Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Why do I— what?”

The way Alastor raised his eyebrow suggested he thought Angel was being ridiculous (or maybe even slow). Angel would have been offended if he wasn’t so busy staring. When Angel said nothing else, Alastor lowered his glass of rye and repeated, “Why do you find sex so interesting?”

“That’s… a weird question, Smiles,” Angel said, diverting his gaze to look at Alastor’s fireplace and raising his own drink. How am I even supposed to answer that?

“Is it?” Alastor asked, tone wholly unbothered. “I fail to see how. Sex seems to be something that you pursue on a daily basis at absolute minimum. You built an entire career around it before you worked for the Vees. There has to be some kind of definable appeal for you.”

Angel exhaled forcefully and kicked his feet over the arm of his chair. “Uh… I don’t know, really. It feels good. It’s an endorphin rush that doesn’t involve drugs or, y’know, anything ridiculously dangerous. Usually, anyway. I thought you didn’t want me talkin’ sex with you.”

“Oh, I don’t!” Alastor said, brightening up and giving Angel a wide smile. “At least, I have no desire for you to regale me with in-depth recounts of your sexual escapades—”

“Sexcapades,” Angel interjected.

“Quit calling them that. You know I don’t particularly care where you indulge your carnal nature, so long as it is all by your choice. I’m far less concerned with the who or the what than I am with the why.”

Angel nodded, mostly because he was still trying to think of the best way to answer. “Right. I mean, I get a lotta things outta sex. Just depends on what I’m doin’ at the time. Like… what particular kinks I’m indulgin’.”

“Yes, you explained kinks to me before,” Alastor said, his dry tone suggesting that he had grasped the concept intellectually but still didn’t really get it. “Does the result vary so much that you can have a completely different experience with such a minor change?”

Angel stared at him for a second before he started laughing, holding two of his hands up as Alastor’s ears immediately flattened. “No no no I’m sorry, don’t get mad,” he said through his giggling. “I ain’t laughin’ at you, Smiles, it’s just— I mean, the change ain’t really minor. It’s like the difference between you growing supersized to eat seven guys whole in the middle of the street and you methodically cutting up one guy in a secret room where no one can hear him scream and no one will ever know what happened to him. You feel me?”

Alastor pondered this, swirling the alcohol in his glass. “Yes, I believe so.”

Angel settled further into the chair, clicking his nails against the glass in his own hand. “I guess one thing I get out of it… I mean, I don’t get this much, it ain’t easy to find, but when I can find a guy that I trust enough to let him Dom me, I get to just… let go of control. He makes the decisions, and I just do it. Like— y’know, like gettin’ tied up. Somethin’ about willingly puttin’ myself in a helpless situation is… I dunno how to describe it, but I like it. A lot.”

“Getting tied up?” Alastor asked. “…and then what?”

Angel shrugged. “Whatever. Sometimes, nothin’. He doesn’t even have to do anything.”

“…he simply takes away your control, and you get a sense of fulfillment from that. So long as there is trust between you, of course,” Alastor surmised. Angel nodded, so Alastor continued, “And what would your response be if I were to say I might be interested in tying you up?”

Angel almost choked on his drink, drawing a giggle from Alastor. “Wait— what,” Angel said, swiping at his chin with the back of his hand. “You— you wanna—?”

“I said I might,” Alastor said. “The concept intrigues me. And it has not escaped my notice, sha, that you have been remarkably patient with my disinterest in sex and distaste for physical contact, far more than I initially anticipated. You have indulged my desire for long, late night conversation. You have listened to jazz and drunk rye with me while sitting on opposite sides of my lounge as we are now. You have listened to my radio program and given me your feedback. You have cooked with me. Given all that, perhaps it is quite unfair of me, expecting you to indulge each and every one of your own needs elsewhere. I know quite a bit about tying others up. And, if my sexual participation is not required, this may well be something I could… assist you with.”

Angel felt as though his jaw was on the floor. “I didn’t— I don’t expect you to— I ain’t doin’ all that shit because I want you to owe me anything, Alastor.”

“Of course you aren’t. If you were, I doubt I would feel any compulsion whatsoever to return the favor.” Alastor raised his glass. “So? What would you say to that, were I to suggest it?”

“I…” Angel smiled a little disbelievingly. “I’d say fuck yeah. Absolutely.”

Alastor’s grin was sharp. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

•••

The ropes were seven and a half meters long, dyed a brilliant crimson, and woven from bamboo silk. Niffty had recommended them when Alastor had inquired about different types—as well as a book on the Japanese art of shibari—and had even gone so far as to acquire four lengths of it through a group of succubi who recently took a feeding trip to Japan. She had asked no questions (for her, imagining the scenario was more than half of the fun), simply giggled profusely as she handed them over and advised Alastor to try the ties out on a pillow or something else before attempting them on anyone.

Alastor slowly pulled one of the ropes across the palm of his hand, admiring the way the material seemed to simply glide, even over his own scarred and mangled skin. It was a color he rarely saw on Angel Dust, and one he thought would complement the white and the pink remarkably well.

Despite his previous misgivings, Alastor had no doubts in his mind about his actions now. It was simple: Alastor liked to be in control, Angel liked to relinquish that control, and Angel (for some unfathomable reason) trusted Alastor enough to hand control over to him. The fact that Angel would be receiving physical gratification was, in a way, completely immaterial to Alastor, as his own participation was completely removed from that. In a way, Alastor felt a level of excitement that he hadn’t experienced in some years, receiving the opportunity for a new experience while also giving Angel…

…what, exactly? Alastor wasn’t sure, but Angel had certainly seemed enthusiastic when Alastor had brought the idea back up after their conversation two months before.

Angel would be arriving in half an hour, which gave Alastor ample time to finish his preparations. Typically, this sort of thing was done either on the floor or suspended from the ceiling, apparently, and taking Angel’s control meant the second option would be better. Of course, Alastor’s room technically had no ceiling, simply a black abyss that expanded eternally upwards, but his shadows would be better than any metal hardware. He reached up towards that blackness, a long tentacle of shadow reaching out to him in return, and he hung the carefully tied rope over the crook before it raised back upwards, the rope hanging in two long, bloody streams from the blackness.

Alastor proceeded to begin making loops and tying knots, those that could be done beforehand, and was almost startled when he heard the knock at the door. He didn’t turn, simply flicked his wrist, the lock behind him turning with a click. “Come in, sha.”

“Whoa,” Angel said, and Alastor could tell by the sound that he had barely stepped into the room.

“You approve?”

The door shut, and Angel came into the room proper, moving slowly. “Yeah. That… that looks like pretty nice rope.”

“Niffty recommended it,” Alastor said. “I thought about asking Husk, but I decided to spare him the trauma just this once.” Angel giggled, and Alastor turned, looking him over. He had dressed as Alastor requested, in comfortable clothing—apparently, this meant a lovely cream sweater, black shorts, and knee socks—and was standing like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. “How do you wish to do this?”

“What?” Angel looked away from the rope, instead focusing on Alastor. “Uhm— what do you mean?”

Alastor gestured to him. “I’ve gathered from my research into this subject that it’s generally done without clothing. However, I’ll leave that up to you.”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “…you sayin’ it wouldn’t bother you?”

“I have a low libido, Angel, I’m not a prude.”

“…right.” Angel laughed quietly, the way he did when he mentally chastised himself, before he took hold of the bottom hem of his sweater. He hesitated, then he pulled it up over his head, tossing it onto the floor.

When he made no move to remove anything else, Alastor beckoned him over. Angel approached him obligingly, waiting with his hands at his side and an expression that would have just been patient if it wasn’t for the nervous way his breath shuddered.

Alastor could have easily assuaged those nerves with assurances or calm words. Instead, his smile widened as he took hold of Angel’s shoulder gently and turned him around. Angel gasped softly, but gave no resistance, and his form was pliable as Alastor took his arms and began tying them behind his back.

Physical contact had always been so much easier when Alastor initiated it, even when he was alive. He took note of the way Angel gasped softly when he felt Alastor’s hands graze his skin, how his fine fur bristled when sharp claws brushed a particularly sensitive spot, and marveled at just how simple it would be to carve out every one of Angel’s organs. The spider likely wouldn’t even put up resistance.

Alastor took his time winding the ropes about Angel’s body, using loops and knots to construct the different shapes and patterns he had practiced, and he found himself appreciating it for what the book had called it: an art form. The way the ropes looked against the pure white and pale pink of Angel’s body, how it pulled him into position and held him there… it reminded Alastor of carving wood or, perhaps more accurately, sculpting with clay. It was contemplative. Relaxing. And, more than that, it made him feel powerful. Alastor had taken the lives and souls of so many humans and sinners. He had terrorized an entire Ring of Hell for nearly a century. Yet somehow, the simple act of Angel placing this level of trust in his hands…

It very nearly made Alastor feel like a god.

Once he had bound Angel’s arms, torso, stomach, throat, and around the very tops of his thighs, he stepped back enough to take hold of the still-loose end of the rope hanging from the ceiling and pulled. Angel squeaked briefly as he was hauled off the ground, his legs kicking for just a moment before he stilled, swaying back and forth and unable to stop his own momentum. Chuckling, Alastor placed a hand on his back, stilling him, before he bent one of the spider’s legs and used the end of the rope he had pulled to start binding it as well. Just as methodically, he worked along both of Angel’s calves and thighs, forcing his legs to bend at an angle that left his feet higher than his head, his arms behind him and his chest facing the ground.

Alastor tied the rope off and checked the strength of the knot, then slowly ran his fingers across Angel’s back, skipping from skin to rope and back and marveling at the way Angel shivered with absolutely no fear. Alastor walked around to stand in front of Angel and found the spider had his eyes closed, his head tipped just slightly to rest against one of the ropes holding him aloft and one of the most peaceful smiles Alastor had ever seen him wear curving his lips ever so gently.

“How does that feel, sha?” Alastor asked, his hand brushing some hair from Angel’s face.

“Mmn.” With a contented sigh, Angel opened his eyes and looked up, locking his gaze with Alastor’s. “Real good, Smiles,” he murmured. “Gonna have marks.”

“That’s a good thing?”

“Mhm.”

Alastor nodded, the hand still hovering near Angel’s head threading into his hair to begin stroking his scalp. The spider purred at the touch. “Good,” Alastor said, finally.

“And you?”

“Hm?”

Angel giggled breathily. “How d’you feel?”

Alastor took a moment to think. “I… told you I have tied people up before,” he said. “Not like this, of course, but regardless it was… a necessity. Simply another tool in my arsenal. This…” He shook his head. “Nothing has ever felt like this.”

Angel leaned into Alastor’s hand so gently, Alastor doubted he realized he was doing it. “S’that good?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Angel fell quiet again, and Alastor took the opportunity to appreciate the finer details, like the way the ropes had begun to press into his skin and turn that pure white a new shade of pink. The marks would certainly be there… and they would absolutely be quite visible.

“I’m tempted to leave you here for a while.”

“Leave me here as long as you like,” Angel said, finally letting his head drop until he was supported by the thick coil of rope around his throat. “S’part of the deal, Smiles.”

Alastor raised his eyebrow. “You would trust me with that, too?”

“I’d trust you with my soul, Alastor.”

Suddenly, he was glad Angel was no longer looking at him, because he was positive his shock showed on his face. He wasn’t sure what he could say to that, so he said nothing, instead stroking Angel’s hair again before breaking away and going to pour himself a glass of rye.

He would let Angel down eventually. Before the night was over, in any case. But for now, he thought he should take a moment to admire his new art installation.

•••

“Anthony, why are you keepin’ these old flowers?”

Anthony turned to look over his shoulder, hunched over the open suitcase on his bedroom floor. His sister was looking at him with unfiltered skepticism, her hand on (but not lifting) the simple white vase full of pink sweet pea flowers that now sat on his bedside table. Once, they had been full of life and so delicately fragrant, soft petals of white and pale pink folding about each other and curling out in gentle curves. But now, so far from what had once been their home and so long since their stems had been cut, they had all begun to droop and wither. Petals shrunken, leaves dried and split, stems bending under the weight of their bulbs with no water to help them stand tall and straight, the flowers seemed to be crying.

Anthony felt a gnawing emptiness as he stared at them.

Why am I keeping them?

What could he possibly say to that?

I’m keeping them because I’ve never been given flowers before. I know that’s not a normal gift for a man to receive. Flowers, of all things, can you imagine?

I’m keeping them because, even while they die, they’re beautiful. Did you know that flowers begin to die the moment they are cut? It’s sad, I think, that we can take the life from something and throw it out once it loses its appearance of life.

I’m keeping them because he gave them to me. He never gave me many gifts—he wasn’t the sort, you know, romantic gestures hardly came naturally to him and I think this only occurred to him because he happened to pass a flower shop—and I’m not about to get rid of one of the only things I could use to tease him about having a heart.

I’m keeping them because he told me he would see me soon as he handed them to me. It wasn’t a grand gesture, just something so very… him in a way I can’t begin to describe. He promised he would cook for me, and he kissed the corner of my mouth, and he smiled at me, and he went to work.

I’m keeping them because he never came back. I found out he got a bullet in the head, and they have no idea where it came from. They remind me of the last time I saw him smile, not what I imagine when they told me what happened.

Why am I keeping them?

“I’m probably gonna dry them.”

She tilted her head at him, but she nodded, leaving the vase where it was and turning to continue helping him reorganize his closet. Anthony turned back to his suitcase and kept unpacking.

They didn’t talk about the flowers again.

•••

Alastor had crafted many skills over his long, long existence, from his storytelling ability to his fine and careful control of a knife. Chief among these was his capacity for speech; rarely was Alastor at a loss for words, always quick with a flattering compliment or a joke or an insult as the situation warranted. He knew it was no idle brag to say his vocabulary was extensive and quite impressive, and his mastery of language was dwarfed by very few with whom he had ever exchanged barbs.

One would reasonably believe, then, that he would have no difficulty handling the crass and demotic Angel Dust, who apparently had dedicated the entirety of his linguistic skills to crafting innuendo and double entendres with little room for anything else. Alastor had verbally humiliated Vox in the court of public opinion more than once, a court in which Vox was both judge and bailiff. He had reduced the King of Hell to childish insults (and refused to more closely examine his own behavior) within a matter of minutes. He had talked himself out of situations with angry white men in Louisiana in the 1920s.

No. Angel Dust should have posed no social difficulty to Alastor whatsoever.

And yet…

For some reason that Alastor found quite unfathomable, something about the spider stymied the flow of his words without Angel even making any sort of effort. Every time they locked eyes and Angel put forth another transparently suggestive innuendo, or made a teasing comment at Alastor’s expense, or dropped yet another utterly ludicrous nickname on him… Perhaps it was simply how bold he was—how unafraid he seemed of potential retaliation—but Alastor so often found himself unable to form any sort of real riposte, let alone engage in a true bout of verbal sparring. It wasn’t as though Alastor could think of no words, of course; it was as if a net had formed in his throat, the hanging twine of which was woven too tightly to permit any words better than “is that so” or “you are ridiculous” to pass through to his lips.

He could not truly speak to Angel Dust, and he did not know why. His inability to express whatever it was that repressed itself under the weight of the spider’s puckish and refulgent gaze meant that, were he to manage a beginning of his thoughts, he was completely at a loss as to where said thoughts would lead.

Alastor made an attempt one night, while sitting at the bar in the lobby, to broach the topic to Husk as casually and indirectly as possible. While it was true that he and Husk didn’t have what one might call a cordial relationship, he did know that the former overlord had been well into his seventies when he died, and Alastor would have bet a not inconsiderable sum of money that at least fifty of those years had been spent in the pursuit and seduction of various individuals (or whatever it was the sexually inclined did). The manner of Husk’s behavior was irrelevant, in any case, because Alastor knew seduction required capable speech. Besides, Husk had once been a performer. He also carefully avoided any mention of Angel Dust; to Alastor’s understanding, the two of them had become friends, and Alastor sincerely doubted Husk would appreciate his dearly despised ‘employer’ focusing so intently on one with whom Husk himself had formed something of a protective bond. With all of that in mind, Alastor thought it quite reasonable to find out how the other Sinner would process his thoughts when they refused to make themselves manifest on the tongue.

The look Husk had leveled him with was suspicious, to say the least, and he had allowed the silence to linger for a length of time that even Alastor began to find uncomfortable before he had answered with simple advice: Write it down. Don’t think about what you’re writing, just do it. Whatever comes out on the paper is probably what you really mean. But that damnable look of suspicion had never left his face, and as Alastor left, he wondered if he had truly been that transparent in his request.

Something else, he thought, that he could blame Angel Dust for.

It wasn’t until Alastor was alone in his bedroom, seated at his desk with two fingers of rye and the melodious voice of Bessie Smith gently underscored by the distant sounds of the swamp, that he wondered… was this actually a good idea? If the words did not want to come to him, was it wise for him to question that?

Did he want to know what, precisely, it was that he wished to say to Angel Dust?

Alastor shook off the ridiculousness of those thoughts as he took up his pen and filled it with deep red ink. Of course he wanted to know; for what possible reason would he not? Alastor had always been a creature of curiosity at his core, and curiosity was an itch that existed to be scratched with the sharp claws of knowledge. Resolved in his task, Alastor laid out a fresh sheet of paper and gave himself over as much as he was able to Husk’s advice. He didn’t think, he simply wrote.

Alastor stared at the paper as the ink dried, his glass of rye empty and the phonograph filling the air with gentle static as the needle skated lightly over nothing but the center of the record. He set down the pen, lifted the paper, and gently folded it into neat thirds, as though preparing to seal it with wax. He then held it between his thumb and his forefinger, the letter catching fire and burning faster and faster until it crumbled and fell to the top of his desk in thin, delicate flakes of black and pale gray.

When Niffty came to clean his room that evening, she found Alastor lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling. When she asked what he was doing, he found he had no real answer he could give her.

He decided he would blame Angel Dust for that, as well.

•••

“…is he alright?”

“Bad day at the office, apparently.”

Husk didn’t look particularly perturbed by this, most of his attention on the list of bar supplies as he tallied up what they would be needing for the next order (because, for an empty hotel, they certainly did plow through alcohol like it was going out of style). Alastor looked from him to Angel Dust, who had his head down on the bar top, resting upon one set of folded arms. The other two arms hung limply at his sides, fingers barely maintaining their grip on a glass that looked like it must have contained no small amount of bourbon not five minutes before.

Alastor raised one eyebrow when the spider made no move to respond. “…is he conscious?” he asked, wondering if he should be checking for a pulse.

“No,” Angel mumbled so unintelligibly that it was hardly a word at all.

“I’m cutting him off,” Husk said. “If you’re here for him, then get him out of my face before he gets his second wind. I’m gonna hurt him if he dives for the gin again.”

Angel said something to that, but it was spoken directly into the furniture, so the words were far too muffled to determine what he was trying to communicate.

“Worry not, Husker, I shall take our intoxicated little arachnid off your incredibly busy hands.” Alastor leaned down and placed his hand on Angel’s shoulder, hesitating only briefly before making contact. “Do you want me to take you back to your room, sha?”

“No,” Angel groaned, but after a moment’s hesitation, he nodded into his arms.

Alastor tightened his grip on Angel’s shoulder just briefly, the shadows swelling beneath his feet before they swallowed both of them. When the darkness cleared, Alastor was immediately plagued with the sight of the pink and purple neon that Angel insisted on using to decorate his bedroom. He squinted against it, his ears flicking backwards, as he focused instead on helping Angel onto his bed. The moment he was sitting, Angel flopped over onto his side, releasing a long and miserable groan.

Immediately, Alastor thought he should leave. Angel seemed as though he felt perfectly wretched (which was his own damn fault, of course, though Alastor imagined he would be deeply tempted to get hammered far more often if he was forced to contend with the Vees on a regular basis), and Alastor had never thought his presence to be one that brought any level of comfort at the best of times. He was immediately distracted, however, by a soft snuffling noise beside Angel’s bed. Alastor turned to see Fat Nuggets on the floor beside his feet, the little hellpig practically hopping on his front legs as he half-circled Alastor.

The Radio Demon, feared among all who heard his name, chuckled softly and leaned down to pick Fat Nuggets up. The pig offered absolutely no resistance, wiggling with what he had learned was excitement as Alastor held him. “Your Daddy doesn’t feel well,” he informed the little round creature, who stared up at him with wide and loving eyes that appeared to process no words whatsoever.

“My baby…” Angel groaned, reaching one arm out towards Alastor and making a grabby hand. “Gimme.” Alastor acquiesced, and as Fat Nuggets crawled up to Angel’s chest, the spider wrapped two arms around him and gave him a gentle squeeze. “…thanks, Smiles.”

“Hm?” Alastor started a little. “For what?”

“Bringin’ me,” was all Angel appeared to have to say about that.

“…of course, sha. Do…” Alastor hesitated. This thing between them—a thing that neither of them had made any sort of move to define, and that Alastor couldn’t put words to if he tried—was still new enough that he wasn’t positive what the protocol was. Hell, he was still attempting to process the fact that Angel claimed to like him, let alone grapple with the idea that he actually wanted to spend time with Alastor. “…do you need anything?”

Angel opened one eye, peering up at Alastor through what seemed to be a thick gaze of drunkenness and a quickly growing headache. “…I dunno,” he finally said.

How intensely helpful, Alastor thought, but bit back the sarcasm. Caretaking had never exactly been his forte; he had always been far more likely to make other people require care than to be in any position to administer it himself. He did, however, remember how his maman used to care for him when he was a child. “Have you eaten?”

Angel hesitated for so long before answering that Alastor already knew it would be a no. “…yesterday…?”

The very thought made Alastor’s own stomach cramp from imagined hunger. “No wonder the alcohol is hitting you so strongly. I’ll be right back.”

“Alastor—” was all the Radio Demon heard as his shadows swallowed him and he stepped into the kitchen, glancing around and finding it completely unoccupied. He hardly had time to fully make something, but a quick look around the room yielded some leftover chicken and rice, some of the bread that remained from Vaggie’s recent and brief late-night baking obsession, and a jug of water. With a bowl of chicken and rice heated up and the bread warmed, Alastor took all of the items up with his shadow tentacles and returned to Angel’s room.

The first thing he heard—unsurprisingly—was Angel vomiting in his attached bathroom. Alastor set the food down and walked to the other side of the bedroom, where Fat Nuggets was worriedly pacing and the cracked door cast a sliver of light across the tile floor. Alastor knocked lightly on the door before entering (a courtesy he had never afforded anyone before and even now only gave to Angel), not waiting for an answer before he pushed his way in.

“Nooo,” Angel groaned weakly, slumped on the bathroom floor. “Go away, I’m gross.”

“You have tolerated far worse from me than I’m sure I will be from you,” Alastor said, helping Angel up slowly.

That elicited another groan, either from the words or the movement or both. “You are so stinky,” he complained without either heat or vitriol.

Alastor chuckled. “Come along, my dear, you will hate yourself and me if you pass out on this floor.”

He assisted Angel with rinsing out his mouth in the sink, then helped him back to his bedroom, sitting him up against his pillows and helping Fat Nuggets back onto the bed before he sat at Angel’s hip and summoned the food over with his shadows.

Angel sighed wearily, staring at the bowl dubiously. “…gonna throw up again,” he muttered, less an immediate warning and more a pessimistic prediction.

“You are not,” Alastor said. “You are going to eat, you are going to drink water, and you are going to sleep. If you don’t, you’ll be both incredibly ill and violently hung over in the morning.”

“Nnh.” Angel was clearly weighing his options here, but finally relented. “…okay.”

Alastor didn’t permit himself to reconsider, simply began feeding Angel without giving him the chance to protest or decline the assistance. Angel, in turn, was surprisingly agreeable, allowing Alastor to feed him spoonfuls of rice and shredded chicken in broth, bits of bread, and sips of water in turn. When it seemed Angel truly couldn’t eat any more, Alastor didn’t push, though he did foist a bit more water upon him before relenting.

“Is that any better?” Alastor asked, waving his hand and causing the dishes (save the water) to vanish into the aether.

Angel shrugged. “I dunno. …guess so.” He sighed, then opened his eyes to look at Alastor. “…you leavin’?”

It sounded the opposite of hopeful, enough that it gave Alastor pause. “…would you like me to stay?” Angel nodded, the movement slight but immediate. “Alright,” he said, his easy agreement surprising even himself somewhat.

Angel reached out to take Alastor’s sleeve, tugging on him. “C’mere.” Alastor hesitated, then moved to stretch out on the bed, Angel adjusting them until Alastor was the one propped up against the pillows and Angel was tucked against his side with his head on the overlord’s shoulder.

Alastor couldn’t help chuckling a little. “Is this actually comfortable for you, sha?”

“No,” Angel murmured, and Alastor was hardly surprised; he wasn’t exactly a presence that inspired comfort. Before he could attempt to remove himself, Angel continued, “Couldja turn out the light, Smiles?”

“…of course.” With a wave of his hand, a slim tendril of darkness stretched from the shadows on the opposite wall, winding up until they reached the light switch panel and flicking each one off until they were bathed in darkness.

Angel sighed, tucking himself more firmly against Alastor. “Mkay. Now I’m comfortable,” he murmured.

Alastor stared at the top of Angel’s head before he smiled, just a little, and carefully put his arm around the spider’s shoulders. He heard the other Sinner purr contentedly, and in minutes, he was out cold.

Alastor didn’t sleep much, always finding it to be an utter waste of his time, but in this case… he found he didn’t particularly mind a few hours of doing absolutely nothing.

•••

Almost nothing about the Sloth District in Pentagram City made it a particularly pleasant area to linger in. Sure, the drugs were pretty great, and there were a few nice heroin or hookah dens if you knew where to look, but most of the place consisted of slums full to bursting with broken glass and buildings that needed to be condemned and tetanus (probably). It was where Angel Dust had lived before meeting Valentino and getting taken on at VoxTek, hopping from hostel to hostel without any real direction in mind.

Suffice it to say, Angel didn’t like the Sloth District if he wasn’t getting high as balls, and he sure didn’t like hanging out there.

Currently, however, Angel had no choice but to hang around the Sloth District. Specifically, he was currently in a tacky one-room apartment with a bare mattress on the floor in the corner and a bedsheet nailed over the window, the ambience of two people having a screaming fit somewhere in the alley down below and someone else across the hall beating someone with a violin (judging by the sound) the only noises he could hear. The apartment had been occupied just ten minutes earlier by some scumbag Angel had met a few times, known in the hooking circles for asking prostitutes to take some real weird pictures that he turned around and sold as his job.

He hadn’t been thrilled to see Angel, but a knife to the guy’s throat and the threat to deglove him had gotten him out easily enough.

Great. Now what do I do?

Angel walked over to the mattress on the floor and sat beside it, watching as Alastor held his side and breathed sharply through gritted teeth. He was flat on his back on the mattress and rapidly soaking it with blood from the hole in his torso and fuck only knew how many other places, his skin grayer than usual and his lip curled to reveal the black, oily gums above his upper row of teeth.

“I’m fine,” Alastor hissed for the third time since they had arrived inside the apartment and Angel had dumped him rather unceremoniously on what ended up being the only soft surface in the whole room.

Angel snorted under his breath, looking down at Alastor as the Radio Demon opened his eyes and stared angrily up at the ceiling. “Uh-huh. You’ve said that. You’re still flat on your back, Smiles, ain’t no amount of ‘I’m fine’ changin’ that.”

Alastor made a soft growling sound that, hilariously, reminded Angel of the noise Kee Kee made when someone tried to budge her while she was comfortable. “I do not require coddling, Angel.”

“Oh, trust me, I ain’t coddlin’ you. I’m actually thinkin’ about slappin’ you around some, since you ain’t in no position to fight back.” Alastor made a sound that was almost a begrudging laugh as Angel turned, sitting back against the wall beside Alastor’s head. “You can’t teleport. I am not luggin’ an injured Radio Demon around the city and makin’ both of us targets. Until you get those wounds closed up, we’re stuck here.”

“Charming.”

Angel refrained from reminding Alastor that this wouldn’t be a problem in the first place if he hadn’t allowed himself to rise to Vox’s latest baiting attempt. Alastor was probably well aware without Angel making a big thing out of it; besides, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Velvette had managed to sneak up on Alastor and literally backstab him, Vox probably wouldn’t have posed much difficulty for him at all.

Kinda glad he pulled this shit while I was leaving work. If Val had gotten to him before I could…

“If it makes you feel better, you broke Vox’s screen.”

Alastor’s giggle was pained, but sounded brighter. “Too bad I couldn’t take his other eye.”

“It’d do his face good.” Angel turned his head to look at Alastor. “So, Mista Ovalord, how does your whole healin’ shit work? You got more power than me, and I heal up quick, so…”

“Usually, physical wounds stitch themselves enough for function rather quickly,” Alastor said, his voice strained. “…however, if my reserves of energy are lacking, that leads to slower healing, as well as…” He waved one hand weakly, then winced, pulling it back. “Nnh. My magic won’t cooperate.”

Angel frowned. “You got a low battery there, Smiles?”

“That… is one way of putting it, yes.”

Angel tilted his head as Alastor’s eyes moved until their gazes met. It only took a moment for it to click. “…you’re hungry, ain’t’cha?”

Alastor’s eyes brightened somewhat. “Ravenous.”

“Fuck.” Angel sighed. “Look, don’t go bitin’ my throat out. I’ll see if that fuck’s got any food.” He got back to his feet and crossed to the pathetic excuse for a kitchen, looking through the fridge and cabinets for anything edible. “Let’s see… we got a single can of beer, half a bottle of mustard, a slice of cheese that’s almost all grey… empty cracker box… somethin’ like a spoonful of pancake mix… the fuck is this guy doin’ with his afterlife?”

“I suppose meat would be quite the unreasonable expectation,” Alastor said.

Meat. Right. Angel sighed. He could always either go get food, or try to grab someone off the street, but he really didn’t want to leave Alastor without supervision. He was less afraid for his health and more worried that the overlord would try to do something stupid like leave, so Angel leaving the room was out of the question. “…hey. Alastor. I’m gonna ask you somethin’. Can you give me an honest answer?”

Alastor hesitated. “…I will do my utmost.”

That was good enough, he supposed. “How accurate do you think you’d be with a knife right about now?”

Another hesitation. “Nowhere near accurate enough for my tastes.”

“Mmkay.” Angel kept looking through the drawers until he found his new target, then went back to Alastor, sitting next to the mattress again. He held up the kitchen knife he had found demonstratively. “I know Sinner anatomy is weird, but do you got any idea where my liver is?”

Alastor was staring at him. “…what the fuck are you talking about, Angel?”

Angel raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t interested in hangin’ out here any longer than I gotta. If you’re gonna get us outta here, you need to heal. For that, you need meat. I got meat. I ain’t flexible enough to cut out my own kidney. So, where’s my liver?”

That isn’t a good enough reason. I know that. I can tell he knows that, too.

Alastor didn’t say whether or not he could tell it was bullshit. Still, his surprised expression hadn’t changed, except to sharpen with obvious hunger. “…how do you know I won’t eat more of you once you’re vulnerable?”

“Because that’d be a shitty way to thank me. Now c‘mon.” Angel helped Alastor sit up, then removed his own shirt, tossing it to the floor next to him.

Alastor shook his head weakly. “…so strange,” he murmured. He then reached out, his hand touching Angel’s side. Angel raised his arms, giving him room and trying not to giggle when Alastor squeezed his flesh to feel… something. His organs, Angel supposed. Eventually, Alastor ran a finger over one place on Angel’s torso, tracing out a rough shape, his claw leaving a faint pink trail of the mildest pain. “Here. It’s here. …you know this will hurt quite a bit, don’t you?”

Angel shrugged. “I’ve done all kinds’a shit for work. This don’t even make the top ten list.”

Even back when he was alive, Angel hadn’t been afraid of pain. Maybe it was some kind of psychological side-effect of all the bullshit he’d been through, but honestly, Angel tended to prefer his pleasure with more than just a little bit of pain. Self-inflicted hurt wasn’t something he usually did, though, and he had to wrap two hands around the handle of the knife to keep it from shaking. He kept his eyes down, touching the tip of the blade to the line Alastor had scratched into his flesh and drew a deep breath.

It won’t hurt any less if you hesitate, dummy. Just do it.

Maybe the Sloth District had been the right place for this after all. No one around here paid any attention to any noise, no matter how alarming, if it didn’t concern them, which meant no one even came to the door when Angel stabbed the knife into his flesh and was unable to swallow a sudden howl of pain. He doubled over somewhat as the blade pushed further into him, and he would have fallen over if he hadn’t had the sudden, steadying pressure of Alastor’s hand on his shoulder, holding him up. One of Angel’s other hands reached up to seize onto Alastor’s arm in return, holding onto him like a lifeline. His forehead pressed into Alastor’s shoulder, and he could feel the other Sinner’s cheek against the top of his head, keeping him steady. Grounded.

As Angel slowly carved into his own body, he couldn’t hear his own pained noises, or the odd violin sounds, or anything out on the street; all he could hear was the steady sound of Alastor’s breathing, slowly growing heavier and faster as Angel’s blood cascaded from the wound and poured down his stomach, his leg, pooling on the floor and soaking into the mattress already wet with Alastor’s own blood. A soft rumble in his chest, like the low growling of a starving beast, began to resonate in the scant space between them when Angel sliced through something thick and meaty deep inside himself with an audible snap.

“Fuck,” Angel whispered, pressing his head further into Alastor’s shoulder. The overlord didn’t flinch, instead holding him more firmly, keeping him steady; Angel slowly became aware that Alastor wasn’t just breathing hard and growling, but he was murmuring to him. The words weren’t intelligible to him, but it didn’t matter what he was saying, just that it was comforting, somehow.

Alastor’s hand covered Angel’s own as he reached in to pull the organ from his body, shiny with blood and disconcertingly warm. Gently, Alastor took his liver from him, whispering, “Thank you, sha.” Angel was pretty sure he nodded, and he had a mind to raise his head from Alastor’s shoulder, but he couldn’t force himself to move even that much. Alastor didn’t push him away, either, and Angel wasn’t sure if that was better or worse when he heard Alastor’s teeth tearing the flesh that had so recently been a living part of his own body.

Angel closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of blood and viscera, listening to the noises of the Radio Demon eating him, and wondered when the fuck he had lost his mind to the point that this was anything other than his literal worst nightmare. It was horrifying, sure—you’d have to be a special kind of absolutely insane to shrug off minor self-disembowelment and voluntary participation in cannibalism—but even with all of that he knew he would rather be here with Alastor than at VoxTek, and wasn’t that concerning?

Angel closed his eyes, sound and sensation fading away as the loss of blood and pain began driving him so far into lightheadedness that he could have sworn he was floating out of his body and into nothing. It lasted hours or seconds, Angel couldn’t tell which, and then it was darker and the pain was back and he couldn’t smell blood anymore.

When Angel opened his eyes, he was staring at his own ceiling. His hand found his side, tracing thick stitching that was now holding him closed. And there was a light on in his room, a lamp that he kept but didn’t use very often, that wasn’t anywhere near his bed.

Slowly, Angel turned his head, only to see a chair he didn’t recognize with an occupant he definitely did. Alastor seemed to have conjured up some sort of fancy armchair that did not match the rest of the furniture in Angel’s room, and he was situated beneath the lamp, an open book in one hand. His other hand was resting on Fat Nuggets’ back, the little hellpig fast asleep in his lap and audibly snoring with little snuffling noises.

…is he making sure I’m okay…?

Angel felt something strange in his chest, a swelling of warmth that replaced the empty feeling of losing an organ, as he watched Alastor gently pet Fat Nuggets between his horns. The warmth was… alarming, Angel decided, but before he could resolve to crush it, his eyes fell shut and everything once again became dark and peaceful.

He dreamed that Alastor was devouring him piece by piece, and when he woke, he filed the dream away with everything else he never wanted to think too hard about.

•••

The first time Anthony knocked, it was soft and polite, three quick, gentle taps of knuckles on wood.

The second time, it was louder, more insistent, and delivered with the side of his fist rather than his knuckles.

He wasn’t sure if he could call the third time a knock, per se, because a knock was technically a single action that had an end. This was more an incessant, rhythmic tapping, one that started at a fast pace and stayed right there as Anthony continued to smack the door with the knuckles on the back of his hand.

His tried-and-true persuasion tactic (which he officially called Being Fucking Annoying On Purpose) paid off as he heard the dorm room door unlock, then creak open just enough for a single exhausted green eye to peer out at him in total silence.

“…hey, Alastor,” Anthony said, lowering his hand and adjusting his grip on the backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Anthony,” Alastor answered in a measured voice. “You… need something, I assume?”

“No, I just like knockin’ on doors and yours was available,” Anthony said dryly. “Coach Bee asked me to bring yer Home Ec assignment by, since you weren’t in class today. Can I come in?”

“…ah. Right. …of course.” Alastor stepped aside, opening the door further to allow Anthony to pass into his dorm room. It was dark, the way it usually was, but it felt more oppressive today. He turned as Alastor shut and locked his door again. “You can leave it on my desk.”

“Sure.” Anthony swung his backpack in front of himself and unzipped it, pulling out a sheet of paper and putting it on top of Alastor’s most recent stack of creepy library books. When he looked up again, he saw Alastor was still keeping his distance, leaning more heavily on his cane than he usually did. “Just wanted to come see how you were holdin’ up.”

Alastor narrowed his eyes slightly. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Anthony shrugged a little. “…Charlie told me.”

At that, Alastor’s eyes widened, then his expression softened and he looked away. “…I see. I assume she only told you to get you to leave me alone today?”

“Yeah, probably, since I was threatenin’ to come up here and drag you out.” Anthony smiled as Alastor’s lip twitched, which was at least an improvement. “She said you probably wanted to be alone today.”

“She’s correct.”

“Can I be alone with you?”

Alastor stared at him. “…that kinda defeats the purpose of being alone, wouldn’t you say, sha?”

“No,” Anthony said. “I can be quiet.”

That earned him a scoff. “You most certainly can’t.”

“Sure I can, watch me. Come oooonnn,” he wheedled. “Please? I brought stuff. I got some sour candies and some of those weird Cajun chips you like for some reason, and they got Gonjiam back on streamin’ if you wanna watch that again and we ain’t gotta go to class in the mornin’.”

Alastor sighed, but he was very nearly smiling again, and Anthony could tell he wasn’t upset. “You’re so stubborn. Did you know that?”

Anthony grinned proudly. “Sure am.”

“…I’m going to regret giving in to your wiles so frequently, but fine. You can stay.”

“Yesss,” Anthony hissed, plopping down on Alastor’s bed. “I got somethin’ else, too. Only planned to tell you if you let me stay.”

Alastor watched as he reached into his bag again and pulled out a bottle of rye whiskey. “…you were going to hold out on me if I threw you out? How cruel. Where did you even get that?”

“Blitz. Don’t tell my brother, he wouldn’t hesitate to get me detention just ‘cause we’re related.”

Ten minutes later, they were both sitting on Alastor’s bed with their backs against the wall, Alastor wrapped in a big, fluffy pink blanket that had taken up most of the room in Anthony’s backpack. The candy bag sat open between their knees, and Anthony’s laptop was open on the bed, close enough that they could read the subtitles while Korean influencer ghost hunters ran around a haunted asylum and pissed off the already angry spirits. At some point, Alastor drifted until his head was on Anthony’s shoulder, and as though holding up his end of an unspoken agreement, Anthony didn’t mention it. He stayed there for the rest of the film, and even when Anthony felt his arm going numb, he didn’t move. He would have sooner cut his arm off than move out from under Alastor right then.

As the movie ended, Anthony closed the laptop with his foot so he didn’t have to sit up and dislodge Alastor. Immediately, both the darkness and the silence were complete, and he let the other boy (his boyfriend? Were they dating? Were they just friends? Was it something else? Not a good time to ask) figure out what it was he wanted to say.

“…I miss her,” Alastor finally said into the darkness, his voice soft.

“I know,” Anthony answered, unsure of what else he could say to that.

When Alastor exhaled, his breath shook, and Anthony leaned his cheek against the top of his head. He’s crying. He wasn’t about to call any attention to that, of course, but the fact that Alastor felt comfortable enough to do something like this around him, even if it was in total darkness…

“Anthony?”

“Yeah?”

“…I’m glad you annoyed me into opening my door.”

“Sure. Anythin’ for you, Al.”

•••

“That fine little ditty was It Don’t Mean A Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing) by Duke Ellington and his eponymous orchestra, such an instant success when it first rolled out of Harlem in 1932 that the Mills Brothers, the Boswell Sisters, and Roger Wolfe Kahn all had their own versions slapped on a platter before the year was even out!”

The screams of the radio chorus howled and cried beneath Alastor’s words as he leaned back in his chair, feet kicked up on his desk and microphone staff in hand. Every radio in Hell was on, whether their owners wanted them to be or not, and Alastor’s smile widened as he imagined Sinners and Hellborn all across the Ring either reveling in the music he played or desperately covering their ears in an attempt to block out the wails of those more damned than they were themselves.

Behind him, he heard the tiny patter of feet rushing about, and he turned a little to watch as Niffty dusted off one of his tables. She had insisted she needed occasional access to his tower to clean, and no matter how many times he said he didn’t need it, he had known from the start it was a losing battle. She had, at least, agreed to only come up here while he was working. “Ah, Niffty, darling!” Alastor chirped into the microphone; she turned to him with one wide eye and scurried over. “The Hazbin Hotel’s delightful hospitality manager is here in the studio with me. Anything you’d care to say to the listeners at home and abroad?”

Niffty nodded, grinning, and leaned up as Alastor put the microphone near to her. “Kono bangumi wa, goran no sponsa no teikyou de okurishimasu!” she chirped.

Alastor pulled his microphone back up. “I have no idea what that means, folks, but judging by her expression, I’m sure it’s hilarious!” Cackling, Niffty ran off again, returning to her cleaning.

Alastor reached out to remove the record from the turntable and replace it, his eyes moving to the window, where he could see the far distant lights of VoxTek Tower glowing against the bloody darkness of the night sky. He could imagine Angel Dust now: possibly between takes or even on a rest between films, back in his dressing room and touching up his appearance. Angel had once told him that he kept a radio in his dressing room specifically for nights when he worked during Alastor’s show.

“I like still gettin’ to hear a bit of your show even at work,” Angel had said one evening while they were curled up together listening to Cab Calloway and drinking the rest of the wine from the dinner the spider had made. Alastor had reminded him that he’d said, once, he didn’t even listen to the radio. “I didn’t. I do now.”

Alastor smiled as he put another record on the turntable, poising the needle and raising his microphone. “And now, let’s have a change of pace, shall we? This one goes out to a sweet little daisy in a garden of thorns; remember, my dear, that it will all end soon, and I’m waiting for you to come home. This is April Showers by B.G. DeSylva and Louis Silvers, recorded by Al Jolson almost a decade after his performance in Bombo.”

Alastor dropped the needle and sat back as music filled the studio again, his eyes drifting shut for a moment. He let his head fall back and imagined Angel dancing to the tune, wondering if it would help him get through his shift under Valentino’s heel. He sincerely hoped it would.

I’m going to break that contract for you, sha… but until that day comes, I will always have music in my soul that sings just for you.

•••