#staticangel

the aforementioned radiojoy because this made me giggle

I'm gonna ramble about these guys here because I have been rotating them in my head while reworking my shizzy.

Emily is quite literally the biggest fire hazard either half of radiostatic has EVER known; she's trying to boil water and it lights up, she tries to flick light switches and they explode. It's actually because of her angelic core, and almost everything in Hell is inherently ruined by direct contact with something holding so much holy magic, so she's expected to accept the princess treatment in either of their apartments. Neither of them wants to replace ANOTHER stove or anything, shit gets expensive.

Vox's research sessions/stalking parties gained an unwelcomed member in Emily after she and Al love into the Brights. She initially just hung around while he dug through old records and searched the web, but eventually she started following him as far as actually watching his targets. He finds this intrusive and childish, but he knows that if he does literally anything to her that Alastor will come wreck his shit.

Alastor can 'summon' Emily like a falconer, but more often than not she misses his arm entirely and crashes into the ground. For being a creature constantly flying, she's very clumsy.

Vox and Alastor fought in private every night for weeks after he moved into the Brights, almost entirely about him harboring an angel and deciding to drag her glowy ass to HIS JOB to burden HIS BOSS. Like babes, I'm here being a resident helper and you brought your winged sidehoe to come crash here with you, in a room TOGETHER, and expect him to be fine wit it?? Motherfucker Alastor was gone for nearly twenty years and now he's back like nothing changed, except he's clearly done SOMETHING with the annoying freak be dragged in because he's different.

Emily is genuinely confused when Vincent casually mentions he dislikes her, because she'd thought they were already close friends--any friend of Alastor's was a friend of hers, as far as she had been rolling.

Alastor allows physical affection with Emily because (again) they made a deal, and she's not able to be particularly far from him. She's big on contact and attention, and she somehow doesn't make him want to slog his skin off with every touch, so he's willing to tolerate it.

Statichalo Alastor protectors?? He will never willingly accept that, because he's Alastor, but they would both rip every soul in Hell to shreds fo ensure their favorite deer gets to live.

Vox and Emily are both clingy, but in very different ways. Vincent is intent on sharing every second with the person he cares about, filling the air with as much conversation and energy as possible to keep them around. Emily is (surprisingly) more relaxed about it, content to simply share the room in silence since that was often how she'd spend DAYS with the other Angels in Heaven. Vox bites and cries if he feels ignored, but Emily simply initiates some kind of physical contact and goes back to whatever she was doing before.

Vox IS the tallest here, and yes his husband and his husband's weird ass bird steal ALL of his clothing. He's convinced Emily is making some kind of nest with it all, but Alastor refuses to tell him what he knows.

Alastor is fine shyt in this AU--not only does he have a decently attractive twunk bagged, but a holy being from another dimension took one look at him and became absolutely obsessed with him. May or may not have SOMETHING to do with his half-blood bullshit, but all he knows is that now he's got not only a pathetic puppy-fish man, but a human sized bird with no self preservation skills.

Alastor genuinely doesn't understand why Vox is so bothered about Emily, all they did was make a deal out of necessity; she's more like a chatty accessory than an owner, or a soul he himself owns. He's completely ignorant to Vox's suspicions of him cheating with her, as he's never even thought about that before. He's been busy trying to keep himself alive and not let this stupid bird get butchered so Heaven doesn't rain death upon them all, when could he have possibly had time to even consider doing something like that??

Emily was honestly expecting a very different person to who she met when introduced to Vox; Alastor and Niffty both spoke highly of him, and with how undeniably adoring Alastor was, she was anticipating someone,,, nicer? At least someone who didn't immediately start arguing with him when they arrived.

There's a puddle underfoot. Damp sinking through your shoe, and a man with a cigarette leaning against the wall. The smoke flows through his teeth, asking "Will you come with me?"

Acrid and miserable, the sweet stench of rot and revulsion. He's really asking if you're miserable enough to give it up. What up? You're not sure but it's the hollow place in your chest where lungs should be. The smart choice says no and you've always been smart. Do you look like the sort of person who'd say yes?

He lets out a breath, waiting on you to answer.

—

Your room, his room, his hands on your waist, your hips, your shoulders, grinning lips pressed somewhere against your neck. He’s saying your name: purred and pleasant, breathy plosives lost in pleasure.

Tonight you’re playing happy couple, been together long to know exactly what gets you you off. Half-light, just the strips of LED illuminating.

He pulls out out of you, and pulls out a cigarette as the illusion falls apart, taking nothing in but the beat of your fans and the city below.

A week later and a there’s a leather-clad leg kicking through your screen: floor, glass, face.

—

Skin tacky with sweat, air rich with perfume and sex. The lights are off, and it’s good. Not because you’re good or in love but because it’s a fucking job. He’s got wet-wipes on hand to clean the fluids off. Clinical, precise, the cameras rolling until somebody says cut.

There’s a moan echoing in the hollow silences where you don’t know what to say. “Thanks,” or maybe “I’ll see you on Monday,” or maybe “Is this all we get in life?”

He opens a window, the stuffy air of the room doing nothing but cooling the remnants of the wipe.

—

The lights are on, the musics low. He’s watching you like he’s wondering what you’ll do, sitting on the edge of the bed, not looking at him, just cataloguing the wallpaper, peeling with the water damage. Make a move, do something.

You’re a mess: jacket folded over a chair, lump in your throat, three degrees of separation-desperation even with him sitting right there. There’s nothing to show there was ever anything at all-- the tentacles all gone.

You’re going to leave because there’s nothing to say, despite the way that words flow between you.