Beignets and Rubber Ducks: A RadioApple Fanfiction
Inspired by my love of radioapple and the cozy cute art of @the-other-soup
Written for @the-other-soup (hope you enjoy!! 😊)
18+, Disclaimers/Tags/TW: death, cannibalism, trauma, anxiety attack, gay sex, insomnia, mental health, depression, sex, affection
Insomnia knew no bounds for him. The grey dips under his eyes felt heavier and heavier. While his boyfriend slept, he ached inside by the constant ticking of time, which twitched a tickling finger under his nose to keep him noticing.
Alastor slept on his side with his back facing Luci; his big spoon. Lucifer sighed, closing his eyes as he held Alastor close with a gentle embrace. His hands ruffled against his partner’s furry chest, his fingers felt the tender lines that barely grew fur on them. They were tanner than his usual reddish brown fur. He could feel an ache as he fingered these scars. Lucifer huffed into Al’s shoulder, sniffing it gently. He smelt like horrid things; death and earl grey.
He felt so comfortable like this. In bed, with someone other than his thoughts and racing heart. Finally, something different for once.
Yet, despite the warmth of partnership, why was he still tormented with this affliction? Was it his punishment? It had to be. He fell for the sake of Man and for asking too many questions. This insomnia, among other tribulations, kept him at the level God probably wanted him to stay in.
Lucifer turned away while holding the blanket over himself, curling under it, staring at the wall. Every so often he felt that something moved. A spider? An inkling of a shadow. A portrait. A small pile of ducklings. Yet in every item that he categorized in his head, time continued on and the light followed suit. Soon, the light of Hell drifted past the blinds and into the bedroom. The royal prince still staring, frowning; the weight of Hell rest on his worried head.
He could feel the bed shifting with a groan turning into a yawn and an audible scratching against flesh.
“MMmmm.” Alastor moaned, while around them a gentle breeze of piano and trumpet flew around the room, Alastor’s morning call, with him; music always followed.
“Good morning, my short prince.” Alastor gaily said, his voice soft with his slow-waking vocal cords and the wet weight of slumber still drowning his mind. He hummed gently, his shadow was on the other end of the bed, staring at Lucifer, who presently grumbled and covered his face with a pillow. His shadow was biting its metaphysical finger nails and frowning, his ears drooped before sliding over Lucifer and back behind the body which presided him.
Alastor went to rub Lucifer’s arm, the outline of which he could tell from below the blanket, before getting out of bed. His shadow followed suit, it—or he—rubbed an inkling of a squeeze onto the demon’s shoulder. Lucifer could feel a breeze against the back of his neck, the hair on his neck indented from it, before slowly moving back to their initial curls.
Alastor left the bedroom quietly, wearing his slippers which were placed specifically beside his side of the bed. As he left the room, he lit a candle and held it within its candlestick as he walked down the hall, turned a right corner, and entered the kitchen. Following him was his subtle trumpet and saxophonic pianissimos, which fell to merely his ears as he stood there staring at the fridge.
He tapped his chin.
What to do? What to make? His partner was particular. His tastes a bit sweeter than his own raw particularities. Thinking of food made his lips wet, drooling down the corners of his mouth. He licked them clean and clapped his hands quietly. He could feel his ears twitch as he figured out his next step of action.
“A feast. Perhaps—“ he began, while grabbing ingredients from the fridge, his shadowy tendrils grabbing out various tools from nearby cupboards.
Another tendril pulled an apron from a half-open drawer, tying it around his waist. As he began pouring flour into a wooden bowl, he started humming to himself the tune of ‘My Blue Heaven’.
He cracked two eggs, before eyeing back at the small paper card which floated beside him containing Charlie’s recipe for cinnamon pancakes.
While a tendril dashed cinnamon into the mixture, he felt a tender warmth glow within his chest, and inch up in his throat. His tendrils were on auto-pilot as he walked over to the fridge, eyeing at a small bottle of yeast, grinning wide.
More tendrils came out of him, each one doing some task in the whole of this culinary process. He initially thought of Luci’s particularly favorite dish, pancakes, but as he smelled the sweetness which he both felt disgust and nostalgia—he was compelled for more. It was not in his own pride, but in the betterment of his ‘duckling’.
The stovetop sizzled as the flames pricked at the bottom of the pan, poking it with a thousand fingers, forming bubbles in the batter, popping itself tan. Each flapjack flipped and continued in the same affection. Meanwhile, in a skillet beside it, eggs were being scrambled. On the counter, Alastor chopped the greens of strawberries and washed a melange of berries into a bowl.
While the last few pancakes finished on the stove, the eggs had been poured into a golden ceramic duck plate. They steamed in their golden scrambled glory. Alastor shut stove off and eyed what he had made so far. On the countertop was: a stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs and a berry salad. He looked down at one of the plates stacked on the dry rack by the sink, a duckling.
He held it and fingered at its beak, his thumb pushed deeper onto it as he held the plate closer to his chest. His breathing heaved as his fur matted back with each breath. He could not decipher how he felt. His shadow tapped at the fridge and pointed to a mason jar of orange juice. He put the plate down, wiping a stray tear away as he grabbed the juice and prepared a tall glass for Luci. His pained smile never left his face.
Luci. Lucifer. His morning star, the brightest of them all, even as he fell, lighting the sky more than any sun or godly flame. He had been familiar with godly things while alive, yet as he got older, he began to grow more fond of those whose names were unspoken.
His mother, bless her heart, ached seeing him stray away. He’d come home late at night, sloshed and sweating. Sometimes missing clothes and covered in cuts. Alastor knew now that he must have been predestined to be with him, from his name first mentioned to his arrival to the hotel.
He recalled leaving his home one night, following a lanky pale blonde man from a bar, into his garden shed. The small wooden shed was filled with herbs and flowers; hydrangeas were his mother’s favorites.
As he and his stranger undressed, caressing and fondling in progressively animalistic ways, Alastor bent himself toward the wall, ass angled up, so the man could push into him. The man scratched his chest as he thrusted into him. The liquor bled through his veins and throbbed at his prostate; easing the pain.
He turned soon after Blondie’s climax and pushed back, kissing his neck, biting at his earlobe, all while cum dripped down his leg. He gazed at the pale outline of his tender ribs, and bit into his throat, painting thereafter in ruby red. The biting didn’t stop, it was loud, guttural and invasive. He saw a silver shimmer in the pool below him, as quick as a blink, that was unrecognizable.
He stood, nude still, dressed now in red as he left the shed and ran. Running into the forest, his tender feet aching at the sticks and rocks, he could see the light of the moon beam around the trees—except for him as he dashed under clouds of leaves.
His eyes dilated in the welcoming darkness. A noise of rustling leaves followed behind him. He turned and stopped in his tracks, eyeing behind him. Alastor lifted his leg, it curled back as he got ready to run. Yet he couldn’t.
When the gun fired he did not die instantly. His mouth drooled, a hand idly gripping his cheek, as he gazed at the open wounds in his chest. He bled over himself, limping on one leg toward the nearest tree, when the gun fired again, he fell instantly into sleep.
It was when his senses took over, those he felt would dull or be fully nullified in the afterlife, be still as tamable as he was living. The corners of his smile ached and his stomach felt empty. The smell of the cinnamon pancakes made him remember the little moments of certain niceties, oak floors, lavender heirlooms, and mother. Jazz sweetened his ears and as his shadow wiped his teary face, he felt compelled for two more concoctions.
He turned on the stove and brought out a medium sized moka pot, pouring the bottom chamber with sink water while he began scooping coffee grounds into a small bowl. His shadow came back with a small wooden box, it contained chicory plants as well as several recipes, half-torn note cards, a framed picture, and a small journal. He grabbed the chicory and put them into a separate bowl.
With a separate tendril, he began mixing flour into the mixture of bloomed yeast, sugar, milk, salt, eggs, and vanilla extract. The tentacle began forming the mix together. With a flick of his wrist the dough bloomed high and rose. He poured it onto the counter and rolled them into small round balls, all the while pouring sunflower seed oil into a pot and turning the stove on. As the oil sizzled, he sniffed one of the uncooked balls before putting them in one-by-one.
They rose into airy fluffy browned fritters, beignets, and the air of it rose into the kitchen as he placed them to dry on a stack of paper towels on a plate. He closed his eyes and could hear his mom call down for him into the kitchen.
Alastor ran downstairs into the kitchen, his hair pushed to the side, his eyes wide and his grin wider.
“What momma?” He asked as he ran in, seeing his mom holding a plate of fresh beignets, all of them covered in powdered sugar.
“Brunch is ready, baby. Your favorite.” she replied. Her golden smile beaming to his soul. Her hair was curly and long, ended on with a small red lace tie.
Alastor grabbed one and started munching, his lips dripping slowly with saliva, and his mouth covered in sugar. His mother kissed his forehead and wiped his lips with a thumb.
“My messy darlin’.” She turned around and walked toward the window, her body swayed back-and-forth, left-and-right as she hummed to herself.
Alastor grabbed another beignet and looked back up to see his mother, sobbing by the window.
“Momma?” Alastor asked, putting the plate down and walking toward her, in each step crunching loudly below him.
“Momma?!” He asked as he put a hand out onto her shoulder, his hand began growing redder as he rubbed her shoulder.
Alastor felt himself thump forward as a gunshot rang out. When he opened his eyes again he noticed his hand was in the boiling oil, the pan empty of beignets. He glared at his hand which began burning into the oil with bubbling flesh.
A tendril shut the fire off and he slowly recoiled his hand, holding it close to his chest as it began to heal anew. The beignets were placed neatly on a plate, a smaller bowl with orange marmalade was set beside the stack. The burning barely subsided. It lingered there until the steam began to rise from the spout of the Moka pot.
The coffee had finished. The chicory had been blended with the ground coffee and brewed over stovetop, before being poured into two small mugs and placed onto a lukewarm stovetop.
Alastor felt numb. Was that how Luci felt now? It was of different consequence; yet he still knew his daydreams were incomparable to radio shows or the broodiest of whiskey jazz dreams.
His eyes were redder than usual, he rubbed his eyes and breathed out hard, his eyes going back to their normal golden brown. Composure. He must be composed—for Lucifer.
As he sauntered over to Luci’s bedroom, rolling behind with a cart smothered to the edges in breakfast goodies, the smell of chicory coffee and cinnamon pancakes drifted behind him, as if the smell hadn’t filled their suite enough. He wanted to vomit. Yet his nausea subsided momentarily when he entered the bedroom.
Lucifer was lying on his belly, butt slightly perked up as he snored oh so loudly. His duckling was just the cutest sleeper; when he slept of course. Alastor knew he did not want to upset him, merely that his awakening needed to be gentle.
He stopped the cart by the edge of the bed. Lucifer’s feet barely touched the edge and when fully outstretched, Lucifer would be little under halfway across the bed length-wise due to his height.
Lucifer sniffed the air and held himself as he sighed in relief. Al always wondered what he dreamt some nights. Some nights he himself wrote entries of what he dreamt among other personal thoughts. He felt Luci’s were like no others, yet at the same time, a blend of worrisome torment or rainbows and rubber ducks.
Alastor’s shadow removed Al’s sleepwear except for his apron. He felt himself twitch at the new nude sensation—albeit with his apron. He leaned by the side of the bed and nibbled at Lucifer’s exposed neck, feeling the veins rub against his tongue, before leaning up to bite his earlobe. All the while with a hand lightly rubbing into his golden locks, he whispered in his ear.
“Oh my Duckling. I made you breakfast…” he said before pausing, waiting for some response, be it movement or speech—yet only loud snore came from it. Alastor smiled as he removed his apron, his now naked fluffy body rubbing against Luci’s as he held himself close. Luci adjusted and flopped flat down, before turning so that he faced Alastor.
Lucifer’s face was an inch away from Alastor’s. Al watched him as he slept. He took note of his soft skin, eyeing his chest, before getting a glance at his rubber ducky pajamas pants. Alastor moved a hand onto Lucifer’s face, cupping his cheek as he kissed his other cheek. A golden blush formed from his lips. Lucifer’s eyes opened with the weight of pulling a heavy cargo, barely moving, inch-by-inch.
He yearned to know how Lucifer became this way. Yet he also knew that afflictions like sleeplessness were common and differs from person-to-person in their cause. He too had bouts of restlessness. Right now however, he was wide awake, happy to see Luci asleep. This joy continued despite being the one to now stirring him awake.
Lucifer sniffed and arched his head to kiss Al’s chin.
“Mmm…what time is it? I’m so tired, Bambi…I feel stinky.” His voice was coarse at first, as if he hadn’t spoken before in ages, which in this case still wasn’t wrong. It came to its normal cadence after he coughed.
“It’s only Noon, sweet prince.” Alastor replied with outstretched hand to hold Lucifer’s face from hair to chin, rubbing his knuckles against his cheek, before Luci sucked on his thumb.
The Prince of Hell was always a tired fellow. The bags under his eyes never left, except with the daily aid of makeup to brighten and lift them up. As he took notice of the way his eyelashes fluttered when he inched his lids open, with a slurping noise, did Lucifer take out Alastor’s thumb from his mouth. It dripped with his saliva, which Al just let dry in time.
Lucifer’s lips turned into a frown, whether or not he was genuinely depressed it was always hard for Al to tell. Then again was he frowning prior to him being woken up? This Alastor could not recall. One thing was true, Alastor knew of Lucifer’s history, so he did not question that any depression did not exist in some shape or form. Yet on the daily did his usual face grow into some mixture of frowns or a straight face.
Alastor however always kept a smile. Perhaps it was his torment or, as he recalled, calling to his own philosophy of living in pleasure—be it real or not. Only when he was alone, did Alastor let his mask slip, and some violent apparition took over him. He wouldn’t even let Lucifer, the love of his afterlife, dare see him cracking. Finally, Lucifer sat up and stretched, his achy bones cracking between his knees and shoulders.
Alastor sat up soon after and watched wordlessly as the prince got off the bed and slouched over to the bathroom and nonchalantly shut the door half-ajar. He could hear the sound of running water followed by a sigh. The food was still steaming. His shadow was by the door and biting his nails. His apparition slid under the doorframe. Alastor felt a gentle touch against his shoulders. It was like little pin pricks all over his back. His shadow was in the shower with Lucifer, yet this formless cloud still left to sensations like this for the radio demon.
The water shut off and momentarily a dry Lucifer walked out, his towel slipping behind him as he sat on the bed once more. Alastor looked to him and rubbed his head, ruffling his golden locks.
“You naked thing. You know you’re never fully dressed without a smile.” He motioned at his own lips to forming a grin. He pushed his fingers against the corners of Luci’s lips and formed a smile upon his face.
His mask slipped as he stuck out his tongue at Al and laughed. This laughter was such a relief. His own smile growing longer and soon enough the deer couldn’t stop himself from chuckling short delighted snorts.
Once more he snorted, but it was cut short by the touch of Luci’s lips on his, his tongue slipping between and swirling against his. That damned forked tongue of his. Al explored his partner’s newly dried chest and felt a sudden petting on Lucifer’s part. His tail. His damned tail. It wagged in short bursts, despite its lacking length, its utter strength was in how fluffy it was.
Lucifer moved his face away and swayed a hand behind Alastor’s hair and snorted too.
“Fuck-ass bob.” The prince exclaimed and soon interrupted Al’s attempt at a rebuttal with a grin.
“My fuck-ass bob.” Which he ended with a gentle hiss between his teeth and exposed his forked tongue to lick at Al’s neck.
Al became putty in his hands. He tilted his head back and moaned as Lucifer kissed again. His eyes widened at the sudden realization that the food smell was in fact actually there and not some fragrance of last night’s dinner.
“Food… for me?” The Prince asked.
“Yes. For you. Mon Cher.” He kissed his forehead and rubbed his thumb against Luci’s earlobe. The prince blushed golden and his member throbbed at the attention. He sniffed Alastor’s neck and kissed again.
“You’re stinky.”
Alastor huffed and couldn’t stop eyeing Lucifer’s attentive member.
“I like it.” Lucifer continued before rubbing his back and sitting on Alastor’s lap, his tip rubbing his partner’s torn belly.
“Carry me. I want to feed you.” Lucifer moaned out.
“I won’t eat any of these sweets.” Al retorted.
Lucifer rose an eyebrow at him and held his hands against the deer’s cheeks and blew an audible smooch.
“If you won’t, then we will.” Lucifer joked.
“Please? You gotta eat.”
The deer got up and carried the light fair prince within his arms, his own member standing to attention soon after, poking at Luci’s tail.
“I think we gotta take care of our problems first…then again…”
Alastor kissed his lips and continued.
“I’m not opposed to start with some cake.”
Lucifer blushed harder and grinned, replying in a soft whisper,
“And my love, I think I’ll gladly share a beignet or two.” before Lucifer wrapped them both entwined in his large white feathery wings, his toes wiggling above Alastor’s knees, laughter echoing around the room, and his tail curled under-over into tight warm coils.
