△ on the air △

"Are you calling me a slut?" There was no actual bite behind Valentino's question. If anything, he sounded amused as he lounged comfortably against the pillows, crossing two of his arms behind his head.

"Your word. Not mine." He would not get set up for such a thing. Besides, he was a bit too preoccupied with coasting claws over the flesh of Val's thighs. Practicing a bit of oral on the other was much less a strain for him than it might have been for him to perform with other parts of his body.

This was easy.

"Keep up the ear scratches, and perhaps that will further inspire, yes?"

Fennelpelt kept her eyes locked on the tom absorbing everything he was revealing about this redcough. Her tail twitching at the symptoms being listed. " This illness sounds quite the burden for any medcine cat certainly. " She paused taking a breath before letting him continue. Truly if this illness red cough was such a malady StarClan would have further knowledge when it came time to share dreams at the SunStone.

" Given what you have told me thus far Stagtooth concerning your quest for this herb. Then truly StarClan has guided your paws to FireClan and this meeting. " Her voice was heavy with weight of StarClan in her words the wisdom of clan cats past echoing in each mew. " I will do all in my power to aid in your search for this herb. But first-... " Before she could continue the den entrance rustled as a ash furred tom padded in a plump squirrel dragged behind him.

" I said I'd bring you the plumpest prey in the forest didn't I, Fennelpelt? " His mew was muffled by the prey's tail clung in his jaws before dropping it. " I see your not alone... " His voice dropped suspicion in his mew as he padded protectively close to the medcine cat's side. " I'm fine Ashheart. " Fennelpelt's voice cut in her tail wisking him away affectionately.

" I'm sorry Stagtooth for my older brother's suspension of you. He was just leaving weren't you Ashheart? " Her gaze while sharp on her littermate beamed with affection pushed him to leave with final glance on the tom before he ducked out of the den. " Now that we are alone again. I can finish yes? " Recentering herself with a few embarrassed chest licks the she-cat lifted her gaze to Stagtooth.

"...If you say so," Stagtooth replied, uncertain as to whether or not Starclan truly set him on the path - but not wanting to get into the debate as to the starry ancestors' legitimacy. He did not think he'd get very far with that line of questioning, and if any of it got back to his own clan, it would be likely that he might be ostracized for his doubt.

He shifted his paws as the other tom ducked into the den, the squirrel in his jaws. The narrowed gaze that was directed at him was delivered right back, Stagtooth's bright green eyes unwavering. He might have been in the proverbial fox's den amid cats he was not at all familiar with, but the large, ginger tom refused to permit any of them to believe that he would not fight to his last if driven to do that.

So he lifted his head with pride in the face of Ashheart's scrutiny - until the warrior stepped out of the den and left them alone once more.

"He would be a bad warrior if he weren't suspicious," Stagtooth admitted, no matter if it was him who had been targeted with it. But he would have done the same in the other tom's position.

Glancing down at the squirrel as it was pushed in his direction, he tilted his head slightly. He was tempted to refuse; to admit that he did not need any food or prey to be given to him that he'd not earned himself, but he could feel hunger hollowing out his belly.

With a small sigh, he crouched.

"I suppose."

His large claws pierced into the squirrel's flesh to keep hold of it while his jaws took a mouthful of the soft, plump prey. Said claws were never sheathed - and often he hoped that it would not be taken as a threat. It was simply an odd quirk of his.

Ordinarily he'd feel some satisfaction over the fact that Alastor's signal is clearly spiking with hidden irritation, but....alas, the allure of a good baked item is slightly stronger right now, enough that the irritation still flowing through his own system has died down to a simmer for now. He still raises an eyebrow at Alastor's rolling of his eyes at the display with the door--almost as if silently conveying the fuck are you gonna do about it, old man--but nothing in the way of sarcasm leaves his mouth as the Radio Demon enquires about what a shoofly pie is. He's at least smart enough to realize that his baked good experiences are not universal. "It's a Pennsylvania thing. Made with molasses, brown sugar, and usually some kinda crumb topping. And it's fucking delicious. Don't ask me why it's fucking called that, though. Anyone's guess. Think it might be the brand of molasses they used way back when."

He picks up the written recipe with a satisfied hum, squirreling it away in his pockets as his gaze roams over the display counter. For a moment, he half-debates breaking the glass and stealing some confection or another--because really, the fuck are they going to do to stop an Overlord, especially one with as much power as he has--but in the next minute he remembers that Alastor had told him to play nice, and he simply settles for huffing out a breath from his gill chambers and settling into a seat at the table while trying to look as little like a pouty toddler as possible. Fine. If Alastor wants to act like nothing had happened between the two of them a few scarce minutes ago, then he can be a petty little bitch too. Quid pro quo, only fair, whatever the fuck else he can find to justify it in the moment.

"Like that's any weirder of a name than lassi. Why are you out here naming a drink after a dog?" he finally drawls out under his breath, tapping his claws against the table impatiently as he waits for the food to be brought out.

"Mm. Molasses has always been a bit too sweet for me. Though I know there are alternatives that are a bit less cloying. But I'll try anything once." Not that Vox had been offering, but Alastor will certainly invite himself to taste something that the other claims to be delicious. He imagines their tastes are a bit different, but the radio demon has often prided himself on having quite the palate.

For now, however, he enjoys the drink he is served, sipping at it rather pleasurably with a waggle of his tail behind him - until Vox interjects and his brow furrows slightly at the other's ridiculous comment.

"Lassi with an I at the end, you idiot," he replies, shaking his head. "It's Indian. Has nothing to do with the dog." Why does he bother?

But he slides the glass over to Vox in spite of his chastising.

"Here. Try it."

It's thick, not unlike a smoothie, with rich flavors of the mango heightened with milk and yogurt both, as well as a nice mix of saffron and cardamom. With how adamant Vox has been about things like treats and smoothies, Alastor believes that any refusal or otherwise distaste for the drink will be out of stubbornness alone. But even in that case, he will not be exceptionally annoyed. At least he will be contented with the idea that Vox will not pilfer the entirety of his drink, anyway.

The bombay rolls and pie are soon to follow, however, set before them - and Alastor is even so kind as to offer one of the rolls to Vox in turn.

"Try that, too."

He is not going to let Alastor's idea of dancing nude on the bar go straight to his dicks, thank you very much. This is his arch nemesis that he's talking to, and he knows where his current priorities lie. That being said, the mental image that that immediately leaves him with causes him to let out a cough that he quickly disguises as a clearing of his throat, straightening his posture by the tiniest of degrees as he gives an unimpressed look towards Alastor. "Sounds like a skill issue to me," he rasps out, somehow successfully managing to wrangle the sudden urge to clamp down on the offending hand that's poking against his head with his teeth. "Maybe if you didn't have a gigantic stick up your ass about using modern technology, you'd be better off." Or if the hotel actually invested in a working climate control system, but. Semantics.

His aggrieved expression only becomes more pinched off as Alastor goes on and on about wanting an iced coffee, one eyelid twitching by the smallest of amounts as he stands there. "You're getting an ice bath and a glass of cold water, wiseass. Keep it up and you'll be lucky if I don't dump all the water on your fucking head."

"Oh, I've no qualms about using certain tools to accomplish a variety of things I cannot do myself. Though said things are few and far between. I'm just not interested in the obnoxious drone of modern television. You would think you would know that!"

It's a dig, and an obvious one, as he elbows the other in the ribs. He manages to use a telephone, on occasion, knows how to operate a camera, when it comes down to it, and has a small library of films he enjoys. Sit him down to some mind-numbing TV, however, and Alastor loses all interest. Perhaps it's not with the stark venom that he's possessed for it in the past, but still, he finds himself uninvested in it.

He rolls his eyes at Vox's petulance, but really, he does not expect the other to cater to his every whim as he's expressed it. (Or any of them, really.)

"Fine, fine. Come on then, and I will show you where to start said ice bath." It's a bit too hot for him to be too anal about permitting Vox inside his room, even if he'll be taking him straight to the humid bathroom and guiding him to the copper tub. The old-fashioned room contains a number of plants, some photos crookedly hung along the walls, and a large, taxidermied snapping turtle which stands, unmoving near the tub itself.

From @radioiaci: "You're making me lose focus." 🦌🔪 [ Suggestive Dialogue Prompts ]

Pen's fingertips massage the inner dip of his hips, draped over his shoulders as he works on... What is it, paperwork? Busy work? Their fingers splay on his hips, thumbs gently pressing in under his belt.

Devious.

Over the last few weeks, Alastor has found himself releasing his stringent hold on a few key... boundaries between them. He is less terse about it now - but still, when it catches him off guard, it certainly does in a large way.

The pen in hand does a small jitter against the paper where he scribbles notes, keenly aware of their wandering hands.

"Your persistence is not the usual caliber of distraction that I face," Alastor mutters, one of his ears giving a slight twitch. "This feels a bit like a hostage situation."

Of course he stresses over this. Alastor was just usually not the type for anything too Vulgar. And really Angel had been trying to show him that he could be trusted, that he had respect for him. He isn’t a saint, and knows things aren’t perfect, but between the earlier talk of immediate termination conditions, and literally just being asked to cool it with stupid nicknames… well he feels like that’s pushing his luck. Like how ‘just one more hit’ was a slippery slope, he felt it’d be the same falling out of good graces.

Spiraling over this certainly is no help. The building anxiousness blocking his airways doesn’t exactly make him appear at his best, and it was no help getting him to speak. In truth any positive relationship like this just… tends to slip away. To blow up in his face. Because he ruins it. He didn’t want to ruin this.

Sweat had actually started to attempt beading over his brow, he was so attached, so fucked, that it laid claim to him like this.

Be that as it may, he was so lucky that Alastor shut it down so quickly in his attempts and stammering through his words. Not even to say it was okay, (though he had) but to lower the ringing alarm bells by making it a smaller thing than previously perceived. His shoulders lower for a moment as he listens, letting go of a breath he had no idea he’d been holding. Though it made no super evident visuals, tension slipping out made a ton if difference to Angel. And that acceptance- was quite the surprise too.

Alastor had been so quick to dismiss the notion that the endearment was bad. But the even bigger kicker was him accepting it. And flushing his cute little face was so genuine and so unabashedly gorgeous that it did the trick to calm him while he pads over quieter. Settling by his side, it takes very little time for him to be looking closely. Too invested to avert his eyes or turn away. Though what Alastor said- it wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting it to be even in the best case.

Affirmation has him shift, smiling with his teeth chewing at his lower lip. Grinding his teeth briefly into the flesh before finding his words, pink finds its way to his cheeks as he accepts the conditions.

“Okay,” In an instant, agreement is given. Maybe he is a bit too excited about it, but that’s neither here nor there. (And nobody could prove it). “It’s kinda special that way, I like doing so much with ya already that’s kinda private.”

Reasoning isn’t particularly self soothing, in fact it was far more akin to memorizing the rule, and letting Alastor know he understands. As such, his voice dips a bit. Legs pulled up a bit closer.

“No one else, just us.” He swears, his eyes briefly getting a glimpse of a contented Fat Nuggets so close to Alastor’s head, eyes heavy, and his world so normal. Alastor was a part of it indeed, and he knew it with no doubts.

Had they not some considerable trust building between them over the last months, Alastor may have been much more wary of being given such a strange nickname. (Label??) But because of the work Angel Dust has put in thus far, he is... granting a bit of leniency, not eager to damage the relationship between them for the sake of his own hang ups that really don't... actually apply in this case. It is not a patronizing name to be given - just an odd and slightly sexually charged one, if he is being honest.

But if he can trust anyone to be granted the permissibility to venture into that sort of territory... it's Angel Dust.

When he moves into Alastor's space, the radio demon doesn't balk or shy away, more than accustomed to the other's presence by now. Instead, he scoots slightly to allow Angel to slide near to him, even if Alastor's fluster has not vanished entirely. He's quite aware of Angel's eyes on him, and though he does not mind it, per se, he can tell that it's certainly not helping his predicament.

Eventually, he manages to get himself together, no matter the slight flush to his features, turning his gaze over to Angel Dust as he settles in close. There's a slight twitching of his ears as the other offers the nickname once more, and Alastor cannot help the slight bit of light-headedness that joins it.

He really is in trouble.

Withering, slightly, he relents, and reaches up with a hand to turn Angel's face a bit more towards him. It's a good angle to close what distance remains and press a kiss to the other's mouth. An acknowledgement and appreciation, both. He's not quite sure how to return the sentiment that the name has granted him. But hopefully something physical will suffice until he can figure out a better way. It's only after a few long, lingering seconds of contact that Alastor pulls back, just a bit. Not far.

"She does, doesn't she? I am constantly reminded of the princessss."

To the point where Pentious numerously and consistently caught himself calling Emily "Charlie". Sometimes in time, sometimes not. It was extremely awkward, but with the blatant similarities between the two girls, he couldn't find it in himself to be too guilty about it. They sang in the same key, to boot.

His smile stayed, frozen and pleading until Alastor saw the possible benefit to a bit of mingling. And after that, the expression melted into one of actual relief and intrigue.

"Oh, I would love that! A few of my clothes, maybe. I only have this one suit, and I am not used to the colour. And maybe some of yours."

Something that smelled like Alastor. Pentious thought further. He doubted that they would dare to make the attempt to, what was that term... yeet? - one of their eggs through the portals. But what else would he prefer to have over?

"The necklace you gave me... I am almost certain I was wearing it on the eve of the battle, but I do not have it here. Could you look around for it? If there's a chance I lost it during the fight?"

Pen touched between his collarbones, where the jewellery would usually rest. He was afraid that the more likely option was that the necklace had burnt alongside the rest of his garments at the moment of his ascension.

But maybe there was a chance. Stranger things had happened lately.

The necklace... He'd almost forgotten about it. If Pen had lost it in the battle, then there was no way it might have been salvaged. It was more likely that it was buried beneath the rubble of the hotel that was, but Alastor could not summon up the gumption to dash the other's hopes that it might still be there. Somewhere.

He would look, regardless, but held little hope that he would find it.

Alastor nodded.

"I will try."

And worst case, he could... get another, maybe. It would not hold the same significance, he thought, knowing that it would be little more than a paltry replacement for something much more symbolic, but what else was he to do? Consider it buried, gone, and without anything to fill the hole it had left?

No, he could not do that.

"I have a few things of mine you can have, if they will take it to you. But yours..." He sighed. He'd had to be honest about what had happened to most, if not all of Pentious' belongings that were not occupying their shared space.

"The hotel was decimated in the aftermath," Alastor finally admitted. "Adam-" His brow furrowed at the mention of the name. "Well. He ensured that there would be nothing left at the end. They rebuilt the new one on top. But I can't say that there was... much left over from the old. They replaced personal things from the others' rooms, but considering they'd believed you to be gone..."

Frustration broiled in him at the recollection, but he tried to push it aside.

Simon feels exhilarated when Alastor chimes in with his thoughts. Years. Many years together. A forever that will end with them. Maybe they'll live to see a day when they do not have to remain a secret. The French had their revolution. Maybe their kind of relationship will have its own.

"Well. This night is already rather unprecedented. A second bath after midnight probably won't tip the scales at this point." Simon speaks longwindedly, as if giving in to the other's hint requires thought and convincing, though he is more than ready to leap into the bath. Probably was as soon as Alastor's fingertip touched his protruding hip.

But before he can lean in and lift himself into the comfortable tub too, he indeed recalls how late it is, and how little time they have to bathe and indulge and slumber before Alastor will have to escape.

"Wait. Wait right there. Do not make a sound. I will make certain we can bathe in peace and sleep until late. It will just take a minute."

He leans in to capture Alastor's cheeks in both hands and give him a sound kiss.

"I promise."

And before he disappears behind the side door, Simon tugs on the bell pull within a panel on the wall, knowing it will reach the servants' common room where one or more of them always stays on call.

He leaves Alastor with one last finger pressed to his lips to hush him, and returns to the bedroom in a hurry to hide all other clothes underneath his blankets, while pulling on the large nightgown to conceal the fact that he has removed all else from underneath. He smooths down his hair, removes his glasses, and gives both of his cheeks a painful pinch to invoke a bit of a fever. He coughs. Cough cough. And again. And then hurries to close the door to his balcony.

A polite and urgent knock comes soon enough, and the hairs on the back of Simon's neck bristle as he steps to the door. A young servant stands on the other side, her uniform still intact and as ready to serve as she would be at a more godly hour. She holds a candle to bring her light in the dark manor.

"Good tidings, Mister Simon, are you alright?"

"Good tidings. I am sorry to bother you so late at night, Flora," Simon says, and he truly means it. "I have a terrible headache, and the chills."

Cough. Cough cough.

The young woman's face contorts in concern. She, like all of the other servants, has been taught that the young master's health is one of their most dire and important concerns.

"Oh dear. Should I fetch your physician, Mister?"

"No, thank you, that's not necessary. I am certain it's only a cold. But I would prefer to rest tomorrow morning. Can you let the staff and my parents know that I am not to be disturbed at all before noon?"

Simon hates to be so demanding, but he knows that without deliberately asking for it, someone will bother him in the morning. And worse yet, Flora is used to demands. She nods.

"Certainly, Mister Simon. Do you require anything else? Medicine or tea?"

"No, thank you, Flora. I believe I have cough drops in my cupboard. Sorry for the trouble again. Good night." Cough.

"Not at all. Good night, Mister Simon."

The young servant leaves after a quick bow, and after locking the door behind her, Simon can breathe out a sigh of relief. This way, he does not need to sleep with one eye open, barricade the room and throw Alastor into his wardrobe when the valet is to stroll over and wake him for his morning schedule as soon as the rooster calls.

He will get to hold onto Alastor longer.

Simon tosses away his nightgown once more and rids himself of his socks before he returns to the bathing room, giving his friend a victorious thumbs-up to show that all is well and taken care of.

"I hope you did not hold your breath. I should hate to see you drowned," he whispers in case Flora's steps in the corridor are slow.

Then, he steps over.

He takes Alastor's hand as a brace when he finally steps into the tub himself, sitting across from his best friend as he has so many times before. He smiles gently and gathers his inky hair into a hand-tied knot on top of his head to shield it from a needless wash.

"Probably," Alastor repeats with some amusement. "However shall we recover from this trail of debauchery we leave, hm?" And he leans against the side, watching Pen before the other offers the kiss and disappears almost too hurriedly. Alastor's eyebrows raise with interest, though he obeys and says nothing, not even going so far as to swirl around in the water, lest he be overheard while Simons does whatever it is his needs to do. Some sort of scheme, surely, but Alastor is as silent as the grave once he hears the other's put-upon coughing, and then the knocking at the door.

Tempted though he is to sink beneath the water, just in case, he decides to simply remain still, hidden behind the door as he listens to the exchange. He cannot help, however, the smirk that dresses his features as Pen concocts the false story, finding some amusement in how eager he seems to be to lie in order to secure more time for them together.

It can't be for days upon end. Alastor will need to hare off, eventually. But he has to appreciate that Simon want to postpone that inevitability for as long as possible.

When the servant finally leaves, and Pen finally returns, Alastor permits himself a small chuckle.

"I thought about it, if I am honest," he replies. "But I am not very well practiced at holding my breath underwater." In fact, the thought might threaten to make him shudder. Even in this shallow-ish bath, he is not interested in remaining submerged for an extended amount of time where he cannot take in air.

When Simon finally joins him, Alastor is not especially quick to invade his space, no matter how much he is tempted. But he does watch, and wait, content for the time being.

"It feels more like a soak, but yes, as a matter of fact. I can't foresee myself ever making a habit of such extravagance, but... for a first time experience, it is not terrible."

"No, I don't take it as an insult. Honestly, I did always think you were better at organising things than I was. I'm still immature it seems..."

Maybe, she was emulating her dad once more. The lack of responsibility for the lives he brought into the world was something she projected onto him as a teen. It had felt like he wasn't there and that was what caused her mother to become more resentful. The connections he had to his family rotted until they were dead.

Or was that how Gangle wanted it to be? She herself didn't know. That wasn't important the performance was. She had hoped that Alastor would simply go with the divorce option but this part of having "Wife" take on work while "Husband" stayed at home. It was something that maybe could have saved her own family. Her father had been the breadwinner back then, while mother stayed at home. It was only when they divorced that Purple entered the company she was part of.

And Purple had excelled in all respects, she suited the work very well. Father had always been the more emotionally available one of the two so him staying with the kids would have worked far better given how distant Purple tended to be. Part of her wondered how long this would go now, because with Alastor's words the tone had changed.

Instead of things continuing on as they had been leading to a confrontation now it was a final chance to maybe make things work. Let the "Wife" seek work while the "Husband" stayed home. A nice challenge to the social norms that were so old and antiquated.

"If that's what It takes then I'll do it. I know it'll be a struggle but god you're right! See? That's why I didn't want to say it. I do love my kids being apart just made me forget how much they meant to me. I will step up as a father and as a husband. I just have to do it there's no going back, but for them I will do my best to make them happy."

Being apart from the children led to "Husband" not seeing the children as people. As such the "Husband" only felt the burden of providing without truly seeing the fruits of his labour. It created this distance. But, it wasn't a lack of care, simply a blindness to it. But with "Wife" pointing him back in the right direction things could improve.

"Thank you darling...once more I'm reminded why I fell for you. You're smart, you're dependable, everything that I'm not. Maybe, being here suits me better if I'm as childish as the kids I can connect with them better. But, I will keep up with the chores too. Maybe, walking a step in your shoes will show me the error of my thinking. Thank you so much."

Gangle came close but didn't touch Alastor before simply staring into his eyes lovingly. Or as much "love" as she could muster as "Husband" and then Gangle froze in that moment waiting for something.

In truth, this all seemed entirely too easy. Was it so simple to revert such a harrowing event from near disaster to something entirely acceptable? Was that what Caine had been looking for? Had it been up to Alastor, he would have simply encouraged the woman to kill the man and be done with it; wipe her hands clean of him and start a new life as the leader of a gang in a prison somewhere. But that did not seem to be what their all powerful ringleader wanted - and Alastor was doing his best to harken back to whatever he did know about humans.

And their stupid, insipid gender roles.

(But otherwise, his knowledge was woefully lacking.)

Gangle's acceptance of what he was proposing was much quicker than it had any right to be, and Alastor's ear twitched with some slight annoyance. He said nothing, but felt somewhat awkward when the other approached and began to try and... stare at him?

He glanced to the side. Then back.

What? What was this for. Something about it felt vaguely threatening, and his fur continued to bristle as the other seemed to simply... remain there, unmoving. Unblinking.

His mouth opened - and he could not keep himself from whispering, hoping that he were not overheard, but willing to play it off as an in-character statement if questioned.

"...This is creepy."

Humans were odd, but Gangle was more so, he thought to himself. But was this part necessary? Is this what Caine was expecting????

Valentino laughed even harder at Alastor's genuine offense over the grade, his shoulders shaking as he tried and failed to contain himself.

"A B is passing!" he insisted, barely able to get the words out between fits of giggles.

He was clearly having far too much fun with Alastor's reaction.

Rude. Alastor glanced at Valentino with a disbelieving stare.

"Passing is not good enough," he griped, shifting so that he was poised more in a hover over Valentino's lower half. "I think your experience is coloring your perspective."

A brief pause for some thought was all he took before snuffing at Val.

Valentino giggled, clearly pleased with himself as he looked down at Alastor.

"I give you... a C+." He paused, considering the grade for another moment before his expression brightened. "No, you know what? A B. A solid B. You did a good job."

"A B?!" Alastor replied, incredulously. He would not refuse the scritches to his ears, but he was certainly going to look offended by the scoring.

"Explain your reasoning."