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zaebeecee · 18 days ago

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To Sever A Loveless Bond

••RadioDust Soulmate AU••

Part 24/?

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•••

This chapter is short and was always intended to be so; it wasn't supposed to take this long, but I've been incredibly sick lately. I'm so sorry.

•••

The month after VoxTek: Outsider POV •• • Week One

“What the hell was that about?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie said, her eyes still on the stairs as though she thought Angel might reappear after his obvious tactical retreat. Vaggie leaned harder on her arms, eye moving from what she could see of the upstairs hall to her girlfriend and back. Charlie didn’t seem to notice. “Maybe I should go talk to him?”

“I wouldn’t.” Vaggie turned to look at Husk, who had put his work down and was leaning one arm on the bar. “Angel went to talk to Alastor, and it clearly didn’t go well. I’d give him some space.”

“But…” Charlie began helplessly, before she let out the rest of her breath in a soft huff. “Maybe. But isn’t ’giving them space’ what caused the whole problem last week?”

“It won’t get that bad, babe,” Vaggie assured her. “We won’t let it. But Husk probably has a point. They’re both under a lot of stress, and what they went through is still pretty fresh. They still need rest, anyway.”

“...and if I start pushing either of them, they might stop being so agreeable about getting that rest,” Charlie concluded, crossing her arms. “I know, I know, I just don’t like feeling so helpless.”

“You need a hobby,” Husk said.

Vaggie snorted. “This from you? What do you do besides tending bar and complaining about tending bar?”

Husk shrugged. “I’m not the one with so little to do that I’m obsessing over the other residents. Look, Charl, I’m not judging, I’m serious. Your whole life has been this hotel ever since before it even opened, right? Might do you a bit of good to have something else to focus on besides what the other people in the hotel are doing.”

Charlie groaned, letting her head fall back. “I’m not good at hobbies. I’m good at stressing.” She ran her hands over her face, then went back to the ledger, her face that one of concentration she got when she wasn’t actually paying attention to her task, but was concentrating on trying to concentrate on said task.

Obviously unimpressed, Husk waved Vaggie over. When she reached the bar, he spoke to her in a low tone. “Why don’t you take her out somewhere this evening?”

Vaggie raised an eyebrow. “...like a date?”

“She’s your girlfriend, isn’t she?” Husk asked. “She’s spent too long cooped up in this building. She’s driving herself crazy, and you have to have noticed she’s driving everyone else crazy, too.” Vaggie wanted to be offended on Charlie’s behalf, but Husk had a point. “Just give her something to think about for a few hours that’s not the hotel or Heaven or any of that bullshit. Niff and I will keep things under control here.”

“Yeah?” Vaggie asked.

“I’m not going to say nothing will happen,” Husk said. “But whatever does happen, the two of us can handle until you get back. And we’ll keep an eye on Angel and Alastor, too. Alright?”

“...yeah,” Vaggie said on a sigh. “That’s… that’s a good idea. Thanks, Husk.”

“Don’t thank me. Just get out of my hair for an evening.”

Vaggie smirked and pushed off the bar, heading over to Charlie and taking her hand. “Okay, babe. Book down.”

Charlie blinked, watching without protesting as Vaggie removed the ledger from her grip and placed it back on the counter. “Book down?” she asked.

“Book down. You’re coming with me.”

•

Husk watched Vaggie pull Charlie away from the desk and up towards their room, waiting until she was out of sight before he came out from around the bar and went off in search of Niffty. She was always either quite easy to find, or completely impossible, and it took him nearly half an hour of tedious searching before he finally heard the familiar sounds of her scurrying around in the ventilation on the third floor.

Raising his hand, Husk knocked his knuckles on the wall. “Niffty,” he called.

Another rattle answered him before a grate in the ceiling opened, several dead bugs falling onto the carpet. Husk grimaced, backing away (even though they were several feet from him already), and instead focused on the ceiling again as Niffty poked her head out and stared at him upside down. “Husk,” she answered, her mouth splitting into a wide grin.

“I wanna ask you something,” he said. “Could you keep an eye on Alastor for me?”

Immediately, Niffty’s face changed. Husk wasn’t one to express concern of any kind about Alastor, much less go out of his way to get someone to look after him. “Why?” Niffty asked suspiciously.

Husk frowned at her. “I’m not being shifty,” he said; the accusation was clear in her eye. “I just wanna make sure he doesn’t pull any shit or do anything we’ll regret while he’s in recovery. Besides, Vaggie and Charlie are gonna be out for a while and I said we’d keep an eye on things here.”

That made Niffty gasp. “Official business!” she chirped, before she dropped out of the grate (and onto the bugs, fucking gross) and scurried over to Husk. “I will be the best Alastor babysitter,” she said, with way more enthusiasm than Husk thought the situation called for.

“I’m sure you will,” he said dryly. “Just… bugs first.”

“Oh, yes, I’m making funeral preparations for them right now,” Niffty said, looking back over her shoulder at the small pile of insects. “I’m going to make quite the example of them. I think now the bugs will finally realize who’s in control here.” She giggled.

“…you do that. I’m leaving,” Husk said, turning on his heel and leaving her to her deranged little Vlad the Impaler playacting. He hesitated at the second floor landing, then stepped into the hallway, glancing down towards Angel’s door. It was closed, and he could hear music coming from inside; he was half tempted to go check on the kid, but knew Angel would probably see it as hovering, so he decided to leave it be for the night. He started turning back towards the stairs when movement in the shadows caught his eye, and he hesitated, focusing to try and catch it again.

It wasn’t in the shadows, it was the shadows. Husk had long ago gotten used to Alastor’s shadow, a thing that was (in some ways) more mischievous and dangerous than Alastor was himself. While the Sinner possessed the ability to mask and control himself, the shadow was always blatantly projecting thought and intention, as indecipherable as those thoughts and intentions were. At the moment, Alastor’s shadow was across the hall from Angel’s door, and it appeared to be… pacing, in a sense, flitting back and forth as though feeling indecisive.

Husk had seen the shadow wear many expressions in the past, but he had never seen it look worried.

I don’t need to get involved with this. Husk backed away before the shadow could notice him and headed back downstairs. This was all above his pay grade, and besides… whatever bullshit Angel and Alastor had between them, they were going to need to work it out themselves.

Somehow, he doubted either of them would.

•••

• Week Two

The Hazbin Hotel looked a lot cuter and more inviting when approaching it as a guest, rather than as a spy or an infiltrator. In many ways, Millie could understand the princess’s vision just by looking at the place, even if it was meant to appeal to human souls and just wasn’t her personal cup of whiskey as far as aesthetics went. As she drove up to the door and parked the car, killing the engine, she wondered if the place really would work.

Would Sinners really be better off in Heaven?

She didn’t see how, but she supposed that a Hellborn couldn’t really understand the human desire for redemption, so… if that was really what they wanted, she hoped it worked, for their sake.

Millie stepped out of the car and took what had to have been her three hundredth calming breath since leaving IMP headquarters. She’d been fit to be tied when she’d set off, and while she was still mad, the drive had calmed her down enough that she wasn’t about to go in swinging and get her block knocked off two seconds in.

Not for the first time, she wondered what she was thinking, charging in to lecture the Radio Demon on… love? Relationships? She wasn’t sure what, exactly, she just knew it wasn’t her place to do this kind of thing. Of course, she also knew that no one else was gonna do it, and that was why she hadn’t turned back.

The door to the hotel had been fixed quite expertly since their last visit, and the hinges didn’t even creak as she pushed her way in and headed through the lobby. It was a little sad to see that the hotel still didn’t seem to have attracted any new residents. It wasn’t like she had reason to expect it to—all of the recent attention had, after all, been more focused on the residents and less on the hotel itself—but she couldn’t help feeling awful for the princess, working so hard with comparatively little to show for it.

Of course, we didn’t think it’d work, either.

That was a gentle way of putting it.

“Oh! Millie!” Charlie looked up when she heard hoofsteps on the tile, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. She smiled in that unique way people had when they were deeply stressed but still genuinely meant that smile. Millie was very familiar with that expression.

“Hi, Princess,” Millie said, clasping her hands behind her back and stepping up to the desk. “Don’t worry, I ain’t here cuz’a any trouble. Just wanted t’ know if y’might be able t’ point me to Alastor’s room.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “Alastor?” she echoed. “Ah… I could,” she hedged. “Can I ask why?”

“Just wanted t’ talk,” Millie said. “I’ll make sure no damage comes t’ th’ place. Promise.”

The princess still looked hesitant, but Millie could also see something else in her expression. Was it relief? “I… sure,” Charlie said, pointing down a hallway off the lobby, just past the main stairway. “Right down that way, third door on your left. He almost never lets anyone in, though, so don’t be surprised if he doesn’t answer.”

“Oh, he’ll answer,” Millie said confidently. She waved, heading off. “Thanks!”

“Good luck!”

As Millie passed out of the lobby and into the hallway, she was immediately struck by a different sort of feeling that seemed to permeate the corridor, or perhaps just this entire area of the hotel. The air was heavy, but not quite stale; there was something almost abandoned about the atmosphere, as though almost no one ever actually came down this way. Of course, from what she’d been told, everyone else lived up on the second floor. Why was Alastor so far away from everyone else?

The door in question wasn’t hard to find. It didn’t exactly look different from every other door in the building, but it also did, somehow; it even felt a little colder as she stepped closer and raised her hand to knock firmly on the wood. There was no response at all, but Millie didn’t let it deter her, just knocking again. “Alastor?” she called out, still feeling a little strange about calling the Radio Demon his name to his face (or door). “Alastor, it’s Millie. Y’know, from IMP?” Still no answer. She just… presumed he was listening and continued. “I got some stuff I wanna say t’ you. And I can either say it in yer room or say it out here in th’ hallway where I know you can hear me.” Apparently, even that threat wasn’t enough, so she took a deep breath. “...okay. I just came from our offices, and I was talkin’ t’ Angel Dust, and he–!”

The moment she said that name, she heard a click from inside the wood. The door remained closed, but when Millie turned the handle, the door creaked open. There was a fleeting moment of reminding herself that she still had time to turn around and leave—good to know her sense of self-preservation was still working, anyway—but she squared her shoulders and let herself inside.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it sure wasn’t a combination sitting room, office, and bedroom that opened up into what looked like a whole-ass swamp from somewhere on Earth. Alastor was standing at the edge of the platform that ended his room and turned into marshland, turned away from the door with one hand behind his back.

Oh, right. His only hand now, huh?

His other sleeve was folded, pinned to itself, probably to keep the fabric from flapping around while he was working. He didn’t turn when he spoke, but Millie could hear him quite well, his voice masked in a thick layer of radio static. “You truly are quite brave, coming here on your own,” he said. “Don’t you remember what almost happened to your employer, the last time he was alone with me?”

Millie didn’t let herself feel fear, just holding onto the quiet anger that was the simmered remains of her hot rage. She put her hands on her hips, glaring. “Yeah, well, Blitzø’s a dumbass,” she said. “Besides, it ain’t bravery, I’m here t’ ask you what th’ fuck you think you’re doin’.”

Alastor tilted his head curiously, then turned it without turning his body, looking at her over his shoulder. It was much easier to see that his eyes were glowing in the dim light of his room. “I fail to see what you mean, my dear.”

She scoffed, gesturing with one hand. “Yeah, right,” she said. “If y’didn’t know what I meant, y’wouldn’t’a let me in when I said Angel’s name.”

He squinted at her, then pivoted his body to match the angle of his head. He then vanished into a shadowy mist on the floor, emerging in one of the chairs before the fireplace. He gestured to the other. “I suppose I’ll admit to feeling intrigued. Please, sit.”

It was phrased as a request, but Millie knew it wasn’t. She refused to let any fear show on her face as she plopped herself down, knees together and hands braced on her thighs. Alastor was watching her expectantly, so Millie asked, “Why’re you avoidin’ him?”

Alastor’s eyebrow arched. “Is that what he said?”

“No,” Millie said. “But he told me what happened. Y’know, with yer mark and all.”

Something flashed in Alastor’s eyes for the briefest instant, nowhere near long enough for Millie to determine what it was. “Then I should think everything self-evident,” he said, his voice light and airy in a way she would absolutely have believed if she hadn’t known someone like Blitzø as long as she had. “We had an arrangement, which came to its conclusion. I fail to understand why everyone is making such a fuss over all of this.”

Millie frowned at him. “Y’really care that much about th’ mark?” she asked disbelievingly.

He laughed. It was a little too loud. “Oh, my dear Millie, I have never thought that thing to be any more than a potential inconvenience. I hardly put any stock in what some unseen force has decided as my fate.”

“...then…” Millie squinted at him. “...y’know yer contradictin’ yerself, doncha?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Alastor sounded uninterested and dismissive, but he was way too focused on her for that to be true.

“Well… y’said you don’t think that th’ mark means nothin’,” Millie said. “But you were willin’ to nearly get yerself killed goin’ after Angel Dust just a couple’a weeks ago, and now yer actin’ like you ain’t even thought about him in days.” Alastor didn’t answer, just kept watching her. “...okay, lemme just… ask you this. How d’you feel about him?”

“About Angel Dust?” Alastor asked with a raised eyebrow. “No different than I felt before the mark’s activation, before this whole affair… began…” He trailed off, his eyes widening slightly, but almost instantly schooled his expression and tilted his head at her. “Why so keenly interested in this topic, anyway? You hardly know either one of us, yet you came in here with pure Hellfire in your eyes.”

Millie clenched her fists against her thighs. “...Moxxie and I ain’t soulmates,” she said. “I’ve never met mine, and his…” She trailed off, cold anger filling her at the simple memory of the broken soulmate mark on her husband’s skin. “And ever since th’ two of us started datin’, the people who know give us shit for it. His dad fuckin’ despises me, an’ my parents won’t even give him a chance. Fuck, my siblings pretend he doesn’t exist. My brother tried settin’ me up on a date, last time I went home.”

Alastor tilted his head a little. “But you married him anyway, didn’t you? So, clearly, you don’t care.”

“No, I don’t, but that don’t make it no less exhaustin’ to deal with,” Millie said. “I had to convince him that I wanted t’ go out with him, an’ just ‘cause I don’t care what anybody thinks don’t make it easy to put up with people makin’… remarks.” She looked away. On top of the other reasons people think we shouldn’t be together, of course. “And I almost listened t’ all the shit they were sayin’. I thought about it. And it… it would’ve been th’ worst mistake I ever made.”

Alastor didn’t answer right away. The silence was thick and weighted; Millie didn’t need to look at him to know he was thinking. Finally, he said, “Is that what this is? An intervention because you think I’m making some kind of mistake?”

“No, I ain’t tryin’ t’ tell you what to do,” Millie said, shaking her head. “But I saw how people act around you. I know how scared they are of you. And I’m pretty sure none of ‘em are gonna tell you this shit.”

“Do you know why they’re scared of me?” Alastor asked. When Millie looked up at him again, his eyes were glowing. “Because I’ve killed for less than this. You saw what I did to Husker for challenging me. What makes you think you’ll fair better?”

Millie shook her head. “I don’t think you’ll kill me. Besides, it ain’t gonna make you feel no better if y’do.”

Alastor stared at her. There was a lot he wasn’t saying. Finally, he closed his eyes. “You should leave.”

“Okay,” Millie said with a shrug, sliding out of the chair. “I said my piece. Your choice what t’do with it.”

She crossed the room and opened the door, but before she could step out, Alastor’s voice gave her pause. “Tell your boss… that I owe him a favor.”

Millie blinked, glancing back, but she didn’t see Alastor anymore. She smiled a little. “Okay. I’ll do that. Bye, Alastor.”

As she closed the door behind her, she thought she could hear a voice that murmured, goodbye, Miss Millie.

•••

• Week Three

“He’s really not doin’ too hot, is he?”

Cherri turned her head and watched Mimzy slide into the bar seat next to her, but the shorter Sinner wasn’t actually looking at her. Cherri followed Mimzy’s line of sight to where Angel had attracted a small group of admirers; it wasn’t odd to see him surrounded by people, but it was weird that most of the little group seemed to be some variety of woman. It looked like Angel had been invited to join their table, and while he was happily answering questions and taking selfies with some of them, he didn’t seem to be flirting with the two or three more male-looking Sinners.

“No,” Cherri said, allowing a little of her worry to escape now that her best friend was fully occupied elsewhere. “I’ve never seen him this bad. I mean, not this way, at least. …makes me wanna go back to the hotel and blow Alastor up.”

Mimzy cackled. “It’d serve the little bastard right!” She sobered quickly, drawing Cherri’s gaze back to her. “He was askin’ me about places for rent around the city. Sounds like he’s thinkin’ about a little cut and run.”

Cherri sighed. “…fuck’s sake,” she muttered, turning back to the bar. “Well, what am I supposed to do about it? Angie wants to go, that’s his business. He should be allowed to make his own choices.”

“Chill out, babydoll, you don’t gotta do shit. Just thought you’d wanna know.”

Cherri drummed her fingernails against her glass. Mimzy wasn’t the sharpest french fry in the crayon box, as the saying didn’t go, but she still noticed a lot more than people thought. There was a heavy implication in Mimzy’s tone, one that said you’d know better than anyone why he wants to leave.

But that was fucking stupid. She’d left because she didn’t want to be there anymore, full stop, and she didn’t need anyone telling her different. If Angel leaving had anything to do with Alastor, then that would mean that her leaving had something to do with Husk.

And it didn’t. It wasn’t like she missed the crotchety old bastard; he drank too much, he always saw the negative in everything, he gave up too easily, he… well, he was kinda funny and charming, when he wanted to be, and he certainly wasn’t hard on the eyes for a fuzzy sorta guy. And there was that little smile he got when he—

But what, was Mimzy trying to suggest that Angel missed Alastor?

When Cherri left the bar, Angel told her he would stick around for a bit longer, so she made the trek back to her apartment by herself. As she walked, she let her mind wander to that afternoon that Angel had first told her about the mark. He’d been so confused, so… scared? Was that the word for it?

I should have taken things more seriously.

And when Angel had been taken to VoxTek, Alastor had seemed so legitimately enraged. Cherri couldn’t remember ever seeing him like that; usually, he played his cards so close to the chest, it was impossible to even guess at what he was thinking. So, what, was she supposed to believe Alastor actually cared about him?

That… was a really, really big ask.

Cherri stopped outside her apartment, freezing when she saw a note on the wood, a knife stabbed through it to keep it in place. She took hold of it and pulled, glancing over the single word of greeting, ‘Matiu’.

Yeah, sure, deadname me twice, why don’t you.

She let her eyes skim down the still-too-familiar curves and jagged edges of her father’s handwriting, but when she hit the words ‘no son of mine is going to be seen out with’, she crumpled the paper up in both hands and ignited the ball with a loud bang and flash that quickly reduced the paper to nothing but ash. She then let it fall to the carpet in the hallway, dusting her hands off before she entered her apartment. No fucking way was that thing coming inside with her.

Door locked securely behind her, Cherri spun on her heel and flopped back onto her couch, her already dim mood soured considerably by the memory of her father hanging over her head once again. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, running her thumb across the black screen in thought.

Talking to Angel wouldn’t do any good; if the stubborn bitch had made his mind up, he’d made it up, and that was it. And, obviously, she couldn’t talk to Alastor. Charlie? No. Cherri liked the princess well enough, but she got the feeling that would only make matters worse.

She realized she’d turned her phone on and gone to her contacts without thinking. Husk’s number was lit up, ready for her to call or text. Cherri stared at those four letters, wondering… would he help her? Would he even pick up if she called? There was a time she never would have asked that question; before the stupid spade on her left shoulder had ruined everything, she’d had a friendship with Husk that would have weathered any number of late-night phone calls. He had always had time for her, and she always had time for him. She wasn’t sure why she was so comfortable; it wasn’t normal for a guy like that to put her so at ease, when that sort of rough-around-the-edges, gruff, unapproachable man had been the first to call her slurs and throw beer at her when she was alive. And before she could figure it out, the goddamn mark had gotten in the way and tried to tell her what she was supposed to be feeling, and it freaked her out, and it freaked him out, and now… now, she’d never know.

Cherri was so frustrated she could scream. She had no one to call, because everyone at the Hotel would—

Her eyes widened. Oh. Shit. I know.

Thirty seconds later, phone held to her ear and her hand rubbing a tear from her eye that she pretended not to feel, she listened to the rhythmic ringing before she heard the click and a deep, resonant voice filled her ears. “Miss Cherri Bomb?”

“I’ve told you, Rocky, you don’t have to call me that,” Cherri said as she walked towards her apartment window, pulling the curtain back just enough to peer out onto the street below. “I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?”

“Huh? Oh, no, we’re still on… hiatus,” he said after a careful pause. “Nobody knows when the studio’ll be running again. Uh, anyway, what’s up?”

Cherri let out a long breath. “…okay, this might be a sensitive topic, but I really need you to stick with me. It’s about Angel.”

“I figured,” Rocky said, and she could hear something sad in his tone. “How’s he doing?”

“That’s a complicated question. He’s healed pretty well, physically.”

“That’s good.”

Cherri nodded to herself. “…I just wanted to ask you… how he was at work, like… the last month before everything blew up.”

Rocky made a surprised noise, then lapsed into what sounded like thought. “…quiet, for Angel. I mean, he never really… Mr. Valentino didn’t like him socializing with us too much, y’know? But he always did as much as he could, especially once he didn’t live in the building anymore. We figured getting out and into a new place… y’know, made him braver. It was just the past few weeks that he got all thoughtful and shit, like he always had something on his mind. I mean, we all noticed the mark, but nobody said anything, since we knew Mr. Valentino’d lose his shit if we did. I figured it was that. Wasn’t it?”

Cherri sighed. “Yeah. I mean, I guess.” She tapped her fingernails against her arm. “Did he seem�� upset? About the mark.”

Rocky made a low sound, punctuated by some splashing and clinking; he must have been doing dishes or something. “Nah. I wouldn’t say that. He seemed like he was in a better mood than usual, especially those last couple of weeks. And one of the guys on the makeup team said he saw him running his fingers over it and smiling to himself. …we figured, whoever it was, Angel must’ve been real happy about it.”

Resisting the urge to start cursing, Cherri let her head fall backwards and stared at the ceiling. “You think so?”

“He never said so, but… when you work with a guy for so many years, you get to figure out his tells, y’know?”

“I guess you’d have to. …thanks, Rock, sorry to bother you.”

“No bother. Was that helpful at all?”

“It was… insightful, anyway. I’ll let you get back to your night.”

“I’ve been standing these dishes up for a date for nearly a week. They’ll break up with me if I take any longer.”

Cherri almost laughed as she said goodbye and hung up, her expression sobering as she folded her arms and leaned her shoulder against the window. This would have been so much easier if Angel had been miserable.

Then again, it was just like Alastor to go and actually make him happy before breaking his heart, wasn’t it?

•••

• Week Four

“Put the damn bottle down.”

Husk was difficult to startle. Maybe it was because he had spent way too long not letting anything catch him by surprise, or maybe he just wasn’t jumpy, but he was difficult to consistently sneak up on… unless, of course, you were Niffty, and Niffty just so happened to be exactly that. The whiskey bottle hit the bar top before the bartender even registered lowering it, judging by the expression on his face, and his surprise morphed into a frown as he glared down at Niffty, watching her scramble up a stool and onto the bar itself.

“I’m off duty, I can drink if I want,” Husk grumbled. “What do you want?”

Niffty crossed her arms and glared up at Husk. “We’re gonna go talk to Alastor.”

“Pass.”

“Why not?” Niffty demanded, stomping her foot. “You know Angel’s leaving, and we need to do something about it!”

“No, Niff, we don’t.” Husk folded his arms and leaned back, looking away from her. “Angel’s a grown-ass man, no matter how he acts sometimes. If he wants to leave—”

“But he doesn’t. You know he doesn’t!” Niffty glared at him. “Don’t make me play my trump card.”

Husk squinted at her. She could tell that he really wanted to dismiss her, but he was way, way too curious to just let it slide. “...the fuck are you talking about?” he asked after a long pause, his voice so reluctant, she could hear how much he hated that he was asking.

Niffty put her hands on her hips and leaned forward. “You’re just scared that if you manage to keep Angel from leaving, you won’t be able to tell yourself that there was nothing you could have done about Cherri and you’ll have to face the fact that maybe you could have gotten her to stay, too.”

Husk’s ears actually flattened at that. “You’re crossing the line, Niff.”

“I don’t care,” Niffty said. “Angel’s our family, Husk, and whether you wanna admit it or not, so is Alastor. And if we don’t do anything, all the progress Alastor’s made since coming here’s gonna be undone. Do you want to see that happen?”

He looked away, then closed his eyes. “...Alastor never listens to me.”

“But he might.” Niffty let her voice soften. “...please, Husk? I won’t be able to convince him by myself. Just… please, can we try?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he dropped his rag on the bar and walked around it, heading for the side hallway. “Come on, let’s get this over with,” he said. Niffty squeaked and hopped down, scurrying along after him and following him down the hallway; she only stopped when she heard footsteps, and she glanced backwards just in time to catch a brief glimpse of Angel as he headed through the lobby and towards the front doors. She felt the urge to run after him, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Not right now.

Alastor’s door was locked the same way it always was, and Niffty raised her small fist, knocking repeatedly. “Alastor, open up!” she called through the wood. “Come on, it’s us, let us in!”

With a heavy sigh, Husk took up knocking when her hand got tired. “Niffty’s pretty determined,” he called. “We can stand here all night if we have to.”

The door didn’t unlock, but a sudden shock of cold darkness from underneath the door made both of them back up quickly to give Alastor’s shadow room to manifest on the door. It looked distressed as it glanced between the two of them, and then seemed to deflate, like it thought they might be someone else.

“...will you let us in?” Husk asked the shadow. “It’s… pretty time sensitive.”

The shadow shook its head, body language obviously dejected.

“Please,” Niffty said, clasping her hands together. “We just wanna make everything better, okay? Can’t you just let us try?”

A soft purring sound filled the air as the shadow rubbed its hands together, looking like it was debating something. Eventually, it vanished under the door again, and Niffty heard the lock click. She released a breath she didn’t even know she was holding as Husk opened the door and ushered her in first.

Alastor’s room was an absolute wreck. It was worse than the broken desk had been; now, it looked like he had been on a mission to absolutely destroy everything he could get his hands on, furniture splintered and cracked and strewn everywhere. Niffty winced, tearing her eye from the disastrous mess (must clean must clean must clean) and forcing herself to look for Alastor.

“He’s probably in the swamp,” Husk said, offering his arm out to Niffty. “Come on. Let’s go look for him.” She nodded, scurrying up his arm until she was on his shoulder. He then began walking, heading out into the seemingly infinite marshland that surrounded Alastor’s bedroom.

It wasn’t long before they lost track of anything else, all semblance of the hotel falling away until Niffty could have believed they really were out in the middle of nowhere. Husk was quiet as he walked, so Niffty took up the mantle of calling for Alastor, cupping her hands around her mouth and pausing after each repetition of his name to see if she heard someone. Minutes passed, so long that Niffty started to feel lost, and she was about to suggest they retrace their steps when it suddenly started getting really, really dark.

“Shit,” Husk muttered, falling still instantly.

“Don’t say it,” Niffty hissed in admonishment; she already knew he was right, she didn’t need an ‘I told you so’ to make herself feel worse. “...Alastor?” she called out carefully.

A creaking noise behind them made both of them fall silent. Neither of them dared turn around as they felt a presence approaching; Niffty could feel hot breath on the back of her neck, something that was at once terrifying and thrilling. “Get out,” Alastor hissed.

She could feel that Husk was shaking, just a little, as he drew a steadying breath. “...no,” he said.

“No?” Alastor echoed. It was growing even darker, and Niffty could suddenly feel that Alastor was circling them. “Have you finally truly become in touch with your wish for death, Husker?”

“If you want us to leave, throw us out,” Husk said, instead of answering. “Normally, I’d be fine with letting you just ruin your own life, but Niffty really wants to talk to you, and I’m not gonna let you bully her.”

Alastor seemed to hesitate at that. “...what do you want, Niffty?”

Niffty looked in the direction that his voice seemed to be coming from. “Angel’s leaving.”

There was a long silence. “I know,” Alastor said finally. She thought it sounded painful for him to admit.

Niffty frowned. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“No.”

She heard him turn away and raised her voice before he could leave. “Alastor, come back!” she snapped. “Why are you doing this?!”

“I’m not doing anything,” Alastor hissed, his voice distant, swallowed by shadow. “Angel Dust chose to leave. I had nothing to do with that.”

“And you’re just okay with that?!”

“NO!” The exclamation was so loud it hurt her ears, and out of the darkness, a figure swelled before them huge and imposing. His eyes were crazed, his smile strained and violent, his posture angular and sharp and standing over them like he had been broken and stitched together over and over again. Both Niffty and Husk shrank under his gaze, but to Husk’s credit, he didn’t move away. “But what am I supposed to do about it?! I have no right to speak to him! He probably has no desire to ever lay eyes on me again! I have never done anything except hurt him, and it will be better for him to leave! He’ll be happier without me around!”

“Alastor…” Niffty whispered.

Husk drew a deep breath. “...Alastor,” he said, keeping his own voice level. “Do you really believe that?”

Alastor snarled, looking away, and didn’t answer. He seemed to be shrinking into himself, as though his usual intimidation tactic was nothing more than posturing this time. It wasn’t long before he was roughly the same size as he usually was, and his eyes…

…is Alastor crying…?

Niffty placed her hand over her mouth to keep from gasping in shock. She felt Husk stiffen, but when he spoke, he kept from sounding like he had noticed. “...look,” Husk said, “I know I don’t get it, not… not really. But I also do, better than you might think. And whatever you do now, that’s completely up to you. Just remember it’s what you do right now that’s going to matter, even if you change your mind one day. And… if you let Angel walk away right now, you’re never going to see him again. Not the same way, anyway.” Husk tilted his head a little. “...are you alright with that?”

Alastor opened his mouth. He slowly turned his head, looking between the two of them, his expression… confused. Lost, maybe. Niffty might have even gone so far as to say he looked scared, and he probably had no idea. “...no,” he said finally, his voice shaking.

“Then go,” Niffty said. “If you really aren’t okay with it, then go talk to him!”

Alastor shook his head. “He doesn’t… he doesn’t want me to…”

As he trailed off, Husk said, “It doesn’t fucking matter, Alastor. You have minutes to make a decision that’s going to affect the rest of your life, and if you’re going to let your stubbornness lock you into something that will make you miserable, you’re going to have to deal with that. I know you don’t like other things deciding your fate, but that’s too damn bad, because when you have any kind of relationship with another person, what they decide matters, too. So do something.”

Alastor stared at Husk, and for a second, Niffty thought he might strike out at him.

Then, the shadows swallowed him, and he was gone.

Niffty blinked. “...did he go find him?”

“Who knows?” Husk asked, his voice suddenly drained. “Whatever he decided to do, it’s not our problem now. And as soon as we find our way out of this fucking place, you’re making dinner tonight.”

“Ugh, fine, okay.”

•••

Yeah, Cherri's a trans woman in my headcanon (and Maori!)

#my writing #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin angel dust #radiodust #hazbin radiodust #hazbin husk #hazbin niffty #hazbin charlie #hazbin vaggie #hazbin cherri bomb #hazbin rocky #helluva millie #radiodust fanfic #hazbin fanfic

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zaebeecee · 9 months ago

Text

To Sever a Loveless Bond

••RadioDust Soulmate AU••

Part 8/?

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Read on AO3

Chapter 8 art by @fletchingbrilliant

•••

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

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

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

•••

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

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

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

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

Angel Dust simply looked…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“After you’ve tried it.”

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

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

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

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

“What’s what?”

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

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

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

“I believe the first one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, didja get caught?”

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

“Yeah, you’re right, dammit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y’don’t have to answer, y’know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you’re right.”

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

…happy?

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

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

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

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

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

•••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…yeah. Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.

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

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

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

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

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

Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There wasn’t anything else there, but…

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

•••

This had been a very bad idea.

Calm down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the most beautiful sound Alastor had ever heard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do your worst.”

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t think about it.

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

Angel Dust.

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

Who are you, really?

What have you done to me?

•••

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