By: Lillybellis

Prompts: wrath, chocolate starfish, pasta

All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is all the original author's. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.

I tapped my foot angrily in time to the soft swing of the pendulum inside the grandfather clock sitting across from me in our dining room. All hand-carved mahogany and fourteen karat gold accents, it was one of the many fine pieces my husband had requested that I keep when I remodeled our home last fall. I didn't really see the point; he was hardly ever home to enjoy the decorations anyway.

I looked across the elegant place settings I'd made at the table. In the middle of it all was a now cold and curdled bowl of carbonara that I'd spent nearly all day making. It was supposed to be Carlisle's birthday feast, but like usual, he hadn't come home when he said he would, and all of my hard work was wasted.

Fuming, I stood up and grabbed our ruined dinner, the hardened mass of noodles nearly spilling over the side in my mini fit of rage. The soles of my stilettos made loud, purposeful steps across the hardwood floor of our kitchen. I threw the bowl into the sink. It landed against the stainless steel with a satisfying crash, small bits of fine china bouncing off of my short, sexy, red-sequined dress.

I'd gone to all of this trouble, and he wasn't even here. It was his birthday, not mine, so I wasn't even sure why it bothered me so much. If he wanted to go out and get shitfaced with his frat-boy doctor buddies, then he should be able to. It's just that he knew, he knew I had something special planned for him tonight. Something he'd been begging for since before we were married.

I bent over to pick up a few shards of glass that had fallen on the floor when the bowl met its untimely demise. The bottom of my dress hitched up to my waist, and I felt the cool chill of the night air against my ass as the back door opened. I'd been so upset I hadn't even heard it.

"Oh, my God. Rose..." Carlisle slurred ever so slightly, sounding surprised.

"What the hell are you doing coming in back here? What's wrong with the front door?" I asked, trying not to yell at his drunk ass.

"Nevermind that." He stumbled behind me and his eyes glazed over the way they always did whenever he caught a flash of skin. "You...you..."

My husband was always so eloquent. He had obviously enjoyed the show, and I wanted to torture him for keeping me waiting. Slowly, I spread my legs and bent back down, making sure my dress drifted even further up my waist this time. I wanted him to get a nice, long look at what he wouldn't be enjoying tonight.

I stood up straight as his hand cupped my ass, warming me from the cold air that still swirled around us. I felt the heat from his body across my back, and it took everything I had in me not to turn around and yell at him for standing me up.

"My mouth is watering, Rose," he said, his fingers fumbling against the top of my panties as he rested his chin on my shoulder.

I said nothing. Typical man, forgetting his promise to come home and have dinner with me, but remembering our traditional post-meal birthday festivities.

"I haven't tasted the chocolate starfish in soooo long," he practically moaned, smacking my backside lightly.

The...chocolate starfish? I flinched slightly as I remembered the 'vagina viper' incident of 2008. It was then that I first discovered Carlisle's proclivity toward awful genitalia euphemisms when he'd been drinking. I was confused though, because if he was referring to what I thought he was referring to, he hadn't tasted that, well, ever.

"The starfish?" I asked, my voice shrill with annoyance.

"Yeah. Did you put cream in it like I asked you to?" His low voice vibrated against my earlobe.

What the hell?

"Cream?" I practically shouted, suddenly scared of the closet freak I seemed to be married to.

"Yeah," he said, sounding annoyed. "I asked you to put cream in there last night."

"Carlisle Cullen, what in the everloving fuck are you talking about?"

"The cake," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He moved from behind me and swiped his finger along the edge, wiping off a bit of excess glaze before eating it. "Esme Cullen's Famous Cream-Filled Chocolate Starfish." Now that I looked at it, it did resemble a starfish. I was too busy trying to get the recipe right to closely examine the mold he'd insisted I use.

Of course his wretched mother would name a cake something ridiculous like that. She and her hoity-toity society friends probably noshed on it during countless garden parties. For a split second I wondered if maybe she'd given it such a moniker on purpose, but no, Esme Cullen was never that wry.

"Can we cut into it?" he asked, his face as excited as a kid on Christmas. "I came home just for this."

I sighed, hoping to calm myself before I wound up breaking another irreplaceable piece of dinnerware over this infuriating man. "I slaved all day to make you dinner, and this is what you came home for?"

"Well, yeah," he confessed, going in for another bit of glaze.

"Carlisle Cullen," I managed through gritted teeth, reaching next to me to pick up the cake. "If this is what you came home for, then you can have it."

I couldn't see his expression through the bits of cake and cream filling that covered his face seconds later, but I felt an odd satisfaction in the destruction of my handiwork, especially if it meant that he wouldn't be able to enjoy it the way he wanted to.

"Rosie! This isn't as good as my mom used to make it. Next time you should use more sugar!"

I gently placed the empty cake plate on the counter, and didn't say a word as I turned to go upstairs to move all of his shit into the guest bedroom for the night.