Chapter Text
Alastor always knew that Niffty was a darling little creature. Charming, clean, and insane in a way nobody but her tiny mind could touch on. She starts with the eyes, Niffty does. Her angelic dagger shatters Valentino's gaudy heart-shaped frames and the moth shrieks in pain as she plunges the dagger deep into his eye sockets.
Valentino screams, writhing in agony as everyone is too stunned to step in and react. Velvette runs away and Vox, tail between his legs, follows her. Charlie tries to step in but Vaggie holds her back. Her good eye is wide with terror and Charlie flickers in and out of her demonic form as Valentino tries to grab at the little pest who had blinded him.
"I'll fuckin' ki-!" With his mouth open to snarl, Niffty shoves the dagger into his mouth. Over and over again until he collapses in a dead heap on the floor.
Next to Alastor, Angel screams.
Six months later, there's a knock on Alastor's studio door. The studio is more of his de facto office and Alastor uses it to have a closed off space for sorting through Charlie's rainbow bright, sunshine and rainbows bureaucratic nightmares.
Lovely girl, that Charlie Morningstar. Can't file paperwork to save her fucking life. What a charmer.
"It's open!" Alastor calls, waving his hand and listening to the lock turn on its own.
"Sorry to bother ya," Angel says softly as he steps in and closes the door behind him. "I just wanted to come and ask for ya help with something?"
Alastor sets his pen down, looking at Angel curiously. He no longer dresses like a streetwalker, not really. Some of it, Alastor muses, must just be how the arachnid likes to present himself. But it's a good day if either his midriff, his chest pouf, or his thighs are covered.
"I need some help, with audio stuff," Angel says, almost bashful. "I- I know my work isn't your kinda stuff, so I can look it up online if you don't wanna help, but I need some good audio gear to get back into workin'." He fidgets with the long sleeves, both pairs, of his short summer dress and shifts his weight on those impressively long legs.
Red flatters him.
He should wear it more.
"Valentino is dead," Alastor says. "You're welcome to seek new employment."
"Oh, trust me," Angel snorts, waving dismissively. "Princess and I have had a lot of talks about this sorta thing. I ain't getting back into dancing or anythin'. I just saw somethin' online, ya know? About people doin' what I do but just like a podcast or a live stream."
"You'd be stimulating yourself on air, for others to listen to?"
Angel laughs, rolling his eyes and smiling. "If that's how you wanna phrase it, sure! I'm thinking of people payin' to listen to me get my rocks off so they can pretend it's them doing it t' me."
Alastor feels his ears flick back. "I can help," he says. "I can get you what you need and show you how it works. You're responsible for synching it with that terribly modern personal computer that you're always glued to."
"Not all of us can have this fancy-ass studio!" Angel sneers. "...and I'm not always on my laptop, shithead."
"Frequently attached to, if you will."
Angel leaves and three middle fingers follow him.
He's very lucky, that Angel Dust is. Alastor has flayed others for lesser offenses. Maybe Princess Charlotte is affecting him more than he anticipated.
Three days later, Alastor impatiently taps his staff on Angel's cluttered bedroom floor as the other man fusses over his laptop. He taps the microphone a few times, muttering nonsense into it to calibrate it correctly.
Alastor picked it specifically for Angel. He's not sure why. Maybe it's because he abhors the slender, comically shaped modern microphones that every popstar in Hell favors. Maybe it's because the large, vintage silver microphone is more reminiscent of Angel's time Above.
"Hello...!" Angel draws the word out, eyes on the screen as the microphone synchs with the device. He tests the weight of it in his palm and Alastor's eye is drawn to how smoothly Angel holds the device. He cradles the microphone, bringing it towards his mouth to him a few bars of a song Alastor doesn't recognize. He's struck with the image of a jazz singer, of a sultry young man Above who murmurs sweetness into his microphone while the audience drools over their cigars and whiskey.
He should ask Angel about his time Above. Maybe. Sometime. If he remembers to.
"Thank you," Angel says as he gently sets the microphone on his desk. "I really appreciate ya helping me out with this. Shit, I'm half tempted to ask you to listen to the first coupla episodes to make sure everything sounds okay! But I won't. Someone in the chat will let me know if the sound is bad. Typin' one handed, but they'll let me know."
"I'm not a prude," Alastor bristles. "I can make sure everything is set correctly while you're on air. I don't need to listen to the finish, so to speak."
Angel blushes and the heart shaped marking that's visible through the mesh paneling of his lavender top glows faintly. "Jus' don't feel like you gotta," he says.
Several witty retorts die on Alastor's sharp tongue. His mouth feels dry and stale as he tries to focus on anything that's not the illuminated heart on Angel's chest.
"Always happy to be of service," Alastor crackles, eyes firmly fixated on the wall to the left of Angel's head.
"Hey. It's been a few months since I've performed for ya. I hope you missed me. I figured we'd try somethin' new tonight, yeah? Somethin' just for me and you."
Of course it sounds fine. Alastor isn't an imbecile and Angel is more clever and resourceful than that abrasive personality would imply.
With his jacket hung on the coatrack and his sleeves rolled up, Alastor feels exposed as he listens to Angel's broadcast. The quiet jazz that Alastor hasn't bothered to mute adds another layer of intimacy, and it's creating an increasingly fragile bubble that Alastor can't seem to shatter just yet.
"I had a lovely bath earlier today, and I was thinkin' about you the whole time. I told myself I was going to wait until we were together, but I was too impatient. I got too wound up thinking about you."
You. A singular you to make every salivating Sinner who paid God knows how much for this little pantomime believe that they're the only person that Angel is speaking to. You are the one that he has been anticipating. You are the one that he desires. You are-
"-gonna make me cum again already. It was just my fingers while I was in the bath but I wanted them to be yours instead. Yours always feel better than mine. You know just how to treat me right."
Alastor finds himself examining his hands. His claws need filed down and he watches how the ashen blackness of his hands continues up his wrists, bleeding partially up his forearms before fading into the tawny greyness of most of his body.
"I love how you look. Every time I see you, I get so wet. I almost ruined my panties earlier. They're purple, dark purple, and they barely cover my ass. But the material of them rubs me just right. There's a seam that runs up th' middle of 'em. When I'm all ready for you, that seam gives me something to rub against. I don't even need to use my hands. I keep that seam where I need it and I rub and I rub until I make a mess of 'em. I should let you listen to me sometime."
It too easy to picture him. Too easy to think about Angel, flat on his back in a mess of gaudy bedding. One hand cradles the microphone against his mouth while the other combs through his chest fluff. His lower hands pet across his hips and thighs and Alastor can easily envision the scant violet undergarments that Angel mentioned.
"I haven't used this toy yet. I bought it because it reminded me of you. It's nice and thick and- oh! Ngh, holy shit. Ohhh. Give me a second. Mmph, that's deep. I love it. I wish it was you. You always spoil me."
Alastor expects Angel to perform, all grating moans and fake pleasure as he half heartedly uses the toy on his- on himself. Maybe it's because of last six months but there's nothing artificial about how Angel whimpers and gasps. The noise invades Alastor's mind and he shuts his eyes to try and recenter himself.
Alastor can't tell what's his own traitorous imagination or Angel's broadcast in his ears. He thinks of Angel writhing, clutching bedsheets as he pants Alastor's name. Six arms wrapped around Alastor's sweating body, toying and teasing him while he's nothing more than a hapless servant for Angel's pleasure.
"I'm gonna-! You're making me cum!"
Claws in Alastor's flesh, teeth at his throat, and the pulsing wet heat of Angel's crashing climax drawing Alastor's cock deeper into his dripping cunt.
"More! Oh God, there's more. Shit. Shit! It won't stop. Don't stop!"
Alastor's feedback makes his own ears hurt, but he cries out, digging the heel of his hand against his cock through the layers of his clothing. In his ears, in his soul, Angel sobs with pleasure and satisfaction. With a raw bellow, Alastor ignites. He grinds against his own hand, feeling his cock spurt and ruin his underwear and trousers. Wave after wave scorches through his blood and Alastor feels like a live wire, like Angel's soft mewls are ripping his soul to pieces.
Panting and dripping with sweat, Alastor groans and tries to get his bearings. The realization of what he's done crashes down on him and he struggles to conjure the magic he needs to silence Angel's broadcast.
"Heh. That was amazing. Next week?"
Alastor will never be able to look Angel in his many eyes ever again.