#maybe it's a cyclical way of being

[raccoon-smiles]

I want to write Princess Tutu stuff so bad, but unfortunately my brain worms are mostly for Edel and Uzura, and there is not an audience for a puppet set free from her strings returning home to them anyway

[deoidesign]

Can you make a tutorial on how you world build and make ocs? I can't seem to make any people in my brain, but then when I try to come up with environments jobs, beliefs and little details to slowly come up with someone, I think: well I don't really know how people have influenced the world- it's a weird loop

To be honest, I don't think I can! Writing is an extremely personal process. The way I write is directly related to how I process things, what I find important in stories, years of my own analysis of my and other's writing, etc... The way you write will be unique to you, as well. But I can explain how I personally think of it.

The short answer:

Write. Write anything and everything, it's a tool to explore your ideas. Analyze your own writing, and write more. Then, as you discover which ideas you want to develop, write more to explore them more. You won't know what you want otherwise!

The long answer:

I think this kind of loop is common. It's easy to feel like everything needs to be done "at once," because our job as writers is to make elements logically fit with each other for our readers. But as you've discovered, developing multiple elements simultaneously isn't really possible, or at least is extremely difficult.

Personally, when I think of writing, I break it into three major elements; characters, world, and plot. As much as possible every scene explores one or more of these, and as much as possible these three things tie back into what I personally consider most important: theme.

Everything I do is in service of the themes I want to present. Without them my events feel aimless. It can take a while to discover them, but they're the core of my work. You will have to discover what you feel is the core of yours. Analyzing other media helps with this too.

Concepts in your brain exist in a state of infinite potential. But when you start writing you have to start making choices, which removes potential as you move forward... But you have to move forward anyways. If there's ideas you want to explore later, you can always explore them later.

What this ends up meaning, to answer your question, is that I don't think of my characters as "people in my brain" or my worlds as something people have influenced... Not at their core, at least. They are tools that I use to represent specific ideas. Obviously they're also my blorbos, but mostly they're serving a specific narrative purpose.

So above all else... Write. Write, and discover what you're writing about, and then start over and write with that in mind. Keep doing this. But you have to write!

[akkivee]

the abject horror on kuukou’s face when he realises this had gone too far and he nearly drove someone to basically killing themselves killed someone is the exact reason he was so adamant about taking the fall for everything in the ren chapter btw

[clanoffelidae]

It’s always ‘man I wish I was at home’ until you actually have a reason to stay home because you feel bad and then it’s ‘man I wish I was at work because that would mean I didn’t feel awful’

[phagodyke]

iwtv is rly getting to me 😭 I feel sooo bad for claudia no one tell me anything bc idk the book lore + I dont want spoilers but istg she's gonna kill herself in that theatre fire...

[positivelyapunovexponent-good]

[/Image ID- screenshot of a tumblr reply reading as follows:

"AI" -> machine learning. and the winners in question do not own large language models like ChatGPT. they themselves warn about the responsibility of using machine learning ethically. i cannot believe that i have to say this but machine learning / "AI" has legitimate and critical uses for healthcare, scientific discovery, etc. common examples are AI used to ID cancer cells etc. you HAVE to start disentangling what we commonly call "AI" ie. the product that is sold to you the consumer and AI used in valid and vital scientific research ie. the tool. but then again this is the piss on the poor website. ffs

/End ID]

(Source)

[lyeofhell]

hey just so you know your protests and claims of being “too big” mean absolutely nothing and Nikolai would 100% flirt with you by pulling you into his lap while he sits in his pilot seat. he just will not hear it; the man needs an excuse to get his hands on you, now, and what better way to do that than to show you the ropes? maybe he’d light a cigarette and let you press all kinds of important buttons, whispering commands and nibbling on your earlobe to work a shy little giggle out of you — his way of working you open and warming you up. and something deep stirs in him at the sight of you playing, of following his orders; Nik’s exhaling clouds and smirking with his chin tucked over your shoulder, puffs curling into your face when he wraps his big bear paws around your hands and shows you how to steer. he’s got you squirming in his lap, soft thighs clenched together, anxiously fidgeting the closer his mouth gets to your skin. he coos graveled praise against your ear when you pull on the cyclic stick just right because you just listen so well…soft girls like you are good at listening, no? you think so? why don’t you show me how good you can listen, hm? part your legs, printsessa.

so yeah just so you’re like aware or whatever

[the-saltiest-saltine]

Reservations and Repose

(Yan!Chrollo x Fem Reader)

@sukunasfavoritehole hopefully this is enough to tide you over until my ao3 finally gets an update hehe

Word count: ~7.3k

------

You’re naïve enough to believe Chrollo’s asleep. He loves that about you.

Warnings: NOT SFW, non -con thigh fucking, somnophilia, drugging, imagined not sfw scenarios etc

a/n: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG IT WAS 3/4 FINISHED THEN I FORGOT ABOUT IT my sincerest apologies.

Also this is my first time writing smut so please go easy on me 😥

Chrollo is very disappointed in you.

You let him kiss your cheek this morning following a deep sleep. You didn’t reciprocate, though he continues to see your progress and knows that an ever-hopeful yet can be added to the end of that statement. To some extent, the allowance of such an act could be chalked up to his acceptance of you, flaws and all, willing to appreciate the neutrality of it as opposed to ardent rejection. In a matter of weeks, you’ll be returning the gesture. And in a matter of months, you’ll be doing it gladly. Warmth, or perhaps weariness, has slowly but surely seeped its way into your actions recently, your shaky hands finding a place in his, fingers interlaced.

Is that to say he was under the impression that you’d completely given yourself to him? Absolutely not. There’s fear in your smiles, as much as they may have metamorphosed from obviously and mockingly forced to meek and endearing. Chrollo has shown you all that you know he can do. This has been enough to keep you relatively restrained over the months. If he showed you all that he knows he can do, you’d most likely curl up into a ball and sob until you dried out. That’s not necessary, though. It’ll never be.

Like many things, it wasn’t linear. It was a path that went upwards and downwards and forwards and backwards and in cycles, cycles that would always leave you curled up, sobbing in his arms, grasping onto him for whatever comfort it would give. But progress is progress, right?

Ignorantly, he began to believe the crumbs of affection, of acceptance, of acquiescence. Stupidly, he thought you were making progress. It’s been a significant amount of time since he was last this naïve. If he wasn’t so disgruntled by your transgression, he’d most likely bask in the nostalgic feeling. But he can’t, for the time being, because you’re trying to do something very rash.

As unfortunate as it is, you’re trying to leave him.

It’s audacious, having thought that the monumental power difference between you two had been thoroughly demonstrated on multiple occasions, a well established and silently acknowledged fact of your travels with him.

It’s irritating, although regarded with the same irritation as one would have with a pet goldfish trying to jump out of its tank. You silly thing, why do you want to abandon the place in which you are safe?

It doesn’t particularly make sense, though. He’s checked his cards - nothing suspicious has been bought in his name. No travel tickets or prepaid car hire. He’s even checked the jewellery collection - maybe you’d snatched up a nice necklace or bracelet or pair of diamond earrings to pawn off. But again, nothing. No suspicious bags have been packed. No loose tiles or floorboards or ceiling panels to hide supplies in. Your clothes are all neatly folded and hung in your wardrobe. 

You’ve got something up your sleeve- something desperate and jittery and not fully thought out. Something that relies on luck and prayers far more than precision and blow-by-blow planning. He never particularly took you for a daredevil, but to see you get pushed to such a limit, to be forced against your own timid nature, is beyond satisfying. If he could pluck it out of you and analyse it under a microscope, he’d be elated. Or perhaps even, he supposes to himself, he’d be so fulfilled that he might abandon the current pathway of his life, aimless and bloody and cyclical, finally so consumed with his obsession over you that nothing else is valued in the slightest. 

He can’t say he didn’t expect an ulterior motive for your apparent benevolence, at least initially, but for it to be kept up for this long? The stares felt almost too natural. The gradual lessening of your flinches when he placed a hand on your shoulder, the way your gaze would be drawn to him rather than away, even if only to flick away immediately - the subtleties were downright impressive. To be able to track everything simultaneously, to be able to remember to exhibit so many behaviours at once…Perhaps he should be taking acting lessons from you.

Chrollo had watched you, humming a pop tune this morning, cheekily shaking your hips from side to side as you fried some eggs, over easy, the notes sometimes interrupted with a sharp inhale between your teeth when the oil spat just a bit too high and would burn you ever-so-slightly. A domestic sight.

You’d let him give you another kiss on the cheek before he shrugged his coat on, giving you one last lingering glance before he’d walked out the door and into the hallway of the apartment, locking it with warm Nen made of comfort rather than capture. He gave you another cheek kiss (despite his ever-growing urge to dip lower) when he got home to the smell of spices and vegetables and the bubbling sound of a low simmer. You don’t fight them anymore, and barely even recoil now, a result of steady but slight crossing of boundaries - his record was eleven times in one day (at least, his record for when you were conscious) when he was feeling particularly affectionate, although you’d definitely soured up by the end.

The…fantasies he’d had of domesticity…they were just that, weren’t they? Fantasies, mere ideas that were appealing enough to fully flesh out in his mind. Whatever actions you’ve taken, whether it be pecks to the cheek or folding his shirts, staining them with the scent of you, they’ve all been a means to an end. That certainly wasn’t part of the fantasy. 

You’ve been buttering him up like the thick slices of white bread next to his bowl. What a betrayal.

Tonight’s stew is spicy and chunky, served courteously by you. His palate is experienced from an adulthood of travel, wealth, and nights spent with gullible women who couldn’t tell the difference between a Prince Charming and a swindler. Truly, there is little he hasn’t at least tried. Including this.

So, if there’s no other signs of you wanting to leave the comfort of the apartment and the familiarity of his presence, then what could’ve possibly cued him into your motives?

It’s something tenuous, something that could’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else. It’s something subtle, buried under layers of rosemary and thyme and paprika. But diphenhydramine is such an acquired taste. And it’s one that’s made the past few weeks and months crumble to dust.

Oh, you sweet thing.

Acting as oblivious as ever, he spoons chunks of zucchini and carrot onto the bread, taking large bites, chewing and swallowing with purpose, the taste of the sedative lingering. He considers smacking his lips for good measure, to play around with you a bit, but eventually decides against it. That’ll come later.

You sit across from him, silence between you two. Normally, he’d fill it with tales from his busy day - but you’ve been so good lately, that he’s begun to refrain from doing that. Nowadays, he asks you what you’ve been up to, every painstaking detail from your dull days without him. But that’s only if you’ve been good, or at least if he’s under the impression that you’ve been good. As it turns out, you haven’t been good, you aren’t being compliant, and now he simply waits.

You stare into your bowl of stew, but he can tell you’re watching him in your periphery. It’s so very fascinating, the way you absorb each mouthful he takes, washed down with frequent sips of water (there’s no other substances in that, obviously). He takes another swill of the liquid, tilting his head slightly back, and in the corner of his eye, he can see the way you observe his Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp. Does it appease you, the sight? Does it intrigue you? Does it make you, even for a moment, reconsider what you’re about to do?

Chrollo pauses for a moment, before placing the half-empty glass back onto its coaster. He knows the smirk that comes onto his face is nothing short of wicked, but he truly can’t help himself. 

“Are you not hungry, my love? You’ve barely touched your food.”

Barely is an understatement. You haven’t touched it at all, in fact. Stupid, really. He knows that you know that he’s observant - but that information is irrelevant in this situation, considering it doesn’t take an keen eye to figure out your pattern of stirring your spoon around, picking up some carrot - even blowing on it for good measure - and nodding along with what few words he spoke initially, before giving an mhm! of agreement and letting it drop back into the bowl. You spend extensive amounts of time apparently fishing for just the right piece of zucchini, sorting through copious amounts of lentils (and seemingly taking the time to individually count them all), dragging chunks up the side of your bowl only to push them back down into the fray of assorted vegetables.

There’s almost a sort of jump in response to the words, ringing clear and well projected. But it’s contained above the shoulders - your head snaps to look at him, your eyes widening momentarily, staring into his own, trapped.

He can feel the shaky breath you take to steady yourself from over here, air stagnant and mouth dry.

“No,” you reply, “not particularly.”

He cocks an eyebrow at that, mouthing an oh before returning to his meal. It doesn’t matter whether you take the bait or not, his suspicions have long since been confirmed. Confirmed, in the sternest sense of the word, syllables enunciated with force, the knowledge of your true intentions well recognised. Whether that displays on his face or within his interactions with you is inconsequential to the known ending of your silly stunt.

The sound of you chewing is enough to bring his attention back out of the bowl. That’s not fake.

So you’re eating it too? It’s certainly a bold move, but one he wouldn’t dare put past you anymore. You were always a clever one, one to be placed a mere few tiers below his own intellect.

He hasn’t caught you swapping the bowl out for a fresh one. Maybe you’ve mastered the art so quickly that even he can’t notice?

No, not likely. Not in just a few months. That’d be impossible.

Your bites of pumpkin are preceded with the slightest hesitation, a quick breath to presumably psych yourself up to the self-sabotage. He hates to see you so scared when you’re properly sharing a meal with him like this, deciding to return to normalcy as a reward for your cooperation.

“Tell me, darling, what did you get up to today?”

Your eyes flick to his, momentarily ensnared in the grey, before looking up at the ceiling to aid in the process of giving a verbal description of what you read, how you cleaned, how you entertained yourself with rearranging your meagre book collection (not his, that would be asking for trouble). The response is practically identical to every other time he’s asked the question, plain and unindulgent. It’s boring, he thinks, even with the unacknowledged omission of the hours you spend staring at the walls and pacing around the living area. He’s tempted to pry into how you decided on tonight’s dish, but decides against it. Not for lenience or mercy, but rather amusement. To give away what he knows now would simply be a waste of a situation you’ll never attempt to put yourself in again.

If you knew what Chrollo knew, would you still bother to indulge him?

You stare at him for a moment, allowing him to draw things out, before nodding at the I see he gives in response. He gives a forward nod to your bowl, giving you gracious permission to eat again after starving you for the length of your interrogation, merciful as ever. Your fear is better contained behind a split second’s confusion before you register the nonverbal instruction, picking up your spoon once more and eating with more confidence this time, taking exaggerated bites of zucchini that barely make it past your teeth, chewed excessively into grey paste before being swallowed. Maybe you reason that if you chew enough, you can break the drug down into something that won’t knock you out. A cute thought.

The spices stain your lips an enticing red, the chilli making them plump up so deliciously. If he kissed them, would they burn him? Would the capsaicin leave his lips tingling, a reminder of your soft touch?

He likes to think he’ll know the answer soon.

Chrollo feigns sleepiness, furrowing his brows in mock confusion as he tells you that he can’t quite keep his eyes open - perhaps he overdid it at work today. 

Yes, work, as he loves to call it, like there’s the possibility of him spending his time away from you at a desk, punching in numbers on a computer, monotonous and repetitive and damn, couldn’t things just switch up for a day? Work, as in a beer-bellied husband whose idea of experimental fashion is changing which tie he wears with the same white button-up and black dress pants each day. Work, as in an assembly line employee who wakes up at three o’clock to be at the factory by four, ready and willing to make whatever sacrifices necessary to support his loved ones. Work, as in something at least vaguely respectable.

Work, as in literally anything other than stealing and slaughtering and scourging.

Chrollo relishes in the way your shoulders relax a little. It’s almost too adorable. Chrollo also relishes in the way they tense up again when he adds how it’s suspicious really. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt a tiredness such as this.

There’s an underlying anxiety in your pretty, pluckable, ever-so-slightly bloodshot eyes. Where others would be concerned for your health, he finds endearment, you precious thing. After admiring them silently for a moment, he announces that he’ll be off to bed now, darling. Remember to be there for me when I wake.

He leaves you alone in the kitchen to stew in your unease.

____________

Now he’s lying in bed, on the side closest to the door, limp as anything. It doesn’t matter whether his facade convinces you or not, he’ll have you in his arms by morning. The blinds aren’t fully down, leaving a pleasant blue hue that gives him a good visual of most of the room. Your side of the bed is still firmly tucked in from when he made it this morning, after running his hands up and down your arms until you’d given a great shudder and shoved him away - a pitiful attempt that he’d impishly gone along with. 

Anticipation tickles his nose and prods at his heart. Childishly, he wants you to get over with it already, to sprint in, swinging a knife wildly, or cue him to start the chase with a slam of the front door so violent that the hinges threaten to crack. It’s unfortunate how your faux compliance conditioned him to be unable to accept a halt, or even slowing, of progress.

Ah, some solace - he can hear your footsteps come up to the door, attempting, albeit poorly, to be quiet. Or maybe they are quiet, to the average man, but someone well-versed in the art of stealth can practically see the way you tiptoe closer. The faint sounds paint a detailed visualisation of your movements - the balls of your feet lifting from the ground, the flexing of your toes, the dorsiflexion at your ankles, the soft thud of your heels hitting the ground.

The bedroom door creaks open, a thin streak of light hitting his eyelids, making him see an ever-so-slight orange behind them. He might be able to visualise your walk accurately, but the same cannot be said for your face. Are you fearful, lips downturned and eyes wide? Are you determined yet cautious, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line? Are you smug? Condescending? Grinning from ear-to-ear, excited to finally have what you believe to be freedom?

You’re not, he discerns.

Instead, you huff a sigh, a sweet note that makes his heart jump, a small flutter that could only be instigated by you. It’s a sigh of relief. The door is shut. He expects another door to be slammed, too - the front door, hinges quaking as you sprint to the stairs as far as you can, too scared to wait for the elevator (and for your sake, he hopes you’ve brought a pair of running shoes - you’re on the 35th floor, after all). But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, he can hear the clanking of bowls and dishes, the smooth schwip as you push breadcrumbs off the chopping board into the bin with the back of the serrated-edge knife, and how you place said knife into the block without taking another one out.

So you’ve decided against stabbing him tonight? How agreeable.

In fact there seems to be no malice in the way you’re stacking the bowls, no scraps of extra force in how you shut the fridge. Whilst the sounds of your cleanup are nothing short of a ruckus to his alert ears, there’s an intentional tenderness he can hear. A conscious effort to be as quiet as possible with somebody sleeping peacefully in the next room.

It’s a gesture he’ll interpret in the best way he can. Even if he knows he’s deluding himself that you want to be quiet for his own peace rather than so you can escape, he’ll be sure to bring up the former as reasoning for your actions over the next few days, regardless of how you’ll spit venom at him, hissing that he couldn’t be more wrong.

Next is a movement he didn’t expect in the slightest.

You come back to the bedroom, with a pile of fabric in your hands - clothes, maybe? He thought you’d be off and away as soon as possible, or you wouldn’t get close to him again at the very least, standing patiently by the door until whatever you’re waiting for had occurred. 

The quiet-ish footsteps make their way past him this time, and straight into the ensuite.

There’s the soft sound of clothes falling, and then the tap is turned on.

You’re…showering before you leave?

You really are a good teacher of the quirks of humanity. Logical as ever, he’d most certainly take no time for hygiene practices if it reduced his chances of being able to go on a small, liberating adventure. But perhaps that’s part of the plan? Do you not want to have a speck of dirt on you so you don’t smell bad? Will you hide out at a fancy gala, and have to be as fresh as possible? Are you trying to wash off Nen, perhaps? 

No, that would never work, and he’s certain you know this too. Still, the idea of a little hopeless fire in you, taking a precaution you know is futile, makes his lips twitch.

So many questions, few of them answerable at present. His mind is stimulated so wondrously, for once not finding boredom in the predictability of human behaviour. He’s truly chosen well. 

And then there’s something else, rising above the sound of the rushing water, above the drain gurgling it down, greedily gulping it away.

You’re humming.

It’s relatively random, most likely improvised, and slightly off-tune, but endearing all the same. He can taste the notes, sweet and soothing, running down his throat smoothly and pooling warmth in his belly. 

You heave a sigh, and the tune changes. And then he recognises it.

It’s something he heard as a boy, back in Meteor City. He’d hear it at night, walking back to whatever semblance of a refuge he had with Franklin and Shalnark, past the hamlets of the younger children. Letting himself get lost in it, he can feel himself crawling to shelter on scraped knees, walking on calloused heels, eating stale bread, all accompanied by the faint smell of garbage, a smell that years of exposure had waned to a neutral accompaniment of the setting, rather than an inconvenience or hazard.

Despite the unhygienic nature of it all, it’s sweet. It’s these memories - memories of grime and rot and infection - that are the most pure. The most uncorrupted. They’re full of innocence and hope - just like you.

These qualities make you think you’ll leave him.

Upon remembering this, he’s tempted to barge in and ruin your peace, eager to hear your inevitable yelp and nervous laugh as he quizzes you about tonight’s events. But he doesn’t. Your lullaby is too enjoyable, the tune far too agreeable to stomp out yet. Resisting sin by committing another, he decides he doesn’t want to kill this mockingbird, if only to selfishly continue to hear it sing.

Few moments have come like this since you came to be with him. They’re all short-lived in comparison to the cold life he’s had, a firecracker popping on his tongue, fleetingly filling his mouth with syrupy sweetness before quickly dying off, barely an aftertaste to be savoured. He’s scratched them all down in an old leather journal with a quill and ink, lest he forgets what it feels like, or how to get that feeling again, but thankfully they’re scratched even deeper into his psyche. 

You’d been agreeable enough for a reward of a dinner somewhere several stories up, city lights shining behind you, framing your hair beautifully. You were reluctant at first, turning your nose up at him and the priceless food in front of you, opting for the bottle of red wine instead. It wasn’t supposed to be gulped down with such vulgarity like that, but that was part of your charm and by your second glass you were giggling and halfway through your third you looked at him right in the eye, cheeks tinged pink, and you smiled a smile that you’d forget by morning but he wouldn’t…

He’d returned to the villa after a long day to find the fans blasting, and you slumped over on the couch as credits rolled on the screen in front of you. He’d flicked the TV off, not before noting the rom-com’s name, and regarded you, with your deep, even breaths and singlet strap falling down. He picked you up and carried you to bed, laying you down on the thin blankets, fixing your strap despite the small voice that called to him to take off the thing entirely. Your head rested on the pillow, your face not scowling for once, and you’d huffed the sweetest of sighs…

That’s the kind of moment this is.

There’s no thought of what he’ll be doing with the troupe tomorrow, or in a week, or what move to make next depending on what you decide to do. Every nook and cranny of his mind, every convolution of his brain is filled with the thought of you. Tonight, it’s warm and viscous, slowing time and cutting both of you off from the rest of the world; the rest of its filth.

In this moment, he can see himself in the shower with you. He’s across from you, lathering body wash onto his shoulders, letting the foam run down his back. All the while, he keeps his gaze on you, watching how your hands run over your body, soap running along your sternum, between your breasts, along the curve of your hips, your ass, all whilst you hum that tune… shit, he can’t let himself get hard now. He manages to drag himself out of the daydream, barely, just managing to claw himself to the surface of reality.

Caps are popped open and the lathering of soaps can be heard over the course of your performance, with a finale of the tap being turned off. There’s a fumbling of fabrics before you come out, followed by yet another move he doesn’t expect.

You walk up to the bed, peel the sheets back, and lie down beside him. You then roll onto your side, facing him. After a few moments, you prop yourself up onto your elbow.

A moment of nothing. You’re frozen, as is he. Calm before the storm, he prepares himself to catch your wrist and hear you shriek.

You lean over.

And then there’s a featherlight sensation on his forehead, right in the middle of his tattoo. 

Had it been a split second later, he would’ve opened his eyes and turned to face you with a smirk as you screamed. But it’s not a split second later, it’s now, and now you’re kissing him. There’s no real benefit for doing such a thing that he can identify right now - perhaps you know he’s awake, and would like to make amends? Surely you know that that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him.

The contact sends an electric zap to every corner of his body, although he manages to not make himself jolt. Months of stifled desire bubble up from his insides, desire that’s spent so long smothered by rationale of better outcomes and forcing himself to think of his bloodied obstacles and late nights alone in the shower. As often as his lips find their way to your forehead, unfortunately the reverse doesn’t occur even half as much.

You pull away, like you’re hesitant about what you’ve done, like you’re waiting for him to snap his eyes open and sit up with inhuman speed, ready to pin you down or tie you up or even slap you for tonight’s inconveniences. But that doesn’t make sense, because hesitation is supposed to occur before such an intrepid act, not afterward.

After receiving apparent confirmation that you’re not about to be attacked, he can sense your head slowly but surely coming to rest on your pillow. You shouldn’t strain your neck like that, someone like you could get hurt over time.

The back of his shirt is peeled up, slowly, delicately, and he has to focus to keep his breathing even.

There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, his number a pale contrast to the black ink, practically jumping out at you.

0.

It’s your reminder, he supposes, of what he is. Theoretically and legally nonexistent, practically traceless. Zero evidence. Zero remorse. Zero morality.

Zero.

Then-

One, two, three.

Your lips mark a trail up his spine, at the bottom of the abdomen, right in the middle of the zero, on its head. Don’t shudder.

Once your deed is done, you pull back. There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, so silent that you’re barely breathing.

The fabric of his nightshirt is guided back down. You roll over and proceed to go limp, succumbing to the drugs intended for him.

What was that?

You’re not touching him anymore. He can sense the gap between your bodies, one that he would close every night, pulling you close. 

Was it a relief? To go to sleep without him touching you?

You’d always stirred up such a fuss about his arms being around you as you slept. 

It had always been a cause for seething rage on your part, later argument, later whining, and more recently huffing. Even last night, the stiffness before you fell asleep was a cause of his own discomfort. But you didn’t have to deal with that tonight, and now you’ve fallen asleep in record time. He can’t say it was just from the pills.

Did you change your mind on leaving after you felt their effects? It doesn’t seem likely that you’d ditch all that to sleep. Rather, that you wanted to sleep on your own terms.

He’d spent so much time concerned with stopping a potential escape, that he didn’t stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, that was never the goal to begin with.

And now Chrollo rolls over to face you, gently tugging on your shoulder to pull you onto your back.

You’re serene as ever, a sight to behold. 

He brushes the back of his knuckles along your hair, feeling its texture, so light that his calloused hands - hands that have seen many a bruise and burn and slice and hangnail caught and ripped on the job - almost can’t feel it. Your exhales come out more as huffs and sighs now compared to gentle breathing, and he allows a chuckle (one that he finds incredibly endearing, as much as you’ve let your disagreement to that sentiment be known, preferring to describe it with wounding words such as “condescending” and “grating”) to slip past his lips. 

It reminds him of you when you’re awake, when you used to try so hard to be difficult for him, when you used to scream and scratch as he’d spoon you, grip ironclad, until all you could do was huff and puff and plead with him (and as much as he enjoyed your attempts to compromise, this was something he simply could not relinquish) and eventually, your cursing would die down, your muscles would go limp, and you’d fall asleep. 

Sometimes the sun would be up by the time you relented, and your breaths would be the heaviest then. It was amusing, how quickly you’d switch. One second, you were cussing him and his troupe out, the next, you were a paragon of tranquillity, the visage of an angel before him. He’d pray you love him.

He wants to grab your jaw, hold it firm, and kiss your lips as hard as he can. He wants to tilt his head and take and take and take. He wants to keep taking even if your breathing lightens. He wants to keep taking even if your eyelids flutter open, hazy doe-eyes looking at him with dozy confusion.

Well, he’d never deny his own indulgence.

Leaning in, he presses a kiss to your forehead, just as you did to him.

The touch is as gentle as he can make it, as gentle as he can permit himself to be. There’s a split second of what he could almost call fear, an image of accidentally squeezing you too hard and hearing your bones snap flashing in his mind.

He rubs his thumb over where his lips previously were, feeling an unanticipated wetness left behind.

It’s then that Chrollo realises his mouth is full of his own saliva - whether that was because he was so entranced by your actions that nothing else mattered, body as limp as he could allow, or because, like some sort of filthy animal, he couldn’t help but drool at the contact from you, starved for it like a hyena, he doesn’t know. He swallows. That’s better.

And now for the main event.

He dips down to your lips, and lightly presses his own against them. The feeling is so heavenly, he wonders if you really are an angel. If you were one, would you bless him? Would you destroy him?

If you were to know what he’s doing, would you hate him more?

He pulls away. 

The journey to get here was sizable. Memories of tonight flash by; your cooking, your conversation, your shower. Your humming.

Ah. The tune he heard as a boy. Innocent, naïve, hopeful.

Well, he’s a man now. And far less innocent.

He lets out a hum of his own, deep and rumbling.

Chrollo moves to straddle you, peeling the duvet and sheets back, layer by layer, unveiling the best present he’s ever gifted himself. Just moving into such an intimate position is enough to send pangs of heat downwards, the hardness he fought against earlier returning with an urgency.

For a moment, he tries to fight against it.

Is it to save himself from your hatred? Is it to save you from what he’s planning?

It’s neither, he discerns, as the attempt was doomed to fail before it even started. He knows it was never meant to succeed.

His groin only throbs harder, aching for friction. It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing, the way he presses it against your clothed crotch, rocking back and forth, the slight relief just momentary as his desire only grows.

He regards your unsuspecting face. Stunning. 

Restraint is draining faster now, but still is present just enough to stop him from grinding any harder despite the urge. But if he’s to stop his movements, he’ll need a different kind of stimulation.

He bunches your shirt up, pulling, sliding a hand under your back so he can slip it off your arms and neck.

Now your chest is bare. How ravishing.

His fingers hook under the band of your sleep pants, dragging them off in a clean motion.

And now your legs are bare. How alluring.

He doesn’t take your underwear off - that would simply be crude, and he doesn’t need to tempt himself anymore. If he got the privilege (or right, considering your standings) of seeing you fully nude, as opposed to having a single layer covering the most tantalising part of you, he’d be oh-so-inclined to do something regrettable. His logic fights to win space within his buzzing thoughts, fingers daring to twitch as his imagination fills in the gaps of what the thin black layer forces to be left to it.

Chrollo parts your thighs for good measure, the maximum he can allow himself at this moment. It’d be impossible to not let his hands and gaze trail up them, observing how as he roams upwards, your flesh gets softer, warmer; how the flimsy fabric can’t hide all of your darker flesh; how your lower lips are pressing against the cloth, visible despite the darkness…

God, you’re so fuckable.

There’s a pretentious voice in his head, albeit muffled, that cries protests at the use of such a word to describe you. You’re something far more than that - beautiful, exemplary, one-in-a-million, ethereal. Surely your mouth would be better put to use having a fulfilling conversation with him, a conversation he can dissect and steer and puppeteer, as opposed to just opening as wide as it can to accommodate his cock, taking it as deep as your gag reflex will allow, barely able to breathe, much less talk. Although, he thinks with a faint, deep groan, twitching in his pants, that’s certainly a hypothesis I’ll have to test.

With the sight of your breasts, nipples hard and skin goosebumped from the chill of the room, it’s decided. Just because making his cheeks warm and his cock rock hard isn’t your most prominent trait, doesn’t mean that you aren’t absolutely exceptional at it.

Temptation isn’t something he’s inclined to resist, brushing a thumb over your nipples before leaning down to take one into his mouth. He swears he can hear your breath hitch as his tongue swirls around, breathing getting slightly lighter. An eager hand reaches for the other one, kneading as gently as he thinks he can.

Soft is the first thing he thinks. Your flesh is so soft, so delicate, so tender. If you were awake, he’d vocalise his compliments - and do so loudly, unrestrained.

Your breathing changes as he points his tongue to lightly flick at your nipple repeatedly. Chances are you’re being taken out of REM sleep, but your consciousness doesn’t matter at this stage. And some part of him hopes for it, brief images flashing in his mind of barely-open teary eyes slowly rolling to the back of your head. They’re obscene, so utterly immoral to even fantasise about, yet even the split-second thought makes his stomach jump, shivering a bit as he feels himself be almost overcome by them.

He can’t help but slightly wet his lips in anticipation, relishing in the knowledge that his instincts are being held back with the slightest thread. If he moves even slightly faster than his rational, calculating, non-carnal mind intends, then it’ll snap. He’ll snap.

Almost trembling, he reaches across to his bedside table. The movements are imprecise, but he’s sure this practice will allow him to execute them with much more grace for the inevitable time you’ll be awake. Yes, you’ll be awake and whining and he’ll wet his lips in anticipation and be met with your lingering taste and you’ll want him as much as he wants you- 

He almost falls forward as his own lust threatens to overtake him. Focus on the necessary steps.

Taking a shuddering breath, he leans down to pull open the drawer, to find a bottle hidden at the back, purposefully concealed behind an upright copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Quickly shifting his weight back, he pops the cap open, spreading some of the slick contents onto his fingertips. With his free hand, he pulls down the loose elastic of his pyjama pants, shucking them off, the cold air making him quiver slightly.

Time’s running out.

The movements are trembling, sloppy as he pours lube onto his length, and then onto your spread thighs. There’s a frantic inertia of sorts, a mad momentum - the more he does, the faster he has to go, the anticipation making his stomach swell and dip. He’s really going to do this. It’s really going to happen, and it’ll be amazing.

There. Done. Everything’s ready.

Chrollo takes a shaky breath, gripping just above your knees, and squeezes your thighs around his dick.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your thighs are warm from the duvet, perfectly cosy and wet from the lube for his cock.

Little time is wasted as he begins to thrust his hips, trying not to give himself too much too soon. The steady pace is slowly increased, little by little, a fragile incline so he can drag this out for as long as possible. 

Can you feel it? Can you feel the warmth radiating from him? Is there some part of your mind that’s awake, but can’t do anything to stop him? Or better yet, is eager to please him?

He strains out a hiss through gritted teeth, peppering kisses over your exposed neck, trying his best not to bite. The pace increases yet again. His eyes are fixated on the mound in your underwear, a more sinister form of curiosity burning within. 

What does your pussy look like?

He won’t use En, that’s just cheating. He wonders and ponders and conjures up the most filthy images his mind can muster. A warm, tight hole that clenches for him as he slips in and out, teasing you. A pretty clit for him to tease with his fingers as you whine, for him to suckle on as you choke on sobs of pleasure. Folds for him to run his tongue through as you rut your hips against his face; for him to run his tip along, collecting your slick.

He imagines how his cock would look disappearing inside of your cunt, how your grip would be so suffocating, how your tits would bounce as he fucks it (because shit, they’re already moving so vigorously now, as he holds his strength, and he can’t even begin to picture what they’d look like if he loses control buried deep inside you, repeatedly stuffing you to the hilt as you cry out). He imagines how you’d tighten around him, babbling something incoherent as you wrap your arms and legs around him, and oh fuck, he can’t pull out now. He imagines the tension snapping, giving a rumbling groan as he shoves himself into you as deeply as possible, eyes screwing shut and burying his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder, riding out his high with a few shallow thrusts.

And finally, he imagines how his cum would look leaking out of your pussy, twitching and swollen from a nice good fuck. The afterglow. The squeak you’d give if he fingered it back into you, growling at you to not waste a drop, keep it all inside for me.

The thought makes his hips stutter a little, threatening to slip out of the plushness between your thighs. Once he regains his rhythm, though, they’re speeding up, relentlessly fucking himself into your thighs over and over, kneading the flesh as he squeezes them tighter and closer.

Chrollo cups your face with a single hand, and leans in. 

It’s the second time he’s properly kissed you tonight, and it feels fucking amazing. Your soft lips, your soft thighs, they’re all working together to make his head swim in bliss. You’re working to make him feel good. Yes, him. Nobody else. You’re his.

The thoughts run wild. He has as little control over them as he does his hips.

How would it feel to fuck you in some other position? How would it feel to flip you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back to meet his, as he stuffs himself into your sopping cunt over and over, watching your ass bounce? How would you cry out at the way his balls slap against your swollen clit, building up the pressure inside you until you just can’t take any more?

How would you grind on top of him? How would you moan as you bounce, tilting your head back as you stretch yourself on his length, panting? How many times could you do it until your legs trembled uncontrollably, forcing yourself to impale yourself on his cock just one more time? When he’d plant his feet on the bed firmly and thrust his hips up, grabbing yours and bouncing you in time, would you wail, or simply slump over, completely unable to form a thought as you cum around him for the nth time?

You’re flexible enough to fold into a mating press, right? How deep could he go? How fast could he go? How would your beautiful skin look covered in love bites?

The coil of pressure within him grows even tighter even faster, balls slapping against your thighs, hips pistoning rhythmlessly.

If he asked, oh-so-nicely, for you to get on your knees and please him with your mouth, would you oh-so-sweetly do it? Would you suckle his swollen tip? Would you tease him with a glint of mischief in your eyes? Would you find his most sensitive spots and exploit them? Would you trace your tongue along the veins? Would you massage his balls? Would you let him control the pace, a hand intertwined in your hair? Would you look up at him as you tear up, doe-eyes wide and eager to please? Would you rub your pretty pussy while he shoots thick ropes of cum down your throat, pressing your nose against his pelvis?

Yes, he decides as the coil begins to snap, you would.

Chrollo comes to a sudden halt, choking out a rich groan in a low timbre. The noise becomes more strained as he rides out the high, the overwhelming euphoria becoming just a bit too intense as it begins to morph into overstimulation. Once he’s sure the moment’s over, he lets go of your legs, pulling back to catch his breath and admire his work.

Ropes of cum paint your chest, some making it as far as your neck, your chin. It’s beautiful, the unruly mess he’s made - no, the mess you’ve made of him.

You’re a real beauty, you know that?

The bathroom tiles are cold against his feet as he grabs a washcloth to clean you up. It’s sad to see it go, to a primal extent, but it’s probably for the best to ensure he doesn’t get any ideas for a second round tonight.

For future nights, though? The chest he’s covering up will soon be exposed soon enough.

He’ll have to get more sleeping pills. You simply must try this again soon. 

Next time, he’ll taste you. The time after that, you’ll taste him. He can hardly wait, nor can he stop the dull throbbing starting up in his groin again.

He sates himself for the time being with the knowledge that the time after that, you’ll be awake.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Creating Compelling Character Arcs: A Guide for Fiction Writers

As writers, one of our most important jobs is to craft characters that feel fully realized and three-dimensional. Great characters aren't just names on a page — they're complex beings with arcs that take them on profound journeys of change and growth. A compelling character arc can make the difference between a forgettable story and one that sticks with readers long after they've turned the final page.

Today, I'm going to walk you through the art of crafting character arcs that are as rich and multi-layered as the people you encounter in real life. Whether you're a first-time novelist or a seasoned storyteller, this guide will give you the tools to create character journeys that are equal parts meaningful and unforgettable.

What Is a Character Arc?

Before we go any further, let's make sure we're all on the same page about what a character arc actually is. In the most basic sense, a character arc refers to the internal journey a character undergoes over the course of a story. It's the path they travel, the obstacles they face, and the ways in which their beliefs, mindsets, and core selves evolve through the events of the narrative.

A character arc isn't just about what happens to a character on the outside. Sure, external conflict and plot developments play a major role — but the real meat of a character arc lies in how those external forces shape the character's internal landscape. Do their ideals get shattered? Is their worldview permanently altered? Do they have to confront harsh truths about themselves in order to grow?

The most resonant character arcs dig deep into these universal human experiences of struggle, self-discovery, and change. They mirror the journeys we all go through in our own lives, making characters feel powerfully relatable even in the most imaginative settings.

The Anatomy of an Effective Character Arc

Now that we understand what character arcs are, how do we actually construct one that feels authentic and impactful? Let's break down the key components:

The Inciting Incident

Every great character arc begins with a spark — something that disrupts the status quo of the character's life and sets them on an unexpected path. This inciting incident can take countless forms, be it the death of a loved one, a sudden loss of power or status, an epic betrayal, or a long-held dream finally becoming attainable.

Whatever shape it takes, the inciting incident needs to really shake the character's foundations and push them in a direction they wouldn't have gone otherwise. It opens up new struggles, questions, and internal conflicts that they'll have to grapple with over the course of the story.

Lies They Believe

Tied closely to the inciting incident are the core lies or limiting beliefs that have been holding your character back. Perhaps they've internalized society's body image expectations and believe they're unlovable. Maybe they grew up in poverty and are convinced that they'll never be able to escape that cyclical struggle.

Whatever these lies are, they'll inform how your character reacts and responds to the inciting incident. Their ingrained perceptions about themselves and the world will directly color their choices and emotional journeys — and the more visceral and specific these lies feel, the more compelling opportunities for growth your character will have.

The Struggle

With the stage set by the inciting incident and their deeply-held lies exposed, your character will then have to navigate a profound inner struggle that stems from this setup. This is where the real meat of the character arc takes place as they encounter obstacles, crises of faith, moral dilemmas, and other pivotal moments that start to reshape their core sense of self.

Importantly, this struggle shouldn't be a straight line from Point A to Point B. Just like in real life, people tend to take a messy, non-linear path when it comes to overcoming their limiting mindsets. They'll make progress, backslide into old habits, gain new awareness, then repeat the cycle. Mirroring this meandering but ever-deepening evolution is what makes a character arc feel authentic and relatable.

Moments of Truth

As your character wrestles with their internal demons and existential questions, you'll want to include potent Moments of Truth that shake them to their core. These are the climactic instances where they're forced to finally confront the lies they believe head-on. It could be a painful conversation that shatters their perception of someone they trusted. Or perhaps they realize the fatal flaw in their own logic after hitting a point of no return.

These Moments of Truth pack a visceral punch that catalyzes profound realizations within your character. They're the litmus tests where your protagonist either rises to the occasion and starts radically changing their mindset — or they fail, downing further into delusion or avoiding the insights they need to undergo a full transformation.

The Resolution

After enduring the long, tangled journey of their character arc, your protagonist will ideally arrive at a resolution that feels deeply cathartic and well-earned. This is where all of their struggle pays off and we see them evolve into a fundamentally different version of themselves, leaving their old limiting beliefs behind.

A successfully crafted resolution in a character arc shouldn't just arrive out of nowhere — it should feel completely organic based on everything they've experienced over the course of their thematic journey. We should be able to look back and see how all of the challenges they surmounted ultimately reshaped their perspective and led them to this new awakening. And while not every character needs to find total fulfillment, for an arc to feel truly complete, there needs to be a definitive sense that their internal struggle has reached a meaningful culmination.

Tips for Crafting Resonant Character Arcs

I know that was a lot of ground to cover, so let's recap a few key pointers to keep in mind as you start mapping out your own character's trajectories:

Get Specific With Backstory

To build a robust character arc, a deep understanding of your protagonist's backstory and psychology is indispensable. What childhood wounds do they carry? What belief systems were instilled in them from a young age? The more thoroughly you flesh out their history and inner workings, the more natural their arc will feel.

Strive For Nuance

One of the biggest pitfalls to avoid with character arcs is resorting to oversimplified clichés or unrealistic "redemption" stories. People are endlessly complex — your character's evolution should reflect that intricate messiness and nuance to feel grounded. Embrace moral grays, contradictions, and partial awakenings that upend expectations.

Make the External Match the Internal

While a character arc hinges on interior experiences, it's also crucial that the external plot events actively play a role in driving this inner journey. The inciting incident, the obstacles they face, the climactic Moments of Truth — all of these exterior occurrences should serve as narrative engines that force your character to continually reckon with themselves.

Dig Into Your Own Experiences

Finally, the best way to instill true authenticity into your character arcs is to draw deeply from the personal transformations you've gone through yourself. We all carry with us the scars, growth, and shattered illusions of our real-life arcs — use that raw honesty as fertile soil to birth characters whose journeys will resonate on a soulful level.

Happy Writing!

[totem-but-shark]

obviously "all over again" is a double entendre because i'm allergic to not putting double if not triple meanings in everything I do. Meaning both the repetition of something that has happened prior but also "all over" to say foolish has lost everything, it's all over.

I wanted to make it look like foolish is in some kind of void, or deep under the ocean. Completely alone, of course representing the unavoidable isolation in qfoolishs immortality. The last of the light slipping through his fingers into nothingness, though it's not like its were something to be held regardless. Fragile mortality. Everyone he cares for will leave, love with a deadline.

But even then sun filters through the surface above. There is more to be had, it isn't hopeless.

I had this illustration in mind from the conception of the original, it was always meant to be a three part series. On a meta level I knew qsmp would have to end eventually and we'd see the end of leo and pepito with it but in universe this was always the outcome qfoolish would be forced to face, the only variation being the path taken to get there. He's an immortal just can't stop falling in love with mortals and everything life has to hold, and he'll do it all over again as he has 100 times before. But this chapter ends here. Change hurts, as does loss and grief, and even growth, and qfoolish might be sitting in that void another millennia before he's ready but every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end doesn't it? He carries the memories like sand in his shoes, grass stain streaked skin and the fading sun at dusk knowing it may be all over but in the grand scheme of forever it's only just beginning.

Just because there's more to come doesn't mean what was didn't matter, only that you keep going anyway. Not despite it but with it, onwards to whatever comes next. All over again.

all over again.

continuation of the fatherhood series, original post here

[that-student-that-has-homework]

Al-Haitham is a loving husband, maybe not romantic, but definitely loving.

Kaveh argues that you could (and should) have both. While you understood his point, you much preferred to be cherished sincerely than to be lavished with "romantic" gestures to entrap you.

Kaveh grumbles that you two really are a match for each other after that.

Al-Haitham is openly loving, though most people don't realize that. He defends your honor when you're not present, and demands you be treated with respect when you are. So much so that he has walked away from "important" or "urgent" matters because the person seeking his aid decided to slight you. It works well for him too: he doesn’t want to do more work than necessary. Of course when the matter is critical, rather than walk away he insists the person asking apologize for his transgressions.

Al-Haitham listens to you when you speak. Really listens. Even if his responses are abrasive as he puts his finger directly on the problem without remorse, at least he listened closely enough to identify it. He doesn't leave you to solve your problems alone either. He helps you lay out a plan, and even get started on the solution.

Even if you feel a little sore, you also feel relieved. Talking to Al-Haitham about your problems like popping a pimple really.

And talking to him about your passions? Magical.

He listens attentively most of the time and asks really informed questions. It terrifies you sometimes. However when you inevitably apologize for rambling, and ask if he was annoyed by you, or even try to end the conversation early to respect his time, he calmly reiterates, that you've nothing to apologize for, he would tell you if he was annoyed, and ask where you're going as he's enjoying this discussion with you a lot.

Al-Haitham upholds your boundaries dutifully. He's endured mockery, you know-you heard, for being so firm on ensuring that he does not cross them (with the exception being an immediate threat to your life or honor). When you were first learning how to establish them, and stumbling about, he patiently assisted, calling you out when you were being unreasonable or rather misunderstood how boundaries worked.

Al-Haitham is thoughtful. He will collect information that is useful to you and present it to you.

As someone who is very adept at caring for his wellbeing, he also has no qualms making sure you do the same. He might comment that it would be better to find a way to make meals at home, he will still go and get food from Lambad’s. You will have a meal plan discussion later when you’re less stressed.

Al-Haitham is generous with his spending, but not wasteful. What this means is: if he sees something that will improve your quality of life, he will buy it. He gets a little upset when you hesitate and don’t get yourself something that he knows would be useful to you. He has a cushy income for a reason.

He’s a man raised by his grandmother, he understands the cyclical nature of domestic labor and the toll it can take. He doesn’t expect anything and if he does he communicates his expectations. If you’re being crushed under the weight of work, he’ll gladly find a workaround: he didn’t marry you to serve him, he married you to be a part of his life.

Al-Haitham may not be the most overtly romantic, but he is overtly loving.

//———

For more Al-Haitham content: Tumblr MasterList

[hazelfoureyes]

The Safeword is RadioApple (part 5)

Part 1 ꒰აMaleReader✧FemaleReader໒꒱ Part 2 ꒰აFemaleReader໒꒱ Part 3 ꒰აAlastorxLucifer໒꒱ tidbit (cute, not smut) Part 4 ꒰აFemaleReader໒꒱ ₊⊹⁀➴ Lucifer wins⟡Alastor Wins tidbit 2 (cute? Not smut)

Alastor’s rut starts, and while Luci is flattered Alastor’s body sees him as a doe he’s not really down to clown. Yet, somehow…🎪 🤡

「warnings/promises: Alastor x Luci x FemReader, smut, knotting (incorrect deer anatomy), cold tea, womb flooding, Oh Yeah Luci magics a WAP (wet ass pussy) Howd I forget that 💋, so kinda virgin Luci???, threesome obvs, tentacles, sex with the lights on, jiggle physics, mating, breed kink, fluffy chest, Luci wings, brief moment of panicked wing pulling」

minors I will curse all your tea to be cold before you remember to drink it if you interact 🍵 🥶 (mdni)

It was a hilarious detail that ruts exist in hell for the more mammalian sinners. Making people incapable of producing children cyclically embarrass themselves by desperately trying to? While in terrible discomfort? Patently funny.

What wasn’t funny was the fact Alastor was a deer demon. And while Luci got a chuckle at other sinners getting their just desserts for their poor decisions concerning free will, he was now intimately tied to one of those afflicted souls.

It hadn’t really crossed his mind that such an issue could arise until Alastor began to change. 

The first sign was intense sessions of zoning not. While he often would stare off into the distance it was usually paired with an obvious look of contemplation. But one evening Luci looked up from his sketches to see Alastor staring into the void with a noticeable lack of any light behind his eyes.

It took you putting your hand on his shoulder to rouse him back to Hell. His ears perked up and eyes brightened, Luci taking note of how Alastor looked at you. A look shared between two people. Could a third person fit into the line of sight?

He shifted uncomfortably, laughing off Alastor as being drunk. 

Maybe. But when he found Alastor the following morning drenched in sweat and uncharacteristically… well, asleep, he began to worry. 

The face you made was only slightly worried, but what made the situation feel even odder was your insistence he wake up Alastor.

“Just, rub his arm. Don’t shake him. It’ll startle him.” You seemed to scoot away as you said it, which didn’t help Luci’s confidence. 

“What- why, what’s going on? What are you fleeing from?”

You had an inkling about what was happening.

“Is he sick!? Is it contagious?” Luci drew his hands to his chest, “Sinners are so gross.”

The sweating was your tip-off. “No, he’s not sick. If I do it he might react weird. You do it, he’ll not care.”

Luci grimaced, “Kitten, you’ve never made less sense than when you first told me you liked this man.”

A whimper from the deer demon made you both turn your heads to him. 

“Lucifer.” You hissed.

Alastor did not in fact “not care”, as you had promised. He had Luci pinned under him, bodies tangled in the blankets and Luci’s hands held up and out before Alastor’s eyes were even opened.

As the short king looked up at the drenched and pale radio demon, he saw a distance in the blown out stare. But whatever fog had possessed him seemed to lift as his pupils constricted, a gentle roll of his lower half into Lucifer’s making Luci yelp Alastor’s name.

He reeled back on his knees, long talons raking through his hair to unstick the strands sweat had glued to his face.

Peering down through long lashes, Alastor took a moment to assess the sight before him. Luci expected a glare as recognition flooded the other man, but instead a deep sigh before Alastor lifted off him.

His hand caught your arm and gently tugged you to follow him.

Deja vu set in as Lucifer watched Alastor take you into the bathroom. The door closed, but before he could holler how rude it was to leave him out, you re-emerged.

A sheepish look, a twirling of your fingers around themselves, “Luci.” The way you so gently sat on the edge of the bed made his stomach sink.

“It’s contagious. I’ll burn down the hotel and we can build again.” Lucifer pulled his robe up over his shoulders and tightened it at the waist. “Even better, Come live with me! I have a whole palace.” A beaming smile that wilted when you  rejected him with just a furrow of your brow.

“Luci Love,” a nickname you only used when you were trying to keep him pliable, “Alastor’s going into a rut.”

An even deeper grimace, “I thought he’d be immune to that particular punishment.”

“Nope. This is hell.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I thought he’d react gentler with you, but it seems,” you weren’t sure how to say this, “You’ve become…in his subconscious…,” where did all the air go in the room? 

Lucifer slipped out of bed, “A burden?” He paced past the bed’s posts, “A third wheel.” He began to gather his pants, “Food!” When you laughed he tripped, “Excuse you.”

You let him spiral a second longer before blurring it out, “A doe!”

He paused, one pant leg on and one off. Little blue ducky patterned boxer briefs embarrassingly bright, “I beg your pardon? I’m The King of Hell.”

“Who regularly shares Alastor’s bed.”

He huffed, “Well…I-,”

“Who has Alastor’s scent all over him.”

A scoff, “Well, he-!”

“And who shares all his free time with Alastor.”

A gasp, “Well you-!”

You waited for him to finish. Luci was keen enough to pick up the sharpness of your glare. 

“I’m not even technically female. Angels don’t have a gender I just prefer-,” he motioned to his lap.

“You don’t have to do anything, Luci. I just wanted to let you know.”

As he stood there still half undressed, he considered the options. He’d never dealt with an animalistic sinner before going through a rut or heat. He tended to share his bed with the kinds of demons who were above such afflictions.

“So we can just… leave him be for a few days, yeah?” He kicked off the pants and crawled back onto the bed towards you. “He’ll just ruin some clothes and sheets and be back to normal by the end of the weekend.”

You’d only witnessed one rut before, and the idea of leaving Alastor alone to suffer when his body knew he had a lover was… unbearable. An unpaired mating season was uncomfortable and frustrating. But a paired sinner? The ache would be unimaginable, the normal pain accentuated with heartbreak and a specific longing no one else could subside. 

No, Alastor wouldn’t be alone. You just shook your head. “Luci Love.” Lucifer pouted, He’d be the one alone? Again, pushed out of the dynamic? Out of the line of sight? Before he could consider it, you patted the bed. “No worries! As soon as it’s passed I’ll text you.”

Alastor reentered the room, towel around his wee waist and hair dripping. His presence seemed to end the conversation, and the day went on as if nothing different had taken place. The only obvious proof Alastor was slipping into a rut was that continued zoning out now paired with a fevered blush across his cheeks. 

Well, one other unmistakably odd action. His arm had come behind Lucifer, resting on the back of the sofa. 

Luci tried to not bring any attention to it, but people still stopped and looked a little longer than usual. You’d have loved to help diffuse the tension rising in the common area but you were busy taking the longest, hottest epsom bath you could manage. 

Without you to take some attention off of him, Lucifer couldn’t stand the air rolling off Alastor. So he left. Loudly yawning and dramatically stretching at 3pm in the afternoon and hastily walking down the hall.

After pacing the corridors for an odd 30 minutes, he decided to make a cup of calming tea.

His skin jumped when two large clawed hands slipped onto the countertop as he was caged in. Luci stiffened, waiting for Alastor to say something. He’d never gotten so physically close to him in public spaces before. Well, outside of fighting.

Alastor didn’t speak, just took deep and long inhales and exhales. Luci watched the sharp nails cut into the countertop with ease as Alastor’s body swayed with his rising temperature. His arousal knocked into the shorter man’s back, making Luci fall into the counter.

“Why aren’t you secluded away, monopolizing her?” Lucifer’s jealousy was poorly hidden. Leaning forward, the taller demon pressed his erection purposely into the warmth of Luci’s body. 

“Our darling shared paramour is not of the same power as I. She can only handle receiving my knot once a day at most. Anymore is burden on her body. But, for The King of Hell…surely it wouldn’t be so difficult?”

A shiver rolled down Luci’s spine and left goosebumps in its wake. “You heard me earlier…,” a question without a question mark.

One of those hands left the counter and slipped around Luci’s neck before pulling at the bow tie and tossing it aside, “I hear everything.” A roll of his hips, “The way you breath in your sleep,” his hand dropped further, pushing underneath the collar of his shirt, “Your early morning romps while I shower,” a large palm that seemed to cover half Luci’s chest with ease, “The sighs of longing when I kiss her good morning and good night.”

His hand flexed before pressing in and clutching Lucifer into his body, “Will you deny me having both my bedmates?”

“Uhh, your highness?” Vaggie stood in the open doorway, “Are you guys okay?”

Alastor didn’t budge, forcing Luci to twist in his grasp and talk over his forearm.

“Heeeey Magpie! Yeah. Yup. Just making tea.”

“With Alastor’s arms around you?” She gestured unnecessarily.

“Mmhmm!” Luci grabbed the mug with both hands, “but now we’re done. And leaving.”

Alastor tentatively released Lucifer, but replaced the hardness at his back with his firm and guiding hand. 

Vaggie moved to the side to let the men walk past her. Alastor paused and let Luci decide. Left to his private and lonely apartment, right to their room. A brief moment of hesitation before Luci groaned, running his hand through his hair in disbelief as he turned right. “Bye Vaggie!”

“Bye, Sir.” She managed to say as she watched Alastor corral the fallen angel into the elevator.

The relief you felt when Lucifer entered the room was palpable. Alastor had come to the room, expressed his neediness, watched you say you were totally ready whenever he was (the exhaustion somehow already visible) and left the room with a simple, “I’m not.” 

Now he was back, a timid and wide eyed Lucifer holding a mug.

The sound of Alastor’s belt clinking made Luci suddenly shy. Why was he acting like it was his first night in your room?

Oh that’s right. 

Because it kind of was. He wasn’t just Lucifer anymore. Alastor saw him as his, in some capacity. And the fact he was ready and willing to let the sinner fully embrace the big buck joke was… embarrassing. What would the other sins say? Luci dicked down by a horny deer sinner?

Well… Lucifer had been fucked by Alastor on more than one occasion so perhaps that didn’t quite sum it up well. There was an added level of intimacy to what they were doing. An almost official acknowledgement of Lucifer’s place.

It made his tail swish behind him tellingly.

All eyes on him as he turned from Alastor to you. You watched the lord of your afterlife nervously fumble around in the armoire for his robe. He got undressed like he’d never done it before, trying to take his pants off before his shoes. You’d have laughed if you weren’t torn away to see Alastor’s eyes fall on you from the door. 

You enjoyed low lighting, something romantic in vibes but still well lit enough to see who was who. But Alastor forgo his usual lighting tricks and opted to keep the room flooded with the natural light of day.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had sex in the afternoon. Alastor’s appetite was largely impacted by the convenience of bed time, and Luci was rather busy during the day trying to impress Charlie with his willingness to not completely abandon his people.

Alastor had undone his pants and removed his coat and shirt, showing off your favorite parts of him; a soft and fluffy chest to bury your head and a happy trail leading down a flat but still noticeably toned stomach. His pants were open just enough so that you could see the bulging top of his underwear. 

“Sooo,” Luci sang, “Did it start? Is that why he dry humped me in the kitchen?”

Alastor hummed, palming at his leaking head through the damp fabric.

Your fingers slipped down the silk of your own dressing gown, mirroring Alastor.  “Not yet. We’re going to jump start it. Get it over with.” 

“The sooner, the better.” Alastor ground out, looking with disgust at the sticky clear precum on his palm.

So, Alastor had come to retrieve him, Luci thought. He wanted him there for himself. Sure he said it was to relieve you of your burden of taking his massive knot over and over. But that didn’t explain the erect cock he pressed into Luci, or how he responded when Luci woke him up. No, on a very deep and unchosen level, Alastor had accepted the angel.

Once naked, Luci stood awkwardly beside the bed waiting for further instructions. In truth, so were you. This would only go smoothly if you both let him take the absolute lead. A glance between the two of you before you both turned to stare at Alastor.

Fully nude now, staring back at you both like a starving beast. Luci abandoned his robe when he realized Alastor was going fully naked. 

Already Alastor felt the sharpness of his thoughts blunting with an animalistic need. Instincts were blanketing his frontal cortex, and he knew from experience it was best to not fight it. Everything would be done faster if he let go. 

“It has to be you first. The first one won’t be so bad, my dear.” His attention was fully on you, stalking up to the side of the bed and pulling at the belt of your robe. The needy sound he made when you were finally revealed to him pulled a sigh from Lucifer. Alastor’s eyes snapped up to meet Luci’s, smirk spread across his cheeks and his ears twitching atop his head. Luci looked away with a pout, remembering the kitchen conversation. Alastor’s hot hand across his chest, holding him so tightly with such ease. 

That wide smile turned to you. Wide like your legs, pushed apart as Alastor slotted himself where he belonged. You didn’t know what to ask for, but Alastor started immediately with kisses to your cheeks and neck. He loved it, finding it to have no connection whatsoever to sex. That made your reactions to his kisses so amusing. You got so worked up so easily when he kissed you, it was like a game. How quickly could he make you come undone with just his lips on your flesh?

His mouth was superheated, opening to pull your skin between his lips with every peck. When his tongue pressed into your skin a little groan rumbled his chest.

The sound of a soft thwacking pulled your attention from the lavished licks trailing down your neck and sternum. With just a glance from you Luci became aware of his tail enthusiastically wagging against the large walnut headboard. Sheepishly he grabbed it and pulled it to his center, mouthing an apology. 

Alastor side eyed him and patted the bed, instructing him to settle beside you. 

How rarely his kisses dripped into such salacious slurps and sucks, how uncommon for Alastor to seem to be arousing himself. 

Luci felt so out of place. You three often spent time together like this, but more than not it was you and him with Alastor to the side. What did Alastor normally do when he was busy pleasuring you?

Moving you as little as necessary, he lifted your shoulders and slid behind you. With your head resting on his lower stomach he could straighten out his legs and get comfortable. Alastor acknowledged Lucifer by stretching himself up and kissing him on the mouth. The action took the king by surprise,  it was even rarer for Alastor to kiss him. Luci moaned into the affection, earning a satisfied growl from the radio demon. 

Could he rut more often? Luci wondered as their lips pressed together. 

You watched from your place remembering the first time they surprised you with their teamwork.

Alastor kissed Luci again. And then another, harsher one. The third licking across the smaller man’s mouth. Luci parted his lips, deepening the kiss. Your body rocked as Alastor’s hips rolled into you, half hard cock growing stiffer with each return into the king’s mouth. Alastor moaned, his rutting becoming stronger and longer. 

You bit back your own sounds as his cock head caught on your entrance. Alastor broke the kiss and looked down at you for the go ahead. You were already wet, watching them make out was enough but the rubbing of your clit with his erection had you more than ready. He returned to lavishing Luci’s mouth, hips expertly angling back and pressing into you.

Despite your arousal, there was still a slight burn to the stretch of your walls around him. He didn’t ease in, instead pushing forward until he was sunk to the hilt. The pressure of his cock already pushing into your cervix made you moan loudly into the thin space between your face and Alastor’s lower chest.

The feeling of being in you and hearing you express how good that made you feel in turn made the deer sinner growl into Luci’s open mouth, and your monarch found it intoxicating. His head was swimming. An idea came to him that he tucked away for when it was his turn. A stunt he was sure would make Alastor growl and groan even louder for him. 

Alastor’s pace quickened, hips coming down against yours without concern for bruising. His mouth stayed locked on Lucifer’s lips, parting for the briefest of moments to pant heavily into the few centimeters between them. To let the man go any further from him was unimaginable and unacceptable. As if to convey that sentiment, Alastor’s hips began to press in and up, using the force to slowly fuck you up the bed, against Luci, until the latter’s head was pressed into the headboard. Trapped between Alastor’s hungry mouth and solid wood.

The few times your eyes could maintain focus, you caught Alastor looking down at you. A pause to stop and acknowledge the pleasure you were so freely giving him.

Passionate was not the typical word you’d use for Alastor’s approach to sex, but that was the only word to come to mind as you watched him bully his tongue past the already swollen lips of your other lover. 

Your nails clamored up Luci’s thighs and sunk into the skin near his hip bones. Every exhale came out high and shaky.

As you began to tighten around him, muscles clenching and twitching in response to the way his cock was ramming into your cervix, Alastor finally sat back on his haunches. His hand pressed against your womb and felt your skin move with every inward thrust. 

Everything was checking off boxes in his empty head; moaning mate, tight cunt, deep press, two does, clean sheets.

His hands came to your hips to raise you to the perfect angle. Knees widening, he lowered, exploratory thrusts slowed until he adjusted to just how he needed you. You didn’t know the question or the answer he had found, just felt how his wide cock prodded your g-spot. 

Alastor’s body was on autopilot, the heat of his fever reaching a pitch you could feel in your deepest spots.

When his knot was forced into you, it’s pulsing and constant pressure on your g-spot was so immense it set off an orgasm that had been building slowly until then. Unprepared, it took your body by surprise as your core drew in. 

Lucifer watched your legs fold up and shoulders lift off the bed. Your moans waned before roaring back into shrieks; wails so close to pained he panicked as you shook. You could feel Alastor twitching inside you, the heat of his release uncommonly high. It forced your focus momentarily to that flood of hot seed pooling at your cervix.

A new orgasm crashed through you before the last one’s waves had fully subsided, giving you no time to rest. When you tried to breathe and relax your muscles, you found your swollen cunt sinking further onto his knot. The only way to avoid overstimulation was to keep your stomach and thighs so tight you were ever so slightly pulled away from him.

“Fuck! Cramp!” Your left leg straightened, weakening your perfect pose. Trembling as you struggled to keep the hills of pleasure from becoming something rockier, Luci’s hands shot to your thigh. Firm thumbs tried to find the problem area, Alastor not minding or possibly even noticing Luci.

After some readjustment, you could settle and let the multiple orgasms end their streak. It took time for Alastor to finish, several more sudden and gushing rounds of his cum flooding you. His knot did its job, not letting a drop leave your hole as your lower belly extended slightly. When Alastor finally deflated, he pulled out and let you roll over onto your stomach. 

Your arms and legs were still racked with tremors, thighs promising to give out the second you stood. You didn’t get the chance to try though, as soon as you began to crawl on all fours to the edge of the bed a large clawed hand pressed firmly into your upper back and held you down. A hand significantly bigger than before. 

“Alastor!” Luci snarled as your face was sinking into the pillows. His eyes flashed his signature red at the now looming form of the radio demon. 

“It’s okay Luci. He just needs a second.” You mumbled, feeling Alastor’s free hand run down your sore and swollen entrance. Another moment of Alastor huffing and scenting the air filled the room before he released you. With a roll and a wobble, you rushed to the bathroom to keep the carpet from getting stained with what you could already feel gravity pulling out of you. 

Alastor fell face first into the bed. Luci could see the exhaustion settle on the sinner and let nails scratch down Alastor’s back. The deer demon hummed a stifled, “Thank you.” into the silk of the pillows.

Luci very rarely had time to linger on Alastor’s body. The two usually found themselves lost in pleasure and caught in the moment, never a chance to notice the details. He remembered Alastor commented on the sound of him sleeping, a sentiment so oddly sweet he felt compelled to do something sweet in return. He threw his leg over Alastor’s thighs and straddled him, both hands now running up and down his back. 

While already smaller than him, Luci could really appreciate how much Alastor had shifted into his more domineering size. His hands were so delicate looking against the scarred and tanned skin of his reluctant partner. 

As he reached forward to scratch along his shoulders, he didn’t notice how his soft cock was rubbing against the curve of Alastor’s ass. He might not have noticed if not for Alastor’s pleasured groans growing louder, followed quickly by the rapid flicking of his tail against Lucifer’s navel. 

“Feel good, big guy?” Luci leaned forward now with purposeful teasing. Alastor bucked back into Luci’s lap, causing his monarch to feel unsteady nd grip his shoulders for security. “I don’t normally do this, but I’m feeling generous today.” 

Alastor’s eyes were closed but still the glow Luci’s golden magic reached past his eyelids. He didn’t register anything had changed for that first second. But then, one by one, the clues roused him.

The little prick against his cheeks was absent. 

Something wet was pressing into his thighs.

A sweet and dizzying scent he didn’t know but his brain recognized as good was reaching his nose.

He shot up so quickly Luci fell onto his back with a shout. Alastor felt his vision blur as he tried to focus on the image before him. 

Two large, forward turned doe ears atop Luci’s head and a glistening, wet pussy between his milky thighs.

“Surprise!” Luci said proudly, getting onto his stomach to show off his small blonde tail. He knew it would drive Alastor wild but he failed to understand exactly what that meant for a deer demon in rut.

Luci’s eyes rolled back, Alastor’s mouth cupping his newly magicked sex and tongue lapping from clit to hole. It was working far better than he had hoped.

Hips rising up to meet the hungry tongue, Luci regretted not trying this sooner. Everything was so slick. Alastor’s nose nuzzled his flesh with every move between his folds before diving into Luci’s own heat. The growl the sinner made as he fucked Luci with his tongue sent shivers through the king’s body. This was the best praise he’d ever received from Alastor, by far. 

The sensations were foreign, his memory of using such a form too outdated to provide him any reference. Soft walls prodded by the strong, long tongue. Luci’s thighs slid open wider and wider to allow more access.

Alastor’s hips ground down into the bed, leaking cock smearing into the blankets as he sought friction. His brain told him to breed but his body didn’t want to part from Luci’s cunt for a second. But when his newly minted mate moaned so loudly, so unashamedly signaled how good Alastor was making him feel, he found the strength.

Luci’s hand flew back to slow Alastor’s entrance, “It’s new anatomy, Alastor. You can’t just go in with one thrust like with Kitten.” He raised his hips, drawing his knees in and gripping the blankets, “Ease in.”

Nothing Luci said really penetrated Alastor’s skull. His vision was pretty pink and sopping wet. But he did try, to be fair. At the first press Alastor had to break the skin of his bottom lip with his teeth to regain some mental clarity. Distantly he heard his king’s sharp gasps and he could feel the way Luci’s hips jumped away before slowly pushing back to regain the length lost. He found Luci nearly too tight, too hot, too soft. A very real fear he would entirely lose his mind tried to sink into his stomach but got burned away in his chest. 

“Good boy.”

He couldn’t be sure who said it. But his hips began thrusting in response, shallow but fast. Every return allowed him to stake new territory in his Doe King.

Luci couldn’t think straight either, the pain was enough to make him shake yet added an excitement he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t pain for nothing. It was the ache of his body stretching apart to accept Alastor. It was the sting of being molded to his lover. The growl Alastor let out when he could finally fit all of himself in made the smaller man’s toes curl.

He clicked back into his body from the sensation of your fingers carding through his disheveled hair. 

“Looks like you’re taking him well, your majesty.” You cooed, sliding down onto your belly and resting your head on your arm. He saw the way your eyes examined the angle at which Alastor was hitting. Your hands gripped his ears gently, watching his tail swish side to side.

“Doe.” Luci ground out, neck craning back, “I thought he’d like it.”

Alastor reached over and let his hand feel the impact of his cock through Luci’s lower stomach. Coming down, he let two large palms rest on either side of Luci’s ears. If the position didn’t warn him, a beginning move for Alastor’s mating press, the bulging knot threatening his hole did.

“I don’t wanna,” Luci stopped to moan, body rocking back to meet the already dead end thrusts, “—this position when he knots.” 

It took some coordination, and Alastor didn’t particularly like the idea, but he relented. He took Luci by the waist and fell backward onto the bed. 

Alastor whined when the warmth of Lucifer’s cunt left him, but you were treated to the most salacious moans as Luci sunk back down onto the bright red organ.

Finding a pace that satisfied him was easy, as Alastor had swelled large enough to bully every inch of Lucifer’s newly broken-in pussy. 

Watching his doe eared lover ride him so vigorously made Alastor’s chest heave and swell with pride. 

“He wants you so badly,” you smile as you slid into the bed beside Alastor, resting your head on his shoulder. 

“Funny,” a snicker before letting his hips fuck up into Luci and knocking him off balance, “He seemed insulted to be called a doe earlier.”

Luci flashed a middle finger before resting both hands in Alastor’s raised knees for support. 

Alastor turned his head to you, whispering how perfect you were for him, how you gave him more than he deserved. You let your eyes close to the sound of his voice so low and gravelly. His words warmed your heart and your lap with efficiency you had to admire.

Jumbled and rather embarrassing thoughts flooded the radio demon's mind far worse than the ones he said out loud to you. He felt he fully succeeded in bringing the devil under him (metaphorically). But the animal pieces of himself he was made to endure went silly and slack, what a feisty mate. My prodigy could have no better than the devil himself. Good doe. Mine. 

You opened your eyes again and watched the knot swell to a point you’d consider scary. Alastor sensed it somehow too, despite the static bouncing around his skull in lieu of rational consciousness, and turned his attention away from you.

He wrapped a hand around Luci’s neck and drew him down to his face, his mouth to the king’s ear. “When you cum, I will make you take my knot. And then your tight little hole will clamp down and milk me dry. Are you ready, your majesty? To take everything I will give?”

Luci clenched around Alastor and bit back the ever present urge to argue. He nodded and let himself be fucked. He felt so small and safe in the embrace of the transformed sinner. One hand could palm his skull with ease and it made him shiver at the thought. How rarely he let himself be physically manipulated. Alastor always made the circumstance so rewarding it was impossible to turn down.

Stomach tightening, he tried to remember how it felt to have a vaginal orgasm. Tried to recall how he reacted. For some reason as you reminded him to take deep breaths, he stumbled over his peak.

When he felt Luci spasming around his cock Alastor bit back his moan to finally push the rest of himself in. It was borderline cruel to wait for that moment, when he knew Lucifer would be the tightest and least pliable but the feeling of such soft flesh rolling over his knot made him slip out of his mind entirely. His knot was pulled in, his darling doe’s cunt felt like it was sucking him deeper with every twitch.

Luci pushed himself up, muscles screaming to move as he shook from the full body euphoria of being stretched and stuffed so intensely.

The looseness of his waning orgasm radiated out from his core. Without intention, Luci’s wings expanded as the relaxation made it to his shoulders. In a flurry of feathers and low growls Lucifer’s wings were seized in cutting claws and dragged down. Instinctively he pulled back, horns out for the second time that day as he glared down at Alastor, arm cocked back to strike at the insolent demon. But Alastor’s smile was entirely absent, brows knit together in a confusing display of angry panic that brought a pause to Luci’s fist. 

Quickly, you sat up and set a soft hand on his chest, “Heeey baby, it’s okay. Luci isn’t going anywhere.” Slowly, setting the pace for where you wanted his breathing to come down to, your fingers raked through his chest fluff. “He was just showing his buck how good he makes him feel. Loosen your hands, Alastor. I promise your pretty doe won’t fly away. Right, Luci?”

A pleading gaze from you to please be patient with the afflicted deer. A stiff nod from the king.

Luci watched as a flicker of embarrassment fell over Alastor’s face, ears pressing back and down to his skull, and his fists around the wings opened. 

When Alastor’s black and red eyes locked on Luci’s red and yellow, the king blinked away the warning display and brought his head down. Cautiously, refusing to withdraw his horns completely yet but letting his wings dissipate, he bared his neck to the mess of a man beneath him. He felt the sigh before he heard it, Alastor’s hands returning to Luci’s body with a much calmer touch as he pulled the offered flesh into his mouth.

That intoxicating scent returned, making Alastor’s mouth flood with saliva. Lucifer let his body go slack back into Alastor’s embrace as his neck was nipped and sucked. He wanted to warn against marks, knowing he couldn’t lie if Charlie asked about them. But a little flame of pride lit him up in a not dissimilar way to Alastor earlier. 

He hid his smile in the fluffy expanse beneath him, sighing as he felt a second release of Alastor’s cum fill him even further. He didn’t want Luci to go. He wanted him there, so much so he manhandled the devil to try and keep him close. How deeply satisfying it felt to be wanted. He’d surely tease Alastor later for it, but in that moment he felt full of honey and wine. Sweet and dizzy. 

You relaxed again, letting Alastor’s arm come around you and tuck you against his side. 

A blanket of trophies, two lovers of worth he couldn’t articulate surrounding him. Luci squeaked as Alastor twitched inside him with primal satisfaction.  ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

When you all awoke some hours later from what you could only call a cock drunk bliss nap, there was little time to consider other needs like food and water.

Alastor felt frustrated at being able to fuck just one of you at once. He was visibly annoyed, ears twitching and tail pressed down over his ass. Luci, ever the clever if not poorly thought out angel, pulled your body onto his. Your back against his chest, his chin against your ear.

Luci wiggled his hips which made your own body move too.

“Shouldn’t you be grateful for two holes to fill, Alastor? I didn’t take you for greedy.”

“It’s a matter of pride.” Alastor shot back. Your legs fell to either side of Lucifer’s as his thighs spread. 

His furrowed brow melted and rose as he returned to the warmth of Luci’s body. He watched your form bounce and jiggle with every thrust, a softness that made him swallow back the drool threatening to spill from his mouth.

Perhaps it was the rut, but he took far too long to realize he had a remedy to his problem.

The room darkened, the red of the day now a peerless black. You felt something small and thin press at your entrance gently before sinking in. Widening the further it went, you smiled through your moan as you realized Alastor had let loose his shadow arms.

Black and writhing tentacles of darkness that wrapped around Luci’s thighs and slid around your waist. A physical manifestation of his needs.

Finally, he could hear you both gasping beneath him. You watched through lusty tear filled eyes as Alastor’s form twitched and grew between your sets of thighs. 

Antlers threatening to knock against the posts of your shared canopy bed as he sighed at the thought of breeding both of his mates.

Sooner than either of you had anticipated, Alastor leaned forward and lifted Luci’s body to allow him to drive his cock as deeply as it could go. 

You felt Luci stiffen beneath you, his arms holding onto your scrambling as Alastor fucked his still inflating knot in and out of him.

Luci’s panting and pleasured cries into your neck was doing so much for you. Eyes closed, feeling that wet tentacle pumping out of you faster and faster and imagining how wide Luci was being forced apart on Alastor’s knot brought you to your second orgasm of the day. Alastor could smell your pleasure, your sweat and your slick flooding his senses as Luci’s fluttering hole numbed his mind to anything but the two of you.

The sound of slapping skin slowed as Alastor came with a growl into the headboard. He moved until his knot was stuck, letting himself moan out mumbled praises for you both as he flooded Luci’s womb. 

The discomfort set in so quickly after the pleasure faded. Alastor’s cock tender and chaffed, Luci’s pussy sore and swollen, and your body and mind spent from the stress and pleasure of managing to keep both men civil and happy.

A bath sounded so good at that moment, but you knew Lucifer was attached to Alastor for a little while and that Alastor wouldn’t allow you to leave the bed yet. 

He sat back on his haunches again, lowering his hips to let Luci’s body relax into the bed.

Alastor’s hands petted at your legs, his signature smile snaking across his face again. 

Feeling your weight on him was as close to divine as he hoped to get again, and Luci was glad to be trapped around Alastor’s dick still. He held you tighter to him and nuzzled your neck. A a cozy feeling of being seen in the same look as you and not just as a background character to Alastor washed over him.

A perfect way to begin your long night and the even longer weekend ahead.

“Ah!” Luci piped up, “My tea.”

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆Masterlist.ೃ࿔*:･

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

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@dontfuckbutimfab @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12

[valtsv]

it's crazy how well my dad hits the criteria for abusive behaviour without even trying. yesterday he was laying into me for wasting my life and having no self-respect because i got a barista job so i'd be happier at work while i look for something more long-term and successful and maybe earn some qualifications, harassing me on the phone while i tried to relax after my shift at my current job and guilt tripping me for making a decision about my own life that doesn't affect or involve him in any way. and now today he's sending me job ads which he ends with messages of love and support. it's textbook cyclical abusive behaviour! tear me down, then offer me a way up with the same hand that was just trying to knock me to the ground. take out all his frustration on me in an excruciating tirade of esteem-destroying vitriol, then make me doubt the validity of my resentment by being kind and approachable. flip the switch on a dime so i never feel certain or safe about where i stand. and the worst thing is i know he doesn't even mean it. he thinks he's helping. he thinks what he's doing is good and right and an expression of his love. he genuinely feels bad for hurting me. his concern for my future happiness is real. but it won't prevent him from doing it again next time, or feeling justified in every previous instance.

[sukunasteeth]

The Pleasure's All Mine - Chapter One

Based on this post from @winterrbluess

If Shibuya had a pulse, it would be at the rate of a hummingbird's wings.

The human race operates at a speed that oftentimes seems too quick to catch up with. It had been that way ever since you moved to the city for work about three years ago.

You came for a corporate job made up of ink black suits and pencil skirts, smiles that felt more on the side of uncanny valley than they did of genuine kindness, and handshakes from skin cold with carpal tunnel. You lived a corporate life. Everything is muted tones of tan and relies heavily on the concept of "modernizing". You wake up, go to work, go home, work on what you couldn't finish at the office, fall asleep on your colorless coffee table, and wake up to your alarm going off what feels like hours too soon. It was a cyclical cycle.

And the day you broke it, happened to be the day you met Sukuna.

~

You noticed the new shop on the end of the street maybe three weeks ago. It was so out of place, after all. The building was the only non-skyscraper to be seen on the block. It was a shriveled up little thing, built out of chipping brick that seemed to teeter on the edge of dilapidation from the inability to meet building codes. Overgrown ivy crawled up the sides of it and it still had plots of dirt in the front for planting as opposed to concrete and metal benches. 

When you had first seen the For Sale sign a few months ago, you were sure they were going to tear it down and pave over it- happy to be rid of the only spot of character left in the business district. Then a new sign appeared over the door, one that looked hand carved out of wood and haphazardly painted over so that you could make out the words "Carnation King".

It’s funny, flowers had never been much of an interest to you. You had seen them as just another task to take care of when you returned home after a long day. Even filling a vase with water always sounded like more effort than it was worth. But as the days blend together from monotony, you find yourself desperate for color.

You changed your walking route to work so that you can pass by the shop everyday. You knew nothing about flowers. You could barely tell a rose bud apart from a tulip, but that didn't stop you from ogling at the new bouquets and potted plants that lined the sidewalk every time you passed them. Signs made out of toothpicks and painters tape said words like “Butterfly Ranunculus” and “Brown-Eyed Susan” and learning their names became one of your favorite things to do. You never stepped foot inside, and yet the flower shop was now one of your happy places. 

You would meander by on your lunches and watch the butterflies play. You would walk by in the morning and smell freshly watered earth still hanging in the air. On your way home, when the sun was at its fullest shine, you would walk beneath the misters hung under the lip of the roof, and the coolness of the water droplets left behind on your skin saw you all the home. 

You hadn’t realized how important the flower shop was to your daily routine until the day it was interrupted. 

It happened to be one of the only days you had been forced by your workload to stay past sunset for overtime. You didn’t do it for the money, you did it because your boss had asked you nicely. But as you finally exit the office building for the night, you find yourself regretting staying so late. 

You hated walking home in the dark. Even though Japan was notorious for its low crime rates, that didn't mean it was an innocent city. After 9pm, your street was notorious for being a ghost town. The only signs of life were the few work martyrs left in their floor to ceiling window offices- acting as makeshift streetlights. There were only a few lights on the way home, and their solidarity only seemed to pronounce the darkness along the rest of the empty roadside. When you were just an intern, before you got better hours and were finally promoted to the shining 9-5 that everyone dreams about, you used to take your heels off and sprint back to your apartment. Always weary of what you couldn’t see. At the time, you didn’t know that the scariest people don’t have to hide in the dark. 

You hadn’t planned on walking past the shop that night. It was closed. It had to be. Normal flower shops closed well before 7 pm let alone 9. But the moment you touch the sidewalk outside your building, you see light glowing against the dense night. 

The shop at the end of the street was draped in tiny fairy lights. Every square inch of brick was twinkling slowly, glimmering like resting fireflies. It looked almost otherworldly in comparison to the towering pitch black shadows of corporate offices surrounding it. In fact, the effect of the glowing lights against the mirror windows made it look like the shop was hanging in space. 

Outside, the flowers you had walked past in the afternoon had been replaced with new pots, overflowing with buds you had never seen before. The usual delicate smell of Honeysuckle and Roses was now one of the sweetest scents you had ever experienced, so sweet, you could almost taste it on your tongue. Warm golden light floods out of the shop's window and the numerous white and yellow petals seem to gather and hold onto its dull shine. 

You didn’t even realize you had completely abandoned your original plan of taking the shortcut home until you were standing in front of the Carnation King with your eyes entranced on the display before you. One flower in particular had caught your eye, a huge luscious display of delicate tow-colored petals, tall with endless growth and reaching towards the moonlight as though it’s been waiting all day to see it. You can’t help but reach out to touch, and yet just before your fingertips make it, you feel coolness trickling onto your hand, breaking the spell that the lights and colors had placed on you. 

 "Evening Primrose." 

The suddenness of a voice beside you should have put you in fight or flight mode. It should have been a cold bucket of water to the face. Adrenaline spiking, you should be sprinting in the opposite direction. Instead, you found the tranquil trance that the flowers had put you in to have a lasting effect. 

You blink at the man who seemed to appear out of thin air standing next to you, and the first thing you notice are his eyes. Such a dark shade of golden rich hazel-brown, they were nearly shining like two cuts of Cat’s-Eye. They gleamed suspicion. 

He was much taller than you, but where most are lanky you can see strong muscles and broad shoulders. Collared sleeves rolled halfway up his arms revealed skin kissed rich and deep by prolonged sunshine. Tattoos slithered around his wrists and had made their way to his sculptured face, meticulously drawn black lines frame an annoyed expression. When you see the rest of him, you’re certainly not expecting to notice tufts from a head of true strawberry blond hair hang in his frigid gaze.

In one of his hands is a water can, still pouring trickling water onto your momentarily petrified fingertips, and in the other hand is a cigarette, only a third of the way lit. 

The sight of him takes you so far back, if the sound of his voice wasn’t still echoing in your head you might not have remembered that he had even said anything to you. 

"I'm sorry?" You pull your hand away from the water spray, drying it on your slacks.

The man takes half a drag of the cigarette before he answers you. Slow and unrushed. "They're called Evening Primrose.” He speaks through a cloud of tobacco smoke, glancing at the flowers that had caught your eye. His lip twitches slightly, "Need full sunlight but only bloom in moonlight. Fickle bastards." 

Okay. Owner. Mean owner. Unexpectedly rough-and-tumble looking for being the caretaker of a flower shop. You glance at his apron, but you don’t find a name tag. He takes a step back while you’re searching for it, but he only moves far enough to start watering the next plant on the table. 

You look back to the Evening Primrose, and even the smell of the burning cigarettes is nothing in the face of the scent that had pulled you in earlier. The two flavors mix like a tea garden on fire. You caress the petals once more, unthinkingly. 

"They smell incredible." You mutter, mostly to yourself. 

"Not them.” His voice is colder than his eyes. He flicks a bit of ash onto the cement behind him, and tilts his head in the direction of a different bush, one that’s even bigger than the healthy Primrose, with hundreds of tiny buds that flutter in the nighttime air. “That'd be her." 

"”Her”?" You repeat, wondering if you heard the man correctly. 

"Night Jasmine." He answers in return. 

As standoffish as he was, you still found yourself making mental notes of the names he had given you. When you look at the Night Jasmine directly, it’s clear that the wind was sweeping that delicious smell straight from the direction of its honey-hued petals. You’re not sure you had seen plants like this at even the most expensive hotels and events that you had been invited to. Maybe tiny cuttings, but nothing to this size and level of lush. 

"Well she's very pretty." You reply softly, letting out an airy laugh through your nose at his use of pronouns. The man doesn’t even crack a smile in return, his eyes giving you a pointed once over. 

“And invasive.” He adds, resting his gaze on yours once again. 

There’s a thick silence that follows after, during which you consider apologizing. For what? You were unsure, but somehow standing in his towering shadow and feeling his accusing eyes had you feeling like you were in the wrong for merely existing in his presence. 

Before you can think to just turn around, take off your heels, and sprint home like you had years ago, his voice demands your attention again. 

"So,” he says, “you gonna tell me why you’re stalking me, then?"

Now, surely, you were hearing things. 

"E-Excuse me?" 

He seems to take in your shock with some thought while he takes another languid puff, "You come by here every single day,” He lets the smoke go from his lungs, ”but you never buy a thing. In fact, you never even come in." The tone of his voice tilts towards annoyance. “You just stand at the window and pout like some sad puppy.” 

"I-I work in the building next door?" You offer, bewildered by the entire situation. Were you dreaming? Had you fallen asleep at your desk and given yourself some sort of stress-induced nightmare?

"Hmm," The man takes you in without breaking your gaze, tilting his head to the side while he takes another drag of his cigarette. "You don't seem like the pencil pusher type to me."

You’re not sure why that comment makes you defensive. In retrospect, it was even a compliment to you. You hated sitting at a desk all day, watching the sun rise and set over a stack of papers. But you had worked hard to get to the position you were in now and it wasn’t the first time a man had told you that you didn’t look like you belonged. Before you can catch yourself in the name of politeness you find yourself scoffing out, "Sorry, but you don't seem like much of a florist to me."

The silence returns. You watch as the disdainful glint to his eyes shatters, and is replaced with a split second of surprise. He blinks and it’s only then that you realize how much larger this man is in comparison to you. If you had seen him walking down the street, you’d probably think to yourself “I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side” and yet here you were, on his bad-getting-worse side from the moment your eyes met. 

Or so you had thought. But, as the antithesis of anger crosses his hardened features, and an unexpected bitten-back grin takes the place of his glower, you’re not sure what to think anymore. 

He snorts out a laugh, finally releasing you from the cold grasp of his unbreakable gaze. He takes another step back and focuses his attention on watering the flowers again. "Touche." 

The cigarette gets flicked from his fingertips and he smears it beneath his boot into a tiny canal of rocks separating the soil of the garden beds from the cement of the sidewalk. 

"So, you gonna buy something then? Or just stand there with that strange look on your face all night?" He tilts his head to mirror your stance, but the amused grin remains in place of your confused gape. “I close in five minutes.”

“I have to hand it to you, you’re a fantastic salesman.” You’ve never met a stranger more brash and uncaring, so you were giving it a shot in return. It only serves to further his easy smiles.

“Am I not offering the right thing?” Now apparently after confirming to himself that you weren’t a threat, his tone of voice seems almost playful. It only serves to further your confusion. “Hmm, a lock of my hair maybe?” 

“I am not a stalker!” 

“Then buy something.” 

You take a deep breath through your nose. Feeling the need to save face when you haven’t done anything wrong in the first place. Yet, the thought of turning away empty handed had embarrassment threatening to heat up your neck and cheeks. You didn't care if you had to drop a pretty penny, you just didn't want to boost this man's ego.

"Those." You point to the nearest flower, another pot of proud blossoms sprouting from a stem unseen past the abundant greenery of strong leaves. Soft moon colored petals unfurl at the top, and sprouting from the center are tiny, deep yellow pollen covered buds. 

The man follows your pointed finger and graces your choice with all of one second before he turns back to his watering. "Not those." He decides flatly. 

You’ve never made a more difficult purchase. "Why not?" 

"Casablanca Lilies need constant care. A white-collar like you couldn't keep up. And I don't raise 'em so people can kill 'em."

"I think I can take care of a plant, thank you." You retort, sarcasm oozing off your sentence. 

It seems you can only really catch this man’s attention when your tone has a touch of negativity, because suddenly he’s back to watching you. 

There’s a pregnant pause before his next words. He searches nothing but your eyes for a moment, as if to gauge. 

"Wanna bet?" He cocks a brow. 

And it angers you how handsome you find this annoying, pompous, self-entitled stranger. 

"Bet?” You repeat incredulously. “Are you making a sale or trying to fight?” 

Instantly, as if you were offering the two scenarios as possible options, his smile darkens and he takes a step forward instead of continuing his line of watering. 

That was all the reply you needed. You had seen the movies. The documentaries. Handsome men, provoking women, hungry eyes, it never added up to something good. So that was your que to keep walking straight past him and go home. 

“Right, I don’t need this.” You scoff. 

And yet, just before you're able to step aside him, like a true businessman, he says just the right thing to keep you there.

"So I'm right then?" 

The sound of the droplets from the watering can against the cement in place of your footsteps has you cringing in self-disappointment. You force your head to turn and meet his infuriating amusement. 

"What's the bet?" You grind out from clenched teeth. His eyes fall to your mouth, and he takes a pointed second to look at your bite before he steps away from you and back to the place where your interaction began. He reaches beside the huge Evening Primrose bush to reveal a small green potted sapling with the same leaf pattern. 

He holds it out to you and you reach out to take the little thing like you’re scared for its safety. 

"Come back in two weeks. If it's alive, I'll give you the lilies for free." The calmness in his tone of voice doesn't match the excitement glittering in his dark hazel-brown eyes. "And if it's dead, you owe me." He adds, rather nonchalantly. 

"Owe you what?" You squint your eyes at him, maybe then you could see the little horns that match his devilish little grin. 

He shrugs, almost too innocently, "A favor. Haven't thought of it yet." The stranger gives you one last once over, but this one leaves the strangest chill running down your spine. His eyes seem to follow it, as if he can see it rattling through you. "Should I? You're so confident you'll win, I didn't think I'd have to."

Now it was your turn to look him up and down, tattoos, scars and a face that seemed too comfortable with that murderous look he had first given you.

"...There's no way you're just a florist."

The comment is completely ignored as he leans forward, invading your airspace a little too close for comfort, and murmuring the words "Yes or no?" with a thick sugar coating. 

"You're on." You hope your own words convey your complete disdain for him… and not that tiny glimmer of attraction you feel prickling under your skin. 

A surprised laugh seems to escape him, as though he didn't expect you to make the deal. "You're either quite confident in yourself or a damn fool." 

Like a rabbit bearing tiny teeth in the face of a lion, you mirror him and lean in closer until there's only a small space between the two of you. "Maybe I just like showing up cocky men."

"Oh, and I'm gonna love a favor from such a mouthy brat." You're lucky he pulls away from you after he practically purrs his threat. There's another thoughtful pause before he reaches into his apron pocket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes again.

"Two weeks. I know where you work too now." He lights another, and examines the cherry after he takes the first drag, smiling like it just told him a joke. “Don’t forget.” 

[xxepherr]

.ೃ࿐MRS HOLLYWOOD

summary — in which hasan is caught in the loop of a cyclical relationship with hollywood’s biggest star

pairings — hasan piker x fem!unnamed!actress!oc

pronouns — she/her

word count — 736

note — based on mrs hollywood by go-jo. just a small little thing to get me out of my writer’s block — its nothing special

ON AGAIN, OFF AGAIN.

how many more times was he going to respond to another text? how many more times was he going to leave the key to his house under the doormat?

hasan knew better. at thirty-three he had enough life skills and knowledge to avoid things that used to rope him in a decade ago. perhaps that was why he had matured to a certain extent, but that didn't seem to extend to her.

she was glitz and glamour, a pretty picture splashed across a canvas and decorated to the brim with jewellery. the centre of so many hit films, it seemed that being the centre of hasan piker's world was the only one that mattered.

hasan knew better than to keep letting her back in. she was the same toxicity of a drug, and twice as addictive. she was never around, always departing to go star in the next big thing, never sending a text or bothering to call unless she wanted something.

“you’re always MIA,” he mumbled, the stars shining through his window as the moon kept watch. “where do you go?”

“not everyone works from home,” she mumbled back, closing her eyes as she tucked herself into the large arm he had around her.

“when can we go back?” he tried again. hasan’s fingers tangled in her hair, soothing against her scalp. “this is killing me.”

she remained silent. she couldn’t settle down, running away was all she’d ever known. long-term never worked because then she couldn’t escape, but the excuse of work was wearing thin. she knew hasan didn’t believe her anymore. for fucks sake, most of her filming locations were maybe thirty minutes from his house. it’s not like she was halfway across the fucking globe or anything.

“i can’t,” she answered in a dull fashion, “all you do is work, i’m the same—“

“but you’re not,” he cut her off. it was hard to be upset when they were skin to skin, kept decent by a thin sheet. “it’s been five fucking years.”

“you can forget about me,” she tried to roll out from his arms, but he only tightened them in response. “let me go, has.”

“you can’t keep running,” he said calmly, refusing to raise his voice at her. he used to years ago when things were rockier and her tendencies were dripping with toxic sludge, but it was never the solution. she would just disappear for longer, surfacing in milan or some other foreign place for a day or two before she fell off the map again. “there’s nowhere left for you. this can be your home, too.”

home for her was an apartment in the heart of hollywood. she owned a smaller one in malibu, but neither were home. it was just a place to sleep on the nights she wasn’t staying in hasan’s large bed. there weren’t family memories in the walls like the walls in his house, or the smell of home cooked meals on the occasion that his mother was around and willing. it was just empty — grey walls and white couches, picture frames scarce unless it was one that had been gifted to her after a successful film.

there's nowhere left for you. where hadn't she gone? travelling wasn't just for film locations, it was to get away — to escape things she didn't need to anymore, to continue to feel something by doing all she ever knew how to. packing a few things and fucking off was so easy, running never got tiring . . . but she was nearing thirty. soon enough she would have to settle down somewhere to keep herself grounded, to keep herself afloat.

hasan was offering that. could she take it? it was the easy way out, a way to find that stability that she never could seem to take before.

"just . . . at least stay until morning," he tried one last time, rolling onto his side to press closer to her as if that was the solution to her constant disappearances. "i'll try to make you breakfast."

"mhm, maybe," was all she could mumble, succumbing to the warmth of his body heat and falling into a peaceful slumber.

HASAN woke up the next morning to an empty left side of the bed, the blankets neatly made where she had slept as if she had never been there to begin with. just like always.

[fallenfrommars6277]

I didn't see anyone address to this properly, so I'm going to try to put into words something that I've been thinking since my rewatch of Dead Boy Detectives.

I've seen some people saying that Edwin's punishment in hell doesn't make any sense because he doesn't belong there and honestly I don't entirely agree. I mean, Edwin's designated afterlife isn't hell of course, but I think his punishment has a meaning.

We can see that hell is shaped quite like Dante's hell and we can only suppose that it works like it as well, so the souls receive a punishment that is an analogy or a contraposition to their guilt, that means that the punishment is somehow similar to their guilt and what they did in their life or the complete opposite.

Therefore, we see the lustful people indulging in their pleasure, the greedy people eating and vomiting, the slothful not being able to move, Maxine tearing her letters and of course Simon. He keeps tearing the pages of a book with the initials of himself and Edwin, his secretly and impermissibly loved one, causing himself little paper cuts that seem no big deal, but they are endless: an infinite number of little hurts, that put together of course aren't so little anymore. But what's the meaning behind his punishment? Well, I think it's an analogy to the feelings he must have felt when he was alive, I mean, he was gay in a male boarding school and he was in love with Edwin, he must have suffered a constant little pain reminding him of his "guilt".

And Edwin's line "if you punish yourself everywhere becomes hell" kinda pairs with it: it's not like he's in hell because of his sense of guilt, of course he's there because he participated in the ritual that killed Edwin, but we see that his designated afterlife isn't hell, he's stuck there because he thinks he's guilty, not of having killed Edwin or at least not only, he feels guilty for his feelings for him.

Moving to Edwin, I think that it's the same thing. He goes to hell only because he's the victim of a sacrifice but he's also stuck there in his endless and cyclic torture: he is chased by a giant spider made of dolls, that no matter how hard he tries to outrun (or maybe precisely because he tries so hard to run away) catches him and tears him apart and basically eats him "alive".

Finally getting to the point, I don't know if I'm delirious but I see an analogy between this punishment and Edwin's life. I mean, I don't think that he's finding out now that he likes boys, I think that now he's being able to acknowledge it to himself and to others, but if we think of the scene at school when Simon goes to him and he runs away (he then points it out clearly saying that he used to run every time he tried to get closer), I think that it's actually clear that he's feeling something. Of course, they're feelings that he's not allowed to feel (or worse, they're feelings no one talks about at his time, it's like they shouldn't even exist), but you can't stop a feeling, you can act in denial, tell yourself and others that it's nothing, but you still feel that feeling, whether you want it or not. And that feeling pressed down to your core tries every way to burst out and if it can't find a way, it simply tears you apart and eats you from the inside.

So, just like when he was alive he kept running from his feelings, that eventually would have broken him into pieces (because if he kept living he probably would have had a life torn apart between who he really was and how he had to appear), in his death he is condemned to run away from the spider made of dolls (why the dolls? I don't know, maybe they refer to his "feminine side", the boys that sacrifice him call him Mary Ann after all, but I'm not sure) that tears him apart and eats him whole.

Again, maybe I'm just obsessing real hard, but either way I don't think that Edwin's punishment is just meaningless.