#I wish I liked vegetables and fish more

[motherhenna]

I was wondering if any of y'all have some go-to recipes that are super simple and straightforward to make that you'd be interested in sharing? Like meals that require as few steps and prep as possible? I'm trying to make more food at home and avoid highly processed microwave meals, but I lowkey hate cooking, especially when it's just for myself. While my executive dysfunction has definitely improved over the last month, I still very much have depression and ADHD and thus struggle to tackle more labor intensive activities unless there's a lot of dopamine release involved in the process. I obviously want to improve though, and I figure it's about time to stop living off my protein oatmeal. (It's super good tho, fairly nutritious, and really easy to make--just oats, protein powder, peanut butter, and a bit of honey).

I've compiled a bunch of possible recipes over the last few weeks (mostly from blogs listing meal ideas for picky children lmao), but was just curious if any of you had personal favorites of your own. Since I'm just starting out and have a shitty little 1970s apartment kitchen, I'm pretty limited, and don't really like dealing with super perishable ingredients like fresh produce yet. So only bother with sharing the kind of shit a latchkey middle schooler could make on their own lol

feel free to share them in the replies, or you can pm me or send me an ask too if you'd rather do that instead. It's much appreciated, and I'll let you know if I end up making your recipe!

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [1]

series masterlist part one -> minium || part two -> woad and weld

pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold w.c: 4.3k tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description

Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.

Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.

Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.

You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.

"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.

"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.

"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.

"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"

"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."

Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.

He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.

Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.

You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.

The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.

Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.

Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.

"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"

"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."

"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."

You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.

There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.

Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.

Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.

They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.

Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.

Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.

But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.

Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.

Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.

Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?

"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.

"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."

Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.

You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.

A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.

Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.

You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.

His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.

Devils, come to sack the convent.

Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.

You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.

It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.

"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.

The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."

You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.

"Good girl," Skull says.

The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.

Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.

You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.

"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"

"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"

"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.

"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.

It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.

Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.

"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"

A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.

Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.

The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.

Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.

They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.

Yet.

"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.

His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.

Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.

Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.

"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.

"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"

You blanch, breath leaving you.

"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"

"Take 'er."

With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.

"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."

Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.

The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.

You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.

The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.

Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.

"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.

Or ask him for help.

Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.

A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.

Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.

"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.

"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."

"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.

When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?

God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?

"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.

You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.

"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.

"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."

They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.

Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.

It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.

"Ready?"

"Ready!"

Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.

You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.

Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.

You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?

The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.

Blood rushes in your ears again.

You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.

A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.

"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."

You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.

"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."

"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"

"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"

"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."

He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.

"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."

It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.

The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.

"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.

You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.

"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.

The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.

"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"

"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."

"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.

Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.

You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.

Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.

"Here," Simon says. You look up.

In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.

His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.

"For me?" you ask.

"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.

"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.

"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.

Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.

Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.

Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.

When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.

Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.

He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.

"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.

"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"

No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.

Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.

"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."

You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.

You wonder when this journey will end.

Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.

She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.

Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.

"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."

"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.

Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.

"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"

Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.

Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.

Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.

"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.

"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.

"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."

He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.

"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.

Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.

"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."

You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.

"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.

The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.

You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.

The soap is better than the water.

"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.

"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."

"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.

"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."

The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.

"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.

The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.

"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.

The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.

"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.

"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"

"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"

"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.

You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.

Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.

"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."

[hxney-lemcn]

Old Gods — deity! Vil Schoenheit x gn! reader

summery: a mortal has stumbled upon an abandoned shrine, only to find that the God of beauty and love still resides.

tw: power dynamic? I mean he's literally a God so no matter what I think there's gonna be an unbalanced power dynamic. Otherwise this is just fluff lol. religious themes as well but that was a given.

a/n: inspired from @ceruleancattail and their deity au! I had to do one on Vil because I love him sm <3

wc: 1.1k

Master List

Vil could do nothing but watch as less and less people trickled into his shrine. When the last few had switched to the newer deity he could feel his anger simmer, growing hotter and hotter with each praise of the beloved Neige. That anger festered over the years as the new deity soaked up the attention. Vil’s shrine had started to crumble, vines taking over the now ancient temple. He had no idea what people saw in Neige. The good for nothing tried too hard, unable to please all his followers yet still they flock to him. Vil had half the mind to get rid of the mockery, but before he could put his plan into play a strange mortal had lost their way.

At least, Vil thought you may have been lost. The path to his shrine had become overrun by vegetation, and besides, who would even remember his shrine’s existence? Everyone was too busy trying to please Neige to pay the older God a second thought. Yet you had looked upon his broken down temple in awe, hands gliding over the ivory pillars that held chips, fingers gently holding a few ivy leaves to inspect. At first, Vil tried not to think too deeply about how he felt his shoulders relax in your presence, or how he watched you with just as much curiosity as you held for his sacred land. He tried not to question why his heart leapt when your eyes landed on his now decrepit statue, how your eyes wandered over the marble that had hoya carnosa’s trailing up his visage. At the very least they were in bloom, the pale pink flowers accentuating his beauty. 

“Beautiful,” You whispered out as you kneeled before his shrine. Shrugging off your bag, Vil watched as you dug through it, eyebrows scrunched as you searched for what you wanted. It was that moment that Vil realized how much he missed this. How much he took for granted his previous followers, growing more snarky and ignoring their wishes. Perhaps his downfall was his own doing…but he could never forgive that cheesy buffoon for taking advantage of his mistakes. Yet you, a mere mortal, nearly had a God on his knees, something he would never admit out loud. 

A bright smile overtook your face as you fished out some flowers along with some incense. After you lit the incense, you clasped your hands and bowed your head. Your wishes had rung through his head, and when you finished, you surprisingly didn’t leave right away. No, instead you spoke.

“I’m not sure if you’re real,” You stated, the sun painting your face perfectly. “But I had read a lot about you and wanted to see your shrine for myself. It's a shame this temple is left alone, it's absolutely breathtaking. If you are real, thank you for listening to my troubles, I’m sorry to bother you. I don’t have anywhere else, and Lord Neige has no time for a commoner like me.”

As you stood up, Vil felt his heart plummet. He didn’t want you to leave just yet, please stay. Yet he kept himself hidden, not wanting to scare you off. As you left, you felt just a bit better, at least you got your problems off your chest, and you had found your own sanctuary to hide out in. 

Vil thought that would be the last he saw off you, but he appreciated the incense and flowers nonetheless. Yet the incense burnt out after a few hours, and the flowers started to wilt after a few days. Still, you had managed to surprise the deity as you came back, a new batch of flowers in your hands. So in turn, he had decided to bless you, his silly little mortal. As you rested the flowers before his statue and kneeled, he decided to reveal himself. When you opened your eyes, you were startled when you saw the most beautiful man you had ever seen. He seemed familiar at first, and when your gaze rose to the statue that's when it clicked. It was none other than Vil, God of beauty, love. 

He couldn’t help but smirk at your awe, relishing in your newfound devotion. “Hello dear,” Vil greeted, lilac eyes watching your every expression with pride. “What do you wish to share with me today?”

Opening and closing your mouth, you had no idea what to say. A God stood before you, what was the proper protocol? You shouldn’t be staring at him should you? What if you said something that would cause him to smite you and your entire lineage? Your cheeks felt warm when he smiled down at you, and you held your breath as he drew closer, sitting on the altar that you currently kneeled before.

“No need to be scared,” He hummed, his voice soothing you in ways you didn’t know could be soothed. “You are the first mortal to step foot in my temple, let alone leave offerings at my altar in a century. The least I could do is lend an ear, no?”

“You’re so pretty,” You mumbled without realizing it. You seemed to snap out of it when Vil let out a small chuckle, greatly amused at your praise. Yet it also affected him more than he’d like to think about.

“Of course,” Vil smiled, something he hasn’t done in so long that it felt strange. “I wouldn’t be the God of beauty if I didn’t look the part.”

“R-right,” You stumbled, looking anywhere but him. Oh what a sight for sore eyes. “I-I can’t believe you’re real…” Vil only watched on as your brain struggled to believe the current scenario, and he took the time to admire you. In your prayers, wishes of looking beautiful and wishes to be loved had rung clear, yet Vil failed to understand why. You were nowhere near as beautiful as him, and you could use some touch ups, but for a mortal you were quite stunning.

After that day you had started to visit regularly. Now that you knew a lonely God was awaiting you, how could you keep him waiting? Every time he’d give you a lotion, serum, accessories, clothing…it seemed the more you visited the more extravagant the gifts became. When you wore something he gifted you he’d shower you with praise, if you kept up with your skin care routine he’d gently run his fingers over your skin, sharp eyes shining with affection. You turned from becoming his pet project to becoming something more, and you had never felt more loved than when your God treated you as something more than just a mere mortal, but someone who was not only worthy of his attention, but longed for yours.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for 🦄; Billy adopts Conner and it actually goes pretty good! (( chrono || non-chrono ))

They take the cookbooks into the kitchen together and page through them, leaving Tawky on the couch to read, and Billy compares some recipes with some other recipes and also with what’s in the kitchen, and Lynn spends most of the conversation frowning and not really saying much, like, definitive stuff. But also Lynn doesn’t know what about ninety-nine point nine percent of literally all food in existence tastes like, so Billy’s not really surprised by that. Cadmus taught him how to cook, but didn’t teach him how anything actually tasted. 

Thinking about that, Billy is very, very strongly reminded of them teaching Lynn how to read, but not ever telling him any stories. 

He does kind of wonder why they taught Lynn how to cook and drive, though. Reading makes more sense, if they wanted him to be able to file mission reports and read mission briefings and stuff like that, but cooking and driving don’t really seem like . . . well . . . 

A weapon wouldn’t need to cook or drive, right? They’d just be . . . supplied, or deployed, or . . . like, they wouldn’t get taught how to do anything that they could do to take care of themself, or live outside a lab, or . . . 

Yeah. That’s a little weird, now that Billy’s thinking of it. He wonders if . . . well, he’s not sure what he’s wondering, exactly. 

But he’s wondering, he guesses. 

Lynn sorts through all the meat in the fridge by its expiration dates, which is really smart, Billy thinks–though Lynn gets embarrassed again when he says so–and then sorts the vegetables by what should last the longest, apparently. Then he takes out the salmon and asparagus and some little red potatoes and puts it all on the kitchen island and–hesitates, sort of, and glances at Billy. 

Billy kind of wishes it weren’t so obviously a question, but at least they’re communicating better, he figures. 

Or hopes, anyway. 

“That looks good,” he says, peering at the food, and a little bit of tension leaves Lynn’s shoulders. “I don’t think I’ve had salmon before. Is it hard to cook?” 

“. . . I don’t know,” Lynn says stiffly, looking away. Billy blinks, confused, and then realizes–right. Lynn knows how to cook, but he’s never actually done it. 

“Oh, okay,” he says. “Well, we can try it and find out, then.” 

Lynn frowns a little, then glances back at him. 

“You’ve never had salmon?” he asks skeptically. “. . . do you not eat at all, then, or . . . ?” 

“I mean, I do,” Billy says, trying not to sound awkward or defensive about it. Lynn’s just asking because he doesn’t know, after all. “Just not a lot, I guess.” 

Is salmon a weird thing not to have eaten before? He’s more used to, like, fish sticks and breaded haddock and stuff like that. Just whatever frozen stuff the latest fosters bought in bulk and popped in the oven, basically. So really he guesses he hasn’t eaten much fresh fish at all, actually. Not since–

Well. It’s just been a long time. That’s all. 

. . . a really long time.

[olderthannetfic]

One thing I wish more people understood is that a calorie is not a real thing, it's a unit of measure. Calories are just a measure of how much energy a human body can obtain from digesting a food.

I've seen people talk about calories as if they're a contaminent, like mercury in fish or something. As if "zero calories" is both healthy and humanly possible.

With the right lab equipment, you could separate out the fat, sugar, protien, fiber, vitamins, salt, etc. in a food and look at them, weigh them, measure them, poke them a stick. These are real things that actually exist. You can't separate out the calories. You find out how many calories are in a serving by doing math about how an average human digestive system processes the components of a food.

A "low calorie" food is just a food that you get less energy from. That's all it is. It isn't nessecarily healthier, it doesn't nessecarily have more nutrients. It certainly isn't more "pure" or "clean". It's just a less efficient fuel, that's all.

Vegetable oil and refined sugar are high calorie because our bodies can wring an absurd amount of energy from them. They're less healthy than other foods because they have fewer nutrients in them, not because they're "full of" evil calories.

--

This one poor youtuber I watch has to explain that her "healthy" foods are intensely calorie-rich because she physically cannot eat large volumes. She's got to be efficient. That doesn't make it a good approach for someone who wants the feeling of teeth crunching on a snack all day and night. Celery is ideal for the latter, but woe to the idiot who thinks eating mostly celery is going to make them healthy. You need fuel, people! Celery is an adult pacifier for people who can't stop clenching their jaw while they write. (It's me. I'm people.)

[corroded-hellfire]

OMG Wait for thé As You Wish baby Eliza idea fics I was thinking about something like this: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRTyDcC5/

All of the Munson family is on the floor lined up and cooing at baby Eliza to crawl/walk towards one of them to see who she favors more.

Eliza Munson is now an obsession of mine. I love her almost as much as Eddie does. @munson-blurbs and I had so much fun (as we always do together) writing this and having the little Munson family get weird and have fun 🩷

Words: 1.2k

[As You Wish masterlist]

“Come on, Eliza,” Luke says with a sigh. He pulls out the chair next to her highchair and plops down in it. “Why won’t she just eat it?”

“Would you want to eat strained peas?” Ryan asks, brandishing the label on the baby food jar at his little brother. “It probably tastes worse than normal peas.”

Luke hops up and dips his pinky into the jar. He sticks it in his mouth and immediately pulls it right back out. His face scrunches up in repulsion and he makes a gagging sound. “Yep. Definitely worse.”

“Don’t make that face in front of her!” Ryan chides. “She’ll never want to eat it!”

But the little giggles from the highchair have both boys turning to look at their sister. Her big eyes are focused on Luke as he makes his face of disgust. 

“You think that’s funny, huh?” Luke says, leaning in towards the nine-month-old. “You like when I make silly faces?” He puckers his lips together like a fish, which has Eliza giggling even harder. “You love me so much, don’t you?” Luke swore he’d never cave in and use the baby-talk voice that everyone else uses with his sister, but that didn’t last very long. Now he uses it almost every time he talks to her. 

“All right, Eliza,” Ryan says, bringing a small spoonful of the unappetizing green baby food up towards her lips. “You gonna have some food now? Have some yummy lunch?”

“Don’t lie to her,” Luke says, making Ryan roll his eyes. 

“Don’t listen to him,” Ryan tells the baby. “Gonna open up? Yeah, there you go.” Eliza holds her tiny mouth open long enough for Ryan to feed her the peas. Eliza makes a face at the unpleasant taste on her tongue and smacks her lips together a few times, but she doesn’t spit it out. 

“Yes!” Ryan cheers. “I did it! I got her to eat her vegetables.”

“Well, yeah,” Luke says with a scoff. “Because I made her laugh.”

“She laughs at anything. The other day, I unzipped my coat and she laughed so hard that she farted,” Ryan retorts, bringing another small spoonful of peas to his sister’s lips. 

Luke pouts, sticking his tongue out at Ryan. “You’re just jealous because I’m obviously her favorite.”

“Ha! In your dreams.”

“Wanna bet?”

That’s how you and Eddie find your three children sprawled out on the family room floor. Luke and Ryan are on one side, and Eliza’s on the other. 

“C’mon! Come over here!” Ryan calls out, motioning the baby towards him. “You can do it, Eliza!”

“Do I even wanna know what you two are up to?” Eddie asks, smirking at the boys. 

“Trying to see which one of us is her favorite,” Luke casually replies, as though this is a normal occurrence. 

“Ah, well, at least you’re not training her for some sort of horse racing thing with babies,” Eddie laughs, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “Anyway, don’t worry about who her favorite is.”

“She loves us equally,” you remind them with a patient smile. 

But Eddie rolls his eyes playfully. “Uh, no. I was gonna say that they don’t need to worry about it because I’m clearly the favorite.”

“Ha!” you bark out. “Remember whose body housed her for nine months and produced food for her. I literally gave her life. Therefore, I should be the favorite.”

“You should be,” Eddie says, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his eyes, “however, you’ve neglected to account for the fact that she’s a total daddy’s girl.”

Ryan’s next to speak up. “Well, I’m the one who named her. If you left it up to Luke, we’d be calling her Squidward.”

“Only if she was a boy!” Luke protests. “Besides, I make her laugh the most. She knows I’m funny, so I’m her favorite.”

Eddie turns to you. “I think there’s only one way to settle this,” he says with a shrug. 

“I think so,” you agree. Turning towards the boys, you motion for them to scoot down so that you can get down on the floor next to them. Eddie scoops up Eliza from where she’d wandered over towards the toy box in the corner of the room. He straightens the tiny black Metallica shirt she’s wearing and sits her down in the middle of the room. 

“Here we go,” he says, pressing a kiss to her head before coming over to get on the ground next to you. “Okay, on the count of three, everyone start calling for her. Ready? One, two, three.”

“Come on, baby!” you call, making grabby hands for your daughter.

“Eliza! C’mere to Daddy, baby girl!”

“Hey, hey, Eliza!” Luke coos. “Over here!”

“You know you love your big brother Ryan! Come here!”

Eliza stays seated in her spot, her eyes roaming over her four family members, wondering what in the hell they are doing. She’s seen some weird things in her nine months, but never this. 

“Luke, stop making funny faces. You’re distracting her!” Ryan says.

“I’m trying to get her to come over here!” he responds. 

The baby finally pushes herself into a crawling position and starts to move. The four older family members practically hold their breath as they wait to see in what direction she’s headed. Eliza veers to the right, headed towards Eddie. Her father lets out an evil, triumphant laugh and grins as she gets closer. 

“That’s right, baby. Show them Daddy is your favorite.” But then her movements pause, and Eliza begins to head towards her mother.

“Yes!” you say, encouragingly. “That’s my sweet girl!” You shoot a smirk over your shoulder at Eddie. “You were saying?” 

Eliza starts crawling towards you, but Ryan starts drumming his hands against the carpet and that catches her attention. Her course once again changes, and she heads towards her brothers.

“No!” you say. “Don’t betray me! My only daughter!”

“Uh, mine too, ya know,” Eddie says from the other side of you. “Eliza, remember who always sings you to sleep.” He launches into the chorus of “Enter Sandman,” headbanging while the little girl giggles. 

Your heart sinks as Eliza starts towards him, but she immediately stops crawling when she hears the knock at the door and sits back on her diaper-padded bottom. 

“That must be Wayne,” Eddie says. He’d invited him over for dinner, and the older man never turns down an opportunity to see his grandkids. “Come in!” he calls out, not moving from his spot on the floor. 

The doorknob twists as Wayne enters, heavy-footed in steel-toed boots. His gaze is drawn immediately to the five of you on the floor. 

“What on God’s green Earth did I walk into?”

Luke’s the only one not remotely embarrassed. “Trying to see who Eliza loves the most,” he casually explains. 

Before Wayne can formulate a response, the baby does an about-face and crawls directly to him. She sits at his feet, making grabby hands and whining so he’ll pick her up. 

“Huh,” Wayne says with a grin. “Wouldja look at that.  Seems like Miss Eliza chose me!”

The rest of you groan and grumble, erupting into a chorus of not fairs. 

“Does this mean that Grampa Wayne is her favorite?” Luke asks, unable to hide his envy. 

Wayne laughs, tickling his granddaughter’s feet. “C’mon, you didn’t need a competition to know that!”

Eliza claps her hands together clumsily in agreement. 

“The princess has spoken,” Eddie begrudgingly agrees. A glint of mischief flickers across his deep brown eyes as he looks at his uncle. “Unfortunately, the prize is changing her diaper. And, uh, she’s really been into prunes lately, so…” he claps a hand on Wayne’s back. “Congrats!”

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 6

A/N: God, I just replayed Måneskin The Loneliest on a 10-hour repeat while writing this. Some warning of language and hinted sexual wording, but more of the case it's just Alucard being mentally a teenager.

Summary: Teasing ensues, history is unlocked, and questions begin to be asked and answered.

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Chapter 6

“Let me help you with that.”

The vegetables from Alucard’s garden had flourished and it brought in bountiful meals for the both of you to share. The pantry had grown with a wide array of vegetables, fish and sometimes certain meats Alucard had gathered whilst hunting. It had become a routine for him to hunt and you to help when you could, and share mealtimes and cook with one another.

“Thank you.” He murmured, his fingers were in the dirt when he scooped out another carrot, gathering it into his basket whilst you helped pull another potato. Your hands would occasionally touch accidentally, mistaking one another for the root vegetable, laughing it awkwardly off.

Your days in the castle were dwindling, and you could not forget the promise Alucard had given to you. Sanctuary from the outside world would soon meet you, and you would have to find your way away from Wallachia. You didn’t want to think much of it, despite it being on your mind daily and when you went to sleep. Where would you go anyways? One that looked like you was very hard to find, especially with the rise of witches being burnt by the Catholic church.

Your spell studies came with ease the more you practised, tending to forget about sleep in the early hours of the night when Alucard came and reminded you that it was better to rest with a clear mind. But you knew it was for the best: whatever was out there, you had to be ready, no matter what.

“Spring will surely come.” You spoke after some time, gathering what was necessary and slowly making your way back inside the castle. The days had still been short, nights long and air chilled that you had to wrap closely with the necessary clothes Alucard had been nice to give you. “I look forward to the warmer weather.”

“I hope it brings new beginnings,” says Alucard, “Spring represents rebirth after all.”

You can tell he’s speaking about himself in some way, that there’s some part of him that wants to move past whatever had occurred with the twins, but you know there is something that slumbers deep within, dormant and not ready to resurface.

You also wish to tell him that your time with him is dwindling, to remind him that you will not be able to stay much longer due to your promise and that one hurts within you. No matter how rocky your beginnings were, you have grown fond of the Dhampir, and you’re worried there is something within Alucard that will be thankful to see you gone, to grow recluse once more.

“Perhaps you’ll be able to bring in new stock from nearby towns,” you suggest, but your words do not include you within them. Alucard seems quiet, though you notice that something lurks within his honey-coloured eyes. “I suppose bringing in new stock would help liven our food when we can stray away from soups.”

“Soups are very nutritious! It’s the perfect time to have them this time of year.”

“They are,” he chuckles softly, “only if you’re elderly or lacking teeth. Or both.”

You hear his playful tone, though you’re quick to tease him back, “Not something you can sink your teeth into?”

“I’m in no need to feed on blood,” he specifies, and you catch the glint of his sharp fangs when he speaks that keep you hypnotised to them. “It is not something that I need to give me constant substance.”

It makes sense why you haven’t seen him have a glass of red for dinner, more so just the regular kind or white that you both share. It does bring questions to flood your mind: if he doesn’t need blood and can eat regular food, does he still need it as if it’s a last-minute option?

Would you bite into my neck, or have you ever thought about doing so? You want to ask him, but the question remains glued in the back of your mind, forever locked there in case you offend him. You do not doubt that he would’ve ripped your throat out at your first encounter, though is it an occurring thought to him? Does he catch looking at your pulse from time to time? Does he look at your neck, hear your heartbeat and ponder the thought?

“It’s a good thing you’re only half then,” you grinned sheepishly, following into the kitchen to prep the vegetables for dinner. “Like how I am only part witch, not even one who found her true potential.”

“Half is better than nothing at all,” he adds, handing you the knife as he saunters off to the sink, grinning back at you with the smallest of smirks, “You’re still fully human and those vegetables need chopping, little witch.”

You groan which only brings both of you to laugh at the expense, “Yes, chef.”

-

When you find time before dinner and after chopping veg, you spend time in the library, practising to perfect the craft of astral projection. You're rather proud of yourself and don’t freak out as much as you did the first few times. You find you happen to do it more often in your sleep, floating just above your sleeping form as you float around your room. The first time you realise you can still study whilst in an astral form is game-changing: you can study at the desk, whilst not even feeling one bit exhausted from an entire night of reading.

You also find a spell that brings you to contemplate what right you should use on someone. You think you would do it to yourself one day, but the thought brings you to feel guilt more than anything else, especially if Alucard finds out. Instead, you keep it hidden under your pillow, ready one day you decide out of morbid curiosity.

When you’re not reading into the late hours of the night, you’re floating through the castle, like a ghost haunting the halls. You find the castle at night, in the depths of utter darkness are the most haunting, and you’re frightened by the darkened portraits that stare back at you as you go by.

You stick to the rooms you know, opting to float in the hallway as you contemplate if Alucard is still awake at this hour. His room is not far from you, but you always promise yourself you keep to his words and not venture in there, regardless if he’s in a state of consciousness or not.

It’s after dinner when Alucard hands you a cloak, his words gentle as he holds out a guiding hand to you. “I’d like to show you something.”

“Outside?” You say aloud, and Alucard chuckles lightly at your disbelief. “We won’t be attacked by night creatures, will we?”

“Not with me around.” He says, and you watch his longsword fling itself from one part of the castle into his holster. You’re thankful he has it to protect himself and you from whatever is out there, and also more thankful you don’t see it so often when you’re with him.

You both step out and the chill greets you and travels down your dress, making you quietly gasp, clinging to Alucard as if he’s the shield to keep you protected from all. You awkwardly step a bit further from him, but he does not say anything.

“What is out here that is of interest to you?” You ask though you would rather be indoors by the fire, rather than shivering into the night’s air.

Alucard doesn’t say anything as he leads you just beyond his garden, close to the forest but not too far that you cannot see the castle. He stops by a river, letting go of your hand as he turns back to you. “Wait here, the surprise is here.”

“Wait, where are you going?” You ask, and the fear heightens within you, like a tendril that gasps and pulls at your heart, making its way like icy death. He can’t be serious, can he? But from having known Alucard for nearly three weeks, in such a short amount of time, anything he’s said and meant, he’s been serious in doing.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he reassures, and his golden eyes seem to be glowing in the darkness of the trees. They are the only things you can see when your eyes are failing to adjust to the darkness. “I promise it to you.”

You believe him, he’s your only protection after all, and you sit by the river when you hear his figure leave, but you cannot hear him. You’re shivering either from the cold or fear alone, and the seconds feel like minutes the more you wait.

Your fear has spiked when you’re listening closely to the noises of the outside: of the water trickling, the crickets chirping, the wind that howls and the snapping of a twig close by

You jolt up, survival instincts kick in and you feel like a deer almost caught in a trap, eyes looking everywhere and anywhere they can seen within ten feet of you.

“Alucard?” You rasp, and you hug yourself more when you hear no response.

Oh fuck.

You’re trying to listen closely, but all sounds blend as one as you debate whether running back to the castle is your safest option. If it’s a night creature, you’re dead and you don’t think running from one would be beneficial to you, knowing full well that it could outrun you.

Would Alucard be able to run to catch up with you?

Whilst you’re debating what to do, something else catches your attention, and from just across where the river bends, you see something that has emerged from the bushes. Your body freezes, and you traverse to that time in your youth when you’re staring down those eyes, fangs flashing as you run as fast as your legs can carry you.

Your breathing has hitched as you take in the figure, and realise… it’s massive.

Despite the darkness, you see that its fur is white, its legs are powerful and could easily outrun you. It’s majestic, powerful and evermore agile and dangerous than any creature you’ve encountered. Your eyes trail up from its legs, up past its huge torso and up to its head, eyes staring back at you with the same inquisitiveness you had staring back at it.

Golden eyes that had engulfed the sun.

“Easy.” You say aloud, and the wolf doesn’t do anything but stare back, watching with as much hesitation as you show in your body language. You’re certain it’s not going to attack you: just from how its ears are pinned back and it's not snarling at you as a threat.

It’s only with the minutes ticking by, that you realise, oh, God, it’s approaching.

“Whoa, erm… stay back.” You warn, but it falls on deaf ears when it crosses the small path in the river, coming as close as it can towards you. Even whilst you sit on a slope, it’s towering over you, and you can only do is stare back into its eyes, soulful, wise eyes.

It takes two and two to be put together, and then you’re saying aloud, “Alucard?”

The wolf huffs as if to respond ‘finally’, slouching next to you, his large body slumping to rest against you, sniffing your hand before resuming to rest his head on your lap. You freeze, before your hands come up to experimentally run through his fur. You gasp in surprise, giggling to yourself as you gain the Dhampir’s attention.

“You never told me how soft you were.” You ran your hands just over his snout, above his brow line and in between his ears, which earns him to snort before he relaxes more into you. Your other hand is stroking down his back and across his broad chest, cooing to tease him further.

“Aww, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”

Alucard – if at this moment was human – huffed in a moment to stop your antics, and you could only laugh knowing you had embarrassed him with your words. It wasn’t long before the Dhampir you knew was back in front of you, glaring at you with those familiar golden eyes.

“Very funny,” his cheeks are a pink hue but he’s thankful you can’t notice within the twilight. “You enjoyed that too much.”

“You’re cute as a wolf.” You add, and you erupt into laughter as Alucard covers his face, groaning from further humiliation.

“Oh, my God.” Alucard is rasping between laughs, his eyes glossy compared to the moonlight that shines above, “I’ll never hear the end of this.”

“Nope, you will now be called ‘little wolf’.”

“Oh, god, no.”

“Ooh, or how about ‘little pup’?”

“That’s even worse,” you’re laughing with one another and the atmosphere is lively and warm despite the chill that surrounds you. It feels as if you’ve known Alucard your entire life, and it’s just you two in the universe.

“How did you know you could do that?” You ask when you can finally speak again.

“It just happened one day,” he hummed. “My father has always been a powerful man, and the gifts he carried over his lifetime he shared through to me naturally. I think that day it happened, I gave my mother quite the fright.”

“I can imagine.” You laugh sadly. “It’s still amazing that The Dracula fell in love with a human woman. Dhampirs are a rare occurrence, some not living as long as you into adulthood.”

“It amazes me too,” Alucard agreed with the words as if it had been in his mind the moment he came into the world. “I suppose I was just lucky.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here though,” you add, trying to hide the way you blush from your compliment, though it hangs in indignity by your words. “I mean—here in this moment, not you know—"

“You’re lucky my parents… copulated?” He teases.

“Oh, God, Alucard, you’re not an eighty-year-old man. You can say use a more natural term for it.” You’re next to copy him by burying your face into your hands. You can’t believe you’re having this conversation with him in the first place!

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this tongue-tied,” he eases, nudging your shoulder to look back at him. “It’s amusing.”

Your heart hammers in your chest and you shamelessly make out the shape of his lips in the twilight, the way they’re curved in a soft smile. Looking away before you’re caught, you’re certain he’s noticed but does not say anything.

He’s quick to change the subject, directing it to you this time. “Tell me more about your mother, what was her origin?”

You’re surprised, he’s never been one to ask about your origin, for you didn’t think it mattered. “Well, my mama was fairly young when she had me, I think around the age of sixteen. I didn’t know much about my father or who he was. Mama told me our people came from Cabo Branco in Africa. They were taken by the Portuguese and shipped to their land, where I assume some managed to find their way east, as far as Wallachia. My father, I assume, was fully Wallachian, though I don’t know what his relation was to my mother.”

Alucard listens attentively to your words, only asking questions when necessary. “Do you think… he kept her as his property?” He asks quietly.

“Perhaps,” you hug yourself, “she was young after all, relying on him for shelter and food, and I have no doubt he was the reason she fled with her life away from him.”

Alucard hums in thought. “You sisters… tell me about them.”

“Oh, they came from everywhere.” You seem a bit more comforted to talk about them, though you mourn them just as much as your mother. “Some were slaves, fleeing with their mothers, sisters and daughters. They established themselves in Wallachia a few centuries back, a powerful coven that had spread across Europe. But their numbers dwindled over time. Vampires and witches have never liked one another, and one day, one vampire decided he was to lead an army to dimmish their power, and their numbers. They were halved to what they were originally, further hiding themselves and isolating from the land in fears of being caught.”

Alucard’s words aren’t that smooth and soft, rather raspy and hoarse. “This vampire, was he-”

“Yes, your father, Dracula.”

“I… apologise,” he consoles, and it takes you by surprise. “I apologise on his behalf for what he did to your people. Many have suffered from my father’s hands, and yet, it feels odd to call him my father.”

“He was regardless of everything, Alucard, was your father.” You comforted, reaching to take his hand into yours. “Mourn the father he was, not the man he was known for.”

Alucard is taken aback by your words, and for a moment, you believe you will see him cry just from the softness of his eyes. “Thank you, it has taken some time to remember my father as what my mother saw him as. A scientist, a traveller, a loyal husband and father.”

The two of you sat in content for a moment, staring out at the river, listening to the calmness of the night. You could feel Alucard’s gaze fixated on you from the corner of your peripheral as if he wanted to confess something to you.

“My mother named me Adrian, for she did not like the name of Alucard used to compare me to Dracula.” He mused, squeezing your hand gently. “I’d very much like you to call me that too.”

Rouge reached your face as you nodded, knowing that you would keep your promise, despite the despair in your heart growing, knowing one day, you would never see him again.

“It’s a lovely name, Adrian.”

[soilaluna]

how jjk men propose (out of the blue) gojo & toji x f!reader extreme fluffiness 1.6k w

gojo loathes routine. the only thing he's willing to drown in is crowded parties, one-night stands, and unlimited beverages. but not routine —nuh-uh (never). he can think of a thousand reasons why engaging in the same activities with monotonous regularity is unhealthy, crazy, and out of the question for him.

but then you introduce yourself. and you sweep him off his feet in a matter of weeks. then, in just in a couple of months, you drag him into your silly, meticulous routine and he thinks: there's no way he's going to pull through that relationship. he gives the two of you a couple of more weeks, at the most —if he survives dinner at 7 o'clock, if he can endure cleaning the house religiously on sundays, if he can keep taking the dog out for a walk every damn night before going to sleep.

but slowly, very surely, he has a change of heart. and suddenly he finds himself asking you to go out for a jog as soon as the sun comes out. and it's him who starts cooking at 5:45 pm so the dinner is ready just on time before you leave work. and grocery shopping —he loves those. he loves them with you. he adores the little rituals now his just as yours. and he wants them for much longer —forever if it's possible.

he realizes so while both of you are in the supermarket.

you're asking him something about some vegetables. he's clutching a plant of lettuce in his hand when he spits out, "i want this."

you tilt your head. you obviously have no clue what he's referring to cause you inquire, "you want... what? rocket or chicory? cause i find chicory disgustingly bitter."

and so, satoru chuckles, shakes his head, and adds, "no, not that, dummy. this. doing stuff. with you —for the rest of my life. our life, if you let me."

to his heartfelt confession, you answer with silence. it's just a few seconds of disquiet, but for satoru they go by like centuries. people walk around you, and there's too much noise (someone even asked him at one point to move his cart out of the way) but he's solely focused on your narrowed eyes and oh, no.

he royally fucked up.

he acted on impulse and didn't stop to think once about everything else: your own wishes, the proposal —because who the fuck proposes in a supermarket? (someone who doesn't want to hear a yes, obviously).

so, naturally, he panics. he opens and closes his mouth like a fish. he knows what he wants to say —we can wait, we don't have to marry at all, please don't panic, runaway and leave me— yet he can't word a single thought. he hadn't even properly asked! what reaction was he expecting from you?

but then (so merciful) you speak —not quite literally. you just wrap your arms around his neck and smash your lips against his. and oh, no kiss from you has ever felt sweeter. you mouth no words but the message is clear as water and it's so perfect. his hasty decision makes sense, by then. you never asked for anything more than an honest love.

he presses the palms of his hands against your back and hugs you tight against him. seconds go by, minutes —one, three, five. he doesn't count, he doesn't care.

it's not until someone passes by him and coughs that he puts his feet back on the ground. he's about to whine about the devastating interruption but adoration gleams in your toothy smile and wide, bright eyes and there is no way he can waste his attention on anyone else.

"so," you tease, "does this mean we have to plan a fancier dinner?"

(satoru rolls his eyes and then he goes for another kiss).

/

the upper floor is all chatter and laughter while toji's downstairs, in the kitchen, chopping meat for lunch.

he peeps the clock: you've officially been kidnapped by tsumiki and megumi for over an hour. he doesn't know what they're up to but he wouldn't dare stick his head up the stairs —not again, at least. he had already asked once if he could join them and megumi—with his usual, amusing blank stare—practically slammed the door in his face (tsumiki added a scream in the background, go away, dad!). and so, he was relegated to fulfilling the mere role of a chef while wondering just what the hell his kids were doing with his girlfriend.

a few more minutes pass before tsumiki finally speaks to him again.

"dad!"

toji covers the simmering pot before he turns around, "what?"

his daughter pokes her head between the stair railings. "c'mere" once toji gets closer, she adds, hushed, "i just wanna say that this is my idea and my idea only. she didn't want to do it 'cause she thought you'd get mad so please, please, pleaaaaase don't get mad."

toji raises an eyebrow —now he's really intrigued about what they'd been up to. tsumiki always behaved. she knows where the lines are drawn and never bothers to cross them. so whatever they've done, whatever had his daughter worried enough to apologize in advance, must be serious.

"ok?" he falters.

tsumiki whips her head to her right and calls out, "all good!"

megumi instantly appears and positions himself at the top of the stairs. he coughs a couple of times and not a second later, the most out-of-tune version of 'here comes the bride' comes out of his mouth.

slowly, you appear in the line of toji's vision. you respect the typical rhythm of a bride's entrance. one step —pause. another step —pause. one step —pause.

toji's eyes glimmer as he takes you in: your dress is made up of one of the kids' bedsheets, it hugs you loosely over your chest. the silver plastic crown you're wearing —he remembers buying it for tsumiki at a carnival fair not long ago. your holding an improvised bouquet of fresh flowers, so fresh he can see the roots from where he stands (he bets megumi has ripped them out from miss ayumi's garden) (he'd make sure his son apologized later). and the makeup —geez. he'd never seen you wear so much blush and red lipstick. you looked like one of those vintage porcelain dolls but —oh.

if only you knew how exquisite you looked.

you were pouring light everywhere. even if you felt uncomfortable, even if you felt insecure (toji could read you like an open book by now).

"what's the matter, doll?" he inquires.

your eyes bounce between the stairs, the walls, the kids. everywhere else but him.

"tsumiki wanted to play, i told her that it could be —y'know... "

too much? yeah. maybe some time ago.

(he could see why you were freaking out).

the first time you tip-toed around the idea of marriage—a little over a year after you had started dating—was the last time you ever did. it was just a silly comment you had made while you were watching a travel tv show —the couple on-screen was on their honeymoon. you asked him then what his ideal honeymoon location would be.

"for what? 's not like i intend to have one again".

and you never brought up the conversation ever again.

he knew his response had been blunt and unfair. but he'd thought—thanks to his brutish lack of understanding—that it was better to be straightforward and not misleading. the least he wanted was to fuck up what you both had.

(but he did fuck up. greatly).

and only now he had realized it.

there was no one else but you. he already had been gifted a second chance (with you, with love) —and life was often too callous to gift third opportunities. he didn't consider himself a smart man, but he'd be the stupidest human on earth if he wasted another second.

he wanted to marry you (and if he was lucky enough, you'd still want to marry him too, after all).

toji meets you halfway up the stairs. he leaves a couple of steps in between, just enough for him to kneel on one knee.

you look at him with a bent brow, your head is tilted but still, you manage to grin as you ask, "what are you doing?"

"what does it look like?" he questions back, "marry me".

you let out a nervous chuckle, clearly not believing what is happening. "what?"

"what you just heard. marry me, baby. for real." tsumiki immediately lets out a shrill and starts clapping and jumping. "i don't —i don't have a ring right now but i'll get one for ya. and we'll get you a real dress. and the kids will be dressed up all nice and pretty. just the four of us... what do ya think?"

toji waits, in dreadful silence. the second thoughts arrive in a second. maybe he should've prepared everything better. maybe you wanted something special. maybe he had let you down—once again— and suddenly this impulsive decision felt idiotic and absurd. of course, you deserved better. of course, you knew this and he wouldn't blame you if you said—

"yes".

yes.

he thinks he's daydreaming for a second but then—as if you could sense his dubiety—you repeat, louder. "yes!"

yes, yes, yes. you said yes.

your eyes are crystalline, filled to the brim with tears. your smile is as wide and beautiful as ever.

he leaps to his feet and reaches out to you. he clasps his hands around your cheeks and kisses you. tender and passionate. full of endless longing and eternal promises.

the kids are quick to join (megumi hugs you from your side, shedding tears of happiness) (tsumiki jumps to toji's arms, giggling).

(he's never been happier).

"i love you, wife" he utters.

"and i love you, husband."

[cripplecharacters]

Hey! Thanks so much for all your work — seeing your answers has helped me be a lot more conscious of ableism in media. I have a question about a character I’m writing.

The story is a climate fiction story set in the fairly near future, and the origins of their disability is traced back to water pollution. The effects of the disability are that they are in a scooter.

One of the things you say all the time that I really appreciate is when writing disabled characters make sure they have a specific disability which characteristics you can research — but I’m not totally sure how to research disabilities connected to pollution? I am thinking the character’s disability will be connected with lung issues, which then connect with certain types of muscular atrophy, hence the wheelchair. But this is kind of just guesswork based on some inconclusive googling and what I know of pollution-related health conditions.

Any thoughts or tips?

Thanks!

Hi!

I think that a disability related to pollution is a very interesting premise! I myself have a family member who has a congenital disability due to radiation pollution (Chernobyl), it's nice to see it represented :-)

Some things to consider that could help you with further research;

Were they born with it or is it progressive? Some pollution conditions, like Minamata Disease, could be both but the symptoms can vary between them. E.g. it wouldn't make sense to give your character microcephaly if they became disabled at 23, but it would if it's congenital.

If possible, try to pinpoint what specifically is causing the water pollution. Heavy metals? Radiation? Chemical spill? There are a lot of incredibly specific pollution conditions. If you can think of it, it probably already happened. This can be research of the incredibly boring variety, but once you find something that works "enough" it will make things easier going forward.

Examples: heavy metals will often cause neurological problems (including ataxia), radiation will cause extremely high rates of various (blood and thyroid, for example) cancers even decades after the exposure, chemical spills can cause almost anything.

If you're going for lung issues, I would research Pneumoconiosis. Apologies for the link to Wikipedia, but it leads to a ton of different subtypes that you could be useful to look into. It talks about dust pollution, but generally if it's in the air then it's going to be in the water very soon too.

Using a scooter can be helpful for an incredibly wide range of conditions, including COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) which is a common symptom of various pollution diseases.

Establishing the exact cause will also help you with worldbuilding - if the chemical polluting has a 90% fatality rate, it will be very different from one with <1%. If there's radiation, are unaffected people going through health anxiety due to the obvious cancer risk? Are local animals going extinct, how is the vegetation changing?

For water pollution specifically, think of how it affects the whole community - is rainwater safe to drink, are there ways to clean it, are there any fish to eat? Etc.!

I would also research the conditions that you might not necessarily think about, like bacterial or fungal ones. Here's a page on water-based diseases and their effects, as well as potential causes.

This is a very hard to exhaust topic as there's probably a million ways to pollute water, but I tried my best! I wish you good luck with writing! I think it's important to bring attention to these kinds of things.

I hope this helps! :-)

mod Sasza

[chronicroderick]

Old Games

Hannibal has been manipulative because he's bored and provokes Will into taking matters into his own hands.

Shameless Smut, Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham, Consensual Violence, Blood Kink, Knife Kink, Scarification, Canon Typical Toxicity, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Wound Fingering, Post-Fall

Old Games on Ao3

-----

Will was beating the shit out of him, and God, was Hannibal rock hard. This was no fantasy, though there had been many times when it was. This was real, flesh on flesh, knuckles digging into his cheek bones, causing his teeth to clack with each blow. How strong Will was. How resilient those hands were. That was the only thing going through his mind as he tasted his own blood in his mouth.

Hannibal had been more shrewd than usual lately. Picking at Will, second guessing him, even when it was not necessary. Was he sure that he could pick the freshest vegetables from the grocery store? Did he turn the water off completely after washing his face before bed? Was every one of his little mongrel dogs accounted for or did he leave one outside? Will had never forgotten one of his pets, but there was ‘a first time for everything’. Besides his contrariness, the two men had lived the closest thing to domestic bliss that either one of them had ever experienced, even before the fall.

Here they were, off the coast of some Greek island – Will wanted to settle somewhere that was new to the both of them – in a home built from the ground up. It was adobe, white to match the local buildings, set a great distance from any other living soul on a modest cut of land. They had a fenced in garden, expansive, and they had dogs. They would occasionally take day trips to the large islands and scout for new sources of meat. Will went fishing almost every morning and Hannibal would join him, sitting on the shore, reading a book, every now and then glancing up from his page to gaze at his lover who floated far away on his canoe. They should be happy. He didn’t feel happy. He felt bored.

So here he was, flat on his back, Will sitting on his stomach, while those strong fisherman’s hands smashed his face to a bloody pulp. The flames of pain caressed him, cut through him, searing in the cut on his eyebrow now, down into his skull and his brain. A tightness twisting low in his gut. What had he said? Oh, yes.

“Where else would I go?” Will had piped up while Hannibal was chopping carrots.

“What was that, my love?”

“Don’t ‘my love’, me, Hannibal.”

He was only Hannibal when he had done something wrong.

“You think I’m afraid you wish to be somewhere else. You betrayed the FBI for me, Will. We have killed together. We ran away together. As far as I am concerned we are an inseparable pair and I do not understand why you are so paranoid about these things.”

Will stood from where he leaned against the island in the middle of the room and walked up next to him, one hip against the counter and arms crossed over his chest. Hannibal stilled his hands and looked at Will with a warm smile that he knew would infuriate him.

Will frowned, “If you keep playing the fool I’m going to lose my temper.”

A thrill ran down Hannibal’s spine at the threat. At a degree in which he had not felt in a very long time.

“What part do you wish me to play then?” He tilted his head, smile still on his face, fingers curling ever so slightly tighter around the chef’s knife.

Will narrowed his eyes, purposefully keeping them off of the weapon, those ocean blue rings raging darkly behind his glasses. He was so beautiful when he was angry. So stimulating.

“You’ve been toying lately. Undermining me. Eroding.”

This was dangerous territory. Before Hannibal had started picking at Will’s scabs, they had had many heartfelt conversations, one of which included the brunette expressing his fear that his thoughts and actions were not his own, even after all this time. He had soothed him then. He did not feel like soothing him now.

“You speak of me like some spurned housewife.”

“You don’t deny it.” There was an edge to Will’s voice.

“What reason would I have to do such a thing? We are long past the game of cat and mouse,” He turned away, chopping the rest of the carrot, with a dismissive tone, “really, you’re quite the by product of your post traumatic stress, you should quit—”

“Don’t.” Will interpreted, and Hannibal could almost hear his knuckles creak as he formed a fist.

He smiled to himself, knowing full well how it would be interpreted, “Being so paranoid, my love.”

To say the blow came out of nowhere would be a lie, but he had underestimated the hatred behind it, fueling its power, as it caught him across the side of the face. It gave him a headache immediately, Hannibal instinctually switching his grip on the knife, blade pointed down, but Will knew him well. He could feel the calluses against his forearm as his wrist was smashed into the stone countertop with enough force to send shooting nerve pain up his arm, the knife falling from his hand.

Hannibal growled, half anger at being surprised and half pleasure, his other hand coming up to grab Will by the throat, fingers digging into the sides of his neck and pushing the man backwards until his back slammed against the refrigerator. Will’s left hand still held Hannibal’s arm, but his right arm came up, elbow crashing down on Hannibal’s arm, breaking his grip on the other man’s throat. He was feral, unpredictable and blind to the admiration in Hannibal’s gaze as he threw all of his weight into his shoulder and lunged like a football player, tackling Hannibal to the ground.

His head hit the wood floor with a hard knock, dazing him slightly, but his lover did not let the moment go to waste. He felt the weight of Will on his stomach, knees pinning down his out flung arms as they painfully crushed his elbows. His nose crunched with the second punch that was thrown his way, the third surely would have broken it as well, were it not already broken. Will was saying something, something hard to make out over the sound of the blood rushing in Hannibal’s ears and the ringing of his head injury.

“... paranoid. After all those years of manipulating me. Here I am. Here I am.”

Planting his feet, he attempted to buck Will off him, giving himself a chance to roll over, but the moment his weight shifted, he got a swift blow to the eye socket. It was mean enough to cut his eyebrow open, blood pooling at the corner of his eye like a great well of tears, and sloppy enough that it could have caused serious optic damage. The severity of the situation dawned on him. His cock twitched.

“Will –”

There was no reply, only another blow to the face. They rained down on him now, one after the other. He did not fight, did not even struggle. He took in a ragged breath, smothered with arousal, determined to take in every detail of this moment with all five senses. All of Will’s pain and rage washed over him. He could feel the way his skin tore apart, ragged, under the force of Will’s hands. It was delicious to know that he was the cause of such strong emotions. He could hear Will’s heavy breathing, hitching slightly when he exerted himself. It was him, Hannibal, that had so much influence in Will’s life. No one else. He smiled, his lip split in two places, and it felt like being cut with a razor blade as the skin stretched over his teeth. His brown eyes twinkled up at Will, taking in the sight of his bloody knuckles, unsure if it was just his blood. Hoping it was both of theirs. The idea blew his pupils wide. Will’s features darkened and he grabbed Hannibal by the collar of his shirt, before bashing his head into the floor over and over.

“I gave up everything for you! You don’t get to play games anymore.”

He was disappointed that Will had not positioned himself on his lap, for his cock stood at full attention, the inside of his boxers damp with a spot of precum. How ruthless his lover was. Hannibal wished to grind himself against him, while those well trained hands gripped him by the hair, guiding his lucid head to look up. There was a constant throbbing in the back of his skull, his hair plastered to his head with a thick, wet warmth. The kitchen stank of blood, or maybe it was just everything that was pouring out of his nose. When he saw Will’s hard features searching his face, he was filled with a sense of certainty that this was what their victims saw before death overtook them, and need cut through him. Will’s eyes narrowed, which was no surprise, he could read Hannibal like no other.

“You’re hard right now.” He stated disapprovingly.

“I am.” Hannibal replied, blood staining his teeth pink as he smiled.

“You’re not mad at me,” Will blinked once.

“I am not.”

When Will only silently leaned back, removing the weight of his knees from Hannibal’s elbows, he was afraid their altercation would yield no sexual satisfaction.

“Mylimasis,” He whispered, flecks of his blood spraying across Will’s face as he spoke, “do you not find the spark of our old games as exciting as I do?”

Will scoffed, but the corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk, “You goaded me because you miss getting off to our rivalry?”

“I miss when you were not a domestic animal, Will Graham.”

He could not hide the truth of his words, dismay hitting him like a freight train as he saw the way they made Will’s face twist. As he opened his mouth to explain himself, a hand closed over it, smelling strongly of sweat and blood.

“Not a word.” Will said monotonically.

When he was sure Hannibal would not speak, he removed it, and scooted his hips backwards until he sat right on top of Hannibal’s clothed dick. This made him sigh, the pressure bringing relief, but in return Will slapped him hard enough to turn his cheek red. He gave Will a surprised look and the other man only frowned.

“No sounds either.”

They could both feel the way Hannibal’s cock twitched against Will’s ass. He nodded, just barely, maintaining searing eye contact with Will who was cold as ice. Will began moving his hips back and forth, grinding down on Hannibal who bucked his hips up against him eagerly. He needed to feel more, so much more. His nose ached, the pain pulsing out into the rest of his face as his heartbeat quickened. Will’s hard on was evident, the outline of it visible against his pants, Hannibal eyed it hungrily. His tongue dashed out, wetting his lips, playing over the cuts on them, as he watched Will’s body move above his. He looked glorious, all dark curls and severe jawline, his skin coral and cream as he palmed himself over his clothes. His blue eyes caught sight of the ministrations of Hannibal’s tongue and he leaned down, their dicks rubbing together as he licked one of the cut’s on Hannibal’s lips. The sensation made Hannibal’s hole clench, his eyes fluttered shut as Will lapped up the blood from the second cut. He hissed when he felt Will’s teeth sink into his lip, fresh blood flooding his mouth from the open wound, and because he made a noise Will bit harder, creating puncture wounds and ripping it open more. Will ground his cock against Hannibal, relentlessly dry humping as he kissed him. All Hannibal could taste was his own blood, it was electric, swirling around his mouth on the vessel of Will’s tongue. Will’s lips tasted metallic, soft yet unyielding, Hannibal licked at the back of his teeth, rubbing his tongue over the other man’s with a clear desperation. Will pulled back, got off of his lap, then undid his belt.

Hannibal followed suit, shoving his pants down without a word, his cock springing free. Will didn’t look at him, he only tugged his own pants and underwear off over his shoes, and flung them to the side. Hannibal felt like his excitement was visible to the naked eye, the way the scent of his blood flooded his senses, his skull pounding in time with the rushing in his veins, the thick swallow he had to take every couple seconds, it all stoked his desire, the object of which now crouched over him, hovering just above his aching cock. He looked down at himself, saw how stiff his dick was, flushed pink, thick and sure to spread Will open like many times before. He almost whined like a dog when his lover gently lowered himself, his hole squeezing his tip over and over, precum slicking the entrance. Then the sensation was gone, Will was standing over him now, looking down with that cutting gaze.

“Will?” Hannibal protested the lack of contact.

Shaking his head, Will’s hand wandered the counter, in search of something out of Hannibal’s line of sight.

“You want the delight of carnage. I'll oblige.”

The blade of a knife glinted in the sunlight that came through the window as Will inspected it, surely for Hannibal’s benefit. It was lean, one they often used to filet seafood. His cock jerked and he wiggled his loosened front tooth with his tongue.

“It seems you almost knocked my tooth out, my love.” He tried to hide the elation in his voice as he once again spoke out of turn.

Will fell to his knees, straddling Hannibal once again, their bare dicks rubbing together as he worked the tip of the knife into the small crevice of tender flesh between his collarbone and his shoulder. Hannibal closed his eyes, clenching his teeth in a mixture of pain and pleasure. He tried not to think about the hole that was cut in his shirt. Will twisted the knife as if he was lazily trying to start a fire, tearing more fabric and skin. It made his head spin. When he did not respond, Will pushed slightly harder, until a half inch of stainless steel was inside him. He could feel the warmth of his blood welling up around the tip. Felt the warmth of it pooling into his clothes.

“You could cause serious nerve damage if you're unfamiliar with what you're attempting.” Hannibal chimed clinically.

“Enjoying being a brat, are we?” Will purred, gently pulling the blade towards him, cutting Hannibal at such a slow pace it was ripping more than slicing.

The blue eyed man hummed happily as Hannibal bucked his hips, their cocks sliding over one another, his precum wetting his own happy trail. Will moved on, tracing the knife lightly over Hannibal’s chest, poking and prodding every now and then until he settled just below his belly button. Hannibal watched the entire time, never taking his eyes off those brilliant hands as Will gripped the hem of his shirt and cut it in one long go right up the middle, as if he was being gutted. The fabric fell open, revealing his chest and stomach that already had a few red marks, and Will pushed it out of the way, ghosting his fingers through Hannibal’s chest hair. He rubbed his hips teasingly, cock brushing back and forth against Hannibal’s, resting all his weight on the hand in the center of the older man’s chest. Holding him down. Hannibal could feel his heartbeat thumping against Will’s palm. With the knife in the crook of the L of his thumb and forefinger, directly over Hannibal’s heart, Will applied pressure, the sharp bite of which bloomed outwards.

“Put it in.” It wasn't a demand or a question, it was like Will was observing the weather or their horoscopes.

He was more than happy to obey, grabbing hold of himself, resisting the urge to pump his cock, and lined it up with Will’s hole. Not a moment after his tip brushed the man’s ass did his lover sit himself onto it, slowly taking his cock, never taking his eyes off Hannibal’s face nor the knife off his chest. Instead, the more length he took, the deeper he drove the blade into Hannibal’s sternum. It was overwhelming.

“Penetrating me as I penetrate you?” He quipped. This was all part of it. Will knew he could never resist a chance to prove he would be willing to take things further than Will would.

In response Will cut into him. It wasn't hesitant or jerky, it was almost surgical. Deep enough for blood to spill immediately, but shallow enough that Hannibal was not afraid for his life. It hurt, it made him tense involuntarily as the knife made its way down his chest, leaving a burning crimson trail behind. All while his cock was slowly buried to the hilt inside the other man. He groaned, not trying to be a smartass, as Will began moving up and down, but was punished for his transgression anyways when the knife sunk deeper. The scarring would be unavoidable at this point. Hannibal ground his teeth together to keep from speaking, grabbed Will by the hips and helped him ride faster. His dick was being squeezed so tight, pumping in and out of Will’s hole as he watched the brunette’s cock bounce with every thrust. He pounded up into Will, hips snapping against the bottom of his ass. His passion made the work of the knife unsteady, dipping deeper and shallower with no design at all, the line Will was creating winding ever so slightly like a river down to just above his belly button. Hannibal could feel drops of blood cascading down his belly towards his ribs. Will moaned above him, clenching down on his dick, then ran two shaky fingers up the wound he had just inflicted, never slowing down, Hannibal violent in his thrusts that made every curl on Will’s head bob.

Will brought the two fingers up to his pink lips, dark pupils trained on Hannibal’s face as Will sucked on his middle and index finger. He pulled them out clean, except for the faint ring of red that was like lipstick around the second knuckles. Hannibal’s eyes narrowed with lust and he grabbed the hilt of the knife in Will’s hand, at first the other man resisted letting go, but when he slowed down in his thrusts, emphasizing his sincerity, Will relented. Hannibal took the weapon slowly out of his lover’s hand, Will was doing all the work with his hips now, and the salt and pepper haired man turned the blade on himself, tip pressed firmly to his stomach. With a small smile and a slow blink, jittery from the heat engulfing his dick, he stuck the end in his abdomen, somewhere he knew wouldn't be vital if he had gone deep enough for that to even matter. It made him gasp and he was so close to the edge now, but he wasn't finished. Hannibal dropped the knife, grabbed Will's hand firmly, splayed out his fingers, then pushed one of them greedily inside the wound. It made him shudder, meeting the pace of Will’s hips now, feeling the tip of his finger inside the cut sent stripes of ecstasy straight to his dick. Pumping himself in and out of Will, while Will pushed his finger deeper into his skin, Hannibal stroked the man’s cock, admiring the slight bend in it and the feeling of precum slicking the inside of his hand. Both of them were covered in a sheen of sweat and blood on the kitchen floor. He felt like an animal. He felt alive.

“This is what you wanted?” Will asked, words punctuated by small gasps.

Hannibal nodded, racing to the end, all fervor and fire. Slamming up into his Will. His Will. He would bleed only for this man. He would hold all of his beloved 's rage. He was made to bear any pain his lover put his way. Hannibal’s thoughts were becoming less linear. Will was panting, surely his legs burned, his dick twitching in Hannibal’s uncoordinated grasp, until finally he came. Seed shot onto Hannibal’s chest, mingling with his blood. The feeling made Hannibal climax too, unloading inside Will with a stifled moan. He couldn't take it. He sat up without thinking, grabbed Will behind the shoulders and sank his teeth into the crook of his neck. Will cried out, but didn't push him away. He bit deeper, Will’s hole milking his cock of every last drop of cum, his wounds throbbing and burning and flooding his body, his lover’s cum making a warm, slow trail down his stomach into the deep cuts. He might need stitches. Biting deeper. Will would be bruised. They'd have to set his nose. He did not break the brunette's delicate skin.

They sat like that on the floor, Hannibal’s teeth in his neck, Will’s trembling thighs straddling his waist. Hannibal pulled back, still ensnaring Will in his grasp and looked into his eyes. They seemed bright, normal, better than the storm he had cultivated for the last few weeks. He kissed his nose and brought him into a hug. Will sighed and rested his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. Their breathing slowed. Their heartbeats turned to normal, almost in sync. It would be enough. It already was.

-----

I am so incredibly upset because I couldn't find the gif of fantasy Hannibal smiling on the ground as Will beats him :'( EDIT: I FOUND IT YAHOO

[honey-minded-hivemind]

I would like to hear on how Reader was found to be the diety of Love. Please?

Okay! Because you didn't specify if you meant in the past or in the present, we're doing... the past!

The Origins of Reader, Deity of Love...

There was once a powerful kingdom that worshipped the gods and goddesses, back in the times of yore... there were great kings and countries, powerful monsters and beautiful temples, and many cities and palaces scattered throughout this ancient world...

But on the outskirts of one small country was a ridged hill, which sloped into the sea, and on the top of this cliff was a small home, one belonging to a mortal... This mortal was alone, tending to their small home and the few animals and plants that surrounded it, and did not pray to the gods. They were young, not yet of age, who had left their home to avoid being married off or sent to a temple, or even used as a sacrifice, as so many young mortals were fated to...

One day, a stranger, wrapped in a fur cloak, stumbled upon their home. The man appeared wounded, and had nothing to pay the mortal to acquire their aid. But this mortal took pity on the man, bringing him inside and setting him by the fire, giving him the bigger portions of the meal they had prepared, and tended to his wounds. They let him stay the night, and by the time morning came around he had gone. This the mortal went back to their work...

But this man had not been a mere mortal... No, he had been a god, one of the great Genoshan Pantheon, the feared Wolverine, who had been wounded by a monster he had slain... He had gone back to his home upon the mountain of the gods, and contemplated how he could repay the kindness done to him... Yet no matter how long he thought, he could not think of what they might want or request. So, going back to his mortal disguise, he visited them...

But when he talked with the young mortal, he could not find a thing they wanted. When he asked if they had ever wanted for anything, they laughed. Had they ever wanted treasure, he asked. No, they'd said, their treasure is the shells on the beach and the fossils in the rocks. Did they wish for more food, he inquired. No, they'd said, they had fish from the sea and vegetables from the garden, the birds of the trees and the berries of the bushes for their food. What about power, he tried. They shook their head, no, they said, they do not know what they'd do with power, and would not want it. So he could only sigh to himself. This mortal did not want any treasure of the gods or kingdoms, they did not want great beasts or succulent fruits of the world nor even the ambrosia of the gods,and they did not want a drop of power, not even one. So he decidee, he shall visit them, and keep doing so, to make sure they are well, and to see if he can puzzle out what he can do to return the favor they'd done him...

As three years passed, the god had grown fond of the lonely mortal, viewing them not as a stranger, nor even a comrade, it as one of his own. This startled him, enough that he left, going off to try and be rid of this feeling, for gods were not to care for mortals, were not to be warm, and were not to keep them close...

But alas... the mortal, who had been so very kind, even with what little they'd had, was soon visited by strangers... But these were not kind strangers... After the mortal had gifted them food and drink, and had started a warm fire, the strangers attacked them. They left, taking the mortal's few gifts, some even small tokens from their godly friend, and left the poor mortal to die...

The god soon made a visit, hoping to finally find his answer... only to discover his friend, someone he saw as his child, wounded, their home ransacked, and any possessions possessions had stolen. He was furious! He was enraged! He was... scared. Quick as the Autumn winds, he took his friend to the home of the gods, and begged them to heal them, to make sure it did not happen again. But the gods were in confusion. Why care for a mortal? Why not choose another? But he pressed on... One of the gods, the wise scholar and doctor, Beast, decides to inspect the mortal and see what he could do...

Yet what he found was strange, for it seemed this mortal held a small power, a small drop of divinity... This was a shock to the gods, for none had had children in years... and their creator, Apocalypse the Titan-God, had been sealed for millenia... But whatever the case was, this mortal held some form of divine power, and seeing as they they'd done their fellow god a kindness and held the same power they did, healed them...

The mortal eventually awoke, and soon they were back to their home by the sea and the forest, on their house atop the hill... It would take years for them to notice they did not age, that others saw them not as a mortal, but as a deity now, amd for them to realize they now had the power of a god... and had known one all along...

Thus is the creation of the Deity of Love, Reader...

(I slept a lot the past day, then had an errand to run, but I took the time I could to daydream and plot out this au! Hahaha, you're gonna love it!!! But, yes, basically Reader was a mortal-born deity, who helped Logan, fed him, and then Logan got attached and adopted them, then forced/begged the others to make it so Reader didn't die... then they found out Reader had a divine power, but it was muted/hidden due to them being born mortal...) (And some of the gods agreed because they also had some mortal-with-divine-power kids... it was only a handful, though, some being Sabretooth, who had unknowingly adopted Remy; Xavier, who was teaching Scott and was fond of him as a student/son; and Storm, who had helped Evan's mom have him, and was like an aunt/teacher to him...) (Imagine it like this: mortal kids with divine power are like catnip to the gods; they eventually find them or know about them, but certain gods like certain kids)

So... yeah! What do y'all think? ( @sugar-soda @vivid-bun @thewickedweiner)

[chuckeroo777]

Dungeon Meshi Volume 7 Part 1

Welcome back! Today we are covering volume 7! As always, this is a post finishing look, so spoilers ahoy!

So... does Kui have a thing for legs? I can't help but feel like there are quite a few spots where legs are emphasized, and there's even that extra where Namari accidentally reveals she has a leg fetish.

I'm still questioning where they got the stuff they already had. Where did they get the bags and futons?

Kabru. Kabru, were you so desperate not to eat monsters, that you tried eating soap?

Trust me, the real reason is a lot stupider.

Normally I'd make a joke about "Oh if only you knew," but honestly? This one panel is sexier than pretty much every piece of fanart I've seen, so for once, good job not being horny internet.

*Glances over at my succession post where I briefly touch on Marcille's and Izutsumi's reproductive situation.* Oh no, I am a Laios.

Oh boy! I can't wait to smell like fish!

An important image.

Laios: God, I wish.

An important bit of exposition that got cut from the anime. This is how the Faligon can sustain itself despite the tiny mouth.

Not gonna lie, I laughed out loud when I saw this silly thing. I recognized it right away. I was making a card game a while back involving ecosystems made of real, extinct, and fictional plants and animals, and I was having a heck of a time finding mythical/fictional plants that weren't just "fruit but real good" or "fruit but real bad" or "Walking tree". The vegetable lamb is a real standout. (And of course I had mandrakes. They were in the 'real' category, and had a special interaction with fictional creatures.)

Why didn't Chilchuck kick the staff down to Marcille? Is he stupid?

Uh, I get the metaphor, but how does this accomplish anything other than getting you more lost?

I wonder if the rind also tastes like crab. Honestly, this thing sounds great. I'd eat it.

More Kui leg propagnada.

That's an oddly specific thing to be worried about. Like, things are advanced enough in this world that basic plumbing exists, right?

I love how this stupid bell does nothing but annoy Toshiro until the eleventh hour.

Did you? Kabru did, but you just ate an onigiri, and that other stuff Maizuru made.

Falin is a proper cleric. All holy and kind and healing, but willing and able to cave in some skulls.

I love how in this spot highlighting Laios's questionable party, Kabru can't say anything bad about Chilchuck.

Another Laios parallel. Kabru also manages to rope Toshiro into his business against his better judgement.

When you overthink the metaphor and it makes way too much sense.

When you overthink the metaphor and it stops making any sense.

Kitty

Seems like a heck of a loophole. Why didn't we bring this stuff with us?

Haha, get it? Dying? Cause they can't?

I think the fact that Laios has a stronger emotional reaction to a minotaur than he does a succubus says everything really.

They mention it at the brewery too, but I like how they like the orcs. I wonder how much contact they have with the orcs? The orcs don't talk about it really. Do they just leave caches for the orcs to find? Or do the orcs vist the golden country directly? The brewer mentions the hops were a request, so they must communicate somehow.

How I feel about other people's kinks.

Senshi. You can't just drop that line without context. What do you mean? Are they grafting dryad buds to more typical plants? Or are they making horrible plant chimeras? Give me the botany details dangit!

And with that, we will continue in part two!

[milkywaydrabbles]

He who was found in chains, set free. | VII.

A/N: Another chapter ahead of us, and it's starting to get more to the plot of S4! Things will still continue to change, of course. And now I'm going to have to watch each episode as I write this to make sure it stays true RIP to me. Not as long as I would like it to be but more drama to come in the coming chapters

Hope y'all like it mwuah.

Can be found on AO3 here!

It’s been a month. The most excruciating month you’ve lived to date. Not the month that you were assaulted nearly every day in the damned house back in Gresit. Not the first month in particular that you were out alone in the woods fighting for your life against being found by the night creatures. Not even the month that you actually got caught by the night creatures. 

Nothing could prepare you for the absolute loneliness and misery you felt after being with Adrian for the last month. For the first week you cried every night, going as far as sneaking into his room (which took a while to figure out which one was his) and started sleeping on his bed, on his sheets. Now, you still sleep there, but you’ve learned to manage a bit better without him. It’s still hard, however it might have helped you prepare more for the outside world. Since he’s been gone you’ve had to  fend for yourself, and not in the normal way you normally would. You’ve had to go to the village alone to for fresh herbs and vegetables. On more than one occasion you’ve had to leave in the middle of shopping because your chest grew tight and you began to panic. You tried to console yourself in the same way Adrian would. Tell yourself it was okay, no one would touch you. Just like he did the time he came into your room. Like he did when he cradled your face in his hands. Like he did when your foreheads touched and he filled all of your senses. 

And now you were alone.

You continued to push the thoughts behind you, and went out to try and catch fish for dinner, which was fairly easy for you to do. You got very good and being on your own in the woods. You’ve grown so accustomed for cooking for two that sometimes you make too much, and you sigh frustrated with yourself. I’m wasting food you chastised yourself. But it was hard to break the habit, always wishing he would come back home. It never dawned on you what to call the feelings you’ve been having. You assumed it’s because he was protecting you from the outside world. And that he would always teach you how to read or teach you magic. Hell, you assumed you felt miserable because now you have to go out on your own to the market.

You wouldn’t think overwise. Even if you knew better.

Frustrated, you went back to the library like you have every night since he left to study more magic. 

-

Another month, and Alucard still wasn’t back. There’s no sign of his return, and you couldn’t help but feel nauseous. Maybe something happened to him, maybe he was terribly injured and he couldn’t make it back. Maybe he’s gone forever. 

Or, maybe he’s fallen in love, and ran away with his soulmate. 

That thought hurt you most of all.

You’d gotten quite good at magic now, within the two solid months of studying, along with the first month spent with Alucard. You started growing more out in the homestead, practically refusing to continue to go to the market. The herbology you’ve learned, infused with magic, has come in handy. You’ve been able to recreate certain plants for your benefit, being more self-sufficient than before. You’re also learned how to almost entirely heal the lacerations on your body. Some remained, deemed too deep for your restorative magic to do the trick without you passing out. And you’ve tried, wanting to get rid of any and all markings of the wretched man in Gresit. You’ve also grown some flowers just for the decoration of it all. 

Along with your loneliness came productivity. You started tidying up the castle as best you could. The large holes weren’t something you could ever dream of patching up on your own, but for the most part you did take care of any debris, dusting that needed to be done around the rooms, and organizing the cellar as best you could. There were many broken bottles strewn about, but you wanted more than anything for Alucard to return to a clean home. Your heart still aches every time you think of him, but it was more bearable. 

One day you’ve decided to traverse to the Belmont Hold, looking on all the knowledge of killing monsters and whatever else bumps in the night. It was centuries of books, tips and tricks, even more magic of different variety. You’re not sure why it took you so long to explore down there, almost as if it was an invasion of privacy. It was Trevor’s things, you mused, why would you feel comfortable going down there? But as time went on, you wanted to learn more, so you continued to go down and read up on monster killing knowledge. Some things were easy to read, others difficult, some downright impossible for you. You had even found some books in different languages, and other books to help translate those books. Overall you became a sponge, passing the time with your studies and notetaking (you had run out of paper in the first four journals Alucard had gotten you, only one left). You felt more comfortable than ever knowing you can defend yourself a bit better, if you ever had to. 

You hoped you never had to. 

But in any case, you could. 

-

“Hello? Earth to Alucard?” 

Alucard blinked, looking over to Trevor as if he hadn’t just been daydreaming about lord knows what? “What is it, Belmont?” He already sounded disgruntled. Pay more attention.

“You haven’t heard a single damn word I’ve said, have you?” He deadpanned. 

“No, I usually don’t, since you never have anything good to say anyways.”

The two men stare at each other for a moment, before breaking out in small chuckles. Sypha sighed, shaking her head with a smile.

“I think that wraps up as much as we needed...we can continue on our own after tonight. You can get back to your friend in the morning.” Sypha mused, sneaking a glance over to Alucard to see if she’s gotten a rise out of him. 

His brow twitched, and a slight curve of the lips to a frown. But otherwise, he stayed stoic as always. 

But of course Trevor wouldn’t let it go. 

“Seriously who is she? And why does she call you Adrian?” 

“Outside of the obvious reason that it is my name?” Alucard rebutted. “She...she was escaping from the night creatures one night. Came across the castle, passed out on my doorstep. She’s been there since.”

“And you didn’t kick her out?” An elbow from Sypha to Trevor’s ribs and an oof following.

“No...I didn’t.” He didn’t continue.

The last two months have been just as excruciating for him as it’s been for you. He wanted nothing more than to return home to you, whatever that meant he wasn’t ready to digest yet. He wondered if you’ve been doing alright. He wondered if you’ve gone out to the market or if you completely gave up and started starving yourself, or going back to eating the same way you did before you showed up at his door. He frowned to himself at the thought.

He wondered if you were still there at all. Wondered if you stopped waiting for him. 

He thought of you throughout his sleepless nights. Thought of you as he fought night creatures. He thought of you...just because. He didn’t want to talk about you with the others, didn’t feel comfortable doing so. He didn’t know how he felt, or what he was feeling -- and Trevor would be more insufferable than normal if he ever caught wind of anything. He just knew that after tonight he’d be able to go back home to you.

Or, just to be back home. Because it was his castle.

--

The morning came, and he bid his friends farewell, wishing them all the best on their travels (Sypha) along with a middle finger (Trevor) before he set off on his own. It was a long travel, perhaps a few days on foot. Easier if he could get his hands on a horse. But until then he’d simply go along, stopping at any towns for shelter if needed. But by the time the third night came, and he was so close to being back, he found a horse trotting along in the same direction of the castle with a dead rider. He took the horse by the reigns, and saw a letter in the hands of the rider. It was directed at him. Well, The Alucard. Hate that. Alucard read it over, and gripped tightly.

He was needed at Danesti. 

He wanted to be selfish, he really did. He wanted to wish them good luck on their own and simply go back home and see how you’ve been all this time. But he just...couldn’t. It went against all the good in him, and as agonizing as it was for him, he took himself back into the direction of Danesti.

I’ll be back home soon, I promise.

-

He had made it to Danesti in the knick of time, saving the villagers from a terrible fate with the night creatures that had made their way to the village. Alucard had rode into battle until he lunged off the back of the horse, practically flying through the air with shield in hand and magical sword by his side, landing on the back of the monster and ripping back its head until there was a crunch of bone snapping, breaking its neck while his sword plunged into the back of another. He unsheathed his sword from the now very dead monster and continued to steadily fight the third, fourth, and fight night creatures. With the first one in his sights down, he glanced over to the other two that had started making their way to the villagers armed with pitchforks. One had turned its back on them, attacking Alucard with all its might. It turned out to be a strong opponent, almost boxing Alucard with its sharpened claws. He maneuvered around it fairly easily, although it was avoiding each sword thrust Alucard had attempted. Finally, he was able to get a clear shot and sliced half its head off, brain exposed and plopping on the ground.

Now just one left.

Alucard plunged his sword into the heart of the creature he had just defeated and stepped up on it, using all his might to smash the head of the last night creature with his shield ending the fight. He walked over to the townspeople.

“You sent me a letter?”

A woman smiled at him. “Yes, welcome to Danesti.”

“I presume it’s seen better days.”

“Quieter ones. I’m Greta, the village headwoman.”

“Call me Alucard. No ‘the’.”

He continued on to inform Greta that ‘Marius’, the rider, in fact did not survive the trip. “He was attacked en route and bled out from his wounds. His horse carried him the rest of the way with your message in his hand.”

They continued on with the conversation on what’s been happening to the village, how they’ve barely been surviving, how Alucard happened to be the only advantage Greta could think of. Even though he ‘reeks of wine’. After her what he would deem dramatic speech, Alucard spoke.

“All done?”

“Did it work?”

“Yes.”

Greta smirked. “Then I'm all done. Thank you. And that was one hell of an entrance.”

-

Conversations continued, along with quite the annoying man known by the name Saint Germaine. It was a back and forth of what would happen with the village, as more survivors from different towns along the way poured in. And then Saint Germaine opened is fucking mouth again.

“Perhaps, just until we all find out what’s going on, perhaps the remaining persons in your charge might be moved to a more secure location, like, uhm... your castle.”

Alucard gasped, and then turned to him with practically a growl. And then he stopped to think about it again. And groaned. 

“And God shits in my dinner once again. Oh, no, I really am turning into Belmont. Is life even worth living now?” Dramatic.

And then he thought of you. How would you take to having entirely too many strangers in your presence once again? He couldn’t imagine you’d be very happy with him. But...he couldn’t leave them all defenseless like this. 

Oh Goddamn it.

[l-egionaire]

Boiling Isles Angel's headcanons.

So, something I discussed with my friend @ordinaryschmuck was the idea that angels do exist on the Boiling Isles. And since I previously asked if someone else had ideas, I figured I'd share mine.

The Angels reside on islands that float in a ocean of clouds just above the clouds that deliver things like boiling rain down onto the Isles, called the Floating Seas. It's a bit like Skypia from One Piece, where the clouds act more like water and oceans than actual clouds, complete with "fish" and "sea life" who get through the clouds by flight.

Unlike Witches, Angels don't have pointed ears. Instead, they all posses wings. And instead of a bile sac in their hearts, Angels magic storage organ is a gland in their brains. They have halos because they're a magical optical illusion similar to a rainbow created by excess magic being vented through the pores in their scalps.

Despite how different they might seem, Angel and Witch magic is almost exactly the same, done through them making spell circles. They even have the same main nine tracks as Witches, though their Abominations are more like solid statues then slime blobs and they call them Guardians instead.

Angels also have some similar seeming magic items to witches, such as using scrolls as phones. However, instead of having crystal balls for computers and TV substitutes, they use mirrors instead.

Angel food is much closer to human food than witches food is, being made up of regular seeming cows, chickens, and human like vegetables. However, unlike human food, Food grown or raised by Angels on their land either shines with bright light or looks as if it was made of gold. Even the raw salt they gather look like bars of gold. Eating any of it gives the eater a bright golden glow, giving Angels and other species that reside above the clouds with a golden shine to their bodies.

Angels aren't the only species that reside on their floating skylands. They also share the land with dragons and nature sprites. These beings also have wings and can perform magic.

According to myth, the Archipelago was formed when a great dragon, with powers equal to the Titan's of the Isles, came from the stars and breathed the magical floating clouds into existecene. Then, her she'd scales fell to the land and made it fertile, also giving birth to the dragons and nature spirits who live their. She then fell into a deep slumber, but would one day awaken when needed. Since then, a dragon who was said to be part of the great mother dragon's lineage rules over the lands.

Instead of Palisman, Angels and other magical beings of the sky make their staffs using magical jewels they then use to make staffs. They place a single magical jewel at the staffs end, and when they need to travel, the staff can shrink into an amulet that they keep on their person until they need it.

Angels don't have covens, but rather guilds who find work for magic users who specialize in a specific form. And their police force and military that is made up of a group of Angels called the Archangels. Like the Emperor's Coven, they're considered the best of the best in terms of magical ability, and their focus is on protecting the Archipelago.

Despite their different aesthetic, similar to the Islands, the Angel's are naturally fine with most LGBT+ type people.

The Angels are forbidden by law from ever going below the clouds. Millions of years ago, there was a terrible war between witches and angels and when it was over, both sides decided to no longer live in the others lands. Angels fell into myth among witches, but Angel's still know the witches and demons are down there. And most wish to avoid another war, so they keep in the sky's.

Angel's are to witches what aliens are to humans: As far as they're concerned, they're a myth, and anyone who talks about them is considered crazy. (Tiny Nose talks about them non-stop).

[stiltonbasket]

Vampire WWX/Fae LWJ: What is their first time sleeping in the same room like? Their first breakfast? Or when WWX notices that LWJ is softer with bunnies?

part 1

On the morning after his arrival at the Cloud Recesses, Wei Wuxian opens his eyes to find Lan Zhan's moon-white face hovering less than an inch above his.

"I am going out to fetch breakfast for us," Lan Zhan says stiffly. "What do vampires eat when they cannot get human blood?"

So rude, Lan Zhan! Wei Wuxian laments to himself, rolling a sleeping A-Yuan onto his back. You could have at least wished me a good morning first, couldn't you?

But then, he had woken Wei Wuxian to ask what he wanted for breakfast, so perhaps this is just what Lan Zhan is like when he tries to be kind.

"Meat, mostly," Wei Wuxian replies, watching as his husband grimaces in distaste. "But half-blooded xuemo can survive without it, so you needn't hunt for me. I'd be grateful for a bit of the porridge you and your brother like as long as you give me permission to eat it."

He winks, making Lan Zhan blush all the way up to his ears. "You will give me permission, won't you?"

"I will, but that is beside the point. By the laws of your people, I am your husband, so it is my duty to provide the nourishment you need." The faerie takes a deep breath. "If you require meat, I will bring you some suitable creature to kill and eat as you see fit. I cannot do the killing myself, but fetching the animal—that I can do."

Wei Wuxian's heart melts; for all faeries hate to do harm to living creatures, and yet his Lan Zhan is willing to do most of the hunting work on Wei Wuxian's behalf.

"There's no need for that," he says gently. Lan Zhan opens his mouth to protest, clearly not liking the look of Wei Wuxian's thin wrists and sallow face; but Wei Wuxian only motions toward the south side of the cave, where he can hear the river gurgling through the trees on the other side of the wall. "You go out and buy some rice and vegetables, and I'll catch some fish for myself while you're away."

Lan Zhan inclines his head and departs, taking his money purse with him; for while the Lan faeries grow their own vegetables in the wood, they have to buy rice and dried spices from the human settlement to the north.

No wonder their food is so bland, Wei Wuxian thinks wryly, as he makes his way towards the river with A-Yuan in his arms. Lan Zhan doesn't have a single herb in his kitchen, except for that old lump of ginger.

He plants A-Yuan in the soft ground near the water, as he usually does at this time of morning. Wei Wuxian helps him dig his little legs as far into the ground as they can go, looking on in satisfaction as the three long leaves on the baby's head unfurl and reach up towards the sun; and then he lays a fish trap in the shallows and splashes across the river, keeping A-Yuan in his field of sight as he searches for kindling seasonings.

He manages to find wild cloves and garlic growing on the far bank of the stream; and by the time he goes back to examine his fish trap, A-Yuan has finished sunning his leaves and soaking his little body in the mud.

"I don't know if you're old enough to eat food," Wei Wuxian muses, marching back to the cave with A-Yuan wriggling under one arm and the laden trap under the other. "You need to be sunned and watered like a plant, so eating fish might make you sick. We'd better not risk it."

A-Yuan squeals and looks up at Wei Wuxian with wet, reproving eyes. "So you do want to eat fish!" Wei Wuxian says accusingly, making A-Yuan shriek with laughter. "But you don't have any teeth. I don't know very much about babies, Yuan'er, but I do know that the women in Jieyu Village never started weaning theirs before the babies cut a first tooth."

The baby looks more wronged than ever. "Bu!"

"Perhaps we should boil the rice into porridge, and put pieces of the fish inside," says a deep voice from behind them. "That way, the rice will be soft enough for A-Yuan to swallow without chewing."

"Oh!" Wei Wuxian turns around and nearly jumps out of his shoes at the sight of Lan Zhan, standing at the mouth of the cave with a bag of rice slung over his shoulder. "Lan Zhan, don't be so quiet when you're walking. I nearly dropped A-Yuan."

Lan Zhan shakes his head. "I doubt you could ever do such a thing. But in the future, I will endeavor to make more noise when you are close by."

He lowers his eyes to Wei Wuxian's fish trap. "Did you catch anything?"

"A pair of grass carps," Wei Wuxian tells him, extracting the fish from their prison and holding them up for Lan Zhan to see. "Now, go light the fire and fetch some water from the well. I need hot water for A-Yuan's bath, and it's past time for breakfast."

So Lan Zhan lights the fire in the little courtyard; and there is a courtyard, much to Wei Wuxian's relief, because Lan Zhan built his small refuge after the fashion of most human dwellings, so that Wei Wuxian could almost forget that his cave was a cave and not a wooden house. After that, he sets off for the nearby well with a yoke fitted about his neck and shoulders, returning scarcely ten minutes later with enough water for both breakfast and A-Yuan's bath.

"I will bathe A-Yuan while you fry the fish," Lan Zhan says, dropping the pails and taking the baby from Wei Wuxian's arms. "There is oil in the bag of groceries I brought, if you need it."

"You didn't have oil in your kitchen?"

His husband sighs. "I used the last of it for yesterday's dinner. Now go."

Wei Wuxian nods and makes his way outside, where he finds a strange contraption for grilling set up in the middle of the courtyard. It looks strong enough to support a hook and pan; but the fish will cook faster in the coals of the fire, so he spears the two carps and roasts them with his foraged seasonings until the skins are burned black.

"Is the rice ready?" he calls, ducking back into the cave. "And what about A-Yuan?"

"A-Yuan is ready. The rice is not," is his husband's laconic answer. "Come take him, and I will bring the rice out to you when it is cooked."

In the end, it takes another quarter-hour before the rice porridge is cooked through and made cool enough to eat. Wei Wuxian feeds some of it to A-Yuan and tries a little himself, after which he puts down his spoon to scold Lan Zhan for being so miserly with the salt and ginger.

Lan Zhan looks oddly pleased for a faerie being scolded about his cooking, though Wei Wuxian can't begin to imagine why.

Stranger still, that breakfast is one of the best Wei Wuxian has ever had; and he doesn't understand that, either.

[blacksapphrodite]

Happiness and Prosperity Cooking Oil

If you've followed me for any period of time, you know I love kitchen witchcraft! This recipe is for a cooking oil, but you could also use it to dress objects, candles and yourself! Used in combination with other charged magical foods or even on it's own, you can build quite the potent spell. A drizzle of this in your pasta, or over fish or to stir fry vegetables adds a dash of magic to your meal and draws all those good things towards you!

Ingredients

Olive Oil (associated with peace and healing)

Bay Leaf (wealth, abundance, wishes)

Dill sprigs (luck, protection)

Oregano sprigs (good fortune, happiness)

Marjoram sprigs (wealth, protection)

Parsley sprigs (prosperity)

Crush your herbs in a mortar and pestle to release their flavor and aroma. Place them in the bottom of the bottle in which you’re going to hold your oil. Place your hands on the bottle and push your energy into it, visualizing the peace and prosperity you want the oil to help you achieve. Allow the herbs to charge in the sun for a while, or set them amongst some green and gold candles. If you’d like, place some money around the herbs as they charge, or even write your desires on a piece of paper, allow it to sit with the herbs for a time, and burn it using one of the candles. Once your herbs are charged to your liking, pour the olive oil over them, seal the bottle tight, and leave in a cool, dark place. The herbs will infuse the oil even more over time, so this grows stronger with age. You can strain it if you like as well. Use it in any recipe you wish, though it would work especially well in tomato based dishes.

(I'm cleaning up my blog and reposting some of my spells/etc that were once hosted on my website.💕)