#make this daily torment worth it

[khalixvitae]

The way I would quit my job rn if I didn’t need Vil Schoenheit SSR money

[beejunos]

ANIMAL INSTINCTS | Alastor x f.reader

Summary: An unexpected rut makes you and Alastor act upon your feelings. Desperately and intensely.

This story was requested by @ohmylovewhereartthou-blog. The idea for the story is completely theirs; I just had the pleasure of putting it into words, and hopefully, I did a good job. Enjoy, darlings!

Tags: Dom!Alastor, rut, biting, smut, doggy style (the position is actually called prone bone, but that's a weird name if you ask me), creampie

For the most part, life in Hell mirrored life on Earth. There were homes, stores, libraries, work and gyms. Sinners went to restaurants with their friends and bought flowers for their lovers. Life in Hell could be quite pleasant if one could ignore all the violence and chaos.

Alastor revelled in the stark contrast between the underworld and Earth. Here, he found that everyone had shed their masks, revealing their true nature without the façade of modesty or fake politeness. The freedom he felt in Hell was unparalleled. Here, he didn't have to suppress his instincts; he could openly embrace them without fear of judgment or reproach. In this realm, he no longer needed to lurk in the shadows or carefully stalk his prey. Instead, he basked in the unbridled power and control he had meticulously crafted for himself, relishing in the unfiltered expression of his true self.

There was just one thing that put a wrench in his otherwise perfect afterlife. His demonic body.

In the depths of Hell, Alastor had encountered a multitude of sinners over the years, each with their own unique and otherworldly appearance. Some exhibited minor demonic features such as pointy ears and sharp teeth, while others had undergone a complete transformation, like the sinner whose very essence had been twisted into a demonic couch. At first, Alastor had felt a pang of sympathy for the unfortunate soul trapped in such an unusual form. However, as time passed, he found himself more amused by the bizarre and often tragic circumstances of the damned. Such encounters became a part of his daily routine in the underworld.

Alastor considered himself among the fortunate few with a body almost identical to a human's. Despite initially struggling with his large and overly sensitive ears, he was still considered quite handsome by demonic standards. However, it was not just the ears that were new to him.

When alive, Alastor quickly realised that while others did not share his murderous instincts, he lacked some of the instincts others seemed to have. For all his life, he never sought to do the devil's tango, as one of his old friends used to call sex. He had tried it a few times, mostly just to see what the fuss was about and because it seemed to be expected of him to want it, but after it all, it just seemed more trouble than it was worth. For most of his short human life, Alastor never desired the human body but the blood that pumped through its veins.

However, this all changed the day he woke up in Hell.

It quickly became apparent to Alastor that he had woken up as some form of demonic deer-man, something he had initially been quite disappointed in since he didn't feel like it conveyed a strong enough message to the other sinners. However, when his shadow had manifested with increased powers, Alastor embraced his new, formidable body with contentment. For years, Alastor revelled in his new body and his new life in Hell.

He was strong. Stronger than his human body had ever been before, he found that he could finally live entirely after his compass with Hell's lack of rules. But Hell is still Hell. Meant to torment the souls of the damned, and torment did strike Alastor after a few years in the afterlife.

As he would later come to name it, the Need crept into Alastor's being like a shadowy predator stalking its prey, stealthy and deliberate. It didn't strike all at once, but rather, it sank its insidious teeth into his tender flesh slowly, so slowly that he barely noticed at first. Like a venomous serpent, it released its poison in measured doses, corrupting his thoughts and warping his desires, turning his own body into an alien battlefield. Once sharp and disciplined, his mind began to fragment under the strain, waging war against the primal urges that had begun to claw their way to the surface.

The first time the Need truly manifested within him was nothing short of a revelation. It started as a faint tremor in his gut, a gnawing sensation that he couldn't quite place. It was an ache, a deep, pulsing hunger that steadily grew, coiling tighter and tighter within him until it felt like a living thing pressing against the confines of his very skin, desperate to break free. The hunger wasn't for food, though; it was something far more dangerous and primal. It was a desire that went beyond the physical, a craving that no amount of flesh could satisfy. This hunger wanted more—to hunt, chase, and devour. It yearned to sink its teeth into the tender skin of another, to drink deeply of their essence, to taste the raw, pulsing vitality that lay beneath.

At first, Alastor was bewildered by these new sensations. He had known hunger before, of course, but this was different, more intense, more consuming. It felt as though a part of him had awakened that he hadn't even known existed—a part that was wild and untamed, a beast that had slumbered deep within him, only now rousing from its ancient sleep. He tried to dismiss it, to ignore the insistent, throbbing ache that had settled into his bones, attributing it to the peculiarities of his demonic form. Perhaps, he thought, it was merely a quirk of his new existence, a strange dietary need that would soon pass.

Driven by this belief, he made his way to Cannibal Town several times, drawn by the tantalising scent of fresh, raw flesh. There, in the beautiful shops, he indulged in every manner of meat, tearing through pounds of it in search of relief. He savoured the rich, iron taste of blood, the texture of muscle and fat, and the crunch of bone between his teeth, but it was all in vain. No matter how much he ate, the hunger remained, gnawing at him from the inside out, growing stronger with each passing day. It was as though the food he consumed simply vanished into a void, leaving him more ravenous than before. The Need was insatiable, a bottomless pit that could not be filled by any earthly sustenance.

As the days turned into weeks, the hunger grew stronger and more demanding until it became a constant, aching presence in his life. It whispered to him in the dead of night, its voice seductive and dark, urging him to give in, to surrender to the primal urges that coursed through his veins. The Need was no longer content to simply lurk in the shadows of his mind; it wanted out. It wanted to take control, to drive him to the brink of madness. Alastor could feel it in every fibre of his being, a relentless, thrumming pulse that matched the beat of his heart, pushing him ever closer to the edge.

The realisation of what the Need truly was hit him like a bolt of lightning on a stormy night, sudden and terrifying in its clarity. It wasn't just a hunger for food, for flesh—it was a hunger for something more profound, more intimate. The Need wasn't just physical; it was carnal, a desperate, all-consuming desire for connection, for the raw, sensual meeting of bodies. It was a hunger for a mate, for the sweet release that could only come from the merging of two beings, from the surrender to the primal dance of desire.

With this revelation came a new kind of fear, one that gripped him tightly and refused to let go. Alastor was a creature of control, a being who prided himself on his ability to remain composed and detached, even in the face of the most extreme temptations. But this…this was different. The Need was something he couldn't control or suppress, no matter how hard he tried. It was a force of nature, a storm that raged within him, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out.

In his desperation, Alastor withdrew from the world, retreating to the safety of his own home, where he could hide from the prying eyes of others. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone seeing him like this, of anyone witnessing the raw, unbridled Need that had taken hold of him. The isolation was a double-edged sword—it gave him the space he needed to think and regain control, but it also left him alone with his thoughts, with the dark, twisted desires that refused to be ignored.

The Need gnawed at him day and night, a relentless, insistent presence that demanded to be satisfied. It filled his dreams with visions of flesh and heat, of bodies entwined in a desperate, frenzied dance. He could feel it in every touch, every breath, every beat of his heart—a yearning, a craving that consumed him utterly. He was starving, not for food, but for the touch of another, for the sweet, intoxicating release that could only come from the union of two beings.

As the days stretched into weeks, Alastor found himself on the brink of surrender, teetering on the edge of a precipice from which there might be no return. The Need had become a living thing, a beast that demanded to be fed, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before he could no longer resist its call. The hunger was too strong, too all-encompassing, and he was only a man—demon or not—trying to resist the inexorable pull of nature.

Ultimately, Alastor knew he could only hold out for so long. The Need was a part of him now, a dark and twisted companion that would never leave him, never allow him a moment's peace. It was both a curse and a revelation, a reminder that even in the depths of Hell, even in the heart of a demon, the most primal of instincts could never be wholly denied.

And then, just as it had once been there, the Need disappeared, and he was himself again. However, that did not comfort him, for he now knew that this new existence was just a part of his new body, his new life in Hell—a seasonal rut.

Life at the hotel often teetered on the edge of sheer chaos, like a tightrope walker balancing precariously above a roaring fire. Yet, in its bizarre way, it maintained a strange sense of peace—well, as peaceful as one could hope for in a place that served as a rehabilitation centre for wayward souls in the depths of Hell. The air itself seemed to hum with the constant tension between serenity and madness, as if the very walls of the hotel were alive, listening, and waiting for the next outburst. But despite the madness that swirled around you, you found solace in the routine of it all. You had a roof over your head, work that brought a sense of purpose, and friends who felt like family, albeit an unconventional one. In a realm where despair could easily consume you, in your humble opinion, these small blessings were worth more than all the riches in Heaven.

As a hotel maid, your days were usually filled with mundane housekeeping tasks—dusting off ancient chandeliers that hung like eerie spectres from the ceilings, scrubbing the seemingly endless floors that stretched out in labyrinthine corridors, and changing the sheets on beds that often bore the remnants of restless nights. The hotel itself was a monstrous, sprawling structure, its architecture a twisted blend of grandeur and hellish decay.

Occasionally, a guest or someone connected to the guests would lose control of their composure and attack the hotel. You had witnessed more than one instance where someone's emotional outburst resulted in a massive hole being blasted through the wall, or worse, through the roof. Alastor, the enigmatic and unsettling overseer of the hotel, would then swiftly summon shadowy, spectral figures to repair the damage. These figures moved with a ghostly grace, their forms flickering like candle flames in a drafty room, and they worked with an efficiency that was both mesmerising and unnerving. You had learned early on not to question it. Alastor had an aura of menace about him that made the others shy away from him, but to you, there was something intriguing about him. Something that pulled you to him. It could, naturally, be that he was a deer type of sinner, just like you, and you had never seen someone else like that before him.

Then there was Nifty, your fellow maid and a whirlwind of energy. She was small in stature but mighty in her work, flitting from room to room like a hyperactive sprite, cleaning with a speed and precision that was almost supernatural. She had a knack for tidying up even the most disastrous of messes in record time, leaving rooms spotless and gleaming as if nothing had ever been amiss. In the beginning, you had tried to keep up with her pace, but it quickly became apparent that this was a futile effort. Instead, you decided to focus on another crucial aspect of the hotel's operations—cooking.

In a place like this, where the boundaries between reality and nightmare were often blurred, food became an anchor, something tangible and comforting in an otherwise unpredictable existence. You took it upon yourself to prepare meals for the staff and guests, finding a strange kind of peace in the rhythmic motions of chopping vegetables, stirring pots, and seasoning dishes. The kitchen became your sanctuary, a place where you could lose yourself in the art of cooking and crafting meals that provided a brief respite from the chaos outside. You would experiment with recipes, combining ingredients in ways that were both traditional and wildly unconventional, catering to the eclectic tastes of your infernal clientele.

Each dish was a labour of love, an offering to those who, like you, sought comfort in the small pleasures that life—or the afterlife—could still offer. And when the day was done, the last plate was washed, and the kitchen was quiet, you would sit back with a cup of tea, savouring the calm that settled over the hotel in those rare, precious moments of tranquillity. Ultimately, it wasn't just about surviving in Hell; it was about finding those fleeting moments of peace and holding onto them for as long as possible.

On a day much like any other, you awoke in your bed, the soft rays of early morning light filtering through the gaps in your heavy curtains. The light seemed to dance as it crept into your room, casting delicate patterns on the floorboards and chasing away the remnants of sleep from your eyes. The air was still, with only the faint hum of a distant world waking up beyond the confines of your room. You lingered for a moment, savouring the stillness, before reluctantly pushing back the covers and rising to meet the day.

Your feet touched the cool wooden floor, the sensation both grounding and invigorating, pulling you further from the grasp of sleep. You moved through the motions of getting dressed, slipping into your familiar work clothes—soft, well-worn fabrics that wrapped around you like an old friend. The final step before heading downstairs was the comforting weight of your apron, slung over your neck and tied at your waist.

The Hazbin Hotel, usually alive with the bustling energy of its residents, was enveloped in a rare, profound silence. With its long, winding corridors and grand, if somewhat faded, décor, the building took on a different character in these early hours. The ornate walls, adorned with tapestries and portraits, stood still as if holding their breath, waiting for the inevitable stirrings of life to resume. Yet in these moments, before the chaos of the day began, you found a certain peace that was otherwise elusive. The quietude of the morning allowed you to appreciate the old hotel's charm—the way the light from the grand windows caught the intricate patterns of the wallpaper, the scent of old wood and polished floors, and the echoes of footsteps long past that seemed to linger in the air.

Descending the grand staircase, your hand brushed along the polished bannister, the cool surface smooth beneath your fingers. The echo of your footfalls on the wooden steps was a comforting, familiar, and constant sound. Each step brought you closer to your favourite part of the day—those first few moments in the kitchen, before anyone else stirred, where you could begin your morning rituals in solitude.

The kitchen was the hotel's heart for you. The dark wooden cabinets stood tall against the walls, their surfaces worn from years of use but still sturdy, holding all the secrets of your culinary endeavours within them. The floor, a classic checkered pattern of black and white tiles, was cool underfoot and always spotlessly clean—a testament to your careful attention. And then there was the range, a magnificent maroon beast that dominated the wall opposite the kitchen entrance. It was more than just an appliance; it was an old friend, a companion that had seen countless loaves of bread, pastries, and roasts emerge from its fiery belly.

You approached the old pantry to the left of the entrance, its door creaking slightly as you pulled it open. Inside, shelves lined with jars and tins, spices and dried herbs greeted you with the promise of a thousand possible dishes. But this morning, as with every other, your hand reached for the small, hand-cranked coffee grinder and the tin of coffee beans. The grinder was a cherished antique, its wooden body smooth from years of use, its metal crank polished to a dull sheen by the countless hands that had turned it. The beans rattled lightly as you poured them into the grinder, their rich aroma already beginning to fill the small space.

With a steady rhythm, you began to turn the crank, the gears inside humming quietly as they crushed the beans into a fine powder. The scent of fresh coffee intensified, mingling with the faint smell of cinnamon and vanilla that still clung to the air from yesterday's baking. You allowed yourself a moment to enjoy the fragrance, the anticipation of that first sip bringing a small smile to your lips.

Once the beans were ground to your satisfaction, you carefully emptied them into the percolator, setting them on the stovetop. As the percolator began to bubble and hiss, filling the room with the comforting sound of coffee brewing, you turned your attention to a small plate on the counter. Nestled on a doily were some cardamom buns—a remnant of yesterday's efforts. The buns were golden brown, its surfaces dusted with sugar, and the scent of cardamom was still strong.

You took one of the buns in your hand, breaking off a piece and savouring the soft, fragrant dough as it melted in your mouth. It was smooth, buttery, spicy and comforting, the perfect balance to the strong coffee that was nearly ready. You knew that starting your day with only coffee on an empty stomach wasn't the wisest choice, but with the cardamom bun in hand, the morning felt just a little more right.

As the last drops of coffee dripped into the pot, you poured yourself a cup, the dark liquid steaming gently. You took a deep breath, savouring the aroma before taking a cautious sip. The warmth spread through you, a quiet joy. This was your moment, a small piece of serenity before the day began. And in this stillness, in the gentle light filtering through the curtains and the soft hum of the hotel around you, you found contentment.

As you sat perched on the kitchen counter, your legs gently swinging back and forth, you sipped your coffee and savoured the last bite of your cardamom bun. The comforting warmth of the cup in your hands and the sweetness of the bun created a perfect start to the morning. The kitchen, bathed in the soft glow of the early light, was a tranquil haven, and you felt a sense of peace that was rare in the Hazbin Hotel. Your thoughts were only on the present moment, relishing the quiet solitude that these early hours afforded you.

But then, the serenity was gently disrupted by the soft creak of the kitchen door swinging open. You glanced up to see Alastor enter the room. His presence, though familiar, always sent a slight thrill through you. Today was no different. Clad in his trademark red and black striped suit, he appeared every bit the dashing and enigmatic figure you had grown to love. His posture was impeccable, as always, with his shoulders square and his back straight, projecting the image of effortless composure. But you noticed something others might not—a slight lethargy in his movements, a subtle delay in his usual brisk steps. Though still glowing with that unnatural red intensity, his eyes seemed to carry the faintest hint of weariness. He looked like he’d had a restless night.

It was a knowledge that only came with time. You had spent countless hours watching him, learning his habits, his idiosyncrasies, how his smile would linger just a fraction longer when he was genuinely amused or how his voice would drop ever so slightly when he was tired. These were the details that no one else noticed, the hidden truths you cherished as a testament to how well you knew him.

"Good morning, Alastor," you greeted him cheerfully, your voice light and melodic, not unlike the chirping of birds heralding the dawn. The words slipped out with ease, a reflection of the joy you felt in these quiet moments alone with him.

Alastor's eyes, as crimson as freshly spilt wine, turned towards you. Though sharp and intense, his gaze softened slightly as it met yours. And then came that smile that never failed to send butterflies tumbling through your stomach. It was a smile that could charm or disarm, depending on his mood, but to you, it was simply Alastor, the man who had somehow captured your heart.

"Good morning, my sweet," he replied, his voice carrying the remnants of sleep, a slight rasp that added an unexpected intimacy to his greeting. The nickname, one he had affectionately bestowed upon you, never failed to make your heart skip a beat. It had originated one evening when he had wandered into the kitchen in search of the bottle of rye Vaggie had hidden. Instead, he had found you, elbows deep in a mixing bowl, powdered sugar dusting your nose and cheeks as you prepared a batch of cookies. The moment had been simple, unremarkable to anyone else, but it had marked the beginning of something special between you.

A faint blush crept across your cheeks as you recalled the memory. The warmth of his words mingled with the warmth of the coffee still cradled in your hands. Alastor's presence always had that effect on you—an intoxicating mix of excitement and comfort, of familiarity and mystery.

"The coffee is ready, just as always," you said with a smile, nodding towards the cup you had thoughtfully placed on the counter beside you. It was a small gesture but one that had become a part of your morning routine, a quiet act of affection that you performed without fail. You knew how much he enjoyed his strong and black coffee, and you took pride in ensuring that it was ready for him the moment he stepped into the kitchen.

Alastor's gaze followed yours to the cup, and his smile widened, a glint of appreciation in his eyes.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice now smooth and warm, like honey. He reached for the cup, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest of moments—a touch so fleeting yet so charged with meaning that it sent a shiver down your spine. He lifted the cup to his lips, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a slow, deliberate sip. You watched him, your heart swelling with quiet happiness as you observed the way his eyes half-closed in contentment, the weariness in his expression easing ever so slightly.

As you sat there, the two of you cocooned in the quiet of the kitchen; you couldn't help but reflect on how these small moments had come to mean so much to you. It was in the stillness of the morning before the rest of the hotel awoke that you felt closest to him. These were the moments where you could be yourselves without the pretence or bravado that often accompanied life at the Hazbin Hotel.

You had long since discovered that Alastor, for all his flamboyance and charm, was a creature of habit. He liked his routines, and once you realised that he preferred to have his morning coffee around the same time as you, it became a shared ritual—a way to carve out a small piece of the day that belonged to just the two of you. It was a subtle dance, a quiet partnership, and you cherished it more than you could ever express in words.

As he took another sip of his coffee, you found yourself lost in the simple pleasure of being near him, of sharing these unspoken moments. There was a comfort in the routine, in the knowledge that, for this brief time each day, it was just the two of you against the world. And in that thought, you found a sense of contentment that made the early mornings all the more worthwhile.

As you sipped your coffee together, the familiar comfort of Alastor's presence mingled with a growing, unbidden sensation deep within you. The fluttering butterflies in your stomach, which had always been a pleasant reminder of your feelings for him, began to stir with a new intensity. Their delicate wings, once only a source of lightness and joy, now seemed to brush against something more profound and primal. The tingling sensation spread through you, igniting a warmth that travelled lower, coiling deep within your core. You blinked, startled by the sudden realisation—the butterflies had transformed into something else entirely, a throbbing ache that could only be the unmistakable stirrings of arousal.

Startled by the intensity of your own desire, you quickly jumped down from the counter, your feet hitting the cool tiles with a soft thud. In a hurried attempt to mask your flustered state, you downed the remainder of your coffee in one swift gulp, the liquid scalding your throat but distracting you momentarily from the heat pooling in your lower abdomen. The sudden rush of movement seemed to amplify the blood pounding in your ears, and you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks.

Desperate to avoid Alastor's gaze, you rushed to the sink, your hands trembling slightly as you fumbled to place your cup and plate inside. The clatter of dishes rang out, the sound unnervingly loud in the otherwise quiet kitchen. Words tumbled out of your mouth in a clumsy attempt to divert his attention, to keep him from noticing the flush that had crept up your neck and settled on your cheeks.

"Well, this was truly wonderful, Alastor, as always, but now I really must get back to work!" you stammered, your voice higher than usual, betraying your anxiety. Without daring to look back, you spun around, intent on making a hasty retreat from the kitchen and the overwhelming tension that had suddenly thickened the air.

But instead of the open space you expected, you found yourself colliding with a solid chest. You gasped, the breath catching in your throat as you realised that Alastor had moved completely silently and now stood directly behind you. Your heart leapt into your throat as you tilted your head back to meet his gaze. His crimson eyes, usually so playful and full of mischief, were now darkened with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

Alastor's right hand was hidden behind his back, his left still holding the coffee cup, though it seemed to have been forgotten. He studied you with an almost unnerving focus, his gaze piercing as if he could see straight into the depths of your soul. Yet, something was distant in his eyes, as if part of him was lost in thought, grappling with something unseen. His breaths came slow and deep; each inhale seemed to draw the air from the room, leaving you breathless in his presence.

You instinctively backed up, the edge of the counter-pressing into the small of your back as you tried to create some distance, though your body betrayed you by leaning forward, drawn inexplicably closer to him. The air between you was thick, charged with a tension that felt almost palpable as if it had a life of its own. You could feel the energy crackling between you, something heavy, potent, and utterly intoxicating.

Alastor's eyes bore into yours, and you could see the flicker of something carnal, something raw and unrestrained, within their crimson depths. The intensity of his gaze sent a wave of heat coursing through you, settling deep in your belly, where the ache from before had grown into a full-fledged hunger. His laboured breathing mirrored your own, the rise and fall of his chest almost hypnotic as you matched his rhythm, each breath filling you with a heady mixture of anticipation and longing.

For a moment, the world outside the kitchen ceased to exist, the only reality being the charged space between you and Alastor. The very air seemed to hum with the unsaid, the unacknowledged desires that had long been simmering just beneath the surface. The silence stretched out, heavy and loaded, thick with unspoken words and the magnetic pull of mutual attraction.

And then, as if on some unspoken cue, Alastor took a step closer, closing the small distance between you, his body heat enveloping you like a warm, intoxicating fog. His free hand, the one hidden behind his back, suddenly appeared at your waist, fingers brushing against your side with a touch so light it was almost imperceptible. Yet, it sent a jolt of electricity through your entire being. The delicate caress was enough to draw a soft gasp from your lips, a sound that seemed to hang in the air between you.

His touch lingered, the pressure of his fingers increasing ever so slightly as he held you in place, preventing any thoughts of escape. You could feel the power in his grip, the barely restrained strength that lay beneath the surface, and it thrilled you to no end. Your pulse quickened, each beat echoing in your ears, and you found yourself leaning into his touch, craving more of the sensation, more of him.

Alastor's eyes darkened further as he noticed your reaction, a slow, predatory smile curling at the corners of his lips. His head dipped slightly, his breath ghosting over your ear as he whispered, voice low and laced with a dangerous, seductive edge.

"What is it, my dear? You seem… restless." The sound of his voice, so close and intimate, sent a shiver racing down your spine, igniting a fire within you that threatened to consume you whole. You couldn't tear your eyes away from him, couldn't suppress the desire that was rapidly spiralling out of control.

"Alastor, what are you doing?" Your voice, though quiet, held a steady resolve. Even as your heart raced with the thrill of being this close to him, a flicker of concern danced in the back of your mind. This behaviour was unlike anything you had ever seen from him before. Alastor had always been composed, a master of his emotions and actions, yet now there was something different in how he looked at you, wild and untamed. The intensity in his crimson eyes stirred a mixture of excitement and trepidation within you. You didn't want him to stop, but you needed to understand what was happening and what that look in his eyes truly meant.

As if your words had snapped him out of a trance, Alastor blinked, his expression momentarily softening. He seemed to realise how close he was to you, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he withdrew his hand from your waist. The absence of his touch left a cold void where his warmth had been, and a strange sense of longing settled in its place.

Without a word, he turned slightly, reaching over to place his cup in the sink. But to do so, he had to lean forward, his body brushing against yours most tantalisingly. Your breath hitched as his face came mere centimetres from your neck, and in that moment, you felt his breath warm against your skin. Then, he inhaled sharply, his nose grazing the curve of your neck as he took in your scent. The intimate gesture sent a jolt of electricity through you, making your entire body tingle with awareness.

The soft sound of his inhale, almost a sigh, was filled with a hunger that sent your heart racing, and before you could react, the sharp clatter of the cup hitting the metal sink broke the spell. You flinched slightly at the noise, your startled gaze flying back to his face. But before you could form the words to ask him why he had done it, why he had drawn so close only to retreat, he was already moving away, his form dissolving into the shadows that clung to the edges of the room.

Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as you stared at the space where he had been, your mind reeling from the sudden shift in the atmosphere. The air still crackled with the remnants of his presence, heavy with an unspoken desire that had hung between you like a charged storm cloud. You could still feel the ghost of his breath on your neck, the faint warmth of his body against yours, and it left you yearning for more, craving the touch that had been so abruptly withdrawn.

For a moment, you remained frozen in place, your senses still overwhelmed by the lingering traces of his closeness. His scent—a mix of dark spices and something uniquely Alastor—still clung to the air, wrapping around you like an invisible cloak. Your skin tingled where his hand had rested, your neck burning where his breath had touched. The memory of that fleeting moment was enough to set your pulse racing once more, the ache in your core intensifying with every passing second.

You couldn't shake the image of his eyes, the way they had darkened with something raw and primal as he had leaned in. It was as if a dam had cracked within him, and for the briefest of moments, you had glimpsed the depth of his desire—a desire that mirrored your own. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, your body responding to the mere memory of his touch.

But then, just as quickly as it had all begun, it was over, and the kitchen was once again empty, the shadows swallowing him whole. You were left standing there, your heart pounding in your chest, your body still humming with unfulfilled need. You knew that this encounter had changed something between you, and you had opened a door that could never be closed. And even though he had disappeared into the darkness, you couldn't help but feel that this was only the beginning, that whatever had ignited between you was far from extinguished.

The hunger in his eyes and the way he had inhaled your scent as if trying to memorise it were not things that could be easily forgotten. And as you stood there, the silence of the kitchen pressing in around you, you realised that you didn't want to ignore them. You wanted more. More of the closeness, more of the heat that had flared so suddenly between you, more of the man who had just vanished into the shadows but who, you knew, would never be far from your thoughts again.

The encounter with Alastor in the kitchen earlier this morning had left you confused, yet you couldn't deny the raw energy that still coursed through your veins. His touch, the way he had leaned in so close, his breath on your neck—it had all been so brief, yet so intense. The memory of it lingered, simmering just beneath your skin, a constant reminder of the hunger that had been awakened within you. It was a sensation you couldn't shake, a burning need that gnawed at your insides and left you restless. You tried to make sense of it, to understand what had transpired between you, but the more you thought about it, the more you realised that understanding was not what you craved. What you wanted, what you needed, was to find him again, to confront the tension that had sparked between you and see if he had felt it too.

With a sense of determination, you decided to channel that restless energy into something productive, something that might draw him to you. Alastor had always had a peculiar taste when it came to sweets—he wasn't one for sugary confections. But you knew he had a weakness for rich, decadent chocolate, the kind that was bittersweet, with just the right balance of indulgence and restraint.

The idea struck you then, sudden and insistent. You would bake something for him, something that would carry the weight of your unspoken desires, a message wrapped in layers of dark chocolate and anticipation.

In the quiet of the kitchen, you set to work, your movements purposeful and precise. You gathered the ingredients, each one a piece of the puzzle you were crafting for him: dark cocoa, rich butter, a hint of espresso to deepen the flavour, and just a touch of sweetness—enough to balance the bitterness without overpowering it. As you melted the chocolate and mixed the batter, your mind drifted back to that moment in the kitchen, the heat of his body so close to yours, the intensity in his gaze. The memory only fuelled your determination, adding a particular fervour to your work. You poured the thick, glossy batter into the pan, smoothing it out with a spatula, your hands steady despite the wild beating of your heart.

As the brownies baked, the aroma filled the kitchen, rich and heady, curling around you like a dark, enticing promise. You found yourself imagining how Alastor would react when you presented them to him, how he might lean in close again, his sharp eyes studying you with that same hunger you had seen earlier. Would he be able to sense the emotions you had poured into every step of this creation, the longing that had driven you to seek him out?

Once the brownies had cooled, you carefully cut them into neat squares, arranging them on a plate. The sight of them, so dark and tempting, filled you with a strange sense of satisfaction. You could only hope that they would have the desired effect on Alastor, that he would understand the message hidden within the folds of rich chocolate.

With the plate in hand, you made your way through the winding halls of the Hazbin Hotel, each step bringing you closer to the man who had left you in such a state of turmoil. The hotel was quiet, the usual chaos subdued in these early hours, allowing your thoughts to swirl unchecked. The closer you got to the radio tower, the more your anticipation grew, your heart pounding in time with your footsteps as you climbed the stairs to the roof.

Finally, you reached the door to the radio tower, a place that was as much a part of Alastor as the suit he always wore. You hesitated momentarily, the plate of brownies warm in your hands, the reality of what you were about to do sinking in. But the memory of his closeness, the tension that had crackled between you, pushed you forward. You raised your hand and knocked, the sound echoing in the quiet corridor.

The door creaked open, and there he stood, Alastor, with that ever-present smile that could be both charming and unsettling. His red eyes glinted in the low light, and for a moment, the two of you stared at each other, the memory of the morning's encounter hanging heavily between you. Then, with a graceful tilt of his head, he stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter.

"Well, well, what have we here?" he asked, his voice smooth, with an undertone of amusement that sent a shiver down your spine. He eyed the plate in your hands with interest, his gaze flicking back to you, curiosity—and something else—lingering in his expression.

"I thought you might like something to go with your coffee," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady even as your pulse quickened, ignoring the fact that he’d had his coffee over an hour ago. You stepped into the room, the door closing softly behind you, sealing the two of you in the intimate space. He took the plate from your hands, his fingers brushing yours in a way that made your breath hitch.

"Chocolate brownies?" he mused, his tone almost teasing. "You do know me well, my sweet." His smile widened, though there was a sharpness to it now, a glint in his eyes that spoke of a keen awareness of the game you were playing.

As he placed the plate on the small table near his desk, you couldn't help but notice the way his movements were deliberate and overly controlled. He turned back to you, his gaze once again locking onto yours, and you felt the air between you grow thick with the same tension that had crackled in the kitchen. Only this time, it was more intense, more charged with the unspoken desires that had brought you here.

Alastor stepped closer, the space between you shrinking with each measured step. You could feel the heat of him, the magnetic pull that had drawn you to him this morning. His presence was overwhelming, and as he leaned in, his voice dropped to a low, intimate murmur.

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble, darling. But I must say, I'm flattered."

There was no mistaking the intent behind his words, the way they wrapped around you, pulling you deeper into the web he was weaving. Your pulse raced, your body reacting to his sheer proximity, the dark allure of his presence. You could feel the same simmering heat that had driven you to seek him out, now burning brighter, hotter, in the confines of this small room.

He reached out, his fingers trailing along your arm, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"What are you really here for?" he asked, his voice a soft purr laden with meaning. The question hung in the air, heavy and expectant, as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it from your lips.

Your mouth was dry, your thoughts a tangled mess of desire and uncertainty. But as his hand came to rest on your waist, pulling you just that little closer, the answer became clear. You had come here not just to deliver brownies but to confront the tension that had been simmering between you, to see if he felt the same electric pull that you did. And as his eyes bore into yours, filled with a hunger that mirrored your own, you knew he did.

The radio tower felt both intimate and suffocating as you stood before Alastor, the heavy air around you thick with the tension that had been building all day. You had come here intending to confront him, to get answers about the strange encounter in the kitchen that morning. But as soon as you stepped inside, you realised that something was terribly wrong. The room was filled with his scent—rich, intoxicating, and overwhelmingly powerful. It invaded your senses, curling around your mind and body, leaving you feeling dizzy and unsteady.

You had heard of this happening before, this surge of uncontrollable desire, but you had never experienced it so intensely. An instinct and power that overwhelmed sinners with certain animalistic traits, and since both you and Alastor were sinners with deer traits, it was only natural what had come to pass. Your heat had begun, and the sudden realisation sent a wave of panic through you. The heat in your body was growing unbearable, every nerve alight with a desperate need you couldn't control. And here you were, standing so close to him, your body betraying you, pulling you toward him as if he were the only thing that could satisfy the fire raging inside you.

You tried to focus on why you were here, trying to form the words that would explain your confusion about what had happened between you this morning. But the scent of him was all-consuming, clouding your thoughts and driving you mad with desire. You could barely speak, your voice catching in your throat as you looked up at him, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and need.

"Alastor, I… I need to go," you stammered, your voice shaking as you stepped back. You couldn't let him see you like this, couldn't let him know what was happening. It was too humiliating, too raw. But as you turned to leave, you felt his eyes on you, sharp and intense, and you knew he had already figured it out.

The flicker of understanding in his crimson eyes sent a shiver down your spine, your body reacting to the silent acknowledgement of what was happening. He knew. And worse, he understood because he was feeling it, too. His rut had started, and the primal part of him, the part that thrived on dominance and control, was warring with the more civilised side that knew it wasn't right to keep you here, wasn't right to let the Need within him take over.

You could see the conflict in his eyes. His muscles tensed as he fought to hold himself back, his breath coming in slow, controlled exhalations. For a moment, you thought he might let you go, that he might allow you to escape before things went too far. But there was a hunger in his gaze, a dark, consuming need that made your heart race even faster. And you knew that if you didn't leave now, you might not be able to at all.

With a burst of adrenaline, you turned on your heel and fled the radio tower, your heart pounding in your chest as you bolted down the stairs. The corridors of the Hazbin Hotel twisted and turned as you ran, your footsteps echoing in the empty halls. But no matter how fast you moved, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched, that something was stalking you from the shadows.

The presence was palpable, a dark, looming force that seemed to close in around you, even though you couldn't see him. You knew it was Alastor, that he was there, following you, watching you. The knowledge sent another wave of arousal crashing through you, your body reacting to the chase, to the danger of it all. The thought that he was hunting you, that he could catch you at any moment, only heightened your desire, the heat in your core growing unbearable as you neared your room.

You slammed the door behind you, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you leaned against the wood, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart. But it was no use. The room felt small, the air thick with the remnants of his scent that had clung to your clothes and skin. Your hands shook as you fumbled to lock the door, knowing deep down that it wouldn't matter. If Alastor wanted to get in, no lock would stop him.

For a moment, there was silence, the kind that presses in on you from all sides, heavy and oppressive. But then, as if summoned by your thoughts, the shadows in the corner of the room began to shift, twisting and writhing as they took form. Your breath hitched as Alastor stepped out from the darkness, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that made your knees weak.

He was in front of you instantly, moving with the fluid grace of a predator closing in on its prey. You backed up instinctively, but there was nowhere to go and hide from the desire radiating from him in waves. His scent was overwhelming now, intoxicating, filling your lungs with every breath you took. It clouded your mind, pushing aside any thoughts of escape, leaving only the raw, primal need that had been driving you since this morning.

Alastor's gaze locked onto yours, and the world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you. The tension between you crackles like electricity in the air. His hand found your wrist, pulling you closer with a firm, unyielding grip that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core. His touch was searing, his presence overwhelming, and as his other hand came up to cup your chin, tilting your face up toward his, you knew there was no turning back. The need in his eyes mirrored your own, a dark, consuming fire that threatened to burn you both alive.

You trembled under his touch, the last remnants of your resistance crumbling as you looked up at him, your body screaming for the release that only he could give you. And as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, you knew that you would give in to that need, would surrender to the fire that burned between you, no matter the consequences.

"Tell me to stop. One word and I will, but tell me you desire me as I desire you, and you will be mine for the night and all the nights to come," he whispered his voice a low, dangerous static that sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. But you couldn't, didn't want to. You were too far gone, too consumed by the lust that had been building inside you since the moment you entered the radio tower. Instead, you leaned into him, your body arching against his as you gave yourself over to the heat, to the need, to him.

"Alastor, don't you dare stop," was all you needed to say.

His lips were warm and soft against yours. The kiss was only gentle for a split second before the desire, the Need, overtook both of you. Hands clawed at your clothing, and it did not take long before you could feel his skin against yours. His body heat felt scolding against your skin, making you wonder if he was leaving marks all over your body. His hand travelled down your back as the bottoms of your shirt were opened and pushed down your body. The feeling of his fingertips against your spine felt almost sinful in nature, and you wondered if you would ever be the same.

Alastor pressed you against the wall of your room as he stopped kissing your swollen lips and turned to rain kisses down your neck. In between every kiss, he would stop and drag his teeth or nibble your flesh, making your skin feel raw and hot. Having enough of his attention directed towards your neck, you buried your hands in his thick hair and pulled him back towards your lips. His ears laid flat for a second against your hand but sprang up again after he realised that you did not pull him back in rejection but to encourage him to kiss you again.

As you continued to make out against the wall, you continued to strip each other clumsily. There was no way of being gentle or structured in the heat of passion, and some clothing pieces could be heard ripping, but none of you cared at that moment. However, everything seemed to stop as you felt Alastors hand sneak into your underwear and drag a finger slowly against your wet pussy. You tried to inhale, but your breath was ragged and hitched at your throat.

"My sweet, sweet little dear, are you desperate?" Alastor teased as the tip of his finger slowly started to circle your clit. Your nails dug into his shoulders as you looked back up at the radio daemon. To someone else who did not know Alastor, it would look like he was unaffected by what was happening, but you knew he was far from untouched. His smile ever so slightly wider, pupils blown wide, his shallow breath hot against your skin, and the feeling of his erection pressing against your hipbone.

"Tell me, do you want it here against the wall," he asked, pressing you closer to the wall, "or do you want us to move to the bed?"

"Bed, please." The words whispered against his cheek, but Alastor heard you clear as day. With strength you didn't know he had, he helped you jump up with your legs around his hips as he carried you to the bed behind him. He softly put you down against the soft and cool navy bedsheets, following closely as he laid down over you, encapsulating you between his arms that leaned against the bed, his pelvis pressing against yours between your legs. The meer pressure from his cock against you made your legs shake, and your body feel all tingly.

His lips, his hands, they are all over you, and it’s almost too much. Every touch leaves a feeling behind, almost like a mark, and you revel in the thought of Alastor leaving something behind on you that’ll show everyone that you are his just as he is yours.

Alastors skin is warm, almost scolding hot, under your fingertips as you help him strip from his clothes. You kiss him with desperation you had never felt before as you buck your hips to put pressure on his cock, making him moan against your swollen lips. He presses you down against the bed as you drag your fingers through his soft hair, pulling his head back as you trail wet kisses down his neck. His breath hitches as you find a sensitive spot where the neck meets the shoulder, and as you suck on his tender skin, leaving a small purple mark, you can’t help but feel pride. You pull back and look up at the man above you with smugness. His cheeks had darkened in a soft blush as he panted above you, red lips swollen and eyes almost black with desire.

As if the final mental blockade fell away and all inhibitions flew out the window, you and Alastor tore away each other's clothes. Leaving only tattered pieces of cloth on the bed and claw marks on your bodies. Later, you would wonder if the pulsing and desperate neediness that had built between the both of you had just enhanced what was already there, but for now, you revelled in the warmth and tingling sensation of arousal. You were wet, and you could feel the slickness of your pussy as Alastor removed your underwear at last. The cool air shilled you at the same time it sent waves of pleasure down your thighs.

“Look at you,” Alastor said, his voice husky and laced with desire as he looked down at you. “Such a sweet delight you are—sweet enough to eat.”

As he said those words, Alastor slowly pushed his finger into your vagina, coating his finger in your essence before slowly pulling out. You could not help the moan you let out turn to a gasp as you looked up at him, who started to lick his slick finger clean. His eyes blazed with uncontrollable heat.

“Truly delicious. Come, my sweet, have a taste of yourself.” Alastor put his other hand behind your head and pulled you up from the bed to meet his lips in a messy kiss. His tongue forced itself between your lips, mingling with yours and effectively leaving the taste of yourself on your own tongue.

“Stop being such a tease, Alastor.” You said against his lips when the kiss ended. Your hot breath merged with his as you dragged your hands down his torso. You could feel every muscle jump underneath your fingertips as if they were shocked with electricity as you pulled your hands lower and lower. His pants, opened and barely hanging off his slim hips, weren’t difficult to pull down and made a soft sound as they hit the floor across the room. You gently pressed your thumbs down between his underwear and skin as you slowly pulled them off him. You could feel the goosebumps covering the man above you as your finger glided over his hot skin.

The first time you felt Alastor’s cock against your heated pussy, it made you believe that there was never going to be anyone else after him who could match the feeling. Hot liquid pooled between your legs as you instantly lifted your hips to get even closer, effectively pulling a low moan out of the man's trembling lips.

“Naughty, naughty little doe of mine. Control yourself,” he chuckled as he pressed open mouth kisses against your neck, but you didn’t want to control yourself. You wanted the passion, the heat, the feeling of Alastor pounding inside you as your legs shock from pleasure. And so, letting the instincts take over, you grabbed his cock gently, making Alastor let out a gasp against your shoulder as he gently moved his hips to make his manhood glide back and forth between your fingers. Desperate for the touch and the pleasure you could give him.

“Alastor, please, my dear, I want you inside me. I can’t wait anymore. I need you so badly,” you mumbled against his ear right beside your head, and with every word you said, you could feel Alastor’s teeth and nails dig a little bit deeper into you.

 With one single thrust, Alastor entered you after you had aligned him right in front of your opening. It has heaven in Hell, this moment when you first felt him inside you, and your legs instinctually closed around his hips to press him as deep within you as he could go. Everything was heightened. Every touch felt electric, every breath a heave, and every thrust sent a feeling of fullness and belonging inside you. The feeling was addicting, like the sweetest of wine, the nectar from the gods, and it begged and begged for more.

“More, more, Alastor, give me more,” you chanted against his skin as your fingernails dragged long red lines along your lover's back.

“Greedy, oh so greedy, my sweet.” you could feel his smirk against your cheek as he kissed your temple. “You deserve the world.” Was the last thing he said before he pulled away to sit up on his knees. His band quickly found your knees as he prided your legs open and started to slowly and agonisingly thrust into you. You could feel everything. His eyes roaming over your body, the cold air against your heated skin, and his thick cock slowly pushing in and out, filling you, teasing you. It was as if Alastor wanted to drag out your pleasure for as long as possible.  

In an instant, Alastor pulled out and flipped you around on your belly with a strength you didn’t know he had. Two strong hands took hold of your trembling hips and lifted them high enough to shove one of the thick pillows underneath. With your hips resting against the pillow and chest against the mattress, Alastor sat up further on his knees, towering over you, as he dressed your legs together with his knees so that your legs were now snuggled together between his thighs. You could feel your cunt flutter in excitement as you bit your lips, waiting for Alastor to enter you again. And he didn’t disappoint.

With one thrust, Alastor buried himself within you again as he bent down to whisper in your ear.

“Is this what my sweet little doe wanted? To be bent over, used, fucked till there isn’t a single thought in that head of yours? Do you want me, my darling? Do you want to be mine?” Every word he whispered was further emphasised with a slow and deep thrust. Pressing you against the pillow. Your finger dug deep into the bedsheets as you pushed your mouth to the mattresses to disguise your primal moan in desperation. But Alastor would have none of it. Instead, his hand snuck underneath your chin and bent your head back, effectively filling the room with the sound of your moans and the slapping against bodies as Alastor continued to fuck you.

“Don’t hide for me. I want to hear every pathetic little sound you make. I want to hear how good I can make my little mate feel.” Those words were the drop that made the goblet overflow and the last thing you need before an orgasm ripped through your body uncontrollably. Your pleasure seemed to snap something inside Alastor, too, for he quickened his pace. Chasing and intensifying both of your pleasures as you pulsed around his cock.

“Yes, yes, yes, your mate. I want to be your mate,” the words came tumbling out of your mouth as your whole body chook from the orgasm that beat within you like stormy waves against a cliffside. Nothing had felt more right than Alastor within you and the thought of being his as he was yours.

Alastor kept thrusting at a quick pace as your orgasm started to subside, but a new pleasure hummed with pride within you as you felt him come inside you. With every throbbing of his cock, Alastor’s nails dug deeper and deeper within the mattresses until he tore them apart.

Shaking, sweaty and tired, you let out one last moan as Alastor put all his weight against you as he lay above you, pressing you against the mattresses. You could feel his hot lips against your neck as he said,

“Well, aren’t my sweet little mate full of surprises?”

Well, would you look at that! I'm back! Did you miss me?

Jokes aside, I hope you enjoyed this smutty little story!

Hazbin gen. taglist: @reath-solia @everwolf-20 @alastorthirsty1

[sassypantsjaxon]

Zoro offers to kill Judge

When Sanji returns from Whole Cake and his wedding and Luffy and Nami will only tell him the barest details because it's Sanji's business to tell and he isn't saying anything. Zoro says he can go and kill Judge right now and still be back in time to fight Kaido. His captain tells him No. Sanji wanted them alive. Zoro respects that, but he still offers again when Sanji finally tells him why he had to ask Zoro to kill him. Sanji manages to fake a laugh through his tears as he tells Zoro No, that's not necessary.

It's not the last time Zoro offers. When Sanji starts staring out into the distance, towards where he knows the North Blue must be, with this desolate look on his face. When he buys Zoro a good bottle of sake. When his hands start to tremble with contained strength. When he gets up before dawn to prepare breakfast for everyone. There's no rhyme or reason to when or why Zoro offers. As a reassurance, as a thanks, as a promise. Sanji knows he means it, every time, and he denies him every time. He'll never admit how much he appreciates the offer. How much he wants to accept, but he just can't. It becomes a part of their courtship, just as much as their daily sparing. They'll fight over anything and everything, they'll make up again over shared food and clean dishes and naps on the deck, and Zoro will kill Judge for Sanji. Keep his beloved hands clean of his creator's blood. He offers once, in between the proposal and Luffy declaring them husbands, says It can be a wedding present, and is only joking about it being a gift for their wedding. Sanji still laughs when he says No. Sometimes they'll go so long that Sanji starts to wonder if Zoro's changed his mind, that maybe he won't kill Judge for him after all. And then one morning, out of nowhere, Zoro will catch his hand as he he's in the middle of something else, and tell him I'll do it for you, just say the word. And Sanji will tell him Not today. Sometimes he wonders if the only reason he keeps denying Zoro this one thing, it's really because hearing the offer sounds like a reassurance of the other man's love for him. And then Sanji tells Zoro about their child. And Zoro has plenty of his own concerns. Children are so fragile, both their bodies and their spirits so easily broken. But it's different for Sanji. This constant battle between joy to have this little thing growing in him, and the terror that maybe the things he's managed to fight away will be passed on to this innocent party. Zoro offers again. He'd be back home long before the child arrives. Sanji cries and tells him It wouldn't change anything now. It's the first time his answer hasn't been a no. But it's not a yes either, so Zoro waits. Maybe the day Sanji agrees will never come, but Zoro will wait for the rest of his life if the reassurance is the one thing Sanji needs. And their baby comes and Sanji laughs at how terrified Zoro is to hold them for the first time, and they look just like Zoro, and Ussop jokes that Sanji's genes didn't even put up a fight and Sanji just looks so so relieved. Their child is no stronger or more durable than any other child in the world, they cry when they're upset and laugh when they're happy and Sanji couldn't be more relieved. And Zoro knows. He knows what the answer will be the next time he asks. He knows that no child will ever go through the torment that Sanji did. He knows that Judge will never hurt another person. But he doesn't ask. Because he needs Sanji to be absolutely sure of his decision, so he doesn't ask. And still one morning, as Sanji's waking up and Zoro's going to bed, and Sanji is holding their child his his arms, with all the wonder that something so precious could be theirs, and he looks up at Zoro with a lifetime's worth of love, and tells him Yes. And Zoro says Consider it done.

He goes alone. He knows the rest of the crew would join him, destroy all of Germa 66, send it to the depths of the ocean for the sake of their kindhearted cook. But this is only Zoro's promise to keep, so he goes alone. He finds Germa without any trouble. He's always trusted to seas to bring him exactly where he needs to go, and this time is no different. It's big and cold and ugly and contradictory to everything Sanji is. Just having heard about it, Zoro had wondered how his Cook could have come from a place like this. Seeing it for himself makes him wonder even more. It's easy enough to find the palace, even easier to find the throne room. Judge recognizes him immediately. Pirate Hunter. Greatest Swordsman. First Mate to the King of the Pirates. Husband to the failed prince of Germa. It's pathetic, the way Judge begs for his life, promises Zoro anything he could want. There's only one thing he's capable of granting, and Zoro doesn't hesitate to demand it. Reiju named as his successor. He knows it's what Sanji would want. The only way to guarantee Germa's sins won't be repeated, aside from destroying it outright. There are plenty of other things Zoro wants from Judge. But none he's truly able to give. He wants Sanji's peace of mind, for himself and for their child. He wants Sanji to never wake up and fear he's back in that cell again. He wants to take all of Sanji's pain and bear it himself, but this is the best he can do. It's almost not even worth the effort it takes to kill Judge, and he almost feels bad for putting this coward's blood on his swords, except they're begging for it almost as much as Zoro is. He passes Reiju herself as he's leaving the throne room. She takes in the scene with no emotion showing on her face. Zoro isn't sure if her lack of reaction is from the modification Sanji had told him about or if this would be her response anyway. Zoro stops just past her, but doesn't turn back to look at her. Tells her Sanji has a child. Named Sora. They're safe and loved and cared for by the family he's created for himself. He thinks he hears some emotion in her voice as she tells him Good. I'm glad. Zoro doesn't stay to hear anything more. He wants to find the room Sanji was held prisoner in, destroy it, bring this whole place to the ground. But he'd only promised Sanji this one thing. He returns to the Sunny as easily as he had left. He hadn't been gone long. Everything's exactly as he left it. Sanji and Sora are still waiting for him. Sanji falls into his arms, finally free of this weight he's been carrying his entire life, looks up at Zoro with a tear filled smile and tells him Thank you.

[dark-and-kawaii]

begging and pleading for more mean raphael 😭🙏🏻 the way you write is so ajahdhejdjsj i literally check your blog DAILY

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ The Devils Entertainment ˖⟡˚౨ৎ⋆

Summary: Raphael uses you like the eager pup you are, using you as a precious little cum dump. That’s all you’re good for anyway, to entertain him until he grows bored.

♡ Content: NSFW - Degrading - Used - Creampie - Mean Raphael

♡ Notes: Whaa!!! Thank you darling (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )!!!! I can’t believe you check my blog daily, like wow!!! I really hope this satisfies your mean Raphael needs!!!

Raphael fucks you raw until you’re begging, crying for him to cum inside you. Until your mind has completely blanked out. The man- the devil, always makes your body his own, his hands bruising your hips, your throat, your wrists as he manhandles you into the perfect position to pound your abused cunt, “You bend so easily, little pup. It’s almost dull.” He laughs low, his grip on your hip tightens as you sob his name, your arms barely keeping your chest off the ground.

Your body is sore and used, your mind exhausted, unable to do much more than feel the pleasure of his thick cock, his cum leaking from your swollen, aching cunt… “I barely exert any effort, and there you go, crumbling at the seams. It's like you were made to be broken. Pitty. I like when they can at least put up a decent fight.”

You whine when the devil pulls out, leaving your core empty so he can watch his seed spill from you. His voice is cruel as he chuckles, watching you intently, “So eager to fall apart. I wonder-“ he places his hand on his chin, “do you enjoy it? The descent, the collapse? It seems to come so naturally to you.”

You're not sure how to respond. You don't have the strength or mind to argue, not that he'd ever listen to anything you say anyway. Not that you mind being treated in such a manner…

He leans in close, his nose pressed to the shell of your ear, his breath hot, sending chills through your tired body, “Each time I think you've hit the bottom, you find a new way to disappoint me. It's an art form, really, your knack for disappointing me."

You don't have the strength to move. He grabs your chin and forces your head to the side, making you look at him, his lips against your skin, his words a dark, twisted promise, “You’re not worth my time I’m afraid, only good for one thing and that’s a hole for me to fill. But don’t worry, if you wish to get off little mouse, Haarlep will happily keep you company.”

You wanted to tell him no, that you’d do better, that you’d get him the crown and all would be well, that you worshiped him like some kind of god- like an archdevil, but the words wouldn’t come. And even if they did, would it matter? You know this is what your devil likes, tormenting you. Using you, breaking you... Watching as Haarlep his precious incubus fucks the almost ever living life out of you. Stroking his cock as you call out to him while impaled on Haarlep’s grossly thick cock.

This was your life now, a plaything for the devil and all you could do was nod with a lazy fucked out smile. Your body limp as Raphael lifts you up, tossing you on his bed near Haarlep’s lap, “do try to make this an entertaining performance, Haarlep.”

The incubus nods, lifting you into their lap, “Oh, little pet~” Haarlep moans, their hands roaming over your tired body.

Raphael chuckles, sitting on a plush chair across from the bed, a bottle of wine in hand as he watches the show.

[girlw-amermaidtattoo]

Staying Safe and Submissive: Essential Tips for Locktober Participants

Welcome back, my sweet, locked subs. Locktober is all about surrender, tease, and that tantalizing feeling of being oh-so-close yet so far. But while you’re embracing the ache of denial, it’s important to stay safe and look after that caged little treasure. Let’s get into the essentials to make sure your Locktober is all about fun, submission, and safe play.

Safety First: Wearing Your Chastity Cage Correctly

A snug fit is everything. Your cage should hug you just right—tight enough to keep you in line but not so tight that it causes pain or injury. If it’s your first time, take it slow. Wear it for a few hours, check in with yourself, and gradually increase the time until you’re ready to stay locked all day (or longer, if you dare).

Cleaning is Key: Hygiene is non-negotiable. Clean your cage daily, and don’t skip the soap and water. You want to stay fresh, comfortable, and ready to keep serving without any nasty surprises.

Listen to Your Body: Discomfort is part of the tease, but pain isn’t. If you feel pinching, bruising, or any concerning sensations, it’s okay to unlock, reassess, and start again. You’re in this for the long haul, and a little break can make all the difference.

Knowing When to Take Breaks

Even the most devoted subs need a breather. Locktober is about pushing boundaries, not breaking them. Schedule breaks when you need them; a quick unlock and reset can keep things safe and sustainable. Remember, it’s not a failure—it’s smart chastity play.

Emergency Unlock Protocol: Always have an emergency key accessible, especially if you’re playing solo. You want to stay locked, but you need a way out if things go wrong. Keep it sealed in a tamper-proof container if you need the extra discipline.

Handling Discomfort: Tease, Not Torture

There’s a fine line between the sweet agony of chastity and actual harm. If you’re feeling sore, try adjusting the ring size, applying a little lube, or changing positions. Swelling? Take a break. Locktober isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon of delicious torment.

Playing Online: Keeping Your Sub Space Safe

Locktober isn’t just about the physical cage; it’s about the mental game, too. Online play with a Domme adds that extra spice, but make sure you’re protecting yourself.

Set Clear Boundaries: Establish what you’re comfortable with—whether it’s tribute limits, types of tasks, or the frequency of interactions. Communicate openly with your Domme to ensure your play remains consensual and enjoyable.

Recognize Red Flags: Any Domme worth your devotion respects your boundaries. If you feel pressured or uneasy, step back and reassess. Your submission is a gift, not something to be exploited.

The Golden Rule: Consent is Everything

Whether it’s chastity, Findom, or any other dynamic, consent is the backbone of your play. You’re in this to serve, but your boundaries matter. Consent is what keeps the power exchange beautiful, safe, and sustainable.

Stay locked, stay safe, and keep that focus on the long game, my devoted subs. Remember, your journey through Locktober is as much about self-control as it is about submission. Take care of yourself, know your limits, and savor every moment of your sweet, caged torment.

[see-arcane]

On todays Dracula Daily: It's a dire situation but also I'm proud of Jonathan who, while very much scared quickly realized he shouldn't alert his 'host' to the fact that he's well aware he's a prisoner and trying to get Dracula to give away information that could be of use.

It's the same way to deal with a number of predators in the wild. If you start to run, they start to chase you down in earnest. If you stay calm (or at least look like it) and don't raise the alarm, it buys you a little time. Yes, they're still moving in for the kill--but an entertained cat will happily waste time toying with a mouse rather than kill one that proves a nuisance. But even leaving aside the metaphors, it's also a common tactic in domestic and workplace abuse situations.

Jonathan is very aware of how little he can do to resist Dracula on any front, as the Count has been making very very clear.

Dracula has him alone and isolated in a castle on the edge of a cliff. Dracula has locked all the doors. Dracula is wealthy and titled and the Client. Dracula is physically far stronger than Jonathan. Dracula has dropped the first hint that he isn't even human with the reflection issue. Dracula is willing to resort to a violent act on a whim, as shown by the thrown and shattered mirror. Dracula could just as easily shatter Jonathan's bones while indulging in his habit of towing the young man around by the arm or taking him by the hand or throat. Dracula is entirely capable of doing or taking anything he wants from Jonathan.

And where a more classic Manful Man (tm) might start chest pounding and try to bluster his way into rebelling against the Count--smash cut to his giblets strewn around for the wolves--Jonathan is being smart. Jonathan's playing the game Dracula is clearly eager for the young man to play with him, being that Jonathan is exactly the kind of person that would engage the Count; a docile, endearing, frightened, but not oblivious, plaything.

Jonathan is an amusement right now. Once he's dead and/or undead, the game ends. But so long as he keeps dancing on that entertaining razor's edge between his composure cracking and smiling along to Dracula's button-pushing, he's worth keeping alive as-is. Because this setup is delightful for the Count.

The Count knows Jonathan isn't ignorant to his danger. The Count knows he's scaring Jonathan and that he's pretending otherwise to keep Dracula happy. And he'll milk that exact precarious chemistry for all it's worth as he makes his plans for England, enjoying the first bout of proper psychological torment fun he's probably inflicted in centuries. Jonathan wants him to tell stories and play host? Gladly, my friend! Listen all you like, he's happy to chat, have another cigar.

All the information in the world can't save you if you're never leaving that ancient tomb of a castle.

[lavendorii]

it has been 378 days of this rampant destruction of Palestine. 378 days of minimal food, water, comfort, safety, and medical treatment. 378 days worth of innocent blood spilled on the hands of Israel. We are approaching the second winter that countless Palestinians have had to spend in cold tents leaking with rain water. In the heat, the tents are ovens. In the cold, they flood with water and do little to protect the precious life inside them from the cruel conditions that lie outside.

Life has been terrifying for Marah and her family for these 378 days. Having already lost a family member so dear to them martyred in 2006, how many more losses do they have to face to be free? They have lost their house, their pets, they have watched their dreams fall to ash and decay around them. They have had bombs land so near that their children have had to hear their neighbors die beside them. Please aid Marah's family before it is too late.

Marah has done so much to raise money for her family, communicating with those who she seeks help from regularly. Her campaign is vetted by @90-ghost and her current account is @freepaleatine95. If you donate, even a little, please do not hesitate. You can make a difference in their lives, and save them from the fear that torments them daily.

[paquerettexx]

edward hart — valentine

vampire thinks it's so pitiful to be cursed by a human with this thing called love.

pairing: edward hart / reader, m/f

tags: slight angst, it's ed missing you hours, major character death bc ure dead lol

words: 581

[cross posted from ao3]

edward knew exactly why he was feeling reminiscent. it started with the box rui found under his bed, something they got into an argument over which caused rui to grumble and huff, leaving his captain alone. if edward was going to be difficult while rui's cleaning the bedroom then fine! he'll just return later! that's precisely how edward ended up alone again in his bedroom, heaving a sigh as his hands fiddled with the box's contents.

for a proud, powerful vampire, he was feeling nothing but the opposite of that. he was sick- rather, cursed was more befitting of a term. never in his centuries old age would he think a human would curse him, that a mere human would cause him so much pain and anguish. it was all too much even for someone of his stature. this curse was dangerous- it was affecting his heart and making him feel as if it was being ripped into two when his eyes focused in on the photograph in his hands.

it was a photograph, black and white in color, the edged tattered and folded. it looked old, a century or two old, yet it was well preserved for its age. it was amusing how a simple photograph can hold so many memories; to think such a simple non-anomalous thing invented by humans would become so precious to him later down the line– he must be growing old and senile if he's reminiscing about her like this all of a sudden.

it took three years worth of his savings from his measly salary to surprise her. living in western europe as a commoner was a daily struggle, often times earning shillings that aren't enough to live off comfortably- even so, he took a cut of his pay just to prepare this birthday gift for you.

you, who on your twenty third birthday, he took to a photo studio to get your photographs taken. he made sure to dress up better than usual just as he advised you to do the same. it was awkward, staying still in the same pose for a long time yet he reveled in how his hand was snaked around your waist, holding you close to him for an extended period.

he could smell your cheap perfume which he didn't mind, in fact, it brought him some sense of comfort every time knowing that it's you. still, even the vial of your perfume he kept had its scent faded, becoming a useless relic of his devotion to you when you were still breathing the same air as him.

all these love for you- it was suffocating him, choking the air out of his lungs. it was a curse to love a human. it was a curse to love- one that eats away at him for the rest of his eternity. you were the love of his lifetime, yet his lifetime was just a prolonged agony of misery from missing you. he misses you, yet he wishes that sometimes he could forget you. he wonders at times, would he miss missing you?

like a ghost, you were haunting his waking hours. the ghost of you was watching over his decline, his downfall, his spiral of torment. he felt as if you were watching his fall with those beautiful eyes of yours he adores so much, as he plunged into hell alone, the mess that he is now.

oh, his valentine... his decline would be so, so much better with you.

[smt4flynn]

mare

Minors DNI

Notes: This is a very messy, quick fanfic where ascendant Astarion breeds an unnamed reader ('-')b

AO3 Tags:

You can find this on AO3 under the name Voidromeda if that is easier reading for you

=============================

You are aware that it is not entirely mercy and love that keeps you mortal, even if you know that he loves you still. It is a bit of an obsessive one now, thanks to the newfound fear his ascension avails him – many more have attempted to encroach upon his territory now, not seeing him worth respecting like many apparently did with Cazador. You understand his frustration; having other vampire lords treat Astarion’s ascension, the proverbial ‘up the ladder kind’ of ascension, as nothing more than sheer luck is what influences him into being the overthinking mess he has become.

Before his ascension, he is not a details person – now, however, you see him playing dice between his fingers and throwing the loaded die down, always acting in his favour. You know that over time he shall become a force to be reckoned with; you hope that you do not have to ever deal with the consequences of his wroth. You know already Jaheira is on edge; should the harpers fall onto you and Astarion, you wonder what will come of it. Will Astarion deem it fit to wipe them out? He has all of eternity to torment them, but they have naught more than a few centuries.

It does not help either that you not being turned by Astarion just yet has the other vampires looking down their noses at him.

The answer to why you are still mortal isn’t... necessarily as noble as it comes off as.

As Raphael reminds Astarion, he regains the appetites and arousals of man – what he does not mention, however, nor can he mention ever again now that he is forceful prisoner of his House of Hope, is that the virility of man will return to him as well. The release from his prison as spawn and breaking free from beneath Cazador’s gnarled thumb has him excited, active. He makes good on his promise in keeping you locked in your personal chambers and ravishing you daily.

What you do not personally foresee coming is that having the arousals of man returned to him leads to him having an insatiable need to breed you. It is not entirely feasible, or rather, easy to breed a vampire: if you drink enough blood, of course, you can be impregnated, though materials regarding how a person with a womb can get pregnant is rather vague. You need to menstruate, apparently? So that it reveals that your body has tricked itself into thinking itself a living thing.

Of course, Astarion finds that too much of a hassle.

That is why you are still mortal. Why you are still mortal, hands bound above your head and legs held open by a metal spreader; why Astarion kneels aside you, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other has four fingers shoved deep inside of you. You are stuffed full with his fingers that move lazily inside of you, displacing the thick spend that he has been keeping inside of you for days.

Thick, white cum oozes out of your flushed, reddened folds. You lay your head against the crook of your own arms, tears pinching at the corner of your eyes; you have been at this for so long, sensitive and wanting. “Astarion,” you whine, and he hushes you gently, four digits inside of you just to mess with your insides, scooping them out so he can resume his favourite task of breeding you.

You have been forced into a rather prominent gape, your pussy releasing a loud, wet sound as he pulls his fingers out. The smile he gives you is utterly lovesick, something deranged glimmering in his eyes as he sees how mindlessly in pleasure you are. His thumbs pull your already spread pussy lips open, showing off the frothy mess your hole is in thanks to him ejaculating so much semen into you. Swollen and red, your hole flutters and winks at him in an attempt to tighten up, and Astarion gazes at you with such intense hunger you try to hide. Your thighs clench, muscles quivering pathetically thanks to the spreader keeping you opened up to his perusal.

“You are so good to me, darling,” he coos out to you, looking at you with such fervent adoration just from you being a flushed, sweaty mess; you are so tired, worn out from his appetite that has gotten much more pronounced ever since his ascension. He reaches down to your ankles to undo the spreader bar, yet still he clamps his hands around them instead just to stare at your drooling pussy. “You are so cute like this, all bred up and still waiting for more,” he presses a sweet kiss to your cheek, a complete contrast to the radiating bruises on your hips from his violently fucking into you.

He lets go and reaches over for something, gently manoeuvring you around so that he may prop you up on a cushion and keep you from letting too much of his cum escape you. Once more he reaches down and further spreads your already open, swollen and flushed folds, before his hands drag in a slow descent to your knees. The strokes on your hypersensitive skin are slow, the coarseness of his fingertips causing your muscles to jump and tense up. Gentle kisses pepper down your sternum, nibbling your skin briefly before he nuzzles in between your modest breasts.

Strong grips spread your legs even further, to the point that there is strain from how much he keeps pushing, pushing, pushing, though you do not get to focus on the strain as much when he suddenly grabs you and presses into you without giving you a chance to prepare. You wail, quickly silenced by him stuffing something into your mouth, and you flush deep when you realise it is your own soaked underwear - though by now it has grown dry with your want, the sensation humiliating on your tongue, but Astarion simply smiles down at you. There is a sickeningly loving smile on his face, eyes wide and shimmering with an adoration for you that you will never be able to truly understand the depth of.

Your soreness radiates outwards, tongue pressing against your panties and your whimpers, pathetic as they are, are completely muffled by the cute little wool. You remember him cooing over the fact that now that you have his wealth at your hands you decide to settle for adorable outfits instead of anything decidedly sexy or form-fitting like he expects you to.

“Mmm, come on!” he groans when he begins to fuck into you; you can’t even clench up around him, having been properly fucked open, treated like a whore, something to warm his cock instead of his lover. “Darling, darling, you’re so cute, so cute,” he babbles on, mind lost immediately to the heat of your cunt, to the way he slides deep into his own cum, to the fact that you are so wet and sloppy for him, prepped open by how long he has spent fucking you.

Of course, he makes sure you are fed and hydrated. After all, how is he going to fuck you if you pass out? You have been stuck on this bed for hours, let up only for basic toilet needs before he is dragging you back when you are clean, dirtying you all over again with how much he ejaculates inside of you. “I can’t wait,” he purrs, eyes fixed on your breasts bouncing with each rough, violent thrust, hips slamming into you loudly, balls smacking against your underside, sweat making you both stick together every time he sinks in to the hilt.

It hurts, taking his full length and width, feeling yourself completely speared open - elves, you think deliriously, and how well-endowed they are. He picks up your right leg, lifts it up high, and then hugs it to his chest so that he can hump into your pussy better. He whimpers, sliding in and out of you at a speed you are sure no mortal man can hope to imitate -

Your gaze blurs, yet you can still see the way his plump lips, red from kissing you repeatedly, part to let his tongue roll out, all of his sharp, dangerous teeth on display as he pants and keens your name out - “oh, darling, darling, darling!” he says, a song that never seems to end. Your clit grinds against him with each violent thrust he makes into you, your pussy fluttering wildly from the way he thrusts into you; every time you try to clench, your muscles strain only to relax again, accepting his cock back in like he belongs in there, like you are nothing more than a hole to be bred and destroyed by his relentless, wanting cock.

How many days have you been at this? Weeks, perhaps? With him constantly trying, again and again, dumping load upon load into your poor womb, trying to get you pregnant -  at some point it must have taken, he must have noticed, but still he pins you down to your shared bed and makes love - no, treats you like a breeding bitch. His claws drag at your skin, enough to cut you and make you bleed, and his lips are immediately on the shallow wounds on your leg. He latches his mouth on, tongue lashing against your cut and making you squeal - even if clearly muffled - when he begins sucking.

It stings, it hurts - it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but, oh - it feels, good; it adds to the loop of oversensitivity into ache, into pleasure, into pain into want into longing. You - you are meant for this, meant to be his, for him to have his way with you; having him this deep inside of you, battering up against your womb like he wants to force his way inside so that he can make sure no drop from his heavy, fat balls spill… it has you trying to struggle, writhing and kicking your legs only to be subdued so easily by him, where his hand slips beneath your knee to push it all the way to your shoulder.

Your cunt is bared to him, his free hand reaching down to spread your lips so that he can watch the way his cock makes a frothy little mess. A ring of his cum can be seen at the base, more of it drooling down your perineum and onto your fluttering asshole, having been displaced thanks to the passion Astarion shows. “You are gorgeous, my sweet little love, my consort, mine - my Queen, my Sovereign. I will make this world kneel for you, to kiss your feet and beg and grovel - I won’t rest until you have all of my brood, until the world can see how well I take care of my darling, how well I can breed you - oh!”

With one more thrust, sloppy, loud, and wet, he slams all the way into  the hilt and holds himself like that, where his balls draw up tight when he begins to completely baste your insides with his seed. He pumps more, more, more into you, filling you up all over again, and you shiver. Did you cum while he was fucking you? You surely are fluttering enough to feel like you have, absolutely worn out and fucked out. Your consciousness is fading, too tired from the relentless breeding to keep going.

Astarion presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Don’t worry darling,” he coos, “I’ll make sure to treat your body well while you are lost in your sweet little dreams.”

Though it shouldn’t, a small voice in your head protests, it gives you comfort knowing that your body will still be of use to your Lord, as your eyes slip shut and all goes black.

[digital999placebo]

back on my usual shit. Tormenting the one I love. A lidl fanfic snippet beneath cut hehehe (a convo between Gilbert and Roderich on the topic of Germany)

[Somewhere in Continental Europe, 1870]

“You can’t be serious about raising him on your own,” Roderich spits acid, “You have no experience or qualifications outside of war, let me do it.”

“If I can manage an army of men, I believe I’m capable of caring for one child.”

“Children are not trained men, Gilbert.”

“You’re the last person I want to be lectured by on this,” Gilbert cuts in and adjusts his position in the chair. “I mean no offence, Roderich, but I rather have Feliciano beneath me than beside me.”

Roderich makes a strangled sound and opens his mouth to retort that Feliciano is perfectly well-adjusted when Gilbert continues.

“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t doubt your efficiency in raising regular children. You could turn a stuttering fool into a credentialed politician and a tone-deaf cripple to the most renowned pianist. You and your country have a culture that mine does not. Your understanding of music is something I couldn’t even dream of achieving, but what you lack is the ability to admire a well-oiled machine. I want Ludwig to not only be a force to be reckoned with within the political spectrum, I also want him unbeatable on the field. I want people terrified at the mere mention he’s coming… And that is nothing you can provide.”

Roderich nearly laughs at Gilbert’s delusion. The nation before him couldn’t seriously believe that Ludwig, a wiry and mutilated little thing, a walking blasphemy against God and Mother Nature herself, covered in sutures and wrapped in bandages that needed to be changed daily, was going to become anything but what he was created of, dead tissue. He searches Gilbert’s face for a trace of self-awareness and is horrified when he doesn’t find it.

“That– Ludwig won’t even survive that long,” Roderich manages to get out, quiet, angry, and small. He can’t help how his voice shakes and rises. He’s furious, but can’t say why, perhaps because he feels bad for the little thing Gilbert has created, so frail yet already carrying the weight of Gilbert’s expectations, he’s angry because he knows better and he doesn’t know how to make Gilbert understand that. “He’s blind and mute; incapable of even feeding or relieving himself despite his age. You haven’t created a machine, you haven’t even created a person, you’ve created a thing whose only purpose is to suffer a slow death.”

Gilbert’s mouth tightens and he drums an impatient finger against the chair’s armrest, “You’re underestimating him.”

“I’m realistic, one of us has to be. That thing is suffering every day,” Roderich begs. “It’s sadistic.”

Gilbert hits the armrest with his fist and Roderich reels back.

“Don’t call him that! He’s not a thing, he’s the future of Europe,” Gilbert sneers at him, all composure finally lost, “You sit here and speak as though he were to die any day now, yet you beg me to resign him to your care?” –Gilbert wrinkles his nose in disdain– “I can see why Feliciano turned out the way he did, you have no perseverance, no dignity or strength, giving Ludwig to you would be to cut his throat. You’ve never struggled in a way that matters, nothing worth having is easily attainable. Ludwig will be great.”

Roderich trembles with withheld fury and he curls his lips to match Gilbert’s crude sneer.

“Fine,” he spits, “If that thing makes it at all.”

[bijouxcarys]

𝐓𝐨 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐨 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 (𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧)

Masterlist

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Description: Sometimes the pain of what should have never been, opens your eyes to what can be.

Tag list: @celestial-dragoness @whothefuckisanja @chromations @firethatgrewsolow @tangerine1969 @callmethehunter @m-faithfull @strsmn @angrychicksposts @ourshadowstallerthanoursoul If you'd like to be added to the list, just let me know!

Elena’s heart pounded with an urgency that defied control.

Not a single utterance pierced the air during the entire journey with John, the car navigating a path all too familiar—an unwelcome route leading to a place laden with memories she fervently sought to avoid.

The nauseating grip tightened, every palpitation threatening to dislodge the contents of her stomach. Tranquility seemed a distant prospect, and the turmoil within her hinted at a precarious tipping point.

Endless scenarios paraded through her mind, a relentless procession of possibilities. She longed for simplicity—an in-and-out, a resolution neatly packaged and concluded. That’s all it needed to be. Yet, a deep-seated intuition whispered that simplicity would elude her. It would stretch, twist, and linger far beyond necessity. 

In no way, shape, or form, would David entertain brevity. Not today.

Beyond the apprehension surrounding David’s reaction to this clandestine mission, to merely collect clothing and cherished mementos, there lingered a reluctance, a hesitant acknowledgement of John’s presence. Despite the depth of trust she held for him, a trust entirely unparalleled, it failed to nullify his actions when under the influence of either one of two things—alcohol, or emotion.

Elena had yet to divulge the whole truth about her tumultuous relationship with David, and wouldn’t until she never had to see the man again. John, though privy to odd reactions to loud noises and sudden movements, remained unaware of the intricate web of torment. If John learned the full extent of David’s malevolence, he wouldn’t be accompanying Elena to retrieve her belongings; he’d be behind bars.

In their childhood, it demanded every ounce of Elena’s energy to sway John from the precipice of violence. Those boys, stationed defiantly across the courtyard, seemed hell-bent on making it their life’s mission to underscore the fact that Elena wasn’t as thin as the other 14-year-old girls at school. A relentless daily reminder that required her utmost effort to dissuade John from unleashing a physical retribution that, in her eyes, wasn’t worth it. Every. Single. Day.

In a lot of ways, she would have preferred to relive the secondary school taunting than experience another 30 minutes of David. What John would do in light of knowing the whole story was a scary thought, and one Elena wasn’t prepared to even prosper.

“El?”

John’s voice brought her out of her head for a moment, and she realised they were pulling up outside the block of flats she hadn’t returned to in a fortnight. Swallowing thickly, she willed herself to look at him.

“Are you alright?” his brows narrowed, eyes gleaming into her soul. She gave him a pathetic nod. “Y’know I can always go in myself, if ya just tell me what to pick u–”

“No,” she shook her head. “I… need to do this.”

“‘Kay…” he reluctantly accepted, but quickly added, “I am comin’ in with you though.”

“John, you don’t have t–”

“I’m not arguin’ about this, Elena, I’m coming in.”

Before she could make any further comment, John was already opening the door and stepping out into the road. A whimper left her mouth, her hand a foreign entity as she, too, pushed the car door open. It wasn’t even that hot out, but the sun felt like lasers burning right through every inch it touched. Sturdy trainers felt flimsy, the gravel beneath her feet as blatant as it could get.

She felt she was walking The Mile to her death.

“Hey…” John stopped her as they reached her floor, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder to turn her towards him. Their eyes met, and his stomach dropped at the fear looking back at him. My God, she’s terrified… “It’s gunna be alright, El. I promise.”

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep…” she mumbled, her foot moving to take another step.

“I mean it.”

Looking back at him, she mustered up a grateful smile, and nodded slowly. “I know,” she whispered.

The air was thick as they reached the door marked ‘13,’ a feature she had once found excitement in—living in a flat with the same number as your birthday. Now, it just reeked of a hapless existence; a far cry from what used to be her sanctuary.

Do I knock? No, Elena, this is your home—oh, shit, it’s locked. Where’s that fucking spare key? She flipped over the doormat with her foot, expecting to see the familiar metal looking back up at her. Nothing. Fucking prick…

With bated breath, Elena lifted her hand and gave three experimental knocks to the door, each one ringing deeper and deeper through her ears. Please, don’t be home… What am I talking about? I need to do this now, I keep wearing the same two outfits, you idiot…

She daren’t look up as the door swung open. Instead, she fell eye-level with that stupid striped, skin-tight shirt that became a daily choice of clothing. In and out. Please. God, if you’re up there, just let this be simple. Please…

John stood by, arms folded, as the door opened, revealing the man he hadn’t seen since December. A tall fucker. Can’t have been any shorter than six-foot-four. And there Elena stood, a measly five-foot-seven in comparison. Shaggy dirty-blonde hair that bordered on a light brown, straight and perched just below his jaw. Parted at the side. Twat.

“Elena,” David sighed, instantly taking note of John’s presence behind her. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been worried si–”

“I don’t want to talk,” she told him, as sternly as she could. “Just came to get my things…” Without looking him in the eye, she squeezed past him. He looked over at John, his green eyes calm, before they narrowed as he turned to follow Elena.

“What the fuck are you talking about, ‘just came to get my things’?”

Elena sighed and spun to look at David, accidentally catching his eyes. The eyes that commanded her every move. Eyes she felt too worthless to meet. That’s because you are.

The click of the door shutting reverberated through the room, drawing their attention like a sudden snap of a whip. John, his gaze fixed with unwavering determination, stood his ground, sending a slow nod of reassurance to Elena.

“Did I invite you in?” David’s voice sliced through the tense silence, his words laced with thinly veiled hostility as he locked eyes with John.

“Nah, mate, you didn’t,” John replied with a nonchalant shrug, his gaze flickering past David to Elena. “I’ll be here, go get your things, El.”

David’s movements were swift, a blockade forming as he positioned himself to bar Elena’s access to the hallway. “Hold on a sec, darling,” he muttered, his voice a deceptive whisper as he edged closer to her, a somewhat predatory gaze fixed on her.

Elena shook her head, her eyes dropping to the ground as she struggled to maintain her composure. “Let me through, David. I’m getting my things, and I’m leaving,” she pleaded, her voice strained with emotion. In the charged atmosphere, she could sense David’s growing agitation, a palpable tension thickening the air around them.

John, alert to every subtle shift in the room, edged closer, ready to intervene if necessary. He noted the tightening of David’s fists with a sense of grim satisfaction, silently grateful for his own presence in that moment.

“Oi,” John interjected sharply, his voice cutting through the unease like a knife. “She said let her through, mate. You’re not makin’ this any easier by being a dick.”

Elena’s heart pounded in her chest as she braced herself for David’s reaction, her shoulders instinctively hunching in a familiar stance of self-protection. A heavy breath escaped her lips as David begrudgingly relented, allowing her to slip past him and into the bedroom.

In the sparse living room, devoid of any personal touches, John and David locked eyes in a silent standoff, each sizing the other up with cloaked animosity. David’s gaze raked over John’s form, his mouth twisting into a snarl of disdain.

“I don’t know what she’s been telling you,” David began, his voice dripping with forced calmness. “I don’t know where all this has come from, either.” He ran a hand through his hair, attempting to regain control of the situation.

“She’s not told me anything,” John replied evenly, perching himself on the pine table behind the swamp-green sofa that was most definitely not of Elena’s choosing.

“Bollocks!”

“Now, now, no need for the language,” John retorted, a hint of sarcasm colouring his tone.

David’s frustration simmered beneath the surface as he struggled to maintain his composure. “Look, we both know how she can get rowdy, and mouthy–”

“Naturally. I have known her since we were kids,” John interjected, his patience wearing thin as he pushed back against David’s attempts to deflect blame.

“You clearly don’t know her very well, then,” David shot back, his eyes narrowing in defiance as he locked eyes with John. “Now… I don’t want trouble with you, chief. But I think it might be best if you just leave our relationship alone.”

“What relationship?” John scoffed, his anger bubbling to the surface. “All I see is a controlling arsehole that, for whatever reason, has made it almost impossible for a girl to come and go as she pleases… Is that enough for your theory on why she’s getting as far away from you as possible?”

John watched as David’s face contorted with a mixture of disbelief and indignation, his resolve wavering under the weight of the drummer’s accusations. Taking a step closer, John met David’s gaze head-on, refusing to back down.

“She’s not going anywhere, Bonham,” David growled, his voice dripping with venom.

With a resigned sigh, John shook his head. “I think she is, actually, Henning…”

Elena emerged from the bedroom, a large bag slung over her shoulder and a cardboard box tucked under her arm. She glanced briefly at David, her expression a dangerous mix of determination and apprehension.

“What the hell are you doing, Elena?” David demanded, his tone laced with desperation. “You can’t just walk out like this. I’m all you have. Remember everything I ever told you? You’ll have nobody.”

Elena’s jaw clenched as she fought to keep her emotions in check. “I’ll figure it out, David,” she replied, her voice firm despite the tremor of fear running through her. “I can’t stay here… with you, anymore.”

David’s eyes narrowed once again, the mask slowly slipping from his facade. “You’re making a mistake, Elena,” he insisted, taking a step closer to her. “You need me. You need us.”

Elena recoiled instinctively as David reached out to grab her wrist, her heart pounding at an instant. “Don’t touch me, David,” she snapped with a panicked tone.

But David refused to release his grip, his fingers tightening around her wrist. Digging into her skin. “You’re not going anywhere,” he growled, low and menacing.

With a surge of adrenaline, Elena wrenched her wrist free from David’s grasp, her movements quick and decisive—just like the night she fled. “Get off!” she spat, her eyes flashing with anger.

John stepped forward, a protective stance as he positioned himself between Elena and David. “Touch her again, and your jaw will be on the back of your fuckin’ head, you piece of shit.”

David’s face contorted with rage, but he held himself back, his fists clenched at his sides. “Fine,” he seethed. “Go then. But don’t come crawling back to me when you realise you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life.”

“No, the biggest mistake of my life was saying ‘yes’ to a drink 3 fucking years ago,” Elena squared her shoulders, her resolve unwavering despite the trepidation coursing through her veins. With one final glare at David, she turned on her heel and headed for the door, John following close behind.

As they made their way down to John’s car, Elena’s steps faltered slightly, her composure fluctuating with every passing movement. John cast a concerned glance her way, noting the tension in her shoulders and the haunted look in her eyes.

“You alright, El?” John asked softly, his voice tinged with worry as he took her things and secured them in the backseat.

Elena forced a tight-lipped smile, her facade inevitably crumbling as they settled into the car. The tears she had been holding back finally spilled over, streaming down her cheeks in silent torrents.

John reached out to comfort her, his hand hovering with uncertainty over her shoulder. “El, it’s okay, you did it,” he murmured.

But Elena recoiled from his touch, her eyes flashing through an uncharacteristic anguish. “J-Just… drive, p-please… I need to get… get away,” she panted, burying her head in her hands.

“Okay, yeah, okay…” he rambled, immediately pulling away from the block of flats. 

On their journey back to the Bonhams’ house, John couldn’t shake the nagging feeling at the back of his head that Elena still hadn’t been entirely truthful regarding David. Seeing him grab her the way he did, her instantaneous reaction. There had to be something more. The Elena he knew would have spun around and clobbered the cunt in the face. Except, he reminded himself, this wasn’t his Elena. This was a shell of the girl he grew up with. And he vowed to himself that he would do whatever it took to coax her back.

Elena felt sick to her stomach. Why do I feel guilty? There was nothing in the world she wanted more than for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She couldn’t understand why she was finding this moment so difficult, so distant from what she expected to feel. Shouldn’t she be joyous, over the moon? To finally be free of that monster that controlled her entire life?

David’s attempt to physically restrain her back at the flat was the furthest thing triggering her uneven emotions in the car. No, she’d learned to deal with that by now. Above all else, above everything she should have been upset over… she was angry. At herself.

Thankfully, the drive back to John’s was long enough for her to get a majority of her emotions out. Crying as hard as she needed. As loud as she needed. John was the only one she would let see her in this state. It had to come out now.

When the erratic breathing and sobbing had worn her out, leaving a red and puffy face in its wake, she was able to regain her bearings somewhat. As much as she enjoyed hearing John ramble on for what seemed like hours, she was glad he chose to stay quiet this time. He knew her well enough to know when’s the time to shut the fuck up—when to give her her space.

Upon passing the familiar petrol station, she knew they were almost back. All she wanted to do was pass out. Sleep forever—at least long enough to erase any memory of the past couple of years.

“‘M sorry…” she murmured, staring out the window, her eyes still glassy.

John glanced at her, checking in, before scoffing lightly and shaking his head. “You’re the last person who needs to be apologising right now.”

“No, I mean…” she turned her head in his direction, but kept her eyes on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry for snapping at you… earlier. And that you got caught up in–” her breath caught in her throat, “In all that.” 

He chuckled airily under his breath, a somewhat amused smile on his lips. “And like I just said… You’re not the one who needs to apologise.” Stopping at a red light, he had the chance to look at her head-on. “Seriously. It’s okay. Everything’s gunna be okay, El.”

Upon looking up at his eyes, those warm, trusting eyes she’d found solace in for so many years, came the first wave of relief. A sudden realisation. Instead of David’s nagging voice in the back of her head, reminding her of her shortcomings, she heard a different one. A distant whisper from a fragile conversation she’d only ever had with one person.

You’ve done the hardest part… 

No idiot would do something so brave…

With a shaky sigh, she nodded, smiling almost painfully at John.  “Yeah…” she whispered her agreement. “Everything’s gonna be okay…” she repeated, almost as a self-assuring mantra as she looked ahead. “The light’s green,” she nodded her head towards the traffic lights in front of them.

“Shit,” John pressed down on the gas pedal, a comically panicked look on his face that made Elena stifle a small laugh. A laugh. A real laugh…

It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna be okay. 

The air was lighter by the time they pulled up to John’s driveway, and it seemed the sun wasn’t as menacing as it was before. Catching a glimpse of Pat in one of the windows put yet another smile on her face, as if another reminder that there is life outside of David. He’d damaged her mind. Tainted all of her thoughts. It wouldn’t go away overnight, but being with the Bonhams was a refreshing prompt along the road to understanding she was free.

And she never had to see David Henning ever again.

“‘Ere, let me get that,” John offered, pulling Elena’s bag from the back of the car and slugging it over his shoulder. “Fuck, what do you have in here, the kitchen sink?”

Snorting, Elena lifted the box into her arms, nudging the car door shut with her knee. “It’s the jeans and those jackets, Bon…”

“Oh, those fuckin’ jackets are massive!” he gasped, as if he had forgotten.

“Yeah, but they look good on,” she smirked, watching her steps as they made their way to the front door. John’s face dropped a little when he tried the handle, finding it locked.

“The fuck’s goin’ on ‘ere…” Turning around abruptly, he almost collided with Elena. “Back door.”

“Jesus, do you mind not body slamming me in the process?” she mumbled, spinning round in the direction of the gate that led to the Bonhams’ back garden.

As they closed in, the familiar laughter of Jason could be heard, along with some clumsy clapping.

“Do it again!” The sound of someone’s shoes coming into contact with a football followed. Jason cheered again, his adorable cadence putting a smile on Elena’s face.

The smile, however, seemed to widen when she heard familiar laughter—and it definitely wasn’t Pat.

Rounding the corner of the house, the heartwarming scene of Jason kicking his football towards a carefree Robert unfolded.

“Again!”

“Can only do a single trick so many times, Jason,” Robert chuckled, but humoured the three-year-old, performing a brief dribble with a concentrated face. Far from a trick, but enough to mesmerise Jason in his innocent joy.

“Well if it isn’t Bobby Thomson,” John called out, catching the pair off guard.

Robert’s eyes went instantly to Elena’s, and he flashed that charming smile her way, before swiftly giving John attention. “Nah, mate, Thomson’s a left backer. I’m more of a Derek Dougan,” he said, attempting an Irish accent in the process.

“Who tha fuck’s Derek Dougan?”

Jason gasped, his presence momentarily subdued. “Mummy!” He ran inside, all whilst shouting, “Daddy just said a bad word!” Elena stifled a laugh, watching over her shoulder as his small form disappeared.

The blonde froze, giving his band mate a dumbfounded expression. “I don’t trust you anymore, Bonzo.”

Elena, with an amused smirk, glanced up at John. “Dougan’s a midfielder,” she let him know. John just simply let out an exasperated groan, shrugging his shoulders. “He’s also Irish…” She looked at Robert. “Hence the terrible accent,” she teased lightly. Her eyes still felt heavy from the car journey, but jesting with Robert came as naturally as breathing.

“I didn’t know you were into football, Elena,” Robert tilted his head to the side, hand on his hip. The small gesture and placement caught Elena’s attention, just like he had done at rehearsal. Everything about the man screamed appeal, in every sense of the word.

“I’m not,” she simply responded with a shrug of her shoulders. There was a pause between the three of them and it didn’t take very long for the two men to understand why Elena happened to know so much about football. She may have not been the one in her home—ex home—watching football, but she sure got a lot of it from David.

“Uh, I’m gonna take this inside before it cuts off the circulation to my brain,” John quipped, patting Elena’s bag. “Ya want a cuppa, Rob?”

Great, Elena, you’ve made it awkward now… Fucking idiot. You can’t say anything without fucking it u–

“El?”

“Hm?” she snapped her head to John. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I asked if you wanted a cuppa,” he repeated gently, a sympathetic gaze matching his tone. She gave him a passive nod, turning to follow him and Robert inside. Her fingers were starting to lock up from gripping onto the bottom of the cardboard box, so she instantly dropped it down on the kitchen table once they’d entered.

“What’s with the box?” Robert nodded towards it, casually nosing about in the kitchen with, yet again, his hands settled on his hips. The poor lad didn’t even realise how beautiful he looked as he inspected all the photos and magnets on the Bonhams’ fridge. Eyebrows all narrowed as he focused his eyes, a subconscious curling of his mouth that naturally stretched over his strong jaw.

Elena, pack it in. It’s Robert. Stop.

“Um,” she cleared her throat, resting a hand on top of the box. “It’s just got all these photos and random things in it that are important to me. Memories, I guess…” she trailed off.

“Oh, fantastic!” Robert chimed, hair bouncing about as he turned to look at her. “Got any embarrassing photos of Bonzo in there?”

She chuckled, glancing at said man, who was busy preparing tea. “None that don’t also embarrass me.” She carefully lifted the lid halfway off the box and strategically fished out a small stack of processed photographs that were a little worn by now, tied together by an elastic band. Robert’s footsteps came closer, until his presence was right next to her, the warmth radiating from his body.

“What happened to the corners?”

Elena pulled her lips into a tight line, eyeing the damaged corners of the lid of the box, darker than the rest of it, and requiring the utmost of care. “Nothing, just an accident…” she shrugged it off.

He peered over her shoulder, feeling a small jump in his heart at being this close to her again. He had to suppress the idiotic grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Her hair… Nothing appealed to him more in that moment than to run his fingers through it.

“Oh, this was when we went camping,” Elena smiled, holding up a photo labelled ‘Bon-Bon + El, Lake District, July 1964.’ “Bon had just finished school, so we decided to go up North for a couple of days.”

Robert tilted his head down to get a better look, snorting at the boyish expression on John’s face, equipped with the adolescent beginning stages of growing out a moustache. But the 15-year-old Elena made his smile soften. She looked happy there. Wrapped up in an earthy orange cardigan, stray blades of grass stuck to her legs from pitching a tent.

“Not that fuckin’ photo,” John whined, glancing over at them. “I look like a right knobhead!”

“Well, you always look like a knobhead, Bonzo,” Robert fired back with a smirk, looking back down at the photo. “It’s a lovely photo.”

“Eh…” she squirmed a little with a shrug. “It’s cute. John looks good in it, at least.” She carefully slipped it back in with the rest of the photos.

“You do, as well,” Robert gave her a gentle nudge with his elbow.

“Pfft, I look fat in it.”

John’s hand stopped mid-milk pour, eyes diverting to the side as he overheard Elena’s comment. Since when does she think she looks fat? Scrunching up his eyebrows, he finished making their teas. Even the comments from schoolboys didn’t influence her own perception of herself. Weird. But then, it hit him. Fuckin’ David…

“No, you look nice,” Robert refuted, shaking his head. A glance at her showed she didn’t believe him. “Seriously, yer cute.”

At the counter, John’s eyebrows raised, and a shocked smile appeared on his face. Well, shit, just jump right in, Percy…

Elena raised an eyebrow, looking up at Robert, who was still looking over her shoulder. Panic briefly flashed through his eyes and he chuckled airily, shifting back.

“It’s a cute photo, that is…” With a somewhat subdued smile, he went over to John to take his tea. Elena was left to mull over the minute interaction. Seriously, yer cute… No, it didn’t mean anything… Can’t have.

“‘Ere y’are,” John appeared next to her, offering her cup of tea. She gave him a smile in gratitude, immediately sipping at it, the fresh heat of it snapping her out of the overtime her brain had unwillingly subscribed to. “Anyway, why’re you here, Rob?”

“What, I can’t just come and see how you’re doing?” Robert squinted his eyes, shielding half of his expression with the mug of tea in his hand. 

John stared at him, trying to gauge his intentions, totally unconvinced by his response. “You’ve just seen me every day for months, mate…” He watched as Robert came up with an unnecessarily detailed reason for his visit, claiming he wanted to see how Pat and Jason were doing, and how the house was… the fucking house. But when all was said and done, John wasn’t passive enough to miss the plain and obvious reason for Robert’s presence.

Elena.

But he’d let it slide. No need to embarrass lil Robert Anthony… 

Besides, how could John ruin this moment? It wasn’t a foreign sight; Elena’s eyes often lit up in the presence of Robert, whether she realised it or not. He was a mere observer to a natural conversation about Robert’s hair. She commented on how it had grown out since she last saw him. How much it suited him. Shamelessly, yet subconsciously, lavishing him with small compliments as if they’d never parted. 

Unlike his response to the hoards of girls who usually gave him such praise on the road, Robert seemed to reduce down to that teenage boy who saw Elena for the first time, as bright and radiant as any sunbeam dancing across the lilypad of an oasis. He’d take what he could get. 

“Oh, there is a reason I’m here, actually,” Robert remembered, pointing his mug at John. “Uh, Jim and I are gunna head down to Snowdonia for a couple of weeks to work on some new material. Just thought, with us three being back together ‘n’ all, we could go out for a few drinks before I go?” He let the question hang in the air for a second, looking between the two of them in a patient standby.

John and Elena exchanged glances, as though telepathically asking each other’s opinion. Eventually, like clockwork, they both shrugged and nodded.

“Don’t see why not,” Elena softly accepted Robert’s offer, smiling up at him with a cadence akin to restrained excitement. “I mean… I don’t think I’ve actually been out for a nice drink in a… long time,” she huffed with a chuckle, attempting to conceal her melancholy recollection of the last time she’d had a good time with anyone at all. 

Robert’s gaze softened as he picked up on her implication, sending her a sideways smile that ignited a warm buzz in her stomach.

“Well, this is your new beginning, El,” John started with his usual grin of reassurance. “What better way to kick it off with a drink with two of the finest men you’ve ever known?” He paused, glancing at Robert. “Well, one and a half.”

Robert sent him a jesting glare, but his mind, as prone to addiction as it was, stayed adhered to Elena, and the excitement it brung to accept his offer for a drink. 

Even if it was dressed up as an innocent gathering of friends.

[btr-rewatch]

hii, you mentioned you were around during the fandom's heyday, i was wondering if you had any favorite fics from back in the day you'd like to share? <3

Hello! Yes, BTR was actually my official "introduction" to online fandom when I was younger :) I spent so much time here on tumblr and fanfiction.net, which was a lot of fun because the fandom was at its biggest and most active.

Good timing with this ask, because I was actually thinking about making a post with some of the fics that were popular (or that I personally enjoyed) back when the show was on. I still have them bookmarked on my old laptop! I'll select a handful and put them under a read more.

Quick disclaimer that I cannot attest for the quality of any of these fics now. I haven't revisited most of these since I originally read them, though the main details have cemented themselves in my brain on account of my past self having read them over and over and over. Still, I don't know if my older, adult self would find them any good in regards to writing quality or the actual content.

• Ok. So, I have to start out by mentioning Laura (known as Miss Fenway), who I wrote briefly about in my BTF Fandom Lore post. When I tell you that she was the "Queen" of the fandom for the years the show ran, I'm not kidding. Everybody knew her. She churned out fanfics like it was her job. She was responsible for a lot of the headcanons that ended up being adopted by the rest of the fandom. And she wrote "Little Hollow," the 55-chapter, 160,000-word fic that had a profound effect on the fandom. Basic premise is: Logan gets cancer, and from there, everything spirals into tragedy and heartbreak. She then wrote a fic based off an alternate ending to "Little Hollow" called "Three" that absolutely destroyed my younger self when I first read it. Like. It was just too much for me.

Back in the day, Logan was the character who was tormented the most by fic writers, and nobody tormented him quite like Miss Fenway. In some of her other fics, he loses an arm in a shark attack, becomes a drug addict, gets kidnapped, is in a car accident that leaves him brain-damaged, is in a hockey accident that leaves him with amnesia, and so on.

Personally, I was partial to "All These Lives" & its sequel "September." To THIS DAY, I cannot hear either of those Chris Daughtry songs without thinking of those fics.

• If you're into AUs, "Mania" was hands-down one of my favorite BTR fics (maybe even one of my favorite fics period). It's like...an edgier version of the boys? They're a gang of sorts, formed out of necessity in order to keep their neighborhood safe from a rival gang. They carry weapons, get into fist-fights daily, and will go to the ends of the Earth to keep Katie safe. Listen. It sounds off the rails, but read it. Trust me. Even now, years later, this fic occasionally pops into my head out of nowhere because I loved it so much.

• Fics that focused on the guys as little kids were very hit or miss (and sometimes could be weird), but I've got to include two of my favorites, "The Petting Zoo" and "Trouble." They both capture the personalities of the boys so well, and I have to imagine this is a lot what they were like as kids. Chaos all the time. Idk, I thought both of these were so funny. Worth a read, in my opinion.

• Alrighty, last fic on this list is a doozy. It's called "Another Reason." This was my absolute favorite BTR fic, and it was one that I read and literally needed several days to digest because it was such an emotional ride. This is a DARK ONE, guys. It's gritty and depressing and hard to read, to the point I only ever read it once because I was never quite ready to return to it. Kendall is kidnapped and tortured for days by someone associated with Hawk (I think??) so it def treads into AU territory because it's nowhere near the lighthearted, goofy feel of the showverse rivalry between Hawk and Rocque Records. Feeling like the police aren't doing all they can to find Kendall, the remaining three boys steal Mrs. Knight's car and take off in search of Kendall.

Like I said, I haven't reread it because it was a tough read, but I remember it being well-written and rambling at length about it to a family member.

And that's where I'll leave it for now! If anyone checks any of these out, I'd love to hear thoughts (my ask box is always open). I also welcome your own fic suggestions, since I really haven't ventured back into the BTR fanfic world yet. Also, thanks to everyone who read the fic I posted the other day!

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

Hi, it's controversial opinion anon... thank you for answering my ask and thank you to everyone in the comments as well for trying to make sense of everything! I took a step back after reading through the responses and went like "yeah why even talk about this, it's just confusing everyone and helping no one and I'm personally insecure about this too (which is why I'm on anon) and maybe Tumblr isn't the best place to discuss something like neurodivergence/mental illness x spiritual realm in-depth".

And then I saw the following art just casually appear on my dash - it's a religiously connotated dark figure with red eyes, originally from an artist who says it's based on an experience with schizophrenia. Just...like that. Normalized. Completely normal. I'm sure they're a random, wonderful human being who just enjoy making awesome stuff on Tumblr. Still I went like NOPE.

https://www.tumblr.com/comikbook/762444161315160064/buy-liz-a-coffee-ko-ficomlizpenceart

Like, you can't rule it out. You can't say it's not related, imo. People are tormented by spirits and are calling it clinically depressed, having hallucinations, having hormone imbalances or whatever.

@/marietheran wondered in the previous replies what kind of definition I have of the spirit vs. the mind. Well, to me, only two spirits exist: The Holy Spirit and worldly spirits. There is no inbetween. The human mind decides on a daily basis by which one of them it wants to rule/be ruled. And based on that, humans get blessed or cursed. It's very black-and-white, I know, but that's God vs. the devil for you. Under man's free will, this stuff mingles. Gets gray. Neutral. Obscured. Normal. Normalized. Luke-warm. Almost like a lie. Jesus defeated this stuff, yet we are plagued by such things. It's a fallen world. But I say we still accept wayyyyy too much of this shit to rule our lives instead of throwing it out by Jesus' name.

Now to tread carefully and respond to your own comments.

'what the hell xD you're telling me the fact that I'm autistic is demon possession?'

I don't know you. Or your life. I don't want to insult or scare you, and since - like I said - I have no trustworthy knowledge of the spiritual dimension myself, I just can't know what is or isn't and I won't assume. What I do know is that it's the result of a curse, since it inevitably brings you some blessings (making you who you are), but the downsides are just so so so not worth it. You deserve a better identity, a way of loving yourself that doesn't want to end you. You deserve abundant life, not the thief who comes to kill, steal, and destroy trying to take your life.

If you think the language (oh no! I said curse!) is too strong, see how in Maleachi 3:9 God says that the people are under a curse for not tithing. Zechariah 5:3 says that the people are cursed for stealing and swearing falsely, and it has real consequences like "being banished from the land". "And my curse will remain in that house and completely destroy it." (Verse 4). Curses are everywhere where sin is, even "small" or "socially acceptable" sins are destructive. God will destroy an entire house for "just" stealing...!! Stealing doesn't sound that bad, but the consequences ARE that bad!!

'>could be an ancestor's sin I swear there's a verse to combat that.'

Yep, there is, but look at its development.

Exodus 34:7 says "I lay the sins of the parents upon their children & grandchildren [...] til the third and fourth generations."

Then Jeremiah 31:29 says "the people will no longer quote this proverb: The parents have eaten sour grapes, but their children's mouths pucker at the taste."

Ezekiel 18 (whole chapter): "Why do you still quote this proverb? [...] You will not quote this proverb anymore in Israel. [Only] The person who sins is the one who will die."

Then you have the last supper, where Jesus passes around a cup of wine to his disciples in remembrance of his sacrifice -> drinking the cup/spilling his blood for us.

And finally, John 19:30 says "When Jesus had received the sour wine, he said "It is finished". And bowing his head, he yielded up his spirit."

ISN'T THIS AMAZING???? Jesus drank the bitter cup of generational curses for us!!!! He said "It is finished!" !!!!!! Then why are we still suffering?????????

Somehow - and I am treading carefully here, since I DO believe in the finished work of Jesus Christ - there seems to be the need to actively renounce such curses in the present even though everything has already been paid for. We are still supposed to take the last supper in the present as well, aren't we? It wasn't a one-time thing. Idk it seems to be a lifestyle thing. We are still called to behave according to God's will even though every and any trespass has been forgiven. We're still supposed to act like God's children and abide by his laws in our daily lives. So - somehow - and this is the bit that confuses me as well - curses, too, still need breaking today.

How? Maaaaaaan do I look like I know how? Jesus' name. Idk.

How does this not spin us back into a vicious Old-Testament cycle of "do bad or do good and reap the consequences" instead of resting in the amazing grace of Jesus' work on the cross? I don't know.

The thought of a daily battle can be burdening. That's at least what it does to me. How do I not constantly curse myself and my children with my bad behavior, which is, alas, still here?

How do I cure my family from curses that came into effect three or four generations ago, which I might not even know about?

The best approaches I currently have are these: A friend (from those charismatic evangelicals I've talked about) said that once you've been set free, you don't really desire to return to a sinful lifestyle. So the need to break bad stuff of someone again becomes a lot less.

Another thing could be that Idk, Jesus sets someone free from a smoking addiction in an instant, so that they don't desire it anymore, but that person still needs to break their daily habits (buying cigarettes, carrying a lighter, taking smoking breaks, associating with smokers) themselves. They need to go actively walk in their freedom.

There is something about this. There is something to this. To break the above mentioned curse from a house, you apparently need a stronger man to throw him out and to continuously be on guard (Luke 11:21-28). Let's learn how to throw the murdering thief out of our houses, out of our minds and bodies, which are God's temples.

I want to crack the principles that dictate the spiritual realm without fearmongering that we could return to a Old-Testament way of thinking. We haven't earned grace, we are set free by Jesus' mercy. But then somehow we have to fight to go take (and keep!) the benefits as well.

I don't get it myself, I want to be very open about that. But I wanted to plant it in your awareness. As a thought to maybe pursue. There is nothing I want more for you than to find relief from your situation as well. I'm done talking now. :)

People are tormented by spirits and are calling it clinically depressed, having hallucinations, having hormone imbalances or whatever.

Why do you say it's spirits?

What I do know is that it's the result of a curse, since it inevitably brings you some blessings (making you who you are), but the downsides are just so so so not worth it. You deserve a better identity, a way of loving yourself that doesn't want to end you. You deserve abundant life, not the thief who comes to kill, steal, and destroy trying to take your life.

The fact that I'm autistic has nothing to do with the fact that I want to kill myself. I think your generalisation of autism as a Curse is... problematic. It's a disorder, sure. It's disabling, to a greater or lesser extent. Many people can be happy with it, though.

ISN'T THIS AMAZING???? Jesus drank the bitter cup of generational curses for us!!!! He said "It is finished!" !!!!!! Then why are we still suffering?????????

Sin, honey. The reason we're still suffering is sin and living in a fallen world. The world is still fallen even though Christ came. "To live is Christ and to die is gain."

The best approaches I currently have are these: A friend (from those charismatic evangelicals I've talked about) said that once you've been set free, you don't really desire to return to a sinful lifestyle.

Mmmm I'm hesitant to agree with this because of the power of addictions.

I don't get it myself, I want to be very open about that. But I wanted to plant it in your awareness. As a thought to maybe pursue. There is nothing I want more for you than to find relief from your situation as well. I'm done talking now. :)

Feel free to come back into my inbox and ramble more, but I really do think this conversation is best served by you - idk, making a sideblog - and having a conversation rather than sending essays into my inbox. To be clear, I don't mind that at all. I just think it would be more productive to discuss in a more conversation manner than slabs of text like this - also easier to find the rest of the conversation.

tagging @marietheran bc mentioned

[sketchfanda]

A Little Moxxie Love:Better Addictions

Now for those not in the know of course, the infernal pit we know as Hell is like an onion, and before anyone comes up with the wise ass remarks? That means that it had layers to it, especially when it comes to what the living world knows of it and what those who live in Hell so here for your education are some basic facts. There is the outer layer most mortals know of approximately as the realm of fire and brimstone, where the most vile and damned face eternal torment and suffering for their sins, from the child molesters to the bigots and the sociopaths who committed heinous atrocities and crimes against humanity. And then there is the inner layers, the 9 circles of which 7 are overseen by the High Demon Lords of sin; Pride, Envy, Greed, Gluttony, Wrath, Lust and Sloth.

Next of course we have the denizens of Hell themselves, the sinners and the hellborn, the former being damned souls who in life had done enough harm to others and or themselves to warrant eternity, at least according to the unknown laws of the afterlife. The latter are the devils themselves, demons such as Imps and Hellhounds who were born and raised within this land of chaos and mayhem throughout its 9 circles. Now one notable detail of course is that Sinners are confined within the circle of Pride, hence why you often find them around locations like Pentagram Town and Imp City but not anywhere in the other circles. The Hellborn meanwhile were free to move about and travel between any of the Circles so yes even Hell had a hierarchy in place, as much as a clusterfuck I could be where murder was as casual as a handshake.

For one of Hell’s Overlords however, this particular rule was an absolute pain in the ass, but ask anyone who at least knew of him well enough? They’d say what else was new with Valentino, one third of the Youngblood Overlords known as the Vees, yes even Velvet and Vox and they were all too familiar and acquainted with the moth pimp and his violent temper. What never seemed to set him off on was a list as short as his temper and those unfortunate enough to get caught in the vicinity had the bruises to prove it. But for Valentino, the pimp and porn magnate felt like he was missing out on business opportunities being confined to just the Pride Circle.

After all, why stick to making and distributing his movies with the scum and whores he could work with in Pentagram when Lust city was a goldmine he could tap more than ass on a daily basis. But the gold toothed moth felt maybe the best way to get his greasy fingers in that pie was to establish a partnership with the a boss of Lust itself, Asmodeus and the scumbag moth figured he just the way to get in touch with ol’ Ozzie himself. All he had to do was send his Hoes Dia and Summer out to take care of the task at hand and the pimp woild soon find himself going up in the underworld, literally and figuratively. Well that’s what he figured was going to happen but you know, best laid plans of mice and men…..

Now the idea you see was for the sweet little feline sinner and her succubus friend(and possibly more) was go find and work their charms on their designated target, one it took Valentino quite a while to settle on. Going for Fizzaroli was a no go, given Ozzie wouldn’t want anyone making moves on his Imp clown and going for that weird Imp who seemed to know Fizzie personally wasn’t worth it either. Apparently the guy was a real pain in the ass to be around within just five minutes of his company so instead their pimp had a different imp in mind, some little dude by the name of Moxxie. Their orders were simple, use their natural charms to get in nis pants and persuade him to b Valentino’s inside guy to get some sway and pull with Ozzie.

So there Dia and Summer found themselves at the local Imp City branch of the Consent club, keeping an eye out for their designated target. Their pimp, boss, it was all the same either way, had gotten word the little dude would be coming around here and lo and behold, there he was in a cozy corner booth with quite an entourage for company. For a plain looking runt even by imp standards, he had women all over him like he was a sweet piece of Candy or a puppy to shower with affection. They had to say, he was more than easy in the eyes especially compared to the clients Valentino has had them entertain or the Johns they’ve had to work with on sets.

It was just a matter of time before the little dude made himself available for their attention, which came when he made his way to the bar to no doubt replenish his party with some drinks. Catching his eye as they seemingly casually sat on either side of him, making him the monkey/piggy in the middle and started to pour on the charm. It was just adorable how flustered he was getting, given the company he had with him which included a few succubi yet somehow the attention of a pair like Dia and Summer made him as awkward as a school boy dealing with puberty and hormones. It was clear the sense of being overwhelmed made him easy to convince him to come with them to on of Consent’s private sex rooms, where of course they aimed to really bring out their A game, which definitely became the case soon as he looked back to his group at the booth, blushing as many of them shot him winks, smiles and thumbs up on getting so lucky, were they used to this kind of thing happening to him?

But far be it for the cat girl and succubus to look a gift horse in the mouth as they lead the blushing, stammering little imp to one of the nearest available private rooms. It was rather adorable really, any other chump or John that Valentino would set them on would be busy trying to act like they were big time players who were studs in bed. Like this one shark chump, Spaz or Chad or what the fuck ever, who wasn’t all as good as he thought, christ on a stick the guy didn’t even have a penny to his name. But that was then and this is now as they lead Moxxie towards the couch, sitting on either side of them as they started play up and pour on their charm.

it all seemed to be going about as well as expected as they planted kisses here and there, making out with the little possum as they slowly undressed him. Starting off with his shirt and coat as they tossed aside his cute little bow tie and made him feel, like he was the lucky little dude about to be in the middle of a lesbian make-out sandwich. Yet at some point in the midst of their sensual assault, it seemed like the tables had been turned on them as they went from being the predators on the prowl playing with their food to finding themselves the prey. Moxxie showing he gave as good as they were giving, perhaps even better as it was clear he was no stranger to threesomes.

But there just seemed to be something about his actions, the way he was treating them that they found different to the Johns they serviced or worked scenes with. He was no shy, inexperienced virgin cherry boy but not some pretentious conceited blowhard Casanova who could lay and get bitches easily with a wink and a smile, oh no, this was something else entirely. It was if for him, his own pleasure was secondary in terms of priority compared to their own as his attention was focused on making them feel…dare they say it, like women, not simple hoes or sluts to be used and treated as done with once the deed was done. It was so a foreign sensation, so very new to them to feel loved and be showered with affection on a sensual level.

When he’d kiss them, oh sure there was plenty of tongue but it wasn’t like he was trying to force and assert dominance on them, it was more as if he was kissing them like they were each the most important woman in the room. When he stripped them naked, it wasn’t by ripping off their clothes as if they were getting in the way but like he was unwrapping a present or opening a treasure box and admiring their nude forks like they were besitiful works of art. It was surreal for Dia and Summmer to be the centre of attention like this and yet it turned them on so much, to say nothing of his level of skill and experience. Every caress and sweet kiss making them all tingly in the right places, so much unlike every other prior John who’d just whip out their Dick and get right to plowing them.

But oooh how they sang and moaned melodically as he started to eating them, deep pants and gasps escaping their sensual lips as Moxxie’s tongue licked and plunged away into their snatches. It made them feel like they were drowning in ecstasy and only made them want to try harder at accomplishing the task in hand as they soon managed to sandwich the sweet little imp between them and get his pants off. Soon as they got removed the article of clothing, boxers included, their jaws dropped and their eyes widened as they beheld his length and girth in all its stiff, erect glory. If they weren’t feeling so wet and turned on before, the sight of such a cock setting off switches in their brain as they had one thought…..

“TO HELL WITH VALENTINO!!!” Rang thriugh their near telepathic link as they were soon showering that alpha male level dick with lusty devotion. Performing a tandem fellatio as they licked and sucked on thst imp cock, drowning in their saliva while kissing his nalls for good measure. The imp’s pants and groans music to their ears as they too turns deepthroating him, glowing hearts as their compact Casanova too, some initiative in grasping their heads as he pumped his hips. But the only experience even greater for them than this facefucking was the moment they each finally found that cock inside them.

The cat girl and succubus were no stranger to taking their share of dicks, especially tentacles, dildoes or strap-ones but Moxxie was putting plenty of their prior Johns to shame once again. Inches of long, thick and veiny womb hammering, snatch filled slab of fuckmeat heaven not just merely hitting their G spots but the whole entire alphabet. Yet all the while the imp seemed less focused in getting himself off and more about giving attention to their pleasure, how ironic that they had the task of having to seduce his sweet possum but he’d turned the tables on them without even trying. And to be honest, they were loving every god-fuck-damn second of it!!

If Dia and Summer had ever thought they could feel and find themselves falling in love with each other all over again, they’d have never imagined it’d be seeing one another in the throes of passion and ecstasy with another man fucking them. Yet that was indeed the case whether it was Dia watching her feline lover yeowling sensually as a Moxxie plowed her in a mating press while she played with herself or Summer groping her furry form as she looked on at her succubus girlfriend pinned uo against the wall as their newfound sex god hammered away. But oh to say nothing of when they’d enjoy him together, be it taking doggy style or missionary as they ate the other out or making out as he hammered their pussies in turn, hell they even found themselves glsdly taking it anally and they usually didn’t enjoy taking it uo the ass! That’s just how good the guy was!!

If anything Diamand Summer not only found themselves forgetting about their mission or whatever loyalty they had to Valentino, they found themselves wanting this sweetheart of an imp to claim them like the alpha male he was. “Get pregnant!!” Running through their heads like a primal mantra as they wanted to outright mate and breed with the romantic thespian. Losing track of time as minutes passed into hours before the intense passion finally caught up to them after one last round of climactic orgasms together. Sweet peaceful smiles of content on their faces as the afterglow warmth overcame them, snuggling up to their newfound alpha male like their own personal plush toy.

After that little encounter, it wasn’t long before Millie had the pair up and move into hers and Moxxie’s apartment as their new live-in maids. A role they gladly accepted as much as they had with considering Moxxie the only man in their life they’d ever need to love, having sent their resignations to Valentino in the meantime. In the form of a picture of them hugging a lipstick kiss marked Moxxie being hugged by the duo as they flipped the bird, attached with a note simply stating “WE QUIT!!”. To say he’d been livid was an understatement but the fuck was he going to do about it.

To say Moxxie was going to have get used to having maids as well as another set of kinky girls to satisfy was another understatement of course but by this point he knew to roll with the punches. All the while unaware that Millie had Loona send a copy of the picture along with a video of their alpha male in action with cat girl/succubus pair to the e-mail inbox o the head of Skull-Fuck Productions, the premiere porn studio and publisher outside of those owned under Ozzie. A singular office lit only by the glow of a computer screen and flames coming off of a smartly dressed skull-headed man who saw the latest notification of his inbox. An invisible grin forming as he saw who it was from and have it a read-over, ideas forming in his brain…

[toxycodone]

i understand its all joaks and its lighthearted out of love for this character but it is a little sad to see things like laios being a minimum wage worker and having no friends being described as him being a loser when theyre extremely common autistic experiences 💔 because to be honest i think youre really cool and a great writer and i would like to interact more but it makes me go, is that what you would think of me? my life situation’s not too different from that. anyways i hope you have a nice day <3

no not at all I genuinely like being mean to Laios so take everything I say about him with the world's biggest effing grain of salt because I am just. mean to him in particular lol. i like to kick him when he's down. (evil and mean but to blonde men in particular)

but like. i am not cool at all. like...........ill put it under the cut but yeah.

real shit under the cut bc this ask is making me think! im gonna be real w u nonnie

tl:dr if u dont wanna see whats under the cut:

this ask kinda makes me think bc. i think im really mean to laios too bc he reminds me of myself beforehand (zero self confidence and suicidal idealization) sigh and I really hate being reminded of that. so. again. im really biased when it comes to him specifically and that doesn't apply to you or any of my followers.

and for what its worth i am sorry for making you feel that way.

but also. i gotta say I can 100% relate to him and you. this time last year I was working at Starbucks ( i could only tolerate 4 hour shifts bc i would get overstimulated and my coworkers lowkey hated me.) and had like. 1 friend from high school and the years before that I spent turbo online being constantly pushed out of friend groups bc i could NEVER get anything right socially. I swear the first 23 years of my life I never lived. i went thru hs and college as a fucking. like. creature I felt like i couldnt connect w anyone because I was too tormented by adhd + autism and i was INSANELY depressed and coping w lack of control by having an eating disorder and being doped the fuck up on stimulants. (MY PCP gave me 56 mg of concerta and 5mg booster of adderall i was fucking tweaking on the daily </3)

but like. i started going to therapy and a psychiatrist who made me quit cold turkey for my own good and we started treating my depression and debilitating anxiety (i was convinced a stranger was living in my house in secret but also that everyone in public who saw me was revolted by me and genuinely wanted me to kill myself jkdhsfskdjh i told you i was tweaking)

anyways. i was a druggie with no goal in life and living in my own head and now like. i can look at myself in the mirror and not think "hey. this fat ugly piece of shit should genuinely die" and now people in real life LIKE me. I have friends. multiple friend groups, actually. WITH NOT JUST ND PEOPLE. LIKE, A LOT OF THEM ARE NEUROTYPICAL. And i am very open about being autistic with them and i dont have to mask.

and they still like me! and invite me places! and genuinely want to hang out with me! and they think im smart and get uncomfortable when I say im stupid or too autistic to like. be able to be in public.

it still feels like a dream and in my mind im like "they actually are gonna drop you and make fun of you for thinking they were ever your friends" or like "theyre just doing this bc of the stupid buddy system shit or they think you're a pet this is highschool all over again"

but even tho im haunted by this. its....I can say with confidence its not true.

anyways. i know people say this shit all the time but I will say you are very capable of love and not a loser or anything like that. the thing you're missing out on is the right people. i didnt believe this for most of my life and tried to get myself killed because of it but im glad I didn't because it is genuinely true.

i have spent the last <1 year of my life genuinely being alive. and i wouldn't trade it for anything. idk if thats a sign for anyone yeah. take it

[scary-lasagna]

Random Ben and Jeff friendship hcs?

i love them, just guys being dudes

Ben & Jeff

Inseparable buffoons, these two.

They do everything together, go everywhere together, game together, torment together. Anything you can think of, they're usually attached by the hip unless one of them is taking a nap.

They always cover for the other, so everyone knows better than to interrogate them for whatever mishap the other one was witnessed caressing.

They have nightly game nights, either COD, Mario Kart, or a scary game. And they often sleep in the same room with makeshift sleepovers. Usually whoever steals the bed first gets it, but the homies do cuddle once in a while.

And a kiss goodnight.

Of course.

But they also argue on the daily, Ben has a bad habit of roasting people he loves, and sometimes Jeff just can't take the heat. But in the end, they both end up laughing over it after one of them stutters or says something so stupid they can't help but laugh.

"Bozo", "Dumbass", "Peepoo head", and "Dickwad", are all loving nicknames between the two.

They are the sibling that both of them asked for growing up, and they really would never want the friendship to change.

The 3am 7-11 trips to get Doritos and Slurpee's are priceless memories, as well as pushing each other down the stairs, and deep, late night talks about their childhood that will never leave the four walls of Jeff's room.

And they so occasionally share hoodies, they're not quite sure who originally belonged to whom, except for Jeff's signature favorite.

And late nights with nothing but the tv light illuminating the room on a paused movie while crying over trauma and teary eyed over shitty jokes and made them laugh until they couldn't breathe, those are core memories that stick.

That's what make it worth it, to have lived through the Hell of this life, to have those moments together at 4am.

Between Mario Kart, Pirate movies, naps by the fireplace, and talking every single day since they met, it's been nice.

It's a special kind of friendship that one has to experience to truly understand it.

Just guys being dudes.