A Little Comfort Continuation Of My Riz Character Study (aftermath W/ Jawbone To The Rescue!! Hes Such

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.”

help me help feras help his family in gaza 🙏

this morning i woke up and as i was scrolling through the fundraisers gaza funds share every day on twitter (@/gazafunds) I thought "hey i wonder if the one i donated to the other day reached it's goal" and found out that they didn't which is crazy cause they're literally so so so close and it has been three days so !! ↓↓

i will literally draw you any character of your choosing if you donate either 5$ or 10$ to his fundraiser (just dm me the receipt!) and if you can't donate please share 🙏

edit: by receipt i mean even just a screenshot of that thing gofundme shows you after you've donated, no need to send me any personal information/lh

Short bkdk because I am SAD and katsuki is DEAD (for a little bit) 💚🧡

The hospital was miserable. Not just because it was chock full of grieving families and people balancing on the knife’s edge between life and death, but because—despite the fact that he survived—Katsuki was still being grieved.

He could see it in Best Jeanist’s eyes when he visited, dropping off some new, incredibly soft clothes for him to wear that weren’t open-backed hospital gowns. Guilt. Regret. Katsuki was alive, sitting right in front of him, and he still couldn’t quite see past the mirage of blood on his face.

Aizawa, too, had barely been able to look at him. Brought the three third years so he didn’t have to be alone with Katsuki. Face what he saw as one of his greatest failures as a teacher. A mentor. At least that’s what Katsuki thought.

The old man brought well wishes from the class. Some flowers. And the black smudges beneath his eyes. Katsuki wondered if he’d slept at all in the aftermath. If he’d ever sleep soundly again. Katsuki sure won’t.

The third years praised his speed, commenting on how dazzling his explosions were, until the very end. Mirio told him he knew he’d be a great hero one day, that he practically already was one. Nejire seconded that and asked if all of his sweat exploded, and if it was inconvenient because of that. He was so viscerally reminded of Izuku, in the moment, that he nearly started bawling.

Amajiki didn’t say much, but he left a small bento with a note: eat up and regain your strength. thank you. you were incredible.

And still, through their attempts at normalcy he could see the way they watched him. As if he were liable to keel over again at any minute. He was fine, goddamnit. He was healing. That didn’t make him weak.

The hag and his old man visited daily. Couldn’t stop touching his face and neck and tilting him every which way to reassure themselves that he really was alive. That was more the hag, but every so often his old man—who generally strayed away from getting physical with him—would cup his cheek and run his thumb over the new scar there, eyes pained. Katsuki always shook him off, told him not to look at him like that, but the memory lingers, as they all do. The hag wouldn’t even smack him anymore, even when he knew he was being a brat. Taking his anger at the world and his body out on them when they did nothing to deserve it.

All of her touches were light, ghosts of things that made him feel uncomfortably unreal. She asked if he wanted to stay at UA, after everything, and something about the tilt of her mouth told him she already knew the answer. Still, when he said yes, without hesitation, she had to excuse herself from the room, eyes shining.

It was maddening. A purgatory of what-ifs that everyone except him was experiencing. The only ‘what-if’ Katsuki was concerned with was whether or not—if he was just a little stronger, had been able to land even just one more hit— Izuku would’ve been able to keep his quirk. But that’s for him. He keeps it close and inside and it’s no one else’s problem.

Now that he’s out—lounging in his dorm room after a less harrowing round of greetings from all the others, who didn’t know the situation and thus couldn’t feel guilty or grieve about it—it’s louder, the way he likes it. Normal.

Kirishima and Kaminari are wrestling somewhere loud enough for him to hear them jeering at each other. Iida’s yelling at someone for leaving a mess in the kitchen. It loosens something that had scabbed over in Katsuki’s chest.

There’s a knock at his door.

Sero? Possibly, but he would’ve thought he was with Kirishima and Kaminari, filming or something ‘for posterity’. It’s not Todoroki, his self-proclaimed ‘best friend’, because he’s at the hospital visiting his brother.

Before he can stand and open the door, it creaks forward and a bright green eye stares at him through the crack.

“Kacchan?”

Izuku.

Katsuki sighs and shakes his head.

“What was the point of knocking if you were just gonna come in anyway?”

He doesn’t say, ‘leave’ or ‘get out’ or ‘beat it, Deku!’. Izuku’s mouth quirks into a half-smile as he opens the door the rest of the way and steps inside.

“I thought you might be sleeping. I know it’s been a hard few weeks.”

Katsuki scoffs. And another one. Fucking- doubting him. Of course he's exhausted, sleeping is almost impossible right now and people haven’t stopped walking on eggshells around him. Doesn’t mean he’s going to be a pussy about it. He’s going to prove to them that he’s just as he’s always been, that he doesn’t need the goddamn kid gloves.

“Don’t start. I don’t need your fucking pity.”

“It’s not pity, Kacchan.” Izuku’s voice hardens. “I’m not here for you.”

And what a bewilderingly contradictory statement. He’s in Katsuki’s room. What else could he possibly be there for?

“What-“

He doesn’t manage to voice his incredulity before Izuku is on top of him, clinging tight, but gingerly, around his sides and burying his face into his neck. Katsuki nearly flinches back into his pillow with the suddenness of it.

“Deku- what the hell-“

Izuku breathes deep and reaches blindly up to clamp a hand over Katsuki’s mouth.

“Shut up. Give me a minute. And call me Izuku, I know you can.”

Katsuki, too shocked with his words and actions to do otherwise, gives him a minute. Izuku simply lies there, curled over him, and breathes. He matches his inhales to Katsuki’s and taps out the slow thrum of his heart against his hip. Hypnotizing. It’s surprisingly peaceful, and before long Katsuki finds himself lulled into a hazy, half-awake state.

Finally, Izuku speaks, voice hushed.

“You don’t- I don’t think you get it, Kacchan. You didn’t have to see yourself.” He shivers, and Katsuki finds himself raising his own arms to pull him closer towards his own heat.

“Your eyes… Empty. Dull. Dead. It was your body, but I knew you weren’t in there anymore. Someone—Shigaraki—had torn you out.” Something wet splashes against Katsuki’s neck, startling him. Izuku is crying.

“But I’m fine, now. I’m back. Edgeshot saved me.” Katsuki says, haltingly. His voice struggles over the word ‘saved’ but it’s the truth. He had to be saved. Because he couldn’t hold his own.

Izuku shakes his head and presses impossibly closer.

“I know that. I just- I just need to make sure.”

And Katsuki understands. More than anyone, he thinks, he knows exactly what’s running through Izuku’s mind right now. The nauseating mix of helplessness and self hatred.

“Okay.” He says. Then, a crackling whisper, so quiet that it’s only because Izuku is so close that he’s able to hear it. “I’m sorry.”

Izuku’s arms tighten, for a fraction of a second, around him before he pushes himself up. Katsuki swears there’s lightning in his eyes when they look at each other.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. You literally died because of me-“ His voice cuts off into sobs. Katsuki watches, dismayed, as another wave of tears begins cresting down his cheeks. Ah, shit.

Katsuki raises his good hand to hover over Izuku’s teary cheeks. Callously, and without much tact, his thumb smears some of the wetness from beneath his eyes. It doesn’t really do anything, and he curses himself for trying.

“Izuku, look, I-“ He tries to pull his hand back but Izuku snatches it from the air and presses it back against his cheek. There’s a wobbly smile building on his lips. Katsuki can hardly bear to look at it.

“It wasn’t your fault. I should’ve-“

“No.” Izuku says, turning to press Katsuki’s pulse point against his face, where he can feel his heart beat. “If it isn’t my fault, then it isn’t yours.”

Katsuki can’t bring himself to agree, yet. Not verbally. But he wants, desperately, for Izuku to stop crying so he nods, once, very stiffly.

Izuku’s teeth glint as his mouth stretches into a real grinning laugh. It feels like staring directly at the sun. Katsuki can’t look away.

“Alright. I’ll take that.” Izuku settles back onto Katsuki’s chest, ear pressed to his shirt as his hands migrate back to cage Katsuki beneath him. Like a blanket, or armor, his weight is familiar to Katsuki, soothing.

“Don’t move.”

Now it’s Katsuki’s turn to chuckle. As if he could. Izuku cracks an eye open to watch him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Are u one of the three ppl who is both obsessed with MHA and Do androids dream of electric sheep?? Then oh boy have i written the fic for u (it was mostly for me,,, but im not NOT gonna promote it its 16k words!) welcome to todoiida blade runner where todo is an android and iida is deckard also its not bladerunner its DADOES :) also i get tired and it rushes a little at the end also my finance major becomes so incredibly obvious :) please i need to find my people,, there must be someone who is as crazy abt this concept as i am

I JUST READ YOUR 2 WOUND HEALING RADIOAPPLE FICS ON TUMBLR HERE AND AAAHH THEY'RE SO GOOD. I love it when I can relate to both Lulu and Al in different ways—a very subjective opinion of course—and you captured them so well!! I've left kudos for both works on AO3 but I just wanted to scream at you on Tumblr (in a good way)

First things first 🎉🎉🎉 congrats on being the first person to use my askbox!!! It’s been open but no one was biting so this absolutely made my day!!!

I’m so glad you’re liking my radioapple wound healing series and that you’ve found something in both alastor and lucifer to connect to!!

Thanks for reading and leaving kudos they mean the world to me and as a PSA to you and anyone on my page reading this I do take fic/ oneshot requests here in my askbox bc they make for good warmups when I get into a writing sesh!!

Thanks again ❤️❤️❤️

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.”