I Am Blessed - Tumblr Posts

This Dark Heart of Yours

“And isn’t that what they say? That your drunk self is your real self?” The hand by Husk’s head finally moved–only to place itself against his cheek. Nails ran through his fur. “You’re just so starved for affection. It makes you forget your place.”

When Husk drinks too much, he makes mistakes. It will never be the last time.

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel Characters: Alastor/Husk Rating: M Word Count: 5416 Mirror: AO3 Notes: Hey! So there's more unhealthy dynamics, implied past abuse, forced alcohol abuse, horror?? and other potentially triggering content in this fic. More tags are at AO3, stay safe thanks.

--

He had drunk too much. Again.

But it wasn’t like anyone was going to complain that the hotel bartender was getting wasted anyway. Not Miss Sunshine Princess who was always greeting Husk every morning, all smiles, pointedly ignoring his half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. Not Niffty, who was so eager to take away said empty bottles to keep like it was her own personal collection, staring too hard at the warped glass and most likely thinking of breaking them into tiny pieces. And definitely not the annoying porn star who frequented his bar too often, venting about some garbage flick of his instead of anything worthwhile.

And not his boss. In fact, Alastor seemed to always push another glass into Husk’s hand when he wasn’t looking. “Enjoy yourself! How grand it must look to everyone, to see the help partaking in their own little vices.”

Teasing. Condescending. Husk didn’t care. Another shot gulped down, and the buzz made the day just a bit more bearable.

But maybe. Just maybe, he had overdone it this time.

Husk couldn’t even remember why he was sitting in the lobby. Another morale booster by Charlie? Husk had learned to tune them out. Redemption was not in his cards, and with more than just what he had done when he was alive. He’d been clutching another bottle, half-laying on the couch. But, with enough sense to stay on his side. Just his side. To his right, it was like electricity, one that made his fur stand. But Alastor always sat wherever he fucking wanted.

He found himself waking up to static.

The revelation was slow. It’s what alcohol did; making him sluggish, wobbly, and too out of sorts. He could usually hold his own well enough, but he really went hard on the bottle this time. Old vintage. Probably from one of Alastor’s own personal stocks. The Radio Demon would sometimes just give what he had. Anything to amuse him, to make Husk ruin himself just a little more, piece by piece.

The warmth should have been surprising, and it was. It was like curling up against a fireplace, like pressing into something alive and malleable. He had fallen down at some point, letting his body drift off. One of his wings stretched out, reaching down to the floor. His hands pressed, and grabbed, and he buried his face to hide away. Hard to find something like it nowadays. So he had to hold on tight, for dear life, of whatever sort of life he even had left. His other wing furled around him and–

Him and–

The static fizzled and popped. And, just briefly, it keened like feedback. Still, it took him too long to move.

Husk opened his eyes to find himself half-laying across Alastor’s lap. His elbow was lodged within the crook of the demon’s leg. His claws were kneading against a torso, close enough to see a button’s details, down to the subtle engraving of antlers within its center. A head looked down. A shadow slithered within the darkness of the room. It was dark. The lobby was empty. It was just them both. Eyes lacking anything but sparks and fire.

No.

“Fuck! Sorry. I just–” Husk scrambled out of the way, as much as he could. He fell off the couch, hard on his shoulder. Red searchlights fell over his fur, his loose suspenders, no matter how much he tried to get away. “I didn't know that– It was you! I didn't know.”

Alastor remained seated. He held the long handle of his mic in both hands.

The man with a silver tongue was unusually silent.

And there really was no one else left in the lobby. The lights were dimmed, with only the sickly green walls of the bar showing anything bright left. How late was it? Husk could only imagine the scene from before; big dumbass cat falling asleep because he was drunk out of his mind, and he fell asleep over someone’s lap, which just happened to be Alastor’s lap. Some stupid cute image, all while Alastor just stayed still and didn’t move.

Fuck. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Husk had never felt so sober, so quickly, drowned out by confusion and worry and why the hell was Alastor just staring at him? Why didn’t he fucking say anything?

The silence was near-torturous, only interrupted by those bursts of static, not even a small melody playing or a laugh track to cover Husk in derision. Nothing but that one noise, endless as an ocean.

“How long was I…?” His mind briefly explored that line of questioning, stopped and turned away from any possibilities. Minutes were too long. An hour was too long. “You know what, never mind. I’m… going to bed.”

The shadows shifted. The eyes flickered, catching him in their sights.

“I said I was sorry… alright?” Husk walked backwards, trying to head for the stairs, a hand reaching out to feel for the banister. “Just… Let’s forget it. I’ll wake up early to work tomorrow to make up for it.”

He didn’t want to think about how he had reached out for Alastor’s touch. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to.

He wouldn’t have done that if he was sober. That was all there was to it.

Alastor said nothing still, continued to say nothing even as Husk got further away. And he didn’t move. He stayed perched on the couch, eyes fixated on a prey that slowly headed for escape without notice.

Husk hated the feeling, like he had somehow stumbled into forbidden territory. No, he had always been careful before. He just wanted to get out of here, and when the back of his foot finally hit the bottom step of the stairs–

The thing about the shadows though is sometimes Husk can’t fucking see shit through them. Not through Alastor’s. He thought those shadows were far away, lurking in the distance like trees with overhanging branches, with a pair of eyes peeking through, too impossibly far. But the colors melded, and Husk’s head was still spinning from his hangover–and then it was like those shadows transplanted right next to his feet. The hollow antlers stretched up to grasp the ceiling, the arms, crooked as they were, bent just so to grasp at him.

And the eyes were now only inches away, disembodied things, bright and piercing and latching onto him. They had always been there. To Alastor, the distance did nothing but give his next prey a false sense of safety. He had told Husk plenty of times before, how the terror was always a little added seasoning to his meal.

So Husk remained still, blinked–and then he was right next to his bar, back pressed against those green walls, matching with the swamps Alastor had once called home.

And with the shadows still lurking around him, a hand, seemingly so regular compared to everything else, slammed into that venomous wall right by his ear.

Husk was frozen. Don't move. Don't make a sound.

The creature before him continued to stare. The shadows of his boss’ face, framed by ever-growing antlers that seemed to grin within the green backlight.

Then that same face blinked. Then it leaned forward. The face of a monster dissipated, leaving him with Alastor as he knew him. Not much difference.

“You were clingy.”

Husk swallowed. His claws embedded deeply in the walls behind him.

“Now. Why is that?” There was a furnace inside Alastor's chest, the way it breathed out such heat and made Husk sweat beneath his fur. “Are you asking me for something?”

It was a question that demanded an answer. Husk overcame the fear, just enough, finding the old rage inside. 

“You know I don't ask you for anything,” Husk finally said. “I was drunk. That's it.”

“Oh, I see.” The static grew louder. It garbled with small high-pitched notes before Alastor’s words pushed through. “Then you must be so needy .”

Alastor stretched out the word like torture. The sound of it dragged nails inside Husk’s ribcage. It was a knife that carved into his back, searching for nerves. 

He didn't need…He didn't want… him .

If Husk thought about it any further, he knew he’d spiral. It took all he had to calm himself down, still hanging tight to the wall, keeping his eyes on Alastor for anything sudden, terrifying, unspeakable.

“I said I was drunk. You hard of hearing now?” Husk snapped, trying to regain ground. His wings stretched out, almost daring to take flight then. “Everyone acts a little stupid when they had too much. Even you fucking do.”

And this was one of the stupidest things he’d ever done. His list of mistakes and regrets was already miles long, and it was agony to have this be part of it, especially when he wasn’t sure if he’d even live to get past it.

Alastor wouldn’t give him any fucking room to leave. The static kept doing a number on his head, making Husk want to drown it out with more whiskey. Never mind that was why he was in this mess in the first place.

“What more do you want from me?” he had to ask. Alastor was now his only reality. The awful antlers and shifting shadows were no longer as pronounced, but that smile hadn’t wavered, and the radio feedback just kept rising and falling in its awful airwaves. Husk shuddered, gritting his teeth. “If…you’re going to kill me for falling asleep on you, then just hurry it up!”

He had said it out of frustration, despite remembering awful screams through the radio, despite wondering, dismally, miserably, if those voices just kept living to be tormented again. Sometimes he heard repeat performances, though he was never sure.

And then, Alastor’s eyes lost their brightness. The static abruptly stopped. He laughed, leaning up slightly to let Husk finally take in a deeper breath.

“Oh Husker, you misunderstand me! I’m not mad at you!” A quick shake of his head, his shoulders still shaking from a chuckle. “I am simply fascinated.”

This failed to make Husk feel any better. “What…?”

He noted how the hand next to his head hadn’t moved an inch.

“It’s simple, really. I’ve seen you be such a pathetic drunk so many times, I’ve lost count! Amusing, but it’s usually the same. You’re always just such a grumpy kitty, but… this time it was different.”

Husk’s throat was dry. Claws very slightly gouged deeper in the wood. “Different,” he echoed.

“Yes, there's so much truth revealed when inhibitions are lowered. I suppose it takes certain spirits, or maybe even certain situations, to really unravel a person.” Alastor slowly, methodically, placed the head of the mic under Husk’s chin, pushing it up just slightly. “The kind that makes your body betray you at every moment.”

The way Alastor spoke, softly and with such intense focus, and for a moment, letting fall the radio filter so that Husk could only hear him and only him …

Husk felt himself slip against the wall, a right wing flapping to try and keep himself up. His head angled further, held by that mic. 

Fuck.

He was still drunk.

Alastor’s eyes widened. The red was piercing again. There was a sound behind him, like boughs creaking from the night’s breeze.

“And isn’t that what they say? That your drunk self is your real self?” The hand by Husk’s head finally moved–only to place itself against his cheek. Nails ran through his fur. “You’re just so starved for affection. It makes you forget your place.”

In Alastor’s words, there were always sharp teeth and flowing poison. Husk felt it sift through his head, keeping him on high alert all while the whiskey still ran through his blood. It made him nauseous, made him want to find an escape. But the hand kept him in place, and the warmth there was hard to deny.

Husk nearly slipped again. The hand clutched the back of his head–then raised him up. The back of his heels no longer touched the floor.

The soft feeling of panic was small, distant. It drifted away so slowly with the heat. Still, he kept his claws in the walls, felt them carve through the wood.

Alastor didn’t seem to mind, only watching his every motion. Husk couldn’t take it.

“How is it fair?” He then asked quietly, keeping himself rooted. He hated it, how Alastor could pull out his weakness like drawing back a string. “You can do whatever to me, yet I'm…”

No. Husk was not allowed to want.

To be free. To be away. To stop repeating this cycle, again and again. To feel like he wasn’t just something to be kept around as a toy and nothing else.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, then chuckled once more. His voice fizzled, gaining back its filter like a veil. “Oh, I apologize, Husker. How silly of me to forget.” The shadows rippled beneath them both, and then Husk heard the familiar clink of glass, saw how the green light shone through amber. “You still need a little help.”

It was a small bottle, the neck of it long but its body bulbous and filled with whiskey. Husk could already imagine the taste on his tongue, the rush of it in his throat. He eyed it, but dug his claws even deeper into the walls.

“No, I don’t…want that.” Husk tried to shake his head, and couldn’t. The hand held him tighter.

Alastor’s head tilted to the right, slightly. “You’ve never refused before.”

The statement struck something so deeply inside Husk that he wished he could just vanish and never exist in the first place. He shook. His wings raised but they felt heavy, lethargic, barely a part of him.

“I’m fucking done. I don’t want it now.” A swallow, and his voice cracked. “You can’t just keep forcing me to be like this!”

God, his mouth felt so, so dry.

Alastor’s smile didn’t waver, as it rarely did. But he saw it tighten, and how the demon’s eyes narrowed in turn. The mic underneath his chin quickly vanished, leaving Alastor with a free hand, while the other still held Husk.

It unnerved him again when Alastor said nothing. No static. No bursts of sound. Only the shifting tendrils that formed around him like arms, one of them dangling the whiskey bottle by the neck, popping open the cap which fell to the floor.

Husk’s ears flicked at the sound. What was this game now? Nothing Alastor did made much sense to him anymore, and even less when he was hardly sober.

Then, the tendril upended the bottle by a fraction, and the whiskey was poured straight to the floor.

It was instinct.

“Wait. Wait, what are you–Stop that!” Husk lunged forward, unearthed his claws from the wood to reach for the bottle. The tendrils pulled it back just out of reach. “Fuck, don’t just waste it! Hey!”

Another lunge. The tendril swayed again. The alcohol poured slowly, seeping into the carpet. Husk tried to move more, but the hand on his head was like iron, locking him in its grip.

“You didn’t want it,” Alastor said. “So, I was simply getting rid of it.”

“You piece of shit, you can’t just…” He could barely finish, watching in despair as the whiskey was being drained right before his eyes.

“So, there’s this side of you I know all too well. Desperate. Whiny. Anything to get more of your booze. If I let you go, will you just grab what’s left of it on the floor?”

Alastor’s voice was so low that it sent shivers down Husk’s spine. Still, he couldn’t even find it in himself to deny anything. Even knowing there would never be any lack of cheap beer or vodka or whiskey or anything at all, he couldn’t stifle the fear away.

“But I can be kind. Because it’s not just this–” He waved the bottle again, now half-empty, the downpour of whiskey thinning down to a trickle. “That you ache for, isn’t it?”

He didn’t want to answer. He was just so thirsty. It was hard to even speak.

Alastor’s free hand reached out. Husk thought he would touch him, grab hold of his chin as he so often did. Instead, the tendril moved near, and poured the whiskey over Alastor’s open palm.

Husk watched the liquid trail down in rivulets, droplets falling in between fingers, winking in the green light. He watched it all, his throat getting drier with each lost drop.

“No,” Husk whispered, trying to turn away, failing utterly. 

He didn’t know what pathetic sound he made when he spoke, but it was enough to make Alastor lean closer, enough to bring his hand, coated in alcohol, near Husk’s mouth. 

The palm was just against his lips, giving him what little drops remained, like water in a desert. He should have bitten down on that hand, ripped those fingers off. The indignity should have left him with nothing but rage, but he suddenly felt so desperate and aching and aching. 

Husk's tongue glided across the black gloved palm, searching, searching, wanting.

He wanted so badly.

Alastor watched him, all throughout, but Husk could only focus on the taste that was on his tongue. Still not enough. More drops from those fingers, even with their wickedly sharp points. He wanted and needed. The taste of it, and the warmth that held it.

Husk wrapped his mouth around one of those fingers, sucking the burn of it. It slid down his throat. Down, down.

He felt the heat of Alastor’s eyes on him, felt the curve of a finger just against the roof of his mouth. Dangerous, but it didn’t stop Husk from running his tongue along the skin and catch any whiskey that was left.

“My, you’re easy , aren’t you?”

If Husk was sober, maybe he’d react. And maybe, there was some part of him that burned at the accusation. But the other part was stronger, just wanting the drink to drown him. Just wanting to drown.

Eventually, the bottle was emptied. The last of the liquor slid across Alastor’s hand like branching rivers, some of it to flow into Husk’s waiting mouth, the rest to fall away to the floor. Husk took all he could, his body shaking all the while.

In his need, his hands reached out to grasp Alastor’s own. He couldn’t speak, but with everything else, he was begging.

He was getting more drunk. He wanted to get drunk. And he wanted–

Alastor.

If there was fear and revulsion at that, it drowned away in the seas of all that he ingested. Even as little whispers ran through his skull (No, I can’t do this again.) his mouth lingered on Alastor’s hand.

Tendrils moved again, small undulations that he could barely make sense of. And Alastor’s other hand no longer clutched his head as tightly, patting down his fur and caressing at the skin beneath. 

Then, in a low tone. “Keep begging.”

A small shock, a brief intake of air to make him realize the horror–only to drown once again, Husk still clinging onto Alastor’s touch. His throat was dry again. “Please…”

“Oh, you can do better, Husker.” Another bottle floated within the shadows, its green glass melding with the dim light. “Or I’ll just have to keep you wanting.”

Husk shook his head. (Enough. That’s enough). But he watched Alastor open the cap of the gin, imagining all of it draining away. “Please, Al… I need…this…”

A small blip of static. Alastor tuning in to further find the root of Husk’s debasement. “What do you need?”

Agony. All Alastor ever gave him was agony.

And still, he kept clinging to his hand.

Husk couldn’t even remember saying more, but Alastor showed some mercy. He upended the bottle at Husk’s face, purposely missing his mouth. The alcohol stung his eyes, went up his nostrils, burning. But all Husk did was move towards the downpour, letting it scald his throat.

Drunker. The holes in his memory were growing bigger, no longer able to connect between moments. Because at some point, he had been moved to stand behind the bar. He felt the ache of his waist hitting the counter, of Alastor pushing him into it. Hard.

The gin bottle was only slightly empty. He needed more. Alastor’s hand moved down to grasp at his neck, hooking fingers beneath the strap of the bow tie and pulling at the hidden manacle that Husk always felt, always wore.

“Is it fair that you get to have all this?” Alastor said, or Husk thought he said. Words were muffled the further he sank into the depths. “But you’ve always been a greedy little kitty.”

Husk struggled, but his back kept being pushed into the wood grain of the bar. He watched in dismay as Alastor took a sip of the gin, wanting it. Wanting it. His hands reached out, grasping the front of Alastor’s coat to pull him near.

What happened next was hazy, dark, confusing. Moments of sanity interspersed with poison.

Husk had watched the alcohol pour down between them both, how it half-pooled on Alastor’s tongue. And Husk had leaned forward, taking Alastor's mouth, taking the demon's tongue for every taste. There it was. The familiar burn, the sting on his gums. Anything to fall. To keep falling. 

Hands slammed into the bar next to him. Tendrils snaked out to writhe and hold onto limbs. Something pushed at his right knee, another pinned his wrists above his head until he felt they would snap. But Alastor didn’t stop the kiss. He pushed further, sliding his tongue around Husk’s, the alcohol pouring in-between them, still. The strong scent of it, the way it nearly cut off Husk’s breath, but still he seeked out the mouth coated in alcohol and blood and heat.

“So this is you…” Alastor spoke, making Husk whine when he moved his mouth away. But not far, still so close for Husk to feel his laughter rumbling against his skin. “How good to see you again, dear friend.”

His lungs were too filled to cry out. His skull was too filled to process anything of what was being said. There was only his mouth that wanted to find another. His head was the only part of him allowed to move, so he kissed Alastor harder, leaning in until sharp teeth clashed against his own, getting drunk off the taste of gin and whiskey, off the taste of Alastor’s tongue that made him choke.

It was warm, and wet, and hot, and scalding, and overwhelming and he wasn’t going to survive but he had always fallen so hard until there would be nothing but pieces of him left. Pieces that Alastor would leave on the ground to cut him open afterwards, but it was worth it all just to get ecstasy now. Just to feel something other than complete hollowness, even with a blade held to his throat.

If there were more touches that fell across him, more sounds that were pulled out of his throat, more names spilled out of him, again and again, he didn’t know. He just fell into warmth that was pitch-black, robbing him of all senses all at once. It was like being buried alive.

--

When Husk woke up the next morning in his bed, tucked inside blankets with his head on a soft pillow, the first thing he did was vomit all over the floor.

It had taken him ages to wobble to the bathroom, to expel whatever was left inside his stomach so that the fire inside him would stop. He knelt on the floor, hands shaking against the tiles, watching fur and feathers scatter from his shivering. Then he moved towards the sink, running the faucet over his head, hoping the cold water would douse the fever overtaking him. 

He remembered too much. The fear that froze him in place, the monster shapeshifting in front of him, the alcohol pouring, the touch on his cheek, and the kiss that left him panting for more.

Then completely nothing after that.

Somehow, that just made it worse.

Husk raised his head to the mirror, dreading what he’d see, whatever would be left of him. But all he saw was unkempt fur, matted down from water, bags underneath his eyes, and a dry tongue. 

Ordinary, because he would always drink before bed. Bottles of whiskey, vodka, gin and more were scattered all over his bedside table, or hidden in drawers. There was nothing different, and it fucking terrified him.

He ran his hand over his chest, swallowing hard. But even as his claws sifted through the fur, he couldn’t feel anything different. Everything in place. No marks of any kind. The only pain was the hangover doing a number on his stomach and his head all at once.

Nothing. But Alastor had always been good at covering his tracks.

And that very thought sent Husk’s mind reeling. He could’ve done anything with me. He could’ve made me do anything. He gagged, but there was nothing more to retch up except drips of saliva. His wings covered his shoulders on instinct, feeling cold in his bareness. But he always went to bed without clothes, so that wasn’t anything new either.

Hangovers were normal. Feeling like complete shit was normal.

He was going to shatter if he kept thinking about it.

Despite it all, Husk got to his feet, pushing everything away to just move. Went by routine. Gotta get ready. Gotta get to work. After all, he was the fucking front desk slash bartender for some goddamn reason.

Washed his face again. Half drunk the mouthwash. Did his business. Took a shower. Sat in the bathtub for ten minutes too long. He laid his wings flat on their sides. His claws kept kneading into his own legs. Finding nothing. Just nothing.

He left the bathroom. Went to the clothes closet that was half-open. Nice collared shirts, half-made ties, and jackets that hung around to gather dust, nearly falling off their hangers. He never bothered fixing them. He looked down, and saw the usual suspenders folded neatly on the bottom of the closet, his hat perched on top, right in the center.

Perfectly made. All set out for him. Husk stumbled into the closet, hung onto the side to keep upright. He breathed hard, harder, before he could finally calm himself down.

The bastard.

And still, he took the clothes, put them on. Clean and pressed, as if it had just been retrieved from the laundry. 

Cover all the tracks.

--

It almost felt unreal to see Alastor just out in the hallways, like it was nothing.

The demon wasn’t even looking at him. Husk had turned a corner and found Alastor walking forward, occasionally drifting a gaze or two to a hotel room door. Inspection? Just a stroll? If he was going to the lobby to meet up with Charlie, he would have just teleported like always.

Watching him, Husk felt  every old anger, every nauseous thought, every despair inside him. 

Instead of half a hallway down, Husk found himself only inches away, enough to see the patterns in Alastor’s coat. He reached out and grabbed a wrist.

Alastor halted immediately, turning sharply with a raised eyebrow. “Starting early today?”

The words sunk into him. Husk shuddered and let go, but still kept his eyes on the demon. “What the fuck happened before? What did you do?”

Alastor turned to face him. “Oh, so typical of you to pin the blame on me. And all just for a little nightcap.”

There was so much he expected to hear and so much he didn't. But what Alastor said made him feel he was losing his grasp on what little sanity he had left. The simple casualness of it, like Husk had only stubbed his toe instead of feeling like absolute garbage, inside and out. “Enough with your bullshit! What. Happened.”

Alastor tapped his fingers against the mic, creating a faint feedback from the motion. His grin widened. “Only a lovely evening shared between old friends.”

Something hot over his neck. His throat burning as he became undone. And bright eyes peeling through his chest, straight through meat and bone and–

Husk shook his head, tried to control his breathing. Alastor stood still, with not a flicker of change over his face. 

“I blacked out and that’s all you fucking say to me,” Husk said through gritted teeth. “You don’t care how much you ruin me. Or just…what I have to deal with afterwards.”

“Don’t be so ungrateful now. And after I made sure you would have a good night’s sleep.” He twirled the mic cane in one hand, the hum of it making Husk’s tail twitch in reflex. “Even rolled you on your side! Just in case, well, you know. You really should be more careful. One of these days you might not even wake up!”

Was that a threat? Husk couldn’t parse it, the words said so glibly from Alastor as if he was ordering a small cup of coffee. He breathed faster, his heart feeling like it would jump right out of his throat.

He just wanted to know what happened. He just wanted to know what Alastor did to him when he removed that block of memory from his head, shoving it away and only leaving him with invisible scars inside him. Ones he may never know about, or ones he would only find out when Alastor would reach for his hand out of nowhere.

And he just had to keep living like this.

Alastor leaned forward, towering over Husk, his shadow stretching out to cover him whole. Still, a certain distance was kept. One that could be broken at any moment. “I could see how much you truly missed it, you know,” Alastor said with a chuckle, pointing a finger right at Husk’s chest. “You told me so yourself.”

He didn't remember at all. Not a thing about that. No, he only remembered how Alastor had told him to beg and how he obeyed and how desperate he had been to get any drop left and he could only think how it must have gotten worse after that. It only ever got worse. His tongue felt like ash.

Something made his teeth rattle violently.

Husk blinked. Alastor was closer, but his boss hadn’t moved. The cane was held just before the demon’s face, blocking the claws that had reached out. Husk felt electricity run from his claws and up his arm.

He had aimed for it. For Alastor’s face. For his eyes. The undeniable urge to tear them out for what they must have seen.

There was always something that kept drawing him to Alastor. Teeth, claws, blood, hatred, fists, heat, despair, love, greed, everything, everything that was his. He didn’t know where it ever ended.

The grin widened. A red gleam that coated the hallway. “Husker. You have no idea how kind I am to you.”

He thought the chains would manifest, bring him to his knees and make him sink further and further into Alastor’s very being. Instead he was shoved. He was thrown away like disgusting trash and he couldn’t tell what were his thoughts or Alastor’s many whispers that sometimes trailed inside his head. Husk’s back hit the wall. He heard the cracks made in the plaster.

The only marks made. Easily fixed. But Alastor left the damage there for all to see, walking away as Husk struggled to breathe.

“Please do join us when you’re ready to be civil. The front desk can’t be unmanned for too long now.”

Husk waited and waited and waited. He didn’t know what for. His wings shuddered, and the pain in his chest finally felt so close to bursting open. Even though it wouldn’t. He knew it wouldn’t, ever since he first fell and couldn’t find a way to escape the pit he found himself in.

And if, for a second, he remembered being held within heat, a touch handling him as if he was fragile instead of worthless, precious instead of disposable, it didn’t really matter. Because he was still here, lying on the floor, waiting for something to change, knowing it never would. 

Did a little redraw of Xi in the comic Postcards in braille by Constanza Yovaniniz. It’s really good and you can read it here or on tapastic. Sorry I haven’t been updating regularly bit I’ll let y’all know I’m nor dead!

Would you please do some Crosshair x s/o reader who is on her period and needs cuddles? I have been going through hell this week.

Hello Anon. And may I add, FELT.

Crosshair had been up for awhile and had already eaten. He didn't wake you, wanting you to get as much sleep as you could. As he finished off his morning caf he heard you start to stir and came back to the bedroom. You looked up at him through groggy eyes and winced. He knew what kind of day it was, already having noticed the early signs last night, and he silently changed into his comfortable lounge pants and a t-shirt. They were soft and he knew you liked the feeling of them on him.

He got into bed next to you and laid on his side, propping his head up, letting a small, content smile appear as he gently ran his hand down your arm.

"I feel gross," you said. You felt tired and awful.

"Mm," he kissed your forehead, "You're not." He took your hand and kissed the back of it. "Why don't you take a shower? You'll feel better."

"I know," you replied, "but the actual getting out of bed feels a struggle, although I know I will feel better once under the water."

Crosshair got out of bed and walked to your side. He helped you up, went to the refresher, and turned the water on while you got undressed. You got in the shower and he grabbed some supplies from the kitchen to keep you hydrated and happy. When you came out, you found he'd already put out your most comfortable clothes for this time of the month. You smiled to yourself as you put them on and walked down the hall to join him. As soon as he saw you, he knew what to do. Taking his spot laying out on the sofa, he tapped his chest and grinned as you immediately laid on top of him. He pressed tender kisses to your head and his arms gently held you.

"You should eat something," he said, nodding to the end table. You did so, not really getting up, but laying on him like a snacking tooka. You couldn't help but smile at the feeling of his soft clothes underneath you. They felt and smelled like him. Like home.

You spent the rest of the day in various configurations of cuddling on the couch. Crosshair never complained. He never would. He didn't say it, but he always liked having you close anyway. While he couldn't make your pain go away, he could be there for you to see it through.

🥚 hullo, may I have an animal from the mainland of Japan? I’m half Japanese and would love to rep that.

Ezo flying squirrel!

 (Pteromys volans orii)