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motleymoose · 4 years ago

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Homecoming Pt. 1: Astray, Ch. 1

Chapter 1

Stranded With Banthas

Fandom: The Mandalorian Characters: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin), Gender-neutral Reader Words: 2.8k+ Warnings: ??? Angst???

Summary:

Stranded on a bantha-filled, Imperial-controlled moon on the outer reaches of the galaxy, I would do anything to get off-world. But even the best-laid plans can go awry, and I have to settle for second-best, a living reminder of my childhood.

Notes:

***1ST CHAPTER HAS BEEN EDITED***

Hello! Thanks for stumbling upon my fic!! A few things before we get started: *I've never really been a fan of Star Wars (until the Mandalorian, that is) *I've only done a basic amount of research (please let me know if the stellar charts don't align or I've completely flub any major parts of the lore!) *If you're here for romance, this is probably not the fic you seek This fic is going to span several parts, so don't be disappointed if the chapter count is short. There is more, I promise! I have two more chapters in this part, plus half a dozen others waiting the wings for their time to shine. That being said, this is all lightly edited and more than likely contains several blaring mistakes I am currently blind to.

Thank you for hanging with me this far. I hope you enjoy it!

Homecoming Masterlist

I was hot, bored and out of credits.

Having been stranded on an Imperial-held outpost, stars away from almost any sort of proper civilization, it wasn’t exactly the worst thing that could’ve happened to me. I could’ve lost my hands or what little possessions I had, even been executed, but instead the captain and crew of the Momentum decided it was a fitting punishment to desert me on a moon positively crawling with Imps and bucketheads.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t luck that saved me. I was the unluckiest person in the galaxy. Having lost my family to a Rebel airstrike and then been abandoned by my caretaker at a young age, I’d had to fight tooth and claw for survival. I was a mechanic by trade, and a good one at that. My ability to fix things also gave me the knowledge to break them, and coupling that with my disregard to fighting fair, I could be one sticky situation to get rid of.

Not to say the crew hadn’t thought of ways to dispose of me. On more than one occasion, I’d had large, heavy objects barely miss my head as I puttered around below-decks or in the engineering pit. It was more often than I thought average for a mechanic to be almost killed by falling crates and crewmates, and after mentioning it to the captain, everyone agreed it was best if I just left the ship instead of continuing on as their blackthumb.

I’m not sure what exactly brought on their ire. There had been that bunkmate with whom I’d had a tumble or two, but as we both had agreed to part ways as distant friends. I didn’t see her as being a begrudging type, but there was a first for everything, and I wasn’t about to question the crew’s alliance when freedom seemed so close.

Maybe it would have been better to just poison everyone on the ship and abscond with the loot, but I wasn’t a pirate - or, actually, I wasn’t usually a pirate - and murdering everyone just because they pissed me off wasn’t on my list of fun activities.

Playing through the events that led me to the dusty rock I currently resided, I couldn’t help but kick myself for not getting the rest of my pay before being unceremoniously dumped in the dirt and bantha dung. I shifted uncomfortably on my perch of sweet-smelling hay bales in an attempt to not itch. It was impossible, as I had been settled on the bales since mid-afternoon, and there was hay in places I didn’t even want to think about.

I stared at the door of the single cantina, squashed between a rocky outcropping and the ruins of a Rebel-held base. Most of the regulars had found their way in, but I was more interested in the one that stood out from all the rest of the Imp sympathizers and bantha ranchers; a Mandalorian in full, shining beskar had landed in my neck of the woods, and I wanted to find out why.

If he was looking for me, well. I was going to have a hard time explaining the reasons I stole a slave ship from my boss and then let them loose on a newly-colonized moon on the Outer Rim. It wasn’t a good story, and I didn’t come out of it unscathed, but I did the best for those people with the tools I was given and I wouldn’t do anything to change the fact that I gave them freedom.

My boss didn’t look at it that way, and before I knew it, I was on all the wanted lists in the ruled galaxy. Which is why being on a no-named moon, surrounded by bantha pastures, was the least worst thing that could've happened.

Grumbling under my breath, I wriggled further into my little shelter. The sun was setting behind me, and the light cast an eerie rosy glow on the people closing up their shops for the night. The village was small compared to most, and smaller still for the amount of Stormtroopers and Imperial officials lurking about in groups of three or better. They patrolled the streets after dark in a guise of keeping peace and order, but everyone knew that they were planning something. No one knew what it was, but word had spread from neighboring moons that the Imps were flocking to the area. Nowhere was safe from the Empire’s reach, even when they were defeated and in shambles.

Once the sun went down all the way, the humid, oppressive heat would dissipate, leaving behind a damp chill that would last until the next dawn. Pulling a couple of loose flakes of hay on top of me for warmth, I propped my chin in my hands and waited impatiently for the Mandalorian to show himself again.

Near dawn, not long after many of the bantha ranchers had tramped from the warmth of their beds and to the ramshackle collection of barns and sheds out near the landing field - and thus downwind from the most of the community - the Mandalorian made his appearance.

Broad, square and sturdy, the warrior looked the part of the fearsome legends. His beskar was shiny, with barely a dent to be seen. The cloak he wore, although tattered and full of blaster holes, looked well-made, and the weapons he carried - a Westar-34 and an amban rifle - were clean and in good repair. Without a look back, he strode through the quiet thoroughfare and disappeared down an alley.

Well frag.

Other than just to quench my curiosity, what I wanted more than anything was a ride off this Imp haven. The Mandalorian would have a ship that could take me off-moon, and even if I was his quarry, it was better than rotting amongst the bantha kung. Stiffly vaulting from the stack of hay, I shook the kinks from my joints and sped after the Mandalorian.

Following the same route I saw him take, I trailed the warrior to a set of squat, ovoid huts. He’d disappeared inside, and once more I waited impatiently, but this time in the shadows of a woodshed. From time to time, I touched the amulet hanging from the thin silver chain at the base of my throat, reassuring myself the body-warmed pendant was still there. This Mando wasn’t the first one I’d ever laid eyes on, as my caretaker had been of the Way. He had taught me what he could before he left me, a solid, steady protector fleeing into the night. The thought of him still hurt, but it had been years ago, many parsecs in the past, and it was easier to push down and out of the way of more important emotions.

My nerves ticked upwards when I caught sight of the warrior in the window of the foremost hut. Heart fluttering and stomach in my throat, I took slow, smooth steps farther back into the shed until I was pressed up against a mouldering wood pile. I watched, caged and frozen as the Mandalorian stayed in the frame of the opening for a few more minutes. Head spinning, I released a hiss of a sigh and began to take slow, deep breaths to calm myself. I wasn’t going to do myself any favors by passing out before I could find out where the Mando was headed.

As the minutes dragged on, I continued my deep, even breath until the blanket covering the hut opening twitched and the Mandalorian stepped out. I took a few more breaths, biding my time to make sure he had a head start on me. ------ It was a long ambling walk to the outer reaches of the small farming village. My nose was clogged from the stench of moofs, and I’m pretty sure that was bantha droppings and not mud I’d stepped in a while back, but I kept my pace to a casual walk. From the looks of things, the Mandalorian was headed for the shipyard. Not a surprise, but I figured he’d’ve stayed a little longer. Either way, I was going to get a ride on his ship. Eagerness gnawed at my guts and my legs, but rushing would call attention to me, and I didn't really want to be noticed.

At the last set of farm buildings before the vast openness of the docking ports, I paused to watch a group of younglings chase an aired up moof bladder. There was a skirmish, a pile of small wriggling bodies, and then a shriek of triumph as a tiny Trandoshan Ingling held the dusty bladder above its broad scaly head. It hissed a shrill challenge at its companions, and they all fell about the place giggling and scrabbling for the champion.

I smiled at their innocence, watching for a minute longer as the group split into predetermined teams, and the game began again. Pivoting away from the revelry, I dodged between two outbuildings, bantha barns from the smell of them. Looking over my shoulder one last time, I turned to stroll down the empty alley.

That’s when I ran into the Mandalorian. Or, more correctly, his outstretched arm.

The breath knocked out of me, a bruise blooming across my chest, I lay in the dust with the trash and the dung at the feet of the Mandalorian. Staring up dazedly, I gasped painfully and brought a shaky hand up to rub the grime from my face. My other hand palmed the short dagger tucked into the straps of my cuisses. The plan was to stow away on the ship, but plans changed, and getting clotheslined in a dirty alleyway happened to change those plans for the worse.

“I don’t want to have to kill you,” I finally hissed. My chest felt heavy and my breathing was short as I brought the palmed dagger up to my chest, next to the pendant. “But I will if you ever do that again.”

The helmeted head angled sideways and the Mandalorian took me in. “I am ordered by the Guild to bring you in,” he rasped, tossing a puck onto my stomach. A hologram image smiled goofily back at me, all of my identities, crimes and locations printed plainly underneath.

Raising my head up to look at it, I grimaced and fell back into the dirt. “Frag.”

The neat scroll under my beaming hologram face told anyone who knew how to read that I was a notorious pirate who’d stolen a cargo-full of indentured servants from an innocent merchant to sell on the slave market.

Not completely untrue, but just enough so that it made me angry.

“It’s kinda hard to be a pirate of any sort when I don’t even have a ship, much less one full of supposed indentured servants,” I muttered to no one in particular. “I’ll accept the charges of stealing that ship and rescuing the people on it, but I’m drawing a line at ‘pirate’ and ‘slaver’ and ‘innocent merchant’s indentured servants.’ My boss is anything but blameless, and the servants were innocents tricked into slavery. I couldn’t not help them.”

The Mandalorian grunted solemnly and bumped my shoulder with the steel toe of his boot.

“Alright, alright. I’m getting up,” I replied, deftly sliding the tiny dagger into the sleeve of my tunic before holding my hands up and getting to my knees. The law was not on my side, never had been. But there was a small chance I could talk, or fight, my way out of this. I bowed my head, wishing mightily that I knew a little more about hand-to-hand combat. I’m okay with knives, but when I only had a small dagger to start a fight with, even I knew that I was no match for a fully-geared Mando.

I took a bit longer than necessary, slumped on my knees with my head down, silently assessing the situation at hand. More than likely, my two-timing bantha fodder boss Mihcas put out a bounty. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d indicated he’d rather have me dead than alive; I’d freed a bunch of his cargo on a rebel-held moon, completely destroying both of our reputations and saving the lives of a dozen people destined for hard labor on one of the Imperial exo-planets. Half of them had been children, for Force’s sake. It didn’t sit right with me to send a bunch of younglings to their subsequent deaths when their biggest crime was existing. So when I had the chance to make a difference, I took it by the balls and jumped into hyperdrive right across the nose of my boss’s ship. It was reckless, but the scream of rage that came on the radio before I left him behind was priceless.

Any idea I had for escape flew from my head when the Mandalorian picked me up by the neck and shoved me into the mudbrick barn’s wall. My head banged painfully against the reddish yellow stone, and I felt the tiny dagger slip from my sleeve to clatter harmlessly to the ground. The hand crushing my windpipe flexed in irritation, and I found myself lifted off my feet. The newly-risen sun gleamed an angry red off the bounty hunter’s helmet. I couldn’t help but squint as I scrabbled for purchase against the wall, fingertips and knuckles bloodied and raw when I finally brought them around to grasp his wrist.

A blaster appeared suddenly, digging into my ribs, its quiet hum letting me know it was charged and loaded. Not that I could do anything about it. Black spots danced in my vision from the lack of oxygen going to my brain, so it was easy for me to ignore little things like a gun shoved in my belly in favor of more pressing issues. Like not losing consciousness.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold,” the Mandalorian threatened, fingers tightening around my throat.

Opening my mouth, I tried to form words, but my brain had a difficult time remembering even the most basic tasks. The bounty hunter squeezed his fingers one more time before letting go. I landed on my knees, panting open mouthed. It took a moment for me to regain all the proper motor functions, allowing the oxygen stinging my damaged throat to resaturate my bloodstream and sharpen my addled brain. The Mandalorian stood a few feet away from me, left hand resting on his belt buckle while the other held the blaster at his side. He seemed relaxed under all that armor, but the fingers of his left hand tapped an impatient tattoo on his belt.

Sucking in all the air I could before it went out of style, I closed my eyes and concentrated on steadying my racing heart.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

The Mandalorian cleared his throat.

Right. That.

In a false attempt to stand, I stumbled against the barn wall and fell back to my hands and knees in the dust, landing hard and awkward so’s not to alert him to anything fishy. Like retrieving my knife. It was stealthily tucked into one of the many pockets on the leg of my jumpsuit before I actually tried to stand.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. This hunter had less patience than me, which was saying something. Straightening upright, I pushed off the wall one-handed until I was face-to-face with the bounty hunter. I pasted the most innocent grin on my face I could conjure up at the moment, spreading my hands wide in front of me, palms out to show that I harbored no ill-will or weapons.

“I am not the pirate you seek.” I widened my eyes in what I hoped was a trustful look.

“Hands. Now.”

“I guess you did take my breath away, but don’t you think it’s a little soon to walk out in public together?” I teased humorlessly before complying. Hands out, wrists together, don’t make any sudden moves or relax any muscles. “Would it help if I told you my evil twin made me do it?” Not exactly a lie, since half the things I did were under the influence in one form or the other. “I’m by no means innocent of some of the things you're accusing me of, but more than half of that is made up or exaggerated beyond belief.”

The cuffs were roughly locked into place, and I flexed my hands experimentally. They were tight, but not so much so that I’d lose feeling in my hands later. It’s a small thing to be glad that this bounty hunter showed a little kindness with my bonds.

“Move,” the bounty hunter said, jabbing me in the ribs again with the blaster.

The hot, boiling rage that had built up over the last few weeks bubbled up the back of my wounded throat. I swallowed it loudly. “I don’t know where you want me to go.” Not exactly the truth, but he didn’t need to know that.

Sighing heavily, the Mando put a gloved hand on my shoulder, shoving me none too gently in the direction of the docks.

Cursing my luck, I looked blankly at my original destination. “More than one way to skin a womp-rat, I guess,” I muttered under my breath, and began the uphill trek to a ship that would hopefully make good on its promise to get me the frag out of here.

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duskowithapen · 4 years ago

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Day Five: Soulmates

Fandom: Sherlock

Pairing: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes (Kinda ambiguous)

You’ll Be With Me (Like a Handprint on my Heart)

Sherlock never quite believed in soul mates – in feeling that elusive tug in his soul mark and finding his ‘other half’ – but if he had to chose someone to be bound with, John Watson would be his first and only choice. If only life was that easy. Writer’s Month 202 Day Five: Soulmates

Sherlock never truly believed in soulmates.

That isn’t to say that he doesn’t believe in their existence – a metaphysical bond between two individuals, manifesting as a colourful handprint placed somewhere of significance to their relationship – as it had been well documented and the subject of thousands of research projects and papers over the centuries.

Unfortunately, it had also been the main plot point of various novels, movies and television shows. A soul mark became a marketable product, promoting true love and happily ever after and second halves. Sherlock’s first exposure to this was within the fairy tale of Cinderella – where her glass slippers revealed the handprint around her heel, and how the prince went made searching for the girl who made his heart beat again. Such things were hogwash.

Approximately 42% of marriages end in divorce. Over half of these are between soulmates. Of the other half, almost a third of them are caused by on person in the relationship finding their soulmate. Almost 60% of men cheat on their wife, and an undocumented amount of them involved soulmates on one side of the equation or the other.

Not exactly the perfect love story.

Soulmates, as Sherlock explained to his mother at the tender age of nine, are a waste of time. This proclamation came after his brother left – after Redbeard died – after he learned that sentiment is weakness.

And what bigger sentiment than soulmates?

You’ll change your mind when you meet your soulmate, his mother explained with an expression of long-suffering (one she often wore around him). She had one hand around his leg, just above the bright red handprint that ringed his ankle. They’re going to be a passionate one, she gushed. They’re going to have to bet if they want to keep up with you!

Her own soul mark was a deep blue, cupping the left side of her face. His father liked to cover it with his own hand at any opportunity. Mother would then wrap an arm around his waist, where a deep gold soul mark rested just above Father’s hip. Sherlock had never seen it, but Mother had described it so often that it resided in his mind palace, pride of place in his father’s room.

(Sherlock had never seen Mycroft’s soul mark. He had asked about it once, when he was five. He’d never asked again.)

His soul mark didn’t become an issue till he went to university. There, everyone wanted to know where his soul mark was – what colour was it – had he met his soul mate yet? After giving scathing and painfully true deductions about their sexual preferences, habits and feelings about their soul mate (whether they’d found them or not), the question’s stopped. After all…

Who would want Sherlock Holmes as a soulmate?

Well it seems, Sherlock thought slowly, John Watson might.

They were laughing at a crime scene – something John was swatting at him for, telling him off, no giggling near dead bodies Sherlock – when one of Scotland Yard’s ‘finest’ walked past with a sneer.

“Wish Lestrade would keep Holmes and his soulmate away from our fuckin’ cases.”

Sherlock immediately sobered. John, always attentive to his mood, met his eyes before turning away.

“Oi!”

The hapless uniform turned around and immediately regretted it.

“I don’t give two shits about what you think of me but leave Sherlock alone. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have found this body, let alone had the chance to catch the bloody bastard who did it. If keeping your mouth closed is too difficult, try to not aim it at us.” John was standing with both feet planted, arms crossed and angled slightly towards Sherlock, like he was ready to jump in and physically protect him.

When he didn’t get a response soon enough, John barked, “Understand?”

The officer nodded, saluted, and scrambled.

John huffed. “Hate bastards like that. Don’t know how you put up with it Sherlock.”

Sherlock opened his mouth – to thank John, ask him if it was true, if John was his soul mate, he wasn’t sure yet – but Sally got in first.

“So you are his soulmate? The whole precinct’s been wondering.”

“That’s none of your business Sergeant Donovan,” John said in his ‘Captain’ voice. “You have about as much right to details of my relationship with Sherlock as I do to your relationship with Anderson.” As Sally began to squawk, John turned to him. “Are you ready to leave?”

Sherlock nodded wordlessly and went to hail a cab.

Was John his soul mate?

Later on, after the end of a successful case, Sherlock sat in his chair while John dozed across from him. In his mind palace, he reviewed every piece of information he had on soul mates.

No guarantee that soul mates will meet… Soul marks colour and placement are of significance to the relationship shared… Once meeting one’s soul mate, a person can have a variety of reactions… A soul bond will be created upon meeting, although the intensity and depth of development can vary… some people have reported suddenly feeling their soul mates’ emotions… others reported a tingling in their mark… a pulling sensation within their soul mark has been described by some, often in fantastical terms such as ‘it was like our marks were magnets, trying to pull us together’, ‘a red strong of fate kind of think’, and ‘I can always find my soul mate now, I just need to follow that pull’…

Sherlock moved to John’s section of his mind palace to review their first meeting. There had been interest, curiosity about this person who so clearly was suffering from a psychosomatic limp, the cautious hope of something to help abate the boredom… but none of those correlated with evidence of a soul bond.

Yet why else would John stay?

Now that the prospect had been drawn to his attention, it would not leave. Sherlock would watch as John seemed to anticipate his needs, accurately judge his temper to determine whether to divert Anderson away from the scene or not, and most telling of all – no matter how many times Sherlock played the violin at 2 am, no matter how many body parts were left in the fridge, no matter how many times he’d interrupted dates for Johns’ (not completely necessary) assistance with a case, John didn’t leave.

And yet, Sherlock felt nothing.

No tingling.

No emotions outside his own.

No pull.

Could it be that John was his soulmate, but Sherlock wasn’t his? Or was he just too freakish, too damaged to register a soul bond. Maybe he was incapable of making one at all.

At least, that’s what he thought till he met Jim from IT. When Jim crossed behind him and bumped the dish, Sherlock felt a strong tug, like someone had grabbed his ankle and pulled. For a moment, he thought that Jim had ‘accidently’ twisted his feet to hit Sherlocks’, but he wasn’t close enough. Not to mention, after further examination, the sensation was less of a tug and more of a draw, like his ankle was a metal filling being drawn to a magnet.

The feeling didn’t leave until Jim did.

Sherlock was very careful to hide his revelation from John, and he put it in the back of his mind palace to be examined later. The likelihood of him meeting Jim from IT again was minimal – especially if Molly ended their relationship.

And then there was that tugging sensation again. At the pool. As John stood with ten pounds of Semtex strapped to his chest.

“Did I make such a fleeting impression Sherlock dear?” Moriarty said gleefully. “I thought you felt that tug too – pulling us together. But I suppose you did the smart thing and ignored it.” As Sherlock lifted the gun, a cluster of red dots appeared over John’s heart. “Don’t be silly Sherlock, someone else is holding the rifle. I’m not a fan of getting my hands dirty.

“I’ve given you a glimpse,” Moriarty said dramatically, pacing back and forth. “Just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big, bad world. You see, I’m a specialist… just. Like. You.” A grin spread across his face. “Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me, to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear into South America? I’m just like you Sherlock – the opposite side of your coin.”

“A consulting criminal.” Sherlock said flatly. “Brilliant.” He wished that it wasn’t. He wished in a way he hadn’t wished since he was a child, to stop feeling that damning tug against his ankle.

“Isn’t it? No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will.” Moriarty looked unbearably smug.

“I did.”

Something dangerous flashed in Moriarty’s face – the closest thing to a true emotion he’d seen on the other man’s face. “You’ve come the closest… But now you’re in my way. And being my soul mate isn’t going to change that.” He held up his hand, the one that had stayed in his pocket the entire time. Flashing back to ‘Jim from IT’, he noticed that his hand had very much stayed out of sight then too.

And for good reason.

A mottled grey and black handprint sat along the grooves and lines of Moriarty’s own fingers. They wiggled. “Like it, Sherlock? I tell everyone that it’s because my soul mate died – pretty sure Johnny boy here can tell you how that feels.”

And indeed, John’s face fell, and his hands twitched. One shoulder ducked for a moment, as if to protect it.

“But no, I was just saving it for you. Know what black and grey means Sherlock? Death and decay. That’s what our relationship is. I am willing to kill anyone and everyone in my way – I cut loose all those people, threw in thirty million quid, just to get you to play with me. So here’s a friendly warning, darling… Back off. Although I’ve adored this little game of ours, playing the friendly IT guy for the lovely Molly, I’ve got bigger and better things to do.”

“People have died for your game!” The words slipped out of Sherlock’s mouth. He was off balance – he needed to calm himself. Otherwise John might not be getting out of this alive.

“That’s what people do!” There was something derivative in Moriarty’s face, in the crinkle of his nose and curl of his lips. “They live and they die and they never amount to anything but momentary distractions.”

“I will stop you.”

Moriarty almost looked surprised. “No you won’t. Two sides of a coin remember – we’re destined to challenge each other forever. You should be excited! I can make sure you’re never bored again Sherlock.” He stepped closer and leaned over John’s shoulder. Sherlock stiffened at the proximity. “You’re awfully quiet Johnny boy. Go on, speak!”

Sherlock spared John a glance. “You alright?” His response was a nod. Sherlock flicked the flash drive in Moriarty’s direction. “Take it.”

He caught it with frustrating ease. “Oh, those! The missile plans!” He pressed the drive to his lips – possibly in an attempt to look coy, but it just turned Sherlock’s stomach – and flicked it back. “I could have gotten them from anywhere.”

It was only chance that had Sherlock locking eyes with John. That’s the only reason he wasn’t surprised by him catching Moriarty in a reverse bear hug the man looked all too prepared for.

“If your sniper pulls the trigger Jim, then we both go up.” John snarled. In that moment, Sherlock could see what war had made him.

“Awww, isn’t that sweet! I see why you keep him around darling. No wonder people think such a boorish person is your soulmate! Such loyalty can be touching, but… you’ve shown your hand Johnny boy.”

From the way John’s face grew tight with concern and anger, Sherlock could deduce that a sniper beam was aimed at him too. John let go and stepped back. There was a glint in his eye. This wasn’t surrender, but a tactical retreat.

Moriarty dusted himself off fastidiously. “Do you know what’s going to happen to you if you don’t leave me alone Sherlock?”

He rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, you’ll kill me?”

“Kill you? Don’t be so predictable. I mean, it’s a given that one day, I’ll be responsible for your demise, but that will be a special occasion. Not something to be rushed. No, if you don’t stop prying into my business… I’ll burn you.” Moriarty’s face went dark as he snarled, “I will burn the heart out of you.”

“I have been reliably informed,” Sherlock said with pseudo-calmness, “That I don’t have one.”

Moriarty huffed and looked deliberately at John. “We both know that’s not quite true. How much did it hurt, Sherlock, to find out that you’re not John Watson’s soulmate?” He didn’t give Sherlock a chance to answer before waving a hand. “I’d better be off. It was so nice to have a proper chat with my soulmate.”

Sherlock’s finger twitched on the trigger. “What if I was to shoot you, right now.”

“Hmmm… you could cherish the look of surprise on my face,” Moriarty said with an overly dramatic face – all raised eyebrows and rounded mouth. “Because it would be a surprise Sherlock, and perhaps a disappointment. Not to mention that fact that you wouldn’t be cherishing it for very long. Do you really think you can kill your soul mate? Kill your other half. I’ve heard that it can cause excruciating pain – huh Johnny boy?” With a finger on his chin, he thought for a moment. “It would be interesting to experience I suppose, but that’s a thought for another time.”

Moriarty flicked two fingers in a salute. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes!” He disappeared around a corner.

As soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock scrambled to pull the coat and explosives off John. “Are you okay? Alright?” As he tugged at the sleeves, he couldn’t help but glance John over. No obvious wounds…

“I’m okay Sherlock, I’m fine!” At a particularly harsh tugged, John yelled over his shoulder, “Sherlock!”

He flung the now loose coat away, catching John’s collapse in the corner of his eye. He was panting. “Are you,” He huffed between breaths, “… okay?”

“Me? I’m fine.” Sherlock took a few steps closer. “That – that thing – that you did…” Words didn’t seem to want to come out of his mouth, “That thing you did – offered to do – that was good.”

“I’m glad no one saw that.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the non sequitur.

John huffed out a breath of laughter. “You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”

Something lightened in his chest at the smile John sent him. He got the message – we’re okay. “They do little else,” He said, for lack of a better response.

Then the lights returned to John’s chest, and that damnable tug at Sherlock’s ankle nearly pulled him off balance.

Moriarty!

************

After they dug themselves out of the wreckage, after the paramedics gave them a relatively clean bill of health, after Lestrade confirmed his presence for the next day regarding Moriarty, John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street.

Flopping into his armchair, Sherlock watched as John made up two cups of tea. His hands were steady as he handed one over, his movements measured as he sat down and took a sip.

“So,” He began slowly. “I take it you weren’t aware of having a psychopathic soul mate?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John’s uncharacteristic bluntness regarding the situation before responding in kind. “Aside from a tug at my soul mark when we met in the hospital, I was under the impression that I didn’t have a soul mate.”

“And… that thing about you not being my soul mate…?”

He stiffened. “Moriarty was trying to get a rise out of me.” He was loath to confess that it worked.

There was silence for a moment. Sherlock itched to get out his violin, create the most chaotic melodies, the harshest tunes to try and release the turmoil in his chest.

“I never bought into the whole soul mate thing,” John said as he looked up. “My parents were soul mates, but that didn’t stop them from getting into rows loud enough to shake the house. Harry found her soul mate in Clara, but her drinking problem stopped them from creating a deeper bond.” He took a deep breath. “In the army, you try not to think of your soul mates. Some guys I knew deliberately avoided anyone who they thought might be their soul mate – anyone who made their mark tingle even slightly, anyone with a similar coloured mark – because they knew what would happen if they died in combat.

“I was one of the lucky ones – or unlucky ones, depending on who you asked. I met my soul mate on my first tour in Afghanistan, and we managed to serve together for years. We weren’t lovers,” He said in response to Sherlock’s unanswered question. “That’s something else I’ve always hated about the soul mate thing – everyone assumes that once you meet, you immediately shag. Arthur and I weren’t ever like that. We were close – closer than anyone else – we could just about read each other’s minds and saved each other’s arse a dozen times over.”

John slowly began to unbutton his shirt. “I know you’ve been curious about my bullet wound.” Sherlock almost didn’t want to look. John spread the fabric out, pulling the sleeve of his under shirt down and away. The entry wound was at the front – something that surprised him, given that John wasn’t one to run away – and something must have shown on his face, because John smiled ruefully.

“Arthur had gone down. Damn insurgents got in a lucky shot to his leg. I was stabilising him when I was sniped. If it wasn’t for Arthur pulling my sideways, I wouldn’t be here today.” He paused for a moment and breathed deep. “It was a through and through shot – and when Arthur pulled, he – it –”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. He could imagine the bullet exiting John’s body and hitting the person beneath.

“If you look closely – actually, come here for a second…” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him off the chair. His vision whited out for a moment – that warmth against his skin, so hot compared to his own cooler temperature, shocked him. He came back to the feeling of a strong beat under his fingers. He spread them unconsciously and felt the pitted skin. John moved his hand a little, waited, and shifted it another way. “Can you feel it?”

He could. Underneath the exit wound was another wound. It was irregularly shaped, four streaks coming from a larger area that covered the ball of John’s shoulder, before another streak went towards his shoulder blade… his hand stilled. “Is this….?”

John nodded. “Yeah. When your soulmate dies, all the colour leaves your mark like it’s been burned away. It causes a lot of pain, which is why older soul mate couples tend to pass on at the same time – the strain is too much for their hearts to handle.”

I’ll burn the heart out of you!

Sherlock’s hand gripped tighter. “John…”

A hand covered his. Another slipped under his arm and around his shoulders. He was tugged forward to collapse against John’s chest. His heartbeat was so loud.

“I never denied being your soul mate Sherlock,” John whispered, “Because I don’t believe that a person has one soul mate in their life. I don’t believe that you need a mark to tell you how important you are to a person – you don’t need a mark to love them.” When Sherlock shuddered, John held on tighter. “Just because your mark pulls you to Moriarty, doesn’t mean that you’re anything like him. He is a deranged psychopath, and you are going to catch him. You’re going to beat him. And I’m going to be right there with you.”

“Why?” Sherlock breathed. “You’ve already been hurt because of me – you were kidnapped –”

“Because you’re Sherlock. You’re this beautiful, impossible man who saw a broken soldier and showed him that there was more to life than dingy bedsits and flu season. You saw me Sherlock, and I’d like to think that I see you.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed. Slowly, his arm wrapped around John’s waist, and he shifted to sit more comfortably in the other man’s lap. His head lifted enough to sit on John’s shoulder, and John tilted his head to press his lips into dirty curls.

“Just rest Sherlock. We can deal with everything else in the morning.”

“Thank you… John…”

Sherlock Holmes didn’t believe in soulmates. But he believed in John Watson. And that was kinda the same thing

#WritersMonth2020 #day five soulmates #sherlock #sherlock holmes #john watson #james moriarty #sorry not sorry #title from wicked the musical #all credit to the creators for the pool scene #kinda asexual sherlock #i may be projecting

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pisces-swirlix · 5 years ago

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This is a continuation of a fic that I wrote, so check Here for part 1.

There will probably (hopefully) be more to come. Like I said, this is the second part to a longer fic, so maybe I’ll get to the rest at some point. This is the first time in years that I’ve written a fic for any fandom, so we’ll see.

Also important credit to the inspiration goes to @starrose17

Hope you guys enjoy.

***

{3004 BC}

“Remiel, Remiel, look who just showed up,” Inian whispered as quietly as he could, but it didn’t mask the sheer excitement in his voice. Remiel turned to face the same direction as Inian. At first, he didn’t see anything. Then a flash of red hair caught his eye.

“Is that him?” Esme asked.

“I think so,” Remiel looked closer. When Daniel gave him a team to work with, Remiel hadn’t planned on telling them about Crowley and Aziraphale. Eventually, though, when the work days (and nights) became repetitive, he would tell them stories about The Demon Who Fell In Love With An Angel. Most of them were made up, of course. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale and Crowley together very often, but what he did see was the hearts that floated up around Crowley’s head whenever they were together. For a while, his team didn’t know that the stories were based off of real beings, but, eventually, he figured that there was no harm in them knowing. He trusted them all at that point, and there were really only four of them, excluding Remiel. Still, he made them swear not to tell anyone up in Heaven, or they would ruin it for the whole group. His team agreed.

Nearly a century had passed since he had last seen the two together, and his team had never seen them together at all.

Not until today, as they sat perched across from the crowd gathering around Noah’s arc. The red hair flashed in the crowd again, and Remiel could just make out the two standing there.

“Yes, yes, it’s them.”

Liwet whipped around, her curly white locks nearly hitting Remiel in the face. “I’ve been looking forward to this for ages!” Her girlish excitement bubbled over into her voice.

“It doesn’t matter, we can barely see them from here anyway.”

“Come on, Prentum, don’t be such a spoil sport,” Liwet said. “I’m sure we can move closer.”

“Liwet’s right,” Remiel said to the group. “We just need to get a little closer. Just try to blend in with the crowd a bit, okay?”

Inian, Esme, and Liwet changed their outfits immediately, and they were mostly convincing. Prentum rolled his eyes.

“I’m fine from here.”

“No, you’re not. You’re coming with us.”

“I’d rather hang back.”

“I’m the leader of this team, I’m telling you we’re going.”

“Fine.”

Remiel often had similar conversations with Prentum. Prentum was a bit of a strange angel. Most of the time, he hardly seemed like an angel at all. His deep blue eyes were sometimes mistaken for black, and his ebony hair was a stark contrast to his snowy wings. He was quite intimidating, though after all of the years they spent together, Remiel didn’t feel that way about him anymore. Usually Prentum was more involved, but talk of romance was never his thing. Still, Remiel wouldn’t let him stay behind. He might be even like it if he just gave it a chance.

Remiel and Prentum changed into modest clothes and joined the group of common people, looking and listening for Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Guys,” Esme whispered. “That’s them, right?”

Remiel’s team was now standing right behind the angel and the demon, close enough to catch bits of their conversation.

“Giving the mortals a flaming sword, how’d that work out for you?” Crowley teased.

Remiel stifled a laugh. He still remembered the flaming sword incident like it was yesterday.

“The Almighty’s never actually mentioned it again,” Aziraphale said matter-of-factly. He stood a little taller at the mention of it. There was a bite to his words, like he was mad at Crowley for bringing up in the first place.

“It’s almost like Crowley’s trying to piss him off. He’s not very good at flirting, huh?” Esme laughed quietly behind Remiel.

“Hey, give him some credit though. I saw him hovering behind Aziraphale for like ten minutes before he finally worked up enough courage just start the conversation. Bad flirting is better than none,” Inian shrugged.

“You would know,” Prentum remarked. At first, Remiel thought this was a rude comment, but the glint in Prentum’s eyes made him chuckle lightly. Inian gave Prentum a little brotherly shove. Prentum wasn’t always so cold.

They all turned back to Aziraphale and Crowley, whose conversation must’ve taken a turn for the worse. Aziraphale looked slightly uncomfortable and Crowley looked a bit shocked.

“Noah, up there,” Aziraphale gestured vaguely towards the arc. “His family, and his sons, and their wives, they’re all going to be fine.”

“But they’re drowning everybody else?” Crowley said in disbelief.

Aziraphale stayed silent, looking mostly at the ground.

“Not the kids?” Crowley said, shaking his head. “You can’t kill kids.”

“Mhm,” Aziraphale nodded painfully. Crowley just looked at him.

Liwet sighed sadly near Remiel. He turned and put his hand on her shoulder. She nodded. No one in Heaven was enthusiastic about the storm that God had planned for the mortals here, but it hit some harder than others. The angels that worked on Earth frequently were upset. This included Remiel and his team, and it also included Aziraphale.

“That’s more the kind of thing you’d expect my lot to do,” Crowley said, almost softly.

“Yes, but when it’s done, the Almighty’s going to put up a new thing called a ‘rain bow’, as a promise not to… drown everyone again.”

“How kind,” Crowley grumbled.

The two seemed to share a worried glance, and Esme nudged Remiel.

“Look at them. I definitely see it now.”

“Just wait,” Remiel said. “Sometimes Crowley will look at Aziraphale like… like… like he hung the stars in the sky.”

Esme raised her eyebrows at Remiel.

“I know, I know.”

“God’s plans are…” They heard Aziraphale say.

“Are you going to say ‘ineffable’?” Crowley asked tiredly.

“Look now,” Remiel whispered to Esme. He could feel the others in the group lean forward to see more. Crowley was watching Aziraphale with eyes that vastly contradicted his tone of voice, eyes full of love and wonder. Remiel heard Liwet giggle.

“Possibly,” nodded Aziraphale.

Now, Remiel’s team had finally seen the pair they had been told about for centuries. When they were leaving, Remiel turned to them.

“So?” He said with a small smile.

“You were so right about him,” Inian said, shaking his head and chuckling.

“Yeah,” Esme agreed smiling. “He’s totally head over heels.”

“When do you think they’ll see each other again?” Liwet chimed in.

“Not sure,” Remiel pondered. “I don’t know Crowley enough to predict where he might go next. Guess we’ll just have to stick around.” He nudged Liwet playfully. Then he gave Prentum a questioning look. “You?”

“Okay, okay. I’m in. Didn’t have much of a choice anyway. But okay.”

They made their way back to Heaven, chatting about their newfound knowledge. But not too loudly, of course. This was their secret.

***

@starrose17 and @i-is-surrounded-by-idjits I am so sorry that it took this long and I hope you’ll still be entertained lol

Also it would be much appreciated if anyone has any ideas on what to name this fic since that’s where my creativity runs out I guess

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hungryflowers · 6 years ago

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Wings of Wax

Title: Wings Of Wax

Fandom: Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel

Character Pair/Relationship: Alastor/Husk

Note(s)/Author’s Words: This is considered a continuation of my first story “Hush”. This kicks off where it left off, showcasing what the physical show of what Alastor wanted. This story is even more fucked than the first one. Feel free to tell me what you think. Critiques are welcomed! Bricks and angry mobs with torches are not! Enjoy my shitshow!!!!

The shadow of the deer demon haphazardly deposited the horror stricken cat demon onto the gargantuan red silk duvet before retreating back towards the being it was summoned from. Husk still couldn’t quite grasp what was happening to the younger male as he dragged himself further atop the king-sized mattress. Still, he gazed at him as Alastor remained at the door. The shadow moved to materialize again; coming from behind and locking the door with a resounding, gut-clenching click.

Now trapped with Alastor, Husk’s only other option would be to have to fight the demon. The only draw back being… No one had ever fought, or even lived long enough to see the Radio Demon in his true, abominable form. ‘I’ll have to be the first…’ The cat’s wings pressed deeper into his back, tail curling in between his legs, ears flattened to his skull. His muzzle scrunched in a snarl, a ragged noise pushing out his nose as he readied himself for his impulsive attack.

A pattern of attack was gone the moment Alastor took four to seven massive steps to the bed. He leered at him, gaze sharper than any of the knives or blades he’d gotten from any of the mass exterminations. Eyes unblinking even as his talons raked over the silk sheets. Husk scooted further up the bed, his feet nearly caught by the long, gleaming red claws. Then, in a savage drawl, Alastor slammed his nails into the bed hard enough to tear into the mattress.

Another out-of-character scream ripped out of Husk’s mouth, body caving as he cowered, his head bashing against the headboard in panic. He started to tremor, his whole body vibrating so much, one would nearly hear his bones popping and rattling. Orange eyes, colored like the softest harvest moons, darted away swiftly as his wings shot up to cover his pitiful attempt at holding back his tears. The sound that he made from his exasperated throat was supposed to be a purr or snort, but only came into the air as a choked sniveling cough. Soon the room was consumed by the ugly sound of his pathetic sobs.

The unholy eldritch’s head tilted abnormally, its expressionless face contorting into something that could not be perceived as an emotion. Staticky clattering came from the demon’s teeth as he registered the small, frailer looking cat. Tactfully, he ran his claws through the fur on the cat’s leg. The delicate touches were of mock pity as he began to imitate the same purring noise Husk had no power to stop.

He continued to run his fingers through sweat-drenched, coarse fur as the form began to melt into someone familiar. The whole time, Husk’s eyes were closed, fighting off the futile tears as they fell to the bed. When he mustered enough resolve to open them, Alastor’s beastly form had returned to normalcy, save the oddly soft smile that was in the place of his harsh, toothy grin. His eyes even gave off an unusually faint glow.

His gloved fingers rubbed softly on the surface of Husk’s wings, feathers long and plush being swept and carried by the Radio Demon’s abnormally soft touch. Alastor kept rubbing his wings, periodically going to his fur to run his fingers in it in a motion similar to having a comb.

Husk didn’t have to ask in order to figure what Alastor was doing: The demon was grooming him into calming down. And tried to manipulate him into purring. Husk hated hearing the sounds even more than feeling them rumble and pulsate out of his chest. But to Alastor, it was riveting. A salacious joy to partake in, regardless if Husk himself didn’t enjoy it. He loved doing things Husk did not enjoy.

The cat demon flinched with every soft touch, something coming from his mouth, but not loud enough to be considered a sound. What Alastor could make from the sound could have been a sigh, or a gasp.

“There, there…”, The twinge in his voice made him sound a bit hoarse at first; kind of like he had been coughing a while, “Doesn’t this feel nice?” He went on as he crawled onto the bed, his body encompassing the smaller cat, who’s wings pulled further up his body. He kept himself in a closed, shivering ball just in reach of the demon’s reddened, gloved finger tips. Minutely, Husk found his eyes closing, then coming open slowly.

The more Alastor stroked up his fur, the less likely his fight or flight response would convey the Radio Demon as a threat. It was becoming difficult to not fall into his need for the touch. The complacency of comfort that was usually associated with someone attempting to be affectionate with him. As a 7′3 cat demon, Husk made it a point to show he wasn’t cute. Or required general affection or touch.

It was easy enough. Often he’d be fighting to protect his turf, or kick out needless squatters at his bar. In either circumstance, Husk was more than a little terrifying. But never to Alastor.

The cat began to unwrap himself from the ball he turned himself into, his paws hiding long, sharp pointed nails in case the Radio Demon would be ready to take him down.

“Al… Don’t. I don’t know- what brought this on?” Husk stammered as he pushed his head bumped the headboard. He tried his damnedest to stop the shaking in his lower body.

“What brought this on?,” Alastor’s head cocked questioningly. He was on his knees when removed his overcoat, casually flinging the wardrobe onto the loveseat on the side of the room, “I’m quite surprised that you don’t remember what happened so long ago. This…,” his hands went up Husk’s slender thighs, claws grasping tenderly there, “What I’ve felt for you hasn’t at all changed.”

Before Husk could snap back, he swiftly yanked his claws into the sheets as he suddenly was dragged to be placed parallel of Alastor’s hips.

“I… I remember!”, he snarled quickly, grinding his teeth hard enough to shoot sparks from his mouth, “I remember what you tried to do! I remembered feeling your hands, your nails running through my fur as you put your revolting tongue on me! I still get sick knowing that you were rubbing your cock on me while you kissed and tongued my neck.” His tone wavered, yet he still growled defiantly at the demon that sat above him. The one who was always above. And he put him there.

Alastor remained focused on Husk as he spoke, more desperately yelled, his case to him. The whole time he kept rubbing his fingers through the fur on the cat’s hips hoping that he’d shutter them into moving. He moved his palms up and down, twitching his thumbs on the upper part of the cat’s hipbone. His face appeared dreamy, whimsy with his glance. Without changing his position too much, Alastor managed to hike Husk’s legs onto his shoulders, the sudden motion making him growl in anger.

“Good, because I also remember how your paws felt as I shoved them into the mud, or the way you groaned as you pretended to hate me. But I also remember feeling…”, he trailed off removing his hands from the cat’s hip to grab painfully at his throat, pushing down on his windpipe suddenly, “your nails in my legs as you surged up to nearly rip out my throat.”

“I-I- I w-won’t apolo- apologize for-for that!” Husk wheezed to the point of asphyxiation. The bending of his body made the suffocation much worse; the pressure Alastor caused was making him grip the Radio Demon’s shoulders tighter with his legs.

"I wouldn’t expect any less,” Alastor closed his sanguine red eyes, relishing in the clenching of the cat’s legs tightening around, “I don’t think you can comprehend how much I wanted to ravish you the time we met.” The Radio Demon began to grind into Husk’s rump, seeing him twitch and squirm as he fought to remain still.

The giant cat bit his tongue, forcing a whimper that wanted to make this situation much worse. His thighs trembled softly as the taller demon pumped against him with vigor. For a few aching minutes Alastor ground himself into Husk, occasionally leaning over to peck him on his cheek. Electricity shot through the cat as he felt Alastor’s genitals brush against him. Unconsciously, Husk began to grind his body down in order to reciprocate those jolts of dizzying pleasure. His face began to warm, wings near his back fluttering with the exasperated pants of the large cat.

Feeling the older male giving in, Alastor removed his hands from the previously strangled cat’s neck, granting slight reprieve. It didn’t last as long as the cat would like as Alastor moved back; his shoulders still bracketing Husk’s lengthy legs as he moved to get as low as allowed.

“Sweet kitten… my dearest sweet kitty,” Alastor started as his face hovered just above Husk’s panting belly, “I’ve been giddy with this urge to devour you for too long. I think the only thing that has kept you from me was my need to keep busy. That changes now.”

The fog in Husk’s mind subsided enough for him to notice Alastor was no longer grinding into him, instead his head was hovering just above his belly. That was when the realization dawned. In the time it took for him to muscle enough strength to move back, Alastor’s face was in between his thighs licking at him feverishly. A surprised cry came from Husk as his claws shot out to grab onto the Radio Demon’s horns, not entirely sure if he was trying to push him away or further him along. Either option made this torture worse. Not thinking on it, Husk’s claws grated into Alastor’s hair pulling the young man deeper.

The cat’s cheeks burned; whether from the shame of giving up so quickly or a new found rage for the demon who was currently tongue deep inside him, he couldn’t make himself know. What he did know however, was that this was a sensation he hadn’t felt in a long while. It was so good, the cat’s body was beginning to do the opposite of what his mind was telling it. For every exhale of heated breath, Husk’s lower body arched in a bow in order to get feel for a better angle. When that tongue touched a sensitive spot; on or inside of Husk, the cat would crow and moan pathetically.

Alastor internally wished he could see the cat’s face contorting and fissuring from the strain of failing to contain his arousal. For now, feeling his thighs clench over his head as his tongue wriggled about inside him was more than enough confirmation he was enjoying himself. He wanted to hear more of the cat’s cries and purrs, so he lifted up a bit more while his right hand palmed the erecting phallus hanging loosely in between the cat’s legs.

“Stop! Al-Alastor! Pl–”, His fangs went into his lips, biting off the pleas before they were wrenched out. One of his claws remaining in the demon’s hair as the other ripped into his clothing.

A burst of hunger rattled throughout Alastor at the feel of those long nails digging into his back. A deep trembling growl came forth as his mind became laced with static. The cat’s willfulness to act on this was something the deer demon had counted on, but not so quickly. He wanted more of it! And so much of it. His gloved hand played about with Husk’s pecker more, his head and tongue still in between the cat demon’s thighs. Above him, he could continuously hear the begging falling from the cat’s lips, “No, No! Please… Oh, god” he’d be whispering and chanting to himself.

The whole scene went for what could have felt like hours but were merely minutes in normal time. One of Husk’s claws broke the flesh on Alastor’s back as he tried to either attack him or bring him closer. The fresh stinking of blood– fully well knowing it was his own blood– drove Alastor into a sex crazed fritz. His tongue left from the inside of Husk; much to his silent relief, and wrapped around the cat demon’s red, bulbous phallus.

“Oh! Alastor!” Husk screamed suddenly, his wings flapping frantically but not being able to get any lift. He began to struggle as he felt his impending climax surfacing; pressure in his lower back and hips giving the warning.

With the changing of position, Alastor could now see the cat demon’s face: And his eyes shot wide as he bobbed up and down on the older male’s cock. The male cat’s face was gloriously slack and strained. Ears fell back as his eyes rolled back in his head with fervor and ecstasy. His mouth hung open as he sucked in deep, loud pants of heated air. Seeing his old partner like his was everything Alastor wanted to see the first time he ever met him. Shame it took him this long to finally get him to this.

While he celebrated this victory, Husk had tensed and froze all together. His back had reached a perfect arch as he growled loud enough to vibrate the air. Alastor looked up at him as the male had reached his climax; jaws hung open in a silent shout as his talons pulled into Alastor’s back even more. He wasn’t even disgusted by the taste of the cat’s seed on his tongue. The warm liquid steadily pumped down his throat as he swallowed Husk to the hilt. Plus, he didn’t stop afterwards; he hollowed his cheeks more and bobbed his head in the same rhythm as before.

“No! No! Ala-”, Husk crooned weakly at the motion of Alastor’s tongue slipping over his cock, “I-I can’t ta-take it!” A sob bubbled from him as Husk kept kicking and fighting through his climax. About a minute later, Alastor released his hold, merely watching as the cat demon’s erection slid from his mouth.

He pulled forward his silk handkerchief from a small pocket, using the fabric to clean any residual seed from his lips. While that happened, Husk’s limbs shivered as he struggled to figure out what was going on. His eyes blearily looked around the room until he looked down at himself, and the Radio Demon hunched in between his legs.

“Alastor…” It didn’t come out as a question. Husk didn’t know what he wanted to say to him. The demon that had his mouth on his cock, took the words from the cat. Hard orange eyes had become softened due to his climax. Reflexively the cat demon’s claws dug into the silk duvet. His ears folded on the pillow that had been pushed underneath his head. The firmness made sitting up even a bit easier.

Alastor’s grin never wavered, his eyes going sharp as he drug himself atop the bed. When he was face to face with the cat, he leant in. The top half of his chest was now pressing down on Husk’s. He measured the slightly hitched breathing as his gaze went to Husk’s lips. He didn’t give Husk the chance to block his offense as his lips collided the cats’. Alastor kept his gaze on the cat, eyes never closing as their lips remained locked. Sanguine colored eyes shuddered in the vibrancy of the contrasting red and black room. Soon the quiet of the room was interrupted as Husk’s lips entangled with the younger demon’s in earnest. He made a futile attempt to push him off, only for Alastor to reach between them, gather both of his claws, and pin them to the top of the bed.

Well and truly trapped, Husk could only groan… His claws were held above his head in the manner similar to the way Alastor held him the first time. His mouth opened to breath in the air of Alastor, nearly crying out in his mouth as he felt the Radio Demon’s tongue delve inside. For a few solid minutes, their lips slipped and squelched off each other in wet, delicious pops and licks. Husk closed his eyes, not trying to observe what his body had been reduced to. Vocally, he purred softly. It came out of him so quietly, he didn’t acknowledge it until Alastor’s tongue was halfway down his throat.

The cat below him began to squirm with the intrusion of his long tongue. The appendage going down his throat, to the top of his mouth and more. When noticed Husk’s chest heaving he stopped kissing him, but merely hovered over the smaller cat. The old male couldn’t bring himself to look at his violator. He had to remind himself that what Alastor wanted was in no way consensual. This was what Husk should’ve been more careful to avoid. He should not have let his guard down for such an extended period. Husk had gambled his luck the first time; a successful gamble it was. The Radio Demon, at the time, didn’t know who he had been facing. And the desire to suddenly be inside of Husk made him clumsy, arrogant, forgetful, as well as neglectful.

Now the cards and luck turned against the old man as he shuddered to the feeling of the young man pecking and licking his neck, he cringed with the feeling of the sharpened teeth against his throat. A gesture reminiscent of the time Husk threatened to bleed the demon dry. He wondered if he would want to taste his blood. If afterwards, when he dumped himself inside of his abused body, he’d want the cat to experience the same pain of having his throat bit into. Would the demon revel in watching the light fade from his eyes as he gulped his fluids greedily and then depositing the drained corpse that was Husk?

A sniveling groan came from Husk as he felt Alastor’s teeth nip into his collarbone. Another pathetic noise mustered from Husk as Alastor’s teeth scraped along his arm.

“Stop it,” The younger demon said suddenly, a vicious snarl accompanying the words, “Stop making that putrid noise this instant.”

The cat was about to let loose a sob but remembered himself enough to hold it in. This whole scene was misery and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was pinned by the demon’s weight as Alastor began to feel on everything. His eyes darted somewhere else, at a place where wasn’t looking at the larger demon. He felt some relief when Alastor pulled himself off in order to undo his pants. The sound of clasps being undone and his belt unwrapping made Husk sick to his stomach. In a renewed strife, Husk fought back against Alastor’s hold. He kicked, shoved, and floundered all over the bed all in an attempt to get out of his grasp.

Alastor could see the fight returning to the old cat and began to maneuver his grip so that he was now holding both of Husk’s wrist’s. With that step done, Alastor dragged the cat’s body further up the bed, his wings scraping with resistance. Those noises from earlier, Husk crying and sniveling, came back and louder than before. In desperation and despair, the cat’s eyes; full of unshed tears, began to spill over, the wet drops sinking into his fur.

“No! No! Please, I don’t want this!,” He sobbed out, “What are you tryin’ to get out of this?! Why are you doin’ this?!”

Those questions struck a chord in the Radio Demon. He remembers a time too long forgotten when his victims would plea and snivel for their lives. And would ask him the “what’s”, and the “why’s”. Back then, Alastor didn’t tell them why. Or what for. There was no point in entertaining a dead guest. And the looks; their last living gazes as he butchered would solidify his “what’s” and “why’s”. He didn’t love tormenting his dead weight victims… He lavished in the sickened stinking of their blood as it decorated his suit. The adrenaline he got from his murders would shoot through every corner of his body, lighting up his veins with a cocktail that couldn’t be chilled out.

He hated how his body worked when he killed his prey. He shuddered with disgust at how aroused his body got at watching the dismemberment of a body. Often his cock would get unnecessarily hard. But he didn’t wish to enter a brothel, or head home to work it out himself. He hated how his own body distracted and bothered him. Unwillingly, he’d pull himself free with a violent tug and pleasure himself with the intermingling scent of himself and blood of the prey.

His orgasms left him empty, devoid of the rush he had gotten before. It left him cold and apathetic as he numbly looked at his spunk as it trailed down his fingers. He put himself away, choosing to gather his things and contemplated where his next kill should be. And who will be next.

“Why?…,” He could have been talking to Husk to answer his question, but he was looking at the pillow above his head. And not Husk, “For love, my darling.”

The trembling cat underneath him knew better. Nothing about this was about love. This was about getting something. This was all about taking something that he couldn’t have to begin with. Love was not a thing Alastor felt. Except for himself and his motives. But to love someone?

“This ain’t love!,” Husk snarled as he powered up again only to be forced back into the mattress, “You don’t love me! You never have!” Husk renewed his attempts to fight Alastor. Along with his grip.

Nothing verbal came from the larger demon as the feline tried to get himself away out of his grasp. His gaze intensifying as he looked down at the cat demon. Saliva began to collect in his mouth while he watched him wriggle and struggle. A quickening thrummed through his heart as he listened to the way Husk cried and groaned. Soon, the cat was beginning to tire; he had put too much effort into struggling to only realize that he wasn’t going to be released.

“Tired, sweet thing?”, Alastor jabbed with mock sympathy, “Poor Husk… don’t you worry too much now. This will feel good. You will love it. And I want you to tell me that ‘you want this.” Pulling his pants down a little further exposed more of Alastor’s cock. Pathetically, Husk worked by dragging his feet along the cool duvet, appearing to almost be grinding his hips in order to feel comfortable. His paws flexed in Alastor’s hands as he used his fingers to press into his paw pads.

Husk turned his head to the side now, since he no longer had fight in him, the least he made himself do was not look at Alastor while this happened. His body heat came out as a simpering cold, stages of shock starting to ice him over. He didn’t even move when Alastor pressed his lips against his cheek and chin. He whispered something to him, whether Husk was listening or not Alastor didn’t think to care, as he pushed himself slowly into the cat. He wriggled and squirmed with the intrusion, his back arching as he sucked in a sudden pant.

A shout was stuck in Husk’s throat as he felt the larger demon push himself in further. On instinct, his wing flared and flapped; the feathers loudly colliding with the sheets and headboard. Husk’s claws sheathed and unsheathed, the method causing Husk to think on that instead of Alastor’s short thrusts. Alastor panted in the cat’s massive ears, knees scooting inward as he bottomed out completely; causing both to make an exasperated or relieved noise.

He stayed like that, taking the feeling of Husk around him, watching the cat’s deflating persona as he looked away from him, instead choosing to look at his restrained paws. He stayed oddly silent, save his heavy breathing. The fight he had previously, the sounds of his sobs and cries, his trembling form, had ceased entirely. He was nothing now. His eyes illuminated in a way to show he was alive, but there was nothing that could seen beyond them.

Curiously, Alastor bit down on the cat’s neck harshly, hoping to a reaction from him. He flinched and breathed, but did not much else. He lifted a brow, feeling a bit different to Husk freezing underneath him.

“Husk…”, he moaned softly, trying to get him to rouse with his voice, “Oh, Husk…” He slowly moved his hips and chuckled when Husk gasped in response. When he felt he had the cat’s attention, Alastor began a languid but hard pace; he pushed on Husk’s body in order to bring him closer and on his thrusts. That made a little noise but it wasn’t satisfying. Still, he went with his slow pace but kept his movements sharp. He pressed his head into the cat’s chest as he thrust harder. The cat didn’t react.

Growing more irate than aroused, Alastor’s fingers dug into Husk’s paw pads with enough pressure to get Husk’s eyes to widen. That finally made the cat look up at his rapist. His face looked bizarre, empty looking. Not pain, fear, horror, or even pleasure. Alastor couldn’t tell what his face was supposed to look like. He hadn’t actually done this before… He had only touched himself and that felt disgusting. But he’s wanted Husk for such a sinful amount of time. This was his reward… so why wasn’t Husk enjoying it?

The idea of Husk not taking enjoyment in this made the larger demon snarl loudly. He pushed down on Husk’s arms more and bit him in the collarbone with enough force to draw blood. The cat demon growled and tried to wiggle a bit, but he was still trapped under Alastor’s thrusting form. He didn’t make much noise, save a few hisses from the thrusts, and that was now beginning to piss the Radio Demon off. He was seething so bad that he had released Husk’s paws and settled them on his waist to push himself in more, his gloved claws dragging bloodied lines down his frame.

Husk screamed. It wasn’t from the pleasure. His body couldn’t find any pleasure in any of this. In the blur of the quick slash down his waist, he could feel trails of blood leak out on the bed. With his paws free, Husk at least tried to shove at Alastor, but just didn’t have enough resolve to get him off fully.

Above him Alastor started to move faster, his thrusts becoming less hard and more pointed, his hips moving quickly to piston inside of Husk. During that, Husk’s back began to arch, loud symphonic purring coming to the surface now. After a few seconds, his purrs shifted into quiet but soft moans. Not as quiet to Alastor’s ears as he pursued the noises and pushed himself deeper inside Husk to get a taste of those delicate moans.

While he was doing that, his claws kept scraping and scarring the cat demon’s skin, leaving deep, pressured lines all over him. For the first time in his life in Hell, Alastor began to feel heavy pinpoints of actual arousal. Instead of rough, soundless pants, he was starting to pant softly, groan to the inside of his captor as he fucked the cat in the only way he could think of. He found himself hiking Husk’s legs up more, going much deeper than before. His claws went from his waist and grabbed onto the sheets on either side of Husk’s head; the cat pivoting his head to not look at him.

‘Not again!’ The larger demon snarled in his mind as he turned Husk’s head to look at him. To force him to stare directly at him.

“Look at me,” He hissed in an audible warning, “You are going to look at me. I want you to watch as I fuck you like this. Do you understand?”

The cat demon nodded. And then nearly cried out when Alastor shoved in much harder than previously.

“I didn’t get that. Do you understand?” He slowed his thrusts in order to emphasize the stroke. He waited on the reply. It wasn’t going to be a ‘no’. Not if the cat wanted to get out of this alive.

“Y-Yess. Yes… please.” His voice was cracky, weakening from the lack of choice he had at the moment.

“Wonderful!”, Alastor stated almost too jubilantly, “Oh Husky, I have every intent on making you feel good.”

While he spoke Husk suddenly started to feel woozy. Sickly looking as well. Before Alastor could even figure what was happening outside his world, the cat demon lurched hard to the left side and vomited violently.

The smell of it tingled on alcohol and a meal the cat had prior, but looked like bile. Husk coughed while retching, his chest huffing up and down as more came up. He shivered harshly before coughing again. The whole side of the bed and floor was soaked in the mess. With the combination of the sex and vomit, Husk felt awful.

And Alastor laughed, not fully, it was a half hearted chuckle as he pumped into the cat more.

“Looks like someone made a mess,” the Radio demon mocked as he stroked the satin duvet and thrust into Husk more, “I’ll clean it up later.” Then he pinned him down and began to pump harder and faster.

Husk moaned, much louder than he intended. His body flexed and arched with each precise, yet painful thrust. One pinprick of a thrust later, his wings shivered as his chest heaved. He pushed a forceful pant as Alastor reoriented a such thrust that forced him to put a claw on Alastor’s shoulder.

The whole time, the eldritch bastard kept that sadistic smile on his face. He leant down, placing his lips on Husk’s; the kiss deepening as Husk moaned into the kiss. He found he lavished in watching every twitch, every vibration of the cat demon’s muscles. But he was beginning to love watching his partner’s face in contort with each thrust. He was starting to like this. Every moan, groan, or sharp pant was saying so. Also, Husk barely began his bodily protest. There was not as much vigor to escape as there was to take in what was occurring to him.

When the thrusts became faster, Husk’s started to draw up his own legs into a better angle for each pointed shot. One such thrust caused the cat demon’s face to boil and eyes to roll back as he shivered. He felt Alastor’s lips raise from his as he was pulled in closer, his body being twisted to accommodate the hard hits. The whole while, the cat demon kept his claws in the Radio Demon’s back. He didn’t know if he should let him go, savagely tear his back open, or just leave it so he decided on the last; regardless of his muddled, lust filled mind.

“Al-Alas…”, Husk’s first vocal try to reach the Radio Demon came out as a weak moan. He started fighting back his need for arousal, but every move against him only made him moan more, “Alasstor…” He ended with a hiss. Unconsciously, Husk removed his claws from his back and rubbed softly against Alastor’s ribs. The gesture making Alastor groan a bit, his pace fumbling into a faster grind.

“What a good boy! Such a sweet, sexy kitty cat,” The deer demon was sounding quite pleased, winded even, yet so utterly pleased. This was what he was wanting out of Husk. His submission. His participation. But more than anything… His body. For the first time, which will not be the last time, He had Husk in every way. Now his servant would be serving him with not just his life, but with his body as well, “Keep this up and I’ll reward you so perfectly.” He emphasized by stroking his cheek and neck.

Husk’s moans sounded more frequently as his climax became an impending throb. He couldn’t reach himself in order to stroke off his aching phallus; said member abandoned, waving without stimuli. He resorted himself to arching and bumping against Alastor in order to keep himself a stir for as long as the larger demon fucked into him. At the last second, barely a thrust more before he’d keel over, Alastor placed his gloved hands behind Husk, slid up on his knees, and roughly bringing Husk onto his lap. Positioned on him so that his legs would now hang loosely on either side of Alastor’s hips, Husk screamed out suddenly as the penetration got deeper.

In this position, Husk’s wings were free to dangle of the silkened duvet, the feathers barely clashing the bloody red colors. The cat demon began to shake with vigor as Alastor forced him further down on his cock.

“Deep. So… Deep.” Husk chanted softly, finding out, in horror, that his body was starting to like how much further the thrusts could go. Unintentionally, he wrapped his wings around the larger demon, them being used as a way to hold himself.

While that was happening, Alastor’s claws moved to explore, grab, cut and slice, jab, and bleed Husk’s skin. Blood spots starting to form underneath his sooty fur, many wounds dribbling more profuse than others. Worse yet and adding to his powerful thrusts, Alastor began to bite, more maul, Husk’s neck. Wildly, he bit into the cat’s neck with the intent to bleed him.

“Alastor!” His screamed in rabid panic as he felt his fur being ripped, skin almost peeling, “Alastor! No! No! It hurts!” Husk’s voice cracked, tears spilling from his eyes as tremors of pain rung up and down his body.

Alastor’s eyes appeared to have almost blackened at hearing the weakness in the other’s voice. He didn’t respond verbally, the noise coming from him came out as a snarl or rumbling growl.

“It hurts…” Alastor repeated, pausing his pace for a second, “I’m not hurting you! I’m giving you everything you deserve! I’ve wanted you to have this since the first time I met you. How dare you!,” He snapped, raking his claws down the cat’s already sore back, “I. Would. Never. Hurt. The one. I. Love!” He punctuated every word with a thrust hard enough to make Husk bend and bow.

This couldn’t go on. It didn’t. It was only a matter of time before the dam broke.

On the last thrust, Husk clenched painfully around Alastor; wings flaring open before dropping onto the bed, he couldn’t make anymore noise, –it was barely a gurgled grumble– as he came harshly all over the lap of Alastor. He trembled, quaked, and shook before he became spineless in the Radio Demon’s lap.

The moment, as well as climax, came and went so abruptly, Alastor didn’t even know that the cat had passed out. Only when he prodded at the cat in a manner that was supposed to be painful did he notice he was unresponsive.

“Kitty cat?… Husky?” He tried, his clawed fingertips probing at Husk’s prone, stagnant face. He almost appeared to be dead. The barest, near invisible rising and falling of his chest; no matter how minute, showed that he was physically still living.

He pulled the creature off his cock and threw him atop the bed, body falling to his side like a limply made ragdoll.

He looked so beautiful… in such a way that aroused Alastor more. But it felt the same as being sexually into a corpse. Which he felt disgusted for thinking about. The cat was alive, in a sense. He didn’t even twitch when he smoothed his gloved fingertip down his chest and stomach. The cat never stirred. He was truly gone.

‘Disappointing.’ His mind muttered as he reoriented himself. Looking himself over he could see the cat’s release all over his shirt and open flaps of his pants. As well as he fully mast erection. He made a nasally grunt as he made himself stand. He felt incredibly tight near his groin area; with his inability to come to his own release. He wasn’t about to stuff himself back in his pants until he could work the pressured charge out of his lower body. But he wasn’t about to fuck the cat’s unconscious body to do that.

He went into his conjoined bath, turned the water to the coldest setting, removed his clothes and stepped in. He had been so charged that he never the bristling cold run over his head and spine. He flinched while feeling the cat’s various claw marks and gashes from where he held him last. Then the smell wafted up his nose. A stinking oily smell that indeed was his blood. He used his smell and the lingering jolts of Husk’s touch as the fuel needed to work himself off.

Alastor didn’t moan, or groan. Hardly any noise came from him, save his breathing, as he palmed and stroked his maddeningly hard erection. He closed his eyes, his head tilting against the freezing tiles as he came all over the floor; that pressure no longer causing him discomfort. After releasing a single relieved pant, Alastor shut off the water and stepped out, leaving his soiled clothes in front of the shower.

He left to his wardrobe to pick out his more casual ensemble: His staple salmon colored button down long sleeve, sharply pressed, tall and tapered simply colored black pants and his small red and black bowtie. He about made it out of his room until he looked over to Husk’s body; whom was beginning to stir but made barely noticeable twitches. He didn’t wish to leave him like this; atop his duvet with various bleeding wounds leaking all over the crimson red sheets. His scars would most likely be prone to infection nothing was done about them.

He grin flashed as he came with an idea to make the cat comfortable. What better way could he think of than a bit of after care?

Carefully, he wormed his hands across Husk, careful to keep his blood off his shirt, picked him up and moved to the bathroom. He kicked away his discarded clothes while he placed the cat inside of his blackened, red painted soaking tub. Humming a merry beat quietly, he rustled through his medicinal cabinet for supplies to treat any serious wounds. Once the herbs and small ointments were found, he came back around to see if Husk had moved. Save his ears twitching, Husk barely stirred. That came as good news for Alastor as he turned on the hot water, hoping to get him to fully awaken. He lifted a brow when not even that woke the cat. He was really out of it. Adjusting the water temperature a bit made it easier for him to touch him as he swabbed the caking blood off of his fur.

He continued like this for a while. Occasionally using his bathing ointment, often used for recurring wound pains, to soothe and wash out all of Husk’s worser wounds. Tenderly, he pressed his lips to the cat’s face whenever he hissed or groaned from the swabs. When Husk began getting well enough to open his eyes, Alastor softly hummed something others wouldn’t have heard. Whatever he did say managed to calm the cat down, his eyes lulling closed as Alastor wiped up some clotting blood. When he had gotten to his neck, the deer demon suddenly could see where he had gone too far.

He poured a great deal of medicinal alcohol onto the bite to keep it from infection. He knew what a huge amount of that would do, so he was prepared when Husk almost shot out of the tub.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” He mumbled as he kept a fair grip on Husk’s wings and back. Another badly injured area yet to be cleaned or properly taken care of, which proved to be a worse mistake to touch. Husk yowled and flailed wildly; the pain almost making a run out of the tub.

“No! No! Husk, enough of that!” Alastor chastised before a swift swipe of Husk’s claw dug into his neck.

Calmly, Alastor pulled the nails out of his top collar, and pulled back on Husk to get him in the tub. He checked on his chest and neck for anymore blood, thankful when he found none.

“Alright, kitty. All done.” He spoke softly as he pulled him out of the dirty water. He reached behind him to gather the towel he would swaddle him in to keep him warm. The bath all taken care of, Alastor thoroughly dried off his small partner and leant him down to cover him in the blankets. Husk didn’t open his eyes as any, or all, energy left his body.

Fur now cleaned, skin tended to, as well as all wounds patched up, Alastor made himself pat the smaller cat as he slept; totally unaware of the surroundings he had been placed in. His chipper grin wavered a bit, forming something of a smile with genuine emotion behind it. Both of his hands moved down the cat’s prone body before he could process a reason to why. Indifference, apathy as well boiled out of the fearsome demon’s chest. An urge to just jump in bed next to the sleeping mass of fur had to be physically resisted as he moved away from the bed.

Grin restored Alastor chuckled to himself giddily. He wanted to head downstairs and brag to anyone. Everyone perhaps about his lascivious encounter with the Hotel’s barkeep. Alastor shook his head hard enough to rattle those intrusive thoughts out of it. He is one of a silent, less obvious pride. Unlike Angel Dust, who’d go on about who he had shared a bed with the night before, Alastor wouldn’t tell them. They would have to ask about a ‘sex life’ that he would make them believe he had. So long as subtlety remained apart of his guise, the heated tryst would be between Husk and him alone.

His room remained dark before he walked out of it, not concerning himself with opening the drapes for the moment as it was already sundown.

Feint dancing of candescent lighting made the study appear much brighter than it usually did. With blinks so slight, Alastor saw shadows move across the floor. Save his breathing tonight, the study was still. Large oak french doors didn’t creak as they were pushed by the gust of an exterior window on the far right side of the room. Papers, manuscripts, books of plenty; some opened to a chapter and left there, others sprawled out on the counter, their spines bent on the cherrywood table with the story that he couldn’t see.

An Ol’ Fashioned Manhattan in hand, Alastor strode through the quiet room. He doesn’t entertain Charlie or her company this evening, though he can he ghostly whispers of them, and a non too soft guffaw of Angel Dust. He continued his exploration through the dimly lit space, hands on each piece of parchment or note left in a tidy, or discordant mess on various high standing dining room style tables. Some of the letters had calligraphies that seemed like nonsense, others were scribble that a bored 6-year old would do.

Adjusting his monocle as it loomed off his face just a stitch, he could now see what the Princess of Hell was trying to bring into fruition for the benefit of all her people. For the full reach of Hell. He bent of the table to see what her plans might be, and wondered if there would be any room for his quiet adjustments. His chest rose and fell as he blew out the sigh he had held.

A knock on the double doors brought Alastor out of his fantasies. One of the heavy doors pushed open, creaking as it did, as a lone, blonde haired figure came through it.

Princess Charlie was actually not in suit and tie tonight. She garnished a reddish orange tank top with frills along the neck like a neckerchief, dress trousers were replaced with white flowing chiffon pants that scraped at the hardwood as she walked. Her hair had been put up well above her head in a coiling pattern reminiscent of a giant snake.

“I… noticed you weren’t at the table. And we didn’t know if you were hungry, so I left you some leftovers on the counter,” She kept her tone soft with him for some reason. Alastor knew she was much louder, so her change in tone was a change to him, “Also we’re having tea and cakes. Vaggie and I made them. If you want some, help yourself.” Her tone chipper despite her near muted tone.

“Supper had been missed already? Ha! The time does fly here! I’ll be around in a moment for the tea time since I’m still quite full from a previous meal.” The Radio Demon does have a knack or two of lying. Though him joining the small group for tea would be a refreshing afterthought.

“Great!,” Charlie’s infectious smile made him grin all the more wider. He just loved seeing her beam with such a smile. He lavished in being able to see everyone with that smile. She was about to leave the study before turning sharply, her elbow almost slamming against the closed door, “Oh! And see if Husk wants to come down too. He probably doesn’t want any tea, but we have some beer if he wants it.”

“I’m afraid my Husky dear will not be able to mingle along with the ritz as all. Poor dear’s had the longest of days and would much prefer to sleep. I’ll bring him some confections after the party,” With that, Alastor strode by Charlie’s side and to where she held the nighttime tea party, “Precious thing needs all the rest. Requires it, actually.” He placed his hands on either side of Charlie’s shoulders as they moved into the dining area. She laughed in his agreement, knowing fully that Husk isn’t the same when he hasn’t the decent amount of sleep.

_______________________________________________________________________

Him waking should not have taken as much time, nor caused as much pain as it did. Ghoulish numbness trickled all throughout his body, his muscles spasming and shaking. He could barely gain his body, feeling as if he had been maimed and mauled by a beast. He couldn’t process how such a severe pain warred and marred him, he had been sleeping up to now, what... who had attacked him in the night? He couldn’t get his eyes to open, or what have you, it hurt him try to. His limbs felt like large piles of lead. His breathing became much harder, coming out as gasping coughs. Finally Husk’s eyes opened, after forcing them to obey him and it hurt.

Husk scanned over himself... and instantly felt sick.

From the top of his neck down to his toes, he was covered in scratches, bite marks and claw patterns that seemed to puncture his skin. His limbs trembled as they soon started to cooperate with him, previous weakness in them dissolving as his senses worked back. Static of pain made Husk cry out when he tried to reorient his legs. They felt like they had been broken. Slammed by something repeatedly until the bones in them became congealed putty. He’d have to hope for later that wasn’t the case.

The more the cat demon thought and thought, the more murky and befuddled did they become. Clearly somethings had become remiss since he has now awoken injured. He wanted to know why. He had to figure out what happened to him. He strained and snarled loudly once his back choose that moment to betray him. His right paw shot up to apply pressure, it paused as one of his claws felt on the gashes on his nape and lower part of his back. Miraculously, he didn’t feel any blood on his claw tip, instead he felt fresh scarring that stung as he touched them.

He willed his voice to call out, but the only noise that came was a pained and hoarse rolling growl. He clenched at his throat while rooting around for something he could use to clear it. His breath smelt terribly of some kind of distilled, expired liquor he most likely never drank in his life, combined with dankness and dirtiness of stagnant water. And it made him smell horrible.

Shaking out the fuzz that began to occupy his mind, Husk tried his best to figure out where he was. He came to the conclusion that he was not in a bed he was familiar with. He didn’t sleep in his own room on more than one occasion, so that wasn’t what bothered him. What did though was that he had never seen the interior of this room before. The room itself felt too macabre to put away even normal guests of the hotel.

He glanced over the large solid brown oak door of the room, and then to the velvet red drapery of the nearest tall casement style window. To the left side of the bed, nestled in the corner appeared some kind of loveseat instead of a full couch. Atop it, the discarded scarlet jacket that must’ve been thrown away for a long time. It looked almost similar to Alastor’s jacket, but what was it doing in this room. He then gazed at the vanity in front of the massive bed he was sitting in. The mirror atop it reflecting his distressed appearance as his brow furrowed.

'Who in this place has a... Fuck!’ His reflection followed as the realization, and memory swiftly came back. He had only been in this room once. He never entered it unless prior permission had been given.

“This is Alastor’s room!” Husk wheezed out loudly, “What. The. Fuck?!!” His voice became stronger with dissonance.

His eyes widened, his chest had grown tight as the whiplash caused the room to spin. Husk’s right paw went to the scars on his nape, near his lower back. He felt up his scar at the same moment a tragedy played back in his mind.

Husk screamed, a sound that never came from his throat, no matter the situation, as he was grabbed from behind. His ears fell back and his body went numb as a gloved hand scraped into his nape. He overbalanced his head, tilting too far back, causing his hat to tumble to the ground. His face was brought up to Alastor’s, whom of which somehow transformed into a beast no one in Hell had ever lived to see.

His body quaked at the reminiscent feeling of those willowy fingers gripping deep into his fur. His ears dropped low as a rolling, coiling sensation rode through his guts. His vision swam as more of the memory played back in his mind. In it, he could hear a voice. Cracking. Wavering with something bordering on fear.

“Al…Alas…” He shuddered, his voice cracking. He stumbled Alastor’s name from his paralyzed lips.

His body twitched subtly as that voice replayed the Radio Demon’s name over and over. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to tell him to stop. Or beg him to. If he was going to beg him at all. Another wave of painful wave of dysphoric nostalgia crashed through him, and this time he gagged from it. His paws shot to his mouth to keep something… anything from coming out. Nothing came, but the iron ball in his gut remained there; pushing on everything, causing his stomach to sink further.

“Hush, pet… everything is alright…” Nothing about what happened, felt alright to Husk, “this time… you won’t be able to escape me.”

Husk remembered the barest of static in the eldritch’s voice. The sharpening claws digging into his fur. But the rest was a blur in the moment his shadow constricted him. Coiled around him like a snake before dragging him into the room where he is now. He should’ve tried. To escape. At least put up a fight before it all happened.

Knowing what he knows now, Husk makes a break for it. Shoving off the overly large red duvet, Husk lands one foot on the floor before it spasms. He gasps in pain as pain shoots up his right leg, to the joint on his hips. The gasps dissipates into a growl as he slides the rest of his body off of the bed.

Just in time for the massive oak door to creak open. And for him to see that grin that make Husk’s stomach drop further.

The Radio Demon comes in with a tray as he closes the solid door of the room. Cutting off any plans that Husk might have used earlier to escape. The cat keeps his eye on Alastor as he set the assortment of baked goods and hot tea confections on a stony, marble chest. He is in a suit more casual than other times he is seen; a simple salmon colored button down long sleeve, black, pressed loose-fitting trousers and his normal red and black bowtie.

The cat doesn’t take his eyes off him as he pulls out two china glass, floral patterned tea cups and pours two cups. The aroma is quite nice. Floral scented with hints of orange and lemon. Alastor keeps his eyes trained on the cups as he dots in a couple scoops of sugar and a drizzle of honey. He moves one of the cups off the tray to places it nearest to Husk. The cat breaks contact with the demon for a moment to look at the various brightly colored cookies and small cakes on a different plate. His stomach turns and gurgles. Unconsciously, he puts his paw to his belly, as if trying to silence his minuscule need to eat.

The action doesn’t go unnoticed by Alastor, who finally locks eyes with Husk, his showcased smile forever etched on his face.

“Evening…,” he starts, eyes gleaming at the cat who began to divert his gaze on something else in the room, “Supper has been eaten downstairs. Dishes done and tummy’s full. But Charlie thought it nice for a little nighttime tea time. And you have to wake up early in the morning, so I was considerate enough to leave you some confections! See now, don’t say I never gave you something nice.” He chuckled lightly at his words before placing himself on the far left side of the loveseat. Then encouraged Husk to sit next to him by thumping his hand on the spot indicated to sit.

Husk didn’t move. His tail thrashed slowly behind him as he rubbed and scratched at his left arm. He still wasn’t looking at Alastor. He growled silently, ignoring the flaring pains in both of his legs.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Alastor said sweetly.

The cat flinched at that. At his sweet, soft words. Just in the way he said that made Husk’s fur stand on end. Made something like tar bubble up in his guts as he seethed at him.

The cat looked down at his feet. A snarl coming onto his face, but it made him look as if he was being scolded. His posture looked as if he was being petulant and stubborn.

“You… Alastor you…ra… why did you?” Husk tried to make the mess of words tumbling from his mouth intelligible. He gripped at himself a bit tighter as the words became no more than intelligent garbling repeats of what he was trying to say.

“Sorry Husk. What was that?” Alastor tilted his head as he asked. His kitty had never appeared so frazzled before. Though he wasn’t worried about how he was feeling. He looked noticeably tired.

“You…raped…me.” Husk mumbled, slurring his speech purposely. He couldn’t make himself speak clearly. And it was beginning to anger him. Knowing that he’d have to tell Alastor what he just remembered.

Alastor’s brow arched curiously, seeming to want to know what begot the troubles of his older partner, but did not wish to ask again. Still, seeing Husk like this was disconcerting to say the least. His mood, even his temperament was unusual tonight; even for him. He kept his complaints long, yes but there was also simple, with no underlying innuendo or sugarcoating. He trained his gaze harder on the cat demon, who was looking more ruffled than late. His eyes were kept to the floor, tail batting around behind him in a thudding pattern. He also noticed that the cat’s wings rose a bit over his back, feather tips barely grazing the floor as the shuddered.

Curiosity ebbing, Alastor decided it best to comfort his sweet partner, so he got out of his seat, took a long, slow gait around the table while holding out a simple hand to meet him halfway.

Husk hissed ferociously, his wings banking over his body like a bow, claws coming unsheathed as his slumping, petulant posture transformed into the Hellcat that Alastor remembered too well. “ Stay back! You stay the fuck away from me!”

Alastor’s eyes widened, surprise brimming from them as he watched the cat’s violent display. He ceased his approach, hand going to his chest in a way to make it look as if he had been wounded by the audacity of his oldest partner and dearest friend drawing his claws at him. The stared long into each other’s eyes; the cat demon’s looking to almost brim with a deep, bloodied scarlet at the center of his pupils.

The whole scene was a bit of a torrent for the perplexed Radio Demon. He wasn’t sure if it would be a good idea to approach him to swoop him up in his arms while paddling him with soft, warm kisses. Or to take to arms and fight the beguiling, yet dangerous beast.

“You must be ill, my dearest Husk…,” Alastor said, his tone meaning to be used in a way to diffuse the cat’s aggression. Boldly, he took steps toward him, keep his tone the same as he said “Why don’t you come over and sit down? I’m not doin’ anything to hurt ya.”

Husk’s eyes flashed between dilating and constricting, claws not pulling back as he hissed viciously. All of Alastor’s words didn’t matter to Husk. He remembered. He remembered in great detail what the demon in front of him dismissed. The cat held his ground, puffing and spit-hissing at him in warning to keep Alastor at bay.

“Darling, this is nonsensical. What have I done to you to invoke such distress from you?” Alastor was now close enough to brush Husk’s wing but not his face. But he saw well and true the unadulterated rage in his eyes.

“What have you done?!”, Husk snarled lowly, “You don’t know what you did?! Well I can go back in details about all the horrible, vomit-inducing things you did!!,” He stepped right into Alastor’s face, claws dangling dangerously to the front, “You. Raped. Me. You son of bitch!”

They both were so close that Husk could see how Alastor’s eyes dilated when he spoke. And then constrict. He could feel the heat surfacing from the cat’s skin, could hear the palpable drumming of a long dead heart. The euphoria. The catharsis was too much for Alastor to take.

His hands dove into the cat’s fur before Husk could react, slamming and pinning him to the side of the bed. Before the roar would come, the much larger, younger deer demon lunged; shoving his tongue down the cat’s throat. He dragged out a ragged moan as his lips conquered the cat’s fully. Soon he had the smaller, older demon bent and pinned painfully to the bed, his claws stuck, frozen in the air, unsure of what was done to deserve this.

Bile rose in his throat as Alastor’s hand sought for Husk. He was going to try and pleasure him again. Wanted to take him by force again.

He put an abrupt stop to that by kicking Alastor, quite fiercely, in his genitals. Then his claws animated as they swiped and slashed his sides and under his neck. Both pains caused Alastor to yell out, shoving himself off the cat’s body now that he had his blood staining his shirt and the thumping pain where he was kicked to deal with.

He didn’t know which needed the most attention, so he just sunk to the floor, reeling in the pain. He braced his hands on either sides of him, head bowed as he tried to focus on any sensation that wasn’t a stinging pain. The blow to the genitals felt as if he had been gut-punched hard enough to rupture an organ. The addition of the slashed lines in his hips only made the first pain much worse.

Above him, Husk was staring at him. The fierce glint was there for a fleeting second before it passed. His fur looked less rugged as the adrenaline in his blood began to ebb.

“If you touch me like that again, I’ll rip your fucking head off,” He emphasized his words by kicking Alastor while he was down, “Now lay there and die, you living filth!” His last words were practically barked as he walked off, leaving the most feared demon in Hell on the floor, clenching his sides, head bowed in pain. With traces of what appeared to be slobber coming out of his mouth.

Husk about made it to the door when the air around him chilled, his soft breath began to steam as he gripped the door handle. Before he had the chance to turn it, two things happened: A sound so morbid and powerful filled his ears, then he felt long, spindly branches grab harshly at his sore body. He didn’t have the luxury of time to cry out, but he winces when he feels the branches are clawed fingers--the dragging of them ripping at his back and nape-- the delicate tips sinking into him, revealing new scars atop the older ones.

Husk makes effort to turn, and sees Alastor is still kneeling on the floor, one hand on his crotch and the other trying to congeal the blood underneath his nasty scar. If he wasn’t, then who--

Husk gasped in surprise as his form was suddenly, and none too gently removed from the floor. He went sailing into a nearby wall, his head and back colliding harshly enough to leave an imprint where he hit. Once the fuzz in his vision faded, he came face to face with the Radio Demon’s shadow. He could see the lightest of trickles of his blood staining the supposedly tangible figure. The shadow surrounded him, pushing the older cat closer toward the wall, hindering escape.

“That... wasn’t a nice thing to do...”, The cat’s ears darted in the direction of the half distorted voice. Seeming to be nearly fascinated with his shadow now, Husk’s eyes didn’t leave it as Alastor stumbled to his full height. His head was downcast, checking over his new wounds while he swiped away thick lines of his repugnant smelling oily blood, “I receive you. I pleasure you. I give you every part of me. And this is the gratitude that I am shown?” Alastor lifts his head, his grin-- his grin isn’t there. His permanently fixed grin is not on his face. What is on his face is a frightening snarl, his lips pulled back unnaturally as his teeth extend past his lips. Viscous, black blood comes leaking out of his mouth, in between his teeth and onto the floor. Eyes of the deepest scarlet are constricted so tightly, the pupils do not exist.

The older cat’s eyes dilate deeply, his faint heartbeat now sounding as a drum, pounding so much it physically hurts his chest.

“You... fucking raped me...,” Husk’s tail was swiping at the door behind him, “And then, you... you just kiss me like that never happened. What the hell else was I supposed to do?”

“You. Are. Wrong,” Alastor starts to move, calculated steps measured. His pace slow as he flashed his teeth, “I already told you that I was not hurting you. That I would never hurt you.” He stopped in front of Husk, the cat demon staring up at him fully as his shadow fizzled away. He emphasized his last word by tilting the older cat’s chin toward him. It was so painful. The cat could feel his neck being pulled up and creaking.

“You. Belong. To. Me... You knew this the moment you signed yourself to me. I will do what I wish to you. My will is imposed onto you. And if you don’t like what I do to you... well”, he removed his fingers from the cat’s chin in order to wrap his hand around his neck. His digits scraping into the older male’s skin. Husk felt the warning, the condensation in the air turning to ice as the eyes of the Radio demon switched to dials, “then I will rid you of your existence in this Hell. And I will place you into a pit of abyssal torment for the rest of your days. And when you feel your skin and bone pulled from your miserable carcass again and again, and again”, he continued as he gripped the throat tighter, the cat’s eyes widening into bulbs of orange, ears falling flat against his head, even the breath he tried to force out became painful as it became lodged in his chest, “you will then become satisfied. And more grateful to me and the pleasures you will receive. Have I made myself clear?”

Husk was unable to nod, nor was he able to keep but a couple of breaths before he wheezed out a hoarse, agonized and simple, “Yes.”

Alastor released him after that. The cat demon falling gracelessly to the ground, wings splaying out on either side of him as his claws darted to his throat. There wasn’t a trickle of his blood, but his throat and neck felt different. It felt compressed, uncomfortable to touch, he choked and sobbed while slobber collected in his mouth before dribbling in a small puddle to the floor.

“Putrid. Insolent and stupid creature. You’ll keep everything between us. If I even hear you breath and didn’t allow it, I’ll tear apart your wings. One feather at a time.” And then he smiled. No. He grinned incandescently, face now lit with macabre jubilee.

Husk started to fold in on himself, his wings going across his body in order to shield his body from view of the demon.

“And please eat. I brought the cakes and sweets for you.” He now spoke pleasantly, the ice in his tone thawing back to normal. Ignoring the congealing blood at his sides, Alastor walked back over to the table to push the confections closer.

A few moments later, Husk stood on his four legs, silently heading over to the tray, eyes wide, body trembling.

Alastor regained his seat on the loveseat, crossing his legs over each other as Husk reached for one of the soft sugar frosted cookies. He popped it into his mouth without a word, his eyes still turned to the hard floor. He took another frosted cookie and ate it. He liked the taste of them, the colors in his eyes brightening with hidden delight as he sampled the tastes.

The younger demon handed him his cup of lukewarm tea while he took up his own. They drank of their cups with no words to each other. Husk finished his cup quickly, his claws going to the pot for another cup. Alastor doubts he even tasted the varying flavors while he made another cup.

“It’s meant to be savored, not wolfed Husk.” The deer demon stated a touch vindictively. This wasn’t alcohol, so he didn’t have to drink it down so fast.

The cat demon only nodded slowly as he put the cup to his lips, taking a slow sip before setting it on the tray. As he did so, he watched his paw quiver. It wasn’t much to show that those words did something to him. It didn’t go unnoticed by Alastor. Nothing Husk did would.

Without a word, the young gentleman took the cat’s paw, guided him across the counter and pulled him into his lap. Husk was looking at the wall when he felt Alastor’s lips go to his neck, a featherlike touch, before pulling away.

“Touch me.” A simple, sultry command that Husk had no choice, or will, but to follow. His paws went to the larger demon’s shoulders as he leant his chest into Alastor’s face. He gasped softly as he heard, and felt, the demon growl deep in him.

He didn’t want him. Never wanted him. There was never going to be a feeling of love in what this demon wanted. He was just taking. Taking something he wanted from him at the time they first met. And now, he has it. And he will continue to have it. Over and over, and over.

To Husk, this was a Hell that Pentagram City would never be.

#hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #husk #alastor #grapefruit

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