Archive of Our Own

“Angel.”

Angel lifts his head, fluttering his eyelids, confused.

“Husk? Whatcha doin’… between my legs?” he notices, he is even more perplexed now, but a strange feeling in the back of his head makes him visualize the whole thing like Husk somehow always belonged there.

Husk smiles at him, it’s lustful and lewd. Shit, wait–what? Lustful and lewd and Husk? In the same sentence? Incapable of fighting it, Angel senses a big wave of hot arousal crashing on his body starting from his small back right to his face and shoulders.

“Angel.” He hears again, Husk’s lips moving slowly. And, in a very uncharacteristic move, Angel sees him pushing those same lips between his legs, pressing on the fabric of his shorts.

“Ohh—shit, what?” Angel blurts out, eyes wide open, and his skin feels like thousands of needles just decided to prick him at the same time. “Holy shit, God– are… you? OH, you’re good…” he starts to mumble, his breath hitching and sweat starting to glisten on his forehead.

Well, aren’t we kinky, kitty cat? I knew ya always had it in you.

“Angel...”

Ah, yes… call my name again, just like that…

He doesn’t understand, but Husk’s tongue is lapping up and down the snug fabric around his now hard erection, and in the throwing-the-head-back he does, he notices their surroundings. It seems like they’re at the hotel’s bar.

Oh, good. We’re doing agoraphilia now, I guess– his mind is flurring as he tries to clock if there’s anyone around, but Husk’s mouth on his hard cock feels so good he’s soon back to fluttering eyelids and eyes rolling.

He’s close, so close—too early to be this close. One hand tries to card itself on the fur under Husk’s ears but out of nowhere his stomach drops down and everything blooms to blinding white.

All of a sudden, he feels so unduly… wet.

He squeezes his eyes and he’s in his room. His sheets are on the floor, half ended up on Fat Nugget’s bed, waking the poor thing up.

He looks down on his stomach, and there's a thin spurt of white just right there.

Fucking Christ.

Did he just have a wet dream about the dork bartender cat?!

Husk thinks he’s dreaming.

Which is not a surprise, the booze fries enough of your neurons you start to accept the batshit crazy vivid dreams you do.

There’s a poker table, which already pisses him off in-dream because he’s really trying to leave all that shit behind.

But sitting on the poker table—

“Angel…?”

And he’s really there, more dazzling than ever, leaning over the mahogany, crossing those beautiful long legs, being busy looking at someone else that he can’t see-– which checks out. Even in his dreams.

“C’mon, baby,” he hears him say, sultry and inviting, a tone that generally makes him shiver. He’d like to say in disgust, but the back of his mind knows. “Bet big.” Emphasis on the big, as always. “Bet me.”

Husk is really pissed off now. A dream, his dream, and he’s dreaming about Angel and poker and someone else.

“Oh, I’m all in, sweetheart.”

Husk’s ears perk up, and he’s alarmed.

That’s his voice.

Emerging from Angel’s side, there’s him. Eye contact, full confidence, zero drunken slurring. That is not realistic.

The fuck?

Husk’s eyes flutter in disbelief, he’s watching himself in a dream. Or, someone that looks like him because that Husk? Hasn’t been there for a very long time now.

Unable to move or make any decision, he watches as Angel, Angel Dust, crawls into his–Dream-Husk’s laps and fucking kisses him. A kiss that is unhurried and lascivious. The kind of kiss that says, I want you.

Husk feels like his face might melt, his body winces. Like he’s there, but he’s not there.

Angel’s lips are close to those of his dream-self. They look inviting, soft, something he’d like to touch.

Angel’s gloved hands are caressing his face, they are petting his ears and cuddling him like… like they’re used to doing it.

Dream-Husk's hand is actually pressed on one of Angel’s legs, stroking it and squeezing it as if it’s his to touch. Husk feels his shoulders and wings slump down and he’s bewildered.

Angel then puts both his hands around Dream-Husk’s nape and ropes him into another kiss, and now… there’s tongue. Oh, hell no. What? God, is he dreaming about Angel Dust necking him?!

Yeah, no. It’s actually worse than that. Angel’s other hand pulls the tie his dream-self is wearing and, in a very swift motion, he’s undoing it and gets inside his shirt, stroking the fur of his chest and Husk can feel the hand on himself like he’s the one that's being touched.

Shit, motherfuckin’ shitballs.

He feels hot. The heat is crawling on the back of his neck. His heartbeat is drumming in his ears. Angel’s hand is unbuttoning his–Dream-Husk’s shirt and another hand is creeping downwards, way downwards… his fingers idling right over his lower stomach. Dream-Husk’s claws are calmly and confidently sneaking up Angel’s skirt, inside where not even his own mind has ever tried to peek.

No, no, no, NO–WAIT, stop immediately!

“You should let me love you, Whiskers.” Angel whispers, grinning, grabbing his crotch, hard.

A choked noise, and Husk wakes up in his bed, distraught.

He shoots upright on his messy sheets, the feathers of his wings fluffied up and his tail puffed like a bottle brush. He pants, his chest going up and down.

“Oh, COME ON.” he groans, noticing the very obvious problem he has under the blankets.

He flops himself back on the mattress, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I am NOT havin’ this. Not about him. Not fuckin’ now.”

He rolls out of bed, in search of a not-yet-empty bottle in his stash.

His hand jerks.

It’s the booze that made him have that ludicrous dream. He mutters like he was personally wronged by his comfort, which is… kinda true.

“Stupid spider. Stupid eyes, stupid lips. Stupid lovin' smile. Get outta my head.”

His hand stops right as he’s about to grab one bottle that has two fingers of booze still left in it.

God, he’s so pissed off. His stomach feels like a gaping hole longing for that stupid, useless feeling of being wanted.

Even if it was just a dream.

Angel dreams he’s at the Hotel’s bar after dark.

But it’s clearly some sort of dream version of it: low lights, no noise. Just him and Husk, behind the counter, once again.

Husk leans in close behind him–Angel’s breath hitches delicately– to help with mixing a drink.

His deep voice is hoarse, low, rumbles in Angel’s ear.

“Easy, baby. You shake it too fast, you’ll bruise the gin.”

The edges of the dream shake with Angel’s rousing.

So fuckin’ old-fashoned. Just like Husk. But this is Angel’s dream, so is this actually how he pictures Husk’s flirting? Ah, fuckin’ fantastic. Now he’s tailoring his dreams to the dork cat.

Husk’s hands wrap around his, guiding the shaker, and Angel is vibrating, because in the dream Husk is being gentle, confident and just a tad possessive. Never knew he’d like Husk to act possessive of him. But here we freakin’ are. The subconscious is really mysterious.

“…oh, Husker. Ya can shake me however you want.” he coos, in perfect Angel-fashion, arching his back just enough to allow himself to end up perfectly comfortable between his arms and to deliberately push his ass on his crotch.

Husk lets out a sultry chuckle, no insults, no fluster, just pure mutual desire. Then presses his lips on Angel’s arm, giving a roll of his own hips.

Oh.

He’s raging hard.

Angel wakes up face-first in his pillow, sweaty, whining, hands gripping his sheets.

“Oh God–” he whispers, stirred, eyes wide open. “I liked that way too much.”

He pulls the blankets over his head.

And his hand dips, quivering and greedy, inside his shorts.

Lights flashes before Husk’s eyes. It’s chaotic, loud and a little bit messy. Exactly like Angel.

Angel is pushing him against a wall in the hallway with that big, naughty grin hovering on his lips. “Hey, Whiskers… gonna kiss me or what?”

For some inexplicable reason, it feels like it’s not the first time this has happened. Because Angels kisses him without asking again and that doesn’t feel forced or out of the blue.

It’s hungry and breathtaking, Husk is melting into it like it was always meant to be. Angel moans his name on his lips. Goddamn it.

Husk groans, in his ears a high-pitched noise that is making him dizzy. He grabs Angel by the waist, squeezing hard and pushing his lips on him, kissing back like he’s starved.

Angel's breathy whisper is quivering against his mouth.

“I want you, Husk. I want you.”

Husk wakes up like someone had just stabbed him. WIth a meat cleaver. On his crotch. And heart.

His eyes blew open so much that they’re starting to get teary. He still hasn’t blinked once. His lower stomach is screaming internally.

He inhales, finally—sharply, trying to stop the crisis by biting his lip hard, almost drawing blood.

“Okay. Fuck. Calm down. It’s just a stupid dream. Again.” he tries to tell himself, grabbing the edge of his blanket. “You haven’t had sex in ages. He’s hot. You’re lonely. He’s flirty. All… whatever the fuck this is, means nothing.”

…Right?

He doesn’t believe himself, not even a little bit.

This one starts in hushed tones.

Angel opens his eyes and in the dream Husk is sitting on the edge of his bed, back turned, eyes apparently searching for his clothes.

Angel traces with his eyes the curve of his wings resting low on the small of his back, they travel up to his surprisingly defined shoulders, then to the arms that Angel knows are rather strong and, well, just in his mind, loving and safe to be in.

Angel doesn’t even notice himself straightening up and crawling closer without thinking, pressing his torso to Husk’s back, arms sliding around his waist, going up to bury themselves in the fluff of Husk’s chest.

He feels Husk stiffen slightly, a low, sensual grumble vibrating from his throat. The sound goes straight to Angel’s groin. Yep. Another wet dream, here we fucking go.

Angel whispers on the curve of his neck, needy and unguarded.

“Don’t go yet.”

Husk’s ears flinch in that adorable way that Angel always notices and now he’s face to face with that cute little snout. Husk is looking right into his eyes and for a short moment Angel feels naked in a way that he’s never felt before.

Then Husk grabs Angel’s face with both hands, thumbs caressing the cheeks, and kisses him hard. Like he’s done waiting for permission.

Angel moans into it, his whole body lighting up like a firework. His legs wrap immediately around Husk’s slim waist, reeling him closer.

Husk breaks the kiss for a moment, just long enough to linger on Angel’s lips and murmuring slowly on them.

“You beg so pretty when you don’t mean to.”

“…Oh, fuck you—” he groans on his lips, because words don’t make him this hard usually. But he’s feeling so turned on he could make a hole in the mattress.

Husk kisses him again, slower and deeper, his hands caressing him and scratching him and claiming him to himself.

Angel wakes up flushed, breathless, heart pounding, staring once again at the ceiling of his room.

“…Why is it always him?” he whines.

Husk doesn’t even remember falling asleep.

One moment he’s face-down on his pillow, head spinning thanks to his inebriated brain, grumbling on about another dream about Angel’s laugh, Angel’s legs, Angel’s fucking everything…

…and then he’s deep into vivid dreaming.

Angel is sitting in his lap. Legs open, arms around his shoulders, playing with the edge of his wings, pink eyes looking smoldering at his own.

Angel’s weight is warm, feels real and devastating. Right on his crotch.

Motherfucking hell. Husk’s hands don’t know what to do, they twitch inches from those legs, that ass.

It’s a dream. How can he be restrained in his own fucking wet dream?

Angel’s breath is so close to him. And he looks ready to kiss him, but instead he rolls his freaking hips once, slow and deliberate. So Husk groans, unwittingly purrs, and his hands now are flying to Angel’s waist to stop him.

“Don’t–” Husk warns, his voice already shamefully wrecked.

Angel leans in anyway, smirking sultry, his lips now caressing Husk’s quivering ones.

“Make me stop.”

Son of a bitch. That’s it.

He snaps.

Husk kisses him like he’s been famished all his life. Messy. Hungry. Like he needs it to survive.

Angel melts completely into it, hands clutching Husk’s shoulders, breath stuttering between kisses, trembling and yearning.

Husk flips their position without even thinking, restraints gone, pinning Angel beneath him, his own wings flared, weight pressing Angel into the pink couch. Shit, are they in the Hotel’s lounge?

But he doesn’t care. Angel is now hastily pulling his trousers down and without even noticing things moving this fast, Husk’s now buried deep inside of him. Or, how he imagines he would feel inside. Tight, hot, wet, perfect.

Angel looks up at him, pupils blown, lips swollen.

“Go on, fuck me up.” He pants with abandon on his trembling mouth.

Husk wakes up mid-motion, claws digging into the sheets, chest heaving, hard-on dragging on the mattress.

He stares at the pillow in front of him, and when his heartbeat slows down enough for him to hear his own thoughts, the realization hits him like a high-speed train.

“…I’d— wreck him.”

The worst feeling he could ever have.

He’s not like the others. He shouldn’t be like the others.

Because he knows what it means to be reduced to a safer, exploitable version of yourself. To lose your sense of agency enough to be compliant when all you want to do is to be left alone in your own misery.

Hell doesn’t immortalize losers. It pretends they don’t matter. He knows that all too well.

That is why he wants to make him feel protected, to let him feel free and liberated.

Safe.

Not a piece of meat.

And he dreams about wrecking him like every-fuckin’-body else.

Angel jolts awake with a gasp.

His heart is hammering like he just sprinted a city marathon right under the influence.

His thighs are shaking, and not because of the marathon metaphor.

And he knows instantly–instantly–why that is.

It wasn’t any dream. It was a Husk dream. He had a Husk motherfuckin’ dream. Again.

“Ya gotta chill the fuck out.” He buries his face in the pillows and screams into them. Softly, so as not to wake Nuggsie.

He really got to stop dreaming shit like this. Because this was…God, so good.

Good in the way that made his toes curl and his breath get thin and needy and greedy.

He felt free. Felt like he didn’t have to go to excess in his performance so he couldn’t be exploited by his counterpart.

It didn’t feel like that usual performative hedonism. It didn’t feel like his sexual eagerness was a brand asset.

And the worst fucking part.

The worst fucking part was that Husk was smiling all lovingly. At him. For him.

His eyes were looking at him like he wanted nothing from him that Angel didn’t want to give.

And the real kicker is that Angel already knows that gaze because… he gets it from Husk everyday.

So… what. He took it into his dreams and kneaded it and woven it into the fabric of whatever his subconscious is trying to do with this absurdity?

“It wasn’t even that dirty!” he tries to tell himself. “It was… it was like… romantic porn! That’s worse! That’s way worse!” The heat spreads on his face as the remnants of the dreams come back to him. The hot flashes shoot from his lower stomach and he curls on his sheets.

“Oh, I’m fuckin’ screwed. I’m like, extra deluxe family-size screwed.”

Because the dream, besides being super fucking hot and wet and hell-shattering, it was also… Well, nice. It wasn’t the kind of filth he’s used to. For instance, it was unusually slow. And sensual. Toe-curling lustful. But also inexplicably warm.

Husk’s hands were tight on his hips, moving like he had all the time in the afterlife to touch and explore him.

Husk’s breath was hot and sultry against his throat and his quiet, deep, velvety voice was saying his name like it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

He was keeping him close and touched him and fucked him like he was loved.

Angel dreamed about being loved by the stupid loser of a bartender that believes in him.

Which is full-blown existential crisis material.

“Great.” he whispers to himself, hugging his knees close to his chest. “I’m catching feelings. Like a dumbass.”

Because, feelings? For Husk?

Husk, who grumbles at him. Who calls him “kid” and “a pain in my ass” but waits for Angel to take his hand when he offers it.

Husk, who touches him like he’s fragile, not filthy. That pushes him to be better, to be himself.

Angel groans loudly and stands to sit on the bed again.

“Stop it. I can’t like Husk.” he mutters, disgruntled at himself. “I ain’t allowed to like nobody. I got Valentino’s brand on my ass, for fuck’s sake. How'm I supposed to have, like, actual feelings?!”

He presses both hands to his face, knuckles digging into the folds of his eyes, rubbing them frustratedly.

And unfortunately, like a sick joke, his brain chooses that exact moment to replay one part of the dream.

Husk, with his voice deep and reassuring, so close to his ear whispering, “Lemme take care of you for once.” as his hands and mouth and tongue indulged on him for the sweetest forever. Like Angel was the most tasteful dish in all hellscape. Like he wanted to make him come undone without pretending anything back. Just to make him feel good unconditionally.

Angel inhales sharply, like somebody just put a knife to his throat, while his eyes spring open in shameful arousal.

He gets up—because he has to do something to ride out the horniness, he cannot act on it again—and paces, running all four hands through his hair. Fat Nuggets, now awake, stares at him from his bed, unsure of what’s happening in the middle of the night.

Angel sighs and heaves and mumbles, pivoting back and forth from his bed to the door, lost in a thinking circle like a toy train.

Because Angel Dust, his demon persona that has been living in hell for far longer than his human counterpart, is many things: confident, skilled, with a flair for the dramatic, flashy, used to sex like most people are used to breathing.

But then there’s Anthony. And even Anthony has no damn idea what to do with yearning sex.

Hell-shattering sex.

Sex he actually wants—well, desires. He always wants sex, after all.

And he wants it from Husk.

Bad.

So badly it’s stupid.

“Well, shit. I wish it was real.” he says to himself, voice thin and trembling. Admitting it for the first time as he sits back on his bed, one hand going to pet Fat Nugget’s muzzle.

Darn it.

Not the best time to be finally honest with your feelings, dumbass! Because what in the evolving fuck he’s supposed to do now?

Walk up to Husk and say “Hey Whiskers, I dreamed about you takin’ me apart sweetly all night”?

Absolutely the fuck not. His reputation is on the line! He’d rather combust than to admit that he yearns tenderness and that he wants it from Husk.

But the feelings won’t stop. The dream keeps replaying. And every time he thinks about Husk smiling softly at him like that Angel feels breathless. The good kind, the one that doesn’t feel threatening.

And he can’t really sleep well after that.

Right the next morning, he sees Husk across the lobby. Sleepy, adorably scruffy, sipping his morning coffee.

Butterflies take flight in his stomach.

Husk glances up and their eyes meet. Alarms go off inside Angel’s sleep-deprived brain.

Do NOT picture the dream. I repeat, do NOT picture the dream. Absolutely do NOT picture him kissing your neck. Do NOT think about how his hands felt—

Husk stares at him, kinda bewildered, and in his typical fashion he raises an eyebrow.

“…You all right, legs? You look like you fought a blow dryer and got served.”

Angel laughs too loudly and too high.

Then dashes off.

Husk tries to not fall asleep for the longest he can go.

Now he’s afraid he’s gonna dream about Angel, about wrecking him like all the others do.

He’s scared. He doesn’t want to. He can’t dare dream about him again.

Thank goodness Angel has been busy—and unusually jittery and frenzy? To actually spend too much time together.

God. He kinda misses him, though.

They shouldn’t leave him alone and Angel-less at the bar with all that booze.

He pours drinks he doesn’t need, wipes down an already clean bar, keeps the lights low and the vibe quieter than usual. Charlie asked him eight times if something’s wrong. So, yeah. It’s going well.

So well that every time his eyes get heavy that dream flashes back, shameful and unforgiving.

Angel pinned beneath him.

Angel smiling at him. Trusting him.

When, in reality, he’s just like all the other motherfuckers.

Husk downs another drink, exhaling. “No. Ain’t gonna happen.” he mutters. All he can do is shield him from his desire.

Angel’s already been used enough. Husk knows too well about ownership trauma. He can’t show himself like this. He promised himself he would be a safe haven for him.

Even dreaming about him like that makes Husk no better than the rest.

So by the third night, he’s plainly exhausted. Hands shaking just slightly, jittery, eyes burning, temper even shorter than usual.

One eye is twitching while he stares at the wall on the other side of the bar and the red wallpaper feels like it is starting to crawl up and down the wall. Shit.

“Woah. You all right, Whiskers?”

“What.”

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

It is suspicious, but Angel sits on the stool regardless, resting his elbows on the pearly counter and looking at him, concerned.

“Ya been sleepin’?”

Husk shrugs, his mind going too slow to activate the mouth, so he just pours a drink for Angel and slides it over without looking.

Angel stretches like he’s trying to shake something off his skin and takes the glass in his hand, sipping it and looking at the scruffy and, to be totally fair, wrecked silhouette of his loser of a bartender.

“Seriously, Husk. You okay?”

“I’m good, alright?” Husk blurts out, and it comes out way meekier than he would’ve liked. “Need something else?”

“Gimme another one of these. Work was shit.”

Husk’s ears perk up and immediately his protective instinct flares up. “You okay?”

“Oh, y’know.” Angel rolls his eyes dramatically, downing the second round in a flash. “Casino gig. Bright lights, loud assholes and drunk idiots who think tippin’ means touchin’.”

Husk’s eyes unfocus again for a second, remembering that first wet dream in a casino, dauntingly. He wags his head and squeezes his eyes, trying to remain concentrated, horny free and, most of all, awake.

Unaware of all this, Angel continues talking, now faster, scorned, like he’s already decided to make it a joke. “Some fucker tried to get all handsy with my waist mid-song. Like, dude, I’m singin’, not tryna get felt up, ya know what I mean?”

Husk’s jaw immediately tightens and Angel stops talking when he sees his wings flare up.

“…You tell him off?”

Angel shrugs, passing his thumb over the edge of his glass, looking down at his reflection in the amber-like liquid. “I smiled, did the sidestep and security dragged him out eventually.” he sneers, hollow and tired. “Perks of the job.”

“That ain’t a perk.” Husk comments, and there’s something in his intense glare that Angel can’t quite pinpoint. But likes.

He flutters his eyelids, surprised, and he doesn’t know why but a smile tries to bloom on his lips. Like, he cannot physically fight it. Then tilts his head, letting the chin rest on one of his hands.

“Well, not everyone’s you.”

Husk’s ears flick and his eyes look slightly less dead than before. “What’s that s’posed to mean…?” he softly frowns.

“I mean–” Angel snickers gleefully, the alcohol finally hitting his brain like it’s supposed to. “Christ. This is gonna sound so dumb.” because he’s also had dreams about it. But it’s not like he’s going to tell him that.

Husk would usually have a snarky comeback to something like that, but this time he doesn’t push it. He waits carefully, even though his vision is getting blurrier by the second.

“Just… Yer always so thoughtful. Always checkin’ in, always askin’—ya just did! And… I like that.”

Husk squeezes his eyes because, well. He’s tired. But also, what?!

“Yeah, told ya. Dumb. But it’s the truth.” Angel continues, his voice livelier than before and still a warm smile on his lips. “Ya look like the kinda guy who’d stop the second someone flinched."

“Angel…” Husk manages to utter, like he wants to contradict him. Like he wants to say, no. I’m just like everyone else. I’m not different. I don’t deserve a chance.

“Y’know, I like it rough. Pin my wrists, slap my ass, I'm down. But that stuff only hits when ya choose to, right?”

Husk softly snickers, slowly exhaling then. “You learnin’ about the concept of consent right now?” He then quiets down.

“Why you tellin’ me this, legs?”

“Hell, cause with that worried snout of yours yer the kind that’d probably ruin the mood askin’ ‘you okay?’ every five seconds.”

Husk huffs, arching an eyebrow despite himself. “…Damn right I would.”

Angel chuckles back at him, and he hears the beat of his heart drumming soft in the back of ears.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s kinda why…” then trails off, immediately shaking his head. Alarm. Abort immediately.

“...Never mind.”

Angel downs the rest of his drink, hopping off the stool too fast for it to look smooth.

“Anyway. Long night. I’m crashin’.” He fumbles, bidding him goodnight but as he walks away, something possesses him and Angel stops on his tracks, turning back towards the bar.

“What I mean is—You’d be the consent king, Whiskers. Ain’t a lot of them here! I’d… I’d trust ya.”

And he finally bolts away, sprinting to his room faster than the embarrassment can catch him.

Husk exhales shakily, and the vision turns really blurry as he tries to process what he just heard.

He stays frozen beyond the bar, wings twitching and the pounding of his heart deafening in his ears.

“…my God.” he softly whispers, to the empty glass in front of him.

“He’d trust me?”

Now his head is starting to spin for real.

“Damn right I would.”

See? That is exactly what he means! Caring, thoughtful, soft. He would love him in ways that he’d never experienced. Something that wouldn’t feel transactional or conditional.

And now he wants to experience that so fuckin’ bad.

But then he just went and called him “the consent king” in his face. Could he be any more stupid?

He rubs his eyes with both hands in frustration.

Pause, Angel. Put the brakes. Roll back a moment.

He didn’t proposition him. For once he didn’t flirt. And as much as he wishes that Husk would take it all as a joke, he didn’t make a joke.

Which is way, way, way worse.

Because flirting? He can undo that, they’re just words. And Husk’s used to dismiss him when he flirts.

But what he said was the truth. And he kinda fears it could be heard very clearly in his tone of voice.

“This is exactly why ya don’t say shit like that.” Angel flops onto the bed, Fat Nuggets coming at his feet to be petted.

“Hah, Nuggsie… What if I freaked him out?” he asks him, not really expecting an answer, while scratching his head.

“Can’t even have wet dreams like a normal sinner.” He hollowly laughs, cuddling his pet and flopping back onto the mattress with him. “Gotta get the feelings attached to ‘em.”

The room quiets down apart from the low humming of Fat Nuggets breathing on his chest.

“…But God. I want him.”

Not the thrill of it.

Him.

Ah, shit.

Tomorrow’s gonna be hell.

Angel only slept in batches of twenty minutes at a time, but in one of those twenty minutes he dreamed of an epiphany.

What if he blatantly ignores everything that happened yesterday?

He can act like nothing’s wrong, that he hasn’t basically said everything but the adult version of “I like you please go out with me”. If he goes back to his on-brand heavy flirting, Husk won’t hopefully remember the glitch of the night before.

Isn't that a genius idea?

Then it’s decided.

But when he comes back from work that evening, he sees that Vaggi is behind the bar’s counter, wiping a glass like she has some sort of beef to settle with it.

“Uh… hey, Toots. New look here, I see. Very… responsible.” What in the hell is he trying to say here? Concentrate. “Uh… where’s Husk?” he finally asks, nervously resting one elbow on the counter.

Vaggi puts the glass on the counter with a little too much force. “Out cold.”

Angel’s hair stands on the back of his neck. “Out… cold?”

“Yep. Face-planted in the supply closet,” she mutters, taking another glass and starting to wipe it vigorously. “Charlie’s got him upstairs to rest.”

“Huh.” He only manages to say, because there’s a train of anxiety that is threatening to crash on him if he tries to emit a sound.

“Yeah. Seems like he hasn’t slept in three days and was functionin’ on booze only.”

Oh.

That’s why the whole exchange felt so strange the day before. “Well, he did look like shit yesterday…” Angel mumbles, and his hands are crossed over his stomach, trying not to look too… tense.

“Has been looking like shit for a while now. He grumbled to me that he hasn't been sleeping well lately. Seems like something made him finally crash.” Vaggi glances at him, arching one eyebrow. And it feels deliberate.

“Huh. What? Me? We talked but—okay yeah I might’ve yapped a bit but that wasn’t–”

“Yeah, yeah. You say a lot of things to him. Only him.” Her expression softens, just for a moment. And the glass is thankful for it.

“What’s that su–” he tries to interject, but Cherri pops right behind him, putting her hands on Angel’s shoulders.

“OMG mate, did you finally kiss him and he passed out?! Haha, LAME.”

“Cherri what the fuck are ya on?!” Angel might feel his own soul leave the body, if he hadn’t sold it to an Overlord.

“Bloody hell, the one night I leave you two alone–”

Vaggi clears her throat, to try and calm everyone down. “Cherri.”

“Oh, right. Subtly.” she answers, and that alone makes Angel understand that something is unfurling that is not quite right.

But before he can inquire, Charlie emerges from upstairs and comes down on the lobby with Niffty on her side. “Oh. Hey Angel! You're finally back. Husk is–resting! Yeah, very… uhm, aggressively?"

What does that even mean? “Great. Love aggressive restin’. He needs it.” he mutters, feeling even more awkwardly observed.

Niffty zaps close to him, terrifyingly fast. “He mumbled your name, like, a LOT!” she pipes, cackling and the lobby starts to become a bit too crowded for his tastes. He’s used to being the center of attention, but not in this… strangely affectionate and scarily inquiring way.

Hold the fuck up.

Husk did what?!

Wide-eyed, Angel cannot stop his face radiating with hot pink and the heat sprinting down his spine.

“Fascinating stress response. Your heart rate spiked thirty percent.”

“I swear to God Baxter I will throw ya.” he snaps, but Niffty comes between them before the exchange can go on.

“You gonna keep pretending this has nothing to do with you?” Vaggi folds her arms, inquisitively.

“Why is everyone gangin’ up on me?!” Angel rants, confused and concerned, but he doesn’t feel really… threatened per se. He feels how you would feel when a group of friends try to check on you. Or have an intervention. This looks like both.

Cherri pats his shoulder, and the second pat feels a bit too strong. “Babe. Can’t run away anymore. It’s bloody embarrassin’.”

“Babe!” he groans, flustered, because he knows what they mean. It’s very clear in their concerned gazes.

He’s been busted. Shiiit!

Charlie comes to him, for once calm and collected.

“I think… You should check on him.”

“…All right—all right! If he wakes up and makes fun of me, I’m blaming all of you.”

Vaggie smirks, and it feels deliberate again.

“Oh, he definitely will.”

Angel knocks on Husk’s door. He stares at it for a whole second before trying to pivot back.

But then decides to open the door anyway, because, commitment.

Curtains are drawn, a dim-light floor lamp is on at the opposite side of the room, and this perfect mix of old leather, spilled booze and faint cigarette smell is exactly how Angel would describe Husk if someone asked him.

Husk is sprawled on the bed, face-down, his wings folded on his back like they gave up completely. It looks rough. He looks rough. His chest seems going up and down slowly with the rhythm of his breathing.

Angel stares, standing in the doorway at first, and doesn’t even notice moving until he’s in front of the bed, knees down on the floor, hands on the mattress, face to face with his snout to check on him.

The movement must’ve alerted Husk because he cracks one eye open, although his eyelids look so heavy they might as well weigh a million tons.

“Christ. Am I dead–?”

“We all are. Sorry, handsome.” Angel chuckles, tilting his head, relieved he looks sort of okay.

Husk tries to move, but gives up immediately. “Don’t call me that...” he whispers.

“No worries, Whiskers. I ain’t here to climb ya.”, if this was a dream, though…

“Mhh. Coulda fooled me.” Husk answers, but his voice is thin and drowsy. Almost as if he’s far away in dreamland.

“… you sayin’ that in yer sleep or…?”

Husk blinks again, and his eyes look like they’re starting to eventually focus.

“Oh.” The look immediately softens. “It’s you.”

Angel’s heart does a somersault. It’s those eyes. Feels like he’s never been looked at until this exact moment. How ridiculous.

“…You didn’t have to come up.” Husk mumbles, and his voice sounds very tired.

Angel shrugs, but there’s a smile on his lips. And a warm buzzing in his chest. “Hah, well. The lobby got crowded. Lotta opinions. Very hostile environment.”

“...Got it.” Unsure of what he means, Husk tiredly arches one eyebrow and finally manages to roll on his back, with a soft sigh. “But you shouldn’t have wasted your time on me.”

Angel’s smile fades and immediately his eyes blink in utter disbelief. “Oh no. Nope. We’re not doin’ that.”

Husk turns his head towards him, scowling. “Doin’ what.”

Angel’s frown is very evident on his face, knitted eyebrows and all. “This thing where you act like yer some kinda charity case.”

Husk lets out another sigh. And it sounds really weary. “I did a stupid thing. There’s no need to rush to my bedside.”

“You collapsed, Husk.”

Husk sneers, closing his eyes for a moment. “Been worse.” and Angel should be mad, but that worn out smirk looks… Well, it looks very sexy.

“Anyway.” He shakes his head, as he really gotta focus. “Wanna tell me why ya haven’t been takin’ care of yourself?” Because, you know… you were apparently mumbling my name, Angel would like to add. But right now he’s not bold enough to say it.

“... Just—” Husk exhales, his eyes slowly darting away. “Some strange dreams.” he finally says, and he notices he said it out loud when it’s too late to take it back or deflect.

“Shut up.” Angel blurts, stomach dropping low and leaning in way faster than one would consider normal, friendly curiosity to be.

“... what?” asks Husk, head turned to him and eyes nervously blinking, very confused and very wide open.

“Like.. nightmares… or… what?” Angel tries to probe, because it cannot fucking be. Or can it? No, right? But then, he was mumbling his name, wasn’t he?

Husk clears his throat, still owly-eyed, and Angel notices in the dim light that his snout is flushed. Shut the fuck up. That can’t be.

“If you keep starin’ at me like that Imma think yer dreamin’ about hell’s favorite pornstar.” oh he knows it’s a LONG shot, but he can always deflect, right?

But Husk doesn’t answer. Not right away. The problem is that the look on his face is unmistakable, even without explanation. And Angel stares back, mouth gaping, eyes blown, a visible redness spreading on his face.

“... OH.”

“For fuck’s sake–” Husk swears under his breath, to himself more than anything before putting one hand over his eyes as he winces, embarassed.

“Oh, ya kiddin’. Ya freakin’ kiddin’ me.” he laughs like it’s hilarious, his body automatically climbing to sit on the edge of the mattress, faster than he would’ve preferred. Just to keep a sliver of self-respect, at least.

Husk peeks from his fingers, and if he wasn’t so tired he would’ve, like, jumped out the window or something. “Christ, Angel. Forget it.”

“Oh, hell no.” Angel rebuts, and the pitch is a little higher than how he would’ve preferred to present himself in a moment like this. But sanity is slowly slipping from his fingers. “Because it means–” he nervously puts his hands behind his nape, and it’s warm. And sticky with sweat. God, fucking embarrassing. “That means you too.”

And that is the sentence that suddenly gives Husk God knows what strength to prop his upper body on his elbows. “I’m sorry, what?”

Angel tries hard to hold Husk’s gaze but he physically cannot sustain it without blushing hard. So he just gulps down, looking elsewhere. “...Yep.” he then admits.

“You also had a dream about— me?” Husk’s voice trails lower and thinner in the last part.

“Oh. Babycakes. Mine had sequels.”

Husk huffs, putting both his hands in his hair, squeezing his still tired eyes. “You tryna say I was dreamin' 'bout you, and you were dreamin' 'bout me?”

“It does sound that bad, huh?” Angel snickers, and his other sets of hands are creasing and twisting the fabric of Husk’s sheets, restless.

In the silence that follows, Angel notices that now that he’s sitting on his bed, their knees are almost touching. He’s close, so close he can feel his body warmth. Well, they hugged before, it’s not like he doesn’t know it… he’s just… A lot of his dreams had him this close. On a bed, just like that. So his chest is humming and buzzing.

That’s why he decides to do what he does better. “Soo…were these dreams PG-13 or…”

“Angel.”

“What? The cat’s outta the bag! You cannot drop this hot potato on me and bolt!”

“Don’t ask me ‘bout what you don’t wanna know.” frowns then Husk, quietly sighing.

“What part of me is suggestin’ I don’t wanna know?”

Husk exhales, his ears twitching lightly, leaning back on his pillow like he finally gave up trying to save face.

“Well–” he starts, looking at Angel first and then at his hands crossed on his lap. “If you really gotta know. No. They weren’t PG-13. At all.”

There is a very loud voice in the back of Angel’s head that screamed YES as soon as he heard it. Very hard for him to fight the smile that’s trying to bloom on his lips again.

“Got it. Wet as a lake, then.” he is grinning and trying to physically bite the smile down. The attempt is highly unsuccessful.

“Angel, I swear to God–”

“No, no.” Angel leans a little bit closer, even though not as close as he’d like to be. And the restraint is extremely annoying, because he’s not used to it.

“I wanna know how bad it was. We talkin’ bout ‘me backing on you at the bar like we forgot personal space’ bad or ‘you dirty talkin’ in my ear makin’ my legs shake like a virgin catholic schoolgirl’ bad?”

“... sounds very specific.”

“Hah. Yeah. Gotta tell ya, dream-me? Very enthusiastic.”

“Oh. So that’s what you been dreamin’ ‘bout, huh.” Husk comments, and is that a smile that is curving in the angle of his mouth? God.

I like him, bless my soul.

Angel gulps down and his eyes wander around after that smirk. Come on, it’s not on brand for him to be embarrassed about nasty things. Or a coy smile.

“...Yeah.” he admits, pursing his lips. “Look, I’m just sayin’. Words don’t usually get me like that. It was woah.”

“It was… ‘woah’?” Husk arches one eyebrow, his gaze perplexed.

“Yeah. Like I could cum right then and there kinda woah.”

“Aren’t you a charmer?” Husk softly laughs, scrunching his snout in the most adorable way.

“No, Husky, ya don’t understand!” Angel flails his arms dramatically, his Italian side coming out without struggle. “It was filthy but it wasn’t! It was like romantic porn!”

“You gettin’ real heated here—”

But Angel continues regardless, like a lid has been blown off that particular joint. “I wasn’t playin’ it up. I wasn’t bein’ cute or loud or whatever keeps people watchin’.”

Husk looks at him, and the way his eyes are softening… Angel stops in his tracks because he feels like he knows what he’s talking about.

Oh, shit. I think he knows.

Husk smiles at him, a discerning look tilting slightly along with his head. “It was just… you. Bein’ yourself.”

Angel’s fingers clutch at the sheet under his hand, and his heartbeat is drilling hard in his chest and ears. His eyes meet with Husk’s once more and he feels like he’s suddenly naked even with his clothes on. Bared on his bed. Not in a sexy way. Or it could be sexy, who knows. Maybe it is.

Husk then goes back to look at the hands on his lap and takes a deep breath, low sighing before going to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I had one dream where… where I desired you so much I felt filthy like all the other motherfuckers that use you.” He confesses. And while he doesn’t know if this was the right moment to say this, it feels like a giant stone has been lifted off his chest. At least, now Angel knows what kind of garbage he’s dealing with.

“Wait? You? The consent king?” Angel laughs very loudly, mostly as a defense, to try and hide the feral blushing of his cheeks and the jump his heart did. Did he say… desired you so much?

“Ya don't even take my hand before makin’ sure I want to!” he continues, alluding at all the times it happened even when their friendship was still blooming.

“Well, but that’s—” Husk tries to interject, but Angel cuts him off before he can say another stupid thing.

“Babycakes. If you wanted to use me you’d have done it already. I’m not exactly makin’ myself unavailable.”

Husk then scoffs, and that small laugh is everything.

“I promise ya,” Angel continues, leaning his head to the side, looking so passionately at him it almost feels like he’s leering at him. “I’d rather be wrecked by someone who actually sees me.”

Husk’s breath stutters, while his fur stands up very evidently on his neck and shoulders.

“…You want that?”

Angel laughs, almost breathless and very much honest. “Oh. Yes. So fuckin’ much.”

Husk exhales, shoulder and wings slumping. Like a weight was taken off them. He stares in front of him, brooding while his fingers are torturing each other again, before turning back to look at Angel, who now has a very adorable flush spreading on his cheeks. And while his eyes are very intense, his body is still leaning on, riveted.

A flicker of a smile blooms on Husk’s lips, the beginning of a relieved laugh that doesn’t quite make it out his throat. Angel puts one hand between them, they’re breathing the same air now. Husk’s snout is right there– warm and close and unfairly inviting.

He waits just a moment, a glance to see if Husk backs away, but it doesn’t look like he has any intention to do so.

“…Okay, listen. If ya keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna do somethin’ stupid.”

Husk’s eyes blink, they look eager, but voice is barely above a whisper.

“…Angel, we don’t have to if you don’t want to–”

Angel interrupts him, now close enough that they could feel each other’s breath, his hand brushing on Husk’s knee and making him slightly twitch under the touch.

“But I want to.”

So he leans more, nudging his forehead and Husk can feel the hand on his knee gently trembling.

“So, please, kiss me.”

At first it’s slow, and it starts almost tentative. Their lips touch like they’re both trying to check the ground before jumping in completely.

It’s not rushed, and it’s a strange change of pace from their steamy dreams. Angel’s mind is flurring. Do I use my tongue? Can I bite his lower lip? How do I stop my hands from fondling him? Is he fucking purring?!

But he manages to resist. Barely. They pull back just in time before his lust overrides everything else.

And he feels breathless anyway.

“Welp… I’m never gonna recover from the most vanilla kiss ever.” he whispers on his lips, and the tone is whiny just enough to demand a second round.

And Husk does indeed kiss his lips once again, but just for a mere second. Like a smoochie, a peck on the lips. It’s quick and it’s fond… and devastatingly adorable.

“Oh, Whiskers.” Angel breathes out. “You shouldn’t’ve done somethin’ so cute.”

They won’t say what happened after that.

Well, it’d be easy to guess for anyone that has the misfortune to bump into them the next day.

Needless to say, the wet-dream service is not going to be in need for the time being.