Chapter Text
For ten months out of the year, Alastor was a smiling, all-powerful and composed deer-demon. He enjoyed his supreme powers with grace; he enjoyed peace of mind.
Not so in October and November.
Every autumn without fail, the symptoms returned: aggression, heightened awareness, sore antlers and a desperate need to fornicate. His head was filled with fantasies of spearing demons against walls, until their blood ran in rivulets. His nerves were fraught from breathing in a mingled bouquet of pheromones. The sight of a bare shoulder or exposed ankle made him want to weep.
Alastor could not relax.
It was a unique torment, for one as sexually disinclined as he was. He supposed that was the point.
Every year it happened, and every year, he tried to push it below the surface. Time was, Alastor could lock himself safely away: read books, excoriate the wallpaper, and take freezing cold showers. In the hotel, this wasn’t possible: his managerial oversight was in near-constant demand. Even worse, the guests were unavoidable. The corridors they occupied became a hormonal fog of provocative tastes and smells.
At least Niffty could be counted on. As the first of Alastor’s friends to recognise his problem, she knew the drill well enough.
“Oh, Alastor?” she’d call when he was having difficulties. “Someone on the phone for you! D’you wanna take it in the office?”
Or:
“Al? I heard a crash in the attic. Can you go check, in case it’s that thing trying to make another nest?”
That was Alastor’s cue to escape, somewhere secluded, and run a cool, damp cloth over his forehead. He was eternally grateful for Niffty’s interventions. Thank God she understood it. As for Husk, he seemed totally oblivious, or didn’t care enough to ask, and that was fine with Alastor.
This self-regulation might have continued unabated… if not for Angel Dust.
At first, Angel was a menace: flirting up a storm with Alastor, poking fun, and strutting around in clothes that barely covered the entry-points to his body. Alastor assumed it was ill-meaning. Why shouldn’t he? Angel was the most annoying demon he’d ever known. It had to be a jest or prank of some kind.
But upon their inevitable altercation, Angel softened. He understood the tension between them, the feelings that Alastor kept on a leash. With a long stare, Angel invited him to give it a try. The kiss that followed was a wake-up call. Not enough to sate Alastor, but it certainly teased his darker desires.
“All jokin’ aside,” Angel confessed, “I’ve wanted this since th' day I saw ya.”
The two had been getting on, regularly and discreetly, for about a week. Alastor would go to him at night, knock him to the floor, and they’d fuck vigorously. As a sex-worker of seventy years, Angel was the more skillful of the two, but there was scarcely room for skill. For his part, Alastor would lose himself in the moment. In his demon form, he was forceful, powered by brute lust, but still clumsy from inexperience.
Angel assured him, over and over, that he could take a bit of rough and tumble.
“Plus, I think your technique is improvin’!” Angel said, smoking one of his slim pink cigarettes in the aftermath. “Way betta. Gettin’ the hang, for sure.”
“Good,” said Alastor. He felt better - refreshed, now they’d got it over and done with - but there was still the leftover guilt. His eyes drifted over the scratches that covered Angel’s skin. “You’re sure that doesn’t hurt?”
“Eh. I gotta high tolerance for this stuff,” Angel said. He blew a smoke ring at Alastor’s antlers. “Luckily for you.”
*****
There was just one problem with finding a proper outlet: missing it when it wasn’t there. Angel asked for one night to recover, which left Alastor at a loose end. He retreated to the office, throwing himself into some paperwork until the clock struck twelve. Then he went downstairs for a stiff drink, leaving his jacket behind.
Husk was tending bar by himself, taking last orders from a couple of guests. They made room for Alastor, and he perched upon the stool. No need to place his order; Husk knew it well. There was an odd comfort in that.
“Rough day?” said Husk, picking a bottle from the topmost shelf with the tip of his wing.
“You can say that again!”
“Hm.”
The stragglers took their drinks in the direction of the poker table, well out of Alastor’s way.
“Char’s bin tryin' to get me an' Edgar to be pals,” Husk mentioned. “He’s a piece’a shit though.”
“Husker, in all our years of friendship, I’ve never heard you speak well of another barman!”
“Pfft. Friendship’s a strong word. An’ yeah, bartenders are the fukken worst, is why.”
“Are they now?”
“Yeah. Uppity li'l sons-a’-bitches.”
Alastor didn’t bother pointing out the irony of that sentiment. Now the first floor was mostly vacant, Alastor heard musical strains from the jukebox. He knew the song, but couldn’t recall how he knew it.
“Open mic night, Salome’s,” Husk said, before Alastor could ask. “Around ‘84.”
“Ahh! That’s right! You and your guitar.”
“Uh-huh.”
One of Husk’s better qualities was circumspection. He had many strings to his bow - being, amongst other things, a blues musician, multi-linguist, skilled combatant, and mixologist with over a hundred drinks committed to heart - but you’d never know from talking to him. Unlike most of Hell's populace, Husker felt no need to crow. It was better, he said, to be ignored. It gave him the upper hand.
Alastor tipped the bourbon down his neck, and flicked the glass at Husk. “I’ll do this again.”
“Uh-huh. So, how’s you an' Angie?”
“Hm?” Alastor said. “Since the argument? We hashed it out. No more fun at my expense! He’s been good!”
Husk rolled his eyes, in the midst of cleaning out another glass. “Uhh, yeah, not what I was gettin’ at.”
“I don’t-”
“How’s the sex?”
Alastor paused only briefly, then snorted and shook his head. “Sex? Ha! He wishes!”
“Al, I know what’s goin’ on.” Then, in a casual, slightly reprimanding tone: “You can be honest. It’s whatever. I truly don’t give a shit.”
This was… a surprise, to be sure. Alastor was going to maintain his cool exterior, truly he was. In his current state, alas, anxiety got the best of him. He glanced back at the poker table. The two stragglers had abandoned their empty glasses. He and Husk were alone.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Alastor said at last.
“Fair enough. Jus’ wondered how he compares to his films,” Husk said. Then, after another pause, “You haven’t seen his films, have you? Figures.”
“How-?”
“How’d I know? I mean, the ruttin' thing was obvious from day one,” Husk flatly stated. “But you never brought it up, so…” He mimed zipping his lips, then reached again for the bourbon. “It is a bitch, though. Old friend a’mine - another cat-demon - kept going into heat. She was upset, I was upset jus’ bein’ near her, so… we had our own arrangement. That’s what good friends do.”
Alastor tutted cynically. “How noble.”
“Really though, don’t it suck?” Husker professed. “Yer demon body don’t care that you’re sterile. It don’t care how choosy you normally are. You jus’ gotta mate with somethin’. The littlest wisp of a chemical signature, an’ whoosh, yer mind’s been kidnapped, an’ you jus’ hope it lands on someone halfway decent.”
Alastor blinked rapidly. How strange to be so quickly understood. “Well put,” he said, and accepted his second drink.
“An’ I figured you’d gravitate to Angie,” Husk continued. “He’s a professional. He’s safest.” Alastor sensed a little resentment there. Perhaps Husk was jealous: Angel was a highly-coveted figure.
“More or less,” Alastor said. “Safest!”
As Husk busied himself with polishing glasses, Alastor sat with this revelation for a while. Husk knew. Possibly he'd known for decades. Alastor was confident that Husk wouldn’t go spreading his secrets - his loyalty was assured at this point - but why bring it up?
Alastor finished his second drink, and then his third. Now he was beginning to loosen. It wasn’t so bad that Husker knew. Hell, it might be advantageous. Alastor wouldn’t have to depend on Niffty alone to excuse him from tense interactions. And he still had his forays with Angel Dust… tonight notwithstanding.
“Anyone you wouldn’t do it with?” Husk asked with a raised eyebrow. “I mean like, totally ruled out… even in yer, ah, condition.”
“Niffty,” Alastor said at once.
Husk nodded. “Height diff’rence.”
“Well, that too, I suppose. But I’m practically her uncle! It wouldn’t be right.”
“The girls?”
“Ha! Vagatha would rather drink poison, I’m sure! And Charlie is so committed to her.”
“Yeah. Sweet, really.”
The song changed to something else, new to Alastor. For the first time, he noticed the pattern on Husker’s bow tie. Barleycorn.
“How ‘bout me?” Husk said, in the same offhand way. Alastor wondered if his tonal consistency was deliberate: to make out like he didn’t care. It was hard to tell. Alastor suddenly cared a great deal, and he hastened to give an answer.
“Ah,” he smirked, “so that’s what this is about! You're after some kind of boost to the ego!"
“That’s a no, I take it.”
Alastor deflected. “Well, I’m curious now. Would you lie with me?”
“Hardly matters,” Husk deflected right back. “The Alastor I know wouldn’t be interested. He thinks it levels the playin’ field, God for-fukken-bid.”
“If you think that is the sole deterrent,” Alastor quipped, “you’re flattering yourself!”
“OK, so rule me out.”
A faintly-musical lull hung over the bar-room. Alastor should rule Husk out. He should take a cold shower and go to bed… but this conversation was giving his deer-brain ideas. It made Husk’s familiar scent more of a presence. Though the whole bartop smelled of alcohol, it clung especially to Husk. It had lived and died in his mouth. It stuck to his fur, and now his fur was a presence - Alastor practically felt it at the back of his throat.
He leaned forward. “Husker, I don’t want any ambiguity,” he said. “Is this… an offer?”
Husk mirrored his posture, his secretive tone. “Well,” he said, “it’s gettin’ less hypothetical by the second, ain’t it.” Then he straightened, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Fukken stupid hangover.”
Wasn’t he always hungover?
Then Husk seemed to recuperate - for the moment, anyway - fixing his eyes on Alastor again. They shared a queer, yet undeniable complicity, and Alastor made up his mind.
“I think we should talk privately,” he said.
“Yeah. Lemme go hit the head. Two minutes,” Husk said, slipping away.
He was gone for seven, and came back smelling of soap.
*****
Of all places, Husker brought him to the cellar door. (In order to pass through, Husk had to tuck in his wings.) Alastor followed, doing his best to be mindful and notice their surroundings. Down here, the air was cold and stony. Wine bottles were neatly racked against the far wall, and kitchen supplies lived in the maze of rickety metal stands.
They walked to the nearest patch of bare wall, but stood apart from it. For now. The two faced each other instead.
“Didn’t think I’d get this far,” Husk said with a laugh.
Lucky you, Alastor thought.
For a few seconds, the gap between them seemed insurmountable. But Alastor forced himself to bridge it, clasping Husk by the shoulders and kissing him full on the mouth. Husk seemed taken aback by this.
“Oh,” he said. “You’re one a’those? OK.”
One of those? It didn’t seem so strange to Alastor. This was a taste test. It was an indicator of possible success, and it might ease the transition to Alastor’s demon form. He moved back in, still clutching Husk’s shoulders, and coaxed his surly mouth open. Now the whiskey overwhelmed his palate. Husk’s tongue was frozen in place, but gradually it met with Alastor’s. Darting to and fro. Pressing together. Circulating. They broke apart long enough for Alastor to bite Husk on the lip, and went at it again with renewed interest.
“Hmm.”
Alastor pulled him closer. There was that warm body he craved. Smaller than Angel’s, and his fur more interesting to delve into. Where Angel was universally fluffy, Husk’s fur was mostly short. The only places Alastor could really grasp were the shoulders and chest, where long, thin guard hairs concealed a dense undercoat.
He hoped and prayed his practice with Angel had sufficiently prepared him for this. He considered Husk a friend; it would not be wise to screw this up.
Meanwhile, Husk’s uncertain hands began to roam. Starting at Alastor’s back, they came around, pulling and digging at his hips, and then worked their way upward, into Alastor’s hair.
“O-K,” Husk said, when they had a moment. “Feels like you’re ready to go.” He wedged a hand between them, with difficulty, to give Alastor’s hardened cock an appreciative squeeze. “Really ready to go.”
“Yes,” Alastor managed.
“Alright, cowboy. Who’s fuckin’ who?”
Wasn’t it obvious? Taking the rare opportunity to curse, Alastor said, directly into Husk’s ear: “I’m fucking you, if you don’t mind.”
“Ha. Sure... I take it any way I find it.” Husk wriggled out of his reach and scurried to the nearest metal stand. “But we do need a li’l somethin’ first. Uhhh… yeah. Take yer pants down.”
The little something was a glass bottle of olive oil, which Husk took some pleasure in drizzling over Alastor’s cock. The amount he used was over-generous, and Husk’s manual efforts to evenly coat him were unnecessary, but much appreciated. Alastor’s senses were flooded: the sublime, gliding friction; the strange, chalkboard smell of the oil; and best of all, the visual of Husk bracing against the brickwork. His back was arched, and his tail swayed in a figure of eight before moving to the side.
Alastor felt a jolt go straight through him. The rational part of his brain - the part that was afraid of tearing Husk to pieces - lost the battle with his animal libido.
There was no time to lose.
Alastor fell against Husk and nipped at his neck. Together they guided the head of his cock into place, right under the tail. This too was different. Angel was always quick to relax, and allow Alastor’s entry; Husk was another matter, almost impossibly resistant.
“I’m outta practice is all,” Husk said. “Jus’ gotta…” He inhaled sharply and exhaled through pursed lips, pushing back against Alastor. His wings seemed to bunch up in fearful anticipation. Surely this was a bad idea, Alastor thought. Surely Husk would be painfully torn, or his own dick would bend and snap under the pressure. But his deer-brain commanded him to keep going, to fuck, to carry on the species…
Then, mercifully, they felt a comfortable snick. The danger was over. Husk gasped. Ohh, that was a good gasp. Alastor rewarded him with a series of quick bites along the ear.
“Now,” Husk said, “y’know what to do from here, right?”
Yes, he did.
Alastor didn’t think he’d get all the way in with one thrust. It actually took two, thanks to the oil, and it felt so wonderfully snug in all directions. Both men were breathless from it, and Husk’s legs were shaking.
Alastor pulled slowly back. Then quickly forward. Then back. Then forward. Every time he moved forward, Husk gave another gasp and sank against the wall. Quite unlike Angel’s practiced moans (Alastor suspected), his tried-and-tested dirty talk. The sound Husk made was so intoxicating, Alastor had to speed up. Faster and faster, gripping a handful of those guard hairs for purchase. Husk went on gasping, then let out a confused yelp, and then he was panting hard, in time to Alastor’s movements.
That’s it. Fuck him. Fuck him.
“Haa- haa- aaah—- wait wait wait, woah! Hey! Woody Woodpecker! Stop!”
Alastor stopped what he was doing, and his hand rested upon Husker’s mid-back, damp from sweat. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m OK, just… Ah, Jesus Christ.” Though Husk took a second to catch his breath, he spoke with difficulty, lips tangled and desert-dry. “There’s no fukken way… you can keep it up… at that pace.”
“Can’t I?”
As Husk processed the response, Alastor brought his hand to Husk’s own cock. He found it to be equally hard and also, to his surprise, leaking quite a bit. Husk was enjoying the hell out of this.
Fuck him.
Quickly, Alastor dragged his friend’s pelvis back into place, and resumed thrusting at a respectable speed.
“Ohh,” Husk said, his hand splaying against the wall. “Oh fuck.” Now the poor cat was swept up in helpless throes, angling his ass as best he could. He seemed to want hitting in a very particular spot, deep inside, close to the base of his tail. When Alastor hit that spot, Husk flapped his wings, and his legs turned to custard.
Alastor hadn’t been counting on all this. The only thing he’d wanted going in was a quick release for his inner deer-demon. He had to fool his brain into thinking he’d made a doe pregnant; then maybe it’d settle down!
Husker, though… Old, sour, Billy-Goat-Gruff Husker, one of the least sexual beings he thought he knew… he was positively electric. So responsive, so willing to be taken. Thank God they’d taken such a gamble!
“Hnnghgh— haa— how— the fuck— are— you— doing that?”
Alastor had barely noticed his demon form coming out. About time; he was close to exhausting regular energy reserves. Now he could go faster, and faster. The two suffered a momentary blip as Husk, now yowling, stretched his wings and hit Alastor in the face. Without thinking, Alastor rammed his head against the wall. Pain rocketed from his antlers.
“Owww.”
“You OK?”
Alastor nodded, shook it off, and got back to business. Neither of them were going to last. Alastor felt those familiar streaks of pleasure through his cock, thrills taking over his body, increasing with their urgent rhythm. Just a little longer: after all this effort, he wanted to feel Husk go, before the death of the world blinded him to it.
He was lucky. Husk reached back, frantically tapping Alastor’s leg mere seconds before it happened, and he bucked back and forth, wringing everything he could from that moment of madness.
Alastor’s sexual aggression reached its peak; he sank his teeth into Husk’s shoulder, and dug several claws into his ass. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Whiskey, fur, whiskey! If Husk protested, he didn’t get to hear it. The deer-demon was finally sated, shooting his seed with a long, rattling moan.
Funny. The two were pressed so tightly together, they might as well be one demon. Alastor let himself relax, completely spent. He’d more or less shoved Husker flat against the wall, and could feel him purring.
“Jeeeesus,” Husk said quietly. “I haven’t bin fucked like that in twenty years.”
Alastor laughed awkwardly. Right on schedule, the afterglow brought with it feelings of shame and discomfort; he caught himself, Alastor, still deep in the battered body of a friend. What was the matter with him?
Husker appeared to wince as Alastor pulled out; then he quick-stepped to a sink Alastor hadn’t noticed on the way in, and sat in the basin. Letting gravity take care of the oil and other fluids.
“There’s paper towels over there,” Husk said, pointing.
Alastor pulled his trousers up and went to clean himself off. He felt naked.
“Wazzamatta?” Husk said. “Yer head OK?”
“Sorry?”
“It made a pretty, ah, impressive noise when you attacked the bricks.”
“Oh. No, I’m fine, just-”
“Feelin’ like a regular human again?” Husk correctly guessed, swinging his legs. “Yeah. I hear ya.”
Making himself decent, Alastor approached the sink. “Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t do this again.”
“Aww,” Husk said in mock-disappointment, and they shared another chuckle. “I tell you what,” he went on, staring Alastor up and down, “when that spirit moves you, you are… a goddamn machine. Holy shit.”
Couldn’t argue with him there, Alastor thought. Teeth and nails aside, it had been a thoroughly effective session. Alastor’s senses were dulling down, way down, just the way he preferred them. The air was clean. No more sinful thoughts. He could breathe easy.
But Husk was hurt. He had blood beading around his neck, for Christ’s sake. Didn’t he care?
“I mean, my ass is sore,” Husk admitted, “but so what? You ever see cat-in-heat sex? Way more brutal… ‘specially for the poor lady.”
“Don’t downplay it for my sake,” Alastor scolded. “You are still my associate, and if I owe you a favor… I need to know now.”
“Associate? Gee, thanks!”
“Husk, look at me! I’m out of my mind! You must realize that. I’m not going to want you or Angel once the rut is over,” Alastor said with the ghost of a smile.
It was enough to silence Husk. Both of them, actually. Then Husk beckoned him closer.
“Noted,” he said, wagging his tail. “C’mere.”
“Why?”
“Jus’ c’mere. You owe me a favor.”
More than a little suspicious, Alastor stepped forward. He braced himself to be bitten as Husk pulled him in by the collar. No. Only another taste test. This one was less fraught with uncertainty. In fact, Alastor found he relished the last trace of whiskey, and the easy reacquaintance of their tongues.
So very easy.