Archive of Our Own ^beta

Angel had always been pretty. 

In death, that was a given – it wasn’t just his early-Hell desperation that drew Valentino to him, and he wasn’t on every billboard and porn channel because they appreciated his personality. Angel Dust was about as pretty as demons got. But he was pretty in life, too. And he had hated it. 

Born into the mafia, he’d discovered early on in his life that there truly was no room for the different, no room for the beautiful amongst the swathes of flesh and blood and violence. Angel – Anthony – had been so very different. Oh, how he’d tried not to be. He brandished a gun as well as his father, wore suits and ties with the ease of his brother, but nobody could ever deny that he shared his sister’s beauty. He could hide that he shared her… proclivities too, though it pained him to do so. But his appearance was not something he could change. He would forever be the lily amongst thorns, the gypsum amongst obsidian: pale, delicate, and easily broken. His beauty taught him that no matter how hard he worked to become the man his family wished him to be, he could never truly change others’ perceptions of him. He’d wasted so much of his human life trying to live up to the family name. He’d had so much blood on his hands. So much that never seemed to be enough, until it was, and he’d managed to prove himself to his father. He finally belonged amongst his family.

He should’ve expected that he would be caught kissing another boy on the day of his initiation – he might’ve been too pretty for the poor servant boy to resist, but he wasn’t pretty enough for the boy to not also blame him entirely. 

His eighteenth birthday had been spent sobbing on a street corner, face painted black and blue, and the family branding once proudly palling his chest carved out just above where the darkened remnants of his heart continued to beat. 

That, he supposed, was when he first started to appreciate the fact that he was pretty. Or, at least, others did. He’d tried slumming it on the streets for a year or so. Making ends meet through some good old-fashioned crime, a little bit of drug-dealing here and there, but it turned out being exiled from the mafia shut down most avenues of criminal activity for you. 

He’d been half-starved, desperate, and succumbing to the elements when some man old enough to be his father pulled up to him, smiling predatorily, wickedly as he drawled, “Hey, pretty boy. How much for an hour?” 

Angel remembered blurting out a number far too low, and after the hour was up, he’d limped to a nearby store and bought a single loaf of bread and a scratchcard. The cost of his virginity. And he hadn’t even won a dime on the card. Pathetic. 

Pathetic, he’d thought then, but lucrative. He was pretty, after all. For all that society shunned homosexuality, male prostitutes were in high demand, ones who could be sneaky and soft and beautiful enough for men to pretend they were fucking a broad if they closed their eyes and held their hips just right. Anthony was everything they’d wanted in that regard.  So instead of selling drugs, he started selling sex. He’d convinced himself it was liberating; an opportunity to explore his sexuality that he’d never had access to before. At least, that’s what he’d tell himself on the nights he’d leave crying and so overwhelmingly guilt-ridden from houses where he’d been roughly taken in front of a family photo, looking the john’s kids directly in the eyes. That’s what he’d tell himself when he’d be unable to talk for days because his windpipe had been crushed (“Shut up,” they’d say, still thrusting. “You sound too much like a guy. It’s turning me off.”) and even looking in a mirror made him want to die. It was a small price to pay, though, for somewhere to sleep every night, even if it was never the same place twice. 

That was when the drugs started. 

Contrary to popular belief, Anthony – in life – hadn’t started drugs by choice. Well, not exactly, at least. If he were to pinpoint the beginning of his throes of addiction, it’d be to a memorable john named Vic. Anthony made a point after his first few experiences to ask for pay up-front. This particular john, Vic, had tried to pay with half the asking price and a bag of pills.

(“Nah,” Anthony had said, turning on his heel to walk away, when Vic had stopped him.

“You ain’t ever done PCP before?” 

Anthony had looked at him, brow raised and nose scrunched. He’d shaken his head slowly. Vic’s face had practically lit up.

“Jus’…try it,” he’d begged, pressing a sweaty palm and the baggy into Anthony’s hand. “If you ain’t satisfied after, I’ll pay full price, promise.”)

Anthony knew Vic’s word didn’t mean shit. He knew that even if he’d had a terrible trip, Vic would’ve just dumped him back on the street and sped off into the night, the second half of the payment nothing more than a pipe dream. But to say he wasn't intrigued would've been a blatant lie. So he’d taken the PCP, laid there while Vic fucked him, and left without the extra money but with a pocket full of pills and a doped-up smile on his face. It was the first time since he’d started hooking that he hadn’t wanted to throw up the second he left the john, the first time he could bear to think about everything that had just happened, namely because he couldn’t remember anything all too well. He vaguely recalled Vic grunting into his ear that he was ‘so pretty, all high and compliant’. That was a revelation. If he could be both beautiful and blackout, then everything would be so much simpler. Vic was memorable because he taught him how to forget, and he hadn’t stopped relying on that vice since. 

Funny that the one thing that made him not want to die would be the thing that ultimately killed him. 

Most overdoses fall under the category of intentional; Anthony’s had been anything but. He’d offered his services to the wrong guy, gotten himself beaten within an inch of his life, and curled up on that cold alley floor, he’d just wanted the pain to stop. He’d taken a handful of pills – his usual seasoned dosage. But he hadn’t accounted for the blood loss. He’d known within seconds that something was wrong. Deeply, life-alteringly, no-coming-back-from-this wrong. 

And even in his final moments, he remembers looking down at the blood on his ashen skin and thinking that red was a pretty colour on him. 

Then he’d woken up surrounded by it. 

Just his luck that he’d wake up in Hell on extermination day. He’d been terrified, confused, sure he was dead but suddenly corporeal when seconds ago he’d been nothing but matter in the ether. It was there, sprawled on a red, red, red floor that a man had pulled up to him in a limousine and drawled, “Aren’t you a pretty thing. Care for a ride?”

The deja vu that crept up his throat in that moment was so palpable he could’ve choked on it. It was happening again, oh God, it was happening again. 

He’d gotten into the car anyway. 

The man had introduced himself as Valentino, and he’d had the good grace to explain to Anthony what was happening – where he was, why there were winged soldiers in the sky, why the streets were covered in blood. How he could protect him if he would just sign this piece of paper; he was a very powerful man, and he’d always loved taking care of pretty things. Anthony hadn’t even hesitated. His self preservation had been fucked out of him at nineteen in the back of some stranger’s car, for the price of some bread and some piss-poor luck. 

And so it began. Again. 

Val had been real sweet on him at first. All expensive dates, tolerably rough sex, parading him around like a trophy he’d earned and not just swooped in and picked up. He’d call him his Angel, and Anthony would virtually preen with happiness. No matter how deeply he despised his demon form, Val would always assure him of his beauty (“You’re so pretty, Angel,” he’d murmur, buried deep inside him. “So pretty, and all mine.”) with such reverence it was difficult to not believe him. 

Then Val had asked him to film pornography.

His partnership with Vox meant he was branching out to visual mediums, and Anthony – or Angel, as he’d taken to calling him –  had a face made for the screen. He was so good at sex, why wouldn’t he want to show it off? Come on, mi amor, let people see you when they know they can’t have you. Think of the power you’ll hold. 

Antho– Angel hadn’t taken much convincing after that. 

They say the flap of a butterfly’s wings can cause a hurricane. Angel was never sure, exactly, which precarious, terrible decision he’d made was the flapping, but seventy years down the line and he was still well in the midst of that storm. 

He’d climbed the ranks as a pornstar, and with every passing day, Val’s true nature had seeped through the cracks of his facade, red and tar-like.  One shoot daily turned to two, which turned to four, which turned to ‘Come on, baby, you barely look fucked out yet. You can go all night, can’t you? Y’know the camera adores that face of yours’. On-screen work had quickly bled from the studio to the streets after Angel had made the mistake of telling Val what he’d done in life – and in some fucked up way, he was more comfortable giving overpriced blowjobs in alleys than he was under the hot lights of the camera crew. 

The most jarring change was undoubtedly Valentino himself. It was like night and day, the first time he’d messed up on set and earned himself a sharp backhand to the cheek, after just that morning being told how much he loved him. That, too, he took a twisted comfort in. It was what he knew. Pain and love, no, lust, had always been mutually exclusive in his eyes. This was just to be expected. It was a good thing his vice couldn’t double kill him down here. 

Even after seventy years, though, he rarely fought Val. He’d grown wiser over the decades, and he knew he didn’t love him, knew he probably never had. He was a sick, sick man who didn’t protect but rather coveted, obsessive to no end and possessive even further. He was nothing short of a monster. But he was a monster Angel knew. And Angel knew for certain that for all that Val hurt him, for all the suffering he caused, he would never discard or kill him. Why?

Because Angel was too pretty for that. 

Pretty. Pretty. Pretty. ‘You’re lucky you’re pretty, Angel’. 

So yeah, Angel had always been pretty, and people were never afraid to tell him so.

But recently, the one person he actually wanted to call him that simply wouldn’t.

Husk had been an…unexpected development in Angel’s life. He was so used to transient relationships and constantly performing that he’d forgotten how good vulnerability and connection could feel. The grumpy barkeep never asked for more than Angel was willing to give, and yet somehow had blown apart his world view entirely and yanked out years of repressed emotion from a slow-but-surely-beating heart. Their friendship was beautiful, and Angel truly did treasure it. 

He treasured it, and yet he yearned for more.

Before, he’d resigned himself to the fact he would never know love, not without it being at least somewhat transactional. Yet he found himself more often than not lounging at the bar, Husk behind it, the only transaction being that of meaningful conversations and good drinks, and before he knew it, he’d fallen harder than he had to Hell. 

Husk was real, no pretence or bullshit. He told it as it was, and that was something Angel so deeply admired about him. This was a man who didn’t need to perform. And in its own way, it made it hurt all the more that Husk would never comment on his looks. Sure, he’d compliment him, and frequently at that. When he wanted to be, he was so painfully nice it almost sent Angel reeling. But the recurring theme in every honeyed commendation was that they were nothing more than friendly.  

“Damn, you’re actually pretty smart, Legs,” he’d said once, when they’d been teamed for Charlie’s trivia bonding exercise. He’d had that stupidly fond and yet agonisingly unassuming smirk on his face and Angel had wanted to scream.

“You’ve got a real nice voice,” he’d said another, damn-near giving Angel a heart attack, who’d been meandering around the kitchen, cooking lasagne and singing beneath his breath. The cat had been leaning against the door frame, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. Angel had flushed under the weight of the praise and murmured a thank you, pretending desperately like he didn’t want to grab him by those suspenders and show him just how nice his voice could get. 

The most recent was a drunken, “Yer’ a good guy, Legs. Real good guy.” followed unceremoniously by a shoulder-clap, and if that didn’t scream friendzone Angel didn’t know what would. Fuck, if he was gonna friendzone him, he could’ve at least said something true – Angel was the furthest thing from a good guy. Husk knew that. So either he was lying, or truly had deluded himself into thinking that anything about Angel was remotely morally correct. 

Either way, he intended to find out. Tonight.

With the help of late night ambience and some good whiskey, Angel was determined to not only figure out the nature of Husk’s feelings for him (although he had a feeling he knew that answer already) but also to explore Husk’s feelings about him. Those were the sentiments he repeated like a mantra as he opened his door, travelled down the stairs, and sidled up to the bar.

“Hey, whiskers,” he purred, fanning out his arms over the smooth surface and pressing his torso to the countertop. Husk shot him an amused glare, and Angel damn-near giggled, throwing two of his hands up in mock surrender. 

‘I’m jus’ fuckin’ with ya’,” he placated, drawing himself back up to rest his chin on his palm. “I said I’d lay off’tha flirtin’ and I meant it.”

Husk blinked at him for a moment, laying a paw flat over his heart and breathing a stuttered, hardly convincing gasp. His voice was like deadpan velvet scratching all the right places when he replied, “You? Ain’t here to flirt? What are you here for, then?”

Angel eyed the cleaning rag Husk used for the bar and reached for it, lobbing it jestingly at the cat’s face – which, in all truthfulness, did very little except make Angel inadvertently swoon when he caught it with such an ease you’d think it was second nature. “I wann’a drink, Husk. Real shit, nothin’ fruity t’night.” 

Husk raised his eyebrows, immediately reaching for a whiskey glass and dusting it with the rag, before fishing beneath the bar to his special supply. 

“Rough day?” He inquired, ever the gentleman, as steady paws tipped a generous pour of expensive whiskey into that crystalline glass. Angel shook his head, slow and coy, hooking a claw over the rim of the glass.

“Nah,” he murmured. “I jus’ wann’a drink with you. Y’know, sit here and talk over some booze without it bein’ all doom n’ gloom.”

Husk chuffed a small laugh and nodded slowly. “Alright, Legs. It’s been a while since I enjoyed a drink off the clock.” 

And then he was grabbing another whiskey bottle, picking both up by the neck with a large paw, and exiting the bar to sit next to Angel as opposed to across from him. Which, oh. This was new. All of their drinks together so far had been with the clear division of a counter between them, an appropriate amount of distance that Angel relished because it was just a little too far to reach out and touch. But now Husk was sliding into the stool next to him, their thighs dangerously close to touching. His surprise must’ve been written on his face, because Husk chuckled again.

“What, ain’t used to seein’ a bartender on the flipside?” He smirked that infuriating smirk, placing the bottles down gently. Angel inwardly shook himself out of his stupor, and offered a smirk of his own, a playful glint in his eyes as he leaned in slightly closer.

"Nah, I'm jus’ not used to the view from this angle,” Angel teased, taking a sip of his whiskey and letting the warmth of the liquid burn his throat and course through his veins. "But I gotta say, kitty cat,  it ain’t an unwelcome change."

Husk’s eyebrows inched up, the paw reaching out for a bottle pausing mid-air. "Oh? Should I take that as a compliment?" he replied, mirth dripping from his dulcet tone. 

"Take it however ya’d like," Angel shrugged, feigning nonchalance though his heart was beating just that little bit faster. Husk merely sighed, grabbing the bottle and removing the cork, tipping the mouth of it towards Angel in a mock-cheers before taking a sizable swig. 

Angel swirled his glass, watching the liquid swill within it, and copied the action. It was always comfortable with Husk. They could sit in silence, both enjoying a drink and each other’s company, without the need for idle chatter or posturing. Husk hummed.

“So, ‘s there really no occasion?” He queried, head tilted as he leaned against the bar to properly look at Angel. The spider flushed slightly under his gaze – of course Husk would pick up on the fact that he was here with some sort of ulterior motive. He was perceptive like that. Must come with being a bartender. 

“Can’t a fella just wann’a talk n’ share some drinks?” Angel fluttered his lashes, chuckling when Husk gave him a blank glare; it was clear he didn’t believe a word of it, but was choosing to let it go.

“Well, let’s talk, then. You said you didn’t wan’ this to be all doom n’ gloom,” Husk began, taking another gulp of whiskey. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Legs, but that’s pretty much all our lives are.”

Angel snorted. “Real delicate, whiskers.”

He tapped a slim finger against his chin, pretending to contemplate their topic of conversation. “Hmm…well I vote…”

Husk raised an intrigued brow.

“That we play twenty questions,” he revealed, grinning widely with a jazzy flourish of his lower hands, punctuating it with a cocksure swig of whiskey. He’d expected some sort of resistance from Husk, but the cat smirked, as though the mention of the game was nostalgic for him. He nodded slowly.

“Twenty questions, huh? Alright, Legs, you’re on. But let’s make it interestin’. Every question’s gotta be answered truthfully, no dodgin’ or deflectin’. Deal?”

Angel chuckled, mischief setting his eyes alight and his blood ablaze. With a voice like that, he understood how Husk had become an overlord. He’d say yes to a deal with him in a heartbeat. "Damn, we really gettin’ into it tonight, huh? Deal. I’ll do tha’ gentlemanly thing n’ let ya’ go first."

Husk rolled his eyes, but leaned against the bar, tapping his claws against the polished surface as he pondered his first question. It was almost adorable the way his whiskers flicked in concentration. "Alright, let's kick it off easy. What's your favourite colour?"

Angel groaned, throwing his head back. "Really? That’s ya’ first question?”

Husk simply shrugged. “I said I was kickin’ it off easy. You gonn’a gimme an answer or just sit n’ complain about it?”

“Fine, fine,” Angel wrinkled where his nose should be. “It’s pink, obviously, but not hot pink. Kind’a like…Pastel pink?”

Angel half expected to be laughed at – for all the softness he lacked, all the grit of his life and hardened personality, people had always found it strange that his preferences lay amongst the soft and beautiful. Valentino had, anyway. He supposed, though, he should’ve known Husk better than to expect that, because he did little more than nod and swig some more whiskey. Angel cleared his throat. 

“Alright, my turn,” he started, interlacing his fingers, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. “What’s ya’ favourite position?”

Now Husk groaned, and Angel laughed heartily, tipping back the rest of his whiskey without looking away from his face. Husk shook his head, “Should’ve known you’d go there.”

“Betch’ya regrettin’ the no dodgin’ or deflectin’ thing now,” Angel mused, enjoying this a little too much.

“No, I laid the ground rules, I’m fuckin’ stickin’ to them,” Husk bit out. He took a particularly large gulp of whiskey, filling Angel’s glass as a courtesy, and with a freshly bolstered resolve he answered, “Missionary.”

Angel blinked once, twice, and then burst out laughing. Husk’s ears flattened against his head, and Angel had never found anything so equally heartwarming as it was hilarious. 

“Fuckin’ missionary?” He wheezed, lower hand wiping at his eyes while his other gripped his freshly-filled glass. He downed it in a single draught, not wanting Husk to out-drink him, and slammed it onto the bar with a sigh. “That’s tha’ most vanilla shit I’ve ever heard, Husky. Missionary don’t even feel good!”

“I ain’t ever had any complaints,” Husk grumbled, and for a moment Angel was picturing things that had him flushing hot and red. Husk coughed into a balled paw, wrestling control of the conversation back. "Alright, next question. What's your guilty pleasure?"

Angel shook himself out of his daze, mulling over the question. He landed on an answer quicker than he expected, and allowed a small, genuine smile to ease onto his face. "Rom-coms. I can't get enough’a them."

Husk arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Rom-coms, huh? I wouldn't have pegged you for the sentimental type, Legs."

Angel shrugged, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, turning his genuine smile playful. "Everyone's got their secrets, whiskers. Just ‘cause I’m a pornstar don’t mean I ain’t a romantic at heart.”

“Y’know what, they ain’t my thing, but to each their own,” he acquiesced, pointed eyes locking on Angel’s empty glass. He shook his head slightly, slow and fond, before sliding him the other bottle he’d brought with him. Angel accepted it with a gracious grin, removing the cork and throwing it somewhere – Niffty would clean it tomorrow, and he doubted he’d be needing it tonight. 

“I bet ya’ into those pretentious ass black n’ white movies with those fuckin’ detectives n’ shit,” Angel teased. Husk frowned, nose wrinkling.

“I’m countin’ that as one of your questions,” he pointed with a sharp claw. “And who the Hell do you take me for? Some film noir buff?”

“Hey!” Angel cried indignantly. “I could see ya’ in a trenchcoat an’ a fedora. I think ya’d rock it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Husk waved a flippant paw, gulping a mouthful of whiskey. “I’m more of a music guy. Jazz n’ blues, that kind’a thing.”

“Jazz, film noir, what’s the difference?” Angel shrugged, mirroring Husk’s swig with one of his own, narrowly avoiding choking on it when Husk glared at him with such intensity it made him want to burst out laughing. 

“Don’t ever disrespect jazz like that again,” Husk growled, eyes alight with levity. Angel swallowed his mouthful of liquor and nodded solemnly.

“Sorry, mista’ ooh, look at me, I like jazz, I’m betta’ than you all,” he mocked, and the way Husk pinched the bridge of his nose served to do little more than make him laugh once again. He let the moment pass, and then sighed, the sound anticipatory and light.

"Alright, Husky, it's your turn, since ya’ bein’ a spoilsport," Angel declared, grinning. "Ask me anythin’."

Husk seemed to mull over his question, a singular claw tapping rhythmically on the countertop. "If you could change one thing about your past, what would it be?"

Angel's grin faltered for a moment, a shadow passing over his features, darkening them as he registered the question. Memories, both good and bad, flitted through his mind, searing like flame and singing like birds.

"That's a tough one, Husky," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper even as he plastered on a wonky ghost of his prior grin. "But if I had to choose, I think I'd change...The way I treated myself? I should’a respected myself more. Would’a saved me a Hell’uva lot of pain n’ heartache."

Husk nodded in understanding, his gaze softening ever so slightly as he brought the mouth of the whiskey bottle to his lips. “You and me both, Angel. Some of the choices I’ve made – I’d go back and shake myself by the shoulders if I could.”

“Yeah…” Angel trailed off. The weight of regret was stiflingly heavy on his shoulders, and that wasn’t what tonight was supposed to be about. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about this shit tonight. He cleared his throat, hoping to clear away his memories with it.

“My turn, yeah?” He started, quick eyes taking note of Husk’s near-empty bottle, and his own half empty one. They’d gotten through the liquor quicker than he’d expected. He could tell from the loose set of Husk’s shoulders and his own tingling extremities that they were both well on their way to drunk. Maybe he could ask the question he’d been dying to ask this whole time.

He took a final gulp of whiskey for liquid courage, and then he slammed it on the bar. Five words. All he had to say was five words, and then he’d know. He opened his mouth, and–

–“Do ya’ think I’m pretty?” Angel locked his eyes on Husk’s, searching those feline amber depths as if they held every truth. They were so close he could see every downturned lash, every grey hair in inky fur. There was an agonising moment of silence where Husk’s brows furrowed and he set his mouth in a hard line, then with a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle, he sighed.

“No,” he said simply, and Angel’s heart dropped to his stomach. He hung his head, lower hands twiddling in his lap as his eyes burned. He wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t. Of course Husk wouldn’t think he was pretty – he wasn’t anything like the men who called him that. The sting of rejection rendered him breathless like a well-placed punch to the gut. 

“Oh,” he mumbled, trying to sound like his heart hadn’t just been wrenched from his chest. A panicked laugh bubbled in his throat. “Guess I’m not yer type, huh? Makes sense, guy like you prob’ly don’t want used goods.” 

“No, no, Angel,” Husk blurted, gravelly voice serious, almost concerned. Angel barely heard him.

“Husk, it’s fine,” he placated, eyes still trained on his lap. The corners of his vision were beginning to blur – turns out he could cry. Maybe he was drunker than he thought. “You can’t help what ya’ like. If it ain’t me, then that’s–”

 “–Angel,” Husk cut in, but Angel was furiously shaking his head, as if it would dry the tears that were already pooling along his lashline and falling in fat droplets onto his thighs. 

“Fuck, I don’ know why this is hittin’ me so hard,” he laughed again, the sound choked and garbled. “I think I’ve had too much ta’ drink. I’ll get ova’ it in–”

“–Angel, would you just look at me?” Husk’s voice was frustrated enough for Angel to flinch, but he glanced up anyway, finding the cat’s face pinched and pitying. This wasn’t what he’d wanted at all, for Husk to pity him just because he couldn’t return his feelings. 

“I said I didn’t think you were pretty because I don’t,” and Angel couldn’t help the way his lip quivered again, his stomach roiling with nausea. He didn’t have to rub salt in the wound. But Husk wasn’t finished. “I think you’re lots’a things, Legs. I think you’re smart. I think you can be pretty damn funny. I think you’re one’a the strongest people I’ve ever met, emotionally and physically. But pretty?”

Husk trailed off, shaking his head ever-so-slightly.

“Pretty don’t even begin to cover what I think when I look at you.”

And if Angel could double-die, he was sure this moment would be enough to do it. His breath hitched, mouth moving around nothing, trying to speak and yet saying nothing. Husk had been the one to lower his gaze this time, face scrunched up like it had pained him to admit it.

“I…” Angel began, wide-eyed, heart racing. “I don’t…Husk, what does that mean?”

Husk laughed, the sound simultaneously bitter and fond, and when he spoke again he directed his answer at the bartop. “It means you could prob’ly put an angelic bullet through my skull and I’d die thinkin’ I’m glad it was by your hands. It means I spend every wakin’ moment of the goddamn day wonderin’ where you are, how you’re doin’, what I could do to help you.”

“Husk…” Angel mumbled, horrified and enchanted and so deeply in love he didn’t know what to do with himself other than reach out to place a hand, tentatively, on a hunched shoulder.

“Hell, you’re the only thing that makes we wann’a get up in a mornin’, Angel,” Husk spoke, voice little more than a whisper, and it sounded like a sob was building in his throat. “And I’m so damn scared because I thought I couldn’t love anymore, and now I’m feelin’ more of it than I think I ever have.” 

A heavy silence fell over the both of them. Husk looked raw and vulnerable, eyes hooded and shoulders drawn in like he was curling in on himself. He’d laid it all out, left himself exposed, and only one word sprang to mind: beautiful.

Angel couldn’t have stopped himself even if he tried. He reached out, hooking a hand under Husk’s chin, and yanked him forwards for a kiss. 

The angle was awkward, and for a terrifying moment the cat was frozen in place. Then, Husk was melting into the kiss, slotting a leg between Angel’s thighs, and everything just felt right. There was no rush about it, no urgency. Just the slow slide of lips against lips. But they were both drunk, Angel reminded himself. He needed to make sure.

Angel pulled back slightly, attempting to check that this was definitely okay, but Husk had other ideas, chest rumbling with something akin to a growl. He fisted a paw in Angel’s sweater to pull him back in. And, well, Angel was just a man.

This time, the kiss was harsher, teeth and tongue teasing his own in ways that had him writhing in his seat. It had been a long time since something as simple as a kiss had made him gasp and moan, but Husk swallowed them all greedily, like he was a man starved and Angel was a damn feast. For all the roughness, though, there was also reverence. Husk kissed like he was baring his soul, each nip of fangs against plush lips an ‘I love you’, each slide of tongue a ‘let me adore you’. Angel couldn’t get enough of it.

“Husk,” he gasped against his mouth, lower arms snaking around his back, upper hands tangling in the fur behind his ears. Husk swallowed that, too, a deep grumble of satisfaction escaping him. Husk’s own paws ventured up to cup Angel’s face, and he was hit with such a surge of love, love, love that he had to say something, anything–

“–I love you,” he whined, and while he hadn’t meant to say that, it felt right. This felt right. He loved him. 

And then he wasn’t there anymore, no lips against his, no Husk beneath his hands. Husk had yanked himself away as though burned. The both of them were breathing heavily, and Angel floundered for a moment, hazy eyes trying to make sense of why Husk wasn’t still in his arms. The look on the cat’s face was nothing short of nauseated. 

“This isn’t right,” Husk muttered, lips curling into a distraught frown. Angel could do nothing but blink at him. “You’re drunk. Fuck, I’m drunk. This ain’t how I wanted it to happen.”

Angel let out a sound that was half-scoff and half-laugh. 

“That don’t matter,” he near-pleaded. “It’s happened now, we both want it, jus’...let’s see it through, yeah?”

Angel reached out again, trying to get a hand on Husk’s shoulder, but he was up and out of the stool quicker than he could comprehend. He was shaking his head like he couldn’t decide what to do. 

“No, Angel,” he bit out. Lust and logic waged war behind those amber eyes, but all Angel could feel was the thrumming of want beneath his skin and the cold sting of more rejection in his eyes. “Go to bed.”

“But–,” Angel started, indignant and desperate. Husk cut him off.

“Go to bed, and we will talk about this tomorrow,” now Husk was the one pleading. “I promise. We’ll have a proper, sober conversation about this, but right now, both of us ain’t thinkin’ straight.”

“Oh, fuck that,” Angel hissed, the burn of desire quickly fuelling fury. “You ain’t ever sober, you fuckin’ hypocrite. I’m meant to talk this shit through with ya’ when yer’ pissed out’a your mind and I gott’a be stone cold?”

Husk didn’t physically recoil, but he might as well have done for the expression of sheer hurt that flashed over his face. “I won’t be. Not for this. Not for you .”

“Yeah, right,” Angel derided, placing two hands on the bar and shoving himself upwards. “I’ll believe that when I fuckin’ see it.”

And then he was stalking away, headed for the staircase. Fresh tears pricked his eyes, but he wiped them away, not caring that his mascara smudged in the process. There was a scrambling sound behind him, a clanging of bottles.

“Angel,” Husk called, and Angel almost stopped in his tracks at just how defeated he sounded. Almost.

“I’m goin’ ta bed like ya’ asked,” he retorted, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder. “Clearly I’m too drunk to know what I wan’ right now.” 

He was up the stairs and slamming the door of his bedroom behind him quicker than he could even think the words ‘I’m sorry’.

The mirror was always kinder to Angel than he was to himself. 

He sat in front of his vanity, Fat Nuggets curled in his lap, worried snout nuzzling his hip. His reflection displayed every morsel of his emotion, right down to the smudged black around his eyes and the pinprick red of his bitten lip. The picture he painted in the mirror was nothing short of despondent. He raised a hand to his hair tentatively, slicking it back and allowing it to bounce into place, messy and unkempt. He understood now. Val wasn’t wrong when he’d said he was always at his prettiest when he was at rock bottom. Because for all of the dejection he felt at his core, he couldn’t deny that it translated so resplendently to his face. 

Fat Nuggets grunted in his lap.

“Oh, baby,” Angel sighed, looking down at the pig staring up at him with as much concern as a porcine pet could muster. He stroked a lower hand over the pink skin, relishing the familiar warmth. “Daddy’s okay. Jus’ fucked somethin’ up.”

And he had fucked up, hadn’t he? Well and truly. He hadn’t meant for the night to turn out like this; he’d just wanted to know where he stood with Husk. But now they’d kissed – and Hell, what a kiss it’d been – and when Husk had tried to impose a boundary he’d immediately attempted to cross it. He’d thought he was past that. He thought he was getting better. He’d thought, at least with Husk, he was over placing all of his worth on intimacy and physicality. Clearly not. And didn’t that make him just as bad as all of the men he’d determined Husk was better than?

He sighed again, deep and sorrowful. The hands not stroking Nuggets reached for his makeup remover, wiping away the remnants of his breakdown with almost too much ease, until the face in the mirror was fresh as driven snow. Pretty, pale, unmarred.

“Alright,” he scooped Nuggets into his lower arms and stood to place him on the bed. “Time fa’ bed.” 

The pig squealed again, fretting at the distance. Angel made sure he didn’t go far, meandering to his dresser to slip into some night clothes, and promptly returning to the bed. 

He slipped into the muted pink sheets, drawing them tight around himself as Nuggets snuggled into his chest. He doubted he would sleep much, and he knew he’d wake up with a pounding headache when he did, but he also knew tomorrow would come regardless.

Tomorrow.

He just hoped Husk would be able to forgive him.

Except, the next morning, when Angel awoke, he couldn’t find Husk anywhere. 

True to his expectations, he’d woken with a headache. But that was the least of his concerns. He’d practically jumped out of bed, startling Fat Nuggets in the process, and sheepishly made his way to the bar (and by made his way, he means he practically ran ) ready to lay it all out, ready to beg for forgiveness. But Husk. Wasn’t. There.

“Oh, Angel,” Charlie chirped from the loveseat in the lounge. Vaggie sat beside her, their hands interlaced between them, and Angel found that mere display of affection spiteful despite himself. “You’re awake! Perfect timing, we were actually just–”

“–Where’s Husk?” Angel cut in, wincing inwardly when his voice came out croakier than he’d anticipated. He cleared his throat. “I need ta’, uh, speak ta’ him about somethin’. Y’know, he needs his daily dose’a lovin’.” 

He tried to slip into the casual innuendo, but it was clear from both girls’ faces he hadn’t quite managed it. Oh, well. He would care about embarrassing himself later. Later when he’d apologised to Husk and could live with himself. 

“Husk?” Charlie shared a look with Vaggie, one that Angel didn’t like one bit. “He, um, he took the day off. Alastor gave him permission earlier. He left about an hour ago.”

Angel froze. Husk had never taken a day off, not one, since he’d started working at the Hotel. No matter how hungover, how shaken up, he was always behind that stupid bar. 

“Oh, okay,” he murmured, feeling wholly stupid, and then he was turning back the way he came from.  

“Wait, Angel!” Charlie called, but he didn’t pause. This whole situation was feeling mightily, painfully familiar. 

“Sorry, toots, can’t stay an’ chat,” he replied over his shoulder. Still in his nightclothes, feeling awfully small, he squared his shoulders. Time to hunt a deer.

Alastor, as it turned out, was a hard man to find. 

It was already a non-starter that Angel had literally no clue what he did in his spare time. The freaky deer often appeared out of thin air – literally – and disappeared back into it the moment he’d said whatever the fuck he’d appeared to say. 

The first, and most obvious, place he’d tried was the Radio Tower. He assumed that was where the Radio Demon would spend most of his time, but it was a bust. The door wouldn’t even open for him. He’d tried knocking, yelling, threatening to do…unspeakable things at the door just to get him to show up, and nothing. Not a peep from inside. 

So he wasn’t in the tower. That was no big deal. How many places could the Hotel have to hide in? 

And again, as it turned out, a lot. A lot of places.

After the tower, he’d tried the kitchen. It wasn’t unusual for Alastor to be found indulging in preparing some Creole cuisine when the fancy took him, or for him to be speaking with Niffty. All he’d gotten from that endeavour was mildly traumatised from walking in on Niffty dismembering what appeared to be a particularly large roach, of whom she’d quickly deemed a sacrifice. For what, exactly, Angel hadn’t stuck around to find out. 

Then he’d tried Husk’s room. It was a longshot, he knew that, but desperation does funny things to your psyche. He’d knocked far more hesitantly here than at the tower, but no light seeped from beneath the door, and there was no sign of life beyond it. He’d waited a few minutes just in case before he admitted defeat and retreated.

After Husk’s room, he’d tried the lounge (again), the tower (again), the hotel gardens, even the fucking communal bathroom. And yet Alastor was still nowhere to be seen. It was noon by now, and Angel was exhausted.  

Currently, he was slumped against the railing of his room’s balcony. His lower arms rested against the cool metal while his upper hands propped up his chin, and he let his eyes fall closed as he honed in on the sounds of traffic and screaming somewhere in the distance. There was no breeze in Hell, but if he pretended hard enough he could feel it on his face. He was so emotionally and physically drained that even seeing right now felt like a chore. So, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve; the hunt for Alastor could wait a few minutes.

Then there was the crackle of static.

“I hear you’ve been looking for me,” came Alastor’s voice from behind him, and Angel all but jumped out of his skin. He whipped around, a hand braced over his chest, and narrowed his eyes. 

“Jesus fuck, Al, somebody ought’a put a bell on ya’,” he hissed, brows furrowing impossibly further as a stuttered laugh track played from the microphone Alastor was proudly clutching before him.

“Ha, ha! How original!” Angel could’ve sworn his neck wasn’t bent at that angle a minute ago. “I am po-si-tive-ly certain I have never heard that one before, my effeminate fellow!”

“Alright, chill tha’ fuck out,” Angel reneged, taking as far a step back as he could. “I’d like ta’ keep all my organs inside’a my body, thanks.”

Alastor’s smile widened, the movement so miniscule it was barely noticeable. “A wise choice.”

Angel fought the urge to roll his eyes, maintaining the comfortable distance, his back pressed against the railing. “Where the fuck have ya’ been all day? I’ve been’ lookin’ for ya’ since mornin’.”

“Oh, you know how it goes,” Alastor hummed. He flexed a gloved hand around the stem of his microphone. “Sometimes duty calls.”

Angel didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. He settled on nodding like he agreed.

“Yeah, yeah, duty this, duty that,” he started with a limp-wristed wave of his hand, “Where’s Husk?”

Alastor blinked at him for a moment, and the smile turned predatory. “Straight to the point as always, I see. And the simple answer is, my dear, that I do not know!”

Angel had never been fond of venison – he preferred beef, usually – but right now, he could’ve torn the bastard apart with his teeth. He stalked forwards.

“What do ya’ mean ya’ don’t know?” He growled, his last shred of rationality being the only thing keeping him from straight-up lunging at the man. “You own his soul. Can’t ya’ jus’...” he waved his hands, all four of them, for emphasis, “Find him?”

Alastor raised the hand gripping his microphone, twirling it by the stem with a practised finesse and jabbing the blunt edge of it into Angel’s chest. 

“Careful, now,” he tutted, sounding so deeply condescending that Angel wished he could wipe that smug smile off of his face. “I am quite particular about my five foot rule. You, of all people, should recall that.”

Angel begrudgingly took a step back.

“And as for your question; why, yes, I could find him, as you so eloquently put it,” the way he mimicked Angel’s wave of his hands was nothing short of infuriating. “But wherever is the fun in that! I think the better question is…”

He leaned forwards ever-so-slightly, irises distorting into radio dials that shone faintly green. 

“...What would be in it for me?”

And Angel hated the fact he was considering it. The past twenty four hours had wreaked emotional havoc on him, so much hope, so much rejection, so much guilt – for a brief second he truly was considering a deal with the Devil just to make things right. But choices made in desperation had a habit of backing you further into a corner than you’d thought possible, until you’re thrust right through that theoretical corner and find yourself dangling from the edge of the cliff. He steeled his resolve.

“No, nope, absolutely not,” he rambled, side-stepping around Alastor with a single movement. The sound of a crowd booing faintly crackled from the microphone, but the man’s grin didn’t once falter. He gave a simple shrug.

“A shame, truly,” he crooned, tapping his foot to an unheard melody. “I find myself rather amicable to the idea of having you indebted to me. Alas, a deal must go both ways!”

Angel barely repressed a shudder.

“Yeah, okay,” he spoke slowly, finding himself inching towards his balcony doors. “Since ya’ ain’t gonn’a help me, I’m jus’ gonn’a…head inside. Feel free ta’ leave the way ya’ came. However tha’  fuck that is.”

The last part was mumbled under his breath, but he had no doubt the Radio Demon had heard him regardless. Angel was reaching for the door handle when Alastor spoke again.

“While I cannot tell you where he is, I can tell you he will return in approximately four hours,” his voice was notably lacking in the static department. “That is the extent of the time I have given him to ruminate. Husker is a dear employee of mine, so although I do not care all that much for you, I truly do hope you reach some form of resolution.”

Well, fuck him sideways, that might have just been the nicest the nicest thing Alastor had ever said to him. He chanced a small smile at the man, one undoubtedly overshadowed by the ever-present grin on his face, but one that felt well-received nonetheless. 

“Yeah, me too, Al,” he murmured, soft and bordering on heartfelt. “Thanks, I guess.”

He opened the balcony doors, content with the knowledge that Husk would be returning soon, ready to wait and prepare what he would say. He could do this; apologise and fix things and everything would go back to normal. Hopefully. 

“Oh, and Angel?” 

Venison was sounding more appealing by the moment.

“Do consider changing your attire,” he didn’t even have to look back to know that Alastor’s grin was all superiority and belittlement. “It’s gone noon – nightdresses are hardly acceptable at this time of day!”

He slammed the balcony doors behind him, ignoring the layered laugh tracks that crepitated beyond them. 

Angel did end up changing his clothes, not that Alastor had anything to do with it.

In the time since he’d had his incredibly helpful conversation with the infuriating demon, he’d played with Nuggets, grabbed some underwhelming lunch (which he ate hurriedly at the dining table, pointedly ignoring anyone who wasn’t Husk), and eventually bit the bullet and changed.

He’d opted for a short, black off-shoulder sweater dress, one he’d always favoured for how softly it sat against his fur. His usual shining boots were swapped for ones with a suede finish – he didn’t need to be flashy for this. He knew Husk wouldn’t appreciate that. He’d even gone so light on the makeup that you could barely tell he was wearing any. A little gloss and mascara could go a long way. But he had to keep reminding himself that it didn’t matter what he looked like right now; that wasn’t the point of this. He was here to apologise and to talk things through. He could be pretty another day.

He repeated it like a prayer as he sat curled on the floor outside Husk’s bedroom door, waiting for him to return. 

The hallway on which Husk’s room resided was surprisingly solitary. He’d been stuck there, unmoving, for the better part of an hour and so far the only interaction he’d had was with Niffty – if you could even call it that. She’d run through the hall, knife in hand, stabbing away at something too miniscule for Angel to see. She hadn’t even spared him a glance. Other than that, he’d been stuck with his thoughts. Which, at the moment, wasn’t a great place to be. 

Usually, in moments like these, he would text Cherri. Fill her in on all the juicy details – Cherri had clocked Angel’s interest in Husk before even he had, and had demanded updates ever since. But everything was too fresh right now. Too vulnerable. He didn’t even necessarily like the fact that Alastor seemed to know what was going on, at least to some degree. This should be between him and Husk. 

Which also meant that, until Husk arrived, he had to deal with his thoughts alone. 

First, he’d apologise. That was a good place to start, right? Apologise for trying to push a clear boundary Husk had set, and being so spiteful about it afterwards. Husk hadn’t deserved that. And then they would talk. Genuinely talk. No alcohol, no skirting around the issue. He needed to know if Husk had meant everything he’d said, whether he liked the answer or not. He needed to–

–“Angel?” 

Fuck.

Angel raised his head, eyes wide. He thought he’d have more time. But there stood Husk, looking just as rugged and suave and beautiful as he always did, just a few feet away from him. He chanced a small smile.

“Hey, Husk,” he murmured, tender and afraid. “Ya’ said we should talk?”

Husk looked taken aback, just for a moment, and then he was returning the smile tentatively. “Yeah, yeah, we should. Let’s head inside n’ we can talk.”

Angel stood, trying his best to calm his shaking legs. He stepped to the side as Husk opened the door to his room, motioning for him to head inside, and he took a thinly-veiled bolstering breath before he shuffled forwards like an inmate to the executioner’s stand.

Despite the months that had gone by since they’d first begun their… companionship, Angel realised he had never actually set foot inside Husk’s room. The walls were engraved mahogany, refined patterns, elegant and intricate. The bed wasn’t made – he hadn’t expected it to be – but the sheets were a subdued crimson, simple and soft-looking. He’d half expected the room itself to be barren, void of clutter and proof of life. But everywhere he looked were traces of Husk; an ash-tray on the bedside table, a half smoked butt freshly deposited on the mound of ash, a scattered pack of playing cards on the table, a red tie slung over the back of a rufous armchair, which, when had he ever worn a tie? He was unsurprised, though, to see the bottles lining the shelves of a display cabinet, all in various stages of half-drunk or empty. 

“Feel free to take a seat,” Husk mumbled, shutting the door behind him as he followed Angel inside. Angel’s eyes flitted from the chair to the bed, bed to chair, then back again. He waited for Husk to amble towards the bed and sit on the edge of it before following suit, leaving a suitable amount of distance between them. The sheets smelled of Husk, of whiskey and cigarette smoke and comfort, and Angel didn’t know how to deal with the fact that the smell felt like home. He opted to clear his throat.

“So, uh,” he began, not daring to look up from the carpeted floor. “First off, I just wann’a say that I’m real sorry about the way I acted last night. It ain’t right, the way I spoke ta’ you, and I should’a backed off when ya’ told me to. I jus’–”

“–Angel, I’m the one who should be apologisin’,” Husk cut in. He sounded so genuine that Angel couldn’t have protested if he’d tried. “What ain’t right is the fact that I almost let things go further between us when you were drunk out’a your mind – when we both were. That ain’t fair to you.”

The words served both to leave him breathless and ignite the fuse within him. The sentiment was sweet, but Angel wasn’t made of glass. He wouldn’t have cared if Husk had taken him drunk, blackout, or anywhere in between. 

“I wouldn’t have cared,” he articulated, brows furrowed. “I don’t–”

“–I would’ve,” Husk interrupted again, and Angel was really beginning to wish he’d let him finish his sentences. “Cared, that is. I would’ve cared massively.”

“But why?” Angel spat, throwing his hands up, frustration painting his words sharp and cutting. “This is Hell, Husk. A little bit’a  liquid courage in tha’ bedroom is nothin’. I know yer’ a cat n’ all, but I never expected ya’d be this much of a pussy.”

Husk sighed, deep and drawn-out, and with a voice so quiet and strained it sounded painful, he whispered, “Because I love you.”

Four words. Four words were all it took to force the wind from Angel’s sails, to replace his frustration with awe. He’d heard the words of damn-near worship Husk had showered him with last night, but he was sober right now – they both were. And as he desperately searched Husk’s face for any sign that he might be lying, he found nothing but raw, unfiltered truth.

“This is why I wanted a sober fuckin’ conversation,” he murmured, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “I wanted, no, I needed you to know this ain’t just a drunken fling for me. I don’t want that. You don’t deserve that. If anything happens between us, it’s gonn’a be fully sober.”

Angel blinked, mouth dropping open ever-so-slightly, pupils surely blown wide. Husk carried on.

“I refuse to be just another guy that has sex with you when you’re not thinkin’ straight,” he seemed caught up in the words, no longer speaking to Angel, but rather bearing his innermost thoughts for him to hear. “I want you to remember this. To remember me.”

A lithe, white hand reached up to cup his jaw, drawing Husk’s gaze to meet his eyes. “I could neva’ forget you, whiskers. Neva’, ya’ hear me?”

Husk looked like he was having trouble believing him, all pained expressions and wide eyes. He couldn’t have that. He gently flicked the black snout with the tip of his finger. “N’ for the record, Husk, I love ya’ too. I appreciate that ya’ wanted to wait for this. I didn’t understand at tha’ time, but I get it now.”

He watched as the tension ebbed from Husk’s body, taut shoulders slumping and eyes falling closed. “Oh, thank fuck,” he mumbled, breath hot on Angel’s hand. “I was worried you’d only said it last night ‘cause it was what I wanted to hear.”

Angel stifled the giggle of glee that threatened to claw its way from his throat. “I would neva’ lie to ya’ like that. What do ya’ take me for?”

“Someone who can read me like a fuckin’ open book,” Husk quipped, eyes cracking open into hooded amber slits. Angel’s face surely communicated every ounce of love he felt, a sappy grin rounding his features, a dusting of pink peeking through the thin fur of his cheeks. 

“Ya’d be surprised,” he started, bashful. “I thought I was in the friendzone for tha’ longest fuckin’ time.”

“Angel, you are the only person I’m ever nice to,” Husk retorted, and yeah, he had a point. “I thought you weren’t interested, so I was gonn’a let it go.”

“Well thank fuck ya’ didn’t,” Angel laughed, hand travelling from Husk’s jaw to his head, toying with the furred edge of an ear. “So, are we like, datin’ now?”

The ear Angel was playing with flattened. “I don’t wann’a rush you into anythin’. We should prob’ly take this slow.”

Angel could’ve laughed in his face – slow, he says – but instead opted to look coyly at him through his lashes. “Slow, ya’ say? I can do slow.”

He gave Husk a millisecond of warning in the form of a wicked smirk before he was moving, slinging himself over Husk’s lap, plush thighs bracketing his own. He watched with childish delight as he sucked in a stuttered breath. “Is a kiss slow enough for ya’, whiskers?” 

Husk floundered for a moment, unsure of where to look, eyes roving from the peek of chest-fluff, the slender slope of his neck, before eventually locking on his face. The soft smile that melted onto his features was nothing short of adoring. “A kiss is fine by me, Legs.”

And then he was leaning forwards, or Angel might have done, or maybe they both did and they met in the middle, but from the second their lips met none of that mattered. If he’d thought their kiss from last night was amazing, this transcended the scale. The press of Husk’s lips against his was like a drug, the feeling of his tongue at the seam of his lips better than any high. He opened his mouth and let him in without an ounce of resistance, revelling in the slide of tongue against tongue, teeth against lips. Husk’s paws rested at his hip, squeezing, palming the supple skin at the juncture of his thigh. He let out a throaty whine when a claw nicked the skin, a rivulet of crimson trickling through white fur. Husk froze. 

“Ya’ ain’t gonn’a break me, Husk,” he panted, teeth catching on Husk’s lower lip as if trying to prove a point. “Mark me up all ya’ like. I wann’a remember this, like ya’ said.”

Husk’s irises were nothing more than a sliver of amber when he surged forward again, vigour renewed. Angel melted into it, upper hands snaking around broad shoulders while the lower two toyed with the hem of Husk’s button-up. He’d never understood kissing. It had always been nothing more than a pitstop on the way to the destination, something to pass the time between clothes on and clothes off. But Husk’s kisses were so full of reverence that even the pain of his claws felt like an offering at his altar. He could do this forever, he thought, disconnecting their mouths and tipping his head back, baring the flesh of his neck. 

Husk kissed his jaw, aggressive and soft all in one, mapping a path down to the hollow of his throat. The intoxicating mix of tongue, teeth and wet lips had Angel writhing, desperately trying not to buck his hips and painfully aware of the dampness in his underwear. Not that he could move all that much for the vice-like grip Husk had on his thighs, still kneading like he was afraid Angel would disappear. He pressed forward, eager to feel more of Husk against him, and–

–Angel most definitely wasn’t the only one affected here. He didn’t know why it surprised him to feel the bulge in Husk’s trousers, but he froze in his tracks, and the cat immediately stopped. 

“You okay?” He asked, head tilted in an adorable display of concern. Angel was sure he looked positively debauched, all kiss-swollen lips and hazy eyes and panting chest, but Husk wasn’t looking at any of that right now. Just looking into his eyes, making sure he was fine. And fucking Hell, how could even that be sexy? 

“Yeah, yeah, no, I’m good,” Angel breathed. “So good, actually.”

Husk stared down at his lap, face scrunching up, and then his hands were travelling to Angel’s waist and pushing him softly backwards. “We ought’a end it here. I’m gettin’ too carried away.”

Angel had never moved quicker in his life or death than he did to wrap his arms solidly back around Husk’s neck, and with an embarrassing amount of desperation, he begged, “Wait!”

Amber eyes shot to his, brows furrowed over them. His gaze was as piercing as it was inquisitive. 

“Look, I know ya’ said ya’ wanted to go slow, n’ I respect that, I do! But,” he started, most definitely rambling but too full of want to care. “I also really don’t wann’a stop right now, n’ I don’t think you do, either.”

Husk clenched his jaw, but he didn’t look upset – no, more at war with himself than anything else. “I said we should take things slow, not that I want to.”

“Then please fuck me,” Angel blurted. Shame burned red-hot through his veins, flushing his face, and yet he continued. “Please. I need ya’ right now.”

Husk brought a paw up to rub over his face, hissing a groan. “Legs, you got no clue how badly I want to, but I need to be sure that you’re sure. This is all pretty new.”

Angel snaked a hand around the paw covering Husk’s face, pulling it away slowly and laying it over his chest, watching with delight as his ears twitched at the sensation of his downy fur. “Husk, we’ve been skirtin’ around each otha’ for the better part of a year now. Maybe it’s new officially, but we both know this? This ain’t new. N’ I’ve neva’ been more sure of anythin’.”

“That ain’t reassurin’,” Husk retorted, but the smile playing at the corners of his mouth told him he’d won him over. “You’re pretty prone to makin’ terrible decisions.”

Angel made an indignant noise of faux-offence, and then he was shuffling back further into Husk’s lap, and purring sweetly, “So that’s a yes to sex?”

The velvety laugh Husk let out was nothing short of music to his ears. “Yeah, baby, that’s a yes to sex.”

Angel totally didn’t squeal – that wouldn’t be very mature of him at all. What he did do, though, was reach out with an elated grin, crushing Husk towards him and finding the warmth of his mouth with such ease you’d think they’d kissed a thousand times before. This time, there was nothing stopping him from writhing, grinding down into the bulge between his legs. Husk’s hardness had flagged throughout their conversation, but he was quickly back up to full mast, and Angel giggled something sweet against Husk’s lips as he undulated atop it. 

“Little minx,” Husk near-growled, detaching their mouths long enough for him to hook his arms under Angel’s thighs. And then he was standing, lifting all seven feet something of him without even an ounce of struggle. 

“Husk!” Angel yelped, instinctively reaching out with all four hands to steady himself, but he wasn’t in the air for long before Husk turned them around and laid him gently against the sheets of his bed. 

“Sorry, baby,” Husk chuckled, crawling over him to cage Angel’s body with his own. For all the height difference between them, the broadness of Husk’s shoulders effectively trapped him, and Angel had never felt safer. “Thought this’d be a little more comfortable.”

“Comfortable, yeah, whateva’,” Angel mumbled, going for sarcastic but coming across as downright eager. “Now come back here n’ kiss me.”

“Someone’s needy,” Husk teased, though he complied almost instantly, lowering himself until he was flush with Angel’s body, settling between his legs, and connecting their lips slowly, sweetly. Angel closed his eyes and breathed in that familiar scent, feeling so completely whole that he couldn’t remember how lived before he had this. Husk kissed him until they were both rendered breathless and then some, and when neither of them could continue without danger of passing out, he trailed down to his jaw. It was like he’d somehow mapped out every erogenous zone on Angel’s body, honing in on that one spot at the juncture of his neck that drove him wild with teeth and tongue. He sucked a mark into the skin there, seemingly unfazed by the fact his alabaster fur would render it invisible. And then he was travelling further down, until his teeth grazed the collar of his dress, and with a wicked grin he pinched the fabric beneath his canines and pulled it down beneath his chest in one fluid motion. 

The rush of cold air immediately pebbled his nipples, and Angel gasped. And then he noticed Husk’s transfixation on the way his chest had bounced upon being freed, and slowly, he put the dots together. 

“What, ya’ didn’t know?” Angel teased, wrapping a hand around the nape of Husk’s neck and drawing him in close to his exposed chest. “It ain’t all fluff, sweetheart.”

Husk hadn’t known, but it was clear from the almost impossible further dilating of his pupils that he was more than pleased to find out. Angel was seconds away from teasing him some more when that beautiful mouth of his opened and latched onto his left breast, tongue swirling around the areola and tooth catching the underside of his nipple. One of Husk’s paws ventured between them to grope at the other, thumb flicking the pink nub with a ravenous fervour. Angel was a moaning mess, small whines and groans slipping past red-bitten lips. He reached a lower hand up to cover his mouth, and Husk growled around his nipple – which, okay, covering his mouth was a no-go, but the vibrations from that growl on his breast? They were revisiting that later. 

The minutes blurred together as Husk alternated between his breasts, sucking and licking marks into one while fondling the other and vice versa, until Angel was a mess of moans and soaked underwear. Every now and then, Husk himself would groan like he was enjoying the finest of feasts. It was the hottest thing Angel had ever heard, and he needed more.

“Husk,” he panted, watching as the cat turned his gaze upwards, reluctantly detaching his mouth from his perky, swollen nipple. “Ya’ gott’a fuck me, like, yesterday. I can’t take it no more.”

“Patience, baby,” Husk spoke, with a voice that would’ve sounded predatory if not for the amount of fondness it carried. “My job here is to make sure you know your worth. I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

Angel could’ve cum right then and there. He let out a breathless whine, so overcome with arousal it was almost painful, but true to his word, Husk wasn’t done. Angel’s desperation seemed to egg him on as he hooked his claws under the fabric of his dress, drawing it down inch by tantalising inch. 

Every freshly exposed strip of fur was kissed, and each kiss was punctuated by a word breathed hotly against skin.

“Smart.”

Kiss.

“Funny.”

Kiss.

“So goddamn strong.”

Kiss.

“Fuckin’ beautiful.”

A kiss on his navel, one that had him gasping. And this, he thought, was how Husk was going to kill him. Through juvenile kisses and honey-sweet compliments. Husk grabbed the folded fabric of his dress and tugged it all the way down, over the plush of his thighs, and allowed room for Angel to kick it off. And then Angel was laid fully bare, left only in his boots and a straining pair of black and red panties. 

Angel watched as Husk leaned back, kneeling to take in the sight before him; the rise and fall of his chest, the curve of his stomach, the slick wetness between his thighs. Husk looked nothing short of ravenous as he brought a finger to the inside of his thigh, dousing his finger in the clear fluid there and bringing it back up before his face, staring at it with a mix of awe and confusion. Oh. Right. If Husk hadn’t known he had breasts, then…

“Ya’ really don’t watch my movies, huh?” Angel murmured. His voice was jesting, but he could feel the beginnings of panic settling cold and heavy in his gut. “I’m, uh, intersex. Got both parts n’ whatnot.”

Husk said nothing, continuing to stare at the slickness on his fingers. His nose twitched, and his ears seemed to perk up, but he still said nothing. 

“Uh, Husk?” Angel began, sheepish and suddenly more self conscious than he had been in years of being on display. “Ya’ might wann’a say something’, or a fella might–”

And then Husk was placing that wet finger into his mouth, his unoccupied paw reaching to tear his panties clean off. He let his finger go with a muted ‘pop’. 

“Oh, baby,” he purred – genuinely purred. “I am goin’ to worship you.”

Angel shuddered.

“I liked that pair,” he pouted, but let his legs spread just that little bit wider, offering himself up on a platter. He knew the picture he painted: white fur, a perfect canvas to display his pink-tipped, twitching cock and the hint of his glistening folds beneath small testicles, all framed by the never-ending length of his legs. 

“I’ll buy you another,” Husk growled, and that was all the warning he had before he hooked those deceptively strong arms under Angel’s thighs and swallowed his cock to the root in a singular motion.

“Oh my God,” Angel gasped, eyes scrunching closed. Husk’s tongue felt like pure magic as it slid down the underside of his shaft, its rough texture creating a delicious friction that bordered on too much but also felt like not enough. He watched through hooded eyes as Husk drew back, hollowing his cheeks as he went, and whined when that same tongue circled his tip and flicked at his slit. A single claw traced a vein running along his arousal, and that was nearly his undoing. He hadn’t been this on edge since…well, since forever. 

“Husk,” Angel moaned, upper hands tangling in the bed sheets as he tipped his head back. Husk fully pulled off, paw replacing his mouth with limp-fisted strokes at a hypnotic rhythm.

“I love hearin’ you say my name like that,” Husk muttered, breath hot on his sexes. “You sound so real. Money could never buy this, baby.”

Husk lowered his face, just that inch more, until his mouth was level with Angel’s dripping vulva. 

“And it’s all for me,” he grunted, and then he was licking a stripe up his folds, and Angel positively keened. If he thought that textured tongue felt good on his cock, the feeling of it sliding against his labia was what he expected heaven to feel like. That tensile muscle mapped measured figures from his leaking entrance to his hooded nub, skirting around it just far enough for it to be teasing.

“Husk, please,” Angel begged as the cat made another pass over his folds, once again not quite hitting where he needed it most.  

“Please, what?” Husk mumbled against his sex, the vibrations almost sending Angel reeling.

“Please…my clit,” Angel panted, writhing. Husk’s eyes were alight with mischief. 

“What about it?” He taunted, overwhelmingly smug as he blew a short gust of air onto the sensitive skin. Angel gasped as his body tensed.

“Fuckin’...Ya’ know what I want,” Angel bit out, trying to grind up into Husk’s face, but the grip he had on his thighs was unmoving. 

“Brat,” Husk chuckled, and then he was moving down, and Angel almost groaned in frustration until he felt that tongue breach his hole instead. He’d underestimated just how long Husk’s tongue was, and he clearly knew what he was doing, because on the first lick into him he curled his tongue just right so that it brushed the spot inside of him that made him see stars.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” Angel yelped, lower hands flying to tangle in the fur between Husk’s ears while his upper two grappled for purchase on the headboard. 

Husk pulled his tongue out for just long enough to chastise, “That ain’t my name, baby.” 

And then he was diving back in, licking deeper into him than he thought possible. Every pass of his tongue massaged that spot inside of him, and as Husk concentrated on the task at hand, his grip on Angel’s thighs loosened, allowing him to grind to his heart’s content. He had no idea how long they spent like that, Angel perpetually on the edge of climax and Husk with his face buried in his wet heat. It felt incredible, but he needed just that little bit more…

Husk withdrew his tongue, immediately replacing it with two fingers before Angel could mourn the emptiness – claws retracted, he noted. Small mercies. Then, he attached his lips exactly where Angel needed him, tongue flicking the hood of his clit, and he purred. 

The vibrations combined with the curling of his fingers inside of him had Angel screaming as he came, white spots dancing in his vision.

Husk gently stroked his inner walls through the aftershocks, and when Angel’s whines bordered on overstimulation, he removed them and licked them clean. If Angel could pop another boner right now, he was sure he would. 

“That was incredible,” he gasped out, throwing an arm over his eyes as he tried to regain his breath. Husk slowly released his grip on Angel’s thigh, crawling up his body slightly to lick at the spend on his stomach. The sensation had Angel giggling childishly, uncovering his eyes to look down.

“Are ya’ fuckin’ groomin’ me?” He laughed, and Husk answered him by doubling his efforts until there was no stickiness left and all that remained was wet fur. The feeling of that tongue that had been inside of him minutes prior on his skin had him at half mast again, and Angel had never been more glad for his increased libido than in this moment. 

“Come here, you,” he murmured, grabbing Husk by the neck and kissing him with fervour, sliding their tongues together and moaning at the taste of his own slick. At this angle, Angel could feel the bulge in Husk’s pants pressing against his thigh. He reached a lower hand out and gave it an experimental stroke, pleased to find the small action sent a shudder through Husk’s wings. 

“Angel,” Husk growled, pulling back. “You don’t gott’a do anythin’ in return. Just bein’ able to take care of you was more than enough for me.”

“Too bad it wasn’t enough for me,” Angel retorted, dexterous hands making quick work of Husk’s zipper, but he didn’t pull it out, no matter how badly he wanted to see Husk’s arousal. “I still gott’a find out why missionary is ya’ favourite.”

Husk’s eyes darkened impossibly further, and then he was reaching a paw down to free his erection from its confines. 

Angel had seen many, many cocks over the course of his existence. He’d seen ugly ones. He’d seen mildly attractive ones. But none had ever looked quite like Husk’s. It was a deep grey like the rest of his inky fur, with the tip tinted crimson in arousal. It curved upwards as opposed to left or right, and it looked like it would stimulate that spot inside of him without any issue, nor any need for manoeuvring. What truly stuck out to him, though, was the small uniform pointed bumps that covered every inch of his shaft. Intrigued, he reached out to run his fingertip over them, surprised to find that they weren’t sharp like they looked to be. Husk shivered from head to toe. 

“Now who’s needy?” Angel teased, smearing some of the precum collected at the tip with his thumb and using it as a lubricant to pump his hand over the length. “Ya’ cock is beautiful, Husky. I need ya’ in me, stat.” 

If Husk were of any sounder mind right now, maybe he would’ve drawn out the foreplay, taken his time to thoroughly take Angel apart until he was a moaning, writhing mess. But instead, he covered Angel’s hand around his arousal. He guided his tip to Angel’s folds, watching as his precum mixed with Angel’s slick, rubbing the velvety skin together like a man entranced. Angel let out a stuttered gasp when the head caught on the rim of his hole.

“I just gott’a make sure, baby,” Husk uttered, tearing his eyes away from the erotic scene to look into Angel’s. “This is okay, yeah? You fine with me not wearin’ a condom?”

Angel almost rolled his eyes. “Husk, babe, if ya’ don’t fuck me right now I think I’m gonn’a lose my mind.”

“Not until I got your verbal consent, Angel,” his voice was so serious it sent Angel reeling. “Do you want me to wear a condom?”

Angel took a moment to think about, seriously think about it. It was rare he was given any control in the bedroom at all, nevermind over something like this, and he could tell it meant a lot to Husk. He thought about it with the depth of consideration Husk deserved. And then he was smiling, soft and unfeigned. 

“Nah, Husky,” he said, slowly but surely. “I wann’a feel all of ya’. Now get on wit’ it, I’m dyin’ over here.”

Husk nodded earnestly, stretching up over Angel’s body to plant a chaste kiss on his lips. Then, he leaned back on his knees and took his erection in hand, guiding it to Angel’s hole and pushing in gently. 

Upon that first breach, the two of them gasped synchronously as though they became one the moment their bodies did. The initial stretch burned in the best way possible. With how slowly Husk was moving, Angel could feel every bump and ridge of his cock as it slipped past the clenching muscles of his entrance, and it took every ounce of restraint within him to not arch into the slide and force the whole length inside.

“Fuck, Angel,” Husk gasped, voice raw and ragged. “You’re so fuckin’ tight.”

Angel, despite himself, answered that by tightening around him teasingly. Husk’s hips bucked as he near enough yowled, bottoming out in a single thrust. And God, wasn’t that an incredible feeling?

True to expectations, Husk’s cockhead perfectly curved exactly where he needed it to, each bump pressing deliciously against his walls. And laid like they were, Angel could see every detail of Husk’s face, every minute change to his expression. His brows were drawn together, eyes half-lidded in pleasure, and as he slowly pulled out to thrust back in, he saw sharp canines digging into the meat of his lip. That was his job. 

So with Husk establishing a steady rhythm, Angel wrapped an arm around Husk’s neck and drew him in for a heated kiss. It was messy, and on each thrust they’d break the kiss just to groan or whine into each other’s mouths, but the proximity was so tender Angel could’ve cried. He’d never, not once, had sex like this before. Face to face, every inch of their bodies touching, no gasp or utterance left unheard. 

“Husk,” Angel moaned, the sound drowned out by the cat’s insistent mouth. Distantly, he recognised that this is what his first time should’ve been like: loving and beautiful, equal parts give and take. The give of Husk’s rolling hips, the take of Angel blindly grinding to meet him, and in the middle they’d meet with scorching lips and bared souls. He could get lost in the way Husk’s cock filled him so beautifully, would easily trade the beat of his heart for the in and out as he moved. This was love, pure and unfiltered, and Angel felt his second orgasm sparking deep in his gut. 

He slid a lower hand down between his legs, dexterous fingers finding his clit and rubbing in time with the thrusts, the other finding the pert nipple of his left breast and rolling it the way he loved. All the while, his mouth never left Husk’s, eyes scrunched closed in sheer bliss. 

Husk broke the kiss to hang his head on Angel’s shoulder, breath coming in short gusts.

“I ain’t gonna last much longer, baby,” he grunted, each word punctuated by a deep, wonderful thrust. “I’ve been hard since the second you got on my fuckin’ lap.”

Angel would’ve giggled if not for the looming pleasure cresting in his stomach. 

“Me too,” he gasped out. “Jus’ don’t stop.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Husk murmured, and then he was doubling his pace, thrusts no longer steady and long but short and erratic. Each shallow roll of his hips had the head of his cock nudging Angel’s sweet spot, and Angel swore he saw stars. 

“Oh Dio, sì!” Angel cried, unabashedly slipping into his native tongue. “Non smettere, non smettere.”

That coil in his gut tightened further and further, the feeling of Husk’s breath hot on his neck so delicious it positively ached. He could feel the twitching of Husk’s cock within him, could feel the clenching of his walls attempting to milk him dry. 

“Hai conquistato il mio cuore,” Husk groaned, the deep bass of it affecting Angel to his core. “ Ti amo, Angel.”

And that was what did it. The sound of Husk speaking his language, his voice so full of unfettered lust and profound adoration, had him cumming for the second time that night. He threw his head back, moaning so loud he was sure the whole of Hell heard him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Husk was following him over the edge, a strangled hiss working its way from his throat as he spilled deep inside of Angel, the aftershocks of his own orgasm bringing him to the edge. 

They stayed like that for a moment, chests heaving, enjoying the lingering pleasure. Angel could feel Husk’s release trickling down his taint, his softening cock doing little to plug his stretched hole. The thought of it had him blushing like a virgin. Husk slowly raised his head from Angel’s shoulder, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. The moment was so wholesome, so tender. 

“Now I get it,” Angel sighed, contentedly watching as Husk slowly pulled out. Husk raised a brow, gracelessly dismounting the bed as he shimmied out of his pants and began to unbutton his shirt.

“Get what?” He inquired, making quick work of the buttons. Talented fingers.

“Why missionary is ya’ favourite,” Angel teased, fucked-out grin spreading across his face, practically setting his features alight. Husk chuckled, gravelly and low, and then he was walking over to the side of the bed.

“Told you I ain’t had any complaints,” he retorted, scooping Angel into his arms for the second time. This time, Angel didn’t yelp, but he was still caught off guard, wrapping his arms securely around Husk’s neck and nuzzling into him. 

“Where are ya’ takin’ me, ya’ madman?” He groaned, the noise muffled by Husk’s fur. 

“We’re gettin’ cleaned up, sweetheart,” Husk soothed. “I already gott’a change my sheets. Can’t have us ruining another set.”

Angel hummed his agreement, and for once in his life, closed his eyes and let himself be taken care of.

A long bath, some bathroom sex, and another bath later, Angel lay comfortably under the sheets of Husk’s freshly changed bed. The cat had a wing wrapped protectively around him, and Angel found himself carding his hand lightly through the feathers, gently removing any that seemed bent the wrong way.

“I’ve always wanted ta’ do this, y’know,” he murmured.

“What? Play with my wings?” Husk asked, voice incredulous. He gave his wings a brief flap. “You could’ve just asked.”

“No, stupid,” Angel stuck out his tongue, so in love it hurt. “Preen them for ya’.”

Husk craned his neck to look Angel in the eyes, blinking slowly. “What the fuck is preening? Is that a sex thing?”

The laugh that burst out of Angel’s throat was nothing but unadulterated joy. He curled further into Husk’s side, resting his head on the cat's chest. “Ya’ mean you got wings and don’t even know what preenin’ is? Oh, amore, I got so much to teach ya’.”

“I’m sure you do, baby,” and Angel didn’t even have to look up to know he had that stupid fond smile on his face. Angel traced a hand up and down Husk’s bare stomach, drawing nonsensical shapes. He listened to the steady rhythm of Husk’s heart, the in and out of his breathing, and the sense of home was so all-consuming it threatened to swallow him whole. He felt his eyes grow heavy, ready to surrender to the call of rest, when he remembered.

“Oh, right!” He sat up, turning to face Husk. “Where the Hell were ya’ all day? I tried askin’ Alastor, but he was no help, the creepy mother–”

“Fuck!” Husk hissed, scrambling out of bed and leaving Angel to fall into the divet he’d left behind. Angel watched, vaguely affronted, as he ambled over to the pile of clothes in the corner, picking up his discarded pants and rifling through the pocket. He produced something from it, and then he was hustling back to the bed like he hadn’t just acted as though he’d forgotten to turn off the stove. 

“I, uh,” Husk began, more sheepish than Angel had ever seen him before. “I wanted to give this to you as soon as I got back, but you were waitin’ by my door and it kind’a threw me for a loop.”

He held out his paw, opening his fist to reveal a golden bracelet that glinted in the dim light. Angel took it tentatively.

“I went to four different jewellers, n’ only one of them could make me what I wanted on a time crunch, so it ended up takin’ me all fuckin’ day,” Husk ranted. He was clearly nervous, and Angel had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life. Instead, though, he examined the bracelet closer. 

“Turns out engravin’ real gold takes a while, even if you’re threatening them at gunpoint,” Husk trailed off, watching with a guarded, hopeful expression as Angel held the bracelet to his face. “I got it engraved to say, uh, ‘L’amore è cieco’. It means–”

–“Love is blind,” Angel cut in breathlessly, and true to his word, there, engraved in beautiful cursive along the band of the golden bracelet were those three words. Husk released a held breath.

“Yeah, baby,” he affirmed. “I just wanted to show you that what I feel for you has got nothin’ to do with how you look.”

Angel couldn’t help the way his head tilted quizzically. 

“Yes, I think you’re fuckin’ gorgeous. I would die a happy man if the last thing I got to see was that beautiful face’a your’s. But everythin’ I love about you ain’t out here,” he brought a paw up to cup Angel’s cheek, before trailing it down to rest above his heart. “But in here. I fell for the Angel who makes me laugh every day n’ makes me want to be a better man, not the Angel I see on those billboards.”

Angel wasn’t sure when he started crying, but he was suddenly all too aware of the mistiness in his eyes and the lump in his throat. When an unshed tear trickled down his cheek, Husk leaned in to kiss it away. 

“Do you like it, baby?” Husk whispered.

“I am neva’ takin’ this goddamn thing off,” Angel promised, clutching it tightly between two hands. He let out a wet chuckle. “Yeah, I fuckin’ like it.”

The smile Husk gave him conveyed more than words could as he reached out with a paw, gently taking the bracelet from his hands. “May I?”

Angel nodded fervently. He held out his upper left hand, watching as Husk delicately clasped the golden band around his wrist. It looked perfect against his white fur, and he knew that every time he looked at it, every time it glinted in the light, he’d be reminded of this moment. This moment in which he was happier than he ever had been before. Husk pressed a kiss to the skin around the bracelet, and then he was pulling back to admire it.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. 

“Ya’ better be talkin’ about me an’ not the bracelet,” Angel faux-pouted. Husk donned an expression of mock consideration, narrowing his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” he hummed, the lilting traces of a bubbling laugh lacing his tone. “You ain’t gold and engraved. An’ you also didn’t cost me a year’s wages.”

“I’m worth way more than that, Husky,” Angel winked, and they were devolving into laughter, leaning into one another. Husk wrapped an arm around Angel, laying them both down and pulling the sheets back over them with a contented sigh. 

“I could get used to this,” Husk mumbled into the fur atop Angel’s head. Angel let his eyes fall closed, snuggling into the warm torso, and smiled.

“Better start gettin’ used to it, babe. Ya’ ain’t gettin’ rid of me now,” he spoke, voice barely above a whisper. The warmth of Husk and the afterglow of fantastic sex had Angel succumbing to sleep far quicker than he had in years.

“Good,” Husk returned, voice hazy and distant, but still vibrant with an unspoken ‘I love you’, “Because I don’t plan on lettin’ you go.”

Those beautiful, binding words were the last thing Angel heard before he let his mind dim and his body relax. He fell asleep with the promise that Husk would be there when he woke up tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that for the rest of eternity. 

Angel had always been pretty. That much was undeniable. But in this moment, wrapped in loving arms, in a room that smelled of whiskey and sex and new beginnings, he was content to just be Husk’s.