Author note: Hello there. I believe it should be said that I was once Dark Fortresses. I needed a bit of a change here, so I decided to delete a few fanfics and change my name. Now, to get started, I decided to do a quite large project, somewhat inspired by Twitter happenings. Not sure why exactly, but when you get inspiration, you gotta use it. Anyway, here's my explanation of this project: to take all of the pairings that I've seen in the fandom, and put my twist on it. Yes, all of these pairings exist, and there is at least one fanfiction for all of them on this website. So... yeah. Time for a warning.
Warning: There will mostly be het pairings, unless you like to have Leo as a male in your fanfictions. There will be a few yuri (femalexfemale) pairings, and if you're here looking for a yaoi pairing, well, good luck. Any attempts at a yaoi pairing from me will end up either terrible, or as a bromance, so let's just hope for bromances here. Oh, and don't expect anything serious from me. I don't do that BS.
To some, food is like a drug. Robert Richards is no exception. The man wasn't always like this. No, not at all. Ever since he decided to gain weight, food replaced women as his vice. Mr. Richards will eat anything and everything, even foods that most would consider disgusting, such as fermented basking shark, a delicacy in Iceland. Yes, he's tried that, and let's be honest here. He thought it was absolutely amazing. Using his words, he thought is was "tuna-like, but with some kind of lemony after taste." Also, later, when asked about the Icelandic delicacy, he said "it's an acquired taste, and [he'd] like to try it again sometime."
According to some sources (like Robert's, more commonly known as Bob, friends and family), Bob's food addiction has gotten a bit out of hand. They state whenever he eats one of his favourite foods (which is virtually every meal) he exhibits symptoms of being a really giggly drunk. No, really. It's quite strange actually.
The only time someone could actually see the man "drunk" was when he's eating. During his "drunken" escapades, he pretends he's an octopus and he's been seen talking to the remaining food on his plate. Because of his talking to food, calling it "silly" and 'absolutely stunning", he's caused women to dump him, making young children and babies cry, and causing teenagers to say "what a freak" and "FREAK!", among other things. It appears that men typically don't react to his antics, fortunately for him. I, as a journalist, feel as though I should keep my feelings about this matter to myself. Sorry about that.
The network has asked me, politely, to either describe or film one of his, dare I say, "feeding sessions". I decided that describing it would be best. Stay tuned for this food adventure!
~Le POV change~
It's a sunny day in San Francisco, the birds are chirping, the leaves are rustling in the wind, and the people are going about their daily business. One of those people going about their business would be the martial arts prodigy with an exceedingly large belly, Bob, who was in the middle of his bi-weekly routine of visiting his all time favourite restaurants, starting with a small diner somewhere near the edge of the city. The two restaurant owners dread the two days he visits their restaurant. Although the obese man assists the business with any monetary issues they may have at the time, his behaviour while eating strikes fear into the hearts of almost every single customer. Every single one. When the man starts eating, it appears that he enters a trance like state. On a typical "eating session", he has shown tendencies of talking to his food, flailing his arms around, sometimes hitting people, and when he finishes his food, he starts crying like a baby.
Luckily, today the small diner was empty. Because of this rather astonishing fact, all of the staff breathed a short, silent, and collective sigh of relief. Unfortunately, this relief only lasted for about three seconds. The large man walked in rather proudly, took a deep breath in, and smelled the magnificent smells that filled the building.
"Honey, I'm home." Bob said. "I'll just sit anywhere. Start making the usual, all right?" The usual was one of those fancy pants Starbucks-esque lattes with a picture of a pine tree in it. It should be noted that this diner didn't actually serve this drink, and there wasn't a time where they did. There was a cafe down the street that sold a similar drink, but Bob was too much of a stereotypical American to walk the five minutes to get there. Yes, he was THAT lazy.
Back to the situation at the diner. The young waitress was slowly walking to the obese man. It appeared as though she was trying not to spill the precious latte, and for good reason. A month earlier, she had made the mistake of spilling a single drop of the "sacred" drink. Upon seeing the spill, the martial artist flung himself towards the girl, like some sort of rodent you'd see on Planet Earth, and tackled the small woman, breaking a few tables upon impact. It definitely wasn't a pleasant experience for her, so she took the safest possible route to Bob's table.
"Have you decided what you wanted yet, sir?" the waitress asked reluctantly.
"Yes, I have actually. I'll have everything on these two pages." He pointed to the "breakfast" and "lunch" pages. "And half of this page for desert."
"Um... but we don't serve lunch until-"
"Too bad! By the time I finish breakfast, it'll be time you serve lunch. Trust me on this."
"O-okay." She took his menu. "If you say so."
It took quite a while until Bob's breakfast came to the table. According to him "two African children would've died of starvation before the food came." Of course, this was a gross exaggeration. He was known to do that sort of thing.
The vast array of smells radiating off the plates left Bob drooling. The combination of smells from freshly cooked bacon, eggs Benedict, toast, orange juice, and other breakfast foods would leave anyone in the same state, really. But this diner... they made the best breakfast. Anyone who went there said that. That's how Bob found this place.
It was a bit of a ritual for Bob to talk to his food before eating it. No matter what the food is or where he is, he'll have a conversation with his meal. The only exception was the fermented shark; he was too stunned by the smell, he couldn't speak. But if he could speak, he would. Most often, he'd tell his food things like "oh food, you so silly", "I would die if I didn't have you, my dear" and other miscellaneous unintelligible mutterings. But today, today was different. Today was the one year anniversary of his entering of the King of Iron Fist Tournament, so of course, he had to celebrate. He started his celebration with a bit of a dialogue.
"My dearest food... if you were standard, I would've called you silly. Not today. You're not silly. You... you're absolutely stunning today. And I'm not just saying that. You are truly stunning. I've just met you, Shelly -is it alright if I call you that?- and I already know that should get married. I'm sorry I don't have a ring for you, Shelly. This is all so sudden isn't it? I know, you're probably not ready for marriage, but please consider it. I mean it Shelly. We have to get married someday. Oh. You're getting cold... do you want a coat? I have one here if you want it... What's that? You're into vore? You want to get eaten? But... that means we can't get married! What'll our future be? What? You like being digested? NO! I won't put up with that BS! You say you're really into being digested? You're crazy, Shelly. But if it's what you want, then I'll be sure to deliver. I'm sorry, Shelly."
He hesitantly began to eat Shelly, his breakfast. During his five minutes of eating, he was crying, muttering things like "I'll never love again" and "what'll I do now?" It was quite embarrassing for the staff to watch. To avoid the embarrassment, most of the staff took a little break or hid in the freezer until he was done. Unfortunately, it was virtually the same with lunch, except lunch was named Mary. The talking, the crying... everything.
This diner, the staff at least, always thought that Bob needed a psychiatrist because of his talking to food. They thought it was something like schizophrenia, and they were genuinely concerned about his mental health. Really, they were. Even though they don't like making two to three menu pages of food for him, they love all of their customers that tip well. Mr. Richards did, in fact, tip well, and his tipping of about 25% per meal left the staff feeling deeply connected to the man. Finally, after much planning, they would slip him the card of a popular psychiatrist's office with his receipt.
"Here's the bill, sir." The young waitress handed him a small rectangular piece of paper. "And here's your receipt." The small piece of paper had the psychiatrist's office business card was attached, behind because they wanted to be discreet. Luckily, the business card was roughly the same width of the receipt, so good old Bob was oblivious to the message.
When the man left, both the wait staff and the cooks shed a collective sigh of relief. His visits always ended with that, a sigh of relief. The cooks compared these experiences with the day after a hurricane leaves. Things were sucky, but at least it was over. Now, all they had to do was wait for Robert Richard's next visit.
Cultural note: In North America, Canada and the US at least, it's considered rude not to tip at a restaurant, and usually you're supposed to tip 15% of your meal. You tip less if the person serving you was a bitch, and you tip a little bit more if they were REALLY REALLY good.