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mousy-nona · 7 months

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All of God's Angels

Long ago, back when all of Earth and mankind were but a twinkle in the Father’s eye and Lucifer knew nothing but the warmth of his Father’s love, back when he sung their songs and the cosmos kissed his wings when he flew, one of the other angels told Lucifer his fate.

I think you will like his newest creation, Gabriel mused. I’ve foreseen a challenge for you. An equal. A partner, tall and beautiful and terrible, and crowned in red.

Or the tale of how Lucifer finally met his (irritating, annoying, hellraising) match.

All parts up on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53800450/chapters/136173307

Chapter 1: Lucifer Falls

It was Gabriel, little Gabriel with his too-big trumpet, who let the cat out of the bag. He never could keep his stupid visions to himself.

Father is making something new, Gabriel had said.

But of course, Lucifer had replied. Isn’t he always? Perhaps it will be something interesting this time.

It was beautiful here. Perfect. An unending, ceaseless Heaven.

He was bored to death.

He played with one of his feathers, sneaking an envious glance at Gabriel’s finger, where Michael’s seal lay. Gabriel read his mind.

I think you will like His newest creation, he mused. I’ve foreseen a challenge for you. An equal.

An opponent?

Gabriel shook his head. A partner, tall and beautiful and terrible, and crowned in red.

Equal parts hope and shock took his breath away. A companion? Truly? After all of these years?

Gabriel’s mouth twisted into a small moue of distaste. They smell of blood and smoke. They smell of…

The word he’d been looking for was evil, but that hadn’t been invented yet. So Lucifer set out to create it.

When he flew down to the Garden, he found hidden in the meadows an apple and a man and a woman. Lucifer palmed the fruit in his hand, reveling in the potential that practically vibrated underneath its shiny red skin. All he had to do was plant the seed. For a fleeting moment, he thought about giving it to Adam, but even then, when he knew nothing about humanity but their aching potential – even then, he knew Adam was a dick.

No, it was Eve. It was Eve who would understand the true magnitude of his gift. It was Eve who would lead humanity out of the Garden and into a world of their own creation. He barely even had to tempt her – she took it right away, eager for her own ruin. Perhaps she was just as bored of utopia as he was.

After that, everything happened so fast he could only remember it in snapshots. A trial, a curse, a fall. Lilith made it all better, for a while. For the first few centuries, he thought he had found his fated partner at last. Tall and beautiful and terrible indeed – and a crown of gleaming red horns, to boot.

For a few years, they had been happy. Happy enough to create Charlie, who was the beaming sun of his life. Hell grew larger and more bloodthirsty by the second, but they reigned over it with a shared dream of leading their people to a better life. There would be no land of milk and honey, not for these killers and adulterers and assaulters, but maybe there could be a better fate for them. A rehabilitation, of sorts.

But time was relentless, even in the distant reaches of Hell. Slowly, so slowly Lucifer hadn’t even noticed it until it was too late, Lilith began to pull away. She was a shadow in his castle, always just barely out of reach. Worse, she took Charlie with her.

He could have forced them back. He could have pinned them down with his polluted holy light, could have made them sit and stay.

But he was not that kind of a man. The last surviving angel in Hell. So he found himself alone again, surrounded in the debris of his broken dreams.

Then came the fateful day when his daughter – his gorgeous, stunning, lovely Charlie! – called to tell him all about a project that was just like the one he’d had. A hotel, she chattered on nervously. A rehabilitation center for doomed souls.

And he’d prayed for the first time since his exile: Heavenly Father, I don’t ask for much. But please go easy on my daughter. She was still so young, so naive. It would break the last remaining piece of his heart to see her crushed just like he’d been.

He left his castle for the first time in what felt like a decade, rushing out the door in such a hurry he nearly forgot his hat and his staff (apple-shaped, of course). He’d nearly tripped over himself flinging open the frankly disgusting, half-formed door and running straight for Charlie. He’d been so ecstatic about seeing his daughter again that he hadn’t noticed anybody else – until one of them had melted into shadows and appeared right next to him, that was.

With a start, he stepped back, sizing up the towering figure that had materialized by his side. It was a man, cloaked in a scarlet suit that would have been fashionable a century ago and teeth sharper than sin. He was holding a staff as well, some old-fashioned microphone that looked deceptively simple for the amount of power he could feel emanating from it. Perhaps the most startling aspect about him was his voice – a voice overlaid with static and cloaked in false goodwill. He was infuriating, relentless, a polite knife stab that struck everywhere and nowhere at once. Everything about the man was a taunt, as if he was specially designed to incense Lucifer and drive him crazy.

His mouth went dry.

And just like that, it was a millennia ago and Gabriel’s voice was ringing in his ear, as clear as the stars and the bells.

Tall and beautiful and terrible, and crowned in red.

No. No way. Not like this. Clearing his throat and forcing an unimpressed mask to hide his progressively growing alarm, he asked, “Who is this now?”

#alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin lucifer #radioapple #alastor x lucifer #lucifer x alastor #duckiedeer #appleradio #platonic romance

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fatehbaz · 1 year

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[C]olonial policies to monitor and restrict Indian cattle were coterminous with policies to monitor and restrict Indian humans. [...] [T]he ‘milk-line’ [...] has been said by [colonial] scholars since the nineteenth century to bisect the region. [...] [This] reified and naturalised what remains a contentious division between South and Southeast Asia along the western borders of Myanmar. [...] [D]enaturalise [...] this border by uncovering the colonial history of how milk became entangled in the immanent political geography of British Burma. [...] As part of imperial writings on the distinctiveness of the colony's cultural landscape, milk informed the imaginative geography of Burma as a place distinct from India. [...]

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[T]he turn-of-the-century writings of colonial scholar officials and travel-writers [...] generated a particular imaginative geography [...]. These authors rendered Burma a ‘unique geographic entity’ [...]. Being unable to acquire milk whilst travelling Burma was a frequent gripe in imperial writings. In this it stood in contrast to the rest of British India. [...] Imperial writings on dairy consumption – or, rather, the lack of it – in Burma reified this geography [...]. Burma was where you could not get milk in British India. [...] But the difficulty of milk did not end with the cow. Once produced, the milk itself was liable to adulteration and infection necessitating state and scientific intervention. Limiting the mobility of dairy cattle and removing them from urban areas through policies designed to order and police space were central to colonial schemes for improving milk production [...]. By the twentieth century most of the dairy production in the colony was conducted by Indians who had migrated to Burma with their own cattle. [...]

The rendering of cattle as lively commodities in the milk industry was seen to be in tension with their commodification in a different economic sector, the rice industry.

This was overwhelmingly the most important part of Burma's colonial economy.

The late nineteenth century saw a rapid expansion of the deltaic rice frontier. By the opening decades of following century the Burma delta had become the largest rice producing region in the world. The importance of plough cattle was reflected in their market value, which doubled between the end of World War One and 1930. [...]

In particular, they worried that the bloodlines of the Burmese breed of oxen, apparently favoured by cultivators, were at risk. [...] Indian milch cattle were considered a particular threat. This imperial imperative to protect a so-called ‘Burmese’ breed of ox reified and naturalised Burma as a geographic entity, with Indian cattle figured as invasive.

These concerns were entangled with colonial policies regarding the human Indian population in the colony [...].

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[There was] a growing recognition of the importance of [Burmese] cattle to the production of rice in the Burma delta. [...] The stocky, strong Burmese ox [...] was thought to be especially suited to labour in paddy fields [...]. Burma was imagined as being constituted of upland areas where cattle were bred and the southern deltaic region where they were worked [...]. This was an animal geography that was transgressed by mobile herds of milking cattle imported from India residing along the sides of waterways and in the railway towns [...]. Following the colony's transportation network, migrant Indian cattle penetrated the spaces [...] To many officials, by the start of World War One the existing measures for protecting Burmese plough cattle from the ‘evils’ of Indian milch cattle were deemed inadequate. The push for greater controls began in 1915 with an agricultural and cooperative conference held in Mandalay. [...] ]C]olonial officials came to frame Indian cattle as a problem breed. The conference was attended by over nine hundred people from across Burma, including [...] state officials. It unanimously agreed that action had to be taken to protect [Burmese] cattle from Indian cattle.

Their suggested course of action was three-pronged: taxation, prohibition and segregation. [...] Attitudes to Indian cattle in the colony were conterminous with attitudes to Indian people.

The interventions [in cattle segregation] [...] can be considered as part of a wider range of state controls placed on Indian migrants to Burma. The timing of these committees was synchronous with inquiries into the sanitary conditions that Indian workers travelled and lived in [...]. At the same time [...], the state introduced compulsory medical checks and vaccinations on human arrivals from the subcontinent. In addition, the concerns expressed by officials contributing to these reports on cattle in Burma were indicative of British officialdom's paternalistic attitude towards the Burmese people, viewing their role as protecting the Burmese from the Indian and Chinese populations. The administrative view of the colony, which by the turn of the century held it to be culturally distinct from India, was increasingly imagining it as a separate geo-political entity. Officials began planning for it to be separated from British India.

During the interwar years anti-Indian sentiments gained ground [...]. Indian migrants were figured by some as a threat [...]. There were a number of anti-Indian riots in the 1930s [...]. The 1935 Government of India Act was enacted in 1937 separating Burma from India [...].

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All text above by: Jonathan Saha. “Milk to Mandalay: dairy consumption, animal history and the political geography of colonial Burma.” Journal of Historical Geography Volume 54. October 2016. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

#abolition #ecology #imperial #colonial #multispecies #landscape #temporal #indigenous #borders

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hoppingonjim · 2 years

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groupie love [ e. munson ]

summary : groupie love but made for eddie munson. inspiration taken from the song groupie love by lana del rey. interpretation is my own. apologies if it’s rushed!

a/n : finally i write for my lana month! and this wasn’t even meant for the first day, oopsies. oh well! link is here , you can request a song for a character (:

cw: afab!reader, f!reader, p in v unprotected, small oral (m receiving), dom!eddie, rockstar!eddie, groupie!reader, possessiveness, girl bringing down others if you glimpse, crushes, lowercase intentional, lover-ish story? gross french smooching!! jealousy, groupie culture. lmk if i missed anything!

on stage he’s electric. the sexual prowess unmatched. he’s fingering the strings of his guitar rapidly, earning moans of stringing chords. the crowd is wild, bumping you, shoving you. when his eyes aren’t focused on his baby, they’re on his other baby. you.

the crowd breeds admiration. a pool for love is all looked up at the band who’s center stage. literally. figuratively. it’s not rare for some jealousy to crawl into your heart, shoving people aside and away from you. payback for all their screams and flashes. you were too above such a level of neediness, cattiness. dignity is abandoned when the hems fly to their necks, breasts on sight for a bar to see. but your man is only a man at that, it’s only natural for his eyes to bulge. pop out at the lovely sights bestowed upon him.

the shows over in a few minutes. only two smiles were fluttered your way. a disappointing blow from last week's ten. is it a habit to count? perhaps. but habits make things feel natural. you’re all musty when you’re in the cold. behind the building the bricks cradle you, kiss the soft skin of your back. eddie doesn’t wait backstage anymore, his mind and cock too eager to meet up with you. you try to be a fleeting whirl of pleasure, but as always desperation gets in the way. your desperation for such a handsome lead singer tended to destroy your brilliant plans.

“howdy there, baby. you like the show?” and he’s all sweaty too. beads of sweat roll down from rosy cheeks to bring awareness to the cheeky grin he wears. arms are welcoming, comforting when they engulf you. the musk is fine, it’s eddie. his cologne has surrendered to the smoke the bar mothers. fiery bodies are connected when he inhales deeply, the fresh scent of your perfume brewing in his senses merrily.

you don’t speak at first, pressing yourself against him, “of course i liked the show. i always like the show, you know that.” of course he knows that. an ego needs its daily feed of course. again, he’s only a man.

lips end up on each other, like always. talk was minimal. everything needed to be physical. the kiss is heated, firing up by the way his hand squeezes a chunk of your ass. he eases his actions with a ginger tap. it’s dirty once his tongue begins to find its way in your mouth. brushing your bottom lip, entangling with yours. for added filth slaps against yours. it’s not exactly a turn on, but it’s filth. everything you two are built upon. his pretty girl filthy for him, that’s all that mattered. though a current matter was getting you into the hotel.

in the hotel room, the gallery of tits he was met with no longer lingered in his thoughts. only the fact you were under him, a moaning mess. the walls plugged their ears with the constant whimpers, “fuck eddie, fuck me harder. fucking need it.”

his fingers are tight around the thick of your thigh. nail beds ghost white with each grunt from each savage thrust. skin slaps against skin, complementing your pretty moans and his nasty low grunts, “you take me good baby, pretty pussy knows her owner, huh?”

“uh-huh,” you don’t have time for words now. not when you’re mind is adulterated by him slamming into you. his mind is only a tad preoccupied by the fact your tight cunt is milking him needily, no complaints on his part however.

fingers slither around your neck, his free hand that is. a tight grip is formed, but nothing to cut off air supply. your thrown-back head is yanked upwards, your hair draping down suddenly from the sides of your head, “and who the fuck does this pretty pussy belong to?”

“you! you you you you you-” it only can repeat. he’s a record, a broken one. but your broken one. sure he could be physically possessive, but who said you couldn’t be emotionally possessive? through your fit of helplessness, you’d eventually come undone. it’s heavy and hot, your nails clawing the muscular shoulders shaking above you. and once he feels you release he pulls out , his cock throbbing. he wants to cum in you, fill you up and breed you. but you aren’t ready, he isn’t ready. a small nod towards his aching dick and your hand wraps around it, pumping him quickly. you’ve propped yourself to your knees, your limp body would have to wait. and he’s close, you can tell by how his head is tilted back, his lips are parted.

“gonna, gonna cum, put your mouth on me princess, put that good mouth on me-” he doesn’t give you time usually. a facial typically is his way to go, but you eagerly wrap your lips around him instead. did this mean something? did he not want you all messy? not want you to go through the hassle of an irritated eye and having to wipe cum off? it had to be. just had to be. little things meant the most. little things were better than- and your knocked off your train of thought by the sensation of his cum shot down your throat.

swallowing, you then pull away. your lips smack before you speak, eyes all wide while your body relays back to its much wanted limp position. you’re back to flat on your back, legs spread, arms asleep beside you. an elegant flop is what occurred in his eyes. and for him, he believed it to be more than elegant. perhaps beautiful was a better suited word.

but once the goodbyes are said he’s out the door. and once he’s out the door you don’t see his face for another week. only, he promised he’d swing by tomorrow. but that promise was made a week ago. a promise is a promise. you knew that much.

eddie wouldn’t go this week without realizing his mistake. the mistake hollered at him when his eyes fell upon his marked up calendar. there was your name in bright red ink, circled on the date for tomorrow. the date he should’ve been at your place. guitar in one hand, chocolates in the other.

you were waiting the entire day for a man who didn’t show. a man who left you hanging. there’s a knock on the door though, the following day. it had to be eddie, one of the few people who knew of your true address. though you don’t greet him. a man who doesn’t obey his promises doesn’t deserve to be greeted. was he with someone else? was he fucking some other whore? you should be his only whore. his only pieces of ass.

“baby cakes, let me in. i’m so sorry- i blanked!” eddie’s like a whimpering dog outside your freezing door. pleading for your warmth through his knocks. no complying from you though, he forgot.

until, an idea dons upon you, “sing for me, eddie. sing for me, like i mean the world to you. pretend i mean the world to you.” singing in a complex surely had to be embarrassing, a hallway where anyone could walk by. anyone at any moment. disrupting piece was one thing, but disrupting people who had no business with you? that was something else.

however, pretending like you meant the world ot him wasn’t so hard to do. he didn’t have to pretend all that much. your wish became his command when his voice began to boom in the hallway, “you should’ve been gone, knowin’ how i, made you feel, AND, i should’ve been gone! after all your, words of steel.” his voice is fluttering powerfully throughout the shallow hall. steve perry had nothing on him. your mind couldn’t craft the idea of a cheekier, cheesier song. eddie goes on for a minute and you swear you can hear the rug tweak slightly with the shimmy of his hips for the chorus.

the song is finished. humiliation, over with. and the door? it opens. seeing your face brings a special sort of light to his. and seeing such a beautifully nude body certainly expands his grin.

“so, how was it?”

you can’t answer with words. succeeding just a smile is a grasp on his wrist, which helps you drag him back into the room. you could show him just how good it all was. stealing a glance back at the raven-haired rocker only prompts you with the sight of a squeal and beam. oh yeah, he couldn’t wait.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fandom #stranger things fic #stranger things smut #rockstar!eddie munson #dom!eddie munson #stranger things x you #eddie munson x you

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cowperviolet · 6 months

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Drinking like a Regency Buck - Part 1

What if you were praised for drinking lots of alcohol? In Regency England, you could!

Nowadays, we think that immoderate drinking is a sign of weakness. However, back in the Regency era, it was actually considered to be something between a neutral trait and a source of pride. There was even an expression - ‘Drunk as a lord’!

Another expression on the subject was ‘three-bottle man’. It described a man who could consume 3 bottles of port throughout one day, and remain on his feet. Again, it was not a derogatory expression. It was not unusual to have several dinner guests like that at one table.

Strong port indeed was the drink of choice for Regency men. It used to be different - earlier in the 18th century they preferred light wines and claret. However, after the Seven Years War, blame for the country’s poor performance in the conflict was laid at the feet of the men’s ‘effeminate’ and ‘Frenchified’ drinking habits. So, they set out to prove how manly they were afterwards. That’s where port came in.

Henceforth, claret was usually only served to women in special claret cups. Though, I do have to say, that Regency ladies were far from the Victorian ideals of propriety and sobriety, too - quite a lot of them drank fortified wine such as madeira!

Due to port’s popularity, plenty of people ended up trying to play foul with its quality for the sake of profit. Quite often, port was adulterated by raisin wines, or cheap Spanish wine that had an admittedly metal name of ‘bullock’s blood’. Even worse, some just used berry-dye for the same purposes.

However, even good port had to be ‘fined’, or clarified, before you could drink it. There was a great range of things used for that purpose. Some were mundane enough, like egg, salt, or skimmed milk. Some were weirder, like oyster shells, alabaster, dry sand, or my favorite one - powdered marble.

#regency #1810s #regency era #1800s #1790s #regency history #history resources #writing resources #regency romance

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killervelveteenrabbit · 1 year

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Danganronpa Cooking Headcanons!

Makoto made only average grades in high-school Home Ec, so he's inclined to discount his cooking skills. He can make his own meals if his mom is out of town or he doesn't have any pocket money for the school cafeteria. But he'd sooner pick up something at the corner store on his way to school. He doesn't share the food he makes with others, so he hasn't figured out that he's actually a better cook than he realizes. Curry over rice or noodles is his favorite food, and he always makes his own rather than using cheap storebought packs.

Aoi loves doughnuts so much she learned how to make them herself. Yeast doughnuts, cake doughnuts, deep-fried or baked, with all kinds of glazes and toppings… she's even mastered a recipe she found online for making them out of potatoes. Naturally, the skills Aoi picked up have translated into baking projects like cookies and pies. These usually turn out well so long as she doesn't absent-mindedly leave out an ingredient or forget she has something in the oven. She's flirted with the idea of opening her own bakery once she scores a few gold medals and retires from professional swimming.

The only thing Byakuya can make for dinner are reservations, and he usually has a servant on hand to make the phone call. Byakuya claims cooking is peasant-work beneath his station. But put him in a kitchen and you'll discover the truth: he's never been in a position to cook for himself, so the poor bastard can't even operate a coffeemaker. Microwaves frustrate him in particular--the one time he tried to use one, he didn't take the aluminum foil off the plate. To this day, he prefers to believe the machine was defective, something off with the wiring.

Celestia doesn't cook; she is cooked for… and you better damn sight not screw it up! As a child, Taeko loved making her favorite gyoza with her mother. Even if they weren't evenly fried or the stuffing came out of them after the first bite, Taeko enjoyed the experience of making them almost as much as eating them. But that was a lifetime ago. Ask her to prepare some gyoza these days, she'll scream at you for mistaking her for the help, distracting both you and herself from the fact that she's forgotten how.

Chihiro enjoys baking; he regards it as a combination of science and art that forces him to train different parts of his brain. Plus, you can eat the results if the experiment is a success! A video "she" posted of "her" attempt at baking chocolate-chip-oatmeal-raisin cookies briefly went viral, if only because it stood out from "her" usual gadget reviews and programming guides. "She" even received a few marriage proposals from fans afterward. As far as Chihiro's concerned, it's to the good if his fans liked it… and the demonstration of domestic skills helps him maintain the masquerade.

Quite frankly, Hifumi thinks cooking is "women's work", something females are supposed to do for the men they love. Furthermore, this junk-food junkie buys most of his food from vending machines and convenience stores, something he can shovel down while creating his latest Princess Piggles epic. He can fix himself a sandwich or boil up some tea or coffee if he absolutely has to, but that's it. Anything that requires actual effort, like Celestia's favorite royal milk tea, and Hifumi is out of his element.

Junko's analytical prowess allows her to pick up things quickly, and if she wanted to learn how to cook, she could do so almost overnight. But she doesn't want to. The aggravation she causes people by making them wait on her causes them despair, and not getting the food she needs and that feeling of hunger that results creates despair in her. Honestly, the only reason she would ever cook something for anyone is for the opportunity to adulterate it or poison it. Junko dresses to kill and cooks pretty much the same way.

As a cook, Kiyotaka is hyper-competent but spectacularly uncreative. He goes straight by the cookbook, following recipes exactly as written… and his insistance on "the proper way to make such-and-such" renders him unable (or at least unwilling) to innovate his own dishes. He noticeably fumbles when improvising alternatives to unavailable ingredients or equipment. Finally, he avoids preparing anything he deems unhealthy, lest he weaken the body and spirit of the people who eat it. You'll eat healthy and well with Taka in the kitchen… just don't expect dessert, unless it's fresh fruit or yogurt.

Kyoko's overprotective grandfather would allow her to make her own food, but not to use the stove, the oven, or particularly sharp knives for fear she might accidentally hurt herself. After all, she was destined to be a detective, not someone's housewife. She understands the processes of cooking, and even the science behind fermentation, heat transfer, why coriander tastes like soap to her, etc.. But she herself rarely cooks, relying on family servants for her meals. Oh, and Kyoko finds most instant foods greasy and disgusting… especially cup ramen.

So one time there was this girl at school Leon liked, and she was really into cooking, baking, stuff like that. So he figured he'd learn how to cook and totally impress her with his Mad Kitchen Skillz. He blew all his cash on cookbooks and utensils and ingredients--but pretty much everything he made got burned or half-cooked or just plain tasted like shit. While recovering from food poisoning from his own undercooked chicken yakisoba, Leon found out his dream girl was now dating an upperclassman. Eh. At least he can follow the directions on a box of cake mix. Hope you like it crunchy.

The Owada brothers both learned the basics of cooking at their mother's insistence. She knew one day they'd have to grow up, stop running wild in the street, and take care of themselves. Her lessons came in handy when first Daiya, then Mondo, had to look after their biker brothers with less involved parents. Mondo privately wishes he could learn how to do more stuff in the kitchen--making things instead of breaking them--even though it might seem a little sissified. Um… no, Mondo has no strong opinions about butter… why do you ask?

Life as a transient mercenary taught Mukuro basic survival skills, including how to set up a serviceable field kitchen, purify water, and hunt and forage enough provisions to support herself and her team. Ever the team player, Mukuro will readily volunteer to help with mess duty and even may take command to get the job done… unless Junko orders her not to. In fact, as long as her sister is around, letting her handle food is dangerous. She'll follow her sister's lead in making it inedible or potentially deadly.

When she's not chugging protein drinks, Sakura appreciates a nice big meal to give her strength for the day's training and fights. She enjoys preparing a large Japanese-style breakfast--several bowls of rice and miso, with tsukemono and natto made from cucumbers and soybeans grown in the dojo's gardens. She won't buy pre-packaged foodstuffs without checking the nutritional label. Too much sugar or sodium, and it goes back on the store shelf. Everyone she cooks for will eat the same thing she does, no exceptions. And are you really gonna argue with her about it?

Sayaka got tired of waiting for her dad to get home from the office with some cheap sushi pack he picked up on the way. So she taught herself how to make simple tasty meals that wouldn't require her to operate the stove and risk starting an apartment fire. She took the same Home Ec courses Makoto did in middle school and not surprisingly made better grades in them. Now Sayaka enjoys preparing low-calorie snacks for her bandmates when they have spare time. It helps her focus on something besides the dance step she flubbed in rehearsal or the way the label's new PR guy keeps leering at her.

One of Toko's early novels, "Fresh Baked Love", centers on a shy girl who wins the heart and appetite of her crush by becoming an award-winning chef. It's based on a longstanding fantasy of hers. As is, the only thing she makes consistently well are chocolates. Every year Toko prepares a huge bagful for her dream boy of the moment… and every year it ends up in the trash, unopened. BTW, her chocolatiering expertise does not carry over to her Genocide Jack alter… and if that switch has flipped, the question of who's preparing dessert is the least of your problems.

Yasuhiro's mother always treasured and complimented her son's attempts at cooking, even if they were barely edible. Consequently, Hiro labors under the delusion that he's a whiz in the kitchen. But he fails to notice how everything he makes always comes out burnt, underdone, dried out, soaked in too much sauce, bitter, crumbly, or some combination of the above. You can let him help with meal prep, but don't leave him unsupervised, always have backup ingredients ready in case he messes something up… and make sure he's wearing a hairnet, kerchief, or something similar.

Hajime is mostly indifferent about food, cooking it or eating it--unless you're talking about mochi. Then he gets weirdly finicky and sensitive about the virtues of kusamochi (his favorite) over sakuramochi (which he can't stand). In line with his non-Ultimate status, he's an average cook, capable of boiling rice, making sandwiches, and working the okonomiyaki stand at the school festival so long as he has help. His Izuru alter, being the Ultimate Everything, has the potential to be a master chef… but he has other priorities.

When you grow up foraging, scavenging, or even fighting for every meal, you learn how to improvise. Put Akane in a kitchen and she'll start looking through cabinets and containers, rifling through the fridge like a raccoon in a trashcan, quickly coming up with a combination of this, that, and the other thing that will feed her and everybody else in the house. Ideally, she'll find meat and plenty of it. If there isn't any, she'll find it, somehow, even if she has to kill it herself. Nothing Akane makes is remotely gourmet, but no one is going to starve on her watch.

Whatever can be said of the "Ultimate Imposter", to say they enjoy fast food is an understatement. The Imposter is practically a scholar on the merits of this chain's cheeseburgers versus another, the harmony between pizza toppings and sauces… they could pretty much write a dissertation on KFC in Japan compared to the US. But the idea of preparing their own meals is a foreign concept. Privately, they're too intimidated to try. So much effort and preparation--if they tried to replicate the foods they supposedly know so much about and fail, it would be just too embarrassing.

The eating of food, and the preparation of it for eating, is a fundamentally human concern. Hence, engaging AI Chiaki in conversation about cooking and food might inadvertently expose her status. She's learned enough from all the cooking simulation games she's played… but she doesn't have a favorite food or a least favorite. She doesn't know where milk and eggs come from, and she doesn't realize that food can spoil or not taste good. Critically, asking her to recall memories associates with certain foods generates verbatim repeated responses.

The real-life Chiaki is about as adept at cooking as her AI counterpart. She gets so engrossed in gaming that she'll forget to eat, then wonder why her stomach hurts. Then she'll take a break to grab an energy drink and a nut-and-cheese protein pack from the corner store. If she's at home, she'll raid the kitchen for cup ramen or condensed soup she'll eat straight out of the can. Preparing anything from scratch doesn't appeal to her at all. The few times she's tried have proven that it isn't as easy IRL as Cooking Mama makes it look.

Bodyguards at the Kuzuryu compound have learned not to comment on any late-night bumps and clatters coming from the kitchen. The housekeeper turns a blind eye to the occasional empty containers of sugar, flour, baking powder, and eggs that weren't in the trash when she clocked out the previous night. Everyone knows about the young master's sweet tooth, and everyone knows Fuyuhiko is above asking anyone to make the treats he secretly craves and devours in secret. Rivals aren't going to stop calling him "baby gangsta" if they see him nomming on a fried dough cookie.

Cease your labors, mortals, and behold the handiwork of the Dark Devas of Destruction! Tanaka the Forbidden One bids you gain strength and vigor from this ambrosia from the gods, his special STIR-FRIED GINGER TOFU WITH DAIKON RADISH AND SPRING ONIONS! Seriously, watching Gundham in the kitchen is like watching a cross between "Ratatouille" and "Fist of the North Star". Gundham gives the orders and the hamsters do the rest. Be forewarned that eating his mother's terrible cooking has imbued him with low standards for taste. Also, watch out for the odd bit of hamster fur in your salad.

As an arbiter and ambassador of Japanese culture, Hiyoko's family has trained her to whip up delicious full-course meals on demand. She will enthusiastically debate the merits of certain types of miso and curry over others, seasonal variations on sukiyaki, etc., all while explaining how even the worst of Japanese cooking shames the fatty, greasy slop that passes for Western "cuisine". Just… don't actually ask her to cook. That is beneath her. Hiyoko will, however, instruct you how to prepare dishes according to Saionji family standards… while telling you in excruciating detail how you're doing it all wrong.

Her voice is loud, her fashion is loud, and her music is loud… so it makes sense that Ibuki likes her food loud, too. Her standard cooking technique involves flavor-blasting everything to a degree Guy Fieri would find excessive. Sauces! Gravies! Dressing! Hot peppers! And mouth-burning, sinus-clearing amounts of spices, the more obscure the better. Each meal, regardless of what it is, comes with a side of heavily seasoned rice. It's all prepared while she blasts noise metal out of the speakers she's hooked up--which is fine, since you might not want to hear about how she "kicked up" those croquettes.

If you're fixing a propane grill--or modding it out so it can cook fifty burgers at once and alert you when each one has reached 74 degrees C in internal temperature--it makes sense that you know how the food the equipment prepares is supposed to taste. Kazuichi is indifferent about food and drink; all he cares about is that the cola isn't diet and you brought enough grub to share. But he knows what things are supposed to taste like and how to use and fix the machines so they taste that way. If that counts as knowing how to cook… then Kazuichi knows how to cook.

Mahiru's mother was more often "on assignment" than not, and her shiftless father wouldn't even take his discarded takeout containers out to the trash. Ever the resourceful one, Mahiru pulled up some recipes on her laptop, printed them out, bought the necessary provisions, and after considerable trial and error taught herself how to prepare basic dinners for two. And ever the photographer, Mahiru takes photos of everything she makes before she digs in, even if it doesn't look as pretty and put-together as the online examples.

Mikan will be the first to tell you she's an awful cook and anything she makes is unfit for human consumption. On this point, she exaggerates. She only thinks she can't cook because she inevitably drops a plate, spills the salad dressing, slices herself with a knife, or falls over in a heap and somehow ends up with the kitchen trashcan spilling all over her. With some assistance, she can pull off a lunch or dinner that is fit to eat and, more importantly, is healthy, low-fat, properly portioned, and high in fiber to help you maintain regular bowel movements.

Dinner time. Nagito is cooking, so you steel yourself for the worst. You're pleasantly surprised to discover nothing amiss. The garden salad, the roast chicken, the side potatoes, and the chocolate cake are all wonderful. But your nagging suspicions compel you to peek inside the kitchen. Sure enough, various ingredients are splattering the counters and walls. There are scorch marks on the ceiling, which drips with fire extinguisher foam. A cabinet door is hanging by its hinges. The dishwasher is halfway open, revealing the exploded remains of the toaster.

Eager to prove herself worthy of being the Ultimate Gangster's little sister, Natsumi actively seeks new ways to protect her family against rivals and upstarts. One of these, oddly enough, involves playing the part of hostess. She's read how Lucrezia Borgia and other poisoners took out their enemies undetected, and lately she's been… experimenting. Recently, a former "business partner" of her father's spent two weeks in intensive care with stomach inflammation. No one except Fuyu has made the connection to the purin custard Natsumi prepared for dessert when he came by for supper.

You get out of the human body what you put into it. Different bodies require different meals to help them reach their potential as athletes. One of Nekomaru's hidden talents is finding out what food they need. Count on him to help you bulk up, slim down, or otherwise condition yourself for your chosen sport. The one common element to all Nekomaru's diet plans is an efficient digestive system, not weighed down with excess material in the gut. With him as your coach, you'll eat like an champion, perform like a champion… and shit like a champion!

Ryota can draw food that looks so mouth-watering you'll want to eat it right off the screen. But actually making it? The most difficult part will be pulling him away from his computer set-up and out of his room. Once you get him in the kitchen, he can follow instructions, but he may rush things and cut corners so he can get this distraction out of his way, with disastrous results. Furthermore, he'll whine the entire time that he doesn't have time for this and he can't do anything that injures his hands and whipping this batter by hand is exhausting. Maybe you should just send the boy back to his studio.

Sworn to protect the Kazuryu bloodline, Peko is prepared for any contingency. She's trained to recognize when food has been tampered with and has occasionally functioned as a taste-tester. She can also prepare simple meals from edible berries and plants in case she and her charges are ever trapped in the wilderness. Peko would like to learn more advanced cooking techniques--like how to make those cookies the young master likes. But she's never pursued that interest. Her blade is meant for protecting the family, not chopping vegetables.

The Kingdom of Novaselic requires its royals and heirs to be reasonably self-sufficient, so Sonia's picked up a few "commoner" skills like meal prep. But she's far better at planning dinners than preparing them. And by "dinner", Sonia means grand banquets full of distinguished guests. To her, fifty people counts as an intimate gathering. Bring the appetizers out at five, the main at six, dessert and coffee come out right after the applause stops from the ambassador's speech… oh, and the Grand Duchess is allergic to fennel, so can we find an alternative to that soup that still complements the veal?

Teruteru's reputation in this arena precedes him, does it not? Give the guy enough time and he can put together a seven-course meal in the Sahara Desert. But Teruteru keeps meals for family friends simple yet succulent, from the miso soup to the castella served for dessert. Every dish is one he learned at his mother's knee and as a backup chef at the family restaurant, yet flawlessly executed. Even his renditions of basics like fish ball soup explode with a kaleidoscope of flavor. Don't forget to pre-order his new cookbook "Meals My Mama Taught Me" wherever books are sold!

Komaru does okay in her Home Ec classes, but within the humble kitchen of the Naegi household, she becomes a culinary nightmare. Her sense of taste is quite frankly not normal (favorite foods include sparrow’s nest, tuna eyeballs, and kangaroo meat) and this completely warps the way she cooks. Her family, Makoto included, usually take one bite of whatever she's cooked, try not to retch, tell her it’s good but they’re not hungry right now, and discreetly sneak the abomination, container and all, into the outside garbage. Komaru’s never realized why her family goes through pots and pans so quickly.

None of the Warrior of Hope kids would be any help in the kitchen. Masaru primarily eats whatever he can shoplift. Nagisa’s parents provided their lab rat with such meager rations that he has no concept of what makes a decent meal. Kotoko had servants preparing her meals, and her mother was interested in teaching her… other skills besides the domestic. Monaca will feign helplessness to get out of kitchen duty—you don’t expect a little girl in a wheelchair to fend for herself, do you? Jataro might be able to help, if you can convince him cooking can be a form of art and if you can get him to focus.

Outside of its potential role in poisoning cases, Shuichi gives little thought to food. His parents were either too busy working or traveling to spend time with him (cooking or otherwise), and his aunt took care of dinner when he moved in with her and his uncle. Home Ec is his least favorite subject in school, and at home he’d sooner do laundry than help in the kitchen. He’ll grudgingly fix simple snacks to keep his belly from rumbling, or he’ll pick up something from the corner store. Maybe the right person could show him how fun cooking can be, and how it can distract him and help him relax.

One of Kaede’s worst fears is something happening to her hands that stops her from playing the piano. This includes cutting or burning her fingers while cooking. Hence, she avoids excessive kitchenwork. She can whip up a few sandwiches or appetizers, using pre-sliced meats and cheeses. Clean oven mitts and potholders are a must, and she avoids using any cutlery sharper than a butter knife. Perhaps the only reason to have her in the kitchen at all is meal-planning. She’s been hosted at many high-class dinners by her wealthy patrons, and she knows what makes a successful soiree.

The natives on the island where Angie lives happily cook for her—providing needed sustenance to the oracle of Atua is a high honor. But sometimes Angie receives messages from Atua calling on her to return the favor, so she prepares huge meals for the people attending her festivals. If you love Polynesian cooking and plenty of it, Angie’s your girl. She can prepare slow-cooked pork cooked in a dug-out oven, poke and ceviche made with wild-caught fish, and grilled chicken in any number of sweet and savory sauces, all with generous sides of coconut rice and her favorite avocados.

In mountains, Gonta learn how to hunt food and make fire to cook food. But Gonta no good in kitchen. Gonta really no good in fancy kitchen back home. Break everything. Burn and cut hands. Gonta like to cook outdoors around fire pit, where smoke go up in air and not make beeping sound. Plenty of room to move around and not knock things over. Gonta good at barbecue! Gonta know how to cook any kind of meat tender and safe enough to eat while not burnt. Bug friends help Gonta find fresh fruit and vegetables to go with meat. You not go hungry in woods when Gonta with you!

Himiko may specialize in grand spectacles, but no mage is worth her wand without knowing a few magic potions. There’s one she keeps handy for curing minor illnesses. It requires a whole chicken, roasted and deboned. Then she forms a dough and cuts it into noodles. For the base she'll need butter, celery, carrots, garlic, assorted spices, and the best chicken stock available. Himiko carefully mixes the concoction, bringing it to a boil before letting it cool. Those uninitiated to her magic circle can’t speak for its curative powers, but they agree it’s the best homemade chicken soup they’ve ever had.

Between his regressive gender attitudes and his inherent machismo, Kaito disregards cooking as girly and undignified. He'll only fix his own meals if there isn’t a female around to do it for him. His grandmother did all the cooking for him, and the only thing he learned from her was not to touch a hot stove. With some reverse psychology—telling Kaito he can’t do something always flips a switch—he might try his hand at “manly” culinary arts like grilling. Don’t try talking him into anything more, or you’ll be subjected to a lengthy diatribe on the superiority of freeze-dried food.

Cooking is a part of the human experience that Kiibo was designed to replicate. He can follow the instructions in a recipe to produce decent meals, but he might not notice if the eggs have gone bad or a malfunctioning broiler has undercooked the fish. His "experiments" to create new dishes humans will enjoy resemble current AI attempts to replicate art and writing. Recent creations include pudding-filled rice balls, beer-battered steak in a strawberry-marmalade reduction, an "eggplant cake" with a peanut-butter glaze, and something called a "chickenloaf" served with bechamel sauce.

She doesn’t make a big deal about it, but Kirumi’s culinary abilities almost match Teruteru's. What she lacks in delicacy and nuance, she makes up for in resourcefulness. Her larder is always stocked with ample supplies of vegetables, pasta, cheese, eggs, beans, and a variety of meats and seafood. This way, Kirumi can fix any number of hearty, energy-packed meals and snacks for important people making important decisions, often late at night. For more formal functions, she is equally capable of finding a suitable caterer or commanding an entire kitchen staff to prepare state dinners.

Any city where D.I.C.E. sets up shop, all the best grocery stores and fine-dining establishments are burglarized within the week. They lose their best cuts of meat, their priciest liquor… and every last bottle of soda. Kokichi's army of merry pranksters marches on its stomach. If he's somehow dragooned into feeding people outside his organization, they can expect "fun" additions and improvizations on whatever's being served. Sorry, Kokichi, but no one else found the creamed spinach-filled-bonbons as funny as you did. Especially considering the spinach was cooked in Carolina Reaper hot sauce.

Korekiyo's world travels have exposed him to the culinary delights of a hundred or more cultures. But as his beanpole physique suggests, food is not a priority for him. He eats whatever's available--since sometimes he's had to eat grubs and insects just to survive or sample utterly vile local delicacies, like live octopus in Korea or surströmming that one time in Sweden. There is this chocolate mille crepe cake he makes, his beloved sister's favorite. Kiyo will occasionally prepare one, but only for very special girls, the kind his sister would have liked…

You need help preparing dinner, and Maki's the only one available. She sighs bitterly, but despite her initial reluctance she immediately sets to work. By the time she's done, she's taken over, preparing omurice for the main with sides of potato salad and yakitori and a giant bowl of zosui. She seals the deal with coconut thumbprint cookies with red bean jam. She confides in you that she used to cook like this all the time for other kids at the orphanage… and honestly, she's just happy to prepare dishes she doesn't have to spike with arsenic or cyanide.

The brilliant inventor Miu Irumi has better things to do than fuck around in the kitchen preparing num-nums for numb-nuts. She has been known to prepare special baked goods for boys she likes--pie with her her hair in it, cookies containing her fingernails, chocolate made with her blood, etc. So maybe it's better for all concerned that she stays in her workshop. She's memorized the numbers of every takeout place in the neighborhood that delivers, so all she has to do is answer the door, wolf down lunch while watching some kiddie show, and then go back to her current project.

Rantaro is basically a teenage Anthony Bourdain, having been a hundred or more places across the globe and picking up at least one recipe or cooking style everywhere he's been. Linguine carbonara from Italy, churrasco from Brazil, pad thai from Thailand, Nashville hot chicken from America… would you care for some jollof rice, and if so do you prefer it Nigerian or Ghanaian style? Rantaro has sworn to prepare all these dishes for his gaggle of sisters once he finally tracks them down--he's come a long way since the days of fixing them riceballs and pancakes.

Ryoma has a few favorite recipes he'll share if asked. They're surprisingly good for someone whose palate has been exposed to a steady diet of prison food. But… you might notice a theme. Turkey meatballs? Salmon patties? Sardine omelettes? And then there's his special tuna and rice. Yep, you're eating homemade cat food, the same recipes Ryoma lovingly prepared for his beloved Russian Blue a lifetime ago. Storebought industrial kibble just wouldn't do. Stop complaining--you've had a full serving of protein, fiber, and vitamin D. At least he didn't sneak a vitamin pill into it.

Tenko's master tried teaching her how to cook, thinking it would encourage focus, discipline, patience, etc. He failed miserably, but some of the cooking lessons stuck. She's particularly good at the art of nabemono--preparing hot pot dishes. She takes care in selecting the appropriate pot, seasoning the stock just right, and picking out only the choicest cuts of meat and vegetables… especially tripe, her favorite of all. If you identify as male, make sure to thank her appropriately after the meal to keep her from knife-handing you in the face.

Anyone can tell you that the fabric and accessories required for serious cosplay cost serious cash. Tsumugi paid those costs and her dues by bartending at various clubs and bars, using a skillful application of makeup to convince employers she was an adult. She's learned how to fix any number of cocktails on demand and she knows a few tricks of the trade, like substituting the cheap stuff for top-shelf liquor once patrons have their buzz on. She can also fix a fair number of pub snacks, especially the salty stuff that makes people thirsty.

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blogfullofemos · 1 year

Text

Ranching?

NSFW 18+ ONLY!!!!

*I DO NOT CONDONE ANY COPYING OF MY WORK*

Ok so this is for the Kinktober Day 2 prompt: Roleplay + Tittyfucking. I'm still working on my Day 1 prompt and let me just say, its a lot of words. But, enjoy this play on words!! Miguel O' Hara is a cowboy and weeellll...

Pairing: Miguel O' Hara x F!reader (POC)

Warnings: dirty talk (I wrote the most filthiest thing that made me question myself), mentions of roughness, mentions of face-fucking, choking (f rec), voyuerism?, and tittyfucking for milk.

Word Count: 1k

Miguel has the utmost respect for women. Really. He does. But you. You are the impediment of his disciplined morality. See, while the “kids” Halloween party was dying out within Spider HQ. You took his hand and brought him to one of the many meeting rooms; locking the door so no one walks in. “Need you to help me.” you say taking off your red cape, since you came as little red riding hood. Miguel nods as he just watches you transform for the adulterated version of the night. Giving him your red cape, he couldn’t help but ogle at your alluring physique. Leaving nothing to the imagination, you wore a cow-print bikini top followed by the smallest of jean shorts with frills. You pull up the straps of your red thong, enunciating your curves, as you zip open your shorts. Giving him a nervous look, you spin slowly, asking in a southern accent “How do I look O’ Hara?”. Miguel’s eyes land at your dangling jeweled-spider piercing at your stomach. Your pudge and love handles finding a home in his ‘spank-bank’ rolodex. The peek-a-boo of red between your jean’s zipper not helping the tension quickly building in his leather pants.

“Miguel.” you whine with a hint of insecurity, hugging yourself. Blinking his eyes rapidly while clearing his throat, “I-Its…..” he trails, his mind short-circuiting. You let out an exhale while shaking away your nerves. Pulling out a headband with cow ears and horns from your back pocket, you place it a top your curls. Miguel raises his brow, “Are you a cow?” he asks.

“Are you a cowboy?” you retort to his simple observation, unlocking the door. He makes a face at your sarcastic remark because yeah that was a stupid question; but could you blame him? Tossing your red cape to rest on his shoulder, his eyes widen when you open the door. Marring your chocolate skin, his fang’s mark rest at the curvature of your neck. The fading sex-capade, recurring as you sported his signature. Walking out the room, it took everything in him to not drag you back. “Be-.” he breathes.

“OKAYYY (your full name)!!! SHOWING THE GIRLS HOW IT SHOULD BE DONE!!” a spiderwoman yells over the blaring music. Drawing attention from the spiders, whistles and cheers reverberate around you two. The spiderwoman runs up to you to take your wrists, quickly pulling you to the pack of spiderwomen stationed at a booth. “CARINO!!” Miguel yells, reaching out for your shoulder and missing. You look back giving him an ‘I’m sorry’ smile while you continue to walk away. Biting his bottom lip, he spots the healing bruise on the left side of your lower back.

30 minutes. It took 30 minutes. A few drinks in with the real cowboy spiderman, Miguel kept his eyes on you. Weaving through swaying bodies, he pulls you into his large frame, his hands on your hip and neck. “Need you now.” he simply states. Closing the door of the limousine, Miguel wastes no time signaling the driver to put up the partition.

You lay on carpeted flooring, your ruddy cheeks expressing the situation at hand. Never mind your runny eyeliner and smeared lipstick. Your petite frame rocks below every groove of his hips. You bare your neck, your veins protruding as you let out a shaky moan of his name. Miguel’s curls sticks to his clammy forehead, cowboy hat still on, he watches his pulsing spit-shined cock pump between your hand covered breasts. Kneeling above you, he ruts powerfully. “Joder… N-need to be. In. You.” he says, putting his hand on the side of your jaw. His thumb rubs your slimy bottom lip as he gives a boyish smirk, evidence of the recent face-fucking tempting his urge to penetrate you. You let out a disapproving whine, “T-told you…. I’m st-ill sore.” you repeat with a raspy voice.

“I.. I know. Just don’t- joder- think I’m going to come… From t-this.” he says. And by Miguel’s calculations, there’s only 20 minutes left. He would definitely need more time in this position. Miguel continues to rut while he sees your face contort in thought.

Suddenly you rip your flimsy bikini top in half, exposing your bouncing breasts as Miguel stutters in movement. He gasps out a Spanish word as he grips your right breast, making you arch your back from the sting as you bite back a moan. You shoot him your most seductive glare as you prepare to send him into ruin. “Your so rough Miggy. W-would’ve let you-fuck-me i-if you didn’t have me…. Bent!!” you moan. Miguel squeezes your breast while biting back a moan, watching you pinch and circle your nipple at the other. “Holding me down. Teaching me how to t-take your cock.” you purr.

“Y-yeah.. And you took it like a good girl, bebita. My. Good. Girl.” he praises, putting his hand back on your jaw and rutting faster.

“But your so big Miggy…. Can s-still feel you when you’re gone.” you pout.

“Fuck, bebita.” he breathes as his hand tightens and untightens from your jaw “But you like that don’t you?? Like how my cock treats you like a sleeve.” he pushes. Your cunt clenches at his unexpected choice of words, a rush of nerves running down your body. “M-Miggy.” you mewl. His hand slides to your neck and you open your mouth slightly, waiting for your breathe to be taken in silent excitement. But he doesn’t. “Mig- please..” you beg.

“Joder bebita…. Keep. Talking.”

“Miguel.”

“M’close. So. Close. Say my name baby.” Miguel says with concentrated brows as he scrunches his eyes closed.

“Choke me Miggy. Por favor papi, por fav-.” you whine but get choked off, causing you to grip his muscular forearm. Miguel grunts as he bites his bottom lip hard, his fangs showing but not puncturing him. His cum spurts out of his redden cock, landing on your chin and his hand. Helping his release, he pumps the rest of his spend on your chest. Loosening the pressure to your neck as he completely finishes. You happen to cough as he moves off of you, sitting back on leather the seats. Catching your bearings, he looks out the tinted window, “5 minutes mi vida.” he informs.

#spiderman 2099 #miguel smut #miguel 2099 #miguel spiderverse #miguel o hara #miguel o'hara #kinktober2023 #kinktober #atsv #atsv miguel #miguel x reader #miguel o hara kinktober #miguel x you

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