#Alastor is very Wordy

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'Take me back'

(Angel to Alastor)

Send ‘Take Me Back’ for a thread where your muse goes back in time to a pivotal event in my muse’s past.

[ Alastor ]

The young man tucked his auburn curls into the crocheted snood, making sure not to miss a single one. He was meticulous and calculated in his movements, smoothing his hair down to make it as flat as he could. He hummed a song from his latest radio show under his breath as he moved for his makeup, starting with his powder. He moved the makeup down his neck and over his chest, cleanly applying it to his almond skin.

As he moved to sing instead, he shifted in his seat at his vanity, reaching for his eye makeup. A beautiful, rich shade of red was applied to both eyelids and a little bit around the edges, painting him a pretty crimson. His lips were next to receive a similar color, and he carefully rubbed his lips together to spread the carnelian lip stain evenly.

Brushing his hands over his

the sequinned red dress he wore, he smiled at himself in the mirror. The see-through lace sleeves only covered the tops of his biceps, and melted into the modest jewel neckline with the black hearts angling down from the shoulders. The beading embroidery was a stark black against the crimson silk, and a beautiful, ornate design.

The bottom hem of the dress was covered in more black lace, and flowy as opposed to the contoured silk over his chest, hips, and upper thighs. When he rose from his seat, the dress touched the underside of his calves, around eight inches between the bottom of the dress and the top of his matching red heels. The last step was to affix the long, curly black wig over his head, setting it in place to look like his natural hair. It was his pride and joy, a real human hair wig.

He clicked on the wooden floor as he moved away from the vanity, finally noticing his company.

"My, my, friend!" He chirped suddenly, his voice a falsetto tone that was convincing enough as a recognizable female's voice, "You really shouldn't be in here! What...ever you are. Haha! I should-- We should... You should leave, and pretend you never saw anything here tonight."

[zaebeecee]

To Sever a Loveless Bond

••RadioDust Soulmate AU••

Part 8/?

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Read on AO3

Chapter 8 art by @fletchingbrilliant

•••

I’m sorry this took forever, y’all, my autoimmune bullshit has been kicking my ass the last few days. But it’s long (lol)

CW for discussion of racism, homophobia, and medical abuse/trauma. Mild CW for the beginnings of the promised developing smut. It isn’t graphic (yet). Alastor’s POV is wordy and meandering.

My beautiful and perfect husband designed and did art of Angel Dust’s ritual outfit, and it’s right here and you should go give him love.

•••

Angel Dust arrived at Alastor’s room at precisely eight, just as instructed. Despite the fact that Alastor himself was the one who set the time, and the fact that he was aware Angel Dust had noticed his fondness for punctuality, he was still caught off guard when he heard the gentle knock on his door.

It wasn’t normal, how often the spider was able to surprise him by doing nothing more than being himself. Alastor chalked up his own altered state to the conversation with Rosie earlier that afternoon, because if his fellow overlord had only one talent, it would be pushing him off balance with very little trouble. It wasn’t really Angel Dust having some sort of profound effect on him. It was just Rosie, and the cursed mark on his arm.

Alastor knew that he could have just bade the door open on its own with his magic, or sent his shadow to do it, but he found himself crossing the room to welcome in his guest. Angel Dust stood on the other side of the wood, one set of hands clasped in front of his torso and the other set behind his back, looking… was he on edge? Nervous, perhaps? How odd.

It was common knowledge among the hotel’s residents that Angel Dust possessed the best fashion sense among them, but Alastor always found himself struck when he saw the other sinner in something he had never seen him wear before. The sheer aesthetic mastery he achieved with so little effort was frankly offensive. Tonight, it was a dress that was likely intended for galas or other evening events, elegant in its simplicity; it was a white dress—conforming perfectly to every curve on his body—with a square neckline that revealed the entire length of his clavacles and dipped low enough to expose his chest fluff, long sleeves that extended to the middle of his hands, and one slit that went all the way up to his hip. His makeup was understated, and the necklace was a simple teardrop diamond on a short, fine chain. So feminine, and yet, it would be impossible to mistake him for a woman.

Angel Dust simply looked…

“Come right in, my dear,” Alastor said, taking a step back and motioning for Angel Dust to enter, promptly silencing that line of thinking. He shut the door, locked it, and then (for good measure) cast a quick seal to double up on the usual sound proofing he kept on his personal sanctuary, should Charlie or Niffty discover what was happening and get any bright ideas about finding out more.

“Lettin’ me in yourself?” Angel Dust asked with a teasing edge to his voice, smiling at Alastor over his shoulder before he looked around the room.

“I thought you said I let you in last time.”

“You did,” Angel Dust said slowly. “But now you can’t argue with me.”

Alastor couldn’t help his soft laugh at the spider’s sheer cheek. He never passed up an opportunity to give a fellow sass, did he? “And you have no one but yourself to blame for whatever might befall you for stepping into the Radio Demon’s domain with the knowledge that he let you in himself.”

Angel Dust opened his mouth, then closed it. “…yeah. That’s fair.”

Alastor led him to the edge of the wooden flooring that had once led to nothing but a wall, but now opened into the thick and humid expanse of Louisiana bayou that he liked to bring with him wherever he went. There were two tables present: one smaller with two chairs and two place settings, and a larger one that bore the dishes he had toiled away preparing that afternoon.

“Oh! Right.” Angel Dust pulled a bottle of wine from behind his back and offered it to Alastor, his lips quirking. “Hope this is okay.”

“It’s lovely,” Alastor assured him, pulling out one of the chairs for him to sit. Angel Dust did so, looking a little proud of himself, and Alastor watched his face for a brief moment before turning away to open the wine and let it breathe. “So! I do hope you took my warning to heart, dear fellow. I’m fairly certain that many of these dishes are like nothing you’ve ever had before.”

“It smells good,” Angel Dust said, and Alastor felt those magenta eyes following him as he went to the other table. “You gonna tell me what you made?”

“After you’ve tried it.”

The meal went much better than Alastor had anticipated (even better still than he had planned). Many people had such limited palates, so often by their own choice, but Angel Dust showed a real eagerness to try things he’d never had before: Oysters Bienville with shrimp remoulade, crawfish and langoustine bisque, pompano en papillote with stuffed Mirliton, veal grillades and grits, dirty rice, and chocolate and lemon Doberge cake with café brûlot. He didn’t balk at a single offering, no matter how unfamiliar he was with any particular dish—he even giggled and applauded when Alastor lit the café brûlot on fire—and he gave a genuine compliment for each one that came only after careful consideration of a few bites. Alastor was very nearly charmed by the deep and thoughtful nature Angel Dust was revealing.

I’m afraid I truly did misjudge you, sha.

It was only over dessert and their coffee that conversation shifted from the food—what each dish was, what was in it, how it was made, when Alastor had learned to make it—when Angel Dust leaned two elbows on the table to tuck his hands under his chin and tilt his head at Alastor in curiosity.

“Hm?” Alastor picked up the bottle of wine and poured more for both of them; it didn’t exactly go with the food anymore, but Hell’s wine was strong and he wasn’t feeling particularly picky now that the presentation was over. “What is it?”

“What’s what?”

“You have something running around through that tricky little mind of yours. Don’t think I can’t see it.”

“Just thinking,” Angel Dust said thoughtfully. “Y’know… we’ve been livin’ in this hotel for a while. By now I know a fair bit of dirt on everybody who lives here… ‘cept you.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow at him. “I could easily say you know as much about me as most anyone else does.” Probably more. “I could also say there isn’t much to know.”

“I believe the first one.”

“Hah. Alright, I’ll play along. Why so curious?”

Angel Dust thought about it for a second before he picked up his wine in a third hand. “I dunno, really. I guess I find you interestin’.” Apparently, Alastor made some kind of face at that, because Angel Dust immediately laughed. “Oh, come on, you can’t think it’s that weird.”

“Interesting isn’t usually the word people use.” Alastor took a small sip of his wine, but it seemed like his dinner companion was waiting for him to elaborate, so he tilted his head and squinted his eyes. “What, precisely, would you like to know?”

“Hm. …I have an idea,” Angel Dust said, somewhat quixotically. “Y’like games, right, Smiles?”

“I don’t think I like where this is going,” Alastor said, his eyes only narrowing further.

“You will, you will,” Angel Dust said, waving one hand at him. “I know you like knowin’ shit. I don’t talk much about myself neither. So, how about this: I’ll ask you a question, and you can either answer it or refuse to. For every question you answer, I’ll answer somethin’ about me, no matter what it is. Sound fair?”

Alastor had to admit that he found himself intrigued. He was by means no expert when it came to interpersonal interactions and relationships, but he knew a proverbial brick wall when he saw one, and Angel Dust was impenetrable with his snark and his sarcasm and his deeply inappropriate comments. “…very well, I’ll accept, with the understanding that I don’t have to explain my refusal to answer.”

“Nah, y’don’t have to explain nothin’. So… you said your mother taught you how to cook, right? What was that like? I know you were born before me.”

Alastor contemplated before he set his glass down. “…it would have been… 1909 or 1910, I suppose,” he said. “My maman and I lived alone, just the two of us.”

“In… New Orleans,” Angel Dust said, like he was guessing.

Alastor was surprised to hear him pronounce it correctly, close enough to how a proper native would. “More specifically, a little village on the outside, but yes. I had no siblings and my father was… well. I have no idea!” Alastor said with a sharp and humorless grin. “Never met the man, very fortunate for him. In any case, she informed me she had no intention of doing all of the work, my ‘man of the house’ status be damned, and if I was going to be helping her with the housework then I might as well do it properly. She began teaching me how to cook her way. Quite the punishing taskmaster, I must say, but straight to the point. It was particularly fortunate, since she accurately predicted that I would never marry and I would have been quite helpless once I was on my own without her instruction.” Angel Dust was smiling at him. It was strange. Alastor took particular note of the way his cheeks pushed his eyes into the shape of a pleased cat’s. “What about you, sha? What was your little homestead like?”

Angel Dust made an irritated sound, rolling his eyes. “I was the youngest of three. My father was a mob boss, but he wasn’t, y’know, big league or anythin’. He and my mom were fuckin’ awful, always screamin’ at each other and us. And my older brother was a tool our whole childhood, up until he figured out how much our parents sucked. Only one I got along with in a regular way was my twin sister. It's no wonder I ran away from home.”

“Oh?” Alastor raised one eyebrow. “What spurred that on?”

“Pops found out I was a queer and decided the best place for me was an asylum. Y’know, to ‘get better’,” he said, making air quotes with his fingers and rolling his eyes. “And I said fuck that, so I left the state. Ended up goin’ back a year later, tho. How old were you when you started killin’ people?”

Alastor tilted his head, debating whether or not to answer. And then, to figure out which event truly qualified for the specific inquiry. “…thirteen, but that time, it was an accident. …mostly,” he amended with a wide grin. “Fifteen, the first time I did it with true intention. It was just so much fun that I kept it up until the day I died.”

“What, didja get caught?”

“Ah ah, that’s two questions,” Alastor said, shaking a finger at him. “This is your game, you know.”

“Yeah, you’re right, dammit.”

“Did your father send you to the asylum when you returned to New York?”

Angel Dust sighed. “Yeah,” he said, full of resignation. He picked up his fork and stabbed lightly at his piece of cake. “He was furious, sent me there straight away. Ended up bein’ stuck in there…” He hesitated, thinking, going a little cross-eyed in the effort. “…shit, sorry, I don’t remember it too good. Four years? Five? It was… ‘33 when I went in, and luckily they’d just discovered insulin shock therapy, so that was fun. Only had to put up with that for a bit, because they figured out cardiazol shock therapy pretty soon after.”

Alastor winced, feeling the alien pang of genuine sympathy. “How barbaric.”

Angel Dust smiled. “Well, I got released a couplea months after they heard about a fun new procedure comin’ outta Portugal.” He held his hands up and made an arc with them, like he was demonstrating a marquee. “The prefrontal lobotomy. Of course, they didn’t know what they were doin’, and they fucked it up. Went in gay, left gay and with a hole in my head, and a helluva lot meaner than I was goin’ in.”

“I see,” Alastor said thoughtfully. “That explains the…” He touched the spot under his own left eye.

“Yeah.” Angel Dust shrugged. “It was a long time ago, I’m over it. So didja get caught or what?”

Alastor sighed. “I was hoping you had forgotten your question.”

“Y’don’t have to answer, y’know.”

“I’m well aware.” Alastor contemplated just refusing, but something compelled him to speak. “Frankly it was much worse than that. I never was caught in my activities, not incarcerated once. My undoing was nothing more or less than dumb luck on the part of some buffoon of a hunter. He likely had no idea that I was there, and I doubt he ever suffered any sort of consequence.”

He bid the sound of the barking dogs to leave him be, the bitter shock that lasted less than a moment, and the desperation for a reason, rather than the suggestion that in the end, it did not matter how fiercely he took hold of his own fate.

Angel Dust tilted his head. “…I’d think even huntin’ accidents were takin’ seriously in the South.”

“Not when the one holding the gun was white.”

“Oh.” Angel Dust thought for a moment, then his eyes widened. “Ohhh. Shit. Creole. Right.”

Alastor’s smile was humorless. “Just another day in the shining utopia that is the home of the free.”

“Still bullshit.”

“I couldn’t agree more. You were Italian, you said? It must have been complicated for you, too, I remember hearing about the David Hennessy case.”

Angel Dust shrugged. “It was New York, it was… complicated. But I woulda stood out no matter my heritage. I was born with albinism, straight through. White hair, pale eyes, the whole thing. Woulda ended up in the circus if my family wasn’t rich.”

“So… you’re saying you haven’t changed much. Physically, I mean.”

“You got no clue how hard it was, adjusting to having four whole new arms.”

They kept on this way—Alastor granting Angel Dust comparatively minor details of his own life, and receiving something of a rant in exchange that made it sound like the spider had been dying to talk to someone about all of this—until it was surprisingly late indeed. They had moved to the chairs in front of the fireplace, Angel Dust curled up in a way that was somehow still remarkably elegant, even in that dress.

Both chairs were meant to be occupied, weren’t they? Or was the other always just a symbol, a reminder of what I may never have?

“…this isn’t related to the game, but… There is something else I am curious about,” Alastor said after a stretch of surprisingly comfortable silence. “You may, of course, refuse to answer.”

“Hm?” Angel Dust focused on him. “…okay. Hit me.”

“It’s about your work.” He saw Angel Dust stiffen, just a little, but continued on anyway. “I was wondering how someone like you, fiercely independent and outspoken as you are, ended up working for someone like Valentino, of all sinners.”

Angel Dust sighed, tilting his head against the curve of the chair and looking at the fireplace. His gaze carried them far away, the empty green glow casting his companion in an eerie light that made Alastor’s stomach turn. “…a series of bad decisions that didn’t seem unreasonable at the time,” he said. “I mostly made my way in Hell hookin’ or performin’ in skeezy clubs, when I could get gigs. Sometimes I managed to get drag shows, those were my favorite. And I always liked bein’ on stage, it wasn’t somethin’ I really got to do in life.”

He stopped for a moment, and Alastor let him think. He couldn’t help wondering if anyone else had ever spoken to him about his earliest days in Hell… besides his friend Cherri Bomb, most likely. That was the sort of thing close chums discussed, right? Or did they focus solely on the party life? Perhaps he could inquire about that later.

“…Val saw one of my shows pretty soon after he joined Vox, before they were actually the Vees. Dunno what he was even doin’ there, he was an overlord and somethin’ of a celebrity in the sex work circuit. Everybody wanted to impress him, y’know? If Valentino thinks you’re worth somethin’, you could find yourself with real, steady work, maybe even in his new porn industry. And we all wanted that, y’know? It was…” Angel Dust contemplated his words. “…it felt safer,” he amended, and though he didn’t elaborate, Alastor couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of dangers and indignities could befall someone in that career. If Valentino felt like a safer option, it had to be more foul than even Alastor had imagined. “He stayed for my show, and he wanted to talk to me after. Said it wasn’t the first time he’d seen me. Said he liked me.”

Alastor could picture it quite viscerally: Valentino using his power and influence to manipulate a weaker sinner, Angel Dust hopeful and desperate and comparatively naive. He found his dislike of the moth growing more targeted, and steadily more intense as he listened.

“He offered me a job, and it was a good offer… or, at least, better than any I’d ever had before. And I was… taken with him,” Angel Dust said, his tone caught somewhere between wistful and disgusted with himself. “He was very charmin’ in those days. I guess he knew I could have left at any time, and he wanted to make sure I didn’t do that. He bought me clothes, he gave me a beautiful bedroom, he got Fat Nuggets for me… I guess I thought I was in love with him.”

Alastor’s claws sank into the arm of his chair, popping through the cloth to dig into the stuffing and the wooden frame beneath. Angel Dust didn’t appear to notice, even as Alastor’s teeth gritted hard enough for the Radio Demon to hear it.

“I still dunno why, exactly, I signed my soul over. Thought it was a good idea at the time, but I couldn’t have given you a real reason, even back then. After that, I guess Val didn’t feel he had to behave himself anymore. I mean, he was still charmin’ as long as he was happy with me, but he didn’t have to be nice when I wasn’t doin’ what he wanted like he did before. And by the time I figured out I didn’t have a choice no more, it was way too fuckin’ late.”

Angel Dust’s silence was more final than before, and far more contemplative. He had his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin in his hand as he stared at the fireplace; Alastor couldn’t remember ever seeing him so melancholy, and he was struck by the image for two reasons. First, he found it hard to believe that Angel Dust was comfortable showing that level of emotional vulnerability in front of him, of all people… and second, he didn’t like seeing Angel Dust’s sadness, and it made something deep inside him want to rip whatever was causing that sadness into a thousand bloody pieces.

“You deserve far better than him,” Alastor said quietly, his usual crackle vanishing from his voice. “You always did.”

Angel Dust exhaled sharply, the ghost of a derisive laugh. “Do I?” he asked, glancing at Alastor. Something that he saw in the Radio Demon’s face gave him pause, and he sat up a little. “…thanks. For sayin’ that, I mean,” he said in a more serious tone. “I guess you don’t know anythin’ about breakin’ out of a soul contract, do you, Smiles?”

Alastor’s smile felt more ironic on his face than it usually did. “No, sha, I do not.”

“I was afraid of that.” Angel Dust sighed, then smiled. “It’s okay. It is,” he said insistently when Alastor opened his mouth. “I don’t believe it’ll last forever. I can’t. And one day, I won’t have to worry about Val anymore.”

“I think you’re right.”

Their conversation redirected, but the topic cast a heaviness over the last few minutes before Angel Dust left. Despite the air, he thanked Alastor for the evening in a manner so sincere that Alastor couldn’t question it, and when the spider smiled, there was a gentle glow in the magenta of his eyes that told the Radio Demon that he was…

…happy?

Was Angel Dust somehow happy, even now, even after talking at such length about his boss… even while alone with Alastor in his room?

He couldn’t imagine such a thing to be possible, and he would have dismissed it as ridiculous… if not for that soft, warm glow in his eyes.

Alastor went back to his chair and sent his shadow after Angel Dust; it followed him to his door, then stopped right outside it once the spider had gone in. Through the strange channels that connected him to the shadowy form, he heard Angel Dust walking around his room, humming softly to himself—Dream A Little Dream, an old standard Alastor knew well—and telling his hellpig that he had a good time.

“Dammit, Nuggs,” Angel Dust whispered beyond the door, “what am I gonna do? He’s so—”

Alastor dismissed the shadow before he lost his self control and sent it in to properly spy on the other sinner… or worse, found out what Angel Dust was about to say he ‘was so’. Once the shadow was back where it belonged, firmly attached to his feet, he sat and picked at the loose, torn threads in the arm of his chair and wondered when it was that he started wanting so fervently to add Valentino’s voice to his unearthly radio chorus.

•••

Angel couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but something had shifted between him and Alastor after their dinner together.

He couldn’t tell if it was positive or negative, either, because Alastor seemed to be wrestling with how he felt about their interactions at all. Over the next two days, Angel saw Alastor three times: every single one of them, Alastor greeted him with undue enthusiasm, and then promptly remembered that he had something pressing to handle and excused himself. Even with that, Angel couldn’t believe that Alastor was mad at him, mostly because he wasn’t behaving like he was angry or even annoyed.

He also wasn’t acting like nothing had changed, so Angel didn’t know what to make of it.

“Off to work, Angel?” Vaggie asked as Angel picked up the pen to sign out in the ledger on the hotel counter. She was focused on what looked like the hotel’s books, flipping slowly through them as though she was less working and more reading.

“Yep. What can I say, it was a nice few days off,” Angel said casually, trying not to let it show just how uncomfortable he was with the idea of seeing Valentino again.

The harpy angel glanced up at him, her expression serious. Angel blinked twice, wondering if he was about to get beaten up; he and Vaggie had never really gotten along, and despite the fact that they rarely fought anymore, he never knew what to expect from her. “Are you…” She stopped herself, thought for a moment, and he could actually see her decide to go through with it. “Are you getting yourself into trouble, chico?”

“What?” Angel blinked twice at her. “Absolutely not! I ain’t doin’ shit.”

“Yeah,” Vaggie said flatly, her one eye half lidded. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that something is going on. You’re acting weird. So is Alastor. So are Husk and Niffty. And yeah, fine, you’re all always weird, but this is different.”

Angel felt his mask dropping, and fought to keep it on. “Don’t worry about me, Vags, I’m fine. I ain’t gettin’ myself into anythin’ I can’t handle.”

Vaggie rolled her eye. “I don’t think that’s ever been true, but fine. Whatever. Just…” She exhaled on a frustrated huff, stirring her bangs. “…if you need anything, or whatever… you can come talk to me.”

Angel frowned at the offer. “I’m not gonna compromise Charlie’s project. Don’t worry.”

“That isn’t why I’m offering.” Vaggie didn’t elaborate, going back to the books. “Try to have a good time at work.”

“…uh. Yeah. Right. …thanks.” Angel stared at her for another few seconds, but she didn’t look up, so he was left to wonder what the fuck that was all about as he headed out of the hotel and made his way to VoxTek.

Nothing felt different as he passed through the lobby and into a door marked ‘Employees Only’, and Angel wondered if that was proof that he was just being paranoid, or if there really was something legitimately wrong. Nobody spoke differently to him, and he returned the friendly greetings he got as he headed for the elevators and took one up to the 17th floor, which was entirely devoted to Valentino’s pornography department.

“Oh, thank fuck, you’re here,” Wire, Travis’s PA, said the instant he walked into the studio. Her depressed and ‘weight of the world’ hunch was more pronounced than usual, white hair curtained haphazardly around her face, her obsidian skin greyed from exhaustion and her white eyes somehow looking bloodshot, even with their black sclera. “Today is going to be weird and I need you, and everyone else, to please not act like it’s weird.”

“Oh, goodie,” Angel said flatly, removing his sunglasses and gesturing loosely with them. “Val in a mood today?”

“I… have no idea.” Wire tapped all fourteen of her fingers on the back of her clipboard with a rattling click like an overexcited centipede. “I… none of us have seen him today. He isn’t going to be here.”

Angel stared at her, his mind blanking for just a moment. “He’s… why?” Valentino had never not been present for one of Angel’s shoots in his entire career.

Wire shrugged, peering up through her curtain of hair. “We weren’t told. Just that Vox is standing in for him today.”

“Wha— Vox?!” Angel squeaked. “What the fuck?”

“That was our question. I have your scripts for tonight,” she said, pulling some papers off her clipboard and holding them out. “Wardrobe’s already got your stuff laid out in your dressing room, and hair and makeup is ready whenever you are. Try to make it fifteen, we’re sticking as close to schedule today as we can.”

“…yeah. Okay.”

Angel headed for his dressing room and picked up the first costume that had been laid out for him. It was very particularly placed, and immediately, Angel saw why; the black and deep crimson material was about eighty percent straps, black leather that wound up both legs to his hips and up all four arms from the middle of his hands to a few inches from his shoulders, as well as his waist. The dress wasn’t a dress, but material that went over his head and hung down his front and back with absolutely no attachments at the sides, instead held in place by the waist wrapping. Chains hung from his wrists, from a choker around his neck, and around his exposed hips, the look completed with a wide hood that hung across his exposed shoulders and held an inverted pentagram at the top that hung across his forehead.

Angel carefully pulled the black and crimson attire on—it wasn’t often that he got to wear black, let alone something this interesting, which he had to attribute to Vox and his obsession with aesthetics—and tried not to think of Alastor as he picked up the three props that had been left for him: a grimoire that contained what seemed to be his most significant lines and some fake seals and sigils with obvious sex imagery, a wicked-looking dagger with a long, curved blade, and a black dildo with a fairly simple shape. Stepping into black heeled boots, Angel picked up his script pages in his free hand and headed back into the main part of the studio.

It was colder than it usually was; Valentino insisted on keeping the studio almost sweltering for his own personal comfort, but… thinking about it, Angel wasn’t positive Vox could feel temperature. Or perhaps his machine parts would overheat? He sat in the chair that had been prepped for him and said hello to the hair and makeup team before going over the script while they worked.

It wasn’t too unusual of a scenario: sexy cultist summons otherworldly entity, uses it for his own pleasure until he loses control, entity takes over, quickest mind break in history. The dialogue was better than the usual scripts, and Angel begrudgingly attributed that to Vox as well, though he wouldn’t tell the CEO that; then again, Vox did serve as scriptwriting consultant on basically all of the company’s best-rated shows, so he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Ah, hello, Angel Dust! How are you this evening?”

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.

“Hey, Vox,” Angel said, turning his head enough to look up at the man himself, standing only a short distance away, wearing that smile that made him so popular among Hell’s housewife demographic. Recognizing immediately that they were playing this as chill and normal as was necessary for the company image, Angel favored him with a lazy, seductive smile. “Just goin’ over the pages for the first shoot. Yours, I take it? It’s gonna be a nice change, workin’ with one of your scripts. We don’t get to do that much here.”

“So glad to hear you approve!” Vox said with that telecaster brightness, placing his hands on his waist. “It’s been a while since I’ve been on this end of production. I’m very much looking forward to seeing Valentino’s department at work.”

Angel turned his head and tipped his face up slightly, opening his eyes and rolling them back as one of the team (he couldn’t tell who in this position) applied eyeliner to his waterline, enough that it would definitely run when he cried. “I was surprised when I heard Val wasn’t gonna be here today,” he said; he knew Vox could tell he was fishing, but he kept his flirtatious voice firmly in place regardless. “I hope he’s okay?”

“Oh, you know Val,” Vox said, which told Angel nothing. A few moments later, his hair and makeup were done, and Vox continued, “Would you ladies excuse us for a moment? I need to speak with Angel.”

The team scattered immediately, clearly glad to be out of the immediate range of Vox’s awareness. Angel didn’t blame them—he would have really liked to follow them to the other side of the studio—but he kept his seat, raising his eyes to meet Vox’s in the mirror when he felt the other sinner step up behind him.

Again.

“What’s up, Mister Boss Man?” Angel asked, glad his voice came out steady.

Vox considered him in the mirror, silently, and once again Angel was struck with the idea that Vox was evaluating him the same way he would do to a piece of art or furniture he was considering purchasing or, more accurately, one his spouse had chosen to decorate with and he hadn’t decided if he liked it or not yet. Valentino terrified Angel more than anyone had ever met, but no one—no one—had ever made Angel feel like an object more than Vox.

Vox’s face was strange in the mirror. When just looking at Vox, it was sometimes hard to remember that his face was a magical digital projection and not an actual, tangible thing; but in the reflection, Angel could see the minor artifacting on his screen, tiny pixels that flickered at the corners of his eyes when he blinked or the edge of his mouth when it moved. It was unnerving.

Vox leaned over him, placing his hands on the arm rests of his chair and functionally trapping him against the makeup station vanity. His smile was still in place, but his words and tone no longer matched it. Overhead, a fluorescent light flickered with an electric buzz, casting the two of them into odd shadows for a moment. “I’m not sure what, precisely, you did to Valentino,” he said quietly, “but I suggest you don’t do it again.”

Angel suddenly felt cold. “I… whaddya mean?”

“I mean, Valentino is currently not allowed to be in the studio with you, because I’m not positive he won’t kill you next time he sees you. He was very angry the last few times I’ve spoken with him.”

The light flickered again, more violently, and Angel swallowed painfully as he racked his brain to try and come up with what, exactly, it was that he had done wrong. “I… I don’t…”

“At the moment, my presence here is currently protection for you. If you give me a reason, any reason at all, I will rescind that protection and leave you to deal with Valentino alone. Am I clear, Angel Dust?”

“Y… yes, Vox,” Angel said weakly, tearing his eyes from the mirror to stare at the vanity’s table top. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Good.” Vox straightened, and out of the corner of his eye, Angel saw his hand moving to grab Angel’s shoulder with threatening, electric blue claws. Just before he made contact, the light that had been flickering on and off burst with a loud, sharp pop that sent glass and filament to the floor where it shattered further against the wood. Nearby, at the same moment, a camera short-circuited with a buzz and a few smaller pops that preceded a thin trail of smoke leaking from the metal seams of the casing.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Vox muttered under his breath, withdrawing to find someone to sweep up and fix the camera. Angel didn’t wait, sliding out of the chair and grabbing his props and script before he hurried towards the set. He only got a few steps away before he hesitated, then turned, looking back to where the camera was still smoking and a stagehand was hurriedly sweeping up the broken light.

There wasn’t anything else there, but…

Angel shook the feeling off and turned again. He needed to focus. He needed to work. He needed to make sure Vox stayed happy with him, because if whatever had soured Valentino’s mood to the point that Vox himself felt the need to intervene… well, then, their CEO was right. Valentino probably would kill him.

•••

This had been a very bad idea.

Calm down.

There was nothing for it now, of course. He had already committed, and he wasn’t about to leave now that he knew the situation.

Of course, Alastor was not—strictly speaking—actually inside VoxTek’s studio. It wasn’t that he had any compunctions about going into Vox’s territory, nor did he have any fear, but Charlie had made it quite clear what had happened the last time a resident of the hotel had shown up at Angel Dust’s place of employment and attempted to meddle with his work. Alastor had no intention of making things more difficult for the little spider; he was simply… curious.

Their conversation from two nights earlier had been going through Alastor’s mind in a way that the words of others usually didn’t. Typically, Alastor simply filed things he learned about others in the annals of his exceptional memory, only bringing those details up when they were relevant. Angel Dust, however, was proving himself to be something of a persistent little… irritant? He supposed that was the right word, because for some reason, he found himself concerned with the other sinner returning to his place of employment alone and unattended. Of course, it wasn’t completely nonsensical; the Vees were inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, yes, but they were very determined, and even Alastor couldn’t deny that their methodology had become shockingly effective and efficient. If they said they would ‘fix a problem’, Alastor had no doubt that they would do their level best to be a pain in his neck, and that was an amusing little distraction that sounded neither little nor amusing.

Besides, they possessed the contract for Angel Dust’s soul, and what kind of hotelier would he be if he left the spider to fend for himself in such exceptionally unfair circumstances?

That was, in short, how Alastor found himself bidding his shadow to depart from the Hazbin Hotel and make its way to VoxTek. His physical form stayed comfortable and warm in his room, seated before his fireplace, but his mind and awareness was entirely placed within the tenebrous form that slipped from shadow to shadow until it reached the studio where Angel Dust made the lion’s share of his money.

Seeing Vox was… a surprise, to say the least; he assumed this would be beneath him, but then, assuming anything was beneath Vox was giving the other overlord too much credit. But seeing how he interacted with Angel Dust…

Alastor had thought many things about Angel Dust over the time they had known each other, but never once had he thought he would see the spider so… cowed. He looked small and frightened as Vox imposed himself over his chair with that poisoned smile and his murmured threats, and Alastor wondered: if this was the effect Vox had on him, how much worse was the hand of the one who held his leash?

Normally, such an open display of weakness would anger Alastor or, at the absolute least, frustrate him. But knowing Angel Dust the way he was beginning to, and knowing that he only feared those he had been given true reason to fear…

Alastor felt anger, yes. But it was not at Angel Dust.

The light exploding was an unfortunate mishap. The camera was slightly more intentional, mostly because it would probably be annoying and expensive to fix, but when he saw Vox about to lay his hand on the spider’s shoulder, he felt a spike of rage that he couldn’t contain. It did, at least, have the positive side effect of separating them, but the way Angel Dust turned to look back at the shadows made Alastor wonder if he’d been caught out. He briefly considered aborting this mission and returning his awareness to himself, because in truth, he wasn’t sure why he was here at all.

Then, the other sinner went to his set, and Alastor stayed. He wondered if he would regret not taking the opportunity to leave when he presented it to himself.

Stagehands scuttled about the set, getting everything ready for the shoot, and despite Alastor’s utter disdain for anything related to picture shows he could not deny an interest in the process of their creation. Most of those who made them were, after all, artists; the fact that their product was worthless did not change their capacity for creativity or their skill. When Alastor had first been getting to know the hotel’s residents, he had examined quite a number of Angel Dust’s pornographic films, and he’d found them almost unbearably dull… save one detail that seemed consistent throughout the entire catalogue: Angel Dust could act, and he could act well. Even when the script was unbearable garbage, he sold the scenario through either commitment or through playing up how absolutely absurd it was, and Alastor could tell when he was adlibbing because the dialogue suddenly improved dramatically.

Alastor wanted to see his working process. He wanted to watch him at his craft, no matter how pathetic the final product was. That was the way you got to know an artist, after all, and maybe… maybe through knowing his art, Alastor would begin to understand why Angel Dust had burrowed his way into the Radio Demon’s mind.

“Alright, everyone, let’s get focused,” Vox called to the room at large, cutting through Alastor’s thoughts in the most unpleasant way possible. He let his shadow drift closer to where Vox sat beside an avian-like sinner with black feathers and a heart-shaped iris; Travis, likely, if Alastor was remembering Angel Dust’s complaints accurately. Vox leaned closer to Travis, speaking in a low voice. “Let’s try to keep this to one take, wardrobe says the costume isn’t designed to be torn up more than once.”

Travis gave his boss the nod of the sycophant and raised his bullhorn, calling out over the studio in a strange and tinny voice. “We’re on single take mode, people! We’re down a camera, so you other three, keep that in mind when you’re covering shots! And I swear to fuck, Lars, if that boom mic shows up in one more shot I am shoving it up yer ass. Quiet on set!”

It was, admittedly, a bit fascinating to be on this side of the proceedings. The actual set seemed small for something that Alastor knew, logically, would look enough like a real outdoor location on film. The rest of the room was cast in darkness, the floor covered in heavy cables and so many people holding cameras or sound equipment, positioning lights, or just standing and watching.

The set itself looked like a night scene in the middle of a forest clearing. A large stone altar dominated the center—for the requisite fornication, Alastor presumed—with an actual fire lit in the foreground. Angel Dust knelt between the fire and the altar, the yellow-orange light of the flame casting shadows across his face and body that seemed even starker from the false silvery-blue moonlight cast by the can lights overhead. They had even managed to cast the illusion of shadowy tree branches across the floor, lending the scene an eerie sort of atmosphere that Alastor could appreciate.

“Okay, Angel baby,” Travis said, and Angel Dust looked up from the open book he held in two hands. “The lines ya got in yer book are the most important. Feel free to improv around whatever else, just give the deal-makers what they wanna see. Rocky, you ready?”

As Angel Dust nodded his acknowledgment, Alastor saw a large and furry paw rise up from behind the altar and give a thumbs up. “Ready!” a deep voice called.

“Good. Alright, people, we’re on in ten!”

As Travis counted down, Alastor watched Angel Dust close his eyes, roll his head, then let it hang, his hood covering his face with fabric and shadow. When the director called action, everything went silent in the room, save for the ambient noise of a gentle breeze rustling through tree leaves and the occasional sound of some animal out in the night.

Angel Dust kept his head down for several seconds, then slowly raised his face, his expression the somber and serious look of one who knew—or, at least, thought they knew—how dangerous the task they were about to undertake was. When he spoke, his Brooklyn accent had all but disappeared, temporarily abandoned in favor of a neutral tone that was softer and rounder but somehow still quintessentially him.

“To the Air of the North, I call upon thee: a sacrifice for the breath of Azazel in the domain of Egyn.”

The chains around Angel Dust’s wrists jingled softly, ominously, as he reached up with one hand and delicately twisted his fingers through a few strands of the hair-like fur at his crown. He pulled the strands free with a small gasp that was likely intended to spark the idea of eroticism, and Alastor could appreciate that, coupled with the brief and tiniest pinch at the corners of his eyes. He dropped the fur into the fire, where it caught with a bright blue spark and disappeared almost as quickly.

A summoning, Alastor thought, the scenario reminding him of a time quite long ago. The shadow was not his body, but even so, the realization made him feel as though a shiver passed across his skin.

“To the Fire of the South, I call upon thee: a sacrifice for the flames of Samael in the domain of Amaymon.”

Angel Dust reached into the fluff at his chest, which was apparently much thicker than Alastor had guessed, as he produced a small leather pouch tied with a cord from somewhere within it. With two hands, he opened the pouch, then tossed a pinch of whatever was inside into the fire; it caught with a spark and a loud hiss, and through the shadow, Alastor could smell saffron and ginseng.

“To the Earth of the East, I call upon thee: a sacrifice for the ground of Mahazael in the domain of Oriens.”

Now, Angel Dust’s voice was trembling, and his breath shook as he held one hand out. Slowly, he raised a curved, sharp dagger, one that looked specially designed for ritual work, and placed the blade against his open palm. He closed his fingers around it, his face losing its confidence in favor of trepidation and fear. Alastor could hear the rate of his breath increasing as he worked himself up, and then all at once, he truly did slice his hand open with a cry that was almost a high pitched moan. The black blood of the sinner, glittering with a red sheen in the firelight, poured from the wound on his palm and into the fire for a brief moment before it began to taper off. The only sounds Alastor could hear were the small, whispered hisses of the blood splattering the burning wood, and the shaken breath of the sinner as he gathered himself to finish his ritual. Angel Dust clenched his bloody hand into a fist and pressed it to his chest, smearing his chest fluff with black that gleamed red, and Alastor could not look away.

“To… the Water of the West… I call upon thee: a sacrifice for the rivers of Azrael… in the domain… of Paimon.”

Angel Dust swallowed with an audible click, then closed his eyes as he unclenched his bloody hand and held it out, his fingers wet and trembling. Alastor could see the fear and determination on his face as he braced himself, then thrust his hand into the fire. Angel Dust’s scream was a howl of pain that married with ecstasy, his fangs bared as he threw his head back and cried out to the false sky for relief that would not be granted.

It was the most beautiful sound Alastor had ever heard.

The fire turned a bright purple, then it seemed to dissipate upwards, swirling from the firewood and into the air before it vanished in a cloud of pale smoke.

Gasping with pain and the exertion of his ritual, Angel Dust clasped his now burned hand to his chest—was it an effect, or had he really hurt himself for authenticity?—and looked around with wide eyes that glowed a deep magenta in the loss of the firelight. He swallowed again, slowly gaining control over his breathing, and waited, but nothing appeared to be happening.

“…fuck,” Angel Dust whispered, turning to his book and flipping frantically through it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…! No, it was right, I know it was right…!” His voice slowly raised until he got to his feet, still holding his injured hand close to himself as he looked around with a manic sort of desperation. “Where are you…?!” he shouted at nothing. “I know you’re there, I know you can hear me! I paid your price, and you will obey me!!” His voice pitched into a scream, cracking just a little, and echoed through the studio so much the same as it would through a forest clearing.

For a moment, there was nothing but Angel Dust’s breath. Then, there was a crack, like a bone or the branch of a tree snapping, and the spider tensed. Another cracking followed, and then another, as a deep red light slowly illuminated the space behind the altar from the ground. A figure began rising up behind Angel Dust, clawed hands grabbing hold of the altar to pull a body broader and taller than the spider up from what seemed like a deep pit.

Angel Dust began turning with wide, terrified eyes as the figure continued to rise, standing to his full height and towering over the one that had summoned him. The demon stood in sharp silhouette, furred and muscular with great horns and a deep, growling pant as he stared down at Angel Dust.

“Who dares to summon me?” he asked in a deep, guttural voice, one that seemed to rattle through Angel Dust’s body by the way he shuddered.

“Your new master,” Angel Dust said, his voice gaining a confidence and bravado that began to carry into his posture. “You are now bound to me, creature, as a slave to his goddess, and you will do as I command.”

The demon laughed, a low and unnerving chuckle that would have made the fur along Alastor’s spine stand up if he truly stood in the same space. “You presume to command me?” He was slowly walking around the altar, but Angel Dust met him at the foot of it and placed his bloody and burned hand on the demon’s chest. He froze with a startled gasp, and Angel Dust smirked wide and sharp as his glowing eyes narrowed. Then, with a motion that looked graceful and delicate, he pushed the creature backwards onto the altar.

As the large demon landed on his back, Angel Dust used all the arachnid grace his body possessed to climb up onto the stone and crawl over the supine figure. His smile was growing into something different, something at once crazed and enticing and perhaps what was known as erotic, his legs spreading to straddle the larger creature’s hips and his two lower hands pressing against his chest to keep him down.

Alastor felt a sudden and alien sort of desperation to know what sort of action or word or dance could draw that smile out of Angel Dust without the compulsion of performance.

The spider leaned forward on his lower hands, arcing his back and stretching his upper set of arms over his head in a display slow and languid, his hand smearing blood along the leather strapping that hid so much of his skin and fur. “I paid your price,” Angel Dust repeated, his voice no longer a panicked scream, but a low purr that sent a strange sort of pulsing sensation along the memory of Alastor’s skin. “And now, you will service me, creature.”

Angel Dust rolled his hips in a manner that seemed too rough and violent to be typical of pornography, and the creature grunted with equal pain and pleasure. He moved as though he was going to sit up, but Angel Dust was quicker, and like a spider hunting its prey, he grabbed the creature by his horns and forced his head back down onto the stone as he bore over him in a beautiful and lithe arch. Alastor could feel the flesh around his own antlers tingling as Angel Dust, with that same smile, opened his mouth and ran his tongue along the ridges of the striped horn.

It was here that Alastor had expected to lose interest and planned to take his leave, but the sight of Angel Dust, masking such obvious fear with a guise of control and power, burned and bleeding and armed with that dagger, transfixed him. The spider rolled his hips against the beast’s pelvis again, his head falling back and his breath leaving in a slow hiss, as though he was content to take his pleasure at his own leisure.

But the demon beneath him had other plans, and Alastor’s own breath shuddered as a large and clawed hand suddenly grabbed the chain around Angel Dust’s throat and yanked. With a fluidity he should not have possessed, the creature switched their positions, now kneeling between the spider’s spread legs as he lay sprawled on the altar.

“What—?! No!” Angel Dust shouted, a note of panic in his voice as his eyes widened. “You can’t do this!”

“Then stop me, little one,” the creature growled with a low laugh. Angel Dust bared his teeth and raised his hand with the dagger, but before he could stab the beast, his wrist was caught in one of those powerful hands and slammed down onto the stone top of the altar above his head. Angel Dust cried out in unmistakable arousal, his fingers dropping the dagger over the side of the stone where it fell to the ground out of reach.

“No, stop it…!” Angel Dust’s protests were weaker now; it should have been enough to take Alastor out of the moment, and yet, he could do nothing but stare as the beast somehow attached the chains around his wrists to the altar, spreading his arms and leaving his body vulnerable. “Release me!”

“You and I both know you don’t want that.” The beast grabbed the front of Angel Dust’s robe and ripped, claws tearing the fabric to ribbons as he pulled most of it free from his body. Angel Dust cried out as he was exposed, his back arching off the stone and his head turning to the side. “You will not escape me.”

Panting, Angel Dust narrowed those glowing eyes at him, cheek still pressed to the stone. At the same time, his lips curved into that sharp, crazed smirk again.

“Do your worst.”

Alastor paid no more attention to the beast. He could not look away from Angel Dust’s face, every twitch of pain and every cry of pleasure, the way he grimaced with gritted teeth and the way he exhaled so breathily as his lips spread into a wide and wanton smile, his body shuddering with barely-controlled ecstasy as he was thrust into again and again. His cries, his screams of “yes” and “more” and “fuck me”, his desperate and agonized begging…

Alastor was barely aware that he was losing control of his grasp on his shadow until he found himself staring at the floor of his own bedroom, his claws digging new grooves into the arms of his chair and his teeth clenched so hard he could hear his jaw creak. His antlers had grown and were heavy on his hanging head, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and his entire body trembling as his shadow spasmed erratically on the floor and the wall, stretched long and misshapen, just too far from his own body to be called attached.

Alastor’s mind was a blank sheet of radio static that echoed through his bedroom, the pitch shifting wildly and sharply, one particularly high and powerful screech cracking the glass face of the clock on his mantle. Those sounds stayed on the periphery of his awareness, his mind focused on nothing but the image of Angel Dust, crazed and bloody and lost in the throes of violent passion that felt so, so much different in reality than it had on celluloid.

It took what seemed to be a small eternity for him to calm himself, his claws slowly pulling themselves from the wood frame of the chair, his antlers gradually receding to their normal size. His breathing was heavy, labored, like he had just been running for hours, his body exhausted from the foreign pressure of a restraint that he hadn’t shown in nearly a century, a thin bead of sweat running from his hairline just above his temple and trailing along his jaw.

Alastor was aware, on some level, that he had an erection. It was the third he’d ever had in his existence, and the first ever caused by anything besides a strictly physiological hormone shift.

He couldn’t think about it.

If he thought about it, he would lose himself again.

Angel Dust.

Strange little spider. Foolish, undisciplined, crude, clever, bright, silly, strange little spider.

Who are you, really?

What have you done to me?

•••

[radioiaci]

|| @cannibalxroses || Hello, I would like to chime in on this since it seems to be a matter of uhhh public concern now and I think it's time I said something! Putting it under a read-more because it'll be a little lengthy. Know that I want this to be as respectful as possible and that I am not upset or mad or anything about anything that's been going on! I just have some opinions and context to provide.

I have not made it a secret that I feel as though my portrayal of Alastor is veering more steadily towards MLM/gay relationships. This is just something I've discovered over the course of writing him. Now, when I initially posted about it, I made it clear that this does not mean that I wanted to outright dissolve or otherwise write off ships with female characters!

But in a similar vein to how literally every interaction with him is under the veil of his aro/ace experience, so too would every interaction be colored by the fact that he is starting to prefer men. This can lead to some VERY interesting conflict and nuance as these are all topics that I LOVE to explore via his inner monologue. And he is NOT ALWAYS going to make SMART or FAIR decisions to his partners as a result; both men and women. And I think that's a perfectly great way to explore lots of pathways for a ship. (All of his ships in general are never going to be 100% healthy. Alastor is a jealous, possessive, violent, and often emotionally DEAD individual.)

In this verse in particular, he cares about Rosie and does love her. He has explored sexual relations with her on a few occasions and he didn't dislike them (he, in fact, enjoyed them, given the context) - but I will say that outright, he is hard pressed to consider himself attracted to her as a default. This is ALSO coupled with the fact that Alastor - IN ALL of his relationships - has a very hard time getting his libido to react. It requires some specific parameters that can sometimes be a lot of work. And sexual interactions may not always be reciprocated or go as planned.

WITH THAT CONTEXT IN MIND:

Prior to the Unholy Crusade event, I was of an understanding that we could absolutely continue having he and Rosie be together and be married. I think that is an interesting plot point for him to have to cope with his sexuality (as well as the torch he still holds for Vox) in a married/committed relationship with a woman; particularly a woman who he very much cherishes still.

BUT - I know that when I get into those topics, I get VERY WORDY. I get VERY NOVELLA in my responses and that is not everyone's cup of tea. It was my understanding that, over time, some of Xixi's interest in those types of posts began to wane or she otherwise started to prefer short, sillier interactions with other characters, WHICH IS 100% OKAY AND FINE AND I HARBOR NO ILL WILL TOWARDS ANYONE INVOLVED, XIXI INCLUDED. Everyone is allowed to cater their experience in the way that makes sense to them and their character! But that is the impression I received.

However, in all honesty, when my long para replies are met with much shorter responses, I do get a little sad. And I know that not everyone gets as wordy as me, so really, it's just my bad for assuming that people WANTED to read/respond to that kind of thing in kind (I should have asked probably) but because of that, I started to draw back a bit because the effort and interest didn't quite seem to be on the same page.

So when Xixi proposed the death of Rosie and the end to the ship as a whole I was a bit taken aback, especially since we had spoken at least once after I made the initial post about Al's MLM sexuality and it seemed like it would be an okay thing to continue with. BUT I also know that Rosie's character does really like romance, affection, etc. and things that Alastor is not always fantastic at showing. So even though I was a little bit down about that being the inevitable conclusion (and it did, admittedly, make my participation in the event feel a bit moot which it was already sort of scant because I've been busy and can't always keep up with those quick timed events, as I've expressed before), I understood that it was what Xixi wanted for the character and for the ship and I do not fault her for it!

I did wish, at the time, that maybe it had been brought up to me beforehand, but I know events move quick, things can come up and happen, and I'm not gonna fault someone for that either.

Ultimately, I decided I was okay with it. I chatted with a pal and decided that with a little bit of their input I could write a nice little ending to Alastor's story in that verse so that I still felt like I had a bit of agency in how he continues on after that, even if we weren't necessarily going to play in that verse anymore. I like to have control of my characters and their eventual fates, so it made me feel better in an otherwise unfortunate situation.

But now that the plan B is being proposed, I really don't want it to seem as though I hate the ship/wanted it to end/am committed to ruining it out of spite. I think I'd just like to commit to what was proposed to me because I've already planned out how I would like to end that story and I don't want to put pressure on Xixi (or myself) to try and match up our writing styles or interest levels when it does not seem as though we're able to provide what we're each looking for in a ship between Rosie/Alastor.

All that to say that I am sort of sold on completing that story for Alastor in one way or another, but that does not mean that I hate radiorose, nor that I harbor any sore feelings towards Xixi. Nor do I have any disdain for her writing style whatsoever! I think it's great and if there is any future indication that our styles can jive together again, I'd be open to it.

But at this time, it just seems like it's better for the ship to meet a conclusion.

I HOPE THAT PROVIDES CONTEXT AND INSIGHT as to my decision making here. I really do not want it to seem as though I'm purposefully sabotaging their ship when I just sort of want to commit to what was initially proposed.

I hope that makes sense. I don't often go at length about these kinds of things, but since people were concerned, I wanted to make myself clear.

ANYWAY.

[issushaim]

F and H for the fanfic asks? :3

F: Dialogue snippets

Okay, I LOVE writing Alastor and Vox interactions (evidently lmao)

This is actually not from a radiostatic fic as such, but writing them talking here pretty much kickstarted my obsession with them, haha.

I enjoy writing drunk Alastor pretty much any chance I get, but his absinthe moment in Sugarbomb was especially fun.

And this moment in CBH is still one of my favourites :)

I'm never sure if I put too many internal thoughts/narration between lines of speech (these examples are not too bad, but sometimes I'll be writing a conversation and then realise no one's actually said anything out loud for several paragraphs, lmao) but, well. It's a habit. H: How would you describe your style?

Hmmm. Difficult question! Fairly wordy I guess, though I try not to get too purple-prosey. I do love writing verbose pretentious bastards though (hello Alastor, Jing Yuan, Dottore) I've noticed I tend to focus a lot on characters' expressions and movements, and very little on physical descriptions of people and environments, haha. I write pretty much exclusively 3rd person limited pov, because I especially love using it to highlight characters' delusions and the lies they tell themselves. I also never write in present tense anymore because I always end up confusing myself and cannot keep it consistent, lmao.

[saii-the-idiot]

Helluva Boss/ Hazbin Hotel spoilers,,, again

Okokok so I have arranged this into a theory. Starting with what we know for sure. Imps can kill other imps in the wrath ring. The overlords can be killed, but only by special weapons. We don’t know enough about the other rings yet but assuming that because they’re also only populated by imps and other natural born hell creatures with no way for humans to access them, we’re going to say for the sake of this theory that they follow the same rule and that since pride is run by someone who isn’t native to hell it’s the only exception (Lucifer was cast out of heaven in the bible). The two possibilities right now are that either it’s possible for sinners to kill imps and they’re just unaware of it so the imps built their city farther away as a means of protection and they have a mutual trust to not kill each other while there, or the imps that visit the pride ring are immune to being killed by sinners and other imps alike. For the purposes of this theory, I’m going to set angel weapons and the special overlord killing guns like Striker has in episode 5 aside for a bit as they aren’t common enough to add anything important to the body of this theory.

Ok first off before I start digging into the actual meat of this I’d just like to say, I believe the annual purge is something that only happens in the pride ring. Judging by the fact that the imps can kill each other off in the other rings and that their population doesn’t grow nearly as fast, they don’t exactly need an annual purge. Also from what we’ve seen of the wrath ring, they have plenty of room for farms. Wrath at the very least isn’t packed full of citizens in huge dense cities needing to be purged every year, and again assuming the other rings operate in a somewhat similar way (as in they don’t have sinners constantly flowing in) it’s a personal theory of mine that the only ring with an annual purge is pride. 

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s look at our first possibility. That the imps are able to be killed by anyone, including sinners, in the pride ring. That the imps, in avoiding the murderous sinners, built their city far away to avoid any accidents. And that the imps have a mutual understanding not to kill each other. This possibility however is disproved by Helluva Boss episode 2; Loo Loo Land. I’m talking about the amount of people that survive the seemingly deadly theme park. Between the fires set by Blitzo in his battle against Robo Fizz, the deadly rides, and the assassins shown lurking around every corner, this isn’t exactly somewhere you would wanna take your kids for a fun day with the family. This is further supported by Loo Loo the mascot’s line “If y’all get hurt here, just try and sue us!” I know this seems like a bit of a reach considering it’s just one line, but Loo Loo did specifically say “get hurt” instead of “get killed”. While it’s easy enough to overlook if you’re not paying attention, in a series centered around death and the afterlife where every detail matters, I think it’s actually a clue as to the way death works in hell and what it means for the series. In the series in general imps and sinners alike are shown to survive really traumatic injuries in the pride ring without much more than a scratch or bruise to show for it. The exception in this episode is when Stolas turns someone into stone by just looking at them, but we’re not counting that as supporting evidence because he’s an extremely powerful overlord.

Another exception to this are Sir Pentious’s egg minions who are killed en masse in the turf war of the Hazbin Hotel pilot, but they don’t appear to be sinners or imps so we’re going to set them aside for now and theorize about them another time. The only ever confirmed deaths that take place in the pride ring are caused by overlords, and in a place literally crawling with murderous psychopaths this leads me to believe that regular imps and sinners are completely incapable of murder in the pride ring without angel weapons. The imps are also constantly exposed to the sinners, so surviving as a population for tens of thousands of years at least without any casualties at all is impossible. The imps are also violent beings by nature, the majority of which are completely unopposed to killing, so the chances of them living in harmony on the outskirts of the ring are next to zero. With all this, I think we can safely rule out this as a possibility for how the pride ring operates. This leads me to the next option. 

The other (more likely) possibility is that the pride ring is an immune zone to killing. First off, it wouldn’t make sense for the sinners to be able to kill one another and the imps here, as they wouldn’t get their eternal punishment that way. The purpose of hell is to punish sinners eternally, and if the sinner can just nope out whenever they want then it defeats the purpose entirely. Hell is also, you know, full of people that have committed horrifying acts in their lives. It’s full of every murderer, psychopath, and just all around asshole out there. This is the afterlife with no consequences and a lot of sinners would take advantage of this. There could and probably (knowing the demeanor of the sinners) would be imp hunting events set up by the unkillable human souls to prey on the In terms of the purpose of hell, the general immunity to harm displayed in this ring, and the way the ring has quarantined the sinners to only be able to live there, It’s my firm belief that imp or sinner you’re unable to die in the pride ring at the hands of anything other than an angel’s weapon. 

This would also make the pride ring a safe place for the imps to go to avoid being killed off by other imps. There is however a much darker side to this part of the theory. What if the pride ring isn’t this safe place that the imps are looking out for? Sure, some of them might be going there on purpose to try and make lives for themselves, but there’s also a possibility that imp city in the pride ring is a place for castaway and escaping imps to go if they can’t stay in their own rings. This would add to the overpopulation and increase their chances of being killed in the annual purge however. I feel like if imps are moving to the pride ring and it is a neutral zone they have nothing left to lose and are willing to accept the possibility of their deaths every year. It could also be a place for imps sent for execution/eternal punishment of their own to go, given that not a lot of people want to willingly move to the place with an annual purge. 

However, there is one thing that could potentially poke a massive hole in this theory, and that’s the official Hazbin Hotel comic “A Day In The After Life” in which we’re introduced to the concept of cannibals in the afterlife. In this comic, (for those who have no idea what I’m talking about) Alastor goes down to the part of town where the society of cannibals lives because he got word of a new butcher he hadn’t heard of before and wanted to try his products. Knowing this is a cannibal colony, they would have to be eating sinners and/or imps. You’re probably wondering “how could they be killing and eating each other if this is a safe zone?” but this also has a possible explanation. Angels are known to sometimes leave behind their weapons after the purge, as shown in the Hazbin Hotel pilot, so the butchers in the colony could have just picked up the weapons after a purge. This is further supported by Alastor hearing of a “new” butcher just after the last purge, meaning the butcher probably only got in business after getting his hands on an angel’s weapon. 

Another thing that could disprove this theory is the other official Hazbin Hotel comic “Chapter 1: Dirty Healings” In which Angel Dust kills several of Valentino’s “associates”. This is once again disproved by the fact that the angel weapons can be fashioned into guns, as shown in Helluva Boss episode 5. If Angel Dust had even one of those guns, he would easily be able to kill all the shark demons. (Don’t ask why Angel Dust can’t just kill Valentino if he has the gun(s), he’s extremely outnumbered and would be killed almost immediately if he did)

Another thing I was thinking about is because the imps can travel between rings, can they just go to a different ring for the purge? If so, then can all imps do this? But that’s yet another theory for another day.

These are all just theories of course, feel free to correct me if I got anything wrong. I’d like to see what y’alls opinions on this are. Watch a new episode come out and prove like,, all of this wrong. Sorry for this being so long and wordy lol

[mcrcki]

Was that [PENELOPE MITCHELL]? Oh no no, that was just [MARLENE MCKINNON], a [CANON CHARACTER] from [HARRY POTTER]. They are [TWENTY ONE] years old and [ARE] aware that they are not actually from Washington DC. Too bad they can’t stray from this city for long.

how long has your character been here - 

marlene’s been in dc for roughly three years now. so while her information says twenty one for plotting purposes, she’s actually closer to twenty four now. 

what is your character’s job - 

she’s just gone through a bit of a job shift, having worked originally as a bar manager downtown, alecto carrow has bought out her old job and she’s subsequently quit to avoid being near the woman. so, for now, she’s a bartender with her father ewan. but she is looking to possibly change careers in the near future, wanting to do more than just pour drinks all day. i think she’d make a great cop, but everything say “no gun marlene” so. lame

where has your character been pulled from in their fandom -

marlene is pulled right after she’s died, so late july 1981. her last memory is travers’ killing curse flying at her.

has any magic affected your character -

other than bringing her back from the dead, no. she’s been one of the lucky ones and kept her memories all three years

extra information - 

alright here’s where i’m going to get wordy and ramble !!! bear with me while i gush about my disaster daughter.

background : 

sixth child to maddie and ewan mckinnon, the youngest daughter of the mckinnon children. has a younger brother felix (we’ll get into that dw), and five older sisters ; marina, abi, natalie, kit and cleo. marlene is also very much the kind of person to consider her friends her family, so you won’t be able to miss hearing her calling lily, dorcas and mary her sisters.

fully pureblood family, but they are not in the pureblood society. marlene hasn’t asked questions about it. she’s perfectly happy being a blood traitor and wears it with pride.

almost all of her siblings (save for cleo and felix, ravenclaws. and natalie the honorary hufflepuff) are slytherin, thanks mom. leaving just her and dad as the only lions in the house.

she has an absolute insane phobia of flying and will do everything in her power to never get on a broom. shout out to dad for dropping her off of one at four !

is so fiercely loyal to her family, or at least the ones that she can be loyal to anymore. they’re always her first thought and even though she has her secrets, she thinks that she’s protecting them by keeping them all at arms length.

gryffindor through and through. the absolute epitome of blind bravery and loyalty. 

honestly if you had to assign deadly sins to her, she’d be pride without any shadow of a doubt.

will die for her friends. has died for her friends. would do it all over again without a second though. 

would be the friend you call to bail you out of jail, but unfortunately she’s probably in jail with you, or is calling you first.

got into way too many fights in school, mcgonagall probably had letters written mad libs style for the mckinnon household in her office with the amount of time she spent in detention. 

was the girl to throw the parties in the common room, even if she hated playing quidditch, she loved celebrating a gryffindor win. 

had decided very early on into hogwarts that she would be joining the order. she was probably only 13 or 14 when her mind was fully made up. it made it harder for her to focus on school at that point, having done rather poorly on her o.w.l.s outside of dada and charms. she was also mostly focused on dueling club for the majority of school. anything she could do to prepare her for joining she was going to do. why did she need to worry about a job after, there was a war to win. 

went into the order the moment she was off the train after hogwarts. she mentored under alastor moody during her time there, having absorbed all she could from him, a second father figure when she started to distance from her own for their safety. 

she moved out of the mckinnon manner right as things started to heat up, living fully at headquarters by the start of 1981. it felt safer that way. 

she also didn’t want her parents worrying if she didn’t make it home at night, if she was sometimes away for days on end. or showing up battered and bruised after a mission. marlene has always been one to run head first into danger and think about the action later, consequences didn’t have much immediate damage so she never thought to worry about them. it’s unfortunately something she’s still got now even years later. will always act first and think later.

i won’t hurt yall with talking about the mckinnon death again, feel free to read the death para if you’re interested in what went down that night in july. i do have to update it a little with new names and all that jazz but

life in dc :

like i said she’s been here for three years so she’s gone through a lot. 

currently is living in a far too big, total wreck, eight bedroom house (if you want to come over please do they have too much room and you’re welcome to vibe) with sirius black.

lemme just get the blackinnon bullet out of the way lmao. has recently eloped with sirius black. they spent their entire friendship just believing everything they felt was one sided, that they were just friend who occasionally hooked up, that would hide away in corners reassuring the other they were safe after a mission, that would talk in a crowded room like they were the only ones there. bestie vibes only right. 

anyways, they wised up, sirius got his memories back, and proposed in a heat of the moment reunion and they went and got married right after. marlene is working on telling everyone she’s just enjoying this being their thing right now, please this is a good secret for once.

she will say, she’s got some not so great secrets, but she’s trying her best to be more forthcoming with her family and friends. about almost everything. 

she has made sure that everyone knows about her brother felix. the issues marlene is personally dealing with, nothing to worry about. focus on the traitor boy.

felix, the youngest of the mckinnons, was secretly aligned with the death eaters (for his own reasons that marlene actively ignores because the second she hears death eater her vision goes red). felix is the reason the death eaters knew marlene would be home that fateful night, and had unknowingly brought down the entire mckinnon line with one comment.

marlene will not forgive this. she can’t. she doesn’t know how. she’s spent the better part of three years blaming herself for everything, for allowing her family to ever be hurt and now knowing that she was not the one to shoulder all of the guilt, she doesn’t know how to really process that.

she couldn’t sleep for weeks at a time, had started to develop a drinking problem, was constantly being eaten away at by her guilt. it’s hard to just switch that off but if she can put that blame somewhere else, she will. 

might be why she’s acting out.. see below for that ::

if you have seen anything with marlene you know she’s an absolute queen of getting into situations she should never be in, and putting her foot in her mouth the second she does. 

she’s fought with rabastan, argued far too much with severus, insulted bellatrix, is currently trying to piss of travers so he stays focused on her and not her family, and most of that without a wand in her hand. 

she got her ass kicked by alecto carrow, who then went and snapped her wand post fight. so. she’s doing great. promise.

honestly, she’s mostly embarrassed, is trying not to tell anyone but sirius what happened. she refuses to let anyone worry about her and is going to figure out how to fix this without adding any stress to the rest of the marauders. they all have enough to deal with instead of cleaning up after marlene’s dumbassery. 

and with travers here now, the last thing she needs is her family worrying about her without a wand. them trying to protect her was what got them here in the first place. besides, carrow isn’t one to break a promise, and the threat to lily and her mother is enough to keep her mouth shut. she doesn’t trust either of them to not lay a finger on her family just to see marlene go off the rails even further.

right now, she’s just a mess. idk what to tell you. can’t handle herself, will keep getting into fights, because if she shies away from them? they’ll catch on for something being off. 

anyways that’s my idiot child im so sorry

[dontasktheradiodemon]

Reunion

After avoiding the hell out of each other for a week, Alastor and Sir Pentious finally meet to discuss the whole “I found out you like me and yelled at you until you cried” thing.

It’s very emotional.

To all of you that read the chat log last week and screamed: read this one and scream some more.

Alastor

Inside Rosie's Emporium, Alastor is frantically preparing for Sir Pentious's arrival, as he has been for the last few hours—he's showered *twice*—all while singing the most obnoxiously perky show tunes he can think of. He is NOT going to be a simpering emotional wreck this time. He intends to get through this meeting without breaking character; or if he fails, he's at least going to put it off as long as possible.

Outside the emporium, meanwhile, the door's locked and a sign in the window says "*CLOSED*" with a second, handwritten sign underneath reading "*Except for appointments. - R.D.*"

Sir Pentious

The appointed time had arrived. Sir Pentious slipped out of a portal created by his beloved, though she did not follow. This was something he'd be doing on his own, as it was between him and Al. It was funny to think about, wasn't it? That months ago, Sir Pentious would have loved to meet the other over *bitter* circumstances, to feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through him at the chance to confront his enemy.

But this was unlike anything he'd ever faced before. So used to breaking down everything he could get his hands on, the serpent wasn't prepared for how emotionally exhausting it was to... try to put the pieces back together, good as new. He could fix most *any* machine, but this? This was *harrowing.*

While Alastor was adamant about not losing character, Penley found it nigh impossible to stop his hands from *shaking.* He slithered up to the door, took hold of the knocker, and made his presence known. Tok. Tok. Tok. His body shook like an earthquake, and he quickly used his right hand to still his left, both of his hands now behind his back. He attempted to look *dignified*, but the look of anxious *dread* on his and Hatty's faces was unmistakably present.

Valera's words repeat in his head. *You could fumble and fail a thousand times, but you're still trying and I still love you with all my hearts.* Yes... he was trying. All he could do was try.

Alastor

Right! There was the knock. Show time. Alastor had barely had enough time to find a seat to perch on near the front of the empty store before he was leaping back to his feet and swinging the door open. "*Hel—!"

He wasn't ready for the gut punch of seeing Sir Pentious's face again—especially seeing him looking so downright miserable. "...-lo."

*AHEM.* Switch stations. "Right on time, do come in!" He stepped aside, ushering Sir Pentious inside. "We have the place to ourselves, Rosie was kind enough to agree to take care of some business out on the town. Door in the back left, the one that says 'staff only'—I know I said not to expect food, but Rosie, it turns out, actually *does* know how to prepare tea, so I've got a table set in her parlor with a pot and a few little snacks—you know, in case we need to cover any awkward silences, haha!"

He sounded like himself. But he hadn't looked at Sir Pentious since that first moment, his gaze instead across the store at the door in the back he'd indicated.

Sir Pentious

.... Oh... *Oh.* Oh this felt,.. wrong. Sir Pentious kept his hands behind his back, the hand holding the other by the wrist squeezing it tight enough to cut off blood flow. Alastor talking in that usual way of his, but it just twisted and turned his stomach. "R--RIGHT. OF-- OF COURSE." he replied, slithering into the store, toward where the deerman had gestured.

His brain was already screaming for him to get out of there, this was awful! This was AWFUL. Get out get out get out GET OUT--No no, no. Don't do that. Don't make it worse than you already have. Stay here, you can do *at least that much.* His throat felt *itchy* and he wanted to *scratch* at it, but no! No he must try to look dignified! His face just barely manages to look only mildly concerned, but Hatty, Oh Hatty... Never before had there been a chapeau *so* stressed out--expression looking borderline *sick* and instead of sitting tall, it was crinkled and somewhat mangled in appearance. Sir Pentious hadn't done that, at least not *intentionally.*

Alastor

Alastor inwardly cringed at the way Sir Pentious stuttered. It wasn't like him. Alastor was still firmly avoiding eye contact, and that meant *all* eyes—but it was safe to say that on the inside he was making about the same face the hat was.

There, a modest little table in a charming little Edwardian parlor, set for tea as promised with a few pastries Alastor had managed to scare up that he thought were soft enough for Sir Pentious's tastes. "Sit where you'd like," Alastor said. "I mean—I know there's only two seats, hah—unless you want to sit on the divan over there or something—hard to reach the tea, though—well, you know what I mean!" A gesture at the table.

Sir Pentious

"... ACTUALLY, I DON'T. THINK I COULD SSSIT. RIGHT NOW..." If he sat down, then, he wouldn't be able to keep his hands behind his back, without looking like he was tied up or something. He *winces* at the sound of his own voice, and tilts his head, craning his neck uncomfortably...

"ALASSTOR." Oh, he felt sick. That letter from Alastor had been so *short*, and, now he wasn't really even looking at him at all. Just hearing the demon's voice after an entire week of *not...!* He took in a sharp, shaky breath.

Alastor

Alastor hesitated, then nodded sharply. "You're going to make me look like a bad host." He laughed nervously. "Not—well—not that anyone else is going to see, but..."

He flinched at the sound of his name. "Sir Pentious." He clasped his own shaking hands behind his back and straightened his posture.

Sir Pentious

Look at them--both standing in just the same way. Hands tightly clasped behind their backs, their postures straight, foolish old men attempting to appear dignified as their hearts sank and drowned. Sir Pentious had to say something, *had* to... do something... but his mind was running blank. He... looked, glanced-- toward Alastor, and his eyes settled on where he'd bitten before, wincing.

"... ..does it hurt?"     Oh, that's a pathetically quiet sound for a gentleman to make, shame on you, Sir.

Alastor

Stubbornly avoiding eye contact like he was, it did not occur to Alastor that Sir Pentious was talking about the bite. He made a garbled noise of surprise. "Uh, *well*—I mean—jumping right into it, aren't we?—it hurts about as much as you'd expect it to hurt a week after your best friend said he'll hate you if he sees your face again!" A strained laugh. "But enough about me! Here I am playing host and I'm letting my guest ask all the questions. On a scale from 1 to 10, how much pain are *you* in?"

Sir Pentious

He *flinches*, badly. His teeth *grit* as he grimaces from the strain of having to *restrain* himself, keep himself from having immediate reactions--bad ones. Don't make any stressed snake sounds, don't do anything WEIRD, don't DON'T *DON'T* make him hate you more. He's digging his talons into his hand so tight now that he can feel warmth run down his palm.

"W-... I--..!" He can't get anything out, again. Showing this side of him, he feels *shame* course through him once more. No, don't rely on the man you *bit to shreds* just for trying to help you. Just for loving you. What a **piece of** ***shit you are, Pentious.*** Deep, deep breath. Slow inhale, fill those powerful lungs of yours... and exhale. You're alright. You're alright.

"... AN ELEVEN, OR A TWELVE. I AM SSSSORRY.... YOU *DID* READ MY LETTER, CORRECT...?"

Alastor

He hates hearing Sir Pentious's stop and start, hates hearing his voice drop so soft. Hates that *eleven or twelve.*

"I—yes. Of course. The moment I got it. Several times." Alastor swallows hard. "There's really no call for a... Eleven's a bit... You really shouldn't have to go past a five. Six tops."

Sir Pentious

"I SHOULDN'T HAVE *HURT YOU,* IS WHAT I *SHOULDN'T* HAVE DONE. NEVER MIND THE IRRELEVANCIESSS OF *NUMBERSSSS.*" He turned his head to and fro, more exaggerated than necessary with that long neck of his--he refused to bring his hands out, even if it looked RIDICULOUS at this point to maintain such a stance.

Alastor

His immediate instinct was to try to excuse it, to say that maybe Sir Pentious shouldn't have, but on the other hand Alastor shouldn't have— But Alastor wasn't in the wrong, he reminded himself. He wasn't in the wrong to feel something he couldn't control, and he wasn't wrong to try to keep that to himself.

He was, perhaps, wrong to make friends in spite of all that—but he'd been invited to, hadn't he?

"No," he conceded, looking at his shoes. "You shouldn't have."

Sir Pentious

He wasn't sure if it was relief slipped down his throat, dragging a knife the entire way down. That's.... not what relief is supposed to feel like, right? It was probably guilt. Intense guilt--he was glad that Alastor wasn't making excuses for him or blaming himself, but oh, did he continue to feel shame. It wasn't going to go away. It wouldn't ever go away.

It was getting hard to keep his hands behind his back, and he smeared the blood between his palms.  "... A-AGREED... INDEED..." Usually so wordy, he was... failing. Failing to speak.... Say something *else*, you GODDAMN FOOL. "... I... LETTERSS CAN BE... SS-SO IM*PERSSSONAL*, YOU KNOW, BUT, I DID NOT WANT TO... *IMPOSE* AFTER THE MESSS I MADE OF THINGSSS...." He gestures to his head, then a few vague gesturing at... between them... and then immediately remembers his hands should be behind him, so back they go, flicking a bit of blood and immediately COVERING it with his tail. Nope.

"SS...SSSO I SSSENT THE LETTER, FIRSSSST. I WANTED YOU TO KNOW, ALASSSTOR, THAT I'M SSSO DEEPLY SSSORRY FOR THE WAY I ACTED, HOW I... *RE*ACTED TO YOUR WORDSSS. IT WAS OUTRIGHT FOOLISH AND NONSSSSENSSSICAL..."

Alastor

Alastor was sure he saw *something* drop down, but when he glanced over Sir Pentious had shifted his tail. Alastor glanced up at Sir Pentious—for the first time since opening the door—faintly worried, but he wasn't sure of what.

"They can be," he agreed, looking away again. "Very, *very* impersonal. Even if the words are all there, you can never quite tell if it was... crafted to be that way." He took a deep breath. "For what it's worth, I've been here *waiting* for you to impose—as soon as you could stand the sight of my face again." He huffed. "Bad joke. Sorry. Shouldn't have, not the time. Couldn't resist."

He wasn't ready to touch that apology quite yet. It felt like claws on his skin, although he wasn't sure why. Not clawing like some wild beast was cutting him up. More like some drowning creature was trying to scrabble up to safety.

Sir Pentious

The implication that he was just crafting them--just so, as if he was making it up! He... turned his face away, tongue hanging as he felt the stress wringing his chest. The length of time his tongue spends in his mouth is now shorter than the amount it's out! Another bout of harsh words-- he deserves much worse.

Maybe if Alastor could just. Cut him apart, it would feel better. He deserved that much, right? If someone had done what he did to Alastor.... to him? Why, they wouldn't be allowed to leave! He'd rip them apart!!!

... Tear them with his teeth. He makes a *sound*, a choked little whine, that he immediately slaps a hand over his mouth for. Shut *UP!* This isn't ABOUT YOU. You have to WORK HARDER, Pentious. You're NOT doing a good job, you're not even doing a SATISFACTORY job. He straightens himself up, more, but doesn't move his hand--his palm was warm, and he realizes what he just did. Ugh. Time to talk through the hand on his mouth.

"I DON'T HATE YOU-- I DON'T. I'M... SSSORRY." Sorry tasted disgusting in his mouth, like excuses. *Excuses.* "IT WAS... CRUEL. UNNECESSsssssARILY. EVERYTHING I SSSAID WAS.SS... I JUSSST... I NEEDED SSSSPACE TO THINK AND...." I'm too fucking honest for my own fucking good.

Alastor

Alastor immediately looked up when Sir Pentious covered his mouth. It took longer this time for him to drag his eyes away. God, that look on Sir Pentious's face.

And it was there because of Alastor. It made him feel sick.

"I know you're sorry," he said. "I'd... say I forgive you, but—hah—I *tried* to resent you and couldn't quite manage it, so I guess I don't need to forgive you. So instead I'll say I..."

*I accept your apology.* But he couldn't quite get the words out. Sir Pentious had insisted so often that he always wanted Alastor to give it to him straight, that now Alastor couldn't quite bring himself to do otherwise.

So instead he said, softer than he meant, "I *want* to accept." He cast a forlorn look at the table he'd set out. "Could we *please* sit? I feel ridiculous, standing next to a bunch of perfectly good chairs."

Sir Pentious

They both felt mutually sick, and Penny regarded the chairs like they were death traps. When he felt this stressed out, *sitting* was the last thing he wanted to do...    But who cares about what he wants? Didn't he do enough selfish things?

Pentious swallows down the sick tasting lump in his throat as he moves to, well, attempt to sit. Slip in, bend tail like *so*.... There. Sitting, like a real person!

And keeping his hand to his mouth because he knows if he pulls it away, he'll have blood on his face. Stupid.

"YOU... *WANT* TO, BUT, YOU CANNOT, I PRESUME?" Ahh. Acid.

Alastor

He sat, dropped his elbows on the table, laced his hands, and hunched his shoulders. "I don't *know* if I can," he said. "The thing is—Here's the thing—How do I know it's over? If my... If all this is so upsetting to you, then—well, you're acting quite the gentleman *now,* which I do appreciate, but how do I know..."

He couldn't quite get it out. He wasn't playing the right character to say these kinds of things. He swallowed hard and fiddled with his monocle. "How long until there's a repeat performance?"

Sir Pentious

... Oh no. Oh, God. This was the exact thing he was petrified of, he'd confessed to Valera countless times about how he's unable to predict his psychosis, how he's unable to stop when it starts, and how he can't promise they'll never happen again..

Valera always reassured him, but here he was being asked the very question that shook him so badly. He makes a pitiful stuttering sound, like a laugh meeting a sob, and he turns his head away, reaching for a tissue or something to wipe up the drying blood on his face.

"I-- I.. I can't. I can't prOMISSSE ANYTHING B, BECAUSE I DON'T. I DON'T *KNOW.* I... I. THESE... THESE MOMENTSSSS JUSSST HIT AND, and. AND IT'SSSS LIKE I'M DOING ANYTHING I CAN JUSSST TO *HOLD ON.*" How could they stay with this neurotic fool indeed? Look at how *unpredictable* he is. Not an ounce of reliability.

Alastor

His heart plummeted at the sound of the sob/laugh. Sir Pentious's answer didn't do anything to lift it back up—but the answer didn't push it any deeper, either.

Alastor leaned more heavily on the table, staring down at an empty teacup as he turned that over in his mind. "And I appreciate knowing that," he said. "But, I meant... If you explode at me over something different, okay, we'll deal with that then, but..."

He fell silent again. Dead air hummed loudly for a moment. "How much do you hate... *this?* Specifically? Are you going to be... courteously swallowing your distaste every time we interact, until it builds up and bursts out again? Is this going to irritate your mind every time you look at me?"

Sir Pentious

His eyes widen, and he *slammed* his hands down on the table, quite suddenly--harder than he'd intended, but too late.

"NO! NO, I-- IT *DOESN'T* IRRITATE ME, IT. I DON'T. I REALLY *DON'T CARE* ABOUT IT!! I HAVE *QUESTIONSSSSS*, CERTAINLY, BUT I'M NOT IRRITATED, AND, AND I DON'T HATE THE SSSSIGHT OF YOU."

Alastor

He sat bolt upright when Sir Pentious slammed his hands down—and then froze there, back rigid, staring at him. “Really?” he asked, quietly.

*I don’t care* was the best option he could have hoped for. (Second best option. *Best* option was “I thought it over and realized I feel the same—“ But second best was pretty good and much more realistic.) Apathy was far better than mere tolerance—tolerance would mean it was still a negative, but one Sir Pentious could put up with, as long as it didn’t become too much. Apathy meant it wasn’t even a negative—it was a neutral. It should have been a huge weight off Alastor’s shoulders.

But it wasn’t. The weight on his shoulders had claws and was digging in hard. “You’re *sure?* Because, you... certainly seemed irritated at the time.”

Sir Pentious

He winces when he startles the other, and his tongue flicks--more like hangs out--for longer. Stressed.

Sir Pentious slides his hand over his hood, looking away as his other hand drums against the table.

"THAT WASS. I. I DON'T. *KNOW* WHY I GOT SSSO UPSSSSET. I... *TRIED* TO SSSSTOP MYSSSSELF, BUT I COULDN'T WIN AGAINSSSST THE ACID MELTING MY MIND. IT, IT WAS UNCERTAINTY, PERHAPSSSS? FEAR... FEAR OF..." Losing this.  "CHANGE! AND... I DIDN'T WANT THINGSSSSS TO CHANGE, AND, I, DON'T LIKE IT WHEN THINGSSSS ARE HIDDEN FROM ME, SSSSO I... I PANICKED AND LASHED OUT, AS I AM WONT TO *DO*..."

He wants to take Alastor's hands, hold them in his and *ask* him to believe him. It sounded like a TERRIBLE answer, all things considered. What kind of answer was 'I don't know why I did that?' But it was the only one he could muster. Speculation about why he felt that way was the best he could do.

Alastor

It *was* a terrible answer. It was about as godawful an answer as Alastor could think of. But Sir Pentious was also a pretty terrible liar. If he said he didn’t know why he was upset—then he probably really, truly didn’t.

Which wasn’t much comfort. It meant they didn’t know for sure what set it off. But there were much worse answers he could have given.

“Well,” he sighed deeply, “I didn’t want things to change, either. Just one of many reasons why I didn’t say anything. At least we’re on the same page.” He paused a moment, then asked, “So, that’s... what a full-blown ‘acid blood’ incident is like, is it?”

Sir Pentious

He sighed as well, perhaps just as deeply, and began to play with a tea cup.

"YESSS. VALERA HASS EXPERIENCE WITH THEM, BUT I AM ASHAMED YOU HAD TO BE AS WELL. I CANNOT CONTROL THEM, A GREAT SHAME OF MINE. I FEEL LIKE RIPPING AND TEARING THROUGH MYSSSSELF IS THE ONLY WAY TO COOL THE BURNING, AND I EVEN LOSE THE ABILITY TO SSSPEAK, BUT THE *MADNESS* IS SSSTILL THERE..."

Alastor

He noted Sir Pentious playing with the cup, and lifted the tea pot an inch or so. Want some?

“You know, you mentioned the acid in your veins, the clawing at yourself, and the disconnected feeling—but I think you forgot to mention the part where you verbally assault whoever’s talking to you.” A rueful laugh. “See, that—that would have been a good one to know. Otherwise, it sounds an awful lot like you mean it.”

His stomach twisted. He was dancing on the edge of a question that had been plaguing him since he received Sir Pentious’s letter, so... “How much of it *did* you mean?” It would be all too easy if every word out of Sir Pentious’s mouth had simply been whatever, in that moment, he thought would hurt the most. He couldn’t shake the fear that *some* of it was sincere, just typically buried too deep for Sir Pentious to share.

Sir Pentious

He deserved that laugh. He deserved far worse than that, but it still made him *flinch* again. Had he neglected that part? Sir Pentious made a face, extremely uncomfortable, and his shoulders hunched as he dropped the tea cup back onto its saucer. No, no tea right now.

"I... I *didn't mean it.* I didn't mean any of it." What an easy answer, Penny! You *disease.* He rakes his claws over his hood, taking in another breath.

"I just. I grab anything I can to make it hurt. It'sssss shameful. I know, I know. I'm *ssssorry*. I wish I hadn't sssaid a thing."

Alastor

All right, no tea. Alastor poured himself a cup instead.

Then stared at it. Why did he do that, he doesn’t like tea.

So. Sir Pentious meant none of it. Not a word. Alastor nodded, finally feeling that heavy weight on his shoulders start to tug its claws out of his tense muscles.

It was difficult to believe—he wasn’t quite sure it wasn’t just what Sir Pentious himself wanted to believe. Some of the words—“*I let you* touch *me!” “How could I set limits?” “If you hadn’t* fucked things up *back then*”—it was hard to imagine they weren’t sincere when the accusations were true. But if Sir Pentious himself didn’t think they were...

“Okay.” He nodded. “That’s good. All good news, right? No big rifts here.” He offered an encouraging smile.

Sir Pentious

Questions muddled into lashing out... He shouldn't have screamed at him, he shouldn't have. He would much rather have asked questions, calmly! Like a proper gentleman. Like a *good friend.* But he wasn't a good friend.

And seeing that encouraging smile finally snapped the string trying to hold everything together. Sir Pentious put his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook, trying to keep himself *silent* as tears slipped down his wrists, some going into his sleeves, others dripping onto the table.

"I-- I'm sss-ssorry, my friend! I'm *trying*. I am, I *am.*" A harsh whisper, as quiet as he could speak.

Alastor

“N—!” Alastor automatically reached across the table, stopped with his hand halfway to Sir Pentious, and pulled it back to set on the table on his side of the tea pot. “I—come now, you’re doing just fine.” His claws dug into the tabletop. He wanted so much to take Sir Pentious’s hands. God, he couldn’t do that now.

So instead, he pulled out Sir Pentious’s freshly washed handkerchief and offered it to him.

Sir Pentious

His fists pressed against his eyes, and he grit his teeth, trying so hard to get a hold of himself. Stop crying, haven't you cried enough? You really are wrong in the head, Sir Pentious.

His hands finally pull down, and he takes deep, deep breaths, like he hasn't breathed in a while. It's okay, you're okay, you're okay.

The handkerchief--he remembers his teeth shredding Alastor's shoulder, and all he did was give him a *handkerchief* for it, and some awfully *short* words. How his chest ached now, and he felt *sick* and *vile.* Penny moved to take the handkerchief, hovered over it, then put his hand down on *top* of Alastor's, with the cloth serving as a barrier between.

"I don't... Undersssstand why you both put up with me. If I were treated as I treated you, I would have plotted REVENGE. I would have sssssought out the perpetrator, and put a BULLET in his BRAIN. I would have FED him his own INTEssssSTINAL TRACT! And yet, you're. Not doing that to me. And. I don't know why. I've. I'm not *good* at this, I've never had *friendssss* before."

Alastor

Alastor’s hand flinched when Sir Pentious’s settles on top of it, but then he freezes, not pulling back. The cloth was only a symbolic barrier at best—with both of them wearing gloves, he couldn’t even feel the handkerchief in between. It felt like any other time they’d touched. It was too much.

He held still anyway.

“I save the intestine-feeding for people who did it on purpose. And also for people I’m not quite so—“ *fond of,* he wanted to finish, but the word “fond” also felt like *too much,* implying things far larger than he wanted to say; “—don’t get along with so well.”

Sir Pentious

Slowly.... He pulls the handkerchief back, and his hand with it.

"*Got* along with. I *fucked* that one up." He brought the cloth to his eyes, dabbing away tears. "I CANNOT IMAGINE *WANTING* TO BE IN MY PRESENCE AFTER THAT SSSHITSHOW. YOU CONFIDED IN ME, AND I RIPPED YOU APART WITH THOSE SSSSAME WORDSSSS! WHAT A *SSSSNAKE* I AM." A bitter laugh, all the while he spoke his other hand is digging into the table, splintering it somewhat. Sorry Rosie.

Alastor

He held still long enough to be polite, then snatched his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove.

“To be fair, I wouldn’t really say I *confided*,” Alastor muttered, then cleared his throat and turned his volume back up. “You say ‘got along with’ like we’re not going to get along anymore! I’d say we’re getting along right now.”

Sir Pentious

"YOU CALL THISSSS GREAT?? I'VE NEVER BEEN MORE *TENSSSSSE.*" He shudders, clasping his hand together and rubbing his face up and down his forearms.

"I DON'T... *WANT* TO BE A *FOOL* AND *MISSSSSPEAK!* BUT I CAN'T... GET MY THOUGHTSSSSS OUT. WHEN IS IT A GOOD TIME? IS IT NOW? IF I'VE LEFT ANY *MESSAGE*, IT'SSSS LIKELY 'DON'T SAY ANYTHING OR THE INSANE SNAKE DEMON IS GOING TO YELL AT YOU, BITE YOU AND TELL YOU IT'S YOUR FAULT!'"

Alastor

Wryly, Alastor said, “Actually, the message I’m picking up is ‘if the snake demon yells at you and bites you, don’t take it personally because he probably didn’t mean it.’” He leaned halfway across the table, supporting himself with his elbows. “Listen to me. I’m not grading you on your eloquence. I’m the professional public speaker here, not you. You’ve apologized about three hundred times and you’ve issued a retraction for every thing you said, that’s what matters. Take a couple of deep breaths and shake out those shoulders, alright?”

Sir Pentious

With Alastor leaning across the table like that, Sir Pentious swallowed hard.... And did as he was told, closing all of his eyes so he could breathe in deeply, exhaling through his grit teeth. Repeating this a few more times, never knowing how much was enough as thoughts pooled and splattered across the sharp shoreline of his mind.

He was still tense, but, there was a reassurance than he wasn't on trial here. Speak, Sir Pentious.

"I... SSSOME OF THE THINGSSSS I SSSAID SHOULD HAVE BEEN WORDED AS *QUESTIONSSSSS* RATHER THAN WHAT I TURNED THEM INTO.... BECAUSE TRUTH BE TOLD, MY REASONSSS FOR TOUCHING YOU, FOR HOLDING YOU, WERE SOLELY PLATONIC. IN MY DAY, THISSS WAS MORE ACCEPTABLE BETWEEN MEN.... KNOWING NOW THAT YOU FELT MUCH MORE *ROMANTICALLY* INCLINED TOWARD ME, IT DOES *SHAKE* ME. NOT OUT OF... OUT OF *DISGUST*, BUT RATHER!" He sighs, rubbing his temples.  "I WASS JUSSST *HURTING* YOU DEEPER, WASN'T I? AND INVITING YOU FOR MOVIES WITH MY WIFE, IT. I. DIDN'T WANT TO *HURT* YOU LIKE THAT! I'M FRUSSSSTRATED, OF COURSE, BUT I'M NOT... *DISSSSGUSTED.*"

Alastor

Oh, here it was, the part Alastor had been dreading. His gaze dropped to his teacup. He made a very determined (and nearly successful) effort not to wince when Sir Pentious said “romantically.”

He was silent a moment after he listened to Sir Pentious speak; then clucked his tongue critically. “You must think I’m either dumb or deluded, if you think I need to be *told* that it was all platonic on your end.” He shook his head. “It was the same in my day. I didn’t start seeing it change until I’d been in Hell, oh... a couple of decades, maybe?” He’d liked the change, actually. He’d hated that people had previously thought that being pals with him a year or two gave them the right to touch him. In life he’d posed for pictures with others’ arms around his back and others’ legs crossing his legs, his shoulders and abdomen and smile held painfully stiff as he fought the urge to recoil. “What makes you think all that was hurting me?”

Touching, that that was Sir Pentious’s main concern. If it wasn’t just the one concern he thought was gentlemanly enough to share.

Sir Pentious

"I DON'T THINK *EITHER*, I AM JUST TRYING TO--" His hands close into fists and then open again, irritation on his face. Deep breath. Slow exhale. "I AM SSSIMPLY TRYING TO EXPLAIN MY THOUGHT PROCESSESSS. *PLEASE*, BE *PATIENT.*" He'd no right to ask, of course, but he was trying so hard.  He didn't like being touched either--at least, from people he didn't know well. And that was most of everyone. It was fine from his ex-wife, but that was different! That was *expected*, and even then, he still found himself flinching at times with her touch. Generally speaking, when it came to being touched or grabbed, Sir Pentious wanted nothing to do with it-- but! With Valera and Alastor, he found he missed it when it wasn't happening.

"YOU DIDN'T THINK IT CAME ACROSS AS... AS RUBBING IT IN YOUR FACE??? I DON'T KNOW. I WOULD THINK SSSO, IF I WERE IN YOUR SHOESSS... I THINK!" Of course, he wouldn't willingly spend time with someone he was crushing on if they were with their partner. That would be needless heart ache.

Alastor

All right, all right, patience. He nodded.

“Of course not! You can’t rub something in someone’s face without malice, can you? Malice and intent.”

Sir Pentious

His head tilts to the side, and he's back to rubbing his face against his forearms...

"WELL, IF IT *ISSSN'T* A PROBLEM... THEN I SSSUPPOSE I WILL TRY NOT TO OVERTHINK IT. I'VE... WELL I. I WOULD LIKE... TO HOLD YOUR HANDSS AGAIN, AND. MAYBE HANG OUT AGAIN... BUT. ONLY IF YOU'LL HAVE ME."

Alastor

The way that was phrased made something inside Alastor try to expand, and made something surrounding it try to shrivel up and contract. Every word prickled him more deeply than it should, every nerve ending was raw. Secrecy had been a well-padded shield, muffling all the impacts; he missed it.

He nodded. “Of course.” The words came out slightly static-strangled. He wanted to say more, but couldn’t think of anything else to add that didn’t sound like *too much,* that wouldn’t now be laden with double meanings he didn’t want them to have.

Sir Pentious

... Was that it? Sir Pentious looked to his friend, his eyes wide, pupils expanded more than usual, his brow creased with anxiety... and Hatty looked about the same. Just words alone now felt... impersonal. He wished he could feel proud and confident that things would be okay. Wishes that he could saunter out of this store and snap his fingers for a portal, adjust his bowtie with a sm--

The bowtie. He starts patting down his jacket, before reaching inside and... taking out the yellow-middled bowtie, placing it on the table. "DO.. DO YOU SSTILL WANT IT...? I'D LIKE YOU TO HAVE IT, I... HAVEN'T TAKEN OFF YOURSSS."

Alastor

He stared dismally at the bow tie. Yes, he wanted it. God, he wanted it. But just the *thought* of reaching for it made him nauseous with anxiety—he hated this feeling, it wasn’t like him, he shouldn’t be like this. He didn’t want it. He couldn’t touch it.

But Sir Pentious wanted Alastor to have it. He snatched it off the table—like ripping off a bandaid, it hurts less if you’re fast—and stuffed it in his pocket. “Thanks.” His throat was dry. He sipped from his cup.

Ugh. Tea.

Sir Pentious

The movement caused him to wince more, and ... Sir Pentious found that he'd hit his limit on eye contact. He couldn't do it anymore, all of his eyes looking in every direction *except* for Alastor's. There, it was. Done. Right? It was done now? Things were supposed to be ... better... right? Why didn't they feel better? Why did everything feel just as bad, maybe if not worse than before?

He'd like to be with his wife right about now, curled up around her, safe and secure. Sir Pentious cleared his throat, feeling just as uncomfortable as before--maybe he should have some tea. There was food made, right? It would be ever so rude to just... leave. Right. Don't leave. Don't be *that guy.* He reached for the tea pot, to pour himself some tea.

"... I, UM. .. I MISSED YOU, ALASSSTOR."

Alastor

The words felt like a sledgehammer on his ribs. He nodded. “Yeah.” Oh, very eloquent, Mr. Professional Public Speaker, do a little better than that. “I—missed you, too.” *Every minute, every second—it’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about for a week—I’ve hardly slept in days—a couple of Rosie’s pillows are stuffed with more tears than down, I’ve probably done more crying in the last week than in the last forty years combined—* Too much, too much, too much. But he needed to say more. “A lot.” Even that was too much.

Sir Pentious

.... He... puts his hand out, resting it on the table for Alastor, talons open and doing their best to appear non-threatening. He, too, couldn't take his mind off of Alastor! He'd *tried* but the man was his best friend. Every time he saw something funny, saw something that reminded him of that grinning deerman, well, it just made his chest *ache.* Even the thought of *drinking* put Sir Pentious' mind into an uneasy state.

Alastor

His smile had remained impressively steadfast throughout the conversation, but when Sir Pentious offered his hand, it threatened to wilt, drooping at the corners. He couldn’t say no. Sir Pentious would think Alastor was rejecting *him.*

He slid one hand back to the edge of the table so that he could dig a sharp claw into his palm without Sir Pentious seeing, and with the other took Sir Pentious’s hand. His hand was trembling. There was nothing he could do about that now.

Sir Pentious

Well, you know. Alastor would be able to feel the way Penny's hand was trembling, too--he'd just about managed to get it under control, barely noticeable except in how it shook just below the surface. He couldn't disguise it anymore. He gave the other's hand a squeeze. "I'M... YOU MUSSST BE TIRED OF HEARING ME APOLOGIZE BY NOW, I MUSSST SSOUND LIKE A BROKEN RECORD. BUT I... DID YOU GET THE BITE LOOKED AT?"

Alastor

Well, great. At least they were in the same boat. Alastor’s hand was limp as Sir Pentious squeezed it.

“Yeah—yes. A couple of days after. I got one of the infernal demons to treat it. It’ll be fine.” His gaze was away from Sir Pentious, away from their hands, away from the table completely.

Sir Pentious

.... Actually. He wasn't that hungry after all. In fact, he felt sick, and it was getting worse. Probably... better to just. Leave after all. He... pulled his hand away, trying hard not to have a visceral reaction to the most awkward and ***stupid*** decision he'd made yet. Not very comforting at all are you, *snake.* Sir Pentious made to push his chair back, but... he stopped.

"... DO. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO LEAVE, ALASSSTOR? GIVE, ERM. TIME. TO PROCESS? I'D RATHER NOT OUTSSSTAY MY WELCOME."

Alastor

He jerked his hand back the second it was free.

The *last* thing he wanted was for Sir Pentious to leave, but he couldn't possibly say that.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sure this must be agony for you, putting up with all this. I'm sorry for the stupid..." He gestured at the teapot et al, then propped his chin in his hand to gaze forlornly down at the table. "I won't make you stay."

Sir Pentious

Frustration was bubbling, *agonizingly* below the surface. He couldn't take this much more, but he didn't want to *yell* at the man. That was what got him in all this trouble in the FIRST goddamn place. He stood up, or at least, stopped sitting down awkwardly on that chair, and placed both hands firmly upon the table, hood raised only somewhat.

"ALASSSSTOR. PLEASE.... *PLEASE* TALK TO ME. IT'SSS NOT... IT'S NOT *PUTTING UP* WITH, NOT IF IT'SSS YOU. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I'M SAYING??? I WANT TO *TALK* TO YOU ABOUT THIS, I WANT TO COME TO SSSOME KIND OF UNDERSSSSTANDING, BUT... I *CAN'T* JUST DO IT ON MY OWN!"

Alastor

Alastor squeezed his eyes shut. He knew he was being insufferable—say something. "That's the thing. I'm happy to talk about anything else—but I don't want to talk about **IT.**" Hateful distortion emphasized the word. "I don't even like to *think* about it—I spend as much time as possible ignoring it. If there was any way for me to get rid of it, I *would.* Instead, I have to *deal* with it."

He forced his eyes open and looked up at Sir Pentious. "And now *you* have to deal with it. I hate that. I hate that you're *never* going to look at me again without *knowing.* I hate that I'll never be able to say anything again without my words being *filtered* through it!"

At some point in that speech he'd gotten to his feet. He shoved back his chair and started pacing irritably, chewing on one corner of his mouth to make sure his smile hadn't dropped.

Sir Pentious

When that distortion rung true, Sir Pentious knew that he was hearing something more honest. There was relief soaking at his brain, mixed with pins and needles. Hey, he could handle anger--frustration, irritation, the works! That was his bread and butter. The pacing, the rage. He knew it all well.

The serpent slithered out from the table, allowing himself a moment to stretch, at least somewhat--it wasn't of his arms or shoulders, it was mostly that he'd unconsciously coiled his tail so tightly he could barely feel it anymore. "SSSO *WHAT* IF I KNOW NOW! I ALREADY TOLD YOU I DON'T CARE, AND YOU TOLD *ME* THAT SSPENDING TIME WITH VALERA AND I WASN'T HURTING YOU, SSO I AM NO LONGER *AGITATED* ABOUT IT! I WANT TO SSSPEND TIME WITH YOU, I WANT TO RAISE *HELL* WITH YOU LIKE WE DISCUSSED! I WANT TO WATCH THOSE COWARDLY SSINNERSS RUN AND FLEE IN TERROR AT OUR COMBINED *MIGHT!*" His hands ball into fists as he digs his talons into his palms, "I WANT TO DO THOSE THINGSSS WITH YOU! WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT ME TO *SSSAY* ALASSSTOR?"

Alastor

"i don't kn—I want you to say—*nothing!* I want you to not know it! I want you to forget! *I want my secret back!*" He stopped pacing, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And I want... all that, too. Everything you said."

Sir Pentious

His mouth SHUTS, and. He stares at Alastor wide eyed. There's a look of hurt-- maybe he misunderstood the "I want you to say nothing", took it a bit too literally. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't just *unknow* something. His talons *flex*, feeling frustrated and helpless. Ineffectual. Useless.

Alastor

Sir Pentious had been quiet a moment too long. Alastor glanced over—oh. "No—sorry. I didn't mean *nothing* nothing. I don't want you to shut up. I like hearing you talk."

He flung up his hands in frustration. "There—you see? A week ago if I'd said that, it would be about *you*—'you're interesting, you're witty, you're a delight to listen to!' Now, when I say it, it... it just reflects on *me.*" He half sat on the edge of the table, shoulders slumping.

Sir Pentious

Penny thinks it over, rolling it around in his mind. He's making all kinds of thinking faces, the man's an open book of expression... all the while Hatty's keeping its eye on the deerman. "IT... DIDN'T SSSOUND BAD, TO ME.... NOT AT ALL."

Alastor

"Good." He crossed his arms tight and looked down at his feet. "But it felt rotten."

Sir Pentious

He felt a very sudden, and STRONG URGE to SHRUG his shoulders, but he *REFRAINED.* Not the time, not the time at all. What to do here? Usually, he could take Valera into his arms and hold her tight, and even before when Alastor had confided that realization of Hell wearing him down, he'd been able to just hold his hand and lie on the floor with him.

But here, well. He didn't know. So. He sat in his own coil and looked at the floor, too. "... WELL UM... I DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO. I CAN'T REALLY JUSSSST... UNLEARN SOMETHING LIKE THAT, BUT, I DON'T THINK YOU BELIEVE ME WHEN I TELL YOU THAT IT DOES NOT BOTHER ME. THAT IT IS NOT SOMETHING THAT UPSETSSS ME. MY OWN PARANOIA AND MADNESS IS WHAT HURTS ME MOST, IT UNDOES ME AND EVERYTHING I WORK FOR, AT ALL TIMESSS... AND... AND IF YOU CAN SSSTILL WANT TO BE MY FRIEND, DESSSPITE THE UNCERTAINTY OF MY NEXT *PUTRID* MENTAL COLLAPSE, THEN... I'D WISH YOU'D BELIEVE *ME* WHEN I TELL YOU THAT HOW YOU FEEL ABOUT ME WILL NOT CHANGE ANYTHING, UNLESS YOU WANT IT TO."

Alastor

He shook his head immediately. "No—of course not, no. I don't want anything to change." He took a deep, shaky breath in, slowly let it out. White noise. "I know you can't unlearn it. I just... *wish.*" But what were wishes worth? Especially in Hell? "I... do believe that it doesn't bother you. At least right now. But it bothers *me.*"

Sir Pentious

"... WERE YOU SSSIMPLY HOPING THAT I'D NEVER FIND OUT? THAT... DOESN'T SEEM VERY FAIR TO ME." He rubs his arm, like he had any right to demand fairness, especially in hell.

Alastor

He winced. That was true. "I wanted to wait for a better time. When we'd known each other longer, or I could spin it as a positive. Maybe after I'd met another who felt the same and the first you had to hear about it was that I could channel all that *off* of you and onto another." He scoffed. What were the odds of that?

Sir Pentious

... He rubs his arm a little harder, sliding his claws along the fabric. "... IT... *IS* A POSITIVE, ISSN'T IT? I MEAN, THE THINGSSS YOU SAID AT THE TIME... THEY WERE GOOD THINGSSS. *I'M* THE PROBLEM HERE, MY BRAIN IS ALL WRONG, AFTER ALL. YOU TOLD ME THAT YOU ADORE ME, AND I INTERPRETED IT AS--- AS AN ATTACK." A sad chuckle, and he stares harder into the floor.

Alastor

"Is it?" He glanced cautiously at Sir Pentious. "I've been on the receiving end more than once, and it's never felt like a positive."

He winced at the word *adore.* "I'm quite sure I never told you that. You keep talking like I *confessed* something to you. I *didn't.* You asked me. I'm fairly certain I didn't even *confirm* the accusation, did I? Just declined to deny it." He shook his head. "You already see me differently. You're started putting words in my mouth."

Sir Pentious

--His hood flares up, and he feels a red hot *flash* of embarrassment course through him. "MUST I *DIRECTLY QUOTE YOU*, OR SSSOMETHING? I CANNOT REMEMBER IT *WORD FOR WORD*, BUT I KNOW WHAT YOU TOLD ME, AT LEAST THE SSSENTIMENT!!" Oop. Too late. He was already feeling a bit of rejection from that last sentence, and because of it, found himself withdrawing from the situation. Too much in a short time, Sir Pentious was nothing without his flashes of anger. "FINE, I WILL NO LONGER *ATTEMPT* TO RECALL IT! AS FAR AS I AM CONCERNED, YOU SSEE *YOURSSSELF* DIFFERENTLY, AND I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU THISSS ENTIRE GODDAMNED TIME THAT I DO NOT SSEEE YOU IN A DIFFERENT LIGHT! BUT I THINK WE'VE HIT AN IMPASSSSSE." A deep breath, he's not sure he can calm down, so he's going to TURN AWAY and fold his arms tight against his chest.

Alastor

Alastor cringed. His claws dug into the underside of the table he was leaning on. He stared at Sir Pentious's back, momentarily silent as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry. Look at us, you were so worried about misspeaking, and I'm the one who's said everything wrong." Deep, shaky breath in. "I'm... having trouble *not* seeing how you see me as different now."

Sir Pentious

".... YES, I *KNOW* ABOUT YOUR SSSECRET NOW, BUT SO WHAT! I AM A SSSSTUBBORN OLD MAN, ALASSSTOR. AND I'M NOT WILLING TO GIVE YOU UP, OVER SSSOMETHING LIKE THAT. YOU'RE SSSTILL THE SAME MAN YOU'VE ALWAYSSS BEEN, THIS ISSN'T ANYTHING *NEW* TO YOU, SSSO WHY SHOULD IT BE, TO ME???" He takes another few moments before wincing, "... IT ALMOST FEELSSS LIKE... YOU *WANT* ME TO DESPISE YOU FOR IT."

Alastor

He listened hard, trying to somehow absorb the words, trying to force himself to believe them. Something about them still rang hollow. But he could keep trying.

"Of course I don't," he said immediately; then stopped, double-checked his thoughts more carefully, and finally said again, "No. I don't want that. I just think you *should.*"

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious turns around-- no... he ROUNDS on Alastor, slithering close *very* quickly. "YOU THINK I *SHOULD?!* WHY!?"

Alastor

"Because there's no second chances in Hell! I ruined what I had with one version of you, Hell isn't going to just—let me rummage through the parallel universes for another version of you that's more amenable to being friends! It feels like a trap. The only question is when is it going to be sprung?"

Sir Pentious

He looks hurt again, but quickly fights it back, moving CLOSER. "YOU DON'T *WANT* TO ME FRIENDSS, ISS THAT IT??? BECAUSE I DON'T THINK I SHOULD BE BLAMED FOR SSSOMETHING LIKE THAT-- I *LIKE* YOU, AND YOU HAVE YET TO ACTUALLY BETRAY *ME*, AND SSSSINCE I KNOW *YOU'RE NOT DUMB OR DELUDED*, YOU AREN'T GOING TO *DO THAT*, ALASSSTOR, SO--" He takes a breath, hands together, "GET THE *FUCK* OVER YOURSSSELF! I'M HERE BECAUSE I WANT TO FIX WHAT I'VE DONE, WHAT PART OF THAT FEELSSS LIKE A FUCKING TRAP!?"

Alastor

"*No,* that's not what I'm saying! Not you—!" He almost reached out, stopped, pulled his hand back. "Not you. I think *Hell* is setting the trap. For both of us. That's what Hell *does,* it *tortures* people. So here we are—waiting to find out what Hell's scheming for us. Why it allowed us to be friends. And I'm—afraid of finding out! I am." An edge of ferocity entered his voice: "But I'm *not* going to let go of you until Hell *makes* me."

Sir Pentious

This was the part where they'd HUG TIGHT like in the radio plays and movies. Hold tight for a few moments, laugh about it later. But! Holding was off limits--and Sir Pentious looked like a long noodle that didn't know what to do with himself, his tail slithering closer to Alastor, but stopping over and over until he was in this abysmal zig-zag pattern.

Alastor's last words get Sir Pentious' chest *aching*, and he GESTURES with his hands like *SO WHY ARE YOU FIGHTING ME ON THIS!?!*, but no words come out. He's just. SAT THERE, WITH HIS HANDS OUT, AND THE MOST *VAGGIE* LIKE DONE EXPRESSION....... and he FINALLY MANAGES to speak.

"ARE WE GOING TO HUG OR NOT!?"

Alastor

For a couple of seconds, Alastor waged an internal battle with himself.

It was a brutal battle. Hundreds died. Bodies littered the landscape as far as the eye could see. The soil in that region was permanently stained red from the sheer quantity of blood spilled. A battle to end all internal battles.

And then he darted across the space between them, pulled Sir Pentious into a rib-crushing hug, squeezed his eyes shut, and buried his face in Sir Pentious's shoulder.

Sir Pentious

He'd ALMOST expected Alastor to say *no* with the way he paused-- he was preparing for it, his hands slowly lowering, before he was quite SUDDENLY *CRASHED* INTO, letting out a YELP of surprise as he was pulled into the tightest hug he's received from Alastor *yet*-- and he didn't complain in the *least*, immediately throwing his arms around the deerman, his tail coiling around the both of these foolish old fools.

*THAT'S WHAT I THOUGHT.* is what he'd wanted to say, but... best to keep it in his head.

Alastor

Being hugged back was like an electric shock, jolting his system, making his skin prickle, and it was almost painful but it was such a relief.

He kept his eyes squeezed shut—no crying, no crying. He managed to get out a garbled apology, but that was it.

Sir Pentious

A hand moves to Al's head, kind of petting the ears. "SHHH. HONESTLY, I THINK WE'RE BOTH SSSICK OF THAT WORD...."

Alastor

A choked laugh. "I never want to hear or make another apology." Oh, that was nice. He tilted his head into it. Guilt was seething deep in his gut—*what gave him the right to something so nice?*—but for now he could swallow it down.

Sir Pentious

Penny *smiled*, after what felt like FOREVER without a grin. He put his chin on Alastor's head, settling into his coil with the other demon.

"THERE MUST BE ANOTHER WAY OF EXPRESSING SSSSUCH THINGSSSS. MAYBE WE OUGHT TO SSSSAY IT IN FRENCH! MY TEXTBOOK FRENCH AND YOUR BASSSTARD FRENCH, NYA HA HA!"

Alastor

"You can't call it that, I'm an actual bastard." He prodded Sir Pentious's back with one sharp claw. "Anyway, my French comes from an unbroken lineage of native French speakers. *You've* got the bastard French."

It felt far too soon for banter—but it was so much easier than ripping open his veins an inch at a time and spilling one drop of blood after another as he tried to figure out how much he needed to sacrifice before they could be *normal* again.

Sir Pentious

SNORT. "A LONG, *PROUD* LINEAGE! YOU'RE RIGHT, MY FAMILY IS ENGLISH AND AMERICAN! NOT A *HINT* OF FRENCH, I *SSSTOLE* MY WAY IN!" He beams.

Maybe it was too soon, maybe he was feeling lightheaded from the rush of emotions... But he had his buddy in his arms again. There wasn't awkward silence, it felt... *doable* again.

"I'VE MISSED YOU, SSO, SSO MUCH. IT'SSSS ONLY BEEN A *WEEK* AND YET... TORMENT."

Alastor

A lump threatened to form in his throat again. No, he was determined not to cry, he wouldn't.

"I—haven't been able to—think about anything else." *It felt like too much.* Sir Pentious said he didn't see Alastor differently—and Alastor didn't want to test how true those words were, but if he didn't take a leap of faith, he wouldn't be able to move at all. "I haven't even had an appetite; Rosie's nearly had to force-feed me."

Sir Pentious

Ohh God. His heart broke at that. He continues to pet those ears, rocking back and forth with Alastor in his arms.

"MM... I DIDN'T HAVE MUCH APPETITE EITHER. ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT WASS WRITING THE LETTER.... HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO USE MY *FANGSSSS* SSSINCE.... THEY JUST MAKE ME FEEL *SSSICK.*"

Alastor

Almost like dancing. He forced his muscles to relax so he could sway freely with Sir Pentious.

He swallowed down the urge to apologize for Sir Pentious’s fangs. “Is that why the letter ended up so...” Find a neutral way to put it. “... Effusive?”

Sir Pentious

Penny's breath shakes, and he gives a little laugh, rubbing at his eye.

"W-WELL.... I WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU *KNEW*... AND.. I WASN'T *SURE* IF YOU EVER WANTED TO... *SSSSEE* MY FACE AGAIN..."

Alastor

“*Of course I did.* I told you where to find me and everything, didn’t I? How could I *not* want to?”

Sir Pentious

He sinks a little lower, silently gesturing to his own head.... Then awkwardly (though delicately) touching where he'd *bit*....

"Becaussse."

Alastor

There was a faint crinkle of a fresh bandage beneath Alastor’s clothing. “You bit me the first time we met, you didn’t hear me complain about that.”

He opened his eyes as a realization hit him. “Hold on. Let me—let me summarize this. Since our last meeting, you’ve been afraid that I wouldn’t want anything else to do with you—now that I know more about the things going on inside your head that you wish you could get rid of. And I’ve said it doesn’t make a difference to me, and you’ve got to take that on faith, but you, you can’t imagine how it could possibly be true. Is that a fair summary of your last week?”

Sir Pentious

Without mention of all the crying, yes. Sir Pentious nods his head, still not speaking much in case he starts blubbering.

Sniff. He rubs at his eye again.

Alastor

Alastor started laughing. A wheezy, pathetic, *relieved* laugh.

“Good *gracious,* look at the two of us.” He pulled back so he could make eye contact with Sir Pentious, eyes watery and smile shaky. “A *whole week* we’ve been avoiding each other, when we were both terrified of the *exact same thing!*”

Sir Pentious

Penny's eyes get bigger, and he leans back a little so he can make that eye contact--he was so much bigger after all.

"THE... *SSSAME* THING?"

Alastor

Alastor let out an amused huff. "I mean—isn't it?"

Sir Pentious

"... I... WELL, YES! I SSSSUPPOSE IT IS...." He attempts a smile, but boy, it's so much more wiggly this time.

... A little laugh.... "IT... ISSSS REALLY SSSSIMILAR, ACTUALLY..."

Alastor

“Hah! You see?” His grin widened, finally squeezing the first tears out of the corners of his eyes. “We really are a couple of old fools, aren’t we?”

Sir Pentious

Another little laugh, and his eyes squeeze shut, a *big* sniff as he tries to keep smiling but. He's getting into big blobby tears. You'd think after a week of this, he'd be too dehydrated.

"we-- we really are!"

Alastor

He lifted his heels and flung an arm around Sir Pentious’s neck to pull him down close enough to butt their foreheads together. “We’re going to be fine. Right?” he asked. “We’ll get over ourselves, and—and get along just *terrifically.* We’ll be fine.”

Sir Pentious

*Bonk*--it rattles his dehydrated brain somewhat, but his arms come around the deerman tighter. Big intakes of breath, he's trying to get ahold of himself... Being able to touch *really* makes a difference for him.

"WE'LL BE FINE, YESSSS... WE'LL BE FINE."

Alastor

“*Good.*” Now he was crying, too. Clearly he returned the hanky too soon. He dropped his face back to Sir Pentious’s shoulder.

Sir Pentious

Two old men, hugging tightly to one another and *crying.* Rosie, don't come in.

Alastor

She’d better not. Alastor planned on holding Sir Pentious either until he was told to get off or one of them fainted from dehydration.

Sir Pentious

After a while of hugging... Sir Pentious felt that maybe! It was time to go home to his wife. He'd love to stay, but actually, he wouldn't--he was *tired* and *sore* and *exhausted*............ he had his best friend again and would love to hang out properly! When he wasn't a mess. He began to uncoil... "ALASSSTOR, I SHOULD BE GOING, YOU KNOW... I'M VERY TIRED..."

Alastor

He clung tighter when Sir Pentious started to loosen—not yet, he hadn’t had enough yet—but reluctantly let go when Sir Pentious said he needed to leave.

He wanted to offer to let Sir Pentious rest here, if he was tired—but no, not appropriate. Absolutely not appropriate. Anyway, Alastor wasn’t much better; he was developing an impressive headache, himself. He wasn’t sure if it was from sleep deprivation or from crying his eyes out on Sir Pentious’s shoulder—

If *Alastor* had a dehydration headache, then Sir Pentious had to be even worse off, didn’t he? “Hold on,” he said firmly. He poured a cup from that long-neglected teapot and held it out to Sir Pentious. “You’ve been leaking like a faucet since you got here. I’m not letting you leave like this, you’ll shrivel up like a worm on the sidewalk. Drink.”

Sir Pentious

!! Oh... He takes the cup, somewhat less *hot* now.... but the care that Alastor showed him was most definitely *felt.* Sir Pentious nods his head, smiling as he drinks the tea down... ohhh. That felt good. Actually. He offers the cup forward...... A little bashfully. ... More please.

Alastor

Alastor just chugged his whole cup like he was taking a shot and was in the process of refilling it when Sir Pentious asked for more. “Another round for everyone, eh?” He refilled Sir Pentious’s cup, then held up his own. “Cheers.”

Sir Pentious

Penny smiles, into a toothy grin--and he snorts. "ALASSSTOR... DO YOU EVEN *LIKE* TEA?"

Alastor

“Hate it! But I’ve only got myself to blame, I’m the bad planner who only supplied us with tea, aren’t I?” He tossed back his second cup. Bleh.

But Sir Pentious was smiling again. Alastor hardly tasted the leaf juice.

Sir Pentious

COLD leaf juice. He cackles... A high pitched giggling. Down the hatch!

"YOU KNOW, I HAVEN'T EVEN BEEN ABLE TO *DRINK* ANYTHING BOOZY SINCE THISSSS ALL HAPPENED." A little bit of a sniff, "NOT THAT *ALCOHOL* REMINDSSS ME OF YOU, BUT RATHER... THE *COMRADESHIP* OF THE EVENT DOES...."

Alastor

“*Hah.* I haven’t been able to risk it.” A grimace. “When I’m drinking in a bad mood, it’s to skip over as much time as possible. I didn’t want to risk you coming over to be told that I was going to be unconscious for the next four days.”

Sir Pentious

"AH..." He nods his head and.... slithers around to put an arm around his friend's shoulders, nuzzling his cheek. Too much? DEAL! WITH IT!!!

Alastor

The cup is DOWN on the table and Alastor’s arms are AROUND Sir Pentious again and that’s THAT. There was no such thing as too much. He’d been snake deprived for half a century and after just a few scant months of getting a regular dosage of snake he’d suddenly plummeted into withdrawal by being forced to go cold turkey again. He was taking everything he was offered.

Sir Pentious

Prrrr...... You get terrible, horrible Cobra sounds. He's going to.... plant a kiss! To Alastor's forehead. It's such a kind, gentle gesture. A gesture of "I trust you and care about you." It didn't have to be romantic, it was friendly. Only three people have been bestowed Penley forehead kisses. Be elevated in status of the SOUL!

Alastor

He inhaled sharply with a quiet record scratch sound, eyes wide with shock. His forehead blazed around the kiss.

He'd been kissed there before, once, decades ago, so near the scar of the shot that killed him—just as gently, by nearly identical lips. For a moment, Alastor couldn't breathe.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious couldn't see his reaction, as he put his chin on Alastor's head, mindful of the antlers. Prrrr... He's going to lie down with him, tail coiling again. OH NO! Too bad looks like he's going to get a nap in anyway. Or at least just... lie here for a while.

Alastor

Alastor was fine with that, his legs sort of felt like jelly anyway. He slid down to the floor with Sir Pentious, leaning against him the whole way down.

Before he lay down completely, Alastor took one of Sir Pentious's hands and gave him a return kiss, just as lightly, on his knuckles. Like a layman offering reverence to a bishop, like a subject demonstrating fealty to his king. It could be a platonic gesture. It definitely *wasn't,* but it could be.

Sir Pentious

*Prrrr.* His tail slithers around underneath the both of them. A very comfortable, squishy mattress. He means only to rest his eyes... He can *finally* relax after all of this tenseness.

Alastor

And Alastor got a *purr.* Not discomfort, not defensiveness. Sir Pentious didn't recoil from him. His dead heart soared.

Quick rest, nap, thousand-year coma—Alastor was game for anything. His eyes slid shut as he relaxed on Sir Pentious's coils.

It was good to be home again.

[moonbeammuses-a]

➤ ★ ☢❥ ✿ ☢Ⓡ (Erik)

ATTRACTION MEME || Accepting 

According to this, Alastor likes how Erik looks, and likes his personality. Alastor is romantically attracted to Erik, but feels it is unrequited. He is platonically attracted to Erik, as well as sexually, though he feels the sexual attraction is unrequited as well.

Erik isn’t really sure WHAT to say on this, so you just get my opinion/translation of his emotions. 

Before the lab, Erik was still (as you know) devoted to Charles, despite the part of him that knew he and Charles couldn’t be together. Erik is shit at letting go of something that makes him happy, though. Even if the only part of it that makes him happy are the memories. 

After the lab, and after Charles forgot about him, Erik had (has) a lot of pain and grief to overcome there. It was bad enough that he and Charles parted so badly, but at least they both had fond memories and Erik knew that, despite the fact he wouldn’t take it, he had somewhere to go if he needed it. Now that’s gone. 

I personally think that he and Alastor could be really adorable as a couple. But he has a LOT to work through. 

With that in mind, we now have Joseph in the mix. And the SECOND Erik realizes that Joseph likes Al (spoiler alert, he does) he will drop any notion of trying to be with Alastor himself. 

It’s difficult for me to put this into words, so bear with me. But essentially, it’s a way for Erik to see “himself” be happy. He has given up hope on the idea that he personally can have a happy healthy relationship outside of the fighting and shit. He left for America already resigning himself to the “knowledge” that he is a monste.r That peace and happiness are two things he cannot and will not have. Joseph is, in his view, a chance for “him” to have that happiness. It’s, to Erik, a sign that someone like him, after everything he went through, could still be happy. And he NEEDS to know that that’s true. That he wasn’t so broken after leaving Germany that there was no hope. If there’s hope for Joseph, then maybe, even now, there’s hope for him.

So he would not only back off, he would encourage the two of them to spend time together. Would encourage their happiness. 

What I am getting at, in a very roundabout and wordy way, is that it’s not that Alastor’s feelings are unrequited. It’s that:

Erik still has feelings for Charles

Joseph doesn’t even know Charles

Erik doesn’t believe he can make Alastor happy, 

He thinks maybe Joseph can

Erik doesn’t believe he can be happy

He thinks maybe Joseph can

So, yeap. Have my feelings because these three fuck with my emotions all the damn time 3

Oh and im totally not gonna twist some of those older asks to use to my advantage for these feels ♥ -finger guns- 

[oyevans]

Dumb Peter Pettigrew cliche

Whenever I see Peter Pettigrew as an idiot in fanfics or head canons or whatever, you cannot imagine how bad I cringe. 

So here’s a few reasons Peter wasn’t a complete idiot–not saying he was never a bit slow:

His animagus form is a rat. An animagus form shows your inner-self. A rat (I’ll be using personality traits from the year of the rat considering that’s really all I can find) is intelligent, charming, quick-witted, practical, ambitious, timid, stubborn, wordy, greedy, devious, adaptable, resourceful, affectionate and social, and “...succumb to peer-pressure...prone to disregard personal experiences in order to copy the behaviour of their peers. The urge to conform is so strong that they will even choose to eat unpalatable food if they are in the company of other rats who are eating it...rats are also shy, and prefer to run away than confront a potential threat.” (I’ll be using some off these traits throughout, the crossed ones I cross out are traits of the rat I don’t think he possessed/no evidence to support, and the ones not used nor crossed out will be explained at the bottom).

He became an illegal animagus along with Sirius and James in order to help their werewolf friend at the age of fifteen. The process to become an animagus is “complex” and “time-consuming.” According to one of the Pottermore Presents ebooks, it is also said to be believed that less than a thousand witches/wizards are animagi (doesn’t specify in the UK, so most likely worldwide, living and dead). Also Hermione said there were only seven registered animagi in their century. So even if he needed James and Sirius to help him, he still did it. (intelligent, resourceful).

He was in the Order of the Phoenix with at least three known aurors–and not moderate aurors, but great ones–Alastor Moody and Frank and Alice Longbottom. He was able to fool three aurors, Albus Dumbledore, and four of his very intelligent friends along with the rest of the Order when they knew there was a spy amongst them. And keep in mind he had them fooled for over a year according to Sirius who thought Remus was the spy. (intelligent, devious–more like deceitful).

He killed twelve Muggles with a powerful spell while faking his death. (quick-witted, devious).

Framed Sirius Black for murder and had no one doubt the story–although to be fair Sirius didn’t get a trial, came from a dark family, had no one demanding a trial for him, and Peter was small and underestimated. (devious, quick-witted).

Managed to stay hidden for twelve years as a rat. (adaptable, resourceful). 

Rowling said in an interview that Peter gathered Voldemort’s wand from the Potters’ home and carried it to him (resourceful).

 Faked his death again by framing Crookshanks. (Devious, resourceful).

Manages to find Voldemort and bring Bertha Jorkins to him (resourceful, quick-witted). 

He is intelligent, smarter than what he was given credit for.

Also he’s affectionate and social by being James’ mascot. 

While ambitious is a trait of Slytherin (the other house Peter was considered for), he’s more cunning than ambitious canon-wise. Although, you could argue he wanted power from Voldemort but it was more that he feared death. 

Peter went along with James and Sirius’ bullying because he wanted to be part of a group and similar to Remus wouldn’t stand up to them (although, Peter was also in awe of them). 

And he ran away and framed the betrayal of the Potters and the deaths of the Muggles on Sirius instead of accepting the consequences–also when Sirius gets out and is looking for him, he does it again.

These are all things I remember off the top of my head, but he wasn’t a complete idiot like he’s often depicted in fanfictions, head canons, et cetera. Number three is especially a good example of his cunningness. 

[radioiaci]

just wanna say that I'm sorry I'm really bad at participating in like short-term shenanigans and such - writing Alastor brings out my wordy prose bug and it's very hard for me to just write off the cuff without going into stupid detail about the character's feelings and motivations fjkdgjdjlkg I think I really am just meant for those longer narrative threads. I appreciate when people think of me tho <3

[radioiaci]

GET TO KNOW THE MUN !

🦌 || NAME?: TJ, Teej, or Pascall! whichever you prefer!

🦌 || PRONOUNS?: they/them

🦌 || MOST ACTIVE MUSE(S)?:  Alastor and two of my OCs; Charlie Dean Walker (@cdwalker) & Pride (@dinosaurgreasestain)

🦌 || RP PET PEEVES?:  when characters underestimate a character who has canonical reason to be a THREAT and constantly refuse to acknowledge their power, influence, or control. drives me FUCKING BANANAS. go play with someone else or I will have a tantrum.

🦌 || EXPERIENCE / HOW MANY YEARS?: fifteen years give or take. started on proboards forums rping sparklewolves based on the Blackblood Alliance comic

🦌 || FLUFF, ANGST, OR SMUT?:  fluff first, angst second, smut third. I often really don't entertain smut unless it's with a partner I write especially well with/have been writing for a long time with and there has to be considerable reason/build-up for it to happen. I don't write smut for the sake of smut. I WILL get wordy about it with inner monologues lmaooo. fluff has my heart tho, I always be craving soft, smooshy content.

🦌 || PLOTS OR MEMES?: uHHHH memes I guess. I honestly very rarely plot out anything because I really like to let things just HAPPEN organically. I'll put forth the effort to plot something though if a partner would prefer it that way.

🦌 || LONG OR SHORT REPLIES?:  I like to pretend I can write short replies but no.... I can't........ the yapper supreme... it's me....

🦌 || TIME TO WRITE?:  usually in the morning when work is slow or in the evening when I'm not streaming. so anywhere from 7am-12pm CT and then from 6pm - 1am CT. something like that.

🦌 || ARE YOU LIKE YOUR MUSE(S)?: little traits here and there, I typically feed a bit of myself into my characters. but not a TON. I think the only thing I have in common with all of my muses is the fact that I am, in fact, an idiot and goober and all of my characters usually end up having that energy in some way, shape, or form.

tagged by ; @ducktastic-dad tagging ; @daddymothxxx , @voxtekoverlord , @sugarswirlbitch , @mr-pulvis , @tinyfieryghost , @kingdomofbellows

[radioiaci]

knowing your partner can potentially make writing together a lot easier.

BASICS.

🦌|| NAME: tj/teej/pascall

🦌|| PRONOUNS: they/them

🦌|| TAKEN OR SINGLE: single and ready to flamingle (jk im scared of commitment and intimacy, don't get your hopes up)

THREE FACTS.

I'm a furry vtuber who streams regularly on Twitch! MWF and sometimes weekends.~ I have a Bachelor's degree in art but all it was good for was to say that I had a degree. It has nothing to do with my career in Human Resources.

I own my own home in South Texas where I live with three kitties!

EXPERIENCE.

🦌|| HOW LONG (MONTHS / YEARS?): started on tumblr in 2012-ish. before that I rped on forums like proboards.

🦌|| PLATFORMS YOU’VE USED: forums, tumblr, discord

🦌|| BEST EXPERIENCE: tumblr has introduced me to some great friends who have stayed my friends for many years now. even tho the site itself is fucking STUPID lmaoo

MUSE PREFERENCES.

🦌|| FEMALE OR MALE: i'm a trans-masc person so I identify more with masc-leaning characters. not above creating a female character though, I just haven't gotten around to it.

🦌|| FLUFF, ANGST OR SMUT: all three, but fluff and smut take some considerable build-up before I can be really interested in it. or it takes the right combo of character personalities. for this blog in particular, I make it very difficult because otherwise there's no point.

🦌|| PLOTS OR MEMES: both but memes are more accessible for most people. I also am very go-with-the-flow, so plotting extensively gets a little boring when there's no room for spontaneity.

🦌|| LONG OR SHORT REPLIES: i'll write both! but i cater more to the longer replies because i'm a wordy mother fucker who likes to wax poetic about my character's inner thoughts.

🦌|| BEST TIME TO WRITE: at night, usually. my brain is more in the creative space when i should be asleep

🦌|| ARE YOU LIKE YOUR MUSE(S): most of my muses tilt into the comedic relief role a lot which is what I like to do, so there's similarities there. for alastor specifically, we share a lot of issues surrounding the aro-ace identity, so i'm definitely using him as a proxy to explore that in a comfortable way!

tagged by ; @helluvaflames

tagging ; I DON'T FEEL LIKE IT; if u see this, I'm tagging YOU!