kathierif_fic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kathierif_fic) wrote2010-07-17 07:55 pm
kathierif_fic) wrote2010-07-17 07:55 pm
Fic: Fruits of Love (CSI:NY, Sid Hammerback/Stella Bonasera, FRT-13)
Title: Fruits of Love
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kathierif_fic
Fandom: CSI:NY
Pairing: Sid Hammerback/Stella Bonasera (Even if her name isn’t even mentioned, I think it’s kind of obvious)
Rating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.
Warnings: food.
Word Count: 1080
Summary: Sid is thinking about the perfect menu.
Author’s Notes: Written for![[community profile]](https://s.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo, prompt: food. All food mentioned in this fic counts as aphrodisiac, which was more of an accident than purpose; in true Kathie-fashion I wrote the fic (it was supposed to be strictly about raspberries and sex) and then did the research. Oops? Also, I needed two days to finish it because I got hungry halfway through…
Sid Hammerback prided himself to be an excellent cook, with a wide-spanned culinary repertoire and a meal, or at least an idea for a meal, for every holiday and every occasion imaginable.
However, today he found himself in his kitchen, glasses balanced precariously on the tip of his nose, and turning page upon page of all the books filled with recipes that he’d accumulated over the years. He’d already searched the internet, but without much success, and he wanted this particular meal he was planning to be special and outstanding.
A meal worth a queen and just as memorable as if he was preparing it for some kind of deity.
The only problem with that concept was that he couldn’t find the perfect recipe for it. He didn’t quite know yet what exactly it was he was looking for, but he had a clear understanding of what wasn’t. Sadly, everything he’d found so far fell straight into the second category.
He sighed and closed yet another cook book. It was getting late, and he was slowly running out of time. He had less than twenty-four hours to figure out a perfect meal, do the necessary grocery shopping, and prepare it.
It wasn’t, he thought while opening the next book and starting to leaf through it, that he wanted a meal that convinced her to sleep with him. If that were the case, he knew what he needed to prepare: asparagus, soft and tender like butter, perfectly cooked with just a hint of butter and maybe some fresh herbs sprinkled over the tips of the spears, maybe oysters or caviar, and for dessert, fresh figs or perfectly shaped strawberries, together with creamy chocolate sauce, or some of the expensive chocolates he kept hidden away for special moments, together with some cooled champagne…he was convinced that not a lot of people could resist a meal like that.
However, it wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t just want to get her into his bed, not to mention that she’d been there already. He’d even enjoyed the privilege of being invited to her place, of making love to her on her bed, but this was the first time he would cook for her, and he wanted – no, he needed - it to be something extraordinary.
A culinary orgasm.
When she had cooked for him, she had made an excellent Greek dish, of which she’d said that it was one of the few things she could prepare without setting the kitchen on fire. It had made him smile. Somehow, he doubted that it was the truth, but on the other hand, he knew how hard and tiring her job was and therefore wasn’t surprised about her collection of take-out menus he found stacked in her kitchen. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to cook, but her job never left her the time to practice it.
He closed the book with a sigh and reached for the next one – the last one of his pile. It was dusty and old, the pages falling apart and the edges of the cover fraying. The recipes were hand-written in faded ink, and Sid carefully moved the pages as he shifted through them.
This was his grandmother’s legacy, and although he had the niggling feeling that he wouldn’t find what he was looking for in here as well and would remain empty-handed, he still looked.
It wasn’t that he wanted to make her feel like her cooking had been inadequate or not god enough, eh thought while turning another brittle page that was yellow with age. He didn’t want to pretend that he was better than her in any particular area outside their field of work – he wanted to acknowledge that they were equal, which meant that he didn’t want to serve her something outrageous like puffer fish – he wanted her to like him, to enjoy his company, and not think that he was an arrogant ass who desperately needed to show off his skills in the kitchen.
And that, he decided, meant that he needed something simple and yet great.
Turning another page, he suddenly stopped and took a deep breath as his eyes took in the recipe on that page.
“That’s it,” he murmured, “That’s perfect. Exactly what I was looking for.”
He studied the recipe quickly. It was simple, yet elegant, and Sid vaguely remembered his grandmother’s kitchen in hot summers, the stifling humidity of it and the sweet fragrances that had clung to the walls and to his clothes and had stuck with him for hours after he’d left her house.
It was such a good memory, he thought a little wistfully, and this particular recipe deserved another outstanding memory to be associated with it.
It was the perfect fit for his purposes, even if it was just a recipe for dessert. But the raspberries used in it reminded him of her, both strong and at the same time unbelievably fragile and vulnerable, although she was hiding it behind a high wall armed with thorns – just like raspberry plants defended themselves with thorns. However, once that defense was gone, the fruits, so soft and sweet like her skin, were a prize worthy of only a few select people.
Raspberries weren’t just plump and sweet like strawberries or young love, when life was still ahead of them and the outlook of life was so innocent. Strawberries were not for him and her – they weren’t innocent anymore, their experiences had left them jaded and the sweet innocence of strawberries was lost on them. Their love was tart, bittersweet maybe, rare and to be cherished – just like raspberries.
Serving them for dessert was perfect, Sid thought again and carefully adjusted his pants. Just thinking about her and her reaction to his menu was affecting him.
It was fitting for them, he decided, plus, raspberries tasted great. He could serve dark chocolate with them; chocolate that tasted like sin itself. Dessert could be served in bed, if they so wished, he thought with a smile and pressed the heel of his hand against his hardening dick, as a kind of prelude of the things that might follow after.
And for the main course, he suddenly realized, he would make something with fresh tomatoes, maybe pasta with a homemade sauce.
If he told her then, over a glass of good red wine, that tomatoes were also known as the fruits of love, the evening couldn’t be anything but a success.
*end.
Author:
kathierif_ficFandom: CSI:NY
Pairing: Sid Hammerback/Stella Bonasera (Even if her name isn’t even mentioned, I think it’s kind of obvious)
Rating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.
Warnings: food.
Word Count: 1080
Summary: Sid is thinking about the perfect menu.
Author’s Notes: Written for
kink_bingo, prompt: food. All food mentioned in this fic counts as aphrodisiac, which was more of an accident than purpose; in true Kathie-fashion I wrote the fic (it was supposed to be strictly about raspberries and sex) and then did the research. Oops? Also, I needed two days to finish it because I got hungry halfway through…Sid Hammerback prided himself to be an excellent cook, with a wide-spanned culinary repertoire and a meal, or at least an idea for a meal, for every holiday and every occasion imaginable.
However, today he found himself in his kitchen, glasses balanced precariously on the tip of his nose, and turning page upon page of all the books filled with recipes that he’d accumulated over the years. He’d already searched the internet, but without much success, and he wanted this particular meal he was planning to be special and outstanding.
A meal worth a queen and just as memorable as if he was preparing it for some kind of deity.
The only problem with that concept was that he couldn’t find the perfect recipe for it. He didn’t quite know yet what exactly it was he was looking for, but he had a clear understanding of what wasn’t. Sadly, everything he’d found so far fell straight into the second category.
He sighed and closed yet another cook book. It was getting late, and he was slowly running out of time. He had less than twenty-four hours to figure out a perfect meal, do the necessary grocery shopping, and prepare it.
It wasn’t, he thought while opening the next book and starting to leaf through it, that he wanted a meal that convinced her to sleep with him. If that were the case, he knew what he needed to prepare: asparagus, soft and tender like butter, perfectly cooked with just a hint of butter and maybe some fresh herbs sprinkled over the tips of the spears, maybe oysters or caviar, and for dessert, fresh figs or perfectly shaped strawberries, together with creamy chocolate sauce, or some of the expensive chocolates he kept hidden away for special moments, together with some cooled champagne…he was convinced that not a lot of people could resist a meal like that.
However, it wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t just want to get her into his bed, not to mention that she’d been there already. He’d even enjoyed the privilege of being invited to her place, of making love to her on her bed, but this was the first time he would cook for her, and he wanted – no, he needed - it to be something extraordinary.
A culinary orgasm.
When she had cooked for him, she had made an excellent Greek dish, of which she’d said that it was one of the few things she could prepare without setting the kitchen on fire. It had made him smile. Somehow, he doubted that it was the truth, but on the other hand, he knew how hard and tiring her job was and therefore wasn’t surprised about her collection of take-out menus he found stacked in her kitchen. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to cook, but her job never left her the time to practice it.
He closed the book with a sigh and reached for the next one – the last one of his pile. It was dusty and old, the pages falling apart and the edges of the cover fraying. The recipes were hand-written in faded ink, and Sid carefully moved the pages as he shifted through them.
This was his grandmother’s legacy, and although he had the niggling feeling that he wouldn’t find what he was looking for in here as well and would remain empty-handed, he still looked.
It wasn’t that he wanted to make her feel like her cooking had been inadequate or not god enough, eh thought while turning another brittle page that was yellow with age. He didn’t want to pretend that he was better than her in any particular area outside their field of work – he wanted to acknowledge that they were equal, which meant that he didn’t want to serve her something outrageous like puffer fish – he wanted her to like him, to enjoy his company, and not think that he was an arrogant ass who desperately needed to show off his skills in the kitchen.
And that, he decided, meant that he needed something simple and yet great.
Turning another page, he suddenly stopped and took a deep breath as his eyes took in the recipe on that page.
“That’s it,” he murmured, “That’s perfect. Exactly what I was looking for.”
He studied the recipe quickly. It was simple, yet elegant, and Sid vaguely remembered his grandmother’s kitchen in hot summers, the stifling humidity of it and the sweet fragrances that had clung to the walls and to his clothes and had stuck with him for hours after he’d left her house.
It was such a good memory, he thought a little wistfully, and this particular recipe deserved another outstanding memory to be associated with it.
It was the perfect fit for his purposes, even if it was just a recipe for dessert. But the raspberries used in it reminded him of her, both strong and at the same time unbelievably fragile and vulnerable, although she was hiding it behind a high wall armed with thorns – just like raspberry plants defended themselves with thorns. However, once that defense was gone, the fruits, so soft and sweet like her skin, were a prize worthy of only a few select people.
Raspberries weren’t just plump and sweet like strawberries or young love, when life was still ahead of them and the outlook of life was so innocent. Strawberries were not for him and her – they weren’t innocent anymore, their experiences had left them jaded and the sweet innocence of strawberries was lost on them. Their love was tart, bittersweet maybe, rare and to be cherished – just like raspberries.
Serving them for dessert was perfect, Sid thought again and carefully adjusted his pants. Just thinking about her and her reaction to his menu was affecting him.
It was fitting for them, he decided, plus, raspberries tasted great. He could serve dark chocolate with them; chocolate that tasted like sin itself. Dessert could be served in bed, if they so wished, he thought with a smile and pressed the heel of his hand against his hardening dick, as a kind of prelude of the things that might follow after.
And for the main course, he suddenly realized, he would make something with fresh tomatoes, maybe pasta with a homemade sauce.
If he told her then, over a glass of good red wine, that tomatoes were also known as the fruits of love, the evening couldn’t be anything but a success.
*end.