#A begrudging angel or something | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goblinontour · 2 months ago

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Knives Out

he’s in the studio…

warnings: dad!alex, angst, smut, piv, arguing

word count: 6.6k

The temporary move to LA was rough. Really rough, if either of you were being honest. It wasn’t like you hadn’t anticipated the so-called adjustment period, but you hadn’t quite expected how much it would affect your little family. Poppy had always been easy going for the most part. Manageable. Or so you both thought. But this move had thrown her, and by extension, the two of you, into uncharted waters.

Alex couldn’t begin to guess what was going through her mind. He’d never experienced a move like this as a kid. He’d grown up in the same house for years, familiar streets and faces always within reach. Even if he had moved, he probably wouldn’t have remembered the details at that age anyway. But here she was, uprooted from everything she knew in London and dropped into the sprawling, sun-drenched landscape of Los Angeles. There was a certain helplessness he felt in watching her navigate this huge change.

The silver lining was that, little by little, she seemed to be finding her footing. There were signs of her adjusting, however small. For one, she now had her own separate playroom, a “luxury” they didn’t have back in London.

Not that it made much of a difference.

The playroom, for all its shiny newness, remained largely untouched. Poppy, ever the little shadow, still followed her father into the place he’d affectionately dubbed the “Lunar Surface”. The Lunar Surface was still their shared territory. She hadn’t left his side since the move. No matter how many toys or distractions were placed in front of her, she’d always end up trailing after Alex, as if there was something in there she needed just as much as he did.

It made sense, in a way. Maybe she thought she had important business there, too. Maybe she felt it was theirs, a place not just for him to create, but for them to share.

You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy every time you saw her curling up in a corner of the room while he worked. She never followed you like that. Never clung to you the way she did him. You were the one who stayed behind when he went on tour, the one who kept everything stable and running at home when he disappeared for months or years at a time. Yet, it was him she trailed after, her little feet pattering through the hallways until she found him wherever he was.

You’d never say it out loud, of course. It wasn’t worth admitting that small, irrational jealousy. But the truth was, it stung a bit. You loved watching them together, his little mirror, absorbing every note and gesture. It was beautiful, really. Still, sometimes you couldn’t help but wonder if she followed him because she was afraid he might leave again. That’s what he did, after all. He left. For the studio, for tour, for everything that kept him him.

It was late afternoon, and the house was bathed in a warm, golden light that streamed in through the large windows. From the kitchen, you could see them: Alex, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his guitar resting in his lap, and Poppy, perched next to him, her tiny hands clumsily trying to mimic the way his fingers moved across the strings. He was teaching her some simple chord progression, his voice low and patient, while she watched him with unwavering focus.

You leaned against the counter, drying your hands on a towel, watching them from a distance. There was something so intimate about the scene that you didn’t dare disturb it. Not that you could, anyway. She seemed to have forgotten about you entirely, lost in the little world she and Alex had created, a world you weren’t a part of in that moment.

You didn’t begrudge her for it. Not really. It was natural, the way she gravitated toward him, the way her eyes lit up every time he showed her something new. But as you stood there, arms crossed over your chest, a soft ache settled in your stomach.

Alex didn’t think to include you. It wasn’t intentional, you knew that. He was just so absorbed in what he was doing, in that quiet bond he shared with her. But it hurt all the same, watching from the sidelines, feeling like an outsider in your own home. There was something about the way they were together that made you feel…invisible.

You sighed, shaking your head at yourself. You were being dramatic, you knew that. But the weight of it all, this move, the boxes that still littered every corner of the house, the never-ending cycle of unpacking and cleaning, taking care of her needs and making sure everything ran smoothly, it was all starting to pile up. And then there was him. Alex, waking up at noon with the excuse that he’d stayed up late working. Alex, disappearing into the studio for hours on end, as if the world outside didn’t exist. Alex, coming home and going straight back to his music, continuing whatever song or riff he’d been working on in that damn studio.

And then there was her, always at his side, laughing and playing with him as if everything were perfect, as if the house wasn’t still a mess and you weren’t silently unravelling.

It wasn’t that you didn’t understand. You knew how he worked. You’d known from the beginning that this was how it would be with him.

He had the luxury of checking out, of diving into his art whenever he felt like it, and then emerging to be the fun dad who taught his daughter guitar. You, on the other hand, had no such escape. Your days had become a blur of mundane tasks.

From the corner of your eye, you saw her little face scrunch up in concentration as she tried to press down the strings of the guitar, the way Alex had shown her. Her fingers weren’t strong enough yet, but she didn’t give up, and Alex encouraged her softly, his voice a murmur you could barely hear from the kitchen. She grinned when she got it right, and Alex’s face lit up with pride.

You should have been happy, seeing them like that. And part of you was. But another part, the part that was tired and lonely and feeling more than a little neglected, felt like crying. It wasn’t just the move or the endless responsibilities. It was him. He was here, but not really. He was present, but not with you. It was as if the two of you existed on parallel tracks.

And the two of you never quite met in the middle.

You knew it wasn’t fair to think that way. He was doing his best, in his own way. But lately, it felt like his best wasn’t quite enough for you. Not when you were drowning in everything that needed to be done, while he got to disappear and come out only for the fun parts.

You glanced over again, catching the moment when Poppy leaned into him, her head resting against his arm, completely content. He kissed the top of her head absentmindedly, fingers still moving across the strings of the guitar, and she sighed happily, lost in the moment with him.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, setting the dishrag down and turning back to the sink. It was silly, really, to feel so left out. You were part of this family too. But watching them from a distance like this, it was hard not to feel like you were slipping through the cracks, becoming a little less visible with each passing day.

You took a deep breath, trying to push away the rising frustration. There were still boxes to unpack, laundry to fold, and dinner to think about. Maybe later, when the house was quiet and Poppy was asleep, you’d talk to him about it. Or maybe you’d just let it go, like you always did.

Either way, you couldn’t help but wonder when, if ever, you’d stop feeling so alone in all of this.

The light was low by the time they finished, the last of the sunset casting long shadows across the living room floor. Poppy was yawning, rubbing her eyes with the back of her tiny hand, though she was still nestled against Alex’s side, not wanting to let go of him just yet. He seemed to have endless reserves of patience when it came to her.

With you, it was different.

He stood up, guitar still in hand, and scooped her up without missing a beat, her head resting on his shoulder, her legs dangling against his side. It was effortless, the way he held her, his lean frame barely shifting under her weight. His T-shirt was wrinkled like he’d been lounging in it all day, which he probably had been. His jeans were slung low on his hips, and the way his hair fell into his eyes, messy and unbothered, made him look like he had just rolled out of bed.

He might as well.

Without a word to you, he carried her down the hall to her room, not even glancing back. His voice was soft, murmuring something to her that you couldn’t quite hear from where you stood. His steps were slow, measured, like he was savouring this last moment of the day with her. The light from the hallway caught the sharp angles of his face, the scruff along his jawline that he hadn’t bothered shaving, his long fingers gently brushing her back as he carried her to her room. You felt the familiar knot tighten in your stomach as you stood there, the sound of his low murmurs barely audible as he settled her in. The house was quiet, but your thoughts weren’t.

You leaned against the counter, the edge pressing into your lower back, and stared after them. He made it look so easy. Effortless. The way he floated in and out of her life. Of your life. Like some distant planet in a lazy orbit. There when he needed to be, and gone when it suited him.

It wasn’t long before he reappeared, the soft creak of the bedroom door closing behind him. He walked back down the hall, stretching his arms above his head as if to shake off the last bit of exhaustion from the day. His shirt rode up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin above his jeans. The way the fabrics clung to him was just a reminder that it was still warm in this LA heat, and his movements were slow, like someone who had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do. He rubbed at the back of his neck, yawning, and didn’t even glance in your direction at first.

He walked into the kitchen, rubbing his jaw with one hand, the hint of stubble catching the light. “Is there anything for dinner?” he asked, his voice almost too casual, as if he didn’t notice the way you were standing there, still, waiting for something, anything, that resembled effort.

You blinked at him, a little taken aback. He didn’t seem to realise how thoughtless the question was, how it felt like he hadn’t noticed a single thing you’d been doing all day. It wasn’t about the food. It was about everything.

You stared at him, your grip tightening on the counter’s edge. There was a moment, just a flash, where you envisioned throwing something across the room at him. Maybe a plate. Maybe the whole table. Instead, you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but it didn’t stop the surge of irritation from rushing through you.

“Dinner?” you repeated softly, trying not to let your frustration bleed into your voice.

He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyebrows raised slightly as if he didn’t understand why you weren’t already moving to grab something. “Yeah. I mean, we haven’t eaten, right?”

“Dinner?” you repeated, incredulous, your voice sharper than you intended. You let the word hang in the air for a beat, watching as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands casually sliding into the pockets of his jeans. “Dinner, Alex?”

He blinked, clearly not picking up on the tone yet. He tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Yeah, what?” His voice was soft, a little slow, a little too casual. It grated on you, that easy, laid-back way he spoke, like the question wasn’t loaded with everything you’d been bottling up for weeks. “What’s up?”

You swallowed, your eyes dropping to the floor for a second before looking back up at him. “I haven’t had a chance to make anything.” you said quietly, feeling the lump in your throat grow. “I’ve been…busy. With everything.”

He sighed, but it was subtle, more of an exhale through his nose. “Yeah, me too.” he muttered, glancing down at his hands like they’d been doing the hardest work in the world all day.

You shook your head, letting out a humourless laugh. Me too. You wanted to slap him. Instead, you pushed away from the counter, turning to face him fully, arms crossing over your chest.

“Alex, I’ve been dealing with everything all day. You wake up whenever it suits you, waltz into the studio, and then come home like you’ve done a hard day’s work. You barely notice me, and now you’re asking if dinner’s ready?”

He blinked again, the crease between his brows deepening. “Babe, I was in the studio-”

“I know you were in the studio.” you snapped, cutting him off. “You’re always in the studio. Or with her. But never with me. I know the music’s important to you, but…”

He blinked, finally looking at you properly, but there was a slight defensiveness in his eyes. “What, you think I’m just…what? Messing around all day?” He straightened a little, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, that casual tone turning sharper. “I’m working, you know? It’s not like I’m ignoring you on purpose.”

“I didn’t say you were.” you replied quickly, but there was a tremor in your voice that you hated, like you were apologising for feeling something. “I just…I feel like I’m doing everything else. And it’s exhausting, Alex.”

His mouth twitched slightly, as if he was going to say something but decided against it. Instead, he ran his hand through his hair again, tousling it even more. “Look, I didn’t realise it was that bad.” he muttered, his voice quieter now, but still missing the point. “I thought you had it handled.”

“I do have it handled.” you shot back, a little sharper than you meant to. “But I’m tired of having it handled alone.”

He shifted uncomfortably, glancing away, clearly unsure of how to navigate this. He wasn’t great with emotions, never had been. He exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. You could see the tension in his shoulders now, the way his fingers flexed at his sides. He was trying to stay calm, trying to understand, but it was clear he hadn’t expected this.

His eyes darted back to you, and his expression softened, though there was still a hint of frustration in his tone. “I’m not trying to make you feel like you’re on your own, alright? It’s just…I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.”

“That’s the problem.” you whispered, the tightness in your throat growing, but you kept your voice steady. “You don’t think about it. You just assume I’ll take care of everything.”

His shoulders dropped a little, and for a second, he looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself. His arms unfolded, and he took a tentative step toward you, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.” he mumbled, his words coming out awkwardly, like he wasn’t used to apologising. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

You looked at him, taking in the way his jaw clenched and the way his eyes darted away every few seconds like he was uncomfortable being in this moment with you, but not entirely detached either. He wanted to reach for you but didn’t know how.

“I know you didn’t mean to.” you said softly, your voice wavering slightly but still steady. “But it doesn’t change how it feels.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and for a second, something in his face shifted. His eyes softened, that defensiveness fading. “I’m…I’m sorry.” he repeated, his voice lower now, almost a whisper, like he wasn’t sure if it was safe to speak louder. “I didn’t know you felt like this.”

You laughed again, that same bitter edge clinging to it. “Of course you didn’t. Because you haven’t been here to notice. You’re here, Alex, but you’re not really here. You come home, you play with her, and then it’s like I don’t exist.”

He shifted his weight again, “That’s not fair.” he murmured. “You know I’m trying to balance everything. I’m doing my best.”

You stared at him, your arms still crossed tightly, trying to hold yourself together. “Well, your best isn’t enough.” you said quietly, the words hanging heavy between you.

His expression faltered, the sharp lines of his face softening as if your words had cut deeper than either of you expected. He stood there for a moment, silent, and you could see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to find something to say that would make it better, trying to figure out how to fix what was unravelling right in front of him.

But he didn’t have the words. Not this time.

He looked down, his hand rubbing the back of his neck again, a nervous gesture you recognized all too well. His hair fell over his eyes, and he didn’t bother pushing it back this time. “I…I’ll do better.” he said, the words slow, hesitant. He wasn’t sure they’d be enough. “I promise, I’ll try to be more…present. With you.”

You watched him, unsure whether to believe it, unsure if it would change anything at all. But the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his posture slouched now, made you pause. He wasn’t trying to ignore you, not deliberately. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“Dinner’s in the fridge.” you said after a long moment, your voice quieter now, the fight draining out of you. “Heat it up yourself.”

He nodded, almost as if he knew it was the best he was going to get right now. He didn’t argue, didn’t push. He just walked to the fridge, his movements slower now, more careful, as if he was trying not to disturb the fragile air between you.

As he pulled out the leftovers, you turned and walked out of the kitchen, the weight of the day still pressing down on you, heavier than ever.

You lay on the bed, staring at the dark ceiling, trying to will your mind into quiet, but it didn’t come. You squeezed your eyes shut, pulling the covers up closer to your chin as if it could somehow shield you from the heaviness pressing on your chest.

The house was silent now. Poppy was asleep, and Alex was in the kitchen, reheating his dinner. You heard the faint hum of the microwave, the soft clinking of dishes. It was almost too normal, too routine, for how you felt.

You wanted to let it go, to brush it off like you had so many times before, but tonight it stuck with you, sharp and jagged. The loneliness gnawed at you. The kind of loneliness that only comes when the person you need the most is right there, but somehow feels miles away.

You turned onto your side, facing away from the door, pulling your knees closer to your chest. Maybe it was easier to sleep like this, with your back to the world. Maybe if you stayed still long enough, you’d drift off, and the ache would dull by morning.

Then you heard it. The soft creak of the door opening, the faintest sliver of light spilling into the room from the hallway. You didn’t move, keeping your breathing steady, though your heart started beating a little faster. His footsteps were soft, hesitant, the familiar sound of his feet lightly scuffing against the hardwood floor. He was trying not to wake you, or maybe he was just testing the air between you, unsure of how fragile it really was.

The bed dipped slightly as he sat on the edge, and for a moment, you thought he might stay there, distant and unsure. But then the mattress shifted again, and you felt him slip beneath the covers. The warmth of his body radiated toward you as he settled beside you, his movements slow, careful, as if he wasn’t quite sure how close he was allowed to get.

Then, after a beat of silence, you felt it, his chest pressing gently against your back. The weight of his arm tentatively draped over your waist, and he stilled, like he was waiting to see if you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

His breath was warm against the nape of your neck, steady, but you could tell he was awake, his body tense with unspoken words. You could feel the faint tremor in his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing, like he was working up to say something but wasn’t sure if now was the time.

Then, after a long pause, he whispered, his voice low, rough around the edges, as if he’d been holding the words in for too long. “I hope you don’t doubt that I love you.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just that. It was simple, but it felt like more, like it was the one thing he needed to say right now. The one thing he could say.

You lay there, still, your heart beating a little too fast. You didn’t turn to face him. Not yet. But the warmth of his body against yours, the quiet vulnerability in his voice, it chipped away at the wall you’d built up during the day.

“I don’t.” you whispered back, your voice barely audible, but in the quiet of the room, it was enough.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both of you just lying there in the dark, the silence now filled with something softer, less strained. You could feel him relax slightly, the tension easing from his body, his arm wrapping a little more securely around you.

You reached for his hand, gently curling your fingers around his, and brought it to your lips. You pressed a soft kiss to the back of his hand, feeling the roughness of his skin against your mouth. It was a small gesture, one that spoke the words you weren’t ready to say yet. I still love you, I still need you.

Alex let out a breath, but it wasn’t the kind of exhale you’d heard from him before. It was shaky, broken, like something deep inside him had cracked. You’d never heard him sound like that. His arm tightened slightly around your waist, but when you turned to face him, his eyes were still closed, his brow faintly furrowed as if he was holding something in, something he didn’t want to let you see.

You looked at him in the dim light, the faint outline of his face visible in the shadows. You knew he wasn’t sleeping. He was afraid. Afraid that if he opened his eyes and looked at you, everything he was trying to hold together would fall apart. He didn’t want to break, not in front of you, not now. Not when he thought it would only make things harder.

But you could feel it, the way his body seemed to tense and release with every breath he took, like he was fighting to keep his walls up. And you couldn’t let him carry that alone, not tonight.

Your hand moved up to his face, fingers lightly tracing the familiar lines of his jaw, the slight scruff on his cheeks. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, but he didn’t open his eyes either. His breath hitched just slightly as your hand travelled lower, down the curve of his neck, over his chest. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm, the subtle quickening of his heartbeat.

You lifted the hem of his shirt, pushing it up so you could feel the warmth of his skin against your fingertips. There was something grounding about it, something real, the contact pulling you both back from the edge of whatever distance had grown between you. He gasped, just barely, as your hand slipped beneath the fabric, your fingers brushing lightly against his stomach.

His lips parted, his breathing becoming uneven, but he still didn’t say anything. His eyes remained shut, his jaw tight, as though he was trying to hold onto the last bit of control he had left. You felt his muscles tense under your touch, every inhale deep, every exhale strained.

You pressed closer to him, your fingers trailing lower, down the soft skin just above his waistband. His breath caught in his throat when your hand slipped under the band of his sweatpants, your fingertips brushing against him.

“Ugh…” His voice was a low rasp, like he was about to say more but couldn’t find the words. His eyes stayed shut, his head tilting back slightly as if surrendering to the moment, but still resisting. He didn’t want to make this about him. Not when the weight of your unspoken pain still hung in the air between you.

But you didn’t stop. You didn’t pull away. You kept your touch gentle, tender, letting him know without words that it was okay. That tonight wasn’t about blame or anger or hurt.

You trailed your hand back up, over his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips, steadying, grounding. You moved closer, resting your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, “I’m still here.”

And finally, after what felt like an eternity, he opened his eyes. They were darker in the low light, filled with a mixture of emotion you couldn’t quite name, relief, love, all tangled together. He didn’t speak, but the way he looked at you, like he was searching for something he’d thought he’d lost, said enough.

His arms wrapped around you a little tighter, pulling you against him like he needed the contact just as much as you did. For the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t about what was wrong. It was about what was still there.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, softly at first, testing the space between you. His breath hitched, and for a moment, you both stayed there, suspended in that delicate quiet. Then you kissed him, properly this time, pressing your mouth to his in a way that felt urgent, necessary. He responded slowly, his lips moving against yours, hesitant, unsure where this was headed. But you didn’t hold back, not now.

Your hands trailed back down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingertips, his muscles tensing slightly at your touch. His breath quickened as your leg slipped between his thighs, pressing against him. He let out a soft sound, something caught between a sigh and a groan, his body responding instinctively even as his mind seemed to hesitate.

But then, he pulled back, breaking the kiss, his hand gently pushing against your shoulder. “No.” he breathed, his voice low and rough. “Wait…no.”

You blinked, confusion washing over you as you stayed there, hovering above him. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Don’t you…don’t you want me?”

He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as if the question had hurt him somehow. “I do.” he said, his voice soft, strained. “It’s not…it’s not about that, I just-”

“Shut up.” you interrupted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Please, just…shut up.” You kissed him again, harder this time, desperate for the connection, for him to stop thinking and just be with you. Your hand slipped behind his neck, pulling him closer, and for a second, he hesitated, but he didn’t stop you.

You pushed him back onto the mattress, your hands gripping his shoulders as you straddled his lap, pressing your body against his. His eyes flickered open, dark and stormy with the conflict brewing inside him. His hands hovered at your waist. He wanted to hold on but couldn’t let himself give in fully.

“You…” His voice was a low rasp, but he didn’t say anything more. He didn’t pull you off, didn’t push you away. His eyes searched yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as you sat above him, your thighs pressed tight around his hips.

You leaned down, kissing him again, harder this time, and he groaned into your mouth, his hands finally gripping your waist, pulling you closer. His fingers pressed into your skin, his touch firm, and you could feel the tension in his body as he let go, just a little, surrendering to you.

His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, his lips swollen from your kisses. There was something raw about him in this moment, his usual confidence stripped away, leaving him vulnerable beneath you. His skin was warm, almost burning under your touch, and you could feel the tautness in his muscles, the quiet restraint he was still clinging to.

But you weren’t stopping. You trailed your hands down his chest again, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. His eyes fluttered closed as you rocked your hips against him, grinding slowly. His breath came out in shallow gasps, his fingers digging into your waist, but he didn’t say no again.

“Why are you holding back?” you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not…” he started, but his voice faltered, and he didn’t finish the sentence. His eyes opened, meeting yours, and there was something there. Guilt, maybe. Or fear. He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he tried to gather his thoughts, but nothing came out.

You kissed him again, cutting off whatever excuse he was about to make. “Don’t think.” you murmured against his lips. “Just…be here. With me.”

He exhaled shakily, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you down to him. His grip tightened, his hesitation fading the longer you stayed pressed together. He kissed you back this time, properly, his lips moving with yours in a way that felt desperate, needy.

“Fuck…” he groaned softly, his voice rough, thick with something he wasn’t quite ready to admit. His hips shifted beneath you, pushing up into you as you moved against him. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them tightly.

“Don’t stop.” you whispered, your breath hot against his neck. His skin was damp with sweat, his pulse racing beneath your lips as you kissed down the side of his throat, feeling the way his body trembled beneath yours.

“I’m trying.” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, his head tilting back into the pillow, eyes squeezing shut as if to keep himself grounded. “I’m trying not to lose it…”

“Maybe I want you to.” you said, your voice low, your hands slipping back under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips.

He groaned again, this time louder, his grip on your thighs tightening as he gave in, finally letting go of whatever was holding him back. His lips found yours again, and this time, he kissed you harder, deeper, his body arching up into yours, pulling you down onto him with a force that sent a shiver down your spine.

It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t gentle. It was exactly what you both needed.

The room felt thick with silence as the space between you vanished. His hands slid down, trembling as they caught the waistband of his sweatpants, pushing them down just far enough, exposing himself to you. You pulled off your shorts with a shaky exhale, your body moving on instinct more than anything else. There wasn’t any time for hesitation, no slow unravelling, no careful lead-up. You were both too far gone, too desperate to feel something, anything that would bridge the distance between you.

He was inside you before either of you were fully ready for it, his body meeting yours in a quick, almost frantic rhythm. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t measured, and the sudden rush of sensation felt overwhelming. Your hands gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into his shirt as you moved together, but it wasn’t about pleasure, not in the way it usually was. It was messy, uncoordinated, a little too fast.

His breathing came in quick, ragged gasps, and you could feel his heart racing against your chest as he held you tight, like letting go would mean losing everything. His hips moved roughly beneath you, and you tried to match him, your bodies working in this frantic, unsynchronized rhythm. It wasn’t nearly the best you’d ever had. Not even close. It didn’t matter.

You both were searching for something in each other, something you couldn’t name, something you didn’t even know if you’d find. It was more about release than connection, about letting go of everything that had built up between you, the frustration, the resentment, the silence.

The room was filled with the sound of your uneven breathing, the soft creak of the bed, his hands clinging to you like you might slip away. His hair fell into his eyes again, damp with sweat, his lips parted as he gasped for breath, his brow furrowed with effort. You could feel his body shaking slightly, the tension in his muscles, the way he tried so hard to keep up, to stay with you.

But it wasn’t perfect. It was quick, almost too quick. You felt him stiffen beneath you, his grip tightening as he gasped out your name, his voice rough and broken. You followed moments after, not because it was the height of pleasure, but because the emotion of the moment pushed you over the edge. It was more like giving in than being consumed.

When it was over, the silence between you returned, but it felt different now. Less strained, more exhausted. You stayed there, your bodies still tangled, your forehead resting against his chest as you caught your breath. Neither of you moved for a long time, neither of you said anything. The moment wasn’t about words.

He let out a long, shaky sigh, one that seemed to start deep in his chest. But as the air left him, it got stuck in his throat, and that was when he broke. You could feel it. The sudden shift, the way his body tensed beneath you before he closed his eyes, trying to hold it together. He gently pulled you off him, moving you to the side, his movements almost too careful, like he didn’t want to add to whatever mess was already between you.

He quickly tucked himself back in, pulling his sweatpants up. He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of everything had finally come crashing down on him.

“Sorry.” he muttered, his voice muffled by his hands. But this time, it was different. He wasn’t saying it because he thought he was supposed to, or because he wanted to end the argument. This time, he really meant it. You could hear it in the way the word caught in his throat, like it was hard for him to even say.

You sat up slowly, still catching your breath, watching him as he sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face.

“I’m sorry.” he said again, quieter now. He dropped his hands from his face, staring down at the floor like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I don’t…I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You swallowed hard, feeling your own emotions tugging at you, but you stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“I tried.” he said, his voice rough and halting. “I tried to be here. For you, for her. I really did. But I…I don’t know how to do it right. I don’t know how to be enough.”

His words hung in the air, and you could see how much they cost him. He wasn’t the type to talk like this, to admit when he was struggling, but there it was, laid out between you.

“You’re trying.” you said softly, unsure if it was the right thing to say, but needing him to know that you saw him. That you understood.

He shook his head, letting out a short, bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Trying isn’t enough, though, is it? I’m here, but I’m not really here. Not the way I should be. And I know that. I know it, and I hate it, but I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to…be better.”

You shifted closer to him. “You don’t have to be perfect.” you whispered. “No one’s asking you to be perfect.”

“But I’m not even good enough.” he shot back, his voice cracking slightly. Frustration and confusion etched into every line of his face. “I’m not there when you need me. Not really. I get wrapped up in everything else, in the music, in…whatever, and I can see it. I can see how it’s pushing you away, but I don’t know how to stop.”

You felt a lump forming in your throat, but you forced yourself to push through it. “I don’t need you to stop everything. I just need you to…be with me when you’re here. Be present.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands over his face again. “I thought I was. But I look at you and Poppy and…God, I feel like I’m just standing on the outside, watching, and no matter what I do, it’s not enough. I’m not enough.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked away, his jaw tight, like he was ashamed of what he had just admitted.

Your heart twisted painfully at the sight of him like this. You reached out, gently placing your hand on his back, feeling the way his body stiffened for a moment before he let out a shaky breath, as if he was finally letting himself feel it.

“You are enough.” you whispered, and you meant it, even though everything felt tangled and complicated. “You are. You just…you get lost sometimes. But you’re still enough.”

He closed his eyes, his hands clenching into fists on his thighs. “It doesn’t feel like it. You’ve said it.” he muttered. “I feel like I’m failing you. Both of you.”

He let out another shaky breath, dropping his head forward, and for a moment, you thought he might cry, but he didn’t. Instead, he just sat there, his shoulders slumped, his body heavy with everything he had been holding inside.

“I’m sorry.” he whispered again, and this time, it felt like the apology was more for himself than for you.

You slid closer, wrapping your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. His body was warm, his breath still uneven, but he didn’t pull away. He sat there, letting you hold him, letting the quiet between you settle into something softer, something that felt like the start of understanding.

a/n: i don’t know what this is.

tags: @st7rnioioss @theonlyoneswhoknowsblog @rentsturner @yourstartreatment @avxoxo1 @jqsvi @turnersfav @youresodarkbabe @psychedelicrocker @aacheinthejaw @zayndrider @humbuginmybones @tedioepica

#dad!alex #alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x you #alex turner smut #alex turner angst #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #smut #goblinontour

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xiaq · 2 years ago

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AO3 Pt. 1 Pt. 2

Pt. 3 I combined the prompts: Outsider POV, Steve Harrington is an Idiot (affectionate), Everyone is Queer Because I Said So, and @c0olness's hyper-specific Wayne's Boyfriend Owns a Gay Bar in Indianapolis and Introduces Steve to a Drag Queen. :)

Angel Reyes has loved Wayne Munson about as long as he’s loved himself. The timing is not coincidental.

Which is why he’s willing to wait for him, even when Angel’s patience is worn thin like the shirt he stole from Wayne three years ago and wears like a prayer to bed.

Some nights, when Wayne calls at the end of his shift and Angel is wiping down his own bar at closing, he’s tempted to say: we might not have much time left—shouldn’t we spend what we do have together?

But he doesn’t.

Because he already knows the answer.

Because the same reason he fell in love with Wayne is the reason Wayne won’t move to Indy. The man is loyal to a fault and when he gives himself to people he gives all of himself and there’s no force in the world that would convince Wayne to leave Hawkins if he thought Eddie still needed him there. Because Wayne loves Angel. But Wayne loved Eddie first. And Angel can hardly begrudge him of that.

So he repeats a well-worn mantra, only slightly comforting: not today, but someday. And he hangs up the phone and he checks the calendar and he looks forward to the time he is allowed. If there’s one thing he learned over the years, it’s that he can’t get greedy when he already has a good thing.

Wayne is worth the quiet agony of patience.

So when he’s locking up for the night and the phone rings, he expects the conversation to take a familiar path.

“Evening, handsome,” he says, canting his hip against the counter. “You tell him yet?”

It’s been his standard greeting for close to a year. Why the man won’t just tell his gay nephew that he is, conveniently, also gay, is beyond Angel. But then, listening has always been Wayne’s strong suit. Talking, not so much.

“Well,” Wayne says. And that’s new.

“Well?”

“I did, actually. After I walked in on him and Steve kissin’ last night—“

“Finally!” Angel crows. The saga of Eddie and Steve and their will-they-won’t-they relationship had quickly surpassed even his favorite telenovela’s dramatic storylines. The pretty jock with hidden depths and the nerdy metalhead falling in love? Hospital vigils? Protracted pining while sharing a bed? Impeccable.

“They’re together now,” Wayne finishes.

“Darling,” Angel says, not for the first time, “I’d like to remind you that you are not paying per word for this call.”

Wayne huffs at him, also not for the first time.

“Steve didn’t know liking both boys and girls meant he was bisexual. He thought there was some sort of…threshold he needed to pass to be queer enough to date a man. I suppose Robin set him straight––or, not so straight as the case may be––” he chuckles a little at his own joke, “And he came over to declare his love as soon as his shift ended.”

Angel takes a moment to digest that. “...Maybe they use Eddie as the sperm donor if they want kids,” he suggests.

“Ease up, it’s not like they teach this shit in school. Bet I’d been a lot more confused too if I had the luxury of liking both.”

“Alright, I won’t pick on your future son-in-law, promise.”

“ Speaking of school,” Wayne says, sidestepping his implication. “Eddie got his diploma in the mail yesterday.”

“You going to do something to celebrate?”

“Actually, we thought we’d take a trip to Indy this weekend.”

Angel twists the phone’s cord around his finger. “…you’re supposed to come next weekend.”

“So you’d have to see me two weeks in a row, if you can bear it.”

“A trial, to be sure. When you say…” he pauses, trying to figure out how to clarify without breaking his own heart. “When you come this weekend. Would you want us—would you want me. To meet them?”

He closes his eyes and bangs a fist against his forehead because that is not the safe way to ask that question.

“It'd be pretty weird if they didn’t meet the person hosting them.”

“Oh, I see. You’re just using me for my five star accommodations,” he says, because he’s apparently determined to dig his own grave.

“No. Wayne says, “those are nice. But mostly I just want to introduce them to my boyfriend.”

“Ah.”

“And saying shit like that makes me think you’re trying to compete with Steve in the stupid Olympics.”

Angel makes an outraged noise but Wayne talks over him which is unique enough an occurrence that Angel lets him get away with it.

“See,” Wayne says. “The boys have decided they don’t want to stay in Hawkins long-term. They figure they’ll stay another year. Save some money. Make sure the kids are settled. And then Eddie’s set on New York or California and I think Steve’s just set on Eddie, wherever he is. I thought we could at least make a case for Indy, though. ‘Cause if Eddie isn’t staying in Hawkins, I’ve got no reason to.”

“Ah,” Angel says again. “And you don’t have any interest in New York or California?”

“I sure don’t,” Wayne says levelly.

“Well,” he clears his throat. “I’ll mop the floors and clean the windows. Give them the best showing I can. Should we plan to take them to one of the…heavier… music venues? I can probably have Frank cover for me, I’d just need to ask him now.”

“Nah. I figure I’ll help you out Saturday night and let them explore on their own. Eddie’s already making a list of options. But Friday is drag night at your place, right?”

“It is.”

“We should start them with that, I think.”

Angel grins. “Their debut in queer society shall be heralded by Dolly Parton and glitter.”

“Mm.”

Angel is familiar enough with Wayne’s thoughtful noises to know that he’s smiling.

“Enough about my boys,” Wayne says. “Tell me about your day.”

Angel does.

When Angel hangs up ten minutes later, for once, he’s grinning. He thinks, as usual, not today but someday. Only ‘someday’ suddenly feels tangible in a way it never has before.

***

Eddie Munson is exactly what Angel expected him to be when he comes tumbling out the driver’s side door of the van parked half on Angel’s driveway and half on his lawn. Angel has been hearing about him through the rosy lens of Wayne’s affection for close to five years and as a result, Angel loves him immediately upon first sight.

Then again, he’d be difficult not to love. Eddie is a bright, frenetic, presence, all hair and chains and affected airs, who shares Wayne's smile, though he dispenses smiles much more freely than his uncle. He is unashamedly himself as he shakes Angel’s hand, tells his uncle he approves, and then asks for a tour of the house.

Steve Harrington is somehow simultaneously exactly and nothing like Angel expected.

Exactly, because he looks the part: a cropped Hawkins Varsity Basketball sweatshirt, tiny athletic shorts, and the well-built frame of someone who regularly works out. His hair is verging on ridiculous. His face is…well-suited to the body, he’ll say.

But the kid also has a hyper-awareness to him, a quick-eyed, assessing, vigilant posture, that Angel has only ever seen in war vets twice the kid’s age. He puts his back to a room’s farthest corner. He keeps doorways in sight. And he constantly, constantly, orbits Eddie like the world's most unsubtle protective detail.

There are also the scars. Terrible, still-healing, scars. On one exposed thigh, the side of his neck, and his right forearm. On the slice of skin between his waistband and the frayed cut-off hem of his sweater. He wears them unapologetically, with the composure of someone who is neither proud nor embarrassed by them.

Angel suspects, only a few minutes into their first meeting, that Eddie may have similar scars beneath his torn jeans and bleach-speckled band shirt. One of his arms has some sort of medical sleeve on it—the pale fabric covered in black bleed-fuzzy Sharpie drawings of bats. Angel considers the mangled half-moon-shaped lines decorating Steve’s thigh. Unless earthquakes have suddenly developed teeth, Wayne has clearly been editing his stories.

But despite their significant aesthetic differences, the two boys are well-suited, if painfully young and unpracticed in the art of subtlety. They touch each other constantly; unthinkingly. Hands. Hips. Shoulders. Elbows. And the way they look at each other—well. They’ll need to work on that if they don’t want to accumulate more scars. Granted, they hardly have to hide their relationship in the sanctuary of his home, but he gets the feeling they don’t know how to be any other way with each other.

It’s both sweet and more than a little heartbreaking.

“So,” he says, “ I need to get back to the bar before the opening act at 8. It’s drag night.”

“Robin is going to be furious she didn’t come,” Steve says.

“We’ll bring her next time,” Eddie says.

They go.

***

Angel’s bar is called Innuendo.

He can’t take credit for the name, but he can take credit for the atmosphere. It’d been a dark, sticky, hole-in-the-wall when he started working there at 21. When he’d bought it from the former owner a decade later, he’d cleaned it up, regulated the jukebox hours, and started live music, drag, and deejay nights. A few years after that, in 1984, when the mayor issued a proclamation declaring the new city policy to no longer discriminate against queers, he’d taken the boards down from all the windows.

It’s still dark in the back where the stage and dance floor are tucked away, but the front windows with a clear view of the street are big and unashamed. He keeps the windows clean.

There’s a copy of the proclamation framed above them, along with pictures of Angel and noteworthy patrons of the establishment over the years: Wakefield Poole; Tom Higgins; Bayard Rustin; Freddie Mercury, and Jim Hutton.

A lot has changed in the last two decades that he’s worked there, but some things, like the old oak-wood bar where all the pictures were taken, stay the same.

He brings Wayne and the boys in through the back to scattered shouts of hello from regulars. He and Wayne slide behind the bar to start helping Frank, and the boys sit on stools with wide eyes.

It’s nice, to see the place from their perspective. The magic of it is never lost on him, but sometimes he does forget exactly how magic it is: a bar that looks like most other bars but where men look and touch and kiss without concern, where there’s art and magazines and conversations that wouldn’t be permitted by common society a scant few feet outside the door.

After fifteen minutes, they get brave enough to explore—admiring the posters on the opposite wall: Bijou and Boys in the Sand; Passing Strangers, Forbidden Letters, and A Night at the Adonis.

They play a round of darts near the front windows, the boards covered in shitty black-and-white copies of Anita Bryant’s face.

They sit at a table near the stage when the show starts. They pull their chairs together. They hold hands on the tabletop. They laugh and shout and sing along and kiss when invited.

After, when they’re back at the bar, flushed with alcohol and the subtle worldview shift that Angel remembers well from his first visit to a gay bar, a few of the queens come over to introduce themselves. Leslie, currently in her Cher era, steps up to the bar, accepts her drink from Wayne with a wink, and gives Steve a clear once-over.

“Aren't you out a little late for a school night, baby?" she says in her customary baritone.

“Uh, no ma’am. I graduated last year. Sorry. Sir?”

"Sugar, do I look like a ‘sir’ to you?"

“Take it easy on him, Les,” Angel calls. “He’s new.”

“No kidding.” She purses her lips at him. “Ma’am is fine unless you meet me on the street. But here I’d prefer ‘honey. Or ‘darling.”

Steve swallows. “I promised I’d reserve pet names for my boyfriend. So. I’ll stick with Ma’am.”

“Well aren’t you a charmer. And where is this boyfriend?”

“Hi,” Eddie says.

She gives him an equally critical once-over.

“Do you know what that color bandana means in that pocket?”

Eddie glances down at his back left pocket; at the black bandana hanging against his thigh.

“Ah...that I’m into S&M but that I like to be the submission one? Like the one getting tied up?”

“You what?” Steve says.

Angel notices that Wayne has made a hasty exit to the bathroom, which is probably for the best.

“Oh my sweet summer child,” Leslie says, “it means the opposite on that side, so maybe switch pockets.” She considers Steve’s pink face. “And also maybe talk to your boyfriend. The whole point of flagging is to find someone to meet your needs and you've got a pretty one right here who seems like he’s awfully willing.”

Steve pulls the bandana out of Eddie’s pocket and, using his teeth, tidily rips it into two. He tucks one half in Eddie’s right back pocket. He tucks the other in his left. He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow like he's expecting Eddie to argue. Eddie does not argue. Eddie doesn't do much of anything except stare at him with wide, hungry eyes.

“Well,” Leslie says, sounding pleased, “My work here is done. Honestly, kids these days.”

She gives Steve a little pat on the shoulder as she pushes back into the crowd. “I’d dance while you have the chance, boys. Life is short and sometimes so is love. Capitalize on that shit!”

“Do you want to dance?” Steve asks.

Eddie is still watching Leslie with a bemused smile. “I don’t know how to dance to this music.”

“Well I won’t know how to dance to yours tomorrow, but I’m planning to let you show me.”

“Fair enough, King Steve." Eddie affects a curtsy, offering Steve his hand. “I suppose I can allow you to take me for a turn about the dance floor, good sir.”

Steve bows low over Eddie’s hand, pressing his lips to his knuckles, looking up at him with a grin. “An honor,” he says solemnly, and then drags Eddie, laughing, into the throng of moving bodies.

***

The next morning, Angel wakes up early for no reason he can determine. He’s not good at sitting idle, and he doesn’t want his fidgeting to wake Wayne, so he elects to take his book to the garden. Only, as he slips into the hall, careful with the door behind him, he can hear the quiet, indistinct lull of voices in the kitchen.

Angel moves down the hall on sock feet, avoiding the creaky bit of flooring where the original foundation meets the master addition he added four years back.

The boys have opened the double doors to the patio and Steve is leaning against the jam on one side, coffee cup in hand, looking out at the garden. He’s shirtless, wearing only the shorts from the day before. Warm, tree-diluted, sunrise rays cast him in sepia, making the scars that traverse his flank to his thigh look less gruesome and more artistic. Poetic. He knows more than one photographer who would kill for a shot like this. Something about the coexistence of beauty and pain. Something about a commentary on perceptions of strength; the allure of imperfection resulting from battles survived.

Eddie joins Steve, sliding under his open arm like a habit, dragging a hand down Steve’s side to cup the puckered line of recently-stitched skin at Steve’s hip.

Eddie is also shirtless—wearing jeans and a riot of bed head that Steve presses his face into, murmuring something low and clearly funny by the stifled laughter it produces.

Angel wasn't wrong with his initial assumption: Eddie’s back is littered with shallow scars as well, but he also has a fair amount of tattoos, which makes the other marks less incongruous. There’s something about Steve’s otherwise flawless skin and sculpted muscles that make his injuries feel more visceral.

Or, at least, that’s what he thinks until Steve suddenly looks behind him, like he has a preternatural awareness that he’s being watched.

“Oh,” he says, “Good morning.”

Both boys turn to face him.

And Angel realizes that Steve’s injuries pale in comparison to Eddie’s.

Because Eddie’s chest and belly is a brutal mess of scar tissue.

It looks like something tried to gut him.

It looks like whatever it was probably succeeded.

He knows he’s staring but he can’t seem to stop himself until Steve slides a proprietary hand over the worst of it, spread fingers against what has to still be an agony of healing skin.

He meets Angel's eyes and all but dares him to say anything.

“I think,” Angel says, turning abruptly to enter the kitchen, “the occasion calls for french toast. Thoughts?”

“The occasion?” Eddie asks.

His hand covers Steve’s and presses, not a dismissal but an invitation to linger.

“Your diploma,” Angel says, “Steve’s first time making a fool of himself in front of a drag queen. Whatever excuse is sufficient for the making of said french toast.”

“See, we’re sort of trying out this new thing lately,” Eddie murmurs, looking at Steve, “where we don’t need excuses for things that make us happy.”

“No guilt in our pleasures,” Steve agrees, voice soft, expression reverent. He tucks an errant curl behind Eddie’s ear.

Angel resists the urge to sigh at them. Instead, he toasts them with a carton of eggs. “French toast for the pleasure of french toast, then. You two go sit on the bench in the garden. The sun should be hitting it right about now and that is surely a pleasurable experience. I’ll let you know when breakfast is ready.”

Steve meets his eyes again, this time less challenging, more thankful.

His hand slides from Eddie’s belly to the small of his back, pushing him out onto the patio.

“That sounds nice,” he says.

And they go.

When Wayne shuffles out to join Angel at the stove ten minutes later, the bread is sizzling in the skillet.

They take their time washing the egg bowl and whisk in the sink, elbow to elbow, two men sharing space for a one-man job.

They lean into each other, considering Eddie and Steve, similarly leaned into each other, on the bench under the oak tree outside.

“You think I should talk to them?” Wayne murmurs. “About the way they look at each other. And touch each other. And how they need to cut that shit out if they’re in public?”

“Probably,” Angel sighs. “But not today.”

“No,” Wayne agrees after a moment of silence. He presses a kiss to Angel’s temple. “Not today.”

Pt. 4 (Will's POV)

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington/eddie munson #steve/eddie #myfic #outsider pov #prompt fill #mywriting #listen this was mostly an excuse to cram in a bunch of references to the research I did for my PhD exams in queer theory/history

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minkdelovely · 5 months ago

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velocity

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Alastor x Lucifer ; RadioApple

tags/warnings: pining, fluff because where is it? i can’t find it, might be ooc but also i don’t care? let my boy miss his man a lot little? 🤭, not explicit but as a general rule MDNI 18+

word count: 1k

author’s note: a gift to @hazelfoureyes & @sugoi-writes but no one could be more surprised about this than me lol i was just absolutely overcome with need and… here we are? 🥲✨ chapter ten: part two is on its way, promise. this was very much a ‘struck by lightning’ moment — rare and cherished. i hope you enjoy and that this aids in the waiting 🙏🏻

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Slow.

That’s how it starts. So slow it doesn’t feel any different than the usual day-to-day.

Routine.

Safety in boundaries. Both sets and manages expectations. It’s slow here, too. Concealing itself as a begrudging task one could get out of. But doesn’t.

Consistency.

Knowing what to expect. This, unlike the others, is not slow. Though quick to some, it appears to all in its own time, and it’s not alone.

Familiarity.

Blurs the line. A line that was never quite solid from the start. This is slow. And noticeable.

Nerves.

Unpredictable. Some days it’s not too bad. Follow Routine, where it’s safe. Other days, the blur looms overhead. Brings discomfort. An itch under the skin that can only be relieved by another’s hand.

Touch.

Tests boundaries. Starts slow. A light hand to the shoulder. Grabbing of a wrist during a laugh. Longer eye contact. A different heat behind the taunts. The kindling of a new flame. There is no going back.

Desire.

Burns. This feels fast, due to the false sense of security brought on by Slow. There from the start, biding its time. Waiting to be found. Always with the intent to consume.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

It’s here that Alastor finds himself, fidgeting with a pen at his desk. Head in hand, mind wandering, and eyes glossed as he stares through the windows of his tower; the Hellscape he called home beyond the pane might as well have been covered in fog. What he was looking for was far beyond the city.

Would he be back today?

A question the demon found himself wondering often. Followed quickly with a correlating, hopeful squeeze in the chest. An ache that wouldn’t bother him as much as it did if it could be satiated by his own means.

Lucifer been gone for a couple weeks now. The halls of the hotel feeling barren in his absence. Hollow without his voice.

The angel had to leave the Pride Ring to perform his annual duties and make his rounds through the other circles of Hell. Places Alastor did not have the ability to venture to, being a sinner.

Agony.

This was new, and by far the worst development. It was slow, like many of the others, but seeped into the passage of time thick as syrup. Making it heavy. Seconds passing as if carrying the weight of the world. Because they were.

Missing someone was not something Alastor was accustomed to. Not suited for, even. He didn’t have the patience for it. The stamina. Roaming the halls kept his feet busy, but not much else. How many laps could he make through the hotel before an hour passed? It was a goalpost that kept moving as his anticipation turned to restlessness.

What purpose was there in having twenty-four hours in a day in the afterlife when time was a mortal construct? Did they count the hours in Heaven as well? Or was this a punishment tailored for the damned? It was positively infuriating, and Alastor planned to have a word with his king about it upon his return.

Even if just to lament the fact that time passing in solitude had never bothered him before. When Lucifer informed him of this upcoming trip, the Overlord hadn’t given it a second thought. If anything, he recalled quipping back about finally getting some breathing room.

His majesty was a generously affectionate creature in private. Alastor only pretended to be burdened by it. His flippant, exasperated demeanor being thrown in his face with spite as he now suffered the nights alone in bed. The evening chill maliciously soaking into the left side of his body without the barrier of Lucifer’s embrace.

Comfort.

Alastor was shocked to find himself craving it with a force akin to withdrawal. This was something he had been sufficiently providing on his own for much longer than he had ever received it from others. Subjected now to use Lucifer’s pillow to fill the vacancy of his arms. It was a poor substitute. The scent not strong enough, the weight too light. No breath. No heat. No reciprocating cling.

The pen in Alastor’s hand broke with a snap. Ink shining against the leather of his black gloves as it seeped in. Alastor couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than watch it settle in and dry. A stain that couldn’t be seen, but marred its host all the same. Fitting.

Why hadn’t he asked how long this would take? In his need to seem unfazed, he had trapped himself here in the liminal space of waiting with no end in sight. The relief of this misery known only to one of them. Without so much as a phone call for courtesy.

Does he miss me?

A lump formed in Alastor’s throat at the thought, a perturbed growl following close behind. Hand empty and paper blank, his anxiety settled in his chest. Heartbeat in his ears and pulsing against his ribs as he trudged back to their bedroom that might as well have been the gallows.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

In the late hours of the evening there’s movement in the room. Air punctured with the melody of soft, even breath joined by the shedding of clothes and boots falling to the floor with abandon. Bed dipping under the familiar body crawling in, the rustling of sheets as limbs entangle without conscious thought.

Close.

Solace, but not enough. Too much to make up for to be resolved with just an eagerly anticipated embrace.

Longing and adoration are pressed into skin through hungry kisses. Starting on the shoulder and chest before moving up the neck, the jaw, the face. A furrowed brow as consciousness returns to the slumbering demon, senses blooming with recognition at his angel’s long-awaited presence.

A proper kiss now as Alastor’s arms guide Lucifer to lay atop of him. Relieved moans and heavy sighs fill the small spaces between them as hands wander and knead and cling. Time finally on their side as they exchange saccharine apologies and heartsick complaints between the touch of fingers and lips. Basking in the sanctuary that can only be found here.

Slow.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold, @krak-jj, @tremendoushearttaco, @redfoxwritesstuff, @chibistar45, @kaylopolis, @cutiebimbo, @lousypotatoes, @rfox1998, @cosmiccandydreamer, @stardustandbrimstone, @cherry-cola-100, @wonderlandangelsposts, @catticora, @velvette3, @sailorsmouth, @reath-solia, @junieshohoho, @cxrsedwxrlds

**tag list darlings, if you only want to be tagged on alastor x reader in the future please let me know — my poll didn’t show me who chose what 🥺🙏🏻✨**

#radioapple #radioapple fluff #<- that tag right there? didn’t even TRY to come up as suggested #radioapple fan fiction #hazbin hotel fan fiction

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genericaces · 9 months ago

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more rambling about a s5 au: lindsey comes back for a redemption arc to act as legal counsel for angel's team. this ostensibly gives gunn a reason to opt out of the lawyer operation, but he does it anyway because he doesn't trust lindsey not to fuck them over.

lindsey acts as a moral foil to gunn, who comes to believe his necessary contribution to the team (since he's no longer their only lawyer) is being the defender of the group's principles while working at w&h. they frequently butt heads while working on a case, but eventually develop a begrudging respect of each other's respective strengths.

this hostile-to-friendly-rivalry arc is tested when it comes out that w&h was responsible for some demon problem that's been plaguing gunn's home community. gunn has, unbeknownst to himself, been somehow contributing to it while working at w&h; lindsey knowingly contributed to it when he was last working there as a lawyer. lindsey is forced to confront who he was, while gunn is forced to confront who he’s becoming.

since he was involved in the project, lindsey uses his insider knowledge to help come up with a plan to fix the problem. they execute it, something goes wrong, and lindsey risks his life to ensure the plan goes off successfully. he expects congratulations and a pat on the back from gunn, but gunn isn't interested in absolving lindsey's sins (or his own), and their warming relationship freezes over.

at some point, gunn lets himself get taken by the senior partners in an effort to deal with his guilt over various lapses in judgment/perceived moral failures. during their rescue mission to the holding dimension, lindsey stays behind in gunn's place so he can escape, assuring gunn that he's the lawyer the team needs right now. their mutual arcs culminate in lindsey rejecting the idea that redemption is done for recognition, and gunn rejecting the idea that guilt/self-punishment is inherently redemptive.

eventually after being busted out by illyria, lindsey is there to empathize with gunn about losing parts of yourself (body, mind, and/or soul) to w&h, relationships to power when you've grown up without it, and what it means to live with the consequences of your actions. both of them reflect on the nature of redemption/forgiveness/intent as they grapple with how to own up to an appropriate share of the blame.

#imagine i'm explaining this to you like the charlie day pepe sylvia scene #now let's talk about two characters who have barely interacted can we talk about two characters who have barely interacted #angel the series #ats #charles gunn #lindsey mcdonald #i think it's about two people who have grown up with a front row seat to how people with power will use it to step on others #the difference being that gunn thinks 'i need to be strong so i don't let people in power fuck over me or my own'#while lindsey thinks 'i need to BE those people in power'#also lindsey's appearance is a big PITA to gunn because he's a reminder that to anyone looking from the outside #gunn now looks a lot like the same evil guys in suits that he once fought against #which also reflects some of the themes in s5 more broadly! can they do good while working within evil inc or will they be corrupted etc #plus there's a lot of parallels to what's going on with spike and angel #art

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bullet-prooflove · 1 year ago

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Valeria - Angel Reyes x Reader

Tagging: @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989 @witches-unruly-heart @keyweegirlie @annetje @infinity-mars @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @appreciatelove @the-wandering-lunatic @weiwei0210 @anime-weeb-4-life @multifandomloversworld @harperdoodle @est1887 @prettyinpunk85 @thanossexual @briefpersonenemy @creativitybeware @librarian1002 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @spookyboogyuniverse @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @thebaileybugle @legally-a-bastard @bonsaijoons @sclitvdes @justreblogginfics @irishavengersassemble @keyweegirlie

It’s late when Angel makes it home, later than he intended to be. The house is already lit up and the porch light is on, beckoning him inside. He loves coming home to this, knowing that there’s someone waiting for him, someone who cares about him, who wants to hear about his day. He shuts the front door behind him, bending down to untie the laces of his boots before he toes them off carefully and sets them alongside your smaller ones.

He's been thinking of asking you to move in with him. It’s been almost nine months and he’s more than ready, the only reason he hasn’t done it sooner is because you’re a little skittish. You’ve told him before that you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He hopes that you see you don’t have to worry about that with him. That he’s steady, that he wants a place in your life and he’s here to stay.

“Hey baby, sorry I’m late.” he hollers as he treads through the hallway towards the kitchen. He knows you’re probably in there, sitting at the table running through your list of things to do. “We were talking about the food drive this weekend, Bish was worried we wouldn’t have enough bodies…”

He trails off, his hand coming to rest on the door frame as he surveys the sight in front of him.

“I found this on the doorstep.” You tell him, tipping your head towards the car seat and the diaper bag sitting on the kitchen table. “Along with those.”

You’re holding a baby.

She’s tiny, not more than a few weeks old, wrapped up in a white fleece blanket with yellow ducks embroidered into it. There’s a tuft of dark hair sticking out of her head, something that he recognises from his own baby pictures. His heart fucking breaks because he knows, he just knows that this is his baby.

“There’s a note.” You say, swaying from side to side gently as the infant begins to gripe. You hush her and she begins to sooth as you continue with the motion.

He edges towards the table, his fingers picking up the envelop that’s already been torn open. He doesn’t begrudge you that, he would have done the same thing. There’s a letter and a birth certificate tucked inside. He takes them both and smooths them upon the surface of the table along side each other. He studies the birth certificate first.

Her name is Valeria and she’s three weeks old.

His fingertip trails down the paper until he reaches the line where both of the parents are listed. He sees his name scrawled by a registrar along side the word ‘Father’. He puts both of his hands on the back of his head as he breathes the word ‘fuck’.

“Don’t swear in front of the baby.” You murmur, your voice a low, even tone.

“Sorry.” He finds himself saying.

This is so fucking surreal; he can’t wrap his head around it. His gaze strays to the ‘Mother’ column and he sees the name Skylar Rixton listed. Who the fuck…

And then he remembers.

Sky.

The bike bunny he’d fucked a couple of weeks before he met you. She’d been tending bar for a few weeks, a friend of Jess’s. Things had gotten a little wild that night in the Clubhouse, he’d been knocking back tequila trying to drown out the self-loathing that was gnawing at his insides and she’d put herself directly in his path. He’s woken up the next morning with a scratched up back and Sky trying to tempt an encore out of him. He’d stopped it in it’s tracks because he could already see that she was getting attached and Angel didn’t do strings.

She’d taken off a couple of months later after he’d started seeing you.

He read the letter next, and it confirms his suspicions. She’d discovered she was pregnant not long after he’d met you. Decided to raise the kid on her own, then discovered it wasn’t as easy as she thought.

She’s your problem now, the letter said.

“I didn’t know.” He tells you as he raises from his seat at the table.

“It doesn’t matter.” You say, your head tilted away from him.

Your hair falls across your features so he can’t see the expression on your face. He realises that this is the other shoe, that the very thing he promised not to do to you is happening right now and he is powerless to stop it.

“Angel, you need to take you daughter.” You tell him.

Your voice is soft, but he can still hear the hurt in it. It feels like he’s being stabbed in the chest because the last thing he ever wanted was for you to become a casualty of his recklessness.

You’re careful as you hand him the baby. He reacts instinctively, shifting the weight of the tiny infant until she sits comfortably in his arms, her fists flailing just a little.

“You’re alright.” He tells her, his voice kind as he starts to sway. “I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t realise you’ve left until he hears the front door closing behind you. He doesn’t remember you saying anything, only the absence of your presence as he finds himself standing alone in his kitchen with his daughter cradled in his arms. He swallows hard past the ache in his chest, his eyes stinging because he knows he fucked up.

This may be the beginning for him and Valeria but it’s the end of him and you.

Love Angel? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x you #angel mayans #angel reyes

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tonydaddingham · 1 year ago

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the thing that is actually making me giddy with the possible angst is that i really think that we are about to see the most monumental shift in not only how we saw these characters but also how they previously saw each other.

the fact that we literally now have confirmation that a) they knew each other before the fall, b) aziraphale has had heart eyes since before time began, and c) crowley... possibly not so much, completely changes the context on not just the eden scene but also all the historic scenes that followed.

aziraphale knew crowley as an angel, and knew even then when crowley was meant to be 'perfect' that crowley was maybe a bit different, always asking questions and toeing the line. maybe out of a bit of bastardy himself, or out of begrudging awe of his ability but also his audacity, or just plain attraction, aziraphale immediate takes to him. but this has meant that aziraphale has placed crowley, perhaps unconsciously, upon a pedestal. and the pedestal that aziraphale puts crowley on from that moment may have wobbled throughout their history together, but it's stayed relatively intact.

this worries me, that aziraphale may not have quite let go of the fact that crowley just isn't that person any more, maybe never was to begin with, and continues in some measure to idolise him. my interpretation of this is that yes, crowley can be a bit of a dick (because, well, obviously) and aziraphale knows this, has done since the beginning, but aziraphale continues to hold crowley to an overall moral ideal that is so firmly ensconced in aziraphale's first perception of him as an angel that crowley will never be able to live up to it. not because he isn't a nice person, or because he can't live up to it, but maybe... he just simply doesn't want to.

but the issue is that throughout the ages (including the job minisode which ive had corrected for me, so Crowley Anger is now simply simmering), crowley's actions have only reinforced to aziraphale that despite being technically a demon, he has a huge heart and is not a horrible person. bit of a bastard, but not cruel. all of this just feeds and feeds into this image of crowley that aziraphale has built of him, and when crowley has his flashes of, in fact, not being honourable or kind, this threatens to upset the pedestal altogether.

these wobbly moments - when he thinks crowley is going to kill the children, when crowley snaps at him in rome, when crowley first proposes the arrangement, the prospect that he came up with the french revolt, the holy water request, the bandstand, "how can someone as clever as you be so stupid?"... moments where just for a second, in a small or huge measure, aziraphale's faith in crowley... flickers.

and of course aziraphale has been here before, right? he's had his faith, his devotion, his loyalty tested to the absolute limit of angelic endurance. so when his faith in heaven (never lost it in god) was obliterated, well - it had to cling to something. something that wouldnt mean that aziraphale has to lose the concept of faith altogether. so we're back to the old standby of idolatry, that aziraphale's heavenly faith is replaced by his faith in crowley, this angel that despite never originally giving aziraphale the time of day, aziraphale cannot see - for all of crowley's faults and bastardy and the frustration he poses - crowley as anything less than something to be worshipped.

this is exactly why i think that one of the main points of s2 is going to be a rift between them both. obviously i haven't talked about crowley's perspective of this and maybe i will in another post, but i do think that crowley is going to do something, a bad thing for the right reasons, but aziraphale isn't going to see it like that. that crowley will do something awful to protect aziraphale, but all aziraphale will be able to see is the betrayal or the cruelty or the despair, he can't see wood for the trees, and just lose that last vestige of faith he had altogether.

i feel like once all the disillusion and disenchantment has been swept away, and they're both laid bare at each other's feet... that they may not quite like what they find. from aziraphale's perspective, that whatever crowley does in s2 might be crossing aziraphale's line in the sand, and now aziraphale is starting to see crowley as someone that is truly grey, fluctuating between doing things that are Good, and things that are Good for Crowley.

and it's not as if aziraphale was blind to this before, but instead now... he kind of finally sees who crowley is? who he has been all along? the film has lifted from his eyes. realises that love and worship are not the same thing. what he loves, who he loves, doesn't equate to worshipping it/them, idolising them. there's a very big difference that echoes down to the very core tenet of who aziraphale is and his experiences with having and losing faith, but love having remained.

so stripped of the pedestal, crowley is now just simply... crowley. a person, not an angel, not a demon. and there is the distinct possibility that aziraphale might be completely blindsided by what he finds.

#good omens #good omens season 2 #ill let you in on a secret - no idea where i was going with this #but what im essentially saying is that aziraphale has this shiny picture of crowley in his head and heart #and when crowley continues to do crowley things aziraphale kinda steps back and is like #“huh... has it been this was all along?”#and if I'm wrong well honestly THANK GOD #but i feel like there is going to be a real reckoning at the end of s2 where faith and love is concerned #that the two are very different but aziraphale kinda confuses the two #anyway #good omens spoilers #good omens 2 spoilers #good omens... speculation? Sure why not #not a shitpost but its good omens babyyyy #im saying theyre in somewhat of a toxic and disillusioned relationship and its likely going to (temporarily) end v badly im afraid #rhi needs to stop manifesting

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a-fuckin-husk · 4 months ago

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Husker was in a foul mood. "Grumpy" didn't cut it. From the moment he wandered down into the lobby, he snapped at anybody who dared come near and pressed him for anything more than an early-morning drink—which was no one. Literally nobody drank at 8 AM except for- ANYWAYS! It didn't matter.

Every once and a while, he would glance at the staircase, as if waiting for—

He picked listlessly at his breakfast. He was agitated, hardly paying attention to anything anybody had to say. He even snapped at Alastor, who was so taken aback that he merely narrowed his eyes but, luckily, didn't say anything else. For fuck's sake, he even told Pen to "shut the fuck up!" which was completely uncharacteristic because, even though he thought the snake demon's drivel was asenine, it was usually tolerable.

He couldn't stop glancing at the staircase.

It was nearly 3 in the afternoon when Angel Dust finally wandered downstairs. Husk could hardly begrudge him the late awakening, he hadn't even returned home to the hotel until nearly 6 AM.

But when he did finally make an appearance, the barcat's attitude shifted completely. Instead of irritable and distracted, he was suddenly anxious and restless. He did his very best to seem casual—he even went as far as to avoid Angel until the sinner approached his bar. And when the spider finally sat down, Husk turned his back to him, reaching, almost frantically, for a glass to polish.

"What d'ya want?" Husk asked. His tone was harsher than he meant it, but he was so focused on trying to stop his hands from shaking, that he almost didn't notice.

Honestly? Whatever Angel said, whatever he'd ordered, Husk didn't hear it. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Instead, he fixed Angel's usual, passed it to him, and said, "Listen, I went out gamblin' last night with some buddies of mine and they... Alright, so, don't read too much into this, okay?"

Christ, his heart was pounding so rapidly he could hardly think straight.

"I was playing poker with some buddies last night and one of 'em could play the tab, see? Well, it was late and we were all wasted, so we decided to let 'im bet whatever he wanted just 'cause we wanted to keep playin'. So he bets- look. It doesn't matter, okay?" He snapped, cutting himself off abruptly.

Husk only rambled when he was telling tall tails, and he seemed to remember that when his story suddenly stopped.

"Listen, just... Fuckin'... Fuck. Shut the fuck up, okay? Don't fuckin' say anything," he grumbled, before stooping under his bar to retrieve two boxes—a flat, rectangular box made of white cardboard, and a small, square jewelry box covered in black velvet.

"My point is: I won this shit in the poker game last night, but it isn't my style so I figured I'd give it to you. Take it or leave it, I don't give a shit,"

Except, of course, he did give a shit. Inside of the larger box was a gorgeous, rich blue, silk dress. Blue dye was extraordinarily difficult to find in hell—think Tyrian purple... But blue—so the dress was obviously expensive. And inside of the jewelry box was a pair of dangling gold earrings with sapphires. The earrings matched the dress and the color of the dress perfectly matched Angel's white and pink fur.

Obviously, there had been no poker game. Husker had saved up money and bought Angel a very nice dress and matching earrings... Just because. Angel deserved nice things—things that weren't tainted by Valentino. And these things? They were no-strings-attached, Husk emphasized as much with the sheer commitment to his stupid little lie about a non-existent poker game. After all, if he presented them as gifts that he'd painstakingly picked out, Angel might feel like he owed husk something, and the barcat didn't want that. So, it was better to pretend like all of this was a coincidence, like the lovely silk dress and the gold earrings were nothing more than ha d-me-downs that Husk didn't know the true value of. That way, Angel wouldn't feel obligated him. That way, Angel could have something nice, like he deserved, no strings attached.

"Sorry it isn't pink or whatever," he said, even though he knew that Angel would know the value of the color. "If you hate it, just toss it in the dumpster put back, I don't give a shit,"

Oh dear, his voice was shaking, as were his hands. In fact, he had to turn his back to Angel once again, just to hide the heat creeping across his face.

#angel dust #husk #huskerdust #hazbin hotel #angel hazbin hotel #husk hazbin hotel #rp starter #come rp with me!

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brewstersbru · 9 months ago

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Queerplatonic Radioapple 📻 🍎,,, old men (losers) who care abt e/o

The thing about being an angel is that there are always bloodier, messier ways to do things. There’s an easy way, and there’s a fun way, and despite what they would have you believe, angels are much too bored with eternity to choose anything but the fun way anymore.

Lucifer curses whatever twisted being made him and bestowed his powers upon him- God- then backtracks in his own head, still deathly afraid of being heard and punished. Then, once he remembers that no one is listening, haven’t been for centuries, he curses them again.

Charlie is worried about Alastor. He hasn’t been acting himself these past few days. Rarely leaves his tower unless summoned, his smiles have become tight-lipped and straining. Even with the cursory attention Lucifer has paid him- busy with trying to make up for too many years in a hole- it’s not hard to see that Charlie is right, and something is wrong.

All it takes is a quick, plausibly accidental stroll outside of his rooms to tell Lucifer what it is. Charlie hadn’t asked him to snoop, but she’s nervous. Doesn’t want to lose another friend. Lucifer would do anything and everything to Fix It, and in order to get to that point he needs to know what’s wrong. So he snoops.

The pungent reek of demon blood poisoned with holy light permeates the air around Alastor’s rooms. To anyone but Lucifer it probably doesn’t smell too different, Alastor has very obviously put a lot of effort into covering the stench with rancid deer meat, and gamey sinner. Lucifer knows what a holy wound smells like, though, hell he’s not sure why he didn’t recognize it before now. Alastor’s obviously put in work to keep this a secret but it shouldn’t have worked for this long against the literal king of hell. He’s distracted, too comfortable, needs to sharpen the hell up if he has any plans of actually protecting his daughter and her passion project in any meaningful way.

Once he knows what is wrong, it’s not difficult to devise a fix. What is difficult, is coming to terms with what that will entail.

The way he sees it, there are three ways out of this situation. One, he tells Alastor he knows that he’s still hurt and offers to heal the wound through touch, which will take approximately an hour after which they never have to speak again. That one’s mostly a bust simply because Lucifer reckons Alastor won’t let him get past the first part without mauling him.

Two, he lets Alastor die of being a stubborn, pissy bastard. This one’s not really an option considering the whole reason he’s going through all of this trouble is so that Charlie will stop worrying. Killing him won’t stop the worrying, no matter how much he wishes it would.

Finally, unfortunately the only feasible plan, is to siphon the poison from the wound over time. Slowly imbuing Alastor’s soul with his own, tainted holy energy in order to heal the wound over time. If he does it right, Alastor won’t even know he was healed. The unfortunate part about this plan is that it doesn’t rid the wound from existence like a touch would, it simply transfers it from one soul to another. Lucifer will be taking the wound onto himself, where he can work on healing it naturally, as his body is not poisoned by the purity of angelic wounds. It will hurt, but it will heal. If the wound is left on Alastor, it will never heal.

Begrudging, but still determined to be as useful as possible to Charlie before he inevitably fucks everything up again, Lucifer resolves to go through with plan number three. It takes a week. Seven days of gradually increasing pain, of magicking golden stains from his coat, then being winded from using magic, of sewing himself together each night only to wake up in a pool of his own blood because the wound had grown larger while he slept.

It takes seven days, but at the end of it, Alastor is as chipper as ever, and the crease between Charlie’s brows has smoothed into something joyful. The wound now spans the length of Lucifer’s chest, wrapping around his torso near his ribs and up to his rightmost shoulder blade. Honestly, he’s not sure how Alastor survived so long like this and feels a grudging respect at the man for having pushed through.

The wound throbs, and every so often it will twinge, as if Lucifer were being cut in half- scored and carved all over again- but when he walks downstairs on the morning of the eighth day and finds Alastor cooking, Charlie seated, legs kicking happily at the island… He knows it’s worth it. Any amount of pain would be worth the sheer relief on Charlie’s face as she tracks Alastor’s every move, still looking for any irregularities. Something like pride swells within Lucifer at the knowledge that she will find none. He did that. He brought her that solace. No one will ever know, but that wasn’t the point of it.

“Good morning your majesty!” Alastor crows from the stove, he doesn’t turn to greet him. For a moment Lucifer wonders how he had known he was there, but a pair of eyes glinting in the shadows of the hallway tells him all he needs to know about that. Charlie perks and glances over at him as he’s addressed.

“Good morning, Alastor! You seem awful chipper today, feeling better?” No one will know he helped Alastor, yes, but that doesn’t mean he cant have fun with this. Just the look on his face right now- a smile, frozen, as his brows draw inward in incredulity- is worth the twinge that talking elicits.

Alastor, always the performer, recovers easily. “I’ve no idea what you mean! I have not been sick in decades, your majesty.”

Lucifer only chuckles, hiding his wince by taking a seat next to Charlie at the island. God why does it hurt so much? Why can’t he focus on anything else? Michael had torn off his fucking wings and stabbed him through the heart with blessed steel when he cast him down to hell and he can’t handle a little holy light from Adam? Eternity has made him soft. It’s fucking pathetic.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to presume. You had Charlie worried!” He grits, trying to keep his voice even and chipper. Charlie smacks him on the arm and he has to fight off a groan. Fucking. Worthless.

“Dad! I wasn’t- I just- UGH.” She stutters, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I still can’t believe we sent you to deal with Adam alone. That never should’ve happened, Al, I’m so so so so sorr-“

Alastor cuts her off with a grin, sliding a steaming plate of eggs, bacon and toast in front of her. “No need, my dear! As you can see I’m right as rain and in one piece.” His eyes slide over to Lucifer for a moment and he hums.

“Would you like some breakfast, your majesty?” He asks, turning back to the stove. Lucifer shakes his head, then regrets it when it makes him dizzy.

“I’m alright, thank you. Had a big dinner.” He manages. Alastor hums again, and Lucifer isn’t sure whether that means he believes him or not.

Charlie finishes her meal in quiet, comfortable conversation with Alastor, some of the other hotel residents who stop in for a bite and, occasionally, Lucifer when he manages to push down the nausea enough to speak without fear of barfing all over her nice pantsuit.

She leaves with little fanfare, but she does pull Lucifer into a side hug that, while agonizing, he will cherish forever. The rest of the ‘reformees’ make their way through the kitchen for the next thirty minutes until Charlie calls everyone to the atrium for some bonding exercises. Alastor does not make any move to leave the kitchen at the announcement, so Lucifer doesn’t, either. He’s also unsure of his ability to not pass out if he stands right now.

It’s so warm in the kitchen, Alastor had the ovens on for cinnamon rolls and it smells heavenly. If Lucifer closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that Lilith is still here, that he hasn’t fucked it all up with Charlie yet. He dozes on the thick marble of the island, chest still twinging, but strangely at peace.

It’s another five minutes of warm silence before the clink of a plate beside his elbow rouses him. A warmth settles to his right.

Blinking his eyes open, Lucifer catches sight of Alastor looking at him. Through him, might be a better description of the action; his eyes rove, calculating over the planes of Lucifer’s face. Alastor isn’t frowning- he never frowns- but there’s a crease between his eyebrows. Maybe those are like wounds, too, they don’t heal they just transfer to another person. Maybe Charlie’s just transferred to him, like his wound had transferred to Lucifer.

Lucifer snorts to himself at his own little joke. The crease deepens.

“You were not at supper last night.” Alastor prompts, finally. Lucifer isn’t quite sure how that’s relevant right now.

“Yeah, and neither were you.” Check and mate. A bit of radio static pierces through the air at his quip. Lucifer smiles to himself, sitting up.

With the knowledge that he’s under scrutiny, he puts more work into affecting his usual trite joviality. Alastor simply raises a brow as he hands him a fork and gestures to the full plate in front of him. Lucifer is shocked still for a moment. Alastor made this food. He made it, and he’s giving some to Lucifer? Of his own volition? Lucifer takes a moment to rack his brain for any side effects of the siphoning that might make him act like this but the only possible explanation is the sheer adrenaline of relief, knowing you’re not dying anymore.

“You made this for me?” Lucifer asks, voice small. He can’t remember the last time someone cooked for him. Hell, he can’t remember the last time he ate anything. He doesn’t need to, not really, but it’s nice when there’s love in it. When someone takes the time to care about him in this way. Lucifer’s never found himself all too worth cooking for, and that’s most of the reason why he didn’t, in all those years spent alone since Charlie and Lilith leaving.

Alastor rolls his eyes.

“Obviously. It would be rude not to indulge, you know. So get to it!” His voice is filled with static, it takes a moment for Lucifer to parse his words. He takes the proffered fork and takes a small bite of the scrambled eggs. Father Almighty. They’re perfectly fluffy, well seasoned and just the right temperature! Lucifer can’t help the pleased sound that escapes him at the taste. He glances up at Alastor to find that his grin has turned smug. Whatever. Lucifer’s not going to lie to him.

“This is really good. Thanks.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Lucifer takes another bite before asking, “Do you want some? I know you haven’t been eating, either, and you probably need it more than me.”

Alastor’s eyes narrow and Lucifer gets the creeping feeling he’s let something slip.

“This is the second time you’ve referenced an invented affliction of mine. I would appreciate if you refrained from now on.” Alastor hisses, the air around the two of them practically sizzles with electricity.

‘Imagined’ hah! He wishes. Lucifer raises an eyebrow, he makes it too easy.

“You’re awful defensive for someone who supposedly didn’t have an affliction.” He drawls. Alastor’s eyes flicker green as he stands, abruptly.

“Put your dish in the washer when you’re done. I will see you another time.” He grits, stalking out of the room. It’s not until he leaves that Lucifer notices that he’d cleaned everything up. The sink is empty and the stove is spick and span. The only dish left is Lucifer’s plate and fork; he’d saved him a portion.

Lucifer does as told and hobbles up to his rooms with a smile on his face and a full stomach. Maybe this whole siphoning thing wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

***

This siphoning thing was such a fucking bad idea. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Lucifer curses to himself as he hobbles to the bathroom situated on the skywalk between his and Alastor’s rooms. His stitches had popped in the middle of one of his unfortunately timed yearly nightmares about falling. So, on top of the popped stitches, he’d scratched his arms bloody, too. Usually when he gets like this he doesn’t bother leaving his room, the cuts will heal themselves as soon as he gets to his door, anyway. But with the extra energy his body is expending on healing the Adam Wound, they just keep bleeding, sluggishly.

It’s been a couple days and the wound has been looking better, but it’s slow going. Lucifer shudders to think what would’ve happened to Alastor if he’d kept trying to live with it. Speaking of Alastor, the bastard’s been making him breakfast every day now; and if Lucifer doesn’t make it down during the hour he spends cooking, he sets aside a portion and puts it in the fridge.

Lucifer doesn’t know if this is his way of being nice, or if he’s luring him in to try and poison him one of these days. Either way, it’s always nice to be cooked for. Poison wouldn’t work on him, anyways.

There’s a pit in his stomach, growling and gnawing for something warm to satiate it- something Alastor-made- as Lucifer bleeds ichor onto the carpet. He pushes the feeling, and the resulting shame, down deep within himself. How low can he get, really? Fuck. Pining for kind gestures from a man who ostensibly wants to kill him? How far can he fucking fall.

The door to the restroom is open when he gets there, which Lucifer is all too thankful for. He pushes, with some effort, into the darkness.

A part of him considers turning on the light, but he has no issues seeing in the dark, and it seems like a lot of work to go through for no reason. With a groan, he bends down to grab the medkit from below the sink, then sits himself on the closed toilet.

With shuddering breaths, he snaps his shaking fingers, doubling over as his night shirt dissipates. “God- fuck!” He sucks a breath through his teeth.

Lucifer stays folded over for a moment, taking the time to breathe once, twice, before unfurling into a now familiar agony.

He grabs a hand towel and shoves it between his teeth to muffle any unwitting noises he might make- he’d found out the hard way that he’s a screamer a long time ago- and threads the suture needle with dental floss. He ran out of actual suture thread yesterday and, not wanting to alarm Charlie or let anything slip, hadn’t asked where he could find more. Dental floss has worked before, and it’ll work now. It just won’t be as pretty as it usually is.

Lucifer has just begun stitching himself up- letting little whines and whimpers into the hand towel tightly clenched between his teeth with each tug of the floss- when the door to the bathroom bursts open and a humming Alastor strides through the threshold. He flicks on the light- though Lucifer’s unsure why, as he doesn’t need it to see, either- and immediately makes eye contact with Lucifer. Then the hand towel clamped in his teeth. Then the giant bleeding wound on his chest. Then the eight golden scores in his arms.

His eyes widen a fraction, then narrow into a glare.

He strides up to Lucifer and grabs at his jaw, but the hold is surprisingly gentle. Alastor runs a finger along the area until it loosens enough for him to wrestle the towel from his lips.

Lucifer’s not sure if he should feel threatened or not. It’s not like Alastor can do anything to him. Not anything he hasn’t felt before, at least.

Why is the steel in his eyes so terrifying, then, though?

“Explain.”

Alastor says the word quietly, but somehow his voice seems to echo in the room. Lucifer sits tall, unwilling to be made ashamed of what he’s done. What he’s tried to do, to help.

“You never would have let me close enough to heal you through touch. You know that. And Charlie would have been devastated if you died because you were too much of an uptight prick to let other people care about you. This was the only way. I’ll heal. You wouldn’t.”

Lucifer’s voice is raspy, a little hoarse from the agony of the night. He has to clear his throat a few times during the monologue. Alastor stares at him through the entire thing, eyes burning against the side of his face. It’s silent for a while and Lucifer is acutely aware of the fact that he’s still bleeding.

“Now if you don’t mind, I have sutures to-” Alastor cuts him off with a vague scratch of radio static, “Give me the needle.”

Lucifer hesitates, so he repeats himself, enunciating each word.

“Give. Me. The. Needle.”

Lucifer does. He’s nervous for a moment- god knows why- but it’s like he’s been telling himself: Alastor physically can’t do anything to him that hasn’t already been done. He’ll be fine. Alastor pulls a stool from thin air and settles himself next to Lucifer.

He expects a sharp, focused pain. Tiny cruel little stabs done in excess to teach him a lesson about doing Alastor ‘favors’. But Alastor’s hands are warm and gentle against the golden shreds of his midsection. Each suture is measured and careful, he moves slowly through the motions and keeps a steadying hand against Lucifer’s side as he works. He does not look at him, though, entirely focused on the task at hand.

The gentleness is off-putting, and it makes something flighty bang around in Lucifer’s chest. He suddenly feels the urgent need to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Alastor. I should’ve asked but I was afraid it would take too long. I’m surprised you’re still alive now given the state the wound was in when I first transferred it.” Lucifer chuckles. Alastor does not join him. He babbles on.

“I don’t regret it, though. And I’d do it again if I needed to. I mean have you seen Charlie lately? She’s got the pep back in her step! And you, you’re up and cooking again. Everyone’s so happy you’re back in the apron.”

Alastor hums, finishing up the sutures on his chest and immediately moving to the deepest gashes on his arms. Lucifer is just about to protest- really, those ones will heal soon enough, they don’t need anything- when Alastor speaks.

“What about you?”

Lucifer cocks his head. Huh?

“What about me?” He asks.

Alastor chuckles, pressing some antiseptic into a different hand towel than the one Lucifer had been biting on and passing it over the- now sewn- cuts on his forearm. The sting barely registers. It’s so needless. It’s so wasteful.

“You speak of all of these benefits but I fail to see how any of them pertain to you. Aside from your obvious need for your daughter’s approval, of course.” He says.

That stings a little, which is strange because none of it is untrue. Of course he wants Charlie’s approval; it’s the fucking least he could do after everything he’s made her face alone.

Lucifer shrugs, pushing Alastor’s hands away when they try to tend to his other arm.

“What’s it matter? I don’t need the benefits to ‘pertain to me’, I don’t do anything for these people,” he spreads his arms around to emphasize his point, “not like you or Charlie do. Besides, I’ve been selfish enough already, don’t you think?” The gesture he makes this time is similar to before, but he points through the restroom door to the window that lines the skywalk. Moreso conveying the idea ‘see what my selfishness has already culminated into? Eternal damnation for millions of souls’. Alastor raises an eyebrow.

“And what would your daughter think of this… philosophy of yours?” His voice is low, and he reaches out to grab Lucifer’s arm back into his own grip. Still gentle, but firmer than before. Lucifer doesn’t fight him on it and his eyes light up at the success. That’s… oddly endearing for a murderer-cannibal.

Lucifer shrugs once more. He doesn’t really see the point Alastor is trying to make, he’s thought this through. He knows what he’s doing.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? She’s never going to know and we’re going to keep it that way. She’s got a bleeding heart, probably got it from her old man,” Lucifer chuckles self-depreciatingly, “it wouldn’t do her any good.”

Alastor finishes with the last bandage- more unnecessary, needless waste on wounds that will heal tomorrow- and runs the antiseptic towel under warm water before wiping Lucifer clean of his own blood. His touch is just as light as it was before, it’s driving Lucifer insane. Why won’t he just hurt him already. He knows he’s itching for it.

“You are not what I thought you would be.” Alastor says, finally, tossing the towel into the laundry basket in the corner of the room. His eyes raise, finally, to meet Lucifer’s own shocked gaze. He can’t muster up a response; what is he supposed to say to that? Is it a good thing? Probably not. A bad thing? Well, then he doesn’t need more fuel for his ‘bad thoughts’ journal.

Thankfully, Alastor continues, “Next time, simply come talk to me. I don’t want this to happen again.” He stands, brushing imaginary dust off of his overcoat- which, now that Lucifer is paying attention, why is he still in his overcoat at three in the morning?

Lucifer snaps his fingers- now embarrassed by his own state of undress and reinvigorated by the tender touches- and rematerializes his nightshirt. Alastor levels him with a disapproving glare when he reels from the exertion.

“Now why did you go and do that? I could have gotten you a shirt, and then you wouldn’t be dizzy. Pity you’re so stubborn.” He comments, with just the slightest tinge of frustration. It thrills something in Lucifer to be able to get that reaction out of him, even in this diminished state.

“Yeah. Pity. Look, I’m not going to promise you this won’t happen again. I’m going to do what’s best for Charlie and this hotel, always.” Lucifer’s voice breaks a little at the latter end of the sentence, he can’t bring himself to meet Alastor’s eyes.

There’s silence for a moment, then a clawed finger flicks delicately at his chin, tilting his head up. Alastor sighs when he keeps his gaze low.

“Stubborn. I am not asking you not to do it- you were right, I probably wouldn’t have gone for the touch healing- I am asking you to do me the courtesy of checking first, before you act. Is that clear?”

Lucifer mulls over the words for a moment, considering his options. All in all it’s not a bad deal, and if this experience has taught him anything it’s that it’s nice to have someone in your corner, willing to help if you let them in. Charlie is in his corner, but she’s also his daughter, and it will never be her job to help him with anything for as long as he is alive. Alastor’s offering.

Lucifer nods, hesitantly.

“I can do that. Thanks.”

Alastor shakes his head before turning towards the door.

“Put some of the green tube on your chest wound every night before bed. If your arms don’t heal by tomorrow, add some there too. Don’t exert yourself. I’ll know if you pop your stitches again.”

And with that laundry list of care, he disappears into the night. Lucifer looks at the stitching on his chest, wondering if he was being serious, or if he was just bluffing about knowing.

Three cross stitches glow a neon green right next to each other in the middle of his chest “X X X”.

Ah, so that’s how. Sneaky bastard.

Still, though, Lucifer smiles all the way back to his room, and if he notices a shadow tailing him on his way there, he doesn’t say anything about it.

#radioapple #queerplatonic #old men #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #lucifer magne #lucifer morningstar #theyre so odd and weird about affection #oh u didnt maul me and u made me food?#what do u like me or smth?#something something giving a monumental sacrifice and acting like its nothing bc if you dont you have to grapple w the fact that you care #anyways #brublurbs #enjoy idk how long this is but it took four hrs to write !

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