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discretocincel · 6 months ago

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Watch the world keep changing

More fluff for RadioApple Week 2024! Go read it on AO3!

Since I decided to make the stories in the series connected, for today's prompt Deal/Blood I decided to work on the beginning of their relationship! Have some 3+1 thingy where Lucifer is slowly catchinig feelings and Alastor is in deep denial still:

The first time Lucifer saw Alastor bleed was three days before the battle with Heaven.

It was late, Vaggie’s training already officially over, but there were still a couple of cannibals around practicing some moves, familiarizing themselves with the angelic weapons, their weight and length. Lucifer still found it strange, watching so many sinners being friendly with each other, even while sparring. He was used to their everlasting conflict and hostility, to their selfishness and pettiness, not… not this. Part of his punishment supposedly was that he’d never get to see the good of humanity, the benefits of the freedom he granted them, to grow outside of the predetermined lines set in stone for their souls. His daughter had given him the most amazing gift by showing him that sinners were capable of good, in the right context. It made him regret some of the choices he had made in the past, but it also made him hopeful for the future. Which was why he never missed an opportunity to see them train. He wanted to see more of it, of their positive emotions and interactions. And he also wanted to care. He wanted to remember the faces of the ones who would be risking their lives for his daughter’s dream.

So far, Lucifer hadn’t seen Alastor step into the training sessions. He witnessed them, most often from the shadows, and on the few occasions he had something to say, he did it quietly, only addressing Charlie. Lucifer assumed the sinner didn’t want to interact with the volunteers.

Was he wrong?

“You’re being far too predictable, my dear,” he said, sporting a tamer variation of his smile, as if to not give a wrong impression. He didn’t sound like the arrogant, mocking bastard that would criticize Lucifer’s eating habits. It was almost like he wanted to be helpful. Genuinely.

“How can I not be predictable and still react fast? I’m not thinking much before moving because you’re too fast! I’ll die before I’m able to surprise you!”

The only two people still on the training grounds, apart from Lucifer, who was watching from the roof, were Alastor and a younger sinner. Lucifer didn’t know his name, but he had seen him around the cannibal overlord more than once. He was short, always wore a different hat, and he seemed to favor the color green, but apart from that, he was hardly remarkable.

Until then, of course. It was the first time Lucifer saw the Radio Demon personally instruct anyone in a fight, and they had been preparing the cannibals for nearly a month. That made him a little bit special. Only a little.

The spar was fun to watch. Alastor didn’t use one weapon, but two—he brandished a dagger in two tentacles, while he kept his hands clasped behind his back, like an asshole. He had to admit that it looked cool, but only to himself. The sinner didn’t need the ego boost. He jumped around the younger cannibal like a choreographed dance routine, with ease, making it look easy, without breaking a sweat. He was reading his partner like a traffic sign, maybe even better, but then the impossible happened.

The young cannibal tripped. He managed to get his feet under himself, but he stabbed the Radio Demon’s bicep in the process.

Lucifer’s eyes widened, and he prepared to take flight, imagining he would need to stop the Radio Demon from eating the poor bastard. What a miserable time to get lucky, he thought. The guy clearly wasn’t the most experienced fighter, and if the polearm he was using wasn’t one of angelic steel, then his hit probably wouldn’t have even scratched the skin. But it did. It probably wasn’t a very deep cut, but the Radio Demon’s coat was soaked in blood, even if the color did a good job of covering it.

Before he unfolded his wings, however, he decided to wait around a little bit and observe, since the Radio Demon hadn’t yet grown in size and the air hadn’t thickened with any green mist.

Against all odds, the Radio Demon didn’t eat the guy. His smile seemed a little more genuine, and when he went closer to the cannibal, he did it with a spring on his step.

“That was better!” he said cheerfully, patting the sinner’s shoulder with his microphone. “Now let’s try again, to make sure you didn’t just get lucky.”

The younger sinner groaned, knowing just as well as Lucifer and Alastor that he wouldn’t be able to replicate it. But he still got in position, and while he seemed even more nervous than before, his stance was slightly firmer, wider. His hold on the polearm was better, too.

Lucifer manifested a candy bar from the kitchen and got more comfortable on the roof, deciding that he would stay and watch a little longer. The Radio Demon was fun to watch when his witty remarks weren’t directed at himself, after all. And the way he moved, even for a mock battle, was graceful and elegant, like ballroom dancing, almost, with his long limbs, thin waste, and remarkable flexibility.

And if he noticed how he would sometimes delay his responses a fraction of a second to give the sinner a chance to scratch him one or twice, boosting his confidence without risking him getting too cocky, then that would remain a secret until the next time the Radio Demon pissed him off.

Or maybe not. It was too valuable information to give it away pettily at the first opportunity. Lucifer was smarter than that. Besides, Charlie could hear and consider it proof that her hotelier had a heart, which was simply ridiculous.

Lucifer knew better than that. No, he would keep that little detail to himself in the foreseeable future, stored away in a corner best left untouched, just like the fleeting thought of how attractive the sinner looked when slightly roughed up.

The second time Lucifer saw Alastor bleeding was a couple of days after the extermination, when by all means, he shouldn’t have been bleeding anymore. But his wound, which he hadn’t been told about, charged with angelic power as it was, wouldn’t close without angelic intervention, no matter how tight his stitches were. Good thing the sinner lived under the same roof as one of the most powerful angels ever created, right? Because the Radio Demon wasn’t an idiot, eventually he would have pushed aside his pride in favor of self-preservation, and he would have approached Lucifer on his own to ask for his help.

Right?

“You should’ve told Charlie, at least,” Lucifer mumbled, while he worked on the necrotic wound in the privacy of the Radio Demon’s room. “She would’ve told me.”

“Precisely,” Alastor replied curtly. “Besides…” He took a deeper breath, hands shaking slightly, but he remained remarkably still considering the pain he must’ve been feeling.

Durable motherfucker, truly. Lucifer was impressed. But that was another secret he was taking to the grave.

“She already has enough on her plate. It wouldn’t do for her to have even more worries and bad memories.”

“I agree, which is why you should’ve sought help so you wouldn’t add your death to her bad memories.”

The sinner didn’t dignify that with an answer, choosing to subtly turn his head away instead. Even with his neck twisted at an awkward angle, he couldn’t add much distance between them, lying on his back as he was, with Lucifer sitting by his side, both hands extended over the sinner’s bare chest. He had already cleaned the wound more than once, but the bottom half, near his hip, kept bleeding while he worked on the section of his shoulder, focusing on the damage done to his heart.

Now he could no longer tell Charlie that Alastor didn’t have a heart. He had seen it. It was a frail little thing, fickle, overworked, and scarred. The kind one could easily feel protective over.

A part of Lucifer, the one that kept going over the faraway corner where he stored the details about the Radio Demon away, wondered if he wasn’t already feeling protective of it, seeing as he had ambushed the sinner after dinner to treat the wound he only knew was there because he could smell it.

“Just don’t die on her, Alastor. She cares for you.”

“I’m not planning on dying any time soon, Your Majesty. However, if you’re interested in a deal…”

“Not in this life or the next one,” Lucifer cut him off quickly, grateful for the reminder of the kind of person the sinner he was healing truly was. Overlords didn’t need protecting. The rest of Hell needed protecting from them.

Alastor sighed dramatically, the little shit, but then his expression morphed into one Lucifer hadn’t yet seen on him; his smile was still there, barely, but it was crooked, and his eyes were half-lidded.

“I may have… procrastinated on fixing this particular issue. Your assistance is… appreciated. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Right. His assistance was appreciated, because it had been needed, and the sinner knew it. He had simply hesitated to ask for it, for some reason. But he would have done it, eventually. He should have done it, anyway. And the reason he hadn’t was probably his pride, because he was a sinner, an arrogant, overconfident, sadistic bastard—

—and he had a fickle, scarred heart. Lucifer swallowed down the lump in his throat, then shook his head slowly.

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” he muttered.

“Nonsense. You had no obligation to help me, and yet… here you are.”

“Here I am,” Lucifer confirmed absentmindedly, trying to focus on what his hands were doing as he was finally passing on to the sternum, checking for any bruising on the bones. While he did that, one of his hands slid down to once again vanish away the blood that kept pouring out of the cut down on his bony hip.

He was so skinny, so delicate. Whose idea had it been to leave him on his own against Adam, of all things? It was a small miracle he didn’t die. And not only he had survived, but he had actually done some damage, earning them all time by keeping him away from the main battle and maintaining the property damage to a minimum while he could.

He had almost died for his daughter and her dream. He had a heart. One that was beating so damn hard, doing its very best, just like the sinner when he fought Adam.

He was a killer, a cannibal, an asshole. And he had a heart.

III

The third time Lucifer saw Alastor bleed was, in retrospect, not as big of a deal as he made it to be.

Lucifer wasn’t a great cook. He wasn’t incompetent; he kept himself and Lilith fed at the beginning of time just fine, but after imps were created, about ten thousand years ago, there really hadn’t been a need for Lucifer to cook ever again. But he wanted to do something nice for Charlie, and he had heard from Vaggie how Alastor had taught her a few things in the kitchen after he witnessed her setting toasts on fire, and how she had turned the cooking lessons into a bonding experience, the results of their hard work something she could proudly share with everyone she cared about.

Lucifer worked through his jealousy like he heard Charlie coach the hotel residents once, and he decided that there was no reason for him to not be a part of that. Surely, there were still things Charlie didn’t know how to make, right? And if there weren’t, then that was okay, because there sure were a lot that Lucifer didn’t know. She could teach him. She would! She instantly said yes the moment he brought it up to her, except…

Except she decided to include Alastor as well, because she argued that she wasn’t good enough in the kitchen yet, and apparently, the Radio Demon was a fantastic cook.

Lucifer complained mostly out of habit. Bickering with the sinner was fun, really, but the guy didn’t need to know that. His ego was big enough as it was. Not that he didn’t have a reason though; the man was charming, the perfect charismatic radio host who jumped up the ladder of Hell’s hierarchy faster than anyone before him, and he was powerful, for a sinner. Not only through his own strength and subsequently due to the souls he kept acquiring, but he was smart and chose enemies and allies well. Even after vanishing for years, when Hell surely should’ve forgotten him, he didn’t need to do much to get the spotlight back on him and reinstate his position as one of the most feared creatures in the Pride Ring. It was reasonable for a guy like that to have such a big ego.

And then, as Lucifer had the opportunity to have him teach him, he could only add that to his list of assets. His instructions were clear, he was patient and gentle but still encouraged them to be mindful of the time and move not like they didn’t know what they were doing, but like they were simply remembering something they hadn’t done in a long time. Which was actually true for Lucifer. Perhaps that was the problem. Feeling capable, he got a little too comfortable with the knife, and then…

“Alastor!” Charlie shrieked in horror.

“I’m fine, my dear, this is nothing. Don’t touch it with your hands, or you’ll get blood on them. We’re still cooking. Don’t get any blood on the vegetables!”

“You’re hurt!”

“I’m fine, Your Majesty, it’s really no big deal—”

“Stars, I hurt you! You’re bleeding! And it’s my fault!”

“Your Majesty, you can barely call this bleeding—”

“Let me fix it!”

“What? There’s nothing to fix, Your Majes—”

Blinded by panic, Lucifer reached out for Alastor’s injured hand —his hand, he had injured a pianist’s hand— and brought it to his lips, holding it by the wrist, so he could clean the blood and close the wound with his saliva, while keeping his own hands clean.

For a moment, no one in the kitchen moved. All three of them stood there, holding their breaths, with eyes far too wide and shoulders way too tense. Then Lucifer dropped the sinner’s hand and vanished with a ‘poof’ to reappear at the other side of the room, as far as possible.

“So! That’s fixed! Anyway!”

He went quiet, because he had no idea what to say, and apparently neither did the others. Charlie’s face was turning redder by the second, and Alastor had never looked more like a deer than in that moment, completely paralyzed. Still, after another minute or maybe twenty went by, he cleared his throat, fixed his smile which had nearly disappeared in his astonishment, and went back to the cucumber that Lucifer had been all too happily massacring.

“Well, I’ll be finishing this one, then!” he said, rinsing the knife before getting to it. “Charlie, dear, can you check on the gravy? Your Majesty, you may start on the rice.”

“Right. Yeah, I can do that.”

“Wonderful.”

Lucifer resumed the cooking like a man on a mission, laser-focused and repeating every instruction in his mind like a mantra until he was done with that particular step, doing his best to ignore the way his heart kept trying to escape his chest and the taste on his tongue that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times he asked Charlie for a sample of the sauce she was merely monitoring.

He had to admit, in the end, that Alastor was indeed a fantastic cook. He also tasted fantastic himself.

+ I

The very first time Alastor saw Lucifer bleed was not an occasion he could ever share with someone else. Pity, he would’ve liked bragging about making the King of Hell bleed. But it would be impossible for a while, at least. Not only because the ‘wound’ was too insignificant to be called that, but because Alastor’s own madness could hardly be omitted from the narrative for it to make sense.

The little setback didn’t sour his mood as one would’ve expected, though; probably because he was still reeling with endorphins after the first make out session of his life. He’d always found the idea of a foreign tongue inside his mouth disgusting, and he hadn’t enjoyed the sensation at first, but when the tip scraped itself in one of Alastor’s fangs, releasing a delicious nectar that couldn’t even compare to the blood Rosie had bottled from the last extermination, the experience quickly became an unforgettable one, as was Lucifer’s promise that he would one day sit on his lap and let him drink straight from his neck, but there were a couple of wishes Alastor needed to grant the king for that to happen; some of those requests rivaling Angel Dust’s most depraved and rewarded works.

Alastor, while nervous in his inexperience and not yet convinced that he would find most if not any of those scenarios enjoyable, couldn’t wait. If anyone asked, he would say the golden, angelic blood of the fallen monarch was that addictive. And even to himself, he swore it had nothing to do with the way his own heart skipped a beat whenever The Devil smiled at him.

It was the blood. That was all he cared for. Really.

#hazbin hotel #ao3 #fanfic #appleradio #radioapple #writing #lucifer morningstar #alastor #Lucifer is growing and coming to term with his feelings like the ancient being that he is #but you guys aren't getting Alastor's version of events yet #this is merely a peek #radioapple week

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magnumroofclads · 6 months ago

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neonblessing · 1 year ago

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10.

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT! ⚠️ Click here to read Neon Blessing from the beginning!

Club RED was a labor of love. A cyclopean eye of neon tubes stared down at the street from the facade of a beautiful temple to excess, bathing the darkening street in bloodred light which played through the mist kicked up by a nearby waterfall. The building was dark glass and darker stone, three stories tall and culminating in a domed roof. It wasn’t even 5 pm, but the line was pouring out the door and onto the sidewalk, foreign raincoats and umbrellas standing side by side with wet-haired Diluvian partygoers.

Shiv had never entered a nightclub through the front before. There’d been one club, the Magpie, that she’d frequented with her friends, but the owner was one of Ornarch’s devout and always let them skip the lines. Huh. She hadn’t been to the Magpie in years. She wasn’t even sure if it was still in business.

The line moved quickly, and before long, she was at the door. “Let’s see some ID.” There were two bouncers, identically dour and militaristic-looking men who loomed over her like a pair of sunglasses-clad statues, their suits custom-made to fit over the bulky structure of a mil-spec exocloak. Thin seams in the skin of their faces suggested the presence of subdermal armor plating to protect what the mechanized armor didn’t. One of them handled a scanner with the practiced care of a guy whose grip could crush a human skull.

Shiv showed them the card. “Kooler sent me.” The one with the scanner stared her down while the other barked a few quick words into a headset. If shit went south, the only viable exit was ducking the rope to the left, but Headset would make a grab for her and if those huge hands got a grip it was over. She’d need to distract him first, maybe blind him. Throw her coat in his face? She started to shrug it off her shoulder, just in case. Scanner continued to glower at her in a prolific display of disdain. He should be too far away to do anything, but just in case-

Headset spoke, snapping her out of her planning.

“Hm?” She’d missed what he’d actually said.

“Go on in. The boss is on the second floor.” Shiv pulled her coat back over her shoulder and brushed past the bouncers and into the club. She pushed her way past a heavy curtain of soundproof fabric and replaced the endless roar of the streets with the endless roar of Club RED’s speakers.

Water poured down gilded fountain walls and colored lights arced and scattered through thick smoke, produced by a mix of sweet-scented cigarettes and industrial fog machines. Waiters and waitresses wearing practically nothing served a very peculiar clientele: half of the patrons were exactly what she’d expected, the sort of wealthy-looking folks willing to spend fifteen credits on a can of beer; and the other half were all grizzled paramilitary types. The burning coal glow of their cybernetic eyes stared out at her through the fog, automatically seeking out her vital organs before flicking back to their drinks.

Shiv scaled the stairs to the second floor, taking a moment to look out on the dance floor from the balcony. The band’s frontwoman was more work of art than human, her limbs all formed from sweeping lines of carbon fiber and steel. Her guitar plugged into a port on the back of her neck, her quicksilver fingers dancing over the strings with surreal grace. She had a voice like an angel with a smoking habit.

“She’s quite something, ain’t she?” A woman’s voice came from behind Shiv. She turned to see Kurtz, for who else could it be? The owner of Club RED was maybe forty years old, a little shorter than Shiv, and built like a brick. Her head was clean-shaven, revealing dozens of tally mark tattoos, in sets of five, spreading from near her temple and across half of her head. Unlike everyone else, she was dressed simply and practically, in sturdy black pants and a tank top, and unlike everyone else, she had a gun at her hip, an antique revolver. Both of her eyes were red: one eye was flesh, with an iris that had either been dyed or transplanted. The other eye was metal, the iris glowing the exact same shade as the vast eye on the front of the building. She carried herself with an easy confidence, bordering on arrogance. “Are you the one Kooler mentioned?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Joan Kurtz, owner of Club RED and REDEYE PMSC. What brings you to my door?”

First Page – Previous Page – Next Page

#neon blessing #10 #shiv #kurtz #xuria

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tulsaroofers · 1 year ago

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immediatebreakfast · 11 months ago

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This was just wow, I want to shake hands with Robert Louis Stevenson, and tell him how much I enjoyed this whole book to the end.

The last stop of Davie's adventure, a last victory for the lad that traveled in a circle, and one of the most impressive dialogue showdowns that I have ever read. Because it is that, a showdowns of words, cadence, and arguments like no other. Between Davie's constant friend the Highlander Alan Breck Stewart, and Davie's scheming uncle Ebenezer Balfour, the old man who kickstarted the kidnapping.

This whole chapter is like a masterpiece in dialogue. What to say, how to say, when to turn, how to direct the point in between arguments, Alan mocking Ebenezer's fake concern for Davie by using threats that we know he is capable of doing, Ebenezer deflecting and deflecting until he is backed into a corner where he has to admit what he did to Davie in order to keep the House of Shaws to himself.

It was magical to read, and Alan certainly didn't pull any punches in his almost melodramatic telling, and accusations against Ebenezer. This is why it works! The exclamation of the truth while omitting that Davie is looking makes it so delicious to read.

“And what is’t?” asked my uncle. “David,” says Alan. “What was that?” cried my uncle, in a mighty changed voice. “Shall I give ye the rest of the name, then?” said Alan. There was a pause; and then, “I’m thinking I’ll better let ye in,” says my uncle, doubtfully.

When the conversation turns to this, when you can feel how somehow these words can convey the tension going through the roof, you know it's going to to be good shit.

Both Davie, and the readers could feel how this was Alan's element. It's doesn't if it's a sword, a bottle, a bagpipe, or his voice Alan always marches foward with such confidence that one can't help but be left impressed by his handling. Even if Alan made Davie's life hell when he glambled away the money, this was the chance of him truly apologizing, by helping his friend recoger what was his by right.

Moreover, Ebenezer wasn't left behind in his own side of the conversation. The man really held his own against this stranger that suddenly called for his presence in the middle of the night. And yet he was no match for a man who doesn't care for empty threats when weapons could serve as arguments.

“Powder and your auld hands are but as the snail to the swallow against the bright steel in the hands of Alan,” said the other. “Before your jottering finger could find the trigger, the hilt would dirl on your breast-bane.

Then, the reveal that not only Davie is there alive, and well! But also that Mr. Rankeillor was listening to everything! And that Ebenezer has no other option than to give Davie what was promised less he ends without nothing to his name.

And then there is this last paragraph by Davie, which weights on his last thoughts of his experience:

Alan and Torrance and Rankeillor slept and snored on their hard beds; but for me who had lain out under heaven and upon dirt and stones, so many days and nights, and often with an empty belly, and in fear of death, this good change in my case unmanned me more than any of the former evil ones; and I lay till dawn, looking at the fire on the roof and planning the future.

Davie is finally resting! Not sleeping because who would be able to sleep after such victory, but resting his mind while thinking of the future, of what he will do now.

How many times in the novel had Davie thought about his future? Not something that could change in a second if he doesn't move, not the catching future of being captures by the Red Coats if he doesn't run through deadly heat and plains, the actual future that is seen since today through many years, when Davie is older, and maybe wiser.

After running, hiding, fainting, begging, screaming, enduring, and walking Davie is finally able to just think about not only what he will to do tomorrow, but what comes after tomorrow.

#This is chapter 29!#Before the ending and the start of Catriona #This whole thing was gold #kidnapped weekly #catriona weekly #davie balfour #alan breck stewart #mr rankeillor #ebenezer balfour

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