Private Party
Title: Private Party
Author: Alsike
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds x-over
Pairing: Emma Frost/Emily Prentiss
Rating: R
AN/Disclaimer: Not my girls. The story referenced in the fic is Gourmet Club, by Jun'ichiro Tanizaki (it is so incredibly awesome, read it.)
Word Count: 969
Prompt: 014. Food Fetish
Apologies: During one of the three or four periods where they are actually almost dating.
WARNING: contains weird cannibalistic overtones that the author did not intend to include!
“You’re good with those.”
Emma glanced up, a slice of tempura’d cabocha trapped by her chopstick, hovering in midair. She arched an eyebrow at her dining partner who was sitting back, having slid off her heels, and drinking tea. “You find this impressive?”
Emily took another sip of her boiling-hot tea and frowned pensively. “It’s making me think about something.”
“Really?” Emma let a grin spread across her face. “May I ask what?”
“A story.”
Emma ate the pumpkin and gestured with her chopsticks for Emily to continue.
“I read it a while ago. In college, I think. It was… about food.”
Emma didn’t like to do things by halves, and after her travels, Emily was often disappointed by inauthentic experiences, so when a real soba-ya had opened up in central DC it had been a necessary trip for both of them. Actually arranging to go together had been a matter of luck and of bull-headed corporate scheduling. Emma’s secretary had been about to storm out if the meeting with their Atlantic suppliers had to be pushed back another week, but finally Emily had a weekend off, and things clicked together with their usual precision.
After three hours stuck with young hard-drinking industry reps, their glad-handing, and freedom with gifts and special offers, it was a relief for Emma to be shown down the slick hardwood hallway, by the silent, barefoot waitress, and into the 3-mat private room. Emily sat correctly on her heels and glanced up when the sliding door opened. She smiled, and all the tension that still hung over Emma’s shoulders slipped away.
“There was an interesting fetishization of the exotic. Since it was a Japanese story, the exotic was a little different.” She laughed to herself. “I don’t think I ever ate bok choi the same was again afterwards.”
“Do elaborate.”
Emily leaned back and considered her, then she got to her knees. “Close your eyes,” she said, and started crawling around the table towards her. Emma obeyed, a smirk still playing over her lips.
“I do want to come back here, darling.”
She heard Emily laugh close to her, and then fingers brush against her face. Her eyes closed more tightly and she leaned into the touch. Emily’s nose rubbed against hers for a brief moment and then a light kiss was dropped on her mouth. She reached out for more, but Emily must have dodged her grasp. It was like reaching for a ghost.
“Shh, be patient,” Emily whispered. Then she felt something wet and warm drip onto her lower lip. Her tongue caught up the trace of dipping sauce, and her lips parted as two fingers pressed against them. They were slick with the sticky sauce and she drew them into her mouth, cleaning them thoroughly with her tongue.
“In the story,” Emily whispered, her breath brushing against Emma’s ear, but everything except her fingers completely intangible, “the diners were put in a dark room, so dark they could not even see themselves. And then a woman came in. They couldn’t see her, but they knew it was a woman by her scent, and the graceful way she displaced the air. They felt her fingers slide into their mouths, like this, and they tasted wonderful.”
Emma hummed her agreement around Emily’s knuckles.
“And then the diner who’s head we’re in, realizes that the flavor is bok choi, with lots of garlic, probably, because it’s best with lots of garlic. And he bites down. The fingers crunch between his teeth just like bok choi, because that’s what they are. That’s what they’ve become.”
Emily drew out her fingers and rested the wet digits against Emma’s cheek. Emma blinked her eyes open and looked at her, her face barely an inch away. “That does sound… delicious.”
Emily leaned in and kissed her. They kissed open-mouthed, their tongues trading the last few flavors of their meals, tea, hot sake, rich broth.
Afterwards Emily sat back on her heels and smiled. “That wasn’t even the most exotic part of their meal.”
“No?”
“For the next course they had tempura’d Korean maiden.”
Emma laughed and fed her a clump of tempura batter that had been soaking in the soup. Emily sucked on the tips of her chopsticks for just a moment too long. “Mmm,” she said, and smiled.
“Did it taste as good as that?”
“I don’t know. But it looked beautiful.” She tilted her head to the side. “I always wondered whether or not she’d have to be dead to have been dipped in batter and deep-fried… or after it.”
Emma considered this. “I don’t know. Perhaps blind. I suppose it depends on her tolerance for pain, and if they could protect her… more delicate membranes.”
Emily bit her lower lip and seemed to be staring at something invisible. Emma tapped her nose. “Do you have any fantasies involving being tempura’d that I should be aware of?”
Emily flushed bright red and protested mightily. “Of course not! And even if I did, you’re the one who said it: some fantasies should stay in the mind!”
Emma nodded. “Still, it is interesting to consider. The process itself: the batter uses ice water to keep its integrity, and then the hot oil is a contrast of sensations enough. And then say the result was only as bad as a sunburn, your skin lightly scorched and sensitive to the point of pain. And then someone starts to eat you, breaks off a golden crisp of batter, peeling open your protective shell…”
Her fingertips brushed over Emily's throat, just above her collar. Emily closed her eyes and swallowed roughly.
“Okyakusama? Meshiagete shimaimashta ka?”*
Emily’s eyes flew open and she flushed at the sight of the waitress, on her knees outside the partially opened sliding door. She opened her mouth but couldn’t form any words.
Emma wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed it tightly.
“Gochisousamadeshita.”*
Translation:
*“Ma’ams? Have you finished eating?”
*“It was a treat.”
Author: Alsike
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds x-over
Pairing: Emma Frost/Emily Prentiss
Rating: R
AN/Disclaimer: Not my girls. The story referenced in the fic is Gourmet Club, by Jun'ichiro Tanizaki (it is so incredibly awesome, read it.)
Word Count: 969
Prompt: 014. Food Fetish
Apologies: During one of the three or four periods where they are actually almost dating.
WARNING: contains weird cannibalistic overtones that the author did not intend to include!
“You’re good with those.”
Emma glanced up, a slice of tempura’d cabocha trapped by her chopstick, hovering in midair. She arched an eyebrow at her dining partner who was sitting back, having slid off her heels, and drinking tea. “You find this impressive?”
Emily took another sip of her boiling-hot tea and frowned pensively. “It’s making me think about something.”
“Really?” Emma let a grin spread across her face. “May I ask what?”
“A story.”
Emma ate the pumpkin and gestured with her chopsticks for Emily to continue.
“I read it a while ago. In college, I think. It was… about food.”
Emma didn’t like to do things by halves, and after her travels, Emily was often disappointed by inauthentic experiences, so when a real soba-ya had opened up in central DC it had been a necessary trip for both of them. Actually arranging to go together had been a matter of luck and of bull-headed corporate scheduling. Emma’s secretary had been about to storm out if the meeting with their Atlantic suppliers had to be pushed back another week, but finally Emily had a weekend off, and things clicked together with their usual precision.
After three hours stuck with young hard-drinking industry reps, their glad-handing, and freedom with gifts and special offers, it was a relief for Emma to be shown down the slick hardwood hallway, by the silent, barefoot waitress, and into the 3-mat private room. Emily sat correctly on her heels and glanced up when the sliding door opened. She smiled, and all the tension that still hung over Emma’s shoulders slipped away.
“There was an interesting fetishization of the exotic. Since it was a Japanese story, the exotic was a little different.” She laughed to herself. “I don’t think I ever ate bok choi the same was again afterwards.”
“Do elaborate.”
Emily leaned back and considered her, then she got to her knees. “Close your eyes,” she said, and started crawling around the table towards her. Emma obeyed, a smirk still playing over her lips.
“I do want to come back here, darling.”
She heard Emily laugh close to her, and then fingers brush against her face. Her eyes closed more tightly and she leaned into the touch. Emily’s nose rubbed against hers for a brief moment and then a light kiss was dropped on her mouth. She reached out for more, but Emily must have dodged her grasp. It was like reaching for a ghost.
“Shh, be patient,” Emily whispered. Then she felt something wet and warm drip onto her lower lip. Her tongue caught up the trace of dipping sauce, and her lips parted as two fingers pressed against them. They were slick with the sticky sauce and she drew them into her mouth, cleaning them thoroughly with her tongue.
“In the story,” Emily whispered, her breath brushing against Emma’s ear, but everything except her fingers completely intangible, “the diners were put in a dark room, so dark they could not even see themselves. And then a woman came in. They couldn’t see her, but they knew it was a woman by her scent, and the graceful way she displaced the air. They felt her fingers slide into their mouths, like this, and they tasted wonderful.”
Emma hummed her agreement around Emily’s knuckles.
“And then the diner who’s head we’re in, realizes that the flavor is bok choi, with lots of garlic, probably, because it’s best with lots of garlic. And he bites down. The fingers crunch between his teeth just like bok choi, because that’s what they are. That’s what they’ve become.”
Emily drew out her fingers and rested the wet digits against Emma’s cheek. Emma blinked her eyes open and looked at her, her face barely an inch away. “That does sound… delicious.”
Emily leaned in and kissed her. They kissed open-mouthed, their tongues trading the last few flavors of their meals, tea, hot sake, rich broth.
Afterwards Emily sat back on her heels and smiled. “That wasn’t even the most exotic part of their meal.”
“No?”
“For the next course they had tempura’d Korean maiden.”
Emma laughed and fed her a clump of tempura batter that had been soaking in the soup. Emily sucked on the tips of her chopsticks for just a moment too long. “Mmm,” she said, and smiled.
“Did it taste as good as that?”
“I don’t know. But it looked beautiful.” She tilted her head to the side. “I always wondered whether or not she’d have to be dead to have been dipped in batter and deep-fried… or after it.”
Emma considered this. “I don’t know. Perhaps blind. I suppose it depends on her tolerance for pain, and if they could protect her… more delicate membranes.”
Emily bit her lower lip and seemed to be staring at something invisible. Emma tapped her nose. “Do you have any fantasies involving being tempura’d that I should be aware of?”
Emily flushed bright red and protested mightily. “Of course not! And even if I did, you’re the one who said it: some fantasies should stay in the mind!”
Emma nodded. “Still, it is interesting to consider. The process itself: the batter uses ice water to keep its integrity, and then the hot oil is a contrast of sensations enough. And then say the result was only as bad as a sunburn, your skin lightly scorched and sensitive to the point of pain. And then someone starts to eat you, breaks off a golden crisp of batter, peeling open your protective shell…”
Her fingertips brushed over Emily's throat, just above her collar. Emily closed her eyes and swallowed roughly.
“Okyakusama? Meshiagete shimaimashta ka?”*
Emily’s eyes flew open and she flushed at the sight of the waitress, on her knees outside the partially opened sliding door. She opened her mouth but couldn’t form any words.
Emma wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed it tightly.
“Gochisousamadeshita.”*
Translation:
*“Ma’ams? Have you finished eating?”
*“It was a treat.”