Husker was near clawing down the walls of the hotel, the sudden ban on booze driving him out of his fur in the worst torment possible. Pacing about the lobby, his bar now empty (which he swore was meant to mock him, seeing as Alastor very well could have just gotten rid of it all together instead of clearing it out), his paws were beginning to hurt in a near manic need to move.
"This is fucking bullshit, I'm losing my fucking mind over here!" Turning to Angel, Husk's arms moved about in tandem with his words, hoping knowing that the spider would be one of the only ones there that might understand what he was going through. "My fur's fucking crawling, a-and I can't stop fucking shaking!" Sure enough, there was a constant tremor to his body, a feather breaking loose from his vibrating wings every so often to flutter about the floor where it would soon be kicked up by his pacing. "I can't fucking think! Everything just feels, fuck I dunno, warm? No, fucking burning all over, a-and tingly. Even when I was alive, it never felt like this when I was dry..."
- ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @ʜᴇʟʟꜱ-ꜰᴠʀʏ 」 ˙ ˖ ✧
「 ☆ 」 This has to be one of the STUPIDEST ideas yet... and that's including the whole premise for the hotel. Angel can understand the logic behind wanting a squeaky-clean persona for the place. It's sort of hard to preach ❛ redemption ❜ and freedom from vices when actively PROVIDING one right in the main lobby. Yet it hardly matters how well they practice what they preach if no one is around to learn. Angel knows that he's just there to fill a bedroom, ❛ progress ❜ or not. It's a pipe-dream with him, and it's not even his unattainable fantasy. Dreaming of angel wings sprouting from his back and a glowing halo hovering above his head is Charlie's schtick. Pentious is no better, the snake starved for praise not piety.
No, he can't imagine it working for either of them... Or anyone else, if he's being honest. But especially not the patrons they currently have. Lack of liquor isn't going to have people breaking down the doors to get in. It's also not going to stop Angel from indulging in his desires elsewhere, dangerous a decision as that may be. It's a shame, really... He had been enjoying having a place he could grab a drink without wondering when it was going to be spiked. Bartender is pretty cute too.
Speaking of which...
Sitting on a stool by the booze-less bar, he watches Husk practically wear a hole in the floor with his pacing. Gaze follows a feather's sad descent as it shakes lose from a trembling wing. Brows knit and a concerned bite to his bottom lip, Angel's fingers drum on his crossed arms as he mulls over the most delicate way to clarify the others... situation. It's painfully apparent that Husk has no clue what's going on. An affliction that Angel's enhanced senses had pegged as soon as he got near the fidgeting feline. It was overwhelming, the fog of pheromones surrounding the poor guy. Were it when Angel only recently arrived in Hell, he'd have gotten dizzy from how thick the air became... Thankfully, he has a better hold of himself now.
Practice makes perfect, he guesses. That and overexposure to the stuff thanks to a certain aphrodisiac-addled moth. ❝ I, uh... I got a pretty good idea why that is. But you ain't gonna like it, Whiskers. ❞ Angel begins when Husk has finished spewing his shaky woes. One leg crossed over the other, he bounces his knee in a small fidget. ❝ When you were alive, I'm guessin' you weren't exactly... a cat. ❞ A finger lightly motions at Husk with the statement. ❝ An' bein' THIS comes wit' a few— eh, let's call 'em complications. ❞ Normally he'd jokingly refer to it as a ❛ perk ❜ , but now isn't the time. Not with Husk.
Standing up from his seat, Angel then rips off the bandage with a blunt, ❝ Sorry tomcat, yer in heat. ❞ 「 ☆ 」
What Angel went through each and every day wasn't a secret, no matter how hard the spider tried to keep it to himself. Husk had seen it first (though one could argue it had been spotted through subconscious familiarity as opposed to it conjuring from observation alone), Charlie had seen it first hand (oh how he would have loved to see just what she would have done to the disgusting bug), and Alastor himself knew because he knew Valentino and how he'd treated Vox before...
It didn't matter, Alastor knew Angel didn't ever leave that place unscathed, but he didn't know just how much pain Val put him through every day.
He'd nearly forgotten about their deal, the sharing of pain to lessen Angel's fatal wounds by having Alastor shoulder half of the burden. Half of the pain was rather important, it meaning that what he had felt when he'd suddenly hit the floor earlier that day, cheek stinging with blood dripping down his chin despite no physical blow landing on him, it was only half was of whatever Angel was dealing with, and continued to deal with until returning to the hotel that evening. He'd expected the spider to be struggling through the doors with how his own body ached, but to Al's utter bafflement Angel looked no worse for wear.
No bruise on his cheek, Al and him both having hidden it behind makeup (though Angel's work was far better than his own), no limp where the deer's leg threatened to buckle, nothing. It was impressive, if not horribly concerning, Al unable to dwell on what scared him more; the fact Angel was so adept at hiding his pain, or the fact that he even cared about such a thing, when a subtle bump of the spider's knee against Husk's bar had sent the Radio Demon to the floor.
Wide eyed where he'd fallen to a knee, Alastor almost didn't register the cry of pain from his lips, the deer not able to process what had even happened until Angel loomed over him, angrier than Al had ever seen him.
"Oh shit-"
- ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @hells-fvry 」 ˙ ˖ ✧
「 ☆ 」 Angel hadn't wanted to accept Alastor's deal... Had been willing to wait for his mangled body to bleed out before he took the Radio Demon's hand. No offense to Alastor, but accepting the mercy of Overlords had been soured for Angel years ago. All thanks to the first and LAST one he was stupid enough to ensnare himself with in a deal meant for ❛ his benefit ❜ . Not that Angel would put Alastor on the same dangerous pedestal as Valentino. Not even close. Personal bias or not, it's difficult for others to scare the spider when the moth demands the lion's share of his fear.
When it comes to the Radio Demon, he's not sure where he stands. There's no blatant animosity between the pair— like one would expect with such drastically different and dynamic forces meeting —but it's not as though Angel is willingly baring his throat to the other. Not when it wouldn't surprise him if it was torn out seconds later. This is HELL... and Angel knows what his worth amounts to for someone like Alastor. Indifferent ( as far as he knows ) to the spider's wiles, even if he's surprisingly willing to play along with the others playful flirtations. But entertainment, nonetheless.
Frustratingly, Angel had been coerced into taking Alastor's hand... because he felt as though it would hurt the Overlord if he didn't. Unsure what bothered him more— being foolish enough to humor such a thought, or that he let it sway him —the spider decided to put it out of his mind. A one-and-done agreement, Alastor taking away some of the burden so Angel wouldn't contend with limbo. With no desire to dwell, that moment faded from a gnawing in his guts to merely a bitter taste in his throat whenever he did let it flicker to the forefront.
Seeing Alastor fall to the floor brought the nausea back tenfold.
Puzzle pieces didn't fall into place immediately, Angel aiming a concerned quizzical look Alastor's way when he cried out. All this time spent around the Radio Demon, yet he doesn't think he's heard the deer in pain. Initial shock slows Angel's reasoning, but it only provides a moment of respite before horrible realization dawns. Alastor's knee had buckled the second Angel's bumped the bar. It was barely anything to blink at for the spider— accustomed to enduring far more in even worse condition —but it seemed to immobilize Alastor... Fuck. This better be a coincidence. There better be an explanation aside from the manipulative motherfucker biting off more than he could chew. Otherwise, who knows what Alastor has endured today.
All because Angel couldn't do the decent thing and die.
❝ Yeah. Oh shit. ❞ Looming over the pitiful creature before he's fully aware, Angel pays no heed to the bewilderment he suspects will grip any witnesses. He's lost his temper a few times around the hotel, but not with Alastor ( oddly enough ) and never enough to YANK the other up by his lapels. Especially for something as nonsensical as ❛ being hurt ❜ . Few would dare lay a hand on the Radio Demon, and even fewer would bring that razor ❛ smile ❜ up to their face. Every eye open and glowing with barely-restrained rage, he gutturally growls through gritted teeth, ❝ You have five fuckin' seconds ta tell me you didn' do what th' FUCK I think you did... ❞
Fur bristles further as claws lightly tear into threads, Alastor brought close to the sinner's snarling maw. Angel grateful the deal only betrays the pain accosting his body and not the terror he feels weighing on his chest. One he tries to subdue with silent reassurances that Alastor can fix this. Surely the deal-maker can break chains he forged. After experiencing a day in the body of Angel Dust— somewhat, Angel recalling the conditions of their arrangement... misleading as they were —it would be ridiculous to do otherwise. There's no possible gain in this deal any more. Aside from proof that Angel isn't nearly as unaffected as he tries to seem.
"I didn't leave on purpose, you know." An out of nowhere comment spoken in a delirious haze where Alastor found himself near bleeding out in Vox bed once again, his powers still not recovered from his brush with Adam, despite that being months ago. It had been stupid to start the squabble after just so happening to bump into Vox while walking past the front of his tower, whistling a jaunty tune he knew to be one of the TV's old favorites, but this wound had left him itching for violence, it having been too long since he'd been able to really let loose thanks to how slowly his body healed. It was like being human all over again, the threat of dying looming over his head and everything. Only this time he was sure there wasn't another Hell for him to manifest into. To get a second chance in.
He wanted a fight, and for all his posturing, he knew Vox wouldn't kill him, not with the weakened state he was in. That wasn't how they operated, kicking the other while they were down, it not beign any fun in such an unfair fight. Even if given a fair chance, however, Alastor had a feeling Vox wouldn't kill him, and Al almost hated that he could say the same. It would be so very dull without the stupid television around to pester whenever he pleased and knew he was safe doing so, no matter how many claw marks marred his body by the end.
This was only confirmed when Alastor not only woke up in general, but did so in Vox's room. The last he'd remembered their fight had taken them to the roof, and then...nothing. He'd burnt his powers out to the point that his body ached with even the thought of using them to any capacity. He was doing this too often, not giving himself time to heal. If he thought about it too much, he could almost call it a punishment, to be flirting with death like he was.
Slowly fading back into consciousness, Alastor used his radio frequency to find Vox when his body wouldn't respond, the natural hum of what he assumed was this body life force reaching staticy feelers out until pinging off Vox's own buzz. He was there, Al wasn't alone.
Any attempt at talking to Al would only lead to silence, though not from lack of trying. Body so drained, not even his vocal cords would respond beyond an unnatural crackling of dead air whenever he'd tried to speak. So he'd settled for simply using his frequency to communicate, it being buzzed or mellowed in lieu of a yes or no. He'd even panicked when he couldn't feel Vox in the room anymore after waking up from an impromptu nap earlier in the day (or maybe night? He didn't actually know how long he'd been there, and strangely, he was perfectly content to keep it that way until he was able to move again.) While short stretches of his unseen staticy appendage equated to hardly more than an inconvenient cough in terms of pain, when Alastor had reached all the way down to the lobby of the building, he had to suddenly cut the noise as his body protested in the form of throwing up what little he'd managed to eat since first waking up there.
He was pretty sure Vox had been up and at his side in the span of a mere blink, but with how his head throbbed, it very well could have been hours he'd lost to the pain. He still hurt, but it was less of an edge now that he could feel Vox in the room again, it being so much of a comfort, sinking him so deeply into security, he'd blurted out a secret only Husker knew (and that was only because the cat was so damned observant).
He didn't take back his words though, his eyes being set in the direction he was pretty sure Vox was in (when had everything become so fuzzy-) with what one could just barely call a smile on his face. "I was a fool, Vox. A twice damned fool..."
This was dangerous, trying to talk about it so blatantly. Even if he wanted to tell the whole story, he couldn't as part of the deal. Should he try to explain where he had been in earnest, it would feel as if his body was but a voodoo doll being stabbed over and over again. This was a time he didn't care, however, where he fought through the prickly warning beneath his skin. Vox needed to know he hadn't left of purpose, that it hadn't been his choice. He couldn't say why, or maybe he just didn't want to, but he needed his old friend to know.
- ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @hells-fvry 」 ˙ ˖ ✧
「 ☆ 」 Alastor's alluring annoying whistling had reached Vox's ears like a siren song, that damned Radio Demon acting like a ghost of the past. Taking every opportunity to haunt him, prodding at the weakness of who he used to be. Dangling the idea of who they he could have been just out of his reach; time and bad blood between them making it an even bigger impossibility than when they were on good terms. Yet Vox can't shed the ingrained bitterness only past hope could spawn, merely seeing Alastor enough to make him spark ( in several ways ) .
Vox used to think there was no personal Hell like when Alastor had gone missing for years but ever since the deer made his ❛ triumphant ❜ return, he's been doing everything in his power to prove Vox wrong. Yet Vox knows that, were he given the choice to go back to that uncertain time, he couldn't. Life without Alastor was... unsatisfying. A gaping emptiness in the hellscape, that refused to be filled no matter how much control he amassed or how much attention he garnered from Valentino.
Can he really be blamed if he comes running whenever Alastor calls?
Yes. And Vox shall continue to LOATHE his actions as they cause him to claw into the old-timey prick whose crushing grip never waned, even as the years trudged forward with no remorse... As well as carry Alastor's limp body to his own bedroom, dressing wounds and setting down the other's battered form ( pride in his victory tarnished by how clearly weakened Alastor was, now that Vox is calm enough to notice ) with more gentleness than anyone has experienced from the television demon.
Spending hours tending to the Radio Demon's needs, silent as the other aside from when he inquired about what was needed. His thoughts were loud enough. No need to add to the cacophony with idle chit-chat. Especially with someone who could barely provide a yes or no in response. Although he did play music from the room's speakers, if only for Alastor's benefit. A soothing serenade of jazz; playlist specifically made from the songs Alastor introduced him to during the start of their unforeseen companionship. Beginning with the very song used to lure him in.
When Alastor finally drifted into slumber, Vox had taken the opportunity to get some work done. After spending an hour or so standing at the bedside, just in case the deer woke up. This unexpected... inconvenience had stolen nearly his entire day, which would be exhausting at best and impossible at worst to make up without lingering consequences. He had barely managed to put a dent in the piled up memos before he felt that achingly familiar sparking presence. In an instant, the television had shot to the Radio Demon's side. Vibrating with barely-contained panic as if he expected the other to somehow be in danger, despite being in arguably one of the safest places in Hell. With how unsettlingly feeble Alastor is, the fear feels warranted.
Heavy breathing settles when he sees the room exactly as he left it, including the man upon the bed. Walking over with a practiced look of disdain, he's about to complain about being interrupted for seemingly no reason— would it kill Alastor to give him five minutes? —when the other breaks the silence instead. Steps falter, composure breaking in a manner unlike Vox. In a way Alastor never lost the ability to force from him. Narrowed eyes wide in clear shock, daresay unnerved at being met with a display of... honesty? Compassion. His only solace is that he doubts Alastor can see him through such dazed eyes.
Vox plasters on a more suitable expression regardless.
Stalking toward the bed, steps slow... reluctant calculated, hands leave their place behind his back to grip the side of the bed instead. Claws dig into the blanket, sparks dancing along his fingertips as he leans closer. Voice but a curt growl, filling the air between him and Alastor, not even the rest of the room permitted to hear. ❝ Alright. Let's say I believe you. Let's say you didn't intend to leave me for ѕєνєη ₣Ʉ₵₭ł₦₲ уєαяѕ... ❞ Voice cracks, Vox praying the trembling that follows will be mistaken as such, ❝ Why did I have to hear about your return— ❞
Swallowing thickly, he shakily exhales before hissing through the bitter taste in his mouth, ❝ —from Valentino. ❞ Over a week. Seven years of nothing and then when Alastor comes back, he didn't seek him out. Didn't so much as tell him. How is it that, after all the pain endured not knowing if Alastor had been slain without his knowledge, how Vox learned he was ALIVE is what hurt the most... 「 ☆ 」
"You have been jumping through quite an extensive set of hoops to avoid me, łīⱦⱦłē đᵾȼҟ, and I wish to know why." Cornering Lucifer in his own room in a wisp of shadow, Alastor's smile was as big and sharp as ever, but pulled just a bit too tight as he loomed over the smaller demon. Something wasn't right, things had been fine, even after they-
Things had been fine, until all of a sudden Lucifer seemingly vanished from the halls of the hotel, Alastor unable to shake the feeling that somehow he had been the cause. How was he meant to get Lucifer's attention play with the little king's temper if there was no king to poke? //🦆🥚🦌
- ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @ʜᴇʟʟꜱ-ꜰᴠʀʏ 」 ˙ ˖ ✧
「 ☆ 」 This shouldn’t be possible… Granted, Lucifer doesn’t know EVERYTHING there is to know about these things. The workings of his own anatomy is an enigma to say the least, both him and Lilith flabbergasted at Charlie’s conception. But it still feels like this shouldn’t be occurring. Like he’s somehow committed a heinous sin against Alastor despite the deer being very involved in the act as well. If anything, Lucifer would argue it’s mainly Alastor’s fault for confronting him in the first place! Honestly, he may go so far as to say it’s solely Alastor’s— Okay, fine. That’s not true.
It’s still mostly Alastor’s fault though.
Pacing with his head down and mind swimming, the sharp click of hooves echo in the spacious room. Forging his usual attire in favor of pajamas— rubber-duck-patterned pants and a loose-fitting shirt with an image of one asleep —messy hair and frantic mutterings don’t help with his frazzled demeanor. This is insane… It’s utterly nonsensical! How could it even— Why would it—
Alastor hates him. No he doesn’t. Alastor hates him. If he did, then why is spawn preparing to enter the world? … Alastor is going to hate him, once he learns of this. Alright, that makes sense. Hands subconsciously resting over his stomach, Lucifer barely feels any different. Yet he KNOWS what is brewing. At first, he’d been confused but not suspicious. Husk offering him food— insisting he take it —had been strange, but nothing to obsess over. That nagging urge to find Alastor, the near-anxiety of not being in close-proximity to the deer… it was annoying, but Lucifer could still brush it off as an unfortunate effect of the— … shift in their relationship.
Lucifer always has been a bit on the clingy side ( ironically, it’s one of the strongest reasons he can have an unfortunate habit of distancing himself ) … and Alastor has been confusing as of late. It’s no wonder that after being— cared for by him, he wouldn't know how to act around the deer. That was the assumption until he found himself hurling into the toilet, a sudden and strong bout of morning sickness making him fall to his knees... and he NEVER gets sick. The only other time he ailed like this was when— Hence, the madman pacing as he tries to fight back the tightness in his chest.
Two days. He has TWO days... Technically one before he starts ❛ showing ❜ , and then the egg will be here. There will be no hiding it then. Especially not since nesting instincts will glue him to it, tasked with keeping it safe for WEEKS ( twenty-eight days, to be exact ) until it's ready to hatch. Practically bedridden, needing to warm and diligently turn the precious creature, lest things go... badly. And he REFUSES to let any harm befall his newest child... His and Alastor's chi—
❝ Oh fuck. ❞ He mutters, skidding to a halt as the subject of his panicked pondering materializes in front of him. As if summoned by being the SOURCE of Lucifer's problems, the deer now towers over him, sending a shiver up the ❛ little duck's ❜ spine thanks to that stupidly-enjoyable nickname. The same one that set this whole dance into motion. ❝ You— You want to know why? Oh. Okay. That's... That's um, that's— doable. Yep. I can definitely do that. ❞
Mouth rambling without his agreement, Lucifer internally reprimands himself for spending so much time fretting over how Alastor may react to the news, yet not figuring out how he was going to TELL him. Short of shoving an egg in his face and saying ❛ Guess what? ❜ . Barking out a nervous laugh, crimson hues flit around the room as he briefly considers teleporting out of there. But whatever few moments that would allow him still wouldn't be nearly enough to compose a plan... It still takes him a second to shake off the temptation.
❝ I, uh... Well. You see— I... have a— ... We have— ❞ Coughing into a closed fist, Lucifer then looks up at Alastor, takes a deep breath and ever-so-delicately... BLURTS out, ❝ I'm pregnant. ❞
❝ And it's yours. Just in case that wasn't clear. ❞ 「 ☆ 」
「 ☆ 」 Grumbling as he enters the hotel, he doesn't even attempt to fix his disheveled fur, fluff sticking up in all directions thanks to the frigid wind. It's still an improvement to what it had been earlier, Angel able to snag a quick shower to rid himself of... evidence of the workday ( the superficial type that CAN be remedied by a hot yet hasty shower ) before sneaking out of the recording studio. Despite having been done filming for the day— one that had stretched deep into the night thanks to Valentino feeling a rush of manic ❛ inspiration ❜ —Angel doubted the moth would be happy about him retreating to the hotel instead of opting to stay close-by.
So, he had hurried out. Dodging as many people as he could and hoping he'd be long-gone before Val was any the wiser. Knowing someone would squeal— be it out of spite or self-preservation —but ready to accept whatever HELL reigned down upon him tomorrow. But these few hours, this brief but blessed stretch of night, belongs entirely to HIM. He could attempt to sleep. Rest his aching body for another day of being the ❛ luckiest bitch in Hell ❜ ... Or he could drink enough to make him dizzy. It's not like sleep is easy to come by unless it's due to a blackout anyway.
Muttered complaints come to a halt at the sound Husk's voice, as do his footsteps, the weary clicking of heels giving way to the eerie silence of a mostly slumbering hotel. He hadn't expected company but with how Husk looks, maybe he should have. Cover of darkness provides Husk more of a courtesy than the spider, Angel's eyes not as adept at cutting through its shroud. But the closer he gets— movements steadier now as the spider stubbornly refuses to limp —the easier it is to see that sleep has not been treating the feline kindly either. Upper hands run through his bangs, making himself more presentable as he dryly replies, ❝ Yeah? I hadn' noticed. ❞
Hoisting himself onto the counter beside Husk with a wince, marks that couldn't be fixed with a shower are hidden beneath his clothes. Bruises and claw marks litter his form, yet Angel's actions are smooth as ever, fingers delicately picking up a feather from the counter and playfully flicking it at Husk's muzzle, ❝ You ain't exactly lookin' too hot yerself, Whiskers. ❞ Despite the purr in his tone, Angel doesn't make any further moves to invade Husk's personal space. Instead, he snatches the bottle from the other's grasp and takes a swig from it. Sighing at the warmth hitting his stomach, shoulders relax a bit now that he's home back.
❝ You here by choice or is it jus' one'a those nights? ❞ He casually asks, playfulness gone for the moment as he offers the bottle back. 「 ☆ 」
✧ 「 @wrinkled-sheets-and-sunlight 」 ✧ - Continued from ★
「 ☆ 」 Vox… doesn’t know how he would feel if Alastor died. Genuinely died. He knows what he would DO. He’d openly celebrate, probably get fucked by his boyfriend business partner, and then set things into motion to gain a better grasp on the gaping hole in the power dynamic of Hell that would be felt with the Radio Demon’s absence. Things like that are seldom around for long, after all. With how ravenously denizens of Hell act when there’s so much as a sniff of imbalance. It’s not dissimilar to what he did when Alastor merely disappeared… for years. After their- … violent spat.
He doesn’t care to recall how he felt when his former friend infatuation rival vanished. The confusion. The panic. The anger. The shame. The weakness. Should Alastor perish, Vox would be a fool to think the emotional turmoil wouldn’t be far worse. Sure, he could get swept up in the fantasy. So long as it was detached. Subconsciously unreachable. A way to expel years of hurt. Free to cheer and complain and not actually comprehend the possibility of Alastor being defeated. It was Alastor. An annoying constant of damnation— … most of the time. How easily one can slip back into taking someone for granted.
Besides, if anyone was going to kill Alastor… Part of him, twisted and disgusting, would want it to be him. He’s not entirely sure why.
He’d rather not dwell too deeply on it.
Hands slowly work at buttons, almost an unwitting reverence in the action. When Alastor appeared at the tower, he had been shocked to say the least. Down in seconds, embarrassingly fast but having acted before he could consider the implications. A pattern that remained strong, the pair now in the privacy of his room… with clothing being removed. Only Alastor’s shirt and due to morbid curiosity, but still. It’s enough to make his screen heat up, Vox grateful he’s managed to keep from sparking. However he didn’t manage to keep quiet.
Tensing as Alastor draws attention to muttered words he had NOT intended to let slip— lips always were looser around this damn deer —gaze doesn’t leave Alastor’s chest. ❝ Get bent, Al. If anyone here’s an ❛ antique ❜ , it’s the Radio Demon. ❞ Older vernacular slips thanks to the odd familiarity of such a scene, rather than the usual ❛ Fuck you ❜ he's come to adopt. Careful to change his persona along with the steady march of progress through the decades. Even internally correcting himself whenever slang from when he was alive enters his thoughts. It's not much of a change from BEING alive, Vox the sort to weed out overly-casual speech in order to keep up appearances. Frankly, he's become a lot more crass since entering Hell.
Stubbornly fixated, he finally opens the garment, revealing a brutal looking wound. Sucking in a sharp breath, brows knit over wide eyes. Gaze dulls at being faced with the reality of the fight... of almost having lost Alastor. It settles heavily on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. Nearly making it impossible to speak. He only snaps out of it when his fingers are slowly reaching toward Alastor's chest, intending to gingerly brush down. Blinking when he's torn from the haze and back to the absurdity of the moment, fingers hastily curl as his hand retracts.
With a thick swallow, he takes a step back. Clearing his throat, he straightens his suit with a sharp tug, still refusing to meet Alastor's gaze, ❝ ... Those stitches look like shit. ❞ 「 ☆ 」
Husk's fur had bristled the moment Charlie had answered the door to reveal a spider none of them had seen before waiting on the other side. They hadn't met him, but Bo had, albeit in another life, and though they looked far different than they had when still breathing, Husk knew just who had walked through those doors.
"What the fuck-" A slam of paws on his bar-top, claws gripping tight into the wood with enough force to leave ruts. "Are you doin' here, you goddamn son 'f a bitch-" He had been cut off at that, Charlie, bless her bleeding heart, had no idea who she had just let into their hotel. It didn't take a genius to know why he was here, and the moment Anthony's Angel's name had left that spider's lips, Husk had been up and over the bar with the crashing of glasses and bottles being left in his wake" "You keep his fuckin' name out of your mouth, or I swear to fuck I'll rip your throat out with my goddamn teeth, you motherfuckin', cock suckin', good for nothin' prick-" //-whistles-
- ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @hells-fvry 」 ˙ ˖ ✧
「 ☆ 」 Stepping foot in this fucking hotel was the last thing Arackniss wanted to do. Decades of avoiding his brother ( once Arackniss was aware of what happened to Anthony ) , gone to waste thanks to his dad having a brilliant idea. For one so quick to declare someone ❛ dead to him ❜ , the fickle mafioso sure embraced forgiveness once the disgraced son became appropriately useful again. Whenever one of THOSE happens, Arackniss is usually the one who has to put in the dirty work to help it come to fruition... Flattering as it is frustrating, Arackniss getting no praise should he succeed yet feeling the looming weight of punishment should he fail.
Thankfully, the Princess was accommodating as expected... It took no effort to get through the hotel doors, and even less to inquire about ❛ Angel ❜ . For a split second of hope ( dangerous to indulge in, no matter how small a taste ) Arackniss dared to think he could speak to Anthony with hardly a fuss. If there was a struggle, he knows his younger brother would be smart enough to keep it away from prying eyes. It's doubtful Anthony wants their business known by everyone either.
Of course, this wouldn't be Hell if things could be so simple. No, scratch that— it wouldn't be Arackniss's fucking life. ❝ Oh for fuck's sake. ❞ He growls under his breath at the sudden disruption, fur bristles with a sharp intake through bared fangs. It may have been years— may have been an entire lifetime ago, but Dante Arackniss would recognize that voice anywhere.
Frankly, he's been waiting a long time to beat the guy it belongs to senseless. Any chance of subtlety was denied the moment Bo took notice of him, the bartender hurling himself over the counter without a shred of hesitation. Not that Arackniss is much better, meeting the challenge head-on with a visceral hunger that's been gnawing at his stomach since he first saw his brother aim a lovesick look the other man's way. As much as Anthony tried to hide it— before even Bo knew —Dante had spent too long studying every shadow and checking every corner to miss something so obvious in his own kin. Not that he ever told.
Not that it ever mattered. Their dad was always hard on Anthony regardless, even if he never discovered the full depths of his son's secrets. He suspected, as they all did. But Bo never found himself on the wrong end of a gun, so EVERY dot clearly hadn't been connected... Dante should have done it himself.
Maybe then Tony would have lived.
❝ Figlio di puttana! ❞ Clawing at his attacker, he curses his inability to get a grip on his gun. Too busy trying to keep from being ripped to shreds, all while digging into Bo's flesh deeply as he can. He might be a competent fighter despite his size ( always has been ) but Bo is hardly a push-over either, and there's something to be said for the added strength protective rage can give. Spitting in the others eye, the small spider retorts in Italian, ❝ Oh, we usin' ❛ cock-suckin' ❜ as an insult, huh? That's REAL rich comin' from th' guy who had my brotha' chokin' on his! ❞
❝ What th' Hell are you even doin' here? Haven' you ruined his life enough? Tony fuckin' DIED 'cause'a you! You killed my fuckin' baby brotha' you selfish piece'a shit! You no-good, flea-ridden, cowardly FUCK— ❞ 「 ☆ 」
"Attaccati a sto cazzo..." Spoken without thinking, the Italian insult was a kneejerk reaction to a certain spider's...insult? Flirtation? In the same language when given attitude by the depressed grumpy bartender thanks to the usual...antics. "I don't have time for your shit today, now do you want a drink or not?"
- ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @ʜᴇʟʟꜱ-ꜰᴠʀʏ 」 ˙ ˖ ✧
「 ☆ 」 It had been a slow day around the hotel. Which should be a blessing to the far-too-often overworked spider. But the air was thick with an unsettling silence: Charlie and Vaggie scoping the sinful wasteland for potential participants, Pentious creating God-doesn't-know-what with the help of his Egg bois, Nifty probably tormenting bugs somewhere, and Alastor... Honestly, who the fuck knows.
With quiet comes the chance for his mind to wander... and not always to the nicest of places. Weighing his best options between getting fucked up or getting fucked, Angel figured he'd see what entertainment the bartender had to offer before waltzing off to greener, sexier pastures. Who knows, maybe this time Husk would stop being such an infuriating prude and snag a piece. However, the direction this conversation took was FAR different than anything Angel had anticipated.
It had been a simple comment, not even truly meant to get under the feline's fur. A flirty, if insulting, purr of Italian. ❛ An’ people say th’ Perfect Man doesn’ exist~ ❜
Apparently, he's not the ONLY one in the hotel with a knowledgable tongue.
❛ Cling to his own cock ❜ , huh? Angel wouldn't have expected Husk to be the type to go for such a colorful retort, but he's not exactly upset about it. Blinking away his surprise, lids lower in a familiarly-studious gaze as Angel rests an elbow on the counter and props up his cheek upon a fist. ❝ Pfft— Are ya serious, babe? 'Cause it looks ta me like you got all th' time in th' world. I am yer only customa', afta' all... ❞
Snarky remark wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary, if it hadn't been smoothly spoken in Italian. Wanting to see if Husk will notice the change or unwittingly slip into it, he finishes with a playfully-condescending, ❝ What's th' matta', Drink Daddy? Don' enjoy my company?~ ❞ 「 ☆ 」
