#brublurbs

[brewstersbru]

I want to get more used to writing low stakes lil blurbs so please enjoy this, also posted on ao3 under my pseud brewstersbru :) hopefully being able to post it here will bring the perfectionism anxiety down lol

***

Astarion is perhaps the one of the most interesting, irritating, but somehow undoubtedly kind people Halsin has ever observed. Though he’d flay anyone who had the audacity to tell him it.

The duties of an Arch-Druid are many, and often arduous in nature, but nonetheless rewarding. And it all boils down to watching, observing, noticing little idiosyncrasies in the people he leads. The people who trust him with their lives and wellbeing. Halsin has become well-accustomed to watching, as any good leader must and it is no surprise that the skill has followed him to where he is now, camping with a menagerie of illithid-infected souls, searching for a cure.

Though, with this aforementioned observational skill, Halsin has gotten the distinct impression that many of them seek quite a bit more than a simple cure. Absolution, freedom, a clearer path forward. It is so often in the words they don’t say, rather than those they choose to reveal. For example, Gale never talks of an ‘after’, a concept all of the others seem so enamored with, save Astarion, of course. He simply hums and offers a small melancholy smile when conversation turns to the topic of everyone’s plans after they find a cure. It wasn’t difficult to figure him out, not when Halsin had been paying attention. Gale is convinced that dying is the only way to atone for his sins. To be forgiven.

Halsin’s heart aches at the thought; poor child, it is not a sin to wish to be loved. But he digresses.

Astarion, curiosity that he is, had immediately captured Halsin’s attention when he’d joined camp. On the surface he seemed shallow, and ill-tempered, but Halsin has not gotten this far in life by making quick judgements on a person’s first actions after he’s met them. Sure enough, he’d caught a glimpse of the real Astarion not even two days later.

It had been a long day, brimming with long, arduous battles after which they had all come out exhausted and bloodied. Wyll, with his lion’s heart, had fought especially ferociously. Perhaps too much so. His robe was torn horribly across the front and he’d had to be propped up as they trudged back to camp, unfortunately neither Halsin nor Shadowheart had maintained enough energy to heal anyone.

Astarion had almost immediately wedged himself under Wyll’s arm, curling an arm around his waist while also berating him as they walked. “What in the hells were you thinking jumping out like that! You’re weak, leave the feats of strength to Karlach you dolt!” And on and on. The words were cutting, and not entirely fair, but still, his hands remained gentle against his friends skin and he walked slowly so as not to jostle his injuries.

Shadowheart- exhausted herself, likely with a beast of a headache after all of the concentration spells she’d been slinging- had told Astarion to shut it, only hearing the words and not the worry behind them. He had obliged- another kindness-as his eyes darted around the scrunched pain painted over her expression and his own expression set in resolve. Still, he performed a pout, and everyone took it for what it was- or rather, what he’d wanted them to take it for: Astarion being his usual surly self.

Halsin took it for what it truly was, a man doing his best to aid his friends and keep their spirits high after such a grueling encounter. He’d thought they needed someone to direct their exhausted irritation at, lest they start picking themselves apart instead (something Halsin had noticed, but was unaware Astarion knew of) and offered himself like it was as natural as breathing.

The kindnesses didn’t stop there, either. When they made it to camp he’d taken Wyll to his bedroll as the others collapsed onto their own. Rummaged through the camp supplies until he found a potion of greater healing, then did not feed it to Wyll until he was half asleep and delirious.

“Mmh… Dad?” Wyll had murmured, eyes squinted closed as he moved his head around. Astarion had simply hummed and continued feeding him the potion.

For the rest of the night he prepped ingredients with practiced efficiency and left them next to the communal cooking pot for when the rest of the party woke for breakfast. Halsin had needed to trance for a few hours, loathe as he was to turn away from the scene, and when he returned Wyll’s robe had been mended, folded and placed aside his head. Astarion was nowhere to be seen. Halsin hoped he’d found his way to his own tent for a short trance.

Elves do not need to sleep, this much is true, but even a short trance would have done wonders to refresh and replenish his energy. Astarion had to know that.

Halsin is still unsure what the other elf had done for the rest of that night, but he’d emerged from his tent with just as much practiced, haughty vigor as he’d always had halfway through breakfast the next morning.

“Astarion! Good morning! Thank you for aiding me in our trek back yesterday.” Wyll had smiled at him, something warm and molten in his eyes. Astarion simply huffed and waved it off, “Well, dear, someone needed to lecture you about the dangers of heroism. None of these dimwits were going to do it.” Wyll smiled and the others gave halfhearted protests from where they’d been digging into the breakfast Gale had prepared from the ingredients Astarion had left out for him. There was a sparkle in his eye as he caught sight of them eating it, something almost like pride, if Halsin had to name it.

The others had been dumbfounded, asking around the campfire about who had done it. When no one came forward they’d simply shrugged and taken it to mean that the culprit was too humble to take credit. Besides, who were they to question a miracle such as this. No one asked the vampire if he’d done the deed, why would he have? He doesn’t eat food anymore and he doesn’t even really like them.

It’s exactly what he wants them to think. Halsin has to give him points for his dedication to maintaining pretense. Wyll doesn’t mention his robe, but his eyes dart from hand to hand trying to scrutinize any bandages or pricks that might indicate a late-night sewing session. It’s a smart move on his part but Astarion, it seems, is a masterful tailor. His fingers are unbandaged and unbloodied.

Everything carefully thought out and executed. Every kindness meticulously planned and hidden. He truly is an enigma. He would rather his friends believe him selfish and cruel, than see him for the gentle, caring man he truly is.

The kindnesses continue, always carefully implemented so as to erase any and all suspicion that Astarion may have had any part in it. He continues to be outwardly difficult and mean so as to cover his tracks. Halsin can do little but watch, as he always has, that is, until Astarion’s little kindnesses eventually and inevitably extend to him, too.

He is not so easily fooled, has seen past the performance that the other man puts on for some reason that he is still trying to parse.

It’s a quiet evening, the battles of the day had been hard, but nothing they were ill-equipped to handle. The shadow curse has been getting to Halsin, though. Seeing his greatest failure in all of it’s unbearable misery has been weighing on him. And he knows his struggle is not invisible to his fellow party members. They seem unsure what to do about it, though, seeing as he is a centuries old former Arch-Druid with life experience they could hardly fathom. He enjoys his time at camp but cannot say with certainty that he is truly close to anyone there. Though he wishes to be, he is afraid they’ve placed him on somewhat of a pedestal after his actions in the grove, forgetting that he is fallible and full of emotion, same as them.

He very nearly misses it, when it happens, too caught up in his thoughts to hear the slight shuffling near the entrance to his tent. Thankfully, he doesn’t, and emerges with a small smile.

Astarion freezes at the sound of his emergence, crouched over something small and wooden at his feet. Then, almost as if possessed, his shoulders relax and he looks up with a devilish grin. “Halsin! My dear, I was just looking for you. Some wretched little thing of a child has gifted me with perhaps the ugliest wooden duck I’ve ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes on. And these things are in no way ‘beautiful’ on a good day. I cannot have something so… distasteful loitering around my tent. You mentioned you liked ducks so I thought it would be of better use here. Otherwise I’m throwing it in the river.” It’s a lot of words, more than the vampire generally tends to use in casual conversation, as much as he pretends he’s an insufferable chatterbox. That’s the second clue Halsin gets that perhaps there’s more to this than Astarion is telling him. The first being the way he froze, as if he hadn’t been expecting Halsin to be there. “Looking for you”, right…

Astarion stands and nods at the duck on the ground. It’s small, a little misshapen, but it’s got hearts carved where it’s eyes should be and for some reason Halsin finds that hopelessly endearing. He kneels and cradles the thing gently in his cupped palms.

When he looks up Astarion is grinning at him, still in that sneering performative way he likes to, but in his eyes that shine of pride makes itself known. Halsin likes the duck, it’s obvious. And Astarion is proud of himself, but he’ll never tell. He’ll never let anyone else be.

The third clue is dripping sluggishly down Astarion’s finger, stark and red against his deathly pale skin. Halsin remembers the first time he’d whittled. His hands had looked much of the same. He smiles.

“Thank you, Astarion. This is very good. Would you like some salve for your hand?”

Astarion’s eyes widen, only fractionally, but noticeable if you’d been looking in his eyes. And Halsin had been. Still, his expression shutters and he pastes another smirk on before turning his nose up at the duck.

“Thank the Gods, that ugly thing is your problem now. And I’ve no idea what you mean dear, my hand is perfectly serviceable.” He rushes away with a perfunctory wave, likely to rob Halsin of the opportunity to call him out on his bullshit. Halsin only smiles and cradles the duck. He’d bloodied his hands for this, for him. The surge of affection that washes through him is entirely involuntary but wholly welcome.

Astarion wakes from his trance the next morning to a gift settled gently at the entrance of his tent. It’s a wooden cat, masterfully carved from a dark oak and undeniably beautiful. Perfectly fitting the vampire’s tastes and sensibilities.

A note lies beside it in what he recognizes to be Halsin’s messy scrawl.

Thank you, Astarion, again for the duck. It thrills and delights me to know that you care. It did make me feel better, you know, and I still have that salve if you need. All you have to do is ask. I thought I’d return the favor, seeing as you do so much for the camp but refuse to let anyone see it, or thank you.

I see you. I thank you.

Yours,

Halsin

#bg3 #astarion #halsin #bloodbear #halsin x astarion #halstarion #gale being a wet cat #wyll being dashing and heroic #can you tell im swooning #i care him sm #you guys dont get it like i do #covert kindnesses #astarion is kind of like those cats that look away as they slide food towards you #like ‘gods ur pathetic but /here/ i guess’ #brublurbs

[brewstersbru]

Hey folks have some huskerdust !! 🕷️♥️

“I know, I know Legs. I just need to ask you something.” Angel’s eyes scrunch closed and the rest of his expression crumples as he whines out, short and low. Husk hovers his hands over the mottling of bruises and cuts that litter his torso, some still sluggishly bleeding. He itches to bandage them up, but stays himself with the sobering thought that Angel is used to guys touching him when he’s unconscious.

“Angel.” He tries again. Angel shakes his head minutely. “-on’t wanna.” He whines.

“Look at me please? I just want to check that it’s okay that I touch you. You know it’s important to me.”

Angel, with a long, juddering sigh, pulls himself from the cusp of sleep and blinks his eyes open. He frowns, glaring a little as he yawns into his hand. Husk waits patiently at his side, knees beginning to ache with being pressed against the hard wooden floor for so long.

“I told ya I don’t care what you do when I come back doped out like this, Whiskers. Not like I’ll remember it. Hah!” His laugh comes out rough, like it hurts to push from his lips. Husk shakes his head.

“And I told you it doesn’t matter if you’ll remember it or not. I’m not going to be another man who takes advantage of you.” He says, carefully enunciating each word so the message gets through.

Angel curses and flops over onto his side which draws his face infinitely closer to Husk’s own. He meets his eyes with a burning, lidded gaze. Husk keeps his posture relaxed, but his tail puffs at the sudden movement.

“Yer a softie, Husk. I don’t think ya could take advantage of me if you wanted to.” The words are coupled with a rickety, slapped on grin. Husk desperately wants to just shake him until he gets it through his big thick head that that’s not the point. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, it matters what he wants. Does he want Husk touching him after an abusive, grueling shoot? That’s what Husk’s asking, not if he ‘trusts’ him. He sighs.

“You didn’t answer my question. Can I touch you? Just give me an answer and then you can go back to sleep. God knows you’ll be needing it.” And it’s true. Who knows what Val has in store for him tomorrow? He’s better off getting all the rest he can get, while he can.

Angel appraises him with a long, considering look. There’s a lot going on behind his eyes and though Husk is aware of the fact of it, he can’t begin to try to fathom what exactly his thoughts are in this moment. He simply sits back on his heels and awaits his verdict. Every so often his eyes are drawn down to the mess of Angel’s torso. It’s not an intentional thing, but he can feel his hackles rising with the need to Fix It. Husk crushes the feeling down.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity but in reality couldn’t have been longer than five minutes, Angel closes his eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah Husk, you can.” He says, voice as small as Husk thinks he’s ever heard it. It’s strange to hear him so soft when usually he overtakes rooms with booming confidence; he even looks small, now, tucked into himself and using all of his arms to hug himself close as he hunches over.

He doesn’t- maybe he can’t- look at Husk when he speaks. Husk takes the words for the olive branch that they are and nods.

“Okay. Thank you, Angel. S’ all I needed.”

Angel just nods, curling further into himself for a moment before abruptly turning onto his back and feigning sleep. They both know he’s awake- he’s not snoring as loudly or as endearingly as he would if he truly was asleep- but Husk doesn’t call him on it, just reaches down to the first aid kit he’d dragged over in his initial protective rage and starts unpacking the necessary materials. Alcohol (not the fun kind), gauze, tape, and Angel’s preferred- though he’d never tell you it- heart-patterned bandages.

Another glance at Angel’s stiffly unmoving form reminds him that he hadn’t even had time to remove his makeup before passing out from exhaustion. Smears of glittery pink decorate his eye sockets, smudged from what Husk can only assume were punishing bouts of sweat and exercise. Husk pushes down the surge of indignation this thought elicits and smooths Angel’s hair back, thumbing for a moment near his hairline, before standing.

“Be back in a sec. Forgot something.” He keeps his voice low, tries for soothing but probably achieves something more like a dying wood chipper. Angel- who had up until that point been tightly coiled, as if expecting a blow- eases into the cushions at the sound. He hums, “Mmk. Thanks.”

Husk doesn’t respond lest Angel figure out from the cadence of his voice that Husk doesn’t need to be thanked. That he wants to do this. That he likes it.

It’s just- Angel always looks so at peace in these moments. The usual tension in his body melts away leaving nothing but the rawest and purest version of him. Husk loves that version of him, and he loves that Angel trusts him enough to show him it.

Husk returns after a minute or two with a pack of makeup wipes, Angel’s preferred brand, that he’d bought not too long ago precisely for moments like this. Angel was always complaining about glitter getting into his eyes when he forgot to take his makeup off and Husk saw an opportunity to Fix It. There’s not a lot in Angel’s life that Husk is able to help with, but this is something. And he jumped at the chance.

Angel is snoring lightly, right back at the cusp of oblivion that Husk had so heartlessly torn him from before. He sniffs and turns toward Husk when he settles back at his side, curling slightly into his warmth. Husk can’t help the smile that infects his features at the movement.

With careful, callused fingers, Husk begins to dab at the cuts on Angel’s torso. He’s not sure how to feel about the fact that Angel only flinches at the initial sting, not the rest of the painful swipes. It speaks to a depth of experience with this kind of thing that Husk vehemently dislikes the thought of Angel having to go through. Sure, in theory he knows Angel’s been subjected to this bullshit for decades, but to see it spelt out like this? So clearly and heartbreakingly? Husk has to take a moment between cleaning and bandaging the wounds to collect himself.

Angel whines when he takes his hands away.

“Easy. Easy, Legs.” He wants to call him ‘baby’ but isn’t convinced enough of Angel’s unconsciousness to chance it. Angel huffs.

The rest of the bandages go on easily enough, with minimal protests from Angel- which, somehow only seem to occur when Husk pulls away- and Husk smooths a healthy amount of bruise cream on each of Angel’s visible bruises. He’s almost certain there are more hidden beneath the- admittedly skimpy- clothing Angel is wearing, but is unwilling to undress him like this.

Pulling the surprisingly fluffy throw blanket from the back of the couch, Husk drapes it over Angel’s form, smoothing the sides down and tucking his arms beneath its warmth so he doesn’t wake up cold.

Husk is methodical in his cleanup of the first aid supplies, drawing each movement out so that he has more of a reason to stay in the room. To look at the rare smooth openness of Angel’s expression.

Once finished, he sets the kit to the side and picks up the makeup wipes, pulling one from the pack and pinching it between his pointer and thumb as he leans over Angel’s face. He moves one hand to cup his cheek, and the other to begin swiping lightly across Angel’s left eyelid.

Angel flinches a little at the unexpected contact, eyelids fluttering as his expression scrunches, disrupting the smooth peace Husk had so adored. It strikes something sore within Husk to watch.

“Hey. Hey, you’re okay, Baby. I’m not gonna hurt you. Go back to sleep.” The ‘baby’ slips out, Husk just can’t filter his words as carefully when Angel is so close, and so clearly hurting.

Angel’s expression smooths at the sound of his voice, at first fractionally, then all at once. It’s a gift to witness.

He leans his cheek further into Husk’s hand and Husk, unable to curb the small chuckle that bursts from his chest at the sight, smooths his thumb underneath Angel’s newly cleaned eye.

This is perfect. If life was fair and they were free this could be their normal, their everyday intimacies, indulged in unrestrained bliss. Husk allows himself to live in the thought for a moment before moving to clean Angel’s other eye.

He doesn’t flinch this time, simply sinks into Husk’s hand as it cradles his face and tips his right side towards him. Husk lets his fingertips linger against smooth, cool skin as he works. Swiping tenderly with each pass, as if Angel were something worth treating carefully.

Husk finishes his work without fanfare and, with an indulgent, lingering press of his lips to Angel’s warm forehead, he stands.

Only to nearly keel over when he meets Angel’s own, lidded- but OPEN- eyes.

“FUCK!”

Angel laughs, but it’s small and syrupy. Real.

“Thanks, Babycakes.” He offers, reaching his arms above his head in a stretch before settling back, deeper under the covers. “You sure know how to treat a guy. Careful what you offer, though, okay? Might end up with a junkie on your ass if it's too sweet.”

Husk understands what he’s really trying to say and shakes his head.

“Any time, Angel.”

#huskerdust #husker hazbin hotel #angel dust #hazbin hotel #GAY PEOPLE #ive been thinking about husk taking angels makeup off for so long #brainrot #needed to write a little blurb and this helped pull me from my slump a little #please enjoy #sry i havent been writing my car got wrecked on jan 1 and the year has not gotten significantly better from there #hopefully this is the start of me writing more blurbs again #brublurbs #cross posted on ao3 as always bc i crave attention

[brewstersbru]

More halstarion cuz ive been playing my lil origin run; also happy halloween folks !

Pain. Sharp, dragging, unbearable agony against his back. Astarion huffs a small noise of pitiful discontent before clenching his mouth shut. Quiet. Can’t let him hear you. His fangs tear a little into his gums, but there isn’t enough blood in him for any to really trickle out of the wounds. 

A voice- disembodied, but cold and lilting as ever- sounds from behind. “My dear, how prettily you bleed. Even lovelier now, with the poetry I am bestowing upon you. Truly, a gift. And what do we say to gifts, Astarion?” 

Astarion moans miserably into the ground- or is it a steel surgical table? He can’t remember, he can’t focus. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. There’s a feeling of hands in his hair, grasping, tearing- the flash of a derisive, fanged grin- “What do we say, Astarion?”

His name sounds like rot coming from his lips, similar to the way one would utter the word “disgusting” or “vile”. Astarion hiccups with the force of his suffering- it’s simply too much, never before has Cazador been so persistent, never before has he carved so deep, for so long. Astarion’s weak, starving body cannot maintain itself against his tides of cruelty.

There is quiet as Cazador waits for his answer, he knows Astarion will do his very best to give it. Years and years of this torment had to have culminated into something- into an exceedingly loyal dog, he’d hoped. It’s why he tries not to command anything; not only because it takes the fun out of things, but also because it encourages a kind of devotion to the task that a simple order could never elicit. Pain can be such a useful tool, and he’s spent years honing his skill with it. 

Astarion gasps, chokes on a putrid mix of saliva and droplets of rat blood as they clog in his throat. “T-Thank you.” He coughs. Cazador hums and pushes his head back down. He runs a sharp nail down the middle of the warm, wet mess on Astarion’s back. It stings like a million tiny needles.

“Thank you, what?”

He digs the nail into one of the runes he’d just finished carving, ever so slightly, and Astarion writhes in agony. His breath comes choppy and ragged, and tears track endlessly down his nose. A moment, two, as Astarion brings a heaving breath in and steels himself against the revulsion he is about to feel.

“Thank you, Master.” The hum this elicits is decidedly pleased and Astarion hates himself all the more for earning it. If only he was stronger, if only he were able to hold out just a bit longer. If only he’d been able to make himself wait; Cazador would have grown tired, would have ordered him, eventually. 

Now, he is little more than a lapdog, bereft of even his pride, and the pain will only continue. How he despises the man he’s become, the man Cazador has moulded him into. 

The agony in his back resumes, even sharper and more unbearable than before. Astarion muffles a scream behind clenched teeth and wrenches his eyes open to reveal a circling of trees. A cool gust of air swipes across his sweat-soaked skin and he shivers, slightly. 

Astarion takes a moment to orient himself. He’d been trancing, curled into himself and facing away from the fire- Gods know why, he could use all the heat he can get with the way his undead body refuses to hold onto it on its own; some lingering self-flagellation, perhaps. 

He’s no longer bound to Cazador- for the time being at least- he’s fine. The ‘dream’ or whatever that had been was only a memory. Nothing more. He’s fine. 

Sitting up, he swats at the tear tracks on his cheeks and comes face-to-face with a wide-eyed Halsin, who had been whittling, it seems, judging by the knife in one hand and the partially carved wooden-something in the other. Astarion ducks and covers his face with a slender hand.  

“What in the hells are you doing, you oaf!?”

“… Whittling?” Halsin’s voice cracks a bit as he stumbles over the word. Astarion tries not to notice how endearing that is. He huffs.

“I gathered. Could you just- turn around? Please?” 

Halsin tilts his head to the side, just slightly, and stares at him with furrowed brows, mouth set in a firm line. He speaks carefully, but directly, unable to tiptoe around a subject when they’re both aware of the gravity of it.

“Are you alright, my friend? I don’t mean to pry, it’s just I noticed-“

“Not now.” Astarion’s voice comes out rough, grating, and he cannot bring himself to look Halsin in the eye as he speaks. 

“… Alright” There’s a shuffling as- assumedly- Halsin picks himself up and heads back to his tent. Astarion only allows himself a breath of relief when the other man’s footsteps retreat outside of his range of hearing. 

On one hand, Astarion is astoundingly, exceedingly grateful to have his wishes honored. On the other, it is so, very quiet, and he can still feel the ghosts of fingers petting, clawing and grasping at his skin. He feels dirty, a vile little thing ought to be left in the dirt. 

His back aches- phantom pains, he knows- and even years after their conception his scars throb. It’s not the first time this has happened, but it is the first time he’s been able to focus on it, the first time no other, greater pain can distract him from the dull shock of remembrance. Maybe he’d never healed correctly, maybe it’s his mind playing its usual tricks. 

Suddenly unable to stand the scratch of cloth against the raised skin on his back, Astarion wrestles his shirt off of himself. Sharp nails dragging uncaringly against the skin as if trying to sate an itch. He wants the ‘poetry’ off of himself, he wants to be clean.

His scratching becomes more fervent, less careful as his thoughts spiral. A sob works its way up, only to die in his throat, he chokes a little on it. Off. Off. Off. He needs it off. He wishes he could claw the taint away. His skin crawls under his fingernails, even as they scratch past skin. Blood flows, sluggish, down the bony curve of his spine. It is not an unfamiliar feeling. 

A sharp gasp sounds, quiet, but cutting in the previous silence that had pervaded the space around the campfire. Astarion does not dare look up from the ground. Great. Another interruption to him losing his fucking mind. 

Thankfully- which, who could guess he’d ever think the word in relation to the druid- it’s just Halsin again. Arms now laden with jars and cloth, rather than the sharp woodworking tools he’d left the fire with. The jars are labeled, but his scrawl is too small for Astarion to parse the words. 

“Astarion, my friend, please cease this needless self-mutilation!” He rushes to Astarion’s side, carefully placing the jars on the side of his bedroll and gently, loosely grasping at Astarion’s wrists- assumedly to encourage the vampire to pry his claws from his skin. He doesn’t push, simply holds him there.

The warmth is welcome, grounding in the swirl of pain and cold and despair that had previously been clouding Astarion’s mind. He lets out an unnecessary, but comforting breath and allows his hands to be pried away. 

“Good. That’s good, my friend, thank you.” 

Astarion grouses a discontented sound, to which Halsin huffs a small chuckle. 

“Alright- you’re alright. You were looking rather pale- moreso than usual at least- and I had hoped some of my oils or salves could soothe any injuries you’d overlooked, or old aches.” He pauses for a moment and rifles through the pile of goods he’d brought over, “As elves, our ‘nightmares’ are more memories, than anything. I’m more than familiar with a long-forgotten wound making itself known after a particularly jarring remembrance. I am sorry yours were so visceral.”

He’s babbling, Astarion notices, low voice rather quick compared to its usual steady thrum, but he can appreciate the effort in attempting to keep him grounded. His body doesn’t want to move, though, and he simply slumps into himself, gaze steadily forward, hollow, almost in its vacancy. 

“Here let me-“ A warmth hovers over the mess of Astarion’s back. Well, this is rather familiar. But it pauses,hesitates. Still, Astarion can feel himself tensing. A short, ragged sound punches out of him, unwitting. Halsin hums. 

“Apologies, my friend, it seems my manners have escaped me in my nerves. May I touch you? I wish only to soothe the hurt, I have a balm that should do the trick well and once I’ve applied it, my hands will not touch your skin again should you wish it.”

Astarion takes a moment, another unnecessary breath, then nods. It’s curt, almost imperceptible really, but Halsin had been paying very close attention to his body’s reactions. He thanks him- what for, Astarion cannot even begin to fathom. 

It’s quiet as Halsin’s deft fingers tenderly pass a wet towelette down his spine to clean the blood from it. It soothes, cool and stinging against new cuts and Astarion can only hope that at least he’d left new scars. Something to disrupt the carving of pure malice that had lain there, undisturbed, for so long. 

“Thank you.” It takes a while, and his voice is fairly destroyed by what he can only assume had been long minutes of screaming and sobbing in his sleep, coupled with the panic attack after waking. Halsin’s fingers continue their deft work. 

“Please. No need. If I may I- I hate to see you struggle so. Is there anything that caused it? Anything we can avoid?” His sincerity is sweet, but useless. Astarion shakes his head.

“Comes and goes, really. Used to be able to ignore it with other things. Can’t focus on memories when the present is fucked too, right?” Astarion chuckles, but Halsin does not join in. 

It’s quiet for a bit, Halsin’s hands feel almost hesitant against his skin, “I am not a man easily drawn to violence but- well- your old master deserves nothing but the slowest, most painful death possible. I know it means little but I am sorry. You did not deserve his torment. No one could deserve that.”

“I was no angel in life, druid. For a long time, it seemed like a penance.” The words are almost hissed, but the sincerity in them is unmistakable.

“Even penance ends, eventually, Astarion. Forgiveness usually follows. Two hundred years is more than enough time. Especially when you had not even truly lived before being thrust into undeath- I mean thirty-nine? You still bear your child name.” Halsin sounds almost pained, although his hands remain steady, now pressing fingerfuls of balm to each cut, and even the undamaged rune-scars too. Something in Astarion howls, surges forward into an incessant rage at the tenderness.  

“And perhaps I was a truly devilish child, druid! Perhaps I deserved it!” Halsin sighs. 

“No one deserves that, Astarion. You have to know that.”

“If I allow myself to believe that, then I have to accept victimhood. I have to accept that loss of control. I have to accept that it’s not that I deserved it, it’s that no one cared enough to try to save me. Tell me, druid, which would you rather believe.” With a final, gentle pass of his thumb Halsin retreats. Shamefully, Astarion misses the warmth of his touch. The druid rounds his bedroll, settling criss-crossed in front of him and busying himself with organizing his bottles into a neat pile.

“Well, first, I’d like it if you used my name and not my title. It feels rather impersonal talking to you when you won’t even call me ‘Halsin’. Second, I truly don’t know, but I have always favored the truth over anything else.”

Astarion hisses, “I will call you what I like, not what you tell me to call you.” Halsin simply nods, and something inside him deflates. Backs down from its haunches. 

“Oh, alright, you big baby. Halsin. Maybe the truth is that I was- however implausibly- the kind of person to deserve my penance.”

Halsin seems to light up at the sound of his name from Astarion’s lips. Astarion tries to find it dorky and uncool and not hopelessly endearing. Then, “I find that incredibly hard to believe. Had you even chosen an adult name? Had anything in mind?”

Astarion falls quiet at this. “I had an idea, a few, maybe. I remember being excited about them, I thought I was so clever with the word choice… But I cannot remember them. Cazador only called me by this name, when he deigned to adress me, and I did not exactly have the time or energy to care about choosing another.”

Something within Halsin cracks at the admission. To have that rite stolen from him was abhorrent. Heartbreaking. 

“Truly you remember nothing?”

Astarion shrugs, “Hard to find that kind of thing important when there are other, more pressing matters. It’s not like the names would fit me anymore, either, two hundred years have taken their toll, after all.” He smiles, a crooked, self-depreciating thing and gestures to himself, the scars on his back. “Thank you, by the way. I wouldn’t have treated them on my own.” The thanks doesn’t even need to be forced from his lips. Halsin smiles at the ease with which it is offered. 

“No need. And I know.”

It’s quiet for a while longer. The two of them take the time to simply look at each other. Astarion wonders, for perhaps the millionth time, what Halsin is seeing as he gazes at him with such open fondness and admiration. Surely it cannot be him. Godssakes he hasn’t even seen himself in two hundred years, who knows what kind of effect it’s had on his wrinkles. He tries not to dwell. 

“I’m going to read.” Astarion says, when he can no longer stand the thought of just how many lines have been carved in his face, without the help of Cazador’s many painful instruments. Halsin simply nods, but continues searching his face. Astarion is unsure what he’s looking for, but is fairly certain, whatever it is, has long since left him. Nowadays he’s mostly bared teeth and vengeance more than anything.  

“Please, go right ahead. If you would not protest, I would very much like to join you. I’ll whittle, stay quiet so you can focus. Would that be alright?” He tilts his head to the side, and, with the way he’s fiddling with a jar, seems so incredibly bear-like in the moment that Astarion has to clamp down on a giggle.

“… Alright. But you had better keep that promise to stay quiet.” Halsin grins, a warm, blinding thing. 

“As a mouse. And we druids are rather good at mimicking animals, you know.”

A laugh punches itself from Astarion’s throat as he heads back to his tent and settles on some pillows, his most recent thick tome open in his lap. 

It’s not long before Halsin is quietly announcing his presence, shuffling around to settle a few feet away, legs tucked up under him as he situates himself against the nearest surface- a stolen chest from one of the many towers they’d rummaged through. 

It’s easy to forget he’s there- or, no, it’s easy to simply exist in a space with him. Astarion doesn’t feel the need to perform or prove anything to him- after all, he’s basically seen him at his worst- and the silence is warm. Interrupted, every so often, by the methodical scrape of metal against wood, or the crisp flipping of a page. 

Before he can stop himself, Astarion’s fallen into another trance. This time blissfully devoid of any visions or memories. 

He wakes to an empty tent, but his book is neatly bookmarked and stowed beside his bedroll. He, himself had been carefully tucked under a pelt of some sort- a piece he knew was not from his own tent- and next to the book lay a small, intricately carved wooden star. On the back, a careful engraving:

little star, how you shine

It feels like a declaration. 

#if you couldnt tell im enamored with the idea of halsin carving lil trinkets for his bf #and astarion secretly loving them #very nascent (new word i learned from a commenter ily) romance #bg3 #astarion #halsin #halsin x astarion #halstarion #astarion ancunin #enjoy #no idea how long this is but oh well #happy halloween have gay people!! #tipsy scribbles #brublurbs

[brewstersbru]

More radioapple with ace Alastor (cont. of last 📻🍎 fic) sorry if its a little ooc im sappy

“No.”

Alastor’s voice comes out quick and staticky as he expertly dodges Lucifer’s hands trying to pet down his waistcoat. Lucifer immediately steps back, eyes wide.

“Sorry! Sorry, Al, was that not okay?” He asks, still keeping his distance. Alastor’s expression is inscrutable, nose wrinkled as he smiles at the ground.

It’s quiet for a moment before Alastor shakes his head.

“I need to be alone for a bit.” He grits, then, just as Lucifer goes to respond, his shadows envelop him and he melts from the room.

“That’s-“ Lucifer sighs, “fine.” Leave it to him to somehow fuck this up. “This” being the unspoken, ever so slightly romantic thing he and Alastor have had going on ever since that night in the bathroom.

It started with meals; after figuring out that Lucifer was bearing his wound, Alastor- for lack of a better term- threw himself into feeding him.

Lucifer thought it was sweet that he used his, surprisingly human, ways to care for him through recovery. The food probably didn’t do anything tangible in helping Lucifer’s body patch itself together, but it made him feel warm, loved. Better than he has in an age.

The food, of course, was delicious, but what Lucifer liked most about taking meals with Alastor was the quiet sense of simply being with another person, without expectation. Without an unspoken asking for something in return. Lucifer had already done his part, and the pulsing pain in his chest each night was infinitely worth each peaceful hour.

At first, Alastor didn’t touch him if he didn’t have to, but just him being there, acknowledging Lucifer’s presence and doing his best to care for him through the pain was enough. Lucifer thought it would be over when he was finally healed, that Alastor would consider his debt repaid and leave him to his own devices once the bleeding stopped.

It was almost too much to imagine.

Lucifer has a nasty habit of getting attached, which is really quite unfortunate given his circumstances. Still, he hasn’t been able to shake it quite yet, and in a shameful moment of spiraling weakness, he had torn through his stitches, hoping to elongate the healing window, even just slightly.

He left the three green X’s alone, tried to keep it secret, but somehow Alastor figured it out, like he always seems to.

Furious, he’d marched Lucifer right back to the bathroom and redid his stiches, this time entirely with the neon green thread he is able to manifest at will.  The thread was warm, a little biting against his skin, but Lucifer liked it. Liked that it meant Alastor would pay attention to him.

God, what a pathetic thing to do. He still cringes when he thinks back on it, but loneliness will make a wasteland out of you. And Lucifer was desperate enough to bleed for the company, his blood is a mere pittance, after all. He’ll never run dry.

The longer they spent together, the more comfortable Alastor was touching Lucifer; little brushes against his shoulder as he passed behind his usual seat at the kitchen island, a steadying hand on his side when he checked his stitches.

It was bliss.

There was a starving, gnawing part of him that basked in it; that took the offered touches like scraps from a table and still wanted more. Another part of him, cold and still burnt from the last time, told him not to get stupid, not to ask for more than he was worth.

Never to beg, because begging is unbecoming of a king.

They fell into a rhythm, small touches, loaded glances, oh so subtle forms of care. Lucifer was healed before he wanted to be, but Alastor didn’t stop. Didn’t leave, even when he checked his stitches one day and, grinning, snipped them away to reveal a shining pink scar.

Even healed, Alastor cooked for him. Even on days when he couldn’t force himself to leave his room, a covered plate would be left just outside his door, food incomprehensibly warm even hours after being made. The touches- maddening, lovely as they were- continued, chaste and addicting as ever.

Lucifer began to feel wild with it. Something inside of him- frayed at the edges, and torn in the middle- couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. Why? He thought. Why, still? Why me? He never got the courage to ask, too afraid of Alastor realizing his mistake.

So, they continued like that. Alastor got more comfortable touching Lucifer who was more than happy to let him. It seemed like he didn’t get much practice with it. Touching.

The more Lucifer fell into the lull of security, the more he noticed the tentativeness of each touch, the careful laying of each finger against pale skin, as if Alastor were exploring touch for the first time. As if it fascinated him.

Lucifer never asked- always afraid of doing something stupid to make the final shoe drop faster- but he did notice. And he began coming up with a plan. Alastor is not the only person in hell who sees their relationships as transactional. Good deeds must be paid back. They must, or you’re indebted. Or, more frighteningly, at least to Lucifer, they will grow bored of you.

They will see that you are ungrateful, and they will leave.

Unwilling to let that happen, Lucifer devised a plot. Alastor has very obviously never been very intimate with anyone before, which is totally ok, if not confusing given his objectively handsome features. But he evidently, somehow, feels safe exploring intimacy with Lucifer, which is so incredibly heartening (it makes something hot burst in his chest every time he thinks about it). Lucifer can use this to pay Alastor back, slowly introduce him to different touches until he feels more comfortable with them.

It’s perfect. Or- he thought it was perfect. Until today. Until Alastor got that wide, panicked look in his eyes as he shouted “No!” before running off to recover. Father Above. How did Lucifer manage to fuck up this bad? There’s no way they recover from this.

He takes a second to mourn the relationship before squaring his shoulders and heading to his room to write about a hundred drafts of his apology letter. He can’t believe he so brazenly stepped over a boundary, not even realizing it was there!

He’s the king of hell for godssakes, he should know when one of his subjects is on edge, or uncomfortable. More than that, he’s spent enough time with Alastor that he should know his tells, as well.

Some king he’s turned out to be, huh? Fuck.

***

It takes Alastor two days to appear before Lucifer again, and not for lack of trying on his part. Lucifer had forced himself from his room each day, wandering the hotel’s grounds looking for him. Several times he would sit at the bar for hours on end, watching, waiting.

Not for nothing, though, he’s learned something quite interesting about the bartender, Husk, and Angel Dust, the porn star.

Over a series of poorly hushed conversations, and not-so-surreptitious glances, he’s learned that they’re dating. Have been for a good few weeks, and somehow no one’s noticed. They seem glad of that fact, though, so Lucifer resolves not to tell anyone.

More interesting, though, is that Husk has been urging his boyfriend to ‘go for what he wants, for once’ which Lucifer hadn’t really understood until he looked over and caught both of them hurriedly looking away. Super unsuspiciously. It was almost enough to make a grown man blush, the sudden knowledge that he was wanted. That despite what he tells himself in his worst moments, he is desirable.

Angel is an attractive man, Lucifer’s not too insecure in himself to admit that, but something curdles in his gut at the thought of pursuing anything with him while he and Alastor are still on the rocks. Which… Is new, and a little terrifying.

Plus, he doesn’t exactly seem like the type to take charge, if you catch his drift, and while Lucifer is happy to play any role his partner wants, he doesn’t know if he’d be any good at it. Not anymore. He just can’t see himself as a figure of authority, not when he knows what it’s really like to be himself. Pathetic, and lonely. The thought of embarrassing himself like that while vulnerable is excruciating, so he pretends not to have noticed their intentions. Thankfully, Angel hasn’t approached him yet. He’s not sure what he would say, anyway.

Back to the most pressing matter, Alastor knocks on Lucifer’s door late at night, two days after the awkwardness of Lucifer’s unwanted touches. When Lucifer opens the door, he’s smiling calmly, and holding two covered plates, one in each hand.

“May I come in?” He asks. Lucifer nods, doggedly, then flushes when he remembers the state that his room is in, after several nights of wallowing. Being the king of hell does have its perks, though, so he snaps his fingers and the place rights itself.

Not before Alastor gets a good enough look to purse his lips disapprovingly, though.

Lucifer manifests a small table and two chairs, which Alastor makes immediate use of, placing a plate in front of each chair, and pulling one out for Lucifer to sit in.

“Please, take a seat. I think we need to talk.” Great. That’s always a good start to a conversation. Not like that’s ever gone wrong for Lucifer before. Nope.

With a sigh- internally steeling himself against the impending rejection- Lucifer sits. Alastor hums, and follows suit, snapping his fingers to disappear the lids to their food as soon as he’s seated.

It looks delicious, as it always does. Some sort of colored rice dish with meat and veggies mixed throughout. Lucifer smiles and thanks him, snapping to manifest some drinks- a champagne for himself, and a rich red wine for Alastor.

It’s quiet for a bit as they take their first few bites. Lucifer hums his appreciation, which Alastor’s smile ticks up at.

Finally, stomach knotting itself enough to disrupt his enjoyment of the food, Lucifer speaks.

“I’m so sorry, Al. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but I did, and if there’s anything I can do- anything at all- to make up for it-“ before he can finish, Alastor cuts in, voice staticky.

“It wasn’t your fault, my dear. You didn’t know. I’m afraid I…” He trails off for a bit, mulling over his next words. Lucifer waits patiently, eyes wide.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that specific kind of touching. I don’t like it.” He’s not looking at Lucifer anymore, head turned to the side as he taps his claws against his wine glass. Lucifer tilts his head.  

“By ‘that kind of touching’, do you mean on your torso? I don’t want to mess it up again.” He asks. It’s a little presumptuous to imply that he’ll be able to touch Alastor, after this, but he’s too on edge to censor himself correctly. Alastor scoffs.

“You did not ‘mess anything up’. There was just a simple miscommunication. By that I mean sexual touches. Or anything meant to lead in that direction.” Ah, Lucifer’s hand had been quite close to his navel, and his intention was most definitely to take the touches further if Alastor was comfortable with it. He nods, apologizing once more.

“Got it. Sorry again, Al, I know you don’t think I need to say it, but I still feel bad. Thank you for telling me.” Lucifer- infinitely relieved and brimming with ill-advised hope- smiles up at him and rests his hand, palm up, in the middle of the table. Maybe he can salvage this. Maybe he doesn’t have to lose everything again.

Alastor’s grin softens at the edges as his eyes rove over Lucifer’s expression. He ‘tsk’s but places his own hand on top of Lucifer’s, gently intertwining their fingers and bringing them up to press a small kiss to Lucifer’s knuckles.

A giddy laugh bursts from Lucifer’s chest and he buries his face- or what he can manage to obscure of it- into the palm of his remaining hand. It’s okay. Alastor’s not angry with him, it’s okay.

A few tears gather on his lashline, but he blinks them away before they can fall. Alastor’s other hand leaves his wine glass to brush just underneath Lucifer’s eye.

“Oh, don’t cry, dearest. It’s alright.” He says, voice softer than Lucifer thinks he’s ever heard it. It occurs to him that this must have been hard for Alastor, too, so unused to being vulnerable, but still showing this part of himself to Lucifer, and for what? So that Lucifer feels better? To put his mind at ease?

It’s so stupid.

It’s so kind.

Lucifer shakes his head, “Happy tears, Al. Thanks for trusting me.”

Alastor’s thumb swipes against the apple of his cheek as he hums.

“As if I could do anything else.”

#radioapple #lucifer magne #hazbin hotel lucifer #alastor hazbin hotel #lucifer x alastor #hazbin hotel #old men yaoi #the intrinsic love in making meals for someone #lucifers inability to see himself objectively #alastor's a little too nice in this one but idc #i feel like being vulnerable is hard for him too #brublurbs #there is some self harm here #just tw #lucifer hurts himself to try and keep al invested #stupid head #huskerdust crumbs #also setting up for a later fic i wanna do abt the four of them #but thats for laterrrr #asexual alastor #sex repulsed alastor

[brewstersbru]

Queerplatonic Radioapple 📻 🍎,,, old men (losers) who care abt e/o

The thing about being an angel is that there are always bloodier, messier ways to do things. There’s an easy way, and there’s a fun way, and despite what they would have you believe, angels are much too bored with eternity to choose anything but the fun way anymore.

Lucifer curses whatever twisted being made him and bestowed his powers upon him- God- then backtracks in his own head, still deathly afraid of being heard and punished. Then, once he remembers that no one is listening, haven’t been for centuries, he curses them again.

Charlie is worried about Alastor. He hasn’t been acting himself these past few days. Rarely leaves his tower unless summoned, his smiles have become tight-lipped and straining. Even with the cursory attention Lucifer has paid him- busy with trying to make up for too many years in a hole- it’s not hard to see that Charlie is right, and something is wrong.

All it takes is a quick, plausibly accidental stroll outside of his rooms to tell Lucifer what it is. Charlie hadn’t asked him to snoop, but she’s nervous. Doesn’t want to lose another friend. Lucifer would do anything and everything to Fix It, and in order to get to that point he needs to know what’s wrong. So he snoops.

The pungent reek of demon blood poisoned with holy light permeates the air around Alastor’s rooms. To anyone but Lucifer it probably doesn’t smell too different, Alastor has very obviously put a lot of effort into covering the stench with rancid deer meat, and gamey sinner. Lucifer knows what a holy wound smells like, though, hell he’s not sure why he didn’t recognize it before now. Alastor’s obviously put in work to keep this a secret but it shouldn’t have worked for this long against the literal king of hell. He’s distracted, too comfortable, needs to sharpen the hell up if he has any plans of actually protecting his daughter and her passion project in any meaningful way.

Once he knows what is wrong, it’s not difficult to devise a fix. What is difficult, is coming to terms with what that will entail.

The way he sees it, there are three ways out of this situation. One, he tells Alastor he knows that he’s still hurt and offers to heal the wound through touch, which will take approximately an hour after which they never have to speak again. That one’s mostly a bust simply because Lucifer reckons Alastor won’t let him get past the first part without mauling him.

Two, he lets Alastor die of being a stubborn, pissy bastard. This one’s not really an option considering the whole reason he’s going through all of this trouble is so that Charlie will stop worrying. Killing him won’t stop the worrying, no matter how much he wishes it would.

Finally, unfortunately the only feasible plan, is to siphon the poison from the wound over time. Slowly imbuing Alastor’s soul with his own, tainted holy energy in order to heal the wound over time. If he does it right, Alastor won’t even know he was healed. The unfortunate part about this plan is that it doesn’t rid the wound from existence like a touch would, it simply transfers it from one soul to another. Lucifer will be taking the wound onto himself, where he can work on healing it naturally, as his body is not poisoned by the purity of angelic wounds. It will hurt, but it will heal. If the wound is left on Alastor, it will never heal.

Begrudging, but still determined to be as useful as possible to Charlie before he inevitably fucks everything up again, Lucifer resolves to go through with plan number three. It takes a week. Seven days of gradually increasing pain, of magicking golden stains from his coat, then being winded from using magic, of sewing himself together each night only to wake up in a pool of his own blood because the wound had grown larger while he slept.

It takes seven days, but at the end of it, Alastor is as chipper as ever, and the crease between Charlie’s brows has smoothed into something joyful. The wound now spans the length of Lucifer’s chest, wrapping around his torso near his ribs and up to his rightmost shoulder blade. Honestly, he’s not sure how Alastor survived so long like this and feels a grudging respect at the man for having pushed through.

The wound throbs, and every so often it will twinge, as if Lucifer were being cut in half- scored and carved all over again- but when he walks downstairs on the morning of the eighth day and finds Alastor cooking, Charlie seated, legs kicking happily at the island… He knows it’s worth it. Any amount of pain would be worth the sheer relief on Charlie’s face as she tracks Alastor’s every move, still looking for any irregularities. Something like pride swells within Lucifer at the knowledge that she will find none. He did that. He brought her that solace. No one will ever know, but that wasn’t the point of it.

“Good morning your majesty!” Alastor crows from the stove, he doesn’t turn to greet him. For a moment Lucifer wonders how he had known he was there, but a pair of eyes glinting in the shadows of the hallway tells him all he needs to know about that. Charlie perks and glances over at him as he’s addressed.

“Good morning, Alastor! You seem awful chipper today, feeling better?” No one will know he helped Alastor, yes, but that doesn’t mean he cant have fun with this. Just the look on his face right now- a smile, frozen, as his brows draw inward in incredulity- is worth the twinge that talking elicits.

Alastor, always the performer, recovers easily. “I’ve no idea what you mean! I have not been sick in decades, your majesty.”

Lucifer only chuckles, hiding his wince by taking a seat next to Charlie at the island. God why does it hurt so much? Why can’t he focus on anything else? Michael had torn off his fucking wings and stabbed him through the heart with blessed steel when he cast him down to hell and he can’t handle a little holy light from Adam? Eternity has made him soft. It’s fucking pathetic.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to presume. You had Charlie worried!” He grits, trying to keep his voice even and chipper. Charlie smacks him on the arm and he has to fight off a groan. Fucking. Worthless.

“Dad! I wasn’t- I just- UGH.” She stutters, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I still can’t believe we sent you to deal with Adam alone. That never should’ve happened, Al, I’m so so so so sorr-“

Alastor cuts her off with a grin, sliding a steaming plate of eggs, bacon and toast in front of her. “No need, my dear! As you can see I’m right as rain and in one piece.” His eyes slide over to Lucifer for a moment and he hums.

“Would you like some breakfast, your majesty?” He asks, turning back to the stove. Lucifer shakes his head, then regrets it when it makes him dizzy.

“I’m alright, thank you. Had a big dinner.” He manages. Alastor hums again, and Lucifer isn’t sure whether that means he believes him or not.

Charlie finishes her meal in quiet, comfortable conversation with Alastor, some of the other hotel residents who stop in for a bite and, occasionally, Lucifer when he manages to push down the nausea enough to speak without fear of barfing all over her nice pantsuit.

She leaves with little fanfare, but she does pull Lucifer into a side hug that, while agonizing, he will cherish forever. The rest of the ‘reformees’ make their way through the kitchen for the next thirty minutes until Charlie calls everyone to the atrium for some bonding exercises. Alastor does not make any move to leave the kitchen at the announcement, so Lucifer doesn’t, either. He’s also unsure of his ability to not pass out if he stands right now.

It’s so warm in the kitchen, Alastor had the ovens on for cinnamon rolls and it smells heavenly. If Lucifer closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that Lilith is still here, that he hasn’t fucked it all up with Charlie yet. He dozes on the thick marble of the island, chest still twinging, but strangely at peace.

It’s another five minutes of warm silence before the clink of a plate beside his elbow rouses him. A warmth settles to his right.

Blinking his eyes open, Lucifer catches sight of Alastor looking at him. Through him, might be a better description of the action; his eyes rove, calculating over the planes of Lucifer’s face. Alastor isn’t frowning- he never frowns- but there’s a crease between his eyebrows. Maybe those are like wounds, too, they don’t heal they just transfer to another person. Maybe Charlie’s just transferred to him, like his wound had transferred to Lucifer.

Lucifer snorts to himself at his own little joke. The crease deepens.

“You were not at supper last night.” Alastor prompts, finally. Lucifer isn’t quite sure how that’s relevant right now.

“Yeah, and neither were you.” Check and mate. A bit of radio static pierces through the air at his quip. Lucifer smiles to himself, sitting up.

With the knowledge that he’s under scrutiny, he puts more work into affecting his usual trite joviality. Alastor simply raises a brow as he hands him a fork and gestures to the full plate in front of him. Lucifer is shocked still for a moment. Alastor made this food. He made it, and he’s giving some to Lucifer? Of his own volition? Lucifer takes a moment to rack his brain for any side effects of the siphoning that might make him act like this but the only possible explanation is the sheer adrenaline of relief, knowing you’re not dying anymore.

“You made this for me?” Lucifer asks, voice small. He can’t remember the last time someone cooked for him. Hell, he can’t remember the last time he ate anything. He doesn’t need to, not really, but it’s nice when there’s love in it. When someone takes the time to care about him in this way. Lucifer’s never found himself all too worth cooking for, and that’s most of the reason why he didn’t, in all those years spent alone since Charlie and Lilith leaving.

Alastor rolls his eyes.

“Obviously. It would be rude not to indulge, you know. So get to it!” His voice is filled with static, it takes a moment for Lucifer to parse his words. He takes the proffered fork and takes a small bite of the scrambled eggs. Father Almighty. They’re perfectly fluffy, well seasoned and just the right temperature! Lucifer can’t help the pleased sound that escapes him at the taste. He glances up at Alastor to find that his grin has turned smug. Whatever. Lucifer’s not going to lie to him.

“This is really good. Thanks.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Lucifer takes another bite before asking, “Do you want some? I know you haven’t been eating, either, and you probably need it more than me.”

Alastor’s eyes narrow and Lucifer gets the creeping feeling he’s let something slip.

“This is the second time you’ve referenced an invented affliction of mine. I would appreciate if you refrained from now on.” Alastor hisses, the air around the two of them practically sizzles with electricity.

‘Imagined’ hah! He wishes. Lucifer raises an eyebrow, he makes it too easy.

“You’re awful defensive for someone who supposedly didn’t have an affliction.” He drawls. Alastor’s eyes flicker green as he stands, abruptly.

“Put your dish in the washer when you’re done. I will see you another time.” He grits, stalking out of the room. It’s not until he leaves that Lucifer notices that he’d cleaned everything up. The sink is empty and the stove is spick and span. The only dish left is Lucifer’s plate and fork; he’d saved him a portion.

Lucifer does as told and hobbles up to his rooms with a smile on his face and a full stomach. Maybe this whole siphoning thing wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

***

This siphoning thing was such a fucking bad idea. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Lucifer curses to himself as he hobbles to the bathroom situated on the skywalk between his and Alastor’s rooms. His stitches had popped in the middle of one of his unfortunately timed yearly nightmares about falling. So, on top of the popped stitches, he’d scratched his arms bloody, too. Usually when he gets like this he doesn’t bother leaving his room, the cuts will heal themselves as soon as he gets to his door, anyway. But with the extra energy his body is expending on healing the Adam Wound, they just keep bleeding, sluggishly.

It’s been a couple days and the wound has been looking better, but it’s slow going. Lucifer shudders to think what would’ve happened to Alastor if he’d kept trying to live with it. Speaking of Alastor, the bastard’s been making him breakfast every day now; and if Lucifer doesn’t make it down during the hour he spends cooking, he sets aside a portion and puts it in the fridge.

Lucifer doesn’t know if this is his way of being nice, or if he’s luring him in to try and poison him one of these days. Either way, it’s always nice to be cooked for. Poison wouldn’t work on him, anyways.

There’s a pit in his stomach, growling and gnawing for something warm to satiate it- something Alastor-made- as Lucifer bleeds ichor onto the carpet. He pushes the feeling, and the resulting shame, down deep within himself. How low can he get, really? Fuck. Pining for kind gestures from a man who ostensibly wants to kill him? How far can he fucking fall.

The door to the restroom is open when he gets there, which Lucifer is all too thankful for. He pushes, with some effort, into the darkness.

A part of him considers turning on the light, but he has no issues seeing in the dark, and it seems like a lot of work to go through for no reason. With a groan, he bends down to grab the medkit from below the sink, then sits himself on the closed toilet.

With shuddering breaths, he snaps his shaking fingers, doubling over as his night shirt dissipates. “God- fuck!” He sucks a breath through his teeth.

Lucifer stays folded over for a moment, taking the time to breathe once, twice, before unfurling into a now familiar agony.

He grabs a hand towel and shoves it between his teeth to muffle any unwitting noises he might make- he’d found out the hard way that he’s a screamer a long time ago- and threads the suture needle with dental floss. He ran out of actual suture thread yesterday and, not wanting to alarm Charlie or let anything slip, hadn’t asked where he could find more. Dental floss has worked before, and it’ll work now. It just won’t be as pretty as it usually is.

Lucifer has just begun stitching himself up- letting little whines and whimpers into the hand towel tightly clenched between his teeth with each tug of the floss- when the door to the bathroom bursts open and a humming Alastor strides through the threshold. He flicks on the light- though Lucifer’s unsure why, as he doesn’t need it to see, either- and immediately makes eye contact with Lucifer. Then the hand towel clamped in his teeth. Then the giant bleeding wound on his chest. Then the eight golden scores in his arms.

His eyes widen a fraction, then narrow into a glare.

He strides up to Lucifer and grabs at his jaw, but the hold is surprisingly gentle. Alastor runs a finger along the area until it loosens enough for him to wrestle the towel from his lips.

Lucifer’s not sure if he should feel threatened or not. It’s not like Alastor can do anything to him. Not anything he hasn’t felt before, at least.

Why is the steel in his eyes so terrifying, then, though?

“Explain.”

Alastor says the word quietly, but somehow his voice seems to echo in the room. Lucifer sits tall, unwilling to be made ashamed of what he’s done. What he’s tried to do, to help.

“You never would have let me close enough to heal you through touch. You know that. And Charlie would have been devastated if you died because you were too much of an uptight prick to let other people care about you. This was the only way. I’ll heal. You wouldn’t.”

Lucifer’s voice is raspy, a little hoarse from the agony of the night. He has to clear his throat a few times during the monologue. Alastor stares at him through the entire thing, eyes burning against the side of his face. It’s silent for a while and Lucifer is acutely aware of the fact that he’s still bleeding.

“Now if you don’t mind, I have sutures to-” Alastor cuts him off with a vague scratch of radio static, “Give me the needle.”

Lucifer hesitates, so he repeats himself, enunciating each word.

“Give. Me. The. Needle.”

Lucifer does. He’s nervous for a moment- god knows why- but it’s like he’s been telling himself: Alastor physically can’t do anything to him that hasn’t already been done. He’ll be fine. Alastor pulls a stool from thin air and settles himself next to Lucifer.

He expects a sharp, focused pain. Tiny cruel little stabs done in excess to teach him a lesson about doing Alastor ‘favors’. But Alastor’s hands are warm and gentle against the golden shreds of his midsection. Each suture is measured and careful, he moves slowly through the motions and keeps a steadying hand against Lucifer’s side as he works. He does not look at him, though, entirely focused on the task at hand.

The gentleness is off-putting, and it makes something flighty bang around in Lucifer’s chest. He suddenly feels the urgent need to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Alastor. I should’ve asked but I was afraid it would take too long. I’m surprised you’re still alive now given the state the wound was in when I first transferred it.” Lucifer chuckles. Alastor does not join him. He babbles on.

“I don’t regret it, though. And I’d do it again if I needed to. I mean have you seen Charlie lately? She’s got the pep back in her step! And you, you’re up and cooking again. Everyone’s so happy you’re back in the apron.”

Alastor hums, finishing up the sutures on his chest and immediately moving to the deepest gashes on his arms. Lucifer is just about to protest- really, those ones will heal soon enough, they don’t need anything- when Alastor speaks.

“What about you?”

Lucifer cocks his head. Huh?

“What about me?” He asks.

Alastor chuckles, pressing some antiseptic into a different hand towel than the one Lucifer had been biting on and passing it over the- now sewn- cuts on his forearm. The sting barely registers. It’s so needless. It’s so wasteful.

“You speak of all of these benefits but I fail to see how any of them pertain to you. Aside from your obvious need for your daughter’s approval, of course.” He says.

That stings a little, which is strange because none of it is untrue. Of course he wants Charlie’s approval; it’s the fucking least he could do after everything he’s made her face alone.

Lucifer shrugs, pushing Alastor’s hands away when they try to tend to his other arm.

“What’s it matter? I don’t need the benefits to ‘pertain to me’, I don’t do anything for these people,” he spreads his arms around to emphasize his point, “not like you or Charlie do. Besides, I’ve been selfish enough already, don’t you think?” The gesture he makes this time is similar to before, but he points through the restroom door to the window that lines the skywalk. Moreso conveying the idea ‘see what my selfishness has already culminated into? Eternal damnation for millions of souls’. Alastor raises an eyebrow.

“And what would your daughter think of this… philosophy of yours?” His voice is low, and he reaches out to grab Lucifer’s arm back into his own grip. Still gentle, but firmer than before. Lucifer doesn’t fight him on it and his eyes light up at the success. That’s… oddly endearing for a murderer-cannibal.

Lucifer shrugs once more. He doesn’t really see the point Alastor is trying to make, he’s thought this through. He knows what he’s doing.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? She’s never going to know and we’re going to keep it that way. She’s got a bleeding heart, probably got it from her old man,” Lucifer chuckles self-depreciatingly, “it wouldn’t do her any good.”

Alastor finishes with the last bandage- more unnecessary, needless waste on wounds that will heal tomorrow- and runs the antiseptic towel under warm water before wiping Lucifer clean of his own blood. His touch is just as light as it was before, it’s driving Lucifer insane. Why won’t he just hurt him already. He knows he’s itching for it.

“You are not what I thought you would be.” Alastor says, finally, tossing the towel into the laundry basket in the corner of the room. His eyes raise, finally, to meet Lucifer’s own shocked gaze. He can’t muster up a response; what is he supposed to say to that? Is it a good thing? Probably not. A bad thing? Well, then he doesn’t need more fuel for his ‘bad thoughts’ journal.

Thankfully, Alastor continues, “Next time, simply come talk to me. I don’t want this to happen again.” He stands, brushing imaginary dust off of his overcoat- which, now that Lucifer is paying attention, why is he still in his overcoat at three in the morning?

Lucifer snaps his fingers- now embarrassed by his own state of undress and reinvigorated by the tender touches- and rematerializes his nightshirt. Alastor levels him with a disapproving glare when he reels from the exertion.

“Now why did you go and do that? I could have gotten you a shirt, and then you wouldn’t be dizzy. Pity you’re so stubborn.” He comments, with just the slightest tinge of frustration. It thrills something in Lucifer to be able to get that reaction out of him, even in this diminished state.

“Yeah. Pity. Look, I’m not going to promise you this won’t happen again. I’m going to do what’s best for Charlie and this hotel, always.” Lucifer’s voice breaks a little at the latter end of the sentence, he can’t bring himself to meet Alastor’s eyes.

There’s silence for a moment, then a clawed finger flicks delicately at his chin, tilting his head up. Alastor sighs when he keeps his gaze low.

“Stubborn. I am not asking you not to do it- you were right, I probably wouldn’t have gone for the touch healing- I am asking you to do me the courtesy of checking first, before you act. Is that clear?”

Lucifer mulls over the words for a moment, considering his options. All in all it’s not a bad deal, and if this experience has taught him anything it’s that it’s nice to have someone in your corner, willing to help if you let them in. Charlie is in his corner, but she’s also his daughter, and it will never be her job to help him with anything for as long as he is alive. Alastor’s offering.

Lucifer nods, hesitantly.

“I can do that. Thanks.”

Alastor shakes his head before turning towards the door.

“Put some of the green tube on your chest wound every night before bed. If your arms don’t heal by tomorrow, add some there too. Don’t exert yourself. I’ll know if you pop your stitches again.”

And with that laundry list of care, he disappears into the night. Lucifer looks at the stitching on his chest, wondering if he was being serious, or if he was just bluffing about knowing.

Three cross stitches glow a neon green right next to each other in the middle of his chest “X X X”.

Ah, so that’s how. Sneaky bastard.

Still, though, Lucifer smiles all the way back to his room, and if he notices a shadow tailing him on his way there, he doesn’t say anything about it.

#radioapple #queerplatonic #old men #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #lucifer magne #lucifer morningstar #theyre so odd and weird about affection #oh u didnt maul me and u made me food? #what do u like me or smth? #something something giving a monumental sacrifice and acting like its nothing bc if you dont you have to grapple w the fact that you care #anyways #brublurbs #enjoy idk how long this is but it took four hrs to write !

[brewstersbru]

Uh-oh have some more; i have a problem ! Huskerdust pt. 2 🕸️❤️‍🩹

It’s stupid. Really, it’s fucking insane, nonsensical, and the worst goddamn idea Angel’s had since he sold his soul. Still, though, he can’t stop humming the song.

“I’m a loser, baby…” He sings to himself, curled around Nug as he stares out his window into the neon lights and building fires that ever burn throughout the city. One thing he likes about the hotel- aside from actually having people who care about what happens to him, and a safe (and free!) place to sleep- is that he can’t see Val’s from his room's window. He can fall asleep without his sword hanging over his neck, without the constant reminder of what he’s allowed himself to become.

Before tonight, before Husk’s surprisingly uplifting little song and dance number, Angel hated most of what he was. Yeah he likes sex, but he doesn’t like being a whore. Doesn’t like being Val’s whore, especially. 

And it didn’t make anything better, not really. Not in any way that matters. But it was nice to smile at Husk and not be expected to put out for it. To dance and sing without a leash, and instead gentle fleeting touches to guide him through the steps.

Angel curls further into himself, Nug makes a soft squealing noise at the jostling. 

Husk was so careful with him. They were on the side of the goddamn street, next to a puddle of bum-puke (which Husk had prevented from getting on him!!) and Husk chose to be kind with Angel. What an idiot. What a gentleman.

They’d never work out, Angel has to remind himself of that when a shiver of a feeling he’d thought had long been fucked or beaten out of him by now works its way through his body. Warm and sugary. 

Both beholden to contracts they’d signed, pets to egotistic psychopaths entirely too eager to make them suffer. What now feels so comforting could very quickly turn into something agonizing and painful. Plus, Husk doesn’t want him. He’s made that abundantly clear by now. Sure he’s being nice now that Angel’s ‘respecting his boundaries’ or whatever but the boundaries are there for a reason. He doesn’t want Angel. So much that it makes him uncomfortable if he gets too close.  

Angel can feel his eyelids getting heavy, but there’s a jittering in his chest that signals a rough night. Shit, even with a night as good as this one, he can’t sleep in peace? 

He’s a loser. Damaged goods. Maybe he’s not alone, but fuck if he doesn’t feel it right now. 

Nug wriggles out from the lax cage of his arms and jumps off the bed. 

***

There are texts from Val waiting on Angel’s phone when he wakes up. 

He was right, it was a rough night. Only managed a cool three hours of fitful tossing before his alarm rang for the hotel’s ‘daily activities’. Say what you will about him, he’s nothing if not punctual (and Charlie had looked real pitiful when she asked him to come down in the mornings more, it’s really impossible to say no to her face). 

The texts are a long eternity of scrolling pink. Angel sighs at the few words he manages to catch as he makes his way to the top, “whore” (unoriginal), “bitch” (overdone), “ungrateful” (points for accuracy), and a whole myriad of other demeaning things that his exhaustion addled mind can’t be assed to fully compartmentalize.

He didn’t know how much he’d miss being called “baby” in that smooth low baritone until now; being called all the regular stuff makes his stomach churn in comparison. Or maybe it’s just who’s calling him what. He’d let Husk call him whatever he wanted if he kept being all gentle with him. Shit, it hasn’t even been a day and he’s already mooning like a whiny romance protagonist. Eugh. 

Looks like he’s got another long shoot today. He’s expected over in an hour or so, and Val had signed off with an “xoxo” which really means “or else”. God, he’s really punishing him for stepping out of line this time. Angel can feel a twinge of something in his back as he stands from his bed. Even with an enhanced body, fourteen hours nonstop took it’s toll, and it’s just going to get worse from here. He winces to himself and moves to rub at the sore spot. “Fuck.” He mutters, casting around for a decently sexy outfit so Val doesn’t have another thing to nitpick about. 

It doesn’t take long, after the first several years of coming home sticky and itchy Angel had curated his closet to be both sexy and comfortable. Every piece strikes that balance perfectly and nothing clashes when combined. He’s quite proud of it actually, but it’s not something that comes up often in conversation so he doesn’t really ever have the occasion to brag. 

Husk is- as he always is- shining glasses behind the bar when Angel makes his way down. One has to wonder if the dishes he’s cleaning are actually dirty, or if he just needs something to do with his hands. Angel would put a lot of money on the latter, no one here- even with all the alcoholics- could possibly go through glasses that fast. 

Husk’s eyes dart up to his when the stairs let out a sharp creak, announcing his presence. With a small, private smile he waves him over.

“Mornin’ Angel. Fancy a drink?”

It’s really pathetic how much Angel has to fight to not give in. Not to walk over and settle at the bar, letting that warm, even voice soothe all his decades old aches and pains. He smiles, but it’s tight and untrue. Husk glances down at his lips for a moment, frowns, then goes back to shining.

“Sorry, Kitty, got a shoot. Raincheck?” He hopes he says yes. What he would give to be able to see Husk at the end of the- long, painful and entirely exhausting- day and share a drink. He’s never been to heaven, never even tried thinking about what might be up there because, well, look at him. It’s not really his kind of place, is it?

Still, though, a drink with Husk at the end of today’s misery has got to be pretty damn close. As close as Angel can ever hope to get, anyways. Husk sets the newly polished glass down, and leans against the countertop.

“Sure thing. I’ll have a cosmo waiting.” Angel can tell he wants to ask, that he wants to say something about Val and the fact that this is the second day in a row Angel is going in for a long shoot. About the bruises that are still visible, having just started purpling against Angel’s skin. But he doesn’t, he bites his tongue and offers what solace he can. The feeling that bubbles beneath Angel’s skin at this realization is hot and dangerous. 

He nods, curt and with another stiff smile before scurrying off. He hates that Husk has seen him like this. 

“I can’t wait.” Angel mutters- more to himself than anything- at the cusp of the doorway. 

And it’s the gospel goddamned truth. 

***

It’s late, definitely later than whatever ballpark time Husk had in mind when he accepted the raincheck for tonight and though Angel knows Husk’s not really one to give much of a shit about punctuality-  when you have eternity ahead of you, ‘on time’ becomes pretty damned relative- he still feels like shit for keeping him waiting.

He’s fidgeting in the back of a sleek, pink limo Val had been kind enough to provide him when, at the end of today’s shoot, Angel had found himself frighteningly unable to walk. Of course, nothing is ever free in this unlife, so Val had taken a cut of his earnings to ‘compensate himself’ for having to cart Angel around, when, if he’d just done as he was told, he wouldn’t have gotten himself hurt enough to need it. 

Angel doesn’t want to buy into the idea, but Val has a point. He needs to be more careful if he’s going to continue being of any use to the hotel. As much as he pretends to be an uncaring freeloader, something itches beneath his skin at the thought of actually becoming one. He can pull his weight. He can pull his goddamned weight.

The limo swerves in front of the hotel and lets him off with little fanfare; Angel gingerly picks his way up the hill to the large front doors, wincing and trying to ignore the stabbing agony going on below his waist with each step. 

He doesn’t expect to see anyone when he walks in, it’s late, and they have ‘redemption’ exercises to do in the morning; even Husk has to have a bedtime and it’s late enough that Angel assumes the time has already passed. Hell, if Angel didn’t have work today he’d probably be asleep by now. 

And yet- as he tiptoes past the threshold, gently pulling the door closed behind him- Angel hears a low rumbling sound. The lights in the lobby are off, as expected, but there’s just enough ambient light to reveal a small lump curled up on the couch. Upon closer inspection, Angel realizes that the sound is purring, and the lump is Husk. 

“What the fuck…” He mutters to himself, as Husk’s purring is interrupted by what Angel can only describe as a hitching snore before resuming with even more force. His wings, which have been wrapped around himself in a facsimile of a blanket, tremble and shudder with the power of the vibrations. Angel has to strangle the coo that tries to escape his lips at the sight. 

Fuck, that’s adorable. He really is just a kitty underneath all that jaded bullshit, huh. Unwitting, Angel’s hand reaches out to coast over the fur on his head. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warm shudder of contented purring. It’s enough to make Angel forget about his injuries for the moment, too enamored with the rare sight of a pleasantly sated Husk in the throes of sleep. 

Alas, the bliss of the moment is short-lived, and before Angel can tug his hand away, Husk snatches it out of the air, scrambling up into a sitting position to glare at him and hiss. Okay, even his hissing is kind of cute, but that might just be Angel’s fucked up-ness talking. 

“Hey… Huskie…” Angel eeks, trying to pull his hand away from Husk’s bruising grip. His body’s already got its work cut out with his other injuries, it doesn’t need more paltry bruises to expend its energy on. 

Husk shakes his head and, after a moment, his eyes clear of the film of sleep. Once he recognizes Angel in front of him, he drops his arm, as if burned. 

“Fuck, Angel. Y’can’t sneak up on me like that.” Having regained his senses, he takes a moment to apprise himself of the state of Angel, eyes roving critically over each exposed patch of skin in the dim light. His expression gradually hardens as he becomes more and more aware of just how much damage there is to contend with. Angel, desperate to talk about literally anything but his bleeding body laughs hollowly.

“Yeah, sorry man. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sleep before, though, did you know you purr?” Husk gives him a blank look at the obvious attempt at deflection but, after a moment, shrugs and scoots over, patting the space beside him on the couch. “I was aware. Must’ve passed out waiting for you.” He scratches at the chops of fur just below his chin as he speaks, seemingly unconcerned with what he’s just said. That he waited for Angel to come back so they could have their raincheck; that he waited up and Angel was late. 

Angel feels a little sick, the mixture of butterflies and sinking despair in his gut creating something entirely new, and entirely nauseating. He winces, but settles on the couch, curling into himself. “Sorry about that, Tuts. Got a little caught up at the studio… Y’know you didn’t have to wait up, right? We can always raincheck another day.”

It’s quiet for a long, excruciating moment, before Angel feels Husk’s eyes on him again. He can’t bring himself to meet them, instead staring further into the relative safety of the knotted wooden floor. Husk sighs.

“I know. I wanted to.” 

Oh. Oh, fuck. Angel is infinitely thankful for the fact that the lights are off because he can feel the aggressive flush working its way up his cheeks and knows it would be incredibly obvious, if it isn’t already. He coughs into one of his hands. 

“But… I was late…? It’s- it’s like four AM. I wouldn't blame you for just going to bed.” Angel isn’t really sure why he’s arguing with Husk about this, all he knows is that none of what has happened since he walked into the hotel has made any goddamn sense, and it’s making his stomach churn. Husk’s tail swishes, hovering lightly over the span of Angel’s hunched shoulders, not touching, but close enough to feel. 

Finally, after another long minute of silence, Husk speaks.

“I just wanted to make sure you got back okay.” Part of Angel swoons at the gentlemanly sentiment, the rest of him bristles at the implication that he needs that. That he can’t make sure he gets back okay on his own. That he’s weak. He whips around to glare at a startled Husk. 

“And you don’t think I can get myself back safely? Fuck you, man, I’m not some weak little damsel in need of saving.” He spits. Husk shakes his head, eyes wide at the vehemence in Angel’s words. His hand raises from his lap- perhaps to reach out, to comfort- but at Angel’s expression, he brings it to his own arm to rub at his tricep sheepishly. 

“Stop putting words in my mouth, Angel.” He scolds, brows furrowed, “I don’t think you’re weak, I just don’t want you to feel like you’re facing this alone.”

Angel scoffs and turns away. Evidently, that’s the breaking point for Husk, because he huffs and snarls, “What? I can’t care about you?” There’s a static to his movements, a ruffling to his fur that indicates real irritation. For some reason, that makes Angel angrier. 

“Not if you’re not fucking me! Not if you don’t get any fucking thing out of it! Fuck!” His wounds give a valiant, biting twinge at the end of his sentence, causing Angel to hunch over himself and press a hand against his side while he struggles to catch his breath. Through the haze of agony, he hears shuffling, and feels the couch straighten as Husk rises to leave. 

Good fucking riddance. Angel knew it was all talk. He knew it. 

His breaths remain ragged for a long time while he tries to get ahold of himself again. Enough, at least, that he can drag himself back to his room. He curses Husk, but more so he curses himself for getting himself into this situation in the first place. What was his one rule? Don’t get attached, don’t let them lure you into thinking they care because they never do, and you’re just going to end up getting your feelings hurt if you keep being stupid about it. 

The pain does not abate, even as his thoughts spiral ever downwards into despair. 

After an excruciating, indeterminate amount of time, he feels the couch dip again and, unwilling to face whatever well-meaning do-gooder it is this time, Angel shakes his head. 

“Leave. Me. Alone.” he grits, each word more painful than the last. The person does not leave.

“Are you gonna let me help you now, or is it going to be another fight?” It’s Husk’s voice. He’s back. Fuck, why is he back? The noise of confusion that bursts from Angel’s lips is entirely unwitting. He opens his mouth to offer a scathing rebuttal, but can only manage a soft groan. Husk scoots closer. He’s warm. Fuzzy.

“Just nod or shake your head. Can I touch you?” Angel takes a moment to think about it, but has to acquiesce to himself that if he doesn’t let Husk touch him, he’s going to be in agony for the rest of the night. With great effort, he nods. A heavy breath punches itself from Husk’s lips, fanning warmly across Angel’s head. 

“Okay. Good. I’m gonna lay you down so I can get a better look.” Angel desperately wants to make a joke about the phrasing of that, but doesn’t get the chance before he's being manhandled onto his back. It’s a familiar situation, but the usual spike of fear in his throat is noticeably absent this time. Angel doesn’t dwell on what that might mean. 

Husk works quickly and efficiently on Angel’s wounds, soothing him with a warm hand through Angel’s hair whenever the pain gets to be too much- punching miserable little sounds from him- and keeping his touches strictly clinical. When he finishes, he sits back on his heels with a sigh. Settling back at the other end of the couch and allowing Angel his personal space again. Angel’s eyes feel surprisingly heavy. He catches a soft look from Husk before they flutter closed. 

Husk chuckles, soft and low.

“See? Doesn’t always have to be a fight.”

#hazbin hotel #huskerdust #angel dust #husker hazbin hotel #husker x angel dust #i imagine angel would get aggressive when he feels weird #like why does this mf care?? suspicious #had a lot of fun writing this #still learning their characters tho #can u tell im a sucker for wound tending #husk is a kitty #pls enjoyyyy #brublurbs #cross posted on ao3 as always bc i crave attention

[brewstersbru]

A little riz ficlet i started last week and finished today (pok feels 💚)

Your name is Riz.

Riz knows Kristen didn’t mean it, knows she was just being funny, trying to ease his nerves before his first big game on the Owlbears. But he can’t stop hearing his mother’s voice in his head, digging, nudging him to buck up and fight against it.

He regrets snapping at her, but not as much as he should, probably. He’s not certain he would’ve even said anything if his mom hadn’t had that conversation with him.

And now Kristen’s getting expelled, but not really, and instead they have to go through a harrowing trial of standardized testing coupled with fighting monsters where it only ends if all of them die or they kill all the monsters.

No one has ever killed all the monsters before, and Riz isn’t arrogant enough to actually believe they’ll be the first. Not with the weight of Junior year on their shoulders. It’ll be nice to see his dad again, outside of the tiny little hologram on his watch, or when he talks to the air around his grave- never knowing for sure but believing that he’s there, listening.

But dying hurts. Riz still gets nightmares about that first time he did it, and it doesn’t help that the video of it happening is still up for everyone to see. The views keep climbing, no matter how time marches on people still search it up. It makes him a little nauseous to think about.  

There’s a lot on Riz’s mind tonight- not that there hasn’t always been- but for some reason he can’t tune it out right now, can’t push it down with work or school or trying to solve a mystery. His mind is just running, turning over and over itself, churning through the complicated web of problems he’s found himself caught in.

There’s just so much that needs fixing, that needs to be worked on and chipped away at and he can’t do anything about it. Just has to stare at the ceiling of the living room in Mordrid Manor, trying to will himself to sleep while his friends snore beside him. Well- Adiane isn’t really sleeping, but after finally dropping the mental weight of her finances, she’s been falling deeper into her trances to regain her energy.

It feels almost like his heart is about to jump right out of his chest, like it’s squirming around, trying to wedge itself up his throat and out of his mouth. Riz would never tell anyone this but he’s terrified that he’s still that same futile little thing he was in the palimpsest. Scratching at thick walls until his hands bleed, littered with shards of the effort, but in that righteous violence, ultimately having done nothing of real use.

How many times does he have to bleed for it to mean something? How many times does he have to die before his friends can stay with him? Before people and gods and monsters stop trying to pry them away from his bloody, clenched fingers. He worked for this, he dug deep and rent himself in six equal pieces for the hope of staying together. How much more could the universe possibly expect from him? When is it enough?

There’s a soft beep from his wristwatch- which, unlike all of his other gadgets, he never takes off, not even when sleeping- and Riz takes the opportunity to get away from staring at the same crack in the ceiling he’s been looking at for the past hour. He stands and picks his way through a maze of limbs and drool to the kitchen.

With some semblance of privacy, he checks the watch. What could his dad- Agent Gukgak- need from him at this time of night? Does time work the same way up there? Is he ok? Is it possible for him not to be?

A small hologram of his father appears above the watch, disheveled, as if he just got back to the office. As soon as he appears, he steps back for a moment and quickly catalogues his son’s state. After about a minute, he heaves a deep sigh.

“You’re ok.” It’s not a question. Riz nods, slowly.

“I am, sure. But what about you, Agent Gukgak- sir? What’s wrong? Why’d you call?”  He tries to keep his voice quiet, and moves towards the front door, hoping to get outside so he and Agent Gukgak can have a serious business conversation without him sounding like a teenager at a sleepover. He is a teenager at a sleepover, but that’s beside the point.

Agent Gukgak tilts his head at him. “Kiddo, I didn’t call for me, I called for you. Your heartbeat spiked about a half hour ago and hasn’t returned to baseline since. I called as soon as I could get back.”

Riz, having just made it outside- the door creaked just slightly, but he’s not worried about any of the others having heard; they sleep like logs- stumbles a bit as he tries to settle himself on the porch steps.

It’s late, so he can be forgiven for lacking his usual tact as he stutters, “Wha- huh? This thing can track my heartbeat?” Like that was the most important part of what Agent Gukgak had said.

Agent Gukgak smiles at him, wry. “Course it can, and your blood sugar, iron levels, as well as body temperature. You should talk to your mom about iron pills, actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I know you haven’t been to the doctor for a while, but we’ve been detecting low iron in your blood for a while. And don’t even get me started on your eating habits, you’re just like your mother, waiting until you’re near ready to faint to give your body anything substantial.” His tone starts warm, but quickly devolves into something more scolding. Riz allows the conversation to derail a little bit.

“It’s not that I do it consciously, I just forget. There’s a lot of work to do and it’s hard to schedule out non-school-mandated mealtimes for myself. I’ll make a note about the iron though.” Riz thinks they’re both overtly aware of the fact that he doesn’t move to jot anything down. Iron pills have got to be expensive, and if he’s made it this far without, he doesn’t see a reason to ask for them now. Agent Gukgak sighs.

“Riz- it’s- I-“ He pauses, takes a second to collect himself. “I often find myself wishing, when we talk, that I was able to come down there and live with you and your mother. At least until we sent you off to college.” There’s a wistfulness to his gaze that Riz can’t find it within himself to watch, he knows what’s at the end of this train of thought and it’s never pretty. ‘What ifs’ and ‘could have beens’ are only as good as a wish, because they’re never rooted in reality. Always washed with rose and drowned in nostalgia.

Riz cuts in, “You’ve been doing good work where you can. And- and I think I turned out pretty okay. All things considered.” It feels a little strange to be defending his father to himself, but Agent Gukgak just shakes his head.

“More than ‘pretty okay’, kiddo. You’re the best thing I’ve ever done, not just in your work, but in who you are. I see the way you care for your friends, the way you help your mother, the way you meet every problem head on with a plan and a backup plan, just in case. I just wish the world had been kinder. Wish I coulda been there to make it be, when it couldn’t get there on its own.”

And then, for some, mortifying reason, Riz bursts into tears. It’s not loud or messy or even really all that different than what he usually looks like. At a distance, you probably wouldn’t even be able to tell. But there are tears streaming steadily down his face and every so often he has to sniff and blink his eyes to catch up with the stream. He swipes an arm roughly across his eyes to try and stem the flow, or better, stop it completely.

“I’m sorry, Agent-“

“Dad. Just call me dad kiddo. Please. Or Pok, just- not ‘Agent Gukgak’.” Pok’s own expression has crumpled, brows furrowing at the sight of his son so obviously distraught with no way to physically comfort him.

Riz nods, “Sorry, dad, I don’t-“ He sniffs, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s just Kristen’s being expelled unless we do this last stand thing tomorrow where we’re probably gonna die at the end, and I saw my name in Kipperlilly’s file but I haven’t had time to figure out why it’s there, and Fig skipped class again, which, I know isn’t going to fail her probably but it makes me nervous because what if she starts skipping every day again? Also our vice principal might be crazy and evil and I haven’t had any time at all to look into that-“

He cuts himself off with a gasping, cut-off sob, burying his face in his arm in his overwhelm but keeping his wrist level so Pok remains visible.

It’s hard to see through the rivers of tears that are spouting from his tear ducts, but Riz thinks he sees his father tugging at his hair, pacing as he watches this unfold. Huh, they kind of are the same.

“You’re seventeen. Seventeen, you shouldn’t- I can’t-“ He seems at a loss for words, baffled by the injustice of it all. Riz has stopped trying to fight the waves of tears, instead letting them wash over them, swiping at his cheeks every couple of seconds to keep them dry.

Pok paces for a few more minutes, fiddling with different parts of his outfit until he’s gathered his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Riz.” Is what he settles on, moving close to the image capture of the hologram so that, if Riz were to tilt his head forward, it could almost be as if they were touching foreheads. Pok continues, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there and I’m sorry that you have so much to deal with right now. I wish I could do more, but all I can give you is advice. What you’ve got on your plate right now, every piece of this hellish puzzle, both is and is not a war. There’s you, and there’s the problem, and a lot of times it seems like the problem is so much bigger than you are, so much more than you’re equipped to handle. Like you’re a man at the base of a mountain with a shovel, hoping to dig a hole through it. But once you start thinking that, the moment you let yourself become less than, that’s when you start losing. You either gotta grow to match the size of it or cut it into little pieces you know you can handle, and I’ve never met anyone who could do the first of those.”

Pok takes a deep breath, then his lips quirk into a rueful smile.

“Also, it’s a lot easier to do things when you eat, and you let other people help you.” He emphasizes the last parts with a heavy look directly into Riz’s eyes. Like he knows exactly how he’s been doing things thus far and is telling him to change it up, for his own sake.

Riz sniffles, nodding. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel the warmth of his father’s skin through the hologram. Or the illusion of it.

“I can do that.” Riz takes a deep breath. “I can do that.”

Pok smiles. “I know you can, kid. Just take it slow. Don’t lose yourself in it.” He speaks as if he’s learned from experience. The realization of how little he truly knows his father hits Riz like a bucket of ice water. A shiver works its way up his spine.

For a moment, he considers asking. Thinks about spending the night on this porch, effectively on the phone with his dad, talking and learning things he’s wanted to know for as long as he’s been visiting Pok’s grave. Then, Pok clears his throat, expression pinched with regret.

“Sorry, kid I-“

Then he remembers that life isn’t fair, and the world moves on, whether you’re ready for it or not. Riz blinks away his tears.

“Yeah- no- I know. You’ve got badass angel things to do. I’m good. Thanks for calling.”

Pok gets a look on his face, equal parts proud and devastated. His eyebrows furrow into poignant resignation.

“I’ll try to do it more. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And then he’s gone, and all Riz has is the cool fingers of the wind, grasping over his shoulders in an icy embrace. He puffs a breath into the air and watches it fizzle from fog to nothing.

It’s dark. It’s going to be dark for another eight hours at least.

Riz is going to die tomorrow, probably. He’ll be fine, but he doesn’t want to.

He really doesn’t want to.  

#riz gukgak #fantasy high #fhjy spoilers #fhjy #pok gukgak #father son feels #nothing is okay ever #i will never write a completely healthy father son dynamic mwahahaha #riz is so small its crazy how u can fit sooooo many issues into one little guy #one guy so little as he #might be incomprehensible it is late #brublurbs #cross posted on ao3 as always bc i crave attention

[brewstersbru]

More scribbles, this time karlachstarion? Astarlach? Whatever the hell they’re called?

It’s done. Finally, after what must have been years of excruciating waiting, Karlach’s heart is fixed. Or, rather, stabilized might be a better word for it.

After talking with Dammon in the druid grove and giving him their only piece of infernal iron- witnessing the sheer joy on Karlach’s face as she realized she was one step closer to touching someone again- Astarion knew he’d do practically anything to find another.

He’d scoured every crypt they’d crawled through, every traveler’s chest abandoned on the side of the road, hells, even some oblivious people’s pockets. Karlach had been searching too, of course, but nothing could compare to the sheer single-minded focus with which Astarion dedicated himself to the task.

Karlach had been kind to him, was the first to stand up for him when his true nature was revealed. She’s never looked at him strangely or doubted his intentions, even when she maybe should have.

The two of them have fallen into a sort of flirtatious tryst- a kind of relationship that Astarion is well acquainted with- but without any of the touching usually involved (a concept less familiar to him). He’s not quite sure how it all came to be as it is now; all he remembers is feeling safe and comfortable enough with her to drop his polite facade.

It was a clear summer’s night and Wyll had been exceptionally, annoyingly heroic that day. Astarion hadn’t eaten for a couple of days and- now spoiled, and fat with all of his current freedoms- found himself quite cross with no sufficient reason why. Still, the bastard he is, he’d called Wyll an ‘intolerable boy scout with raisins for brains’ at the fire that night.

God knows how he came up with that one, but Karlach had laughed something warm and hearty. Grin wide, eyes squinted in mirth. She shined in the firelight. She’d gone to clap Astarion on the shoulder in camaraderie but paused just before making contact, expression falling for a moment. Inexplicably, he’d needed her to be smiling again, so he’d cracked another wise one at Wyll’s expense- who took it with a smile and all the infuriating grace you’d expect- and turned easily to shuffle closer. Not touching, but close enough, he’d hoped, that his presence was clear, despite his cold, dead body.

He’d hated himself for it. For the soft weakness unfurling inside of him, growing larger with each passing day that he spent with these do-gooders. The abundance of food, the absence of his master and the sheer, intoxicating autonomy he’d found here was making him docile.

Still, when- after that night- Karlach had latched onto him, sidling up and walking beside him as they trekked through the trees (she’d shortened her usual lumbering steps), sitting beside him at the campfire, trading quips and jokes almost as if they were sparring. He’d let her. And he’d liked it.

It was freeing, in a way, to be able to just be with someone. When they physically couldn’t ask him for more. Maybe it makes him a bad person for finding comfort in the thing that’s tormented her for years, taken away her own autonomy. But he’s never claimed to be good.

He enjoyed the long nights they spent together, laying half a foot away from each other and staring up at the stars. Talking until the sun rose, or until Karlach fell (adorably) asleep. She snores. Loudly. And Astarion vehemently dislikes the fact that he finds it so damned endearing.

Still, centuries of having the idea that nothing is freely given pounded into his head have left a mark. And Astarion knows that the only currency that he has that’s worth anything in this kind of situation is his body, especially when Karlach hasn’t been able to touch anyone in years. He feels like he owes her this, after all of the kindnesses she’s afforded him, and who knows? He might even enjoy it. He could see himself enjoying it, if he did it right.

He searches so feverishly for two reasons. One, he hates being indebted to people, it makes something cold and wriggling appear in his stomach. Two, Karlach deserves to be free, and he knows that the smile she’ll be sporting when her engine is fully fixed will have been worth all of the painstaking searching and more.

Naturally, he’d found the metal. They’d gone to Dammon, once they found him in the shadowlands, and now here they are. And her smile is so much more than worth it.

Karlach is beaming over at him and he smiles back warm, but a little distant. The implications of this are just now starting to sink in; Karlach will want to get started soon, he’ll need to prepare himself. This needs to be perfect.

A low thrum of anxiety buzzes at the pit of his stomach for the entirety of the walk back to camp. Karlach is walking astride him, making wide sweeping gestures as she babbles on about all of the things she’s excited to do now, no longer over-careful of where her hands go. Catch a squirrel and pet it, give Wyll the noogie of a lifetime, have Shadowheart teach her to braid, kiss Astarion.

He smiles something a little more practiced, almost seductive at this and purrs a few words he could not be held at knifepoint to remember. His body feels miles away but the thought of kissing Karlach is vaguely compelling.

Something old and wretched within him surges forward and overtakes his body. Jerking his lips upward into a smirk, lidding his eyes invitingly. When they make it to camp, the thing that he is now grasps at Karlach’s arm and asks if she’d like to ‘go clean up’ in a voice almost more rumble than words. She agrees, staring at his hand on her arm, and, after collecting some soap and a change of clothes, she follows him to the stream.

It’s cute that she brought soap, as if they’re actually going to ‘clean up’. The naivety of her actions almost bring Astarion back into his body, but he focuses on the pit in his stomach and retreats. This needs to be perfect. And it can’t be perfect if Astarion is all needy and bitchy about being touched like that.

His body moves through the motions of undressing himself, a kind of rehearsed efficiency/allure to his movements. Karlach whistles lowly at the display, but once he turns towards the water, she’s already waist deep and gesturing for him to join her, soap bar in hand.

“Get over here, soldier! You’re covered in dirt.”

… Really? It’s the only thought he can muster at the moment. So she really thought they were just going to clean themselves up? Or perhaps she wants him to work for it a little more, that’s alright. He can earn it.

“Oh I know, absolutely filthy, aren’t I? You’ll make it better, won’t you?” His voice lilts as he wades into the water, muscles tensed, jaw tilted to it’s best angle in an attempt to seem as touchable as possible. If only she’d actually do it.

Karlach snorts and splashes him with water. He stares at her through the barrage and sticks his tongue out to catch some of the droplets that slide down his cheek. Come on.

“Get over here, you.” She sighs, as if she’s talking to a particularly unruly dog and not a vision of sex (Astarion would know, he’d used these same tactics on thousands of others before and they’d all fallen for it).

As he approaches- all swaying hips and cocked eyebrows- she sets the soap in her hand on a protruding rock to her left and places a gentle hand on either side of his face. Cupping him almost like you would a handful of water. He closes his eyes and tries to make it seem as if he’s aching to be kissed. A part of him is. But the pressure never comes.

And just like that, his consciousness crashes back into his body. He can feel the warmth of her hands against his skin, the lap of cool water on his bare hip. Astarion’s eyes flutter open, clearer than they’ve been in hours, and brimming with fear.

“There you are.” Karlach says, voice dipping with a mix of adoration and pity that settles and twists in Astarion’s chest. “Hello.” He chokes. Tries a smile but it feels crooked and wrong on his face.

“We don’t have to do this if it’s too much, ‘star.” He wants to cry a little bit, and sure enough, a tear escapes down his chin.

“I’m sorry.”

She shushes him easily, a little forceful. “Don’t be. Please. I want to touch you, but never like this.” She thumbs across Astarion’s cheek, drying his tears. She’s warm, Astarion notices, but not as searingly hot as she’d been before (although, in the metaphorical sense her hotness has remained the same).

“I’m sorry.” He can’t help but repeat himself, he feels like a broken record. He feels like he’s ruined her night, her big, triumphant moment with his… bullshit, for lack of a better term. She goes to reassure him again but he continues.

“Would you be alright just…. Holding me? Tonight? I’m frustrated with myself, too, but I want to celebrate with you.” He chances a glance upwards at her face, afraid of what he might find. His fear is irrational, of course, because her grin is blinding.

“I think I’d really love that, ‘star. Gods, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to just wrap you in my arms! And now I can!” Her giggle is abrupt, and infectious. The tension bleeds from Astarion’s shoulders and he finds himself overflowing with warmth and affection. Oh, who was he kidding, how could he ever hope to engineer perfect when the embodiment of the word is standing right in front of him.

They rinse off quickly- Karlach helps with his back and he with hers, there are no wandering hands, only reverent tenderness around old scars- and head back to Karlach’s tent. Astarion would have offered his own if only for the fact that he doesn’t think the two of them will fit, what with all of the stolen trinkets he’s crammed in there. What can he say, he’s gone a little wild now that he can actually own things.

It’s surprisingly easy to fall into bed with her, and only in the exceedingly literal sense. He gets in first, curls around himself, and her around him. She fits her knees behind Astarion’s own, and slings an arm around his middle. Her back faces the camp in a move that may or may not be intentional, but makes butterflies flit around Astarion’s gut all the same.

“This alright?” She asks, voice low. Astarion takes a moment to catalogue himself, similar to what he does after battle to find any injuries that may be hidden by adrenaline. He’s not sure why he does it, when he never has before in these kinds of situations, but he finds everything to be in working order. The thrum of anxiety in his gut is almost completely gone. He nods.

“More than, my dear. Thank you.”

“Always, ‘star. Always.”

#wish i had more time to explore karlachs inner stuff #but idk if i have a good enough grasp of her as a character yet #saw some art of these two and was immediately bewitched by them #cuties #karlach #astarion ancunin #astarion #karlach x astarion #astarlach #bg3 #fluff #ofc she calls him star bc its cute and i love them #literally just that hozier song #hold me like waterrr or christ hold me likee a kniffee #brublurbs

[brewstersbru]

A little comfort continuation of my riz 💚character study (aftermath w/ jawbone to the rescue!! hes such a dad 🐺)

Riz meant to go back inside. He did. He was going to heave himself up and amble back in, wedging himself between Fabian and Fig (if they hadn’t already filled his space with their flailing limbs in the short time he’d been out).

He was going to do it. Just as soon as he swallowed the lump in his throat. Just as soon as he got a handle on things.

It can’t have been longer than twenty minutes after Pok hung up when the door behind him creaks open. Shit. He thought he had more time. Riz swallows and blinks frantically as if that will somehow cover the puffiness to his eyes, the tear tracks that- despite excessive scrubbing- won’t completely go away.

 “Riz.” It’s Jawbone. There’s relief in his voice, but something else too. A yawning kind of drowsiness. Riz takes a deep breath, ignoring the sinking ball of guilt in his gut.

“Hey, Jawbone, sorry. Did I wake you up?” He almost surprises himself with the calmness in his voice, but is glad of it, nonetheless. What an inconvenient time to find out he actually can lie convincingly.   

The door creaks again and there’s a sharp click in the silence of the night as Jawbone shuts the door behind him. There are a few moments of scuffling before a weight settles over Riz’s shoulders- warm, fluffy- and Jawbone sits next to him on the steps.

Riz looks down to find that he’s been wrapped in a blanket, one of the nice ones from the linen closet. Had Jawbone known he was out here? How much had he seen? Did he hear anything?

Riz pulls the blanket tighter against himself, suddenly aware of how cold he is.

“Thanks.” He mutters. Jawbone hums and turns to look at him.

“Course. Saw you shivering, didn’t want you to catch a cold or nothin’.” Maybe this is something to do with guidance counselors, or faculty at Auguefort in general, but Jawbone’s gaze is piercing. Riz feels at once flayed open and carefully examined.

He coughs, curling further into himself.

“I can go back in now. Was going to, in a second, but…” He can’t finish the thought, everything that comes to mind is either childish or worrying, neither of which he wants to be in front of Jawbone. He swallows thickly.

Jawbone leans into the railing behind him, getting comfortable. “There’s no rush, Riz. I mean, I do think you need to sleep at some point tonight, but that can wait a little. At least until your tail stops swishin’ like that.” Riz immediately tucks the thing under one of his legs, embarrassed at being betrayed by his own biology. His face burns.

“I’m fine. You’re right, I need to get some sleep before the exam tomorrow, or I’ll be totally useless to the party.” He doesn’t turn to look at Jawbone as he speaks, simply stares resolutely at some of the loose brick in front of him.

“Now I didn’t say that last part, kiddo. You need to sleep ‘cuz it looks like you haven’t gotten a proper eight hours in a while, and I can see it weighing on your shoulders with the rest of it.” Jawbone says, gently. Riz bristles, almost wants to hiss at him. What does he know about what Riz carries on his shoulders?

“I said I’m fine, Jawbone.” He grits, standing. “I should go.” Jawbone curses.

“Wait. Please.” Riz pauses, finally meeting his eyes. They’re as sharp as ever, but soft, too. If that makes any sense. Jawbone continues, “It kills me seein’ you like this kiddo. I feel like a broken record sayin’ this, but I really do mean it, I’m always here to talk if you need to. Or, even if you don’t want to talk I just- it just seems like you could use somebody, is all.”

Riz feels like he’s glitching. His mind is screaming at him to keep walking, to get back in the house, lay down, and close his eyes tight until the sleep takes. But he’s so warm. And he kind of wants to cry again and Jawbone would give him a hug, probably, if he asked for it. Right?

At war with himself, all he manages to do is freeze in his tracks and utter an intelligent, “Um.”

Jawbone smiles and pats the stone next to him.

“Come on. You don’t gotta say anything, but at least sit down. And- oh, here,” He reaches into one of his cardigan’s pockets and produces a small mini chocolate bar. “A little pick-me-up.”

Riz settles gingerly next to him, closer than before but not close enough to touch. He reaches over and takes the chocolate, movements slow as he raises his eyebrows.

Jawbone shrugs. “I always keep a few on me, just in case. Never know when you might need ‘em.”

Riz smiles, small and to himself, for the first time in what feels like hours. Jawbone grins back.

“There he is. If you want another, just ask, I should have one or two more on me.”

Then it’s silent for a good, long while. Riz stares into the pitch black that pushes up against the safe halo of light surrounding the house as he chews on silky chocolate. He can’t help but replay the conversation with his father over and over again in his mind. Jawbone’s head is tilted to the stars.

For all he knows- for all Riz ever knows- that could be the last conversation he is able to have with Pok until he dies again. The watch is what allows them to talk across planes and it, like everything else Riz is and owns, is breakable. It’s unlikely that the watch will break tomorrow (Riz is a ranged fighter, he never gets close if he can help it, nothing should get near enough to him to get to it…), but not impossible. Never impossible.

Something warm and wet drips down his chin and onto his fist, where its clenched around the blanket. Riz brings his other hand to swipe at his eyes. Fuck. He shouldn’t be crying like this. He thought he was cried-out.

Jawbone’s voice rings out from beside him, tender, “Kiddo.”

Riz shakes his head, curling further into the blanket as if the fabric might protect him from this mortifying situation.

“Sorry.” He mumbles. “I thought I was done with this part.”

It’s quiet for a moment.

“It’s okay to need to cry, Riz. Definitely nothing you need to apologize for.”

Riz shivers, somehow cold again, even with the blanket. He wants to burrow into Jawbone’s chest, to cling like he used to, to his mom before he grew out of it and became a man (he was so young, then; he should’ve given it more time, he could’ve given it more time). He doesn’t want to ask, though.

Doesn’t know if he can ask.

Jawbone looks down at him- shivering, hunched underneath a thin cotton blanket- and he must see something that Riz doesn’t mean to betray because his breath catches, and he does the asking for him.

“Can I hug ya, kid?”

Riz nods once, sharply, as soon as the words are in the air. Jawbone reaches out and gathers him up in his arms. Pressing him firmly, but gently, against his chest. Riz buries his face into his cardigan and allows himself a minute of foolishness.

He hiccups.

“I miss my dad, Jawbone. I wish he wasn’t dead.” His voice breaks on the last word, all he gets out is the ‘de’, and he leaves the rest to hang in the air with his sobs.

Jawbone’s hand comes up to rub lightly over his back. He doesn’t say anything, just allows Riz to cycle through his emotions.

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair that he’s gone and me and mom just have to deal with it.” Riz takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

“Sometimes… I know it’s stupid and illogical, but sometimes I get mad at him. I get so furious with him. Because he’s not here. He didn’t do what he needed to do to be here for his son. And I know that’s wrong and he couldn’t help it and if he could choose to be here, he would, but it doesn’t stop the anger. I don’t like it. But I don’t know what to do with it because it’s not fixable. I can’t put it anywhere, so I just push it down and hope it goes away, eventually. It never goes away.”

Jawbone hums, and Riz can feel the vibration of it against his cheek. It reminds him of a cat purring, almost. If the cat smelled like dog.

“It’s okay to feel upset that your father was taken from you before you got the chance to know him. That’s not stupid or illogical. I’m sure he beats himself up about it just as much, if he’s anything like his son.”

Riz, despite himself, laughs.

“It’s nice getting to know him now.” He sniffs. “It’s just- I feel like I’m playing a game of catch-up every time we talk. Like I’m late to the race. Most kids know what their dads do for work before high school.”

“But it’s not a race, Riz.” Jawbone’s voice is low, but vehement. “No one is judging you for not knowing these things about your father, because you thought he was unreachable up until a year ago. The fact that you’re taking every opportunity to learn about him, that you spent so much time- even before you knew what he did for work- visiting his grave and updating him about your life, and still do, sometimes. It’s a testament to how much you love him. I think he knows that.”

The silence following those words stays for another minute or so before Riz huffs.

“But I don’t love him enough to bring him back, huh. There’s magic in any strong emotion, Kristin told me that, once. And I just started messing with magic stuff, but you would think that it wouldn’t be impossible. Not if the love was strong enough.”

Jawbone sighs, brings a hand to Riz’s hair and begins to card through it, almost absentmindedly. Riz freezes, then melts into it. It’s been so long since anybody played with his hair like this. His mom used to do it, when he was younger, but then the bills got higher, her shifts got longer. It fell to the bottom of the priorities list.

“You can’t do that to yourself, kid. You can’t. You think if Ms. Barkrock wanted it enough, was rageful enough, she coulda expelled the demon from her chest earlier?”

Riz shakes his head, slightly, afraid to dislodge jawbone’s hand. “Of course not. But that’s different-“

“Not really.” Jawbone cuts in, gently. “Point is, magic don’t work like that. Emotions are a factor, yes, but there’s so much else that goes into it. You love your dad so much, Riz, anyone can see that.”

Riz sniffles. “Thanks, Jawbone.”

Jawbone smiles where Riz can’t see, and ruffles his hair before allowing him to pull away.

“Anytime, kiddo.”

#short and sweet #fhjy #fhjy spoilers #just in case #riz gukgak #jawbone o'shaughnessey #dad feels #jawbone is a counselor and it shows #also just realized this but i he gives chocolate to riz like fucking #remus lupin #god ive stereotyped werewolves #im sorry werewolves #anyways riz is so The fucked up little guy #love him #character study #brublurbs #abuse of italics #fantasy high

[brewstersbru]

Im back for a bit I'm getting writers block on my wrimo; have some really bad galehalstarion (?) bloodbearweave (?)

“Goodnight darling.” Astarion purrs, pressing a gentle kiss to Gale’s forehead as he pulls away for the night. Of course, he had been chivalrous enough to clean everything up, Gale included, but not chivalrous enough to stay the night, it seems.

For the past few nights he’s been making his rounds, first to Halsin, now, Gale. Gale suspects it has something to do with their most recent encounter with the drow woman with the vampire fetish where they had both refused to order him to do anything, and instead reinforced his personhood, which, evidently, he hadn’t been anticipating.

Leaving early also likely has something to do with the fact that no one else in camp has any idea that the three of them are in any way… involved. To be fair, they’ve each got quite a bit else going on, outside of petty camp matters. Wyll has his whole complicated thing with Mizora, Karlach’s got her engine to worry about, Shadowheart with her budding religious crisis and Lae’zel with her ongoing religious crisis, after what happened at the monastery.

Which, Gale had thought that would be all the more reason to not have to be as careful as they usually were- preoccupied minds are less perceptive and all- but evidently Astarion is not of the same mind.

He leaves with a roguish grin and cheeky fingers dragging across Gale’s ankle before the tent flap closes behind him. Gale has to take another moment to himself in order to prevent any further blood circulation to unwanted areas before he can fully process what has just happened.

Falling into bed with Astarion is nothing new, really. He, Astarion, and more recently, Halsin have been tangling in the sheets for a good while. Gale can say with certainty that he knows which spots to kiss around to make Astarion flush, to make Halsin groan in contentment, and that the other two know just as much about what makes him tick.

It’s just, usually, he gets a chance to reciprocate. To funnel the pleasure that has been given to him back into his partner(s), often in excess. He enjoys the feeling, having done something- or in this case, someone- so well and thoroughly that there is no room for discontent or unease. Astarion, especially, usually revels in it. Writhes and gasps, grinning still, as he takes what he is given. Halsin always enjoys a good show.

Today, though, the vampire had entered his tent with a mission. His movements were purposeful, his voice practiced and purring as he brought Gale to the edge and over time and time again. He was not to be contented until the wizard had spent himself thrice at least. And Gale is in no way ungrateful for this gift, in fact it’s the most well fucked he thinks he’s been in a good long while. It just hadn’t really seemed like it was Astarion, that he was fucking. Rather someone with his face, attempting to act out what he thought Gale’s greatest fantasies were, in order to elicit the best reaction. To be exactly what he thought Gale needed. When all Gale has ever really needed or wanted these past few weeks was to see his lover(s) happy and sated.

He was robbed of that tonight. And Astarion had seemed pleased with himself when he looked down upon Gale and saw the pleasure he had wrought, but he had also seemed a thousand miles away. Gale doesn’t like to speculate on what might have caused that, but the thought is as horrible and inevitable as the man who caused it. Cazador.

Even just an inkling that lying with him had been, in any way, close to what Astarion had experienced with his old, cruel master, was enough to make Gale sick to his stomach. He wonders if Halsin had had a similar experience. He resolves to talk to him tomorrow, without Astarion present, just in case his theory is correct, and they need to stage an intervention.

***

Halsin is expecting him, when he ducks through the flap of the other man’s tent early the next morning. The sun has not even risen yet, but Halsin is fiddling with a knife and a small piece of wood, a pensive tilt to his eyebrows as he works. He sets his tools aside as soon as Gale makes himself known and pats the ground beside him.

“Good morning, my heart. Please, have a seat.” Gale complies, dropping a fond peck to his temple as he does so. Halsin, in turn, wraps an oak-thick arm around his waist and pulls him into his side. Gale cannot help the startled chuckle that this elicits, and smacks his arm, halfheartedly.

“Good morning, love. Stop trying to be mushy I have serious business with you this morning!” At this, Halsin pauses his tender ministrations, then shakes his head.

“First Astarion, and now you. My heart, can we not have a moment solely for the sake of joy and pleasure?”

Gale perks up at the sound of their other lover’s name. “Astarion was here?” He asks, then, realizing that this is a stupid question, amends, “I mean, he did that thing where he came in and set himself to servicing you with a- frankly, quite intense- single-minded focus? Without allowing you breath or movement enough to reciprocate?” Halsin’s head jerks in his direction and Gale knows he’s hit the nail right on the head.

“Yes…” Halsin admits, “Although it was significantly more difficult to restrain me, I would surmise.” Gale allows a short chuckle at this, nodding. Halsin smiles indulgently down at him.

“He’s quite strong, when he is fed. And I am quite weak, after being fed upon.” Halsin seems to find this rather amusing but Gale’s stomach churns a little at the thought of their lover using his nature against them like that, in order to deprive himself of their love, yes, but also Halsin of his autonomy. They definitely need to have a chat.

“We should talk to him about this, right? I disliked not being able to reciprocate.” Gale asks, tentative. Halsin has always been the more level-headed of the three of them, almost to a fault. He allows much that Gale himself wouldn’t stand for. Thankfully he nods his agreement. They decide it best to attempt to corner him the next time Tav leaves them in camp together. It’s their best shot at being anywhere close to alone anytime soon, and he won’t be able to use adventuring as an excuse to not address the problem.

In the relatively short amount of time they’ve all spent in a relationship, that’s one thing Gale’s noticed. Astarion is especially flighty when it comes to talking about his thoughts and/or feelings. They have strategies for that, thankfully. It just takes a tactful hand.

***

It’s not too long after his and Halsin’s conversation that they have the opportunity to act upon their plan.  This was to be expected, of course, given that they- save Halsin- are not incredibly physically strong, and are, in fact, quite easy to hit and maim, if cornered. That, and Halsin is a walking signal of betrayal, if Tav had taken him to Moonrise with them, their cover would be immediately blown. Of course, Gale had accounted for all of this when he’d put forth the plan.

Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart and Tav leave together, towards Moonrise. Lae’zel takes one look at the three of them, makes a face as if she’s just smelt something rotten, and fucks off to sharpen the stash of weapons Tav has been slowly but surely building next to her tent. Everything works out perfectly; with the rest of the camp gone, and Lae’zel otherwise occupied, Halsin and Gale make a beeline toward Astarion’s tent.

The vampire is flipping leisurely through a thick tome just in front of it, settled luxuriously on top of a mess of ornate pillows as he bathes in the sunlight. As they approach, he glances up, and pastes a devilish grin over whatever expression he had been sporting previously. Gale frowns.

“Good morning, my heart! How fortuitous that we are all, as you say, ‘off the hook’ for today.” Halsin decides to greet him first, crouching down and scooping him into his arms as he speaks. Gale reaches a hand to card through his hair.

“Yes, love, we thought it only natural to pay you a visit. We’d also like to talk to you about something, if that’s alright. Could we step into your tent?” Gale is usually the one to beat around the bush, to weave his words in such a complex and convoluted way so as to confuse and disorient everyone not intimately aware of the way he usually speaks. Something about this situation unsettles him, though, puts him on edge. He feels a compulsion to get this conversation over with as soon as possible.

Halsin does not pull away from Astarion for another few seconds but he nods when they do finally separate. There’s something iron and unreadable in Astarion’s expression.

“Of course, darlings. Please.” He steps into his tent and gestures for them to follow after him. It’s just as immaculately well-kept and organized as Gale remembers it being. Now that he thinks about it, though, it’s been a while since they’ve all been in his tent. Usually they gather in Halsin’s tent, with all of the warm pelts and useful oils he has stocked. Astarion has added quite a few new books to his collection- likely from all of the abandoned houses and towers they keep rummaging through- his shelves are beginning to rival gale’s own. Gale cannot help but grin as he casts a look around.

Astarion’s sharp voice snaps him from his reverie. “So? Out with it, you’re breaking up with me. The throuple stuff was fun while it lasted but you’ve found that it’s just so much better when it’s just the two of you, right?”

His words drip like venom from his lips, biting and cold in ways he hasn’t been with the two of them for quite some time. Gale finds himself wrong-footed for a minute or so, of all the things he’d been expecting walking into Astarion’s tent, that hadn’t been one of them. Still, he can’t say it’s unfounded, he probably should have been more careful with the way he worded his invitation to talk. Thinking back on it, it had kind of sounded like a preface to a breakup. He cringes at himself and looks to Halsin for support.

The other man seems similarly taken aback, but recovers himself more quickly than Gale can. He steps forward, hand outstretched to grasp at Astarion’s shoulder, but he jerks- flinches, really, and oh doesn’t that sting- away. Halsin slowly retracts his hand, expression attempting to hide how crestfallen he truly is and failing, quite miserably. He’s always been a rather straightforward fellow.

“Astarion,” His voice is low, soft, “of course not. We love you. We wanted to talk about the other night with us.” He gestures between the two of them, “And then the night you shared with Gale, recently.” Gale nods, finally finding his voice.

“Love, no. No, he’s right, we love you so much. I- we- were just worried about how… Distant you seemed the last few times we were intimate.” Gale steps forward but keeps his distance, hoping that his eyes can convey the swirl of love and concern he feels.

Astarion bristles and holds the tension within himself for a moment before crumbling. He sighs, shakes his head and sits heavily on the nest of pillows he’s built on the floor. Halsin and Gale give him a moment, hovering, until he waves his hand for them to sit. At the signal, they rush to his side and- with another slight hesitation before laying any hands on him- nestle themselves into all of his favorite spots.

This seems to make him feel marginally better- his head is still in his hands, but his shoulders relax slightly- and that knowledge alone is enough of a comfort to relax Gale’s own shoulders.

There are another few minutes of tense, suspended silence before Astarion decides to speak again, voice quieter and less stable than ever before.

“I’m sorry… I just-“ He laughs, a little, broken thing, “hells you probably already know- but I just… You were so kind to me, about me, with the drow. I wanted to thank you properly. I wanted to show you that treating me that way would be fruitful, so that you would keep doing it.” He cringes at himself, “Now that I’m saying it out loud, it sounds so manipulative. I’m sorry. I just- I wanted to make it worth it.”

Another near minute of silence. Halsin glances over Astarion’s head over at Gale who has furrowed his brows.

“My heart… We would have done that either way. Anyone here would have. We don’t have to be sleeping with you to care about you.” Astarion shakes his head at this.

“But I liked it! I think. I didn’t need to go away from myself like I did. It felt good, and I was having fun, and, more importantly, you were having fun-“ Gale scoffs and cuts him off.

“Not more importantly, love. Never ‘more importantly’. Come now. And I don’t think it matters if it felt good, if you were so focused on making it good for us. Making sure we enjoyed it so much that you couldn’t let yourself be in the moment.” It seems impossible, but Gale presses himself closer to his lover, skating a comforting hand under his shirt and up his chest.

“Is this okay?” Astarion nods. “Words, please, love.”

He chokes out a wet, “Yes, darling.”

“Good boy. Thank you.” A long shudder works its way through Astarion at the words, but Gale knew that would happen. He’s too keyed up right now, too stressed and worried; Gale couldn’t stand it. Halsin smiles and thumbs at the juncture between his neck and jaw. Astarion hums, content, and blinks sluggishly as he leans into their hands.

“I’m sorry.” He says again, more slurred, and sluggish this time.

Halsin hushes him, moving one of his hands to his lips to dip a gentle finger in and tug at one of his fangs. Astarion’s eyes flutter.

“And we’re sorry, my heart. We should have seen the signs of this much earlier than we did. Next time, let’s just talk to each other, hm?” Both Gale and Astarion hum affirmatives at this.

Gale has climbed more fully into Astarion’s lap, setting himself to work unbuttoning his shirt as Halsin continues to thumb at his sensitive fangs. The vampire pants and drools onto his collarbone, and Gale coos at him.

“Oh, sweetheart. Halsin, let up, would you? Look at him, already half-ruined just from that.” Halsin complies, but not before a final short tug on the fang and a kiss pressed to the area right underneath Astarion’s ear. “Gorgeous.”

He whispers, as he pulls away, eliciting another heavy shudder. Gale, finally having successfully removed Astarion’s shirt, hums to himself.

“Look at you. So beautiful, and to think, you tried to deprive us of this breathtaking sight.” The words are punctuated by a short press of the wizard’s fingernail into the soft flesh of his nipple. Astarion whines high in his throat. Halsin noses at his neck.

“I-ggh- I’m sorry.” He hiccups. Gale hushes him, hand trailing through the soft white hair on his navel. “Hey, it’s okay, sweetheart. We can see you now. Isn’t that right?” Gale, himself, isn’t quite sure who he’s talking to, but both of his lovers nod fervently at the question.

“That’s right, baby. Can I get your pants? Or do you want them on this time?” This is something that happens sometimes, where Astarion will want to partake in sexual activities, without having to bare himself to them completely. Gale actually often prefers these times, because it means he gets to be creative with how he attempts to get him off. Also, being able to focus on the gorgeous look on his face as he comes… Nothing compares. Halsin, of course, prefers it all-natural, but is extremely accommodating when Astarion finds himself at a mental block. As long as his lovers are happy, he’s happy.

It seems today is one of those days, as Astarion slowly and hesitantly shakes his head, then opens his mouth around what Gale is almost certain is another apology.

“Hey.” He kisses him before he can get the chance, “That’s alright, that’s perfect. You’re perfect. You want my hand?” Astarion nods, closing his eyes and throwing his head back onto Halsin’s shoulder.

Halsin rumbles against his back and brings his own hands to his hips, guiding him in his grind against the firm pressure Gale is applying from above. Trapped from both sides, completely out of control and loving it, Astarion lets out a long and wrung out moan. Halsin grins against his neck.

“That’s it, little star. Let it wash over you. Feel our love.”

It’s coming in waves, little shocks of pleasure washing over and over themselves into a slowly building tide as he remembers that it’s Gale’s hand against him, and Halsin who is guiding his hips.

“I-hng- I love you. Ngh!” Astarion gasps, he needs them to know that he feels the same. Needs them to know he’s not just taking from them. Gale is smiling down at him, palm slowly circling the bulge in his trousers.

“We know, my love. Now, I remember how gorgeous you are when you come. Do you think you can show us, again?” It’s a question without a real answer, they all know that he can, and will. So help him, if Gale asked for the very sun in this moment, he would find a way to bottle it for him.

Astarion nods, frantic and eager to please, “I can, I can. Gale- Halsin-“ He pauses, brows knit together in concentration, evidently stuck at the crest of his orgasm. It takes Halsin mouthing against his ear and whispering, “Now, gorgeous boy.” To fully push him over.

He shakes through it, jerking in his lovers’ hold and shaking his head as wave after wave of pure ecstasy rolls through him. Gale does not stop moving his hand until he begins to shy away from overstimulation.

“Good boy.” He says, and pulls Astarion into a cuddle pile when he attempts to return the favor. “Not today, love. This was about you.”

Halsin rumbles his agreement, always slightly nonverbal after a good round in the sack, and wraps himself safely around the two of them. He presses a kiss to each of their heads before falling almost immediately asleep. He really is a bear that one; Gale can’t really blame him, though. It is getting rather cold and dark outside.

Gale makes a few gestures with his hand, imbuing magic into a few words so that Astarion’s pants dry and clean themselves. Astarion hums what sounds like a thank you against his neck and cuddles closer. Gale smiles to himself, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

That was quite a bit easier than he’d thought it’d be.

Huh.

#I don't actually think i like this #wrote it in an hour and a half oops #astarion #bg3 #astarion ancunin #halsin #gale of waterdeep #halstarion #bloodweave #galehalstarion #halsin x gale x astarion #i also dk about tumblr's smut policy but nothing too graphic here i think(?) #so enjoy or dont i actually might hate this when i wake up #oppsies #feels rushed im sorry guys :( #brublurbs