fic meme. didn't I just do one of these?

[moonsheen]

So pocky_slash and I. We have this problem where we do not sleep, and we do not eat, apparently, even when we do. So at five in the morning we are making pancakes--a five in the morning when we have not slept the night before, I add-- and then just tonight we're going on sudden runs to local diners to get more pancakes because we're out of mix.

The main formula responsible for this is: lack of sleep + fanfiction that involves a lot eating = sudden bouts of MAN ARE THERE PANCAKES? I FEEL LIKE PANCAKES on par that slight high you get when the apartment above you is giving it the old college try.

This also led to the realization that for all the eating that is going on in many of the things I have read, it is a life function I have been woefully lax in covering in my writing.

Therefore, a meme! Give me a fandom, a character/pairing, and a type of food and I will write a fic involving this food in some way, shape, or form.

Comments

[pocky_slash.livejournal.com]

MoonSheen7: Or you know, a lemon meringue pie that had the note of 'Pie That Will Kill Dr. McKay on it'
muffins and tea: YES YES A THOUSAND TIMES YES.
MoonSheen7: If it was an assasination attempt, Rodney, they wouldn't have labelled it.


HI OKAY LET'S SEE IT.

[arboretum]

I... I really want to see this. :D

In Which There Is An Assassin

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

“’Pie that won’t kill Dr. McKay’,” John read. He pointed to the other end of the counter. “‘Pie that will kill Dr. McKay.’” He crossed his arms over the back of his chair, thoughtfully. “Huh. That’s interesting.”

Rodney shot him a filthy look. He was currently pacing in space between the two offending objects, which had appeared in the science lab just that morning. “‘Interesting’ may be your word for it, but I find this very disturbing and wrong.”

“Someone thought the research team should have pie.”

“No, someone planted these here with malevolent intent.” Rodney stared at pie bearing the ‘Will Kill’ label. The pie stared back, murderously. ‘Murderously’ resembled sitting in one place and doing nothing. “…someone’s trying to kill me.”

John stuck his chin over his arms. “If it was an assassination attempt, Rodney, they wouldn’t have labeled it.”

“Oh, don’t try that reasonable kindergarten teacher voice on me!”

John blinked.

“You hear about stuff like this all the time! Brilliant men, murdered by their jealous colleagues. Their best work stolen--”

“So, just have the one that they say won’t kill you.”

Rodney stabbed the air with the finger. “And that,” he said, “Is just what they want me to do.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Whoever’s making this attempt on my life.”

“With pie.”

“Yes.”

“How…”

The hand was getting waved around. This meant it was time for an explanation. Rodney was looking especially intense about this one. “Someone planted these here. Two innocuous and appropriately delicious looking pies set in opaque pie dishes, so their contents cannot be discerned by the casual eye. They’re labeled with deliberately vague and inflammatory messages. The assumption, naturally, is that I won’t eat the non-threatening one, and then drop dead.” Rodney looked entirely too cheerful for a man discussing the nature of his possible sudden and untimely demise. Must’ve been a Canadian thing. “Clever. But they forget who they’re dealing with. I would’ve guessed their ploy and eaten the one labeled as murderous instead. Except. There is the chance possibility that whoever is behind this might have a fraction of an understanding of the way my mind works, in which case they would’ve known that I would’ve spurned the non-murderous pie and—what are you doing?”

John kicked off the cabinets.. His chair rolled over to the first. ‘Pie That will kill Dr. McKay’ He stuck his finger in. “Lemon Meringue,” he said. He spun over to the second. “Chocolate Fudge,” a finger in the mouth discovered. He waited a moment. “Also, not dead.”

“…well.”

“‘Pie that won’t won’t kill Dr. McKay,” John read. He pointed to the opposite end of the counter. “‘Pie that will send Dr. McKay into anaphylactic shock.’”

“Yes, yes. I get that,” snapped Rodney. “And now we’re wasting time. If you’ll excuse me.” The chocolate pie sat there. It sat not in a murderous way at all. He picked it up. “I have work to do.” Its good name cleared, Rodney McKay removed the non-offending pie from the premises.

[mithrigil.livejournal.com]

FFTactics

Olan Durai

Parfait

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

'cause I like to think these two were working together at the end of the game. Also, Balmafula's job class is apparently listed as "A Witch of the Dark'


“Excuse me, Your Grace,” said the Baron Belzanne, with a polite bow. “Matters seem to have…”

“I understand completely,” said Olan.

“Thank you.” The baron vanished through one of the many doors in the dining hall, leaving the Zeltennian count and his traveling companion very much alone with a ridiculously overcrowded banquet table.

“I’ll admit,” said Olan, poking at his dessert with one of the dainty silver spoons. It was excessively creamy, and occupied a tall narrow glass. He’d never seen anything like it. “For all that he is attempting to raise a battalion of undead against the Her Royal Highness, he does at least know how to treat guests.”

“Oh, yes. A man’s saving grace should always be a good kitchen staff,” drawled his partner. She had barely touched anything of the elaborate meal, which wasn’t surprising. She was so skinny her collarbone could’ve been a weapon unto its own, and it was likely her true diet included the souls of good Glabadosi children. She’d disguised this by portioning herself a little bit of everything.

Olan dug his spoon into the cup. Staring at the way it cut through the three different colors he could see floating through the glass. “Did I voice my approval at the undead battalion, Balmafula?”

She didn’t seem to hear him. She tipped her head upwards. Her eyes were closed, of course, like always. Her lips moved, first in a one sided and silent conversation. Then in barely whispered word: “You know, those who crave the Dark…”

“What?”

The witch answered by tossing her head in an insulting manner and leaning over to claim a spoonful of his dessert for herself. “Nevermind,” she said, tasting it. “Ah.” Her nose wrinkled spectacularly. “So much for hospitality.”

“Poisoned, then?”

“A sedative, most like.”

“Ah.” Olan Durai considered his options. “Wants me to have a good night’s sleep. How lovely of him. Do you think we should oblige?” Balmafula scoffed. She took her knee off of the table, and slipped back into her seat. “Well. I’m going to. I want to see what he is up to. Possibly get a hold of whatever text he’s using for this little bout of necromancy...”

“And?”

He seized the spoon stuck in his Sleep laced dessert, and stirred it ‘til the top layer sunk into the depths of the lower slush. “Confiscate it, of course. Anything that’s that effective shouldn’t be in the hands of a second rate black mage who couldn’t even pass through his first year in Gariland…”

Her yawn, he assumed, was feigned for the sake of appearances. Also, to spite him. “He’ll be returning soon.”

“Impatient aren’t we,” said Olan, scowling at her. He dribbled a spoonful down the front of his dress-shirt obligingly, allowing his head to sink down next to the loaf of bread he had not bothered to finish in the first course, making a good show of being out like a candle, waiting for the baron and his men to come take him away.

[billionhighways]

FFXII
Basch/Balthier
Bhujerban Madhu (does that count as food?)

e

Archadians are sort of drunkards.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

Madhu tended to taste very pleasantly like a Bhujerban fruit bowl in the seconds before it exploded and burned all the way down your throat. There was a reason it was quite the favorite. “Lacks subtlety, though,” said Balthier, “There’s something to be said for being subtle sometimes. I think we should have a toast to it. To subtlety.”

“Now, Balthier,” said Basch, moving the latest cup on the table just out of the natural reach of the young man’s hand. “Vaan means well, even if his volume is somewhat….startling.”

“Vaan? Who was talking about Vaan? I meant your dress.”

“Ah,” said Basch, pulling the cup away a little further. “Right.”

“Looking the part of one of the natives, aren’t we? Very canny. I’d take you for one of those guides.” The sky pirate tilted his head sidewise and squinted. “If the colors weren’t all off and I could see a damn thing right now.”

“It was the best that could be mustered for my purposes.” The former captain smiled ruefully, “I would not have taken you for a man to have these things so easily go so easily to your head.”

Balthier straightened up all at once, and regarded Basch rather imperiously. “Oh, it’s not the drink,” he said, sourly and still with a squint.

Basch blinked. “Bad eyes?”

“…and I’ve had stronger than this. Though this fine city can pride themselves in something that is almost as damnably unsubtle as the best stock of The Caterwaul…”

“I don’t know that name.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’ve never been to Archades.”

The young man’s face darkened, immediately. “…ah,” he said. “Perhaps a bit too much. There is the fruit taste again.” He lifted his hand in front of his eyes. He did it once, and again, and then gave up. “Dispel me, would you?”

Basch obliged. Balthier swore quietly as clarity of blood and thought returned to him all at once. The old knight couldn’t help but wince in sympathy. There were many a nights when a commanding officer had found such measures quite necessary. “My apologies,” said Basch. “I’d not meant to pry.”

“Come again?”

“We should find the others.”

“Yes,” said Balthier, firmly squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Yes. Let’s.”

[saturnoolaa.livejournal.com]

Hm. Okay, I want FFXII gang hyjinks centered around curry.

The Ashe and Vaan Variety Hour.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

These are not the antics you're looking for.

When Vaan returned from a day of chasing an errant cockatrice across half of Rabanastre, he wasn’t surprised to find Ashe glaring at him the moment he stepped through the door. The abandoned apartment that they had made their center of operations before they set out again had all of its windows boarded up. Ashe was a deposed princess and notorious resistance leader, and couldn’t risk the imperials recognizing her. It meant she had to stay in this dimly lit wooden cage for all hours spent in the city of her birth, and it meant she spared no one her resentment of this confinement. She had her heel up on one of the chairs and was doing some basic stretches. She looked up as the door creaked.

“Close that,” she snapped, immediately.

“ ‘scuse me, Princess.”

Ashe looked away loftily. “You are excused.”

“Thanks,” said Vaan. “Look, I was just talking to Montblanc and this one job sounds really promising…” That warm and spicy scent had not been there when he had left this morning. Actually, the place had mostly smelled like an old closet. “…you’re cooking something?”

“No,” said Ashe.

“Oh.”

“Basch is.”

“Oh.” Well. That sounded more reasonable. Except… “Wait, Basch cooks?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. What’s he making?”

“Something spicy.”

“And?”

“A curry, I think,” said Ashe.

“Really? What kind?”

Ashe glared up the length of the very. muscular. leg. she was bent over. “I did not think to ask.,” she said. Vaan gave her a careful berth as he edged by.

“I think she’s going to bite my face off,” he muttered as he walked into the conjoining room, and then stopped. Basch actually was cooking, surprisingly enough. More surprising though was that he was using the party store of fire stones to do it, nudging them under the battered pot. He wrapped them first in a wet cloth, so that the resultant heat had the contents at a low simmer. More surprising still, Vaan swore he’d been whistling a second ago. A few bars of some soppy ballad that had come in with a bard back when his mom was still alive, even. He’d forgotten how old the guy was.

“Fear not,” said Basch, not turning, “It will grow back.”

“What?”

“The Lady Ashe takes her exercises very seriously.”

Vaan bent over near the pot, resting his hands on his knees as he peered around the chef. “You know,” he said, “My brother used to make a great curry.” He glanced up. Basch stared at him in wonder. It actually took Vaan a second to remember why. Oh. Yeah. There was nothing for it, so he kept going: “Yeah, he’d throw in all this random stuff. He’d never tell me what it was, though. He probably got it from some of the gardens he worked in—he was a gardener before he joined the knights, yeah—anyway, it always turned out amazing. Reks was a really good cook.”

The corners of the former captain’s eyes creased. “Was he?”

“Yeah… Hey. Can I try some of that?”

“Certainly,” said Basch, and offered Vaan the ladle. “Mind, don’t take it whole.”

“Pff,” said Vaan, blowing on the spoon, “He used to say that a lot, too.”

[nekokoban]

... d-do you do Okami?

Because Amaterasu and Issun with fish (and their INCESSANT FISHING) would rock. :3

Otherwise, um. Bleach, 11th Division (any of your choice, or all!) + "high-class food."

Partycrashers

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

I wish! I've only played/seen bits and pieces of Okami terribly out of order. I keep meaning to fix this.


And suddenly there were ninja. A lot of them. They found themselves swamped before they had a chance to draw their swords. The whole party was now knee deep in ninja. They were carried in a sea of ninja to the door, where they were dumped in an unceremonious pile. The waves receded. Kuchiki Byakuya, the patron of this event, was revealed in all of his prissy, barely restrained irritation. He’d done his hair up special for this one, so you knew he meant business. He had also spent the evening having to deal with the Oomaeda matriarch trying to throw her ‘ravishing and shockingly available’ daughter at him, so you knew he was short on patience at this point.

“Fuck. Okay. Look,” said Ikkaku, diplomatically. He was a little drunk. “We were just here for the food.”

“You will vacate the premises,” said Byakuya.

“Look, can we get a doggy bag or something?”

“And you will not return.”

“Okay fine, the food was shit anyway.”

“Or else I will be returning you to your captain.” Byakuya’s half-brows did a significant jump. Ikkaku hadn’t known his jaw could twitch like that. “In pieces.”

“Hah,” said Ikkaku, and the lump of fellow 11th division guys he was still sitting on top of gave a collective chuckle. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

“Leave,” commanded Byakuya, a few petals took to the wind. They blew tastefully through his robes, which was how you knew he was bordering on homicidal. “Now,” he punctuated, with a beat of spiritual pressure, to make his point clear. There were regulations against attacking captains that weren’t your own. There were regulations against attacking captains that were your own too, actually. There were probably fewer regulations about who Kuchiki Byakuya was allowed to maim. Guy could probably buy exceptions. Rich bastard.

“And your hair is stupid too,” said Ikkaku, moments before he picked himself up and hauled ass for the division complex.

[halcyonjazz.livejournal.com]

can I have Ramza and Mustadio antics? Possibly with more characters if they can fit in?

I'm positive that oil was mistaken for something edible at some point.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

“And then you drank it.”

Mustadio groaned. “Mistake anyone could’ve made, Boss.”

“And then you drank it.”

“It was in a flask!”

“And anything in a flask is evidently automatically drinkable,” said Ramza, in some awe. His engineer was currently stretched out over the lap of a very put-out Agrias Oaks, who was currently attempting to slosh about half of the army’s current supply of antidote between his lips. Part of this involved her fist bunched his hair, keeping him in place. She was enjoying at least that aspect of the task. “I must say, Mustadio, I am impressed.”

“Shove it,” gurgled the gunner.

Ramza gazed down at him earnestly. “I am. My men have their peculiarities. We are all of us a little odd, but I do believe you have the honour of being the first to down a whole flask of Worker 8’s oil believing it to be some form of alcohol.”

“Beowulf thought he was married to a dragon. Miss Reis is said dragon. You use words like ‘peculiarity’. Malak has trained attack frogs. And Cloud Strife has random episodes in which he collapses and speaks in tongues.” Mustadio gave a rattling breath. “And I win for oddness?”

“Beowulf and Miss Reis were engaged. Being a dragon is a perfectly acceptable state. Malak simply has a talent. Strife is…” Ramza paused. “I hardly see a problem with the way I talk.”

Mustadio gagged down the next round of medications and regarded his leader with bloodshot eyes, nevertheless underscored by a very crooked grin. “I’m sorry, Boss.” He laughed weakly. “I don’t think I’ve got too good a grasp on Gallionne foppery.”

“Use whatever means you deem necessary,” Ramza told Agrias. The Holy Knight bowed her head solemnly, but from the angle at which Mustadio was lying, he could see the faint hints of a smirk touch her lips.

His eyes widened. “…oh damn.”

“You’ll be well by morning,” smiled Ramza.

“Don’t leave me!” cried Mustadio.

He caught his hand. The mercenary leader regarded him with wide eyes. “I’m sorry,” he brushed off those clutching fingers, “I’m not yet fluent in Lionellian foolery.”

His engineer whimpered.

“But your passion is moving,” Ramza commended, with a wink, before he walked away.

[sairobi.livejournal.com]

Someone said FFXII and someone said Tactics ...

... I say Mustadio and Balthier, Lion War Style! And, um, some fine aged cheese? Mmmm. Cheese.

Mustadio and Balthier. The Visitor.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

As part of his compensation for ‘a vast invasion of my personal place in the time-space continuum’, the newest guest to the Bunansa household had demanded a meal fit for a king. Mustadio and his father had never entertained any kings, but they’d had a large wheel of cheese resting in their pretty modest larders. It had been a gift from a local lord, part of the payment for fixing a carriage. This, with a few loaves of bread, their guest accepted grudgingly. “It’s no Marquis’ banquet,” he’d sighed, but gladly took a few slices. It felt to him as if he hadn’t eaten in days, he explained.

“I’m not sure I like how the old man is watching me, though.”

“That’s my Pa,” said Mustadio. “We didn’t get much of a chance to get a good look at the last guy who came through that thing…”

Their guest looked mildly disappointed. “So I’m not your first?” He helped himself to another slice of cheese. “That’s too bad. I like to think I’m a rather good at firsts, you know.” He looked around. “Is something burning?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s just the wiring we have around the stone, it gets kind of fried after heavy…” Mustadio trailed off. This visitor, he was learning, had an attitude somewhat on par with the local alley cats, and their tendency to turn their noses away in boredom the second after the girls laid scraps at their feet. It was a better than him running out babbling his head off, though.

“You’re siphoning too much into it, then,” said the man, distractedly. “The flow is unregulated. If you allow it to go direct like that always you’ll be replacing parts every other week.”

Mustadio stared at him.

“A few basic dampeners aren’t that hard to find, are they?”

“…they don’t sell those in shops anymore.”

The man seemed to lose his appetite all at once, setting down his half eaten bread. “Damn.” He slid his plate away. “Well. One might cobble something together in vague approximation. It won’t be the most comely of creatures. I don’t suppose you have a… butterfly-shaped object? Looks a bit like a ladies brooch?”

“You know what those do?”

Their guest’s lips curved. “Simple things, really. Like a child’s toy.” He could read the eagerness of his host. It seemed to feed his smirk. His glanced off casually; re-rolling the sleeves of the shirt he’d been lent. “I could show you…”

Mustadio clattered to his feet so fast he nearly knocked the cups across the room. “Please!” he shouted, all astir. “And if you could draw the schematics for these ‘dampeners’—we’ve been trying to figure out how to control the output for ages now. Or oh! I could take you to some of the dig sites. You might be able to recognize what we’ve been unearthing. I mean, if it might be a little older than what you’re used to. But, heh, we’ve gotten a few of them to stir with some ‘loving’ persuasion if you know what I…” He shook his head. “You should stay the night,” he finished, out of breath.

“In that case,” the visitor chuckled, clearly basking in the attention, “You’d owe me more than a meal and a new vest.”

“Tell me how some of those artifacts work and you can have whatever we’re capable of providing.”

The man nodded. “A deal I like well enough. I’m not sure I trust your coin to match mine. How about your name, for starters? I don’t think I caught it.” He pushed off gracefully from the table and stood, wiping his hands off on the clean cloth he’d demanded along with the meal. “The commotion of having been pulled through time, and all that.”

“Mustadio Bunansa,” said his host, sticking out his hand.

For the first time, the guest faltered. “Ah,” he said, staring at him for a change. They were around the same height. “You should wash those,” he muttered, faintly, eyeing the dirty fingernails and the oil stains. He took it, reluctantly. “...but that figures, doesn’t it.”

Yei fic!

[arks.livejournal.com]

Um um um. Edgeworth and pie, plz.

The Gentleman Caller

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

The only place open at two in the morning was an off-beat diner that belonged more in some crazy films from the nineteen eighties instead of this century. It was maybe not the best of places for…what he thought this might be, but Phoenix had been pressed for an answer, and he wasn’t exactly sure if this was…that thing to begin with. For all he knew, the guy had picked him up outside of his office on a slick December night out of an old sense of camaraderie harkening back to grade school--

--okay. That was pretty ridiculous. Phoenix thought so, and it was his head voice that had suggested it in the first place. Way to go, thought process at two in the morning.

“First sign of madness,” murmured Miles.

Grk. He’d actually said that out loud. “What?”

The man’s shark-black eyes flashed in a tired amusement. “Talking to yourself.” They pulled up in the lot behind the obnoxious neon lights. “Not a good sign, Wright. I should know.” …he furrowed his brow as he got his first good look at the place. The snow shivered down in an alternating speckle of electric purple and violent green. “This is it,” he said.

Phoenix had been instructed upon boarding the illustrious Prosecutor-mobile that he was not allowed to put his wet briefcase on the dashboard, which gave him something across the knees to drum his fingers against. “They make good pie,” he said, defensively.

“I'll be amazed if the servers aren't on roller skates.”

They weren’t. ‘They’ being a single woman with a smattering of grey in her hair and leg warmers, who was married to the cook. She knew Phoenix by name, which earned him an impressed brow-raise from his present company. He wasn’t entirely sure this was meant in a good way. Actually, he was pretty certain a verdict was as of that moment being passed on his lifestyle, his profession, and his person; which was par for the course with Miles Edgeworth, but worth it to see how awkwardly he slid himself into the booth.

“I’ll get you boys some coffee?”

“Sounds good to me.” Phoenix added their orders onto that. It was out of mercy. Miles didn’t seem too keen on touching the menus. They had too many references to older movies. The man had a bizarre wariness of anything that advertised grinning teenagers and ‘Breakfast Club’s over something more modern. Like Samurai.

“This gentleman a partner in that law firm of yours?”

“Ah. No. It’s not--”

“AL!” shouted the waitress. “Al, wake up! Heat up a couple of slices! It’s that Wright boy, and he’s brought himself a fellow!”

Phoenix started. “It’s not--” That either! …I think, he started to say, but he was interrupted by a cool hand over his wrist. He sat back down. He hadn’t realized he’d shot up like that. The hand was gone before he’d settled back into the rubbery seat. “…does the prosecution have something he’d like to add?”

“Not much, Counsel.” Miles had turned his face to the window, the pale light from the digital jukebox didn’t cast his profile in a hollow light it all. There were fewer lines under his eyes than there’d been before. It made them look less sunken. Made him look more like an old friend rather than a predator, although that might’ve had something to do with him not having made any recent kills in court. He looked back at Phoenix with a quiet, guarded smile. “Only. That if you are going be cheap on the first date, Wright. I expect this to be some damn good pie.”

As it happened, it was.

[ningen-demonai.livejournal.com]

FFXII: Balthier/Fran - Pancake :D

So Here Is A Viera With...

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

“How this has come to be,” pronounced Fran, coolly. “Matters not.”

Now, Balthier had something to say about that. “I don’t know about that. I think it may be worth some commentary. You leave to find parts and you return to me in an…interesting condition. Forgive a silly hume a small bit of curiosity, will you? Forgive him some concern, won’t you?”

She stared at him and did not blink. “It matters not,” she repeated.

“With all due respect,” Balthier regarded her with much of this mentioned quality. He didn’t poke at it, though he was sorely tempted. “Fran. There is a pastry on your head.”

[innueneko.livejournal.com]

Phoenix/Miles and and.. OREO COOKIES. I dunno. :D

[innueneko.livejournal.com]

wait wait or trout. shit I can't make up my mind you decide! D:

[incandescens]

Bleach. 8th Division. Turkish Delight. :) Thanks!

An Old Fashioned Love Story. ...I am so, so sorry for this one.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

A gift, he thinks. A token. A show of his regard, and his respect, but more than anything of his affection—endlessly warm, everlasting, earnest and all other good things. He has considered expensive kimono, he has considered ornate combs, but these are redundant in the face of such beauty, such stinging perfection. So then, a wrapped box, with ribbons of many colors; he could not decide on one, for one would simply not do. So many, many ribbons, presented on a cool day in late winter, before the first shiver of the cherry blossoms appear. He witnesses its discovery, peering carefully over the edge of the window. He must see her face, for there is no gift more satisfying than the look of delighted surprise on a woman’s face.

His beautiful Nanao picks up the box, turns it around a few times, and cuts the ribbons with one graceful swipe of her hand. She examines its contents, then turns to gaze straight at him. She is sharp as always, of course. He should have known that he would be caught in the act. He is always caught in the act, where she is concerned. She is alert like that. Alert and merciless, always and always.

“Captain,” she says—oh her voice. “You do recall that importation of food products from the living world is expressly forbidden?”

He does, of course. He was alive when they wrote the law. “Ah, my lovely Nanao, but for you I know no boundaries.”

She places the box back down on the desk. “I’m aware,” she says. Her brow assuming that exquisite knot of irritation he finds so very charming. “Allow me to remind you.”

The flat of her book throbs through his skull for the better part of the week. It feels a little like an extra heart beat, and he cherishes it. The box and its treats have not been thrown away. He catches the occasional glimpse of it, vanishing beneath the desk, when he chances upon her office at an odd hour—his best hours to be sure. This, he cherishes more.

[lacunarity.livejournal.com]

I was going to ask for Mustadio and Ramza antics, but it seems like my irrational love for the engineer has been covered twice over, so.

Vaan, Penelo, and things you can cook on an airship's engines.


PS Pancakes are easy to make if you run out of mix! You just combine one of everything.
1 cup flour
1 cup milk
1 egg
1 teaspoon baking powder
ta da!

A Merry Band Are We (they were probably omlettes)

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

My only current acknowlegment of the existance of Revenant Wings is the idea that Vaan's crew is made up of his dudes from Rabanastre

“All right, guys,” said Vaan, as a matter of due course. “Pirate’s vote. All those in favor of Penelo never getting to cook anything on board ever again, say aye?”

“Aye,” said Tomaj, eyeing the dish warily.

“Arr,” said Filo, poking it bravely.

“I dunno,” said Kytes, biting his lip loyally. “Don’t look that bad…”

Penelo, who felt she should at least get to defend herself a little, took a handful of Vaan’s hair and tipped his head back, so that their eyes met over the back of his seat. “See? It’s not that bad.”

“Aye,” added Vaan. “So that’s what, four against one?” She let him go so that his chair snapped back. Her partner rubbed his scalp.

“You don’t get a vote,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because if you vote that means you’re sleeping in the cockpit.”

“Wait don’t I normally do that? Besides when—wait.” Vaan’s eyes got very large. “WAIT. WHAT. NO.”

“S’not bad,” said Filo, munching.

“A little crunchy,” agreed Kytes, swallowing.

“You kids concentrate on that,” advised Tomaj. He didn’t touch a damn thing. “Mommy and Daddy pirates are having a Grownup Conversation Right Now.” He put his feet up and leaned back to watch. This could go on for awhile. He had a few hours to kill.

[alexsirkman.livejournal.com]

Hmmmmmm......... Something evil. You know, I don't care what fandom or pairing, but I want to see you write something with ortolan (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ortolan_Bunting#Gastronomy).

Also, you should visit sometime, and I will teach you how to make your own pancakes! We can eat pancakes all day, a hundred different kins of pancakes!! HAHAHAHAH PANCAKES!!!!!

Wren's Make Prey. Felix Lowe and the Ortolan.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

...yeah that meal is pretty damn evil. Also, I TOTALLY SHOULD. But we're not allowed to have that for lunch, just saying.



Felix flowed out of the shadow and into the cellar. It seemed a fair enough place to hide until the commotion overhead died down, or at least until Madison and Jolanka finished grilling every man in the restaurant for the one who’d tried to give them up to the city guard. Doubtless, they’d be occupied with that for awhile. Felix wasn’t going to ruin their fun. Or risk blood on his coat. No, no. Instead he was going to see if there was anything interesting in the chef’s stores. There was no harm in it. They’d be owed for the service of removing the unsavory company, anyway.

There were many casks, which Madison was sure to enjoy. There were also several large, round shapes which by smell were wheels of cheese, something no one could enjoy, at that strength. On the far wall rested several large crates. Their contents went nearly unknown until, squinting, Felix made out the pebble-glint of a dozen tiny eyes staring out at him through one of the gaps in the wood.

“Hello?” called one bold, shaking, tiny voice. “Hello? Hello? Who’s there? You’re not the cook are you?”

Felix blinked, and straightened up all at once. He spread his hands out at either side of him, presenting himself as smartly as could be managed in the dim light. “Do I look as wide as the house?”

The voice was joined by about a dozen others: “Oh! Oh! Oh! It’s someone else! It’s someone else! Hello! Hello! Have you come to eat us too?”

“What?” Felix stared. “No.”

“Are you sure?” called several of the voices, one or two sounded disappointed.

Felix approached, cautiously. They were birds, he’d known that from the fluting nature of the language. The accent sounded like finch, but he wasn’t an expert on these things. He bent to stare into the slits of the highest crate. “Tempting. Tempting. But no. You’ve caught me at a bad time, when it comes to the eating things raw. My current keepers are very strict about that.”

“Oh, you don’t eat us raw,” said one of the birds.

“You roast us!” announced a second.

“On a spit,” added a third.

Felix tapped his finger against the wood. They were fastened each by an iron lock, heavy, with a large keyhole. He flicked one of them experimentally. “You sound entirely too cheerful at the prospect.”

They began to titter, striking up an uneven chorus. “Why should we not be?” “It is inevitable isn’t it?” “We will at least go with dignity!” “It is an honorable meal!” and “It’s okay, they drown us first!”

Felix considered this very carefully. “…that is disgusting,” he concluded, much to the questioning noises of the little creatures. “I would rather have rat. Much more meat on those. I’m letting you out. Try not to fly directly into my mouth, if you can help it.” He set a spider to each of the locks.

[bravecows.livejournal.com]

I'm hungry. :(

Fajitas and KH2 GO. (Isn't it annoying how I only get into your fandoms once you've left them? I have decided to refuse ever to like FF12, because if I do it will only be when you are all bored with it and gone off to the next awesome thing.)

On an unnamed world.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

My love for FF12 and it's ilk is pure and everlasting! ...so is my love for adorable cases of diassociative disorder, apparently..


Sora didn’t think there was anything weird about finding a house in the middle of the woods. Never mind it hadn’t been there the last time he’d passed by. Never mind the door kind of just opened when he’d gotten close. He wasn’t going to hold that against the house. The house’s need to be shy was hardly its fault. It probably just had some social anxiety problems. Kind of like how Cloud sort of got all tense when anyone talked to him, and how the Beast didn’t know how to deal with company, and how at school Riku couldn’t open his mouth without making a girl cry. The house was a little better than Cloud, and the Beast, and Riku, though. The table was all set for guests, and there was food, and Sora thought that was a pretty good effort at being hospitable. Even if there were five heartless attached the ceiling. Sora dealt with those first.

“Huh,” said the Keyblade master, staring at the spread. “Mom never made those.”

It’d be a bad idea to touch it.

Sora crossed his eyes and did his best effort to glare at himself. “And what’s wrong with it?”

He didn’t know where it’s been.

“On the table?”

Yes, on the table. And they might’ve been someone’s dinner. Also, he should’ve knocked.

“Okay,” said Sora, thinking of the heartless and suddenly beginning to lose his appetite a little. “You might have a point there. Still, are we trespassing? I mean, the door opened for us.” He was a keyblade master, doors always opened for him. Sora sighed and pressed his palm against his forehead. Talking to oneself could be just plain exhausting. “Yeah, but I didn’t do anything this time? And they’re fajitas. Come on, when was the last time you had a fajita?”

Never. It’d been against Organization policy.

“….wait, what?”

Sora could feel his finger itching to wave importantly. They’re bad for you.

Sora raised an eyebrow. “And all that ice cream….?” Look, Xemnas had had some really weird ideas of authority. “Between the destroying worlds thing and all. Didn’t you guys have soda machines too?” Those were special. “How?” Vexen liked cherry cola. “Who’s Vexen again?” His hands flew up in exasperation, and Sora figured maybe he’d just given his head-voice a headache. Several packs of soda cans had appeared on the table, next to the fajitas in question. Sora blinked. Well. That was different. Doubt still knotted deep in his chest, he could feel his eyes narrow, his shoulders bunch.

“C’mon, Roxas,” he whispered, and the invocation of the name seemed to take some of the wary twitch out of his fingers. He looked at the table. “Paopu,” he said, experimentally, and noticed for the first time a bowl in the corner that had exactly that. “…well, we know now where it’s coming from.”

That didn’t mean he should…

Sora had already reached for the dish. Fajitas were drippy, hard to hold, a little spicy, a little cool from lying out for a bit—but not bad overall. They were also apparently had had something in it, because a few moments after Sora swallowed his first bite that he promptly collapsed into the chair. His head fell back The door slammed shut. “Aw, man,” said Sora, before his jaw stiffened, and his face froze in a wince. The house lurched alive. The food jumped once, then vanished. The curtains closed. The house heaved itself up on four spindly feet and began to hobble away.

One of Sora’s hands shot out to grab the table’s edge. His eyes opened, and his face pulled into a deep scowl. “Goddamnit, Sora,” growled Roxas, calling the keyblade into his other hand as he levered Sora's now heavily drugged body into a shaky stance. Already, the walls had begun to turn into the dark, slick lining of a monster's stomach. “I told you that was a bad idea.”

[random-prophet.livejournal.com]

Pheonix Wright.

Damon Gant and Manfred von Karma.

Coffee.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

Manfred von Karma took his coffee blacker than sin and he drank it with a grimace that drove the creases in his face deep. From these depths he stared, blankly. He never put the cup down, just kept it near his creased, reptilian lips, and waited for the man to get down to business. He was waiting a damnably long time to do so. His company currently occupied with his newly arrived strawberry shortcake.

“Really, a swim now and again. It’s very healthy. Best form of exercise,” Damon Gant was saying, stabbing the strawberry with his spoon and swirling it around in the cream. It made a shape that vaguely resembled his ridiculous curl. “Not now. Isn’t the season right now, is it? ‘Tis the season to be jolly!” He drummed his hand against the table and laughed. Von Karma breathed his irritation into his next sip of coffee. A drop ended up sliding over the rim of the cup. He fixed his eyes on that black, ugly stain. “Or, not,” concluded Gant, still chuckling. “I don’t envy your position.”

That damned spot. “And what position is that.” Gant was looking at him head on now, his eyes tipped up in that boyish manner that he seemed to think suited the situation very properly.

“Shame about that Worthy. Real shame. That boy could have really done something with himself. But all that… right –mindedness, and the murder, of course. There’s just nothing to be done about that.” He took a bite out of the top half of his strawberry. “Trust you know what I’m going to ask you to do.”

“Yes,” said Von Karma, setting down his emptied cup (with no more drips). “You have wasted my time. I know my job. Simply make sure your men do theirs.”

“God bless us,” said Gant. “Every one.”

[mariagoner.livejournal.com]

Eeee, awesome-cakes!

Umm... how about Larsa, Penelo and the most foul food ever known to man... sauerkraut?

[themodestotter.livejournal.com]

xxxHOLiC

WatanukixDoumeki

MANJUU BUNS

[themodestotter.livejournal.com]

I can only hope you know what I'm talking about...

[basement-gnome.livejournal.com]

Wow.....this is a great idea, and I love what you've done so far. Unfortunately, for some reason the first thing I thought of was Rukia, Orihime, and a very large salami. Make of it what you will, or not. Also, was that a reference to the Legend of Zelda cartoon back there, or am I just crazy and tired?

[fadedpaladin.livejournal.com]

*preemptive cower*
Realm.
Setzer.
Pudding.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

My knowledge of FFVI is very limited. Would you like to try again?

[psychonaut25.livejournal.com]

ok, got two for you, both of which I'm probably going to hell for.
ChronoCross, Turnip/NeoFio with a side of mashed potatoes (BAM BAM BAM)
And FF Crossover, Rikku/Penelo with some pocky.