl was quivering with pleasure, Fork's sharp cries still echoing in its ears. Sometimes when it listened to their pleasure, stroking along its own curling scrollwork, it imagined what it would be like to be with them, the three of them together, lost in one another. No longer just Knife and Fork, but Knife and Fork and Spoon.

It was a shameful, dark and dirty little secret, one Spoon would never be able to share even if it had someone to share it with. But there wasn't anyone. Spoon was the last of its set. Once there had been six, all slotting together perfectly, spooned and spooning. But now there was just one. The drawer was empty, nothing but a dumping ground for broken dreams.

And then, one day, the unthinkable happened. The Diet Books disappeared from the shelves, replaced by bright, vibrant tomes with joyous titles like 'Pasta Perfection' and 'The Tao of Tiramisu', alongside meaty, serious tomes with titles like 'Fat is a Feminist Issue' and 'Screw Shackles; Let's Have Steak'. Joyous or serious, the chattering at night was more like nightingales now, peppered occasionally with the solemn hoot of an owl, not the dry, papery whispers of things lurking in the overgrown undergrowth of guilt, just waiting to pounce.

The whole Kitchen seemed brighter now, happier and open plan. The Implements were brought out into the light to stir and poke, dish and serve. Even the twin Corn on the Cob Holders, who blustered shyly and shone to the roots of their kernels, were allowed to leave the drawer where Useless Implements went to die. Knife was dipping into Butter more frequently now, and sometimes they even got together with the twins for a night of debauchery if a particularly juicy piece of sweetcorn was on offer.

Fork didn't seem to mind but then it wouldn't; it was pricking Potatoes on the side.

But Spoon was still alone. Not even the regime change could lift its bowl. Desserts were still that one forbidden thing and even when Ice Cream was released from the confines of its snowy prison wastes, it was a furtive, secretive thing; just Spoon and the Tub, Ice Cream melting and clinging to the sides with a soft sigh. It always left Spoon feeling sticky afterwards. Sticky and unsatisfied. Even scraping along the bottom of the Tub, gathering up the last remnants of Ice Cream, didn't do anything but leave it feeling dirty. How could it do otherwise with the remnants of Ice Cream's pleasure spattered across its smooth curves?

And then Dish arrived in the cupboard and everything changed. Oh, what a dish Dish was. One of a kind, like Spoon, it wore its solitary nature with pride. A one off: unique, hand made, and just the thought of that was enough to make Spoon quiver.

There were swirls of colour adorning Dish's perfect curves, bright spots in red and blue and gold. They just begged for Spoon to trace them, sliding its bowl along Dish's contours, mapping out each dip and hollow left by Dish's vibrant markings. At night, now, Spoon didn't dream of Knife and Fork and their boring, pedestrian joining, face to face. They were meant for each other with all of their bourgeois sterling steel. No. Now Spoon dreamt only of Dish, of the day that they, too, could be joined, Dish and Spoon, Spoon and Dish.

Their day would come. Already the bright tomes on the shelves were breeding, multiplying. Already 'Low Calorie Treats' had appeared among their number. It was only a matter of time before the Kitchen embraced the nirvana of 'Cooking With Chocolate'. And then nothing would keep Dish and Spoon apart.

On that day, Spoon knew, in its heart of hearts, in every swirl of its scrollwork, to the depths of its very bowl, that it would find a soul mate in Dish.

On that day, the Dish would run away with the Spoon.

The End






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