Chapter Text
It was a warm and sunny day in Kichijoji. The Autumn Festival was in full swing.
And Higurashi Kagome was ready.
For the past year, Kagome had been the proud owner of Aoi Nami, a small ramen shop in Koenji. She had moderate popularity there among the locals, but was always looking for ways to expand her business. Starting in the spring, she had begun bringing just a few of her signature dishes to festivals throughout Japan (well, on the main island, anyway), trying to drum up new customers. Even if they weren’t in Tokyo, they could still hand out business cards and get people to remember their name.
That day, Kagome had brought three of her favorite dishes: bacon and egg ramen, kimchi ramen, and roast chicken dinner ramen. She had spent the last few days building up her stores, so that she would be ready to serve up hundreds of ramen dishes. She cooked the chicken rotisserie style; she made the kimchi from scratch; she prepared all the herbs and vegetables ahead of time that she could. She also loaded up on bacon and eggs, which would have to be made fresh, but it would be worth it.
Right at sunrise, Kagome and her best sous chef, Miroku, set up their booth along the main thoroughfare of the festival. They ran a blue banner across the top that was painted with a beautiful white wave, with the name of the restaurant on another banner that they hooked below the counter. They then filled the booth with their stores, and they made piles and piles of bowls and spoons and chopsticks and napkins. Several hours of labor later, she and Miroku looked at each other, satisfied. They were ready.
The highlight of the Autumn Festival was the procession of the mikoshi, which began promptly at 11. The teams lined up with their mikoshi, their chants ready to go. It was, as always, a wild, raucous affair, with the teams going into loud, explosive chants when they met up. The procession went down the main streets of Kichijoji and along the surrounding streets; the sidelines were packed with people hoping to get a glimpse of the different shrines and all the teams in their vibrant uniforms. The procession was done a little after 1; after that, the crowd began to disperse, and people started looking for food. Kagome watched the crowd eagerly. The morning was slow, because of the procession, but now, things at Aoi Nami were bound to pick up.
As the post-procession customers came to the counter, the line grew longer and longer, and Kagome and Miroku were incredibly busy, trying to keep up with demand. Kagome loved the rush of the crowd; she loved the heat of the hot plate under the pan, the way that the oil sizzled when it collided with the metal surface, and the way that the onions and vegetables hit the pans with a hiss and a whoosh and a whir of air and steam. Kagome loved the way that the beef fat sizzled and mixed with the vegetables, and the way that it crackled when she added the kimchi. One ear was listening to Miroku, who was cooking up the bacon and egg ramen. They had large pots with the soup base; when the vegetables and proteins were ready, Kagome and Miroku added everything together and then let it all cook. They plated it up, grabbed napkins, chopsticks, and a spoon, and handed over the ramen. One after another, all day long, this is what they were doing.
And while they had a steady stream of clientele, Kagome couldn’t help but overhear snippets of conversations from the customers.
“The ramen at Kufuku no Inu is more comfort food, less fancy,” Kagome heard one customer say. “This is really good, but it’s expensive and I would rather just have had the shoyu.”
Comments like this made Kagome want to scream. Couldn’t people understand the glory of fresh bacon and eggs? Couldn’t people understand the complexities of flavor, not just the plain, same old foods, day in and out? Kagome wanted to bring the masses something new and exciting in ramen ryori—something people would remember.
And while the compliments were there, she kept hearing about...Kufuku no Inu.
So, she sent Miroku over to scope out the competition.
Miroku was only too happy to oblige. Ever since Kagome had heard the comments about the rival ramen booth, she’d been sour. Her confidence didn’t take much to shake it, especially when she perceived a slight to her cuisine. And that’s what she was getting, over and over, even though her food was good— no , amazing—and she should have every confidence in the world.
Once MIroku had a chance to take a break, he slipped out into the crowd. It was a warm day, and there were hundreds of people milling about the festival. He asked a few people with ramen if they had gotten it at Kufuku no Inu, and it took awhile, but he finally found someone who could point him in the right direction. Kufuku no Inu was a small, nondescript booth in a far corner of the festival: a red banner with a crudely drawn white dog on it, the restaurant’s name written lazily in the same white paint on a red banner beneath the counter. The line stretched several rows back. Miroku wandered around the booth; he noticed that there was no menu. How did people know what to order? What kind of place was this?
He sighed and went to stand in line with the rest of the crowd. He didn’t like leaving Kagome alone for that long, but he didn’t have much of a choice. She wanted to know who was the big hit of the festival, and it looked like Kufuku no Inu was it.
Forty-five minutes later, he finally reached the front of the line. What he saw made him gasp.
A beautiful, pleasant-faced young woman was standing at the counter. “Hello,” she said to him, “what can we get for you?”
“I’m—sorry?” said Miroku. “There’s not a menu?”
“Don’t need a fucking menu to know what you want at a ramen shop, baka,” said a gruff, grouchy voice from behind the woman. Miroku looked past her, and Miroku gasped again. There, at the cooktop, was a hanyou . And if the ears told him anything, an inu hanyou . Because they were what Miroku could only describe as adorable, white, fluffy Akita ears.
“We have shoyu, miso, and shio ramen,” the young woman said to him. “Proteins are typical. What do you want?”
“Umm…” Miroku wasn’t prepared for the simplicity of the menu. This is what people were raving about?
“I’ll take one of each,” he said. “The shoyu with pork, the miso with tofu, and the shio with chicken.”
The young woman jotted all that down on her pad, tore the paper off, and attached it to a metal rod above the cooktop. The hanyou looked at it, grunted, and went on with his work. “Your order number is 21,” she said. “And that’ll be a thousand yen.” Miroku almost fell over. That was it? For three dishes?
He handed over the money, and the woman counted it carefully before giving him his change. “Please wait on the other side,” she told him politely, “Inuyasha will have your ramen ready for you in just a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling at the woman. She offered him a polite, if slightly annoyed, grin, and pointed in the direction he should go to wait before taking the next order.
Miroku followed the crowd around to the side of the booth. There, he could see the hanyou— Inuyasha , he thought the young woman had called him—hard at work.
And Miroku had to admit, his work ethic was stunning.
Like Miroku and Kagome, Inuyasha had most of his ingredients prepped. He had three pots of broth that he was keeping on low on burners on a side table, so he could keep the cooktop free. Miroku watched, fascinated, as Inuyasha emptied several bins of vegetables into the two pans in front of him, the sizzling oil not causing him any concern. He stirred them expertly with chopsticks, and when they were ready, he added in his proteins. Chicken and tofu were already cooked; the beef and pork he heated up right in the pan. When it was ready, he took out several bowls, ladled out the appropriate amount of broth for each kind of ramen, added the ingredients, then went to the cooler and took out several boiled eggs, which he proceeded to slice in half and place into the bowls. He grunted out the order number, and each person stepped forward, one-by-one, to collect their meals.
What impressed Miroku the most was how quick Inuyasha was. His fingers were nimble and worked the chopsticks easily and effortlessly, mixing the ingredients in the pan like they were extensions of his fingers. He looked at each ticket once and was able to perfectly capture every order. His plating was stunning, and he was careful in his speed. Before long, Miroku’s order was up. Inuyasha handed him a bag with several pairs of chopsticks and spoons. Miroku thought about telling him not to bother, but the scowl on the hanyou’s face made him just say thank you and scurry away, his treasure in his hands.
Before Miroku returned to Kagome, he wanted to take a moment to try each of the dishes, so he could give her a full report. Were people just flocking to this place because of the prices? Or was there something else going on?
Miroku fought his way to the dedicated seating area, and scoured out a seat. He perched at the edge of a bench crammed full of other people, and set his bag on the table, carefully removing each bowl, one by one. He was immediately drawn to the smell of the shoyu with pork. He leaned forward, and took a strong whiff of the broth. It was rich, yet delicate; scents of ginger and scallion invaded his senses. He took a spoon and dropped it into the bowl, then brought it up to his mouth, and sipped.
His entire insides exploded at the sensations of flavor rippling across his tongue. He could detect hints of sake, kombu, and mirin in the dashi: simple, familiar, yet beyond anything he’d ever tasted in his life. Eagerly, he put the spoon down and picked up his chopsticks, ready to try a piece of the pork. He picked one up carefully, and again brought it to his nose so he could savor the scent. Salt and pepper, and the scent of the dashi. He opened his mouth and carefully set the sliced pork on his tongue.
A warm heat suddenly spread, starting at his taste buds, radiating outwards into his mouth, down his throat, through his belly, and settling in his groin. He may have moaned aloud at how divine the pork tasted, which may have drawn a few curious looks from other festival-goers. It was perfectly cooked: tender, juicy, with a hint of that ginger again. He reached in for another piece, and nearly swooned at how the meat melted in his mouth. He rolled it around on his tongue, allowing his taste buds to each get a hint of the flavors, enjoying the sensations he was experiencing as the pork moved from one taste bud to the next.
He. Was. In. Heaven.
Miroku closed up the pork shoyu and went through the other bowls as well. The miso was properly spicy and salty; the tofu was firm and crispy on the outside, which was rare in restaurant tofu (and it made him want to devour it all immediately, and set his tongue wagging for more). The shio was perhaps his favorite. Deliciously salty, with tender chicken that came apart when he used just a spoon, the shio did make him moan aloud, causing several people at the table to look at him in alarm.
Miroku leaned forward in his seat and rested his forearms on the table. His chest was heaving, and his body was quaking. He felt a warm sensation blooming in his belly that was spreading through the rest of his body. He...he had to have more. He reached into the shio bowl and ate another piece of chicken, this time mixing it with some of the vegetables, and his eyes promptly rolled back into his head from the ecstasy of the flavor palate he was experiencing. His body was tensing up; his mind was going blank; his cock was...was it growing hard?
Was he getting turned on by this food?
Immediately his thoughts turned to the young woman who had taken his order. So beautiful, with warm brown eyes and a long brown ponytail. He...needed to know her. He needed to know the goddess who ran a ramen shop with the most insanely delicious food he’d ever tried.
He…
He had to tell Kagome. And fast.
But first…
He needed to get up from the table. And for that to happen...
He needed his erection to go down.
“Kagome,” Miroku said, coming back into the booth and closing the curtain behind him, “you’re not gonna believe this ramen booth that I found. It’s
insanely
good.”
Kagome scoffed. “I hardly believe that, Miroku,” she said. “ We’re amazing. Yes, thank you, here’s your change,” Kagome said to the customer at the counter. She turned and looked at Miroku. “Don’t just stand there,” she hissed, tossing his apron at him. “I need your help, please!”
Miroku sighed and put his apron on. “Aren’t you even going to try what I brought?” he asked her. “I brought one of each dish.”
“As soon as it calms down a little bit, I will,” she promised. She turned to the next customer at the counter. “Hello, can I take your order please?” she asked.
Miroku rolled his eyes. That food….it was gonna blow her mind…
In more ways than one.
The rest of the afternoon was busy. Kagome and Miroku were serving up order after order, and Kagome didn’t have time to stop and taste the food from the Kufuku no Inu. Miroku kept trying to motivate her, but Kagome refused. She played it off as being busy, but the reality was that she was nervous. Scared. That someone else’s food was better than hers. That someone else might be a better chef than her.
Finally, Miroku was able to convince Kagome to take a few minutes to try the bowls from the rival ramen shop. Kagome sat just outside the back of the booth, ready to run back in if Miroku needed her. She opened the first bowl—shoyu with pork. She leaned over and gave the shoyu a massive inhale.
Gods , the broth—the dashi, the ginger, the scallions. It ticked the inside of her nose and warmed her, all the way down into her lungs. That was a...surprise.
She took her spoon and dipped it lightly in the broth, then brought the spoon up to her lips. Kagome closed her eyes, and took a sip.
The way the flavors burst onto her tongue was insane. Kagome let out a gasp, then clapped her hand over her mouth in case anyone heard. She took a little more of the broth onto her spoon, then closed her eyes, and took another sip.
This time she did let out a moan. Who made broth like this? It was positively, delightfully, sinful .
She wanted this poured all over her body, so someone could lick it off. She wanted…
She wanted all of it.
Kagome took out her chopsticks and dipped them in, removing a piece of pork, She was almost afraid of how it would taste...but yet, she couldn’t stay away.
The pork was tangy, salty, peppery, with a hint of ginger, and the rush of the dashi infused within. The pork was so tender that she was able to tear it apart easily with her teeth; the juices ran over and dribbled down her chin. She let out a little gasp and ran her tongue along her lips, lapping up the extra liquid. So..sweet. So...wonderful.
As Kagome opened the other bowls and tried them as well, she found herself being swept away by the magnitude of flavor in each bite. She imagined herself at the beach, in the water; she was being lifted up, up, on a wave, and then as she swallowed, she crashed back down to the sand. The rush, the thrill, of every bite had her rushing back for more. The saltiness of the shio brought her to the saltiness of the ocean; she now pictured laying in the waves, and letting them run over her as they sought out her most delicate parts. They embraced her coolly, as the broth and the meats caressed her tongue.
Kagome leaned back against the booth, breathing harshly, allowing the food to fill her: body, mind, and soul.
She opened her eyes. She had to know. Who made food this amazing? Who were they? Why had she never heard of the Kufuku no Inu before?
Whoever it was, she had to find out.
Kagome was on a reconnaissance mission.
She left Miroku in charge of the booth; she knew that he could handle a few minutes without her. He described the location of the booth as best he could; it wasn’t hard for her to find it. Kufuku no Inu was set back from the main drag; a bright red banner with a white dog crudely drawn on it was stretched over the booth, and another red banner, this one with the restaurant’s name written thickly, decorated the counter. Kagome couldn’t decide if she wanted to smile or scowl. Was it ridiculously childish? Or adorable? It bothered her that she couldn’t figure it out.
The line was long . But Kagome wasn’t terribly interested in buying more food from them. She wandered around the front of the booth; there, she saw a pretty young woman with long brown hair taking orders, and then directing people around to the side of the booth. That’s who was making the food. That’s where she needed to go.
Kagome wandered around to the side. She saw that the booth was open there, a rush of steam shooting out from the opening. People were crowded around, trying to see in. Kagome politely pushed her way through the crowd, moving nimbly to the front. She looked over people’s shoulders, trying to see the chef who was causing such an uproar.
It was a man... no .
Not a man. Or, not just a man, anyway.
A hanyou.
An inu hanyou, if looks were to be believed. And incredibly handsome inu hanyou. His long silver hair was tied back in a fierce bun; his golden eyes focused entirely on the work he was doing. He wore a perpetual scowl: his eyebrows furrowed, his face in a frown. But his ears—his ears!
Adorable, fluffy, triangle-shaped ears that Kagome found herself longing to touch. Her fingers started to itch, started to reach forward…
“Oi!” came the annoyed shout. “What in the hells do you think you’re doing, woman?”
Kagome stepped back. “I—I’m sorry,” she said, her face cast down. “I—I don’t know what came over myself.”
“Keh,” he said, “if you’re not here to pick up an order, you need to get the fuck out of my way.”
His sharp and condescending tone made Kagome’s spirit renew, and her eyes narrowed. “I’m not here to pick up an order,” she told him. “I’m here to let you know—you may think you’re the best ramen shop on the festival circuit, but I have news for you, Kufuku no Inu, I am here, and I am coming for you.”
Inuyasha stopped—actually stopped —in the middle of his stir fry, and broke into raucous laughter. “I’m—I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes with glee, “but are you a chef ?”
Kagome nodded. “Higurashi Kagome,” she said, “owner of the Aoi Nami, the best ramen fusion shop in Tokyo.”
Inuyasha rolled his eyes. “Whatever, woman,” he said. “I’ve been doing this for longer than you’ve been alive. Whatever you’re making, I can assure you: it don’t hold a candle to what I’m cooking up here.”
Kagome’s eyes narrowed.
This. Was. War.