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arahusk · 3 months ago

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Courtesy of the Chef Characters/Pairing: Alastor/Husk, Sir Pentious Word count: 2276 Ao3 mirror: [here]

When Husk opened the hotel’s kitchen door in the afternoon, he didn’t really expect to find Alastor already there, cooking at the stove with a jaunty tune and an odd spring to his step.

He also hadn’t expected the numerous amount of weird shadow tentacles to be streaming out from his boss’s back, all of them holding some sort of ingredient or cooking utensil.

“Husker! You’re actually awake and not wasting the day away in a drunken stupor!”

Husk stared. Then, he began to back away. “You’re right. The stupor sounds good right now.”

He really should have expected one of those damn tentacles to reach out and grab him by the wrist.

“Nonsense!”

A mistake to let the situation get to him as it did. His free hand had reached out to the door jamb, embedding his claws in the wood deeply. Feet planted themselves on the floor, all while the tendril around his wrist played some good old fashioned tug of war.

But the floor was made of smooth tile, and the wood was of such cheap quality that his claws had crushed right through it to hit air. That, and the tentacle that was made of horror and nightmares was stupidly strong.

And, it was too soft. Like velvet, or silk. Husk gritted his teeth as he was forcefully slid forward to be right next to Alastor. A simmering pot boiled on the stove, smelling of spices, but Husk could hardly bring himself to care.

“You can be my taste-tester, after all. I haven’t had a poison scare in a few years but, you never know!”

“That’s stupid. And I’m not hungry.” Husk shook his wrist, but the tentacle had only coiled itself around his arm. The touch made him shiver, enough that even his voice was changing pitch. “Grr, haven’t you tied me up enough this week?!”

Alastor was still turned away, as if the only interesting thing in this entire kitchen was the pot full of whatever he was making. Another tendril hovered just by his boss’s head, clutching a bottle of cloves to sprinkle into the mysterious concoction.

“Hm, probably needs a bit more than that.”

God dammit, this was another of his stupid little games again.

“I’m not going along with it this time, alright? So you can just—”

He cut himself off as another tendril swayed past him, holding a large butcher knife in its clutches. It had been much too close, sharp edges nicking at his fur, and Husk catching the reflection of his own bright eyes in the blade. He was still.

The knife was then gently placed in Alastor’s waiting palm, who then proceeded to cut some carrots into thin slices over a cutting board.

The game was already in play and Husk was losing, fast.

He tried not to let himself play the part of the fool anymore. Whether that’s more yelling, or struggling, or just anything that would make his boss think was so deeply amusing. Even though he was turned away, the man’s ears were sharp. They’d pick up anything.

So, Husk would just not do anything then. He’d stand there with the stupid tentacle wrapping itself around him, and be as boring as possible. Even if whatever Alastor was cooking smelled pretty good.

He winced inwardly. Come on, Husk.

But maybe, this could still work. Alastor kept his eyes on the meal he was crafting up, even letting another tendril go up to him and hold what looked like a cookbook, flipped to a certain page as Alastor hummed while he read. It was almost ludicrous to watch. Radio Demon, horror of Pentagram City, who ate other Overlords for lunch, was being so goddamn domestic and using his unexplainable powers to do the chores.

And keep Husk’s bounded soul in line.

Husk looked to his shoulder, seeing the end of the tendril edge just past it, like it was sentient. And maybe it was, for all he knew. It had been years, and even now, he still barely knew all of what made Alastor tick, what made his powers manifest, and just why he kept someone like Husk near him.

Another soft touch over fur. Husk shivered again. He didn’t want to think about times that were similar to this, not the door closing and the tendrils pulling his arms back and his voice just—

He tried to clamp his lips shut, but his body was already responding to the touch.

He can’t be doing this here. But last time he’d just been messing with Husk in the main parlor of all places. Why would this be any different?

Husk moved his arm slightly, and the tendril didn’t tighten like he feared, but it slid, and it was warm.

Maybe this was worse actually.

“I’ve been trying a new recipe but I’m not sure if it’s working. I suppose if this is a bust, I could always just redo it.” Alastor shrugged, closing the book and then using a cooking spoon to stir the pot’s contents. “But it would be such a shame for this food to go to waste.”

Husk knew a sound was going to leave him already, and had to swallow it down. The end of the tendril pressed against a chin, slightly lifting it. Playful. Soft.

No. Whenever Alastor would pull off something like this, at least they would be somewhere private.

Husk shuddered. All he had to do was not care about it, but the tendril’s movement was like a caress. A caress that overstimulated and made him lean against the edge of the kitchen counter. His free arm reached around to grab his other one. He looked at the floor.

“Not… not in the kitchen,” Husk panted out, feeling the tendril writhe over his fur even more. “Please…”

He saw Alastor’s eyes shift to him, for a second. The smile stayed on, as sharp as a knife. Then he looked back to the pot that he continued to stir.

Husk knew now that he’d already lost this game the moment he walked through the door.

Knees buckled. He would have fallen and probably hit his head on the counter were it not for another tendril that snaked through the air for him. It wound around his waist, lifting him up slightly so that his toes just barely touched the ground. The other tendril around his arm still slowly caressed him, finding the spots that made Husk weak, that already knew from times before.

A flap of his wings, which were free and uncaged, but they didn’t do much. Just a rustle of feathers, along with a strained gasp leaving Husk’s throats as shadows embraced his body like a lover.

“Just… let’s go to my room, or yours. I don’t care. Not here where people can…” He risked a glance toward the door, slightly ajar. It couldn’t even lock now, because his claws had broken one piece of it in his desperation. “Al, please.”

He hated being this sensitive to it, a discovery that Alastor had kept using to his advantage over and over. There were some things that Husk could hardly say no to, and they were more than just booze or a chance at the card tables. He flattened his ears as one tendril slipped underneath a suspender strap, then down to his legs that shook fiercely, like they would snap off at the knees at any second.

It was embarrassing to respond like this, to beg for it while Alastor continued to cook and not even look at him.

Why did he want Alastor to look at him in the first place?

And then, a sound left his throat. A little louder than he wanted, a little more desperate. Husk clenched his fists, but he was held up in the air, limbs slowly getting stretched like some kneading massage. “Just stop. Too much.”

The soft end of the tendril that had been playing near his chin, that had been writhing and touching him, then slipped past his lips so quickly. He barely had any time to react besides a muffled gag, a breathy gasp.

“Don’t choke now,” said Alastor who was now, finally, finally , facing him.

The tendril was also so sensitive on his tongue. It didn’t taste like anything, as it never had. The shape sometimes felt like mist, moving so smoothly into his mouth that it was almost addictive. Husk closed his eyes, trying to push away the idea that his voice only sounded louder in his ears, that he was losing sense of what was up or down. But he felt hands place themselves against his knees, felt them shift up his legs until they rested over his waist, until they sat him up on the counter, all while the tendrils that streamed out from Alastor’s back kept holding him up slightly, sliding over him, and touching him, and—

The first time Husk had felt them, he had been a sobbing mess, hands and shadows engulfing his body until all of him was spent. Maybe he’d built up some tolerance since, but it still wasn’t enough. Husk bent his neck to the side, feeling the tendril move deeper through his mouth. A breath ghosted over his neck.

There was always a chance for things to go wrong. Husk still remembered the knife that had floated so near his face, that had shown the terrified look in his eyes. And that was always the game between them, to see where the balance would shift from pleasure to pain, from affection to some form of soft horror.

He hated how, deep in the recesses of his mind, further and further until he buried it away with drink, that he enjoyed the excitement of it. The panic. Like a euphoric high that he kept chasing over and over again.

Husk moaned around the tendril in his mouth, feeling the other reach into his pants to grasp at heat. And Alastor’s fingers rubbed tiny circles in his waist, watching him unravel with all the fascination of some obsessive scholar. Another deep thrust, nearly sliding down his throat—and then that tendril slid out, making Husk gasp for air. It hung before his eyes, wet and dripping from his own saliva.

He couldn’t even speak, already exhausted in what must have been a new record. He could only hang there, panting as Alastor looked on. It wasn’t over though. The other tendril was clutching at him beneath his pants, making his chest rise up and down.

Husk already conceded that he lost. He still tried to swallow his moans, even as his tail swished just next to Alastor’s leg, entwining around it slightly.

Then, a hand gripped his chin, facing him as he continued to pant, as his body continued to shake.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this short.”

He barely could comprehend what Alastor meant until he heard the door creak open.

Maybe it was supernatural, or just Alastor had such a keen control over things that it made Husk look like a shambling zombie in comparison. The tendril still on him slid away like smoke. Hands lifted off his face, turning him away so he faced the counter. Back on his feet, shaky as he was, his own hands placed themselves on the counter so he could stand. And Alastor was now right in front of his pot once more, where he went back to stirring like he’d never even left.

The door continued to creak, opening inward. Then came out the most irritating hiss in Husk’s memory. “Ohhh! I thought I sssmelled something good!”

Oh for Christ’s sake.

But if there was anyone who would be too stupid to pick up on what just happened, it would be Sir Pentious, failed supervillain in the making.

“Just in time, my good man! I experimented with a new twist on my jambalaya recipe! Husker helped me out with it quite nicely. Here, have a taste!”

When Husk looked out of the corner of his eyes, turning half his body away until his excitement finally wore down, he took a guess.

Alastor had definitely poisoned that pot. Maybe Pentious would die, maybe not. Either way,he’d have a nasty stomach flu for sure.

His boss liked playing games with many people, even if they were of different stakes.

“Wow! For me?” Pentious looked gleamy-eyed (hat included) as he graciously took the spoon Alastor offered. “You’ve been so kind to me lately… after all that I’ve done…”

“Yes, yes, it’s very beautiful. We’re in a hotel for redemption, after all.” Alastor waved away Pentious’ annoying grievances. “Make sure to take a big bite!”

At that, Husk cleared his throat, trying to get the feeling back in his mouth. Pentious turned, as if just now noticing he existed.

“Ah, and what did you add to the meal, my fellow peer’s minion?”

Husk, still half-turned away, wiped at his chin. He saw Alastor’s eyes from behind Pentious, a soft red, draped in shadow.

“You’ll have to find out, won’t you?” Husk answered, knowing he didn’t sound normal, knowing it would probably take half the day before his knees stopped feeling like putty. He’d only been entertainment for the chef, his sole contribution to whatever life-ending meal Sir Pentious was now gulping down.

Maybe if he hadn’t just been edged to near oblivion, Husk might have shared a little sympathy for what the snake demon would soon endure. But that was what Alastor did, exhausting him to the point he could barely care about much else.

And Alastor had always been much better at games than Husk ever was.

#hazbin hotel #radiohusk #husk #alastor #sir pentious #fanfiction #my fics #suggestive #there are more chapters on ao3 but I'll be sharing a few of these #anyway this is a little spicy and involves those crazy tentacles so careful #for any pentious fans sorry he only appears for like five seconds

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