Chapter Text
Basking in the afterglow, bodies shrouded in the sheen of sweat and wisps of ghostly pale smoke curling towards the ceiling, Angel knows he shouldn’t say anything. Some things, once spoken, change everything even if they aren’t meant to. Make the warmth cold. Force fear into caution. Cause unpredictability in the routine.
But the words have been crawling up his throat for days now, and tonight, in the soft haze after sex, they finally make it out. “If we’re gonna keep doing this,” he says quietly, “ya gotta promise me one thing.”
Again, his eyes fall to the cigarette pinched between his fingers, feeling the burn from the tip, the weightless tumble of ash crumbling, dusting over his leg. He watches the smoke drift towards the open window, reaching for the freedom of Hell’s red-violet skies and the rush of humid evening air. He could reconsider his words, turn worry into flirtation, use sex to mask the ache that's been breathing between his heartbeats. A part of him wants to let the words drift and disappear like that smoke, wants to let himself fade into the way his body is humming in that way it only does after Husk has had his hands on him: deep, wrung-out, boneless.
Because it feels so goddamned good right now, being drained to his core yet animated on the receding waves of sexual release. Lying to himself, convincing himself that there isn't any danger is being happy. That this is safe, because Husk makes him feel effortlessly safe and that isn't something Angel has felt or been able to cling to in so long.
These nights have been happening more often though, lasting long after the climax and into the early morning hours. The lines they drew have been quietly reset so many times neither of them remembers when they were first crossed. He doesn’t know when all that playful flirting and those gruff insults became whatever this is, but he knows he doesn’t want to lose it.
They’ve been breaking the rules of this affair since that first drunken kiss and falling deeper into each other with every kiss since.
He feels Husk move behind him, hears the faint rustle of fabric and feathers as Husk slips back into his trousers before settling back onto the bed, his silence asking Angel to continue with the request Angel has almost forgotten he began to make.
Husk always stays after, and as much as Angel loves it, it still feels like something he can’t afford to get used to. Angel turns his head slightly, just enough to see the outline of him: fur ruffled from sweat, suspenders hanging loose, chest still rising on panted breaths. Husk doesn't treat him like his costars or johns do; he is nothing like Val. When Angel looks at Husk, he doesn't see a job well done or a lover he needs to navigate, he sees a lover he is falling in love with. And that isn’t something he’s been allowed to have. It's not something he's wanted.
A part of him almost hates how much he’s come to need this. Hates how temporary it needs to be because he’s clinging to it too fiercely for it to last. Mostly though, he hates how easily it will inevitably be used against him. Between the seas of ever watchful fans and the cameras all over the city, it can’t last. He knows that.
“What’s that?” Husk asks when Angel stays silent, leaning back against the headboard. He takes a long drink from the bottle, throat bobbing, eyes soft in the dim light.
Angel should leave it alone. Keep the fragile, lovesick part of himself buried where it’s always been: under jokes, under makeup, under every mask he’s had to wear to protect whatever is left of himself. No, not himself. Not really. But the people around him.
It's an unspoken truth in Angel’s world: whores never fall in love. There are a multitude of reasons, some simple and some complicated. The easiest is straightforward enough: the work. How many guys are gonna want sloppy leftovers every night after a long day of shooting and being fucked six ways to Sunday? How long is Husk going to keep looking at him like he's worthwhile when every day he's tarnished by different hands? How many blissed out nights can he have before the jealously creeps in?
Everyone else in the hotel can avoid the title that goes along with his job, they can hide behind knowing that Angel is contracted into it, but at the end of every shift Angel knows that he chose this. He wasn’t forced to sign that contract, he’d chosen to because he wanted everything it promised. Because he’d loved the man who handed him the pen so he could sign his name and bind them together for eternity. In small, unexplainable ways, he still, and will always, love Valentino. Maybe not like he used to, and maybe even that won't make sense to anyone else here, but it is what it is.
Loving someone else was never meant to happen. Loving someone means hesitating when a stranger calls. It means needing to be careful on set so that the wrong name doesn’t slip through parted lips. It means protecting someone in ways he's only ever needed to protect himself. Angel’s a very good actor, he and everyone else in the Pride ring knows that. Celebrated, awarded, famous for his sins. He can do this job drugged out of his mind and exhausted beyond mortal limits, and he always has, but it’s a tricky line to walk when he’s gotten so used to dissociating and going through those practiced motions. It’s gotten harder to focus on whoever is bearing down on him without receding into himself to imagine Husk in their place.
Now though, he sees a lover where he should see a liability. A future where he should see risk. And consequences; he sees those clearer than anything. He belongs to Valentino, whether he still wants that or not, and no one Val favors gets to have happiness outside of Valentino’s bedroom. Not for long.
He’s been silent too long. Thought too much about things he already knows, and his hesitation can only make what comes next harder if he doesn't speak now. His hands tremble just enough that he hopes Husk doesn’t notice. “Whatever happens,” he says, “stay away from the tower.”
Husk goes still, the bottle freezing halfway to his lips. Confusion flickers across his face, and Angel wishes he could take it back. Wishes he could pretend none of this mattered that much.
But it does. That’s the problem. Because lately Husk looks a little too worried whenever he comes home late or a bit roughed up. Sometimes, Husk texts him just to make sure he’s alright, and that's another risk Angel can’t keep taking.
“If I’m late gettin’ home, if I don’t come home at all, don’t go lookin’ for me. Don’t come after me.” Angel takes the bottle from Husk’s hand, drains the rest, winces at the bitter taste. “Just stay here an’ wait for me to come back.”
Husk’s voice is low, already irritated. “That’s what I’ve been doing.”
“Yeah. I know.” Angel nods, swallowing around the knot forming in his throat. He needs to remain firm right now, to hide the insecurity and hesitation from his voice. He doesn’t acknowledge the way Husk’s tone creeps beneath his skin. “But I mean, never go there okay? I don’t care if I call you beggin’ for help, if you see something fucked up on the news or whatever, don’t come after me. Got it?”
The words leave him feeling exposed, like he’s peeled back too many layers at once. Like he’s already set in motion the first domino that will knock everything else over.
Husk’s eyes narrow. “Did that prick say something to you?” Until now he has been fine with all of Angel’s requests, and some of them have definitely brushed across his own limits and experiences, but he can’t promise that he’ll just ignore Angel if he calls asking for help. Husk has seen more than enough of what Angel puts up with at work to know that as capable as he is, sometimes, it goes way too far.
“No.” Not yet. But Angel knows Val. Valentino doesn’t need a reason to obliterate anything Angel loves, just the suspicion that Angel loves it. Whether out of love or jealousy or a need for control, it doesn't much matter.
Angel finally risks looking at him. Husk can see the desperation, and that scares Angel more than anything Valentino could do. “He doesn’t know,” Angel whispers. “And he can’t. If you show up there like some kinda knight in tarnished armor, he’ll put it together. His eyesight’s shit but he ain’t blind.” The joke lands flat. Val's sight isn't half as bad as people think, but Val loves for people to misjudge how dangerous he is.
“Angel,” Husk signs, jaw clenching, shaking his head. He knows that he’s falling, that he is letting himself care too much. It was never supposed to hit this deeply, to shake him this much. And he knows that Angel can see the shift in him, when anger fades into the beginnings of fear. When that fear wraps itself around the warmth he told himself he couldn’t feel anymore and makes him want to risk everything to cling to it. Husk doesn’t want to be just another thing Angel hides away from. “I’ll try, that's the best I can do though,” he says honestly.
It's not enough. Angel wants to push harder, force a promise he knows he shouldn’t ask for. He bites his lip to stop himself from giving an ultimatum, having learned a long time ago that it’s useless to try and coerce anyone into doing what he wants them to.
“I can handle myself,” Angel says instead, though the words feel thin enough to leave him doubting himself. I don’t know if I can protect you. He’s seen Husk fight. Husk is every bit as capable as he is, he's strong, but Angel knows Val too well not to be apprehensive about what would happen if the overlord lost his temper and lashed out. The ghosts of his own injuries are testament enough to what Valentino is capable of. Angel can handle that though; he knows how far to step without crossing a line. Thats not something anyone else has the privilege of understanding.
Husk moves toward him, wrapping warm arms around his waist and pulling him close from behind. His voice is a low, purred rumble in Angel’s ear. “I know you can, Legs,” he says, refusing to make a promise he isn’t sure he can keep. “You’re dangerous.”
“Ya fuckin’ know it, so don’t do somethin’ stupid.” It's almost easy to let himself laugh, feel the weight of everything roll off his shoulders while he puffs out his chest and levels Husk with a stare. He waits before letting himself fall back against Husk’s chest. A part of his heart aches with the knowledge that he’d take all the abuse Hell has to throw at him just to feel safe within Husk’s arms. To keep pretending that he’s allowed to have this, that it's okay because he’s being so damn careful.
He leans into the kisses pressed along his shoulder, feeling Husk relax against him. For a moment he can forget the tower, and the cameras, and the leash his contract has around his throat. For a moment he can be blissfully stupid. He's always been so damned good at that.
The dread never fully leaves the room. It lingers under his fingertips, pools behind every quiet laugh, settles in the hollow just beneath his ribs. Then it melts into the breathless little sounds that hum along his throat as Husk nips at his shoulder, careful claws tracing the curve of his hips.
“Round two?” he asked with a soft, wistful giggle.
“Already had two,” Husk reminds him gruffly, though it doesn't stop him from pulling Angel closer.
“This morning doesn’t count,” Angel teases, twisting in Husk’s grasp to press himself against the feline.
“How the fuck doesn’t it?” Husk can’t help but purr as Angel wraps his arms around him, strategically grinding his hips, nails scratching all those sensitive little spaces that make him purr.
“That was before midnight.” It was before work, and Angel always resets his internal count after he washes the work day away.
“I haven't slept yet, so it still counts.”
“No little cat naps behind the bar?”
“Not a single one.” Husk chuckles, feeling himself rise against the warmth between Angel’s thighs. The way Angel gets to him is something like a curse wrapped in a hundred blessings. Husk should be sleeping, he should be exhausted and dead to the world, but when he’s with Angel he feels so alive.
“Third time's a charm,” he murmurs, slowly easing himself deeper into Angel’s body. A taste of Heaven resides within that sinful sweetness, and every time it leaves him more ravenous than the last.
“Baby, every time with you is a charm.” Angel laughs, filling the room with that genuinely happy sound that urges Husk fully into him. He could do this all night, for all of eternity. Bask in the privacy of their intimacy. Exist in a room where no one else is watching, no one's waiting to profit from his pleasure. Every moment of this belongs to them, it's theirs, their own, and no one else gets a cut of the safety he feels.
For a moment, Husk thinks he could freeze time, keep Angel glowing brightly in the happiness radiating from his eyes. Make Angel understand just how worthwhile the realest versions of himself are.
For a moment, Angel believes he could deserve to feel this way forever.
Angel’s hips roll with relaxed proficiency, drawing out every raspy breath and sweet, needful whisper. His body grinds harder with every honeyed, rough groan. Every time Husk touches him, Angel shivers with pure, elated need. Right now he is high on their connection, riding the waves of blissful pleasure enveloped in his body and Angel doesn’t want to let go. He knows that he’s holding release back, pushing himself over his own limits just to make it last.
Husk knows it. Husk always knows, reading Angel’s body with an ease that comes to him as naturally as breathing. His paw presses teasingly against Angel, stroking that last bit of restraint, drawing out the fuse lit deep within him and coaxing it towards explosion.
“Playin’ dirty, whiskers?” Angel quips breathlessly, snapping his hips faster because he already knows he’s losing the battle to draw out his own release. It's coming, he thinks, giggling softly to himself.
“That’s why I’m in Hell,” Husk growls, half joke, half truth, before the tension snaps inside him. He spills with a choked, broken groan, collapsing back against the headboard as the aftershocks roll through him. “Fuckin’… holy fuck,” he manages on panted breaths, feeling the warmth slip over Angel’s thighs, pooling on the sheets beneath them.
Angel laughs softly, leans in to kiss him. “You’re cute when you’re sexed outta words.”
“You got enough for both of us,” Husk mutters, giving him a lazy shove. He means it teasingly, knowing better then most that Angel is rarely, if ever, at a loss for words. Truth is though, that Husk loves the sound of Angel’s voice, obnoxious or sweet or anywhere in between. He wants to hate how deeply he loves it. But he can’t. Not anymore.
In ways Husk isn't ready to acknowledge or deal with, Angel has become another addiction, a shiny new vice. Those thoughts are dismissed as frequently as they come though, because he doesn't want to view Angel the way he’s viewed so many other people and things in his life before now. He knows how easy it is for him to give into addictions, let them ruin him.
It terrifies him just how easily Angel could become a last, desperate chip on the table. That he could even for a moment look at Angel as if he were a bet he shouldn’t have placed, yet can’t stop doubling down on. To know just how much he could lose if Angel were to disappear from his life for good.
Warmth clings to the tangled sheets beneath them. The scent of sex drifts through the air, settles into the sweat clinging to their fur. Angel stretches out on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, hair sticking to his cheek. His eyes close. Not because he’s tired, he’s not, but because this is the only place he doesn’t have to perform. He doesn't need to clean up from one set and head over to stage three. No one's waiting for him to open his legs or fake the need for more.
Behind him, Husk settles with the weary grunt of an old man who should’ve stopped aging decades ago but didn’t. One arm drapes lazily over Angel’s waist, body heat creeping along his spine, melting the remaining, instinctive tension from his body.
He hears Husk take another drink. The faint clink of glass on wood. Then the mattress shifts as Husk puts the bottle aside, hesitating before letting go.
“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” Husk murmurs.
Angel huffs a laugh, but it’s soft, worn around the edges. “Ain’t thinkin’. Just… listenin’.”
“To what?”
“You.” And he is, mostly. He’s listening to the quiet purr Husk always tries to hide. The thrum of his heartbeat, the sound of liquor on every sigh. On Husk’s breath, liquor sings in jazzy, sultry notes over scratched vinyl. “Ya make me feel good, Husk. Like I can trust ya, I don’t gotta keep so many walls up or wear extra faces around you. S’not something I get to feel anymore.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward, just full, like Husk’s trying to figure out what to do with the compliment. Angel knows men like him never take those well. They learned too early not to trust good things.
Angel understands that better than anyone.
Shifting, resting his head against Husk’s chest, Angel sighs. Yeah, it's real damn hard to trust anything good in hell, to believe in the hope for happiness in the spaces where he's meant to be safe. He wants to believe in Husk’s promise, uncertain as it sounded. Needs to, because despite fucking knowing better, he’s in love. And love has only ever been a weapon in the hands of everyone he lets hold him.
It's another truth that Angel is hesitant to admit to, one he keeps tucked deep within his chest. It came on so gradually over the last few weeks, unexpected and overwhelming. And that's why he needs Husk to keep his word, to understand that he doesn’t need anyone's help. To stay far away from the people who’d take this fragile happiness and smash it into pieces.
Nuzzling deeper against Husk’s chest, lulled by the steady beat of his heart and unspoken whispers on every breath, Angel knows that he is in too deep to hope he can pull himself out without feeling his heart break again.
Clinging to the belief that Husk won’t break his word, that Husk believes in him, in his capability, Angel lets himself exhale. He tells himself he’s just tired. He tells himself everything’s fine. He scolds himself for worrying about things he’s worked so hard to avoid needing to worry about.
And in the dim stillness of his bedroom, wrapped in the only warmth he trusts anymore with foolish certainty, Angel feels the first shiver of dread whisper through his bones. The quiet certainty that the world outside these walls is waiting to take this from him.
~.~
When Angel looks down at the script he’s been handed, he shudders, an involuntary tremor he immediately forces into stillness. A few days off, a handful of tame, almost vanilla shoots... he should’ve known that Val was upset. Should have seen the build up to something worse barreling towards him like a freight train.
Val likes to remind him that people pay to hear him scream. There are a lot of kinks he doesn’t enjoy shooting, and Val’s idea of art house rape is one of them. Depravity is all fun and games when the scene is shot cheesy and exaggerated, but every now and then Val wants it less stereotypical porno and more gritty realism. On good days, Angel has the freedom to debate, gets even the smallest bit of say.
Sometimes, Valentino just wants to justify the punishment with a profit margin so Vox won’t chew him out for damaging a profitable resource.
There’s nothing darkly campy about the script held tight in Angel’s white knuckled grip. It's not theatrical violence with borderline cheesy dialogue. No, these pages were written like some fuckin’ leather bound clown with a crowbar is waiting to pry his ribs open and leave him vulnerably exposed for the world to jack off to. Every scene is designed to leave him pliant and empty, to show how useless his protests are. There are no precautions or safety checks woven into the scene descriptions, no scheduled breaks or body doubles waiting off set to take the worst of it so Angel can still perform at his best.
No, this script was written to hit him far too close to home and leave him broken on the hotel's front steps. To remind him how worthless he really is when the cameras aren’t rolling and there aren’t dollar signs stitched into his bandages.
A part of him knows Val likes making him feel that way when Val’s upset about something out of his control. There're only so many miracles the studio’s makeup artist can work. Because to always lash out and hit him is too easy, it's reckless. Sloppy, and for all his faults, Valentino is a perfectionist. A wicked visionary with blurred eyesight and an artistic flare.
Hands cramping as he grips the script tighter, Angel can only be thankful that Husk doesn’t watch any of his films.
He lets the script drop onto the vanity, trying to shake the cold dread crawling up his throat. He can’t start thinking about Husk right now. The lies only work consistently if he keeps Husk as far away from his work space as he can. He can’t, he won’t, let Husk and this script exist in the same mental space. Not when he's already stressed and chain smoking tainted cigarettes instead of eating to settle his nerves. Not when his costar for the day is the same broad chested, tabby feline who he passed that morning, already snarling, clearly strung out. Dangerous, familiar enough to blur the lines between acting and hurting if he gets too into his own head while dissociating while golden eyes stare back at him..
Stop. Don’t think it. Don’t let them be the same, because Archie ain’t Husk. Husk would never do the shit written across this script. Husk wouldn’t hurt him. Husk isn’t here and Angel’s really fucking thankful for that as he reaches for the wine bottle Val left for him and empties it in four long swallows. Not enough. Nowhere near enough.
But being clean means being cursed with clarity and seventy years of drinking means the booze don’t work the way it used to. He needs blur. Needs the static noise that scrambles sounds but leaves him capable of functioning. Angel digs frantically through the vanity drawers, searching for anything he might’ve stashed. Nothing. Nothing left. Nothing to hide behind. No small mercies in tiny plastic bags or brightly colored capsules.
“Fuck,” he whispers, reaching for his bag instead. If Cherri is close enough, maybe he can slip out for a smoke before filming starts. He can always count on her to have exactly what he needs, something strong enough to scrape out his nerves and hollow his pain receptors. And she’ll give it to him without judgment. She won’t passively shame him for using when he really needs to.
“I just thought you were better than that.” Angel can still hear the disappointment that had hung on those words when Husk said them at Consent. He knows Husk didn’t mean for them to hurt, same way he knows Charlie didn’t mean to slap him with his role as the crack head in her skit, but people are unintentionally very good at hurting him.
There isn’t time to think about any of that right now though. He needs a hit that won’t sting. A high that can’t be used to weaken him. He needs his fucking phone. The moment he notices his phone sticking out from the pocket he is sure was zipped shut earlier, he freezes.
He knows. He fucking knows. Those words repeat like shrill warning bells, screeching across memories and echoing within the farthest corners of his mind.
Snatching his phone from his bag, teeth pressing pinpricks into his lower lip, Angel unlocks the device and stares at it with wide, panicked eyes. His photo gallery is open. Most of the pictures are harmless: selfies, an endless supply of photos of Fat Nuggets, pics of him with his friends. But buried between them are a few snapshots of him and Husk, soft moments he swore he’d buried deep enough Val would never sniff them out.
His messenger tab is pulled up, but Angel doesn’t have time to see which chats have been snooped into before the door clicks open, followed by the rhythmic click of footsteps he knows too well to delude himself about.
Angel doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. He lifts his eyes toward the mirror, watching as Valentino glides across the dressing room with rosy red smoke seeping from a wide, sharp toothed smile.
“Angel,” Valentino croons, voice honeyed poison.
Angel’s entire body wants to flinch at that saccharine soaked, betraying tone. Instead, he slips his mask on with mechanical precision; a tilt of the head as he flips his hair, parting his lips before curling them into that sultry little smirk Val loves so much. It's all muscle memory, an overplayed act he's been committed to playing for so long most days he isn’t sure how fake it really is.
“Hey, daddy.” His voice is its own brand of betrayal, lustfully warm despite the chill tightening around his throat. Seduction is second nature, easier than breathing most days. “They ready for me?” His stomach sinks into the pit of cheap wine and rising bile.
There has always been something irresistible in the way Valentino smiles. Sweet promises whispered along the curves of his lips. Brutal dominance reflected in the gleam of his teeth. Perfect, hallowed ruin shines on that smile. And when it's warm, softly curved rather than wickedly sharp, it's a blessing disguising a curse.
Angel has known Val long enough to recognize the most dangerous mood he has: sweetness.
When Val is angry, he breaks things. When Val is happy, he breaks people. And he is capable of doing all of it while making a sinner feel hopelessly devoted to the attention he gives. Making them want to be punished just for the sanctity of his praise. But when he’s sweet, when he's gentle, he’s unpredictable. Valentino’s kindness always comes with a price, and he never knows how steep the cost will be until it's taken out of him.
Without another word, Valentino leans in for a kiss, and Angel accepts it without complaint. Because he needs it. Needs that sacred venom and all of its beautiful torment. It isn’t just a drug, it's a lie that almost tastes like a truth he doesn't deserve to hear. An already broken promise of safety that he can’t help but wrap himself inside of.
What he's given isn't nearly enough to numb him, but beggars can’t be choosers and Angel is already wanting to beg Val to change this script. At the very least, he wants him to pick anyone else but Archie to fuck him.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, amorcito,” Valentino says with a smile too fond to be safe.
He plucks the script off the vanity and drops it straight into the trash. Angel tries not to let himself hope for mercy he hasn’t pleaded for yet. he doesn't want to believe the script was an empty threat before he knows how thin the line he's walking is.
“Oh yeah?” Angel breathes, leaning in, aiming for one more kiss. Just one more drop of venom to dull the world. “C’mon, daddy, don’t tease—”
Val steps back instead.
With a snap of his fingers a short, canine sinner comes into the room and settles himself on the floor beside Angel’s chair. Angel’s wrists come together behind his back automatically. Whether it's training, conditioning, or just plain knowing that there's no point in arguing that script, Angel leans forward to let today's assistant thread the ropes around his wrists. He’s done this a thousand times, memorized every loop and knot associated with binding him.
Valentino doesn’t look at Angel, instead, those red hot eyes narrow on his bag, their glow faintly reflected on the dark screen. “Do you love me, Angel?” It's a land mine disguised as a question.
“Course I do, Val.” A part of Angel always wants to believe that it's a lie. That he's just giving Val the answer he wants to hear. It's not that simple though, and the words clump like wet ashes on his tongue.
Valentino steps closer, stroking Angel’s cheek with two fingers. It’s a softness that burns. A gentle ache that Angel can’t help but instinctively lean into. His gaze drags down Angel’s body, deep and possessive, like he’s cataloging every inch he owns.
“You belong to me.”
“I know.” Angel whispers, lowering his eyes. Whether it's in shame or acceptance, he isn’t sure.
The blindfold slips over his eyes. Darkness swallows the dressing room. And in the quiet, he hears it: a crash. Outside his dressing room something falls over, clattering loudly against the floor. Someone is yelling, though Angel can’t make out the words over someone else’s shouting.
Angel’s throat goes dry. “…Val?” His voice cracks, body tense.
“I told you, baby,” Val purrs, gripping his chin. “I have a surprise for you.”
This kiss that follows is nothing like the first. Val’s lips press against his too roughly, claiming obedience as his tongue forces its way towards the back of his throat. Fingers slip into his mouth, prying it open so that the round, silicone gag can be pulled deep behind his teeth.
“Mmff—Hmph!” The protest is useless, but Angel tries anyway. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.
Val laughs softly, brushing Angel’s hair back like he’s soothing a child. “Oh, hush, cariño. He can’t hear you.”
He.
The noise beyond his dressing room grows louder. Claws scratch over tile. Flesh strikes flesh. Someone growls. And Angel knows with bone-deep certainty that whatever surprise Valentino has in store for him isn’t something he wants to receive.
~.~
The hotel lobby is full of curious sinners milling around the couches, lingering in doorways, pretending they’re here for redemption when they’re really here to see what goes on inside the Hotel where angels were killed.
Charlie, bright as a blown fuse and oblivious to the disinterest in redemption, is rambling joyfully about self-betterment and musical community outreach like her bloodstream has been replaced with high-octane caffeine. She’s seconds from bursting into another song that nobody asked for, hands reaching into pockets stuffed with glitter and confetti. Vaggie stands beside her with a warning hand poised on Charlie’s elbow, already shaking her head but smiling despite herself.
Behind the bar, Husk wipes down a glass for the third time. It’s mindless busywork, keeps his hands occupied, stops him from rolling his eyes or snapping at the morons trying to make small talk, but it doesn’t stop him from glancing at the lobby doors. It's far too early in the evening for Angel to be coming home. Too early for him to be checking like some clingy asshole.
He’s pouring a neon-pink sugar bomb for a rabbit sinner who’s vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He ignores it.
Buzz. Buzz.
A muscle twitches in his jaw. Husk fishes the phone out one-handed, thumb smearing across the cracked screen.
-Red- The first text reads, and Husk stares at it, confused. -I need help-
Those three words land against Husk’s chest like a fist. Golden eyes narrow, glowing darkly as he rereads them. Once. Twice. Ten times. Every time, the meaning stays the same. Every time, Angel’s voice threads itself into the words, smaller than Husk is used to hearing it, desperate in a way that makes his head spin.
For a moment, it's easy for Husk to tell himself it's nothing. Angel can be dramatic. He likes to tease. Sometimes Angel just wants to get a reaction out of everyone, or at least, he used to. There’s a long list of bullshit Husk can imagine Angel trying to pull, but Angel wouldn’t joke like this. Not with him. Not about danger. Not after the request he’d made last night. Warped as his sense of humor can be, it isn’t cruel.
The rabbit across the bar is watching him, ears twitching. “You okay?” she asks, tapping her foot in the same jittery rhythm his leg has fallen into.
Husk ignores her. Claws click across the screen as he texts Angel back.
-You okay, Legs?- It's a simple question, one that Husk doesn’t think would raise alarms if read by someone else. He needs to ask it, he has to be certain.
The typing dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. His heart is knocking against his ribs, heavy breaths frozen in his lungs, threatening to burst if he doesn’t breathe soon.
Finally: –He knows. he’s gonna fuckin’ kill me.–
Husk goes very, very still. He forgets that he isn’t breathing. Goes deaf to the optimistic song being sung across the lobby. Stops feeling the plastic phone pressing against the pads of his palms.
Everything inside him snaps into perfect, crystalline clarity. Angel isn’t being dramatic. Angel isn’t teasing. Angel isn’t high or spiraling or fucking around. The only reason Angel would send him a text like that, is because Angel is genuinely fucking afraid.
And Husk? Husk reacts with something that flares beyond simple panic. It’s anger. A flash of hot, territorial fury that flares in his gut like a match struck too close to gasoline. A low growl rattles within his throat, fur bristles, feathers rustle.
Someone, no, not just someone, Husk knows better than that. Valentino has threatened Angel. Laid hands on what is his and left Angel frightened enough to ask for help.
His. That thought is both true and ugly. It slithers through him, a possessive, poisonous little confession he doesn’t want to look at too closely. But it’s there.
Fear leaves the alcohol in his throat thick and sticky. He hesitates, teeth grinding, fists shaking. Because he promised not to go near the tower. Knows that Angel doesn’t want him there, that going could make things worse.
Worse than being murdered and forced to slowly regenerate? Just the thought of waiting here while that happens makes his skin crawl. Angel can be mad at him later, right now though, Angel needs him. Husk never promised that he’d stay away, he said he’d try, and that momentary hesitation is the best he can do.
He pockets the phone, snaps off the bar lights, and steps away from the counter before anyone can ask questions. Angel wouldn’t want anyone else involved, hell, last night he didn't even want Husk involved.
But he is involved. In too deep, because he loves that damn spider and the thought of losing him, even temporarily, is too much to deal with. The idea of someone else taking him, hurting him, laying claim to him, burns Husk from the inside out.
“Husk!” Vaggie calls after him the moment she notices. “Where are you going?”
“Out!” he barks back, not slowing as he hits the front door. He doesn’t owe them an explanation. This isn’t about the hotel. This is about Angel.
Hell has never felt more vast than it does while Husk is forcing his wings to carry him across the city. His back aches, his wings are straining, but he doesn’t care. This is faster, and it feels like every second matters as Vee tower stretches farther into the sky before him.
It takes everything he has to land a block away, staggering slightly. His wings shake. His breath comes heavy. But he forces himself upright and walks. Fucking walks, knowing Angel might be hurt. Controls his pace to regain his composure despite the rage boiling beneath his skin.
By the time he reaches the front desk, he’s barely holding himself together. And he knows better than to show anyone how worried he is, knows how easily an overlord can use anger against a sinner. It's hard to care though. No, he needs to fucking care, too much could depend on it.
“I need to see Angel,” he growls, eyes sweeping the lobby for cameras. There are too many.
The receptionist doesn’t look up from painting her nails. “He’s working. Second floor. Studio at the end of the hall. Security’ll let you in once Valentino finishes.”
It makes Husk’s stomach drop, absolutely fills it with dreadful bile to hear how casual this woman speaks. Like nothing wrong could be happening behind closed doors. As if everything is hunky-fucking-dory.
He wants to believe that he misread those texts. Angel’s probably fine. Maybe Husk is overreacting. Maybe tonight Angel is going to come home pissed at him for doing exactly what he was told not to do.
But those texts… If he leaves now and Angel dies, if Angel actually needs him and he does nothing, he’ll never live with himself.
He forces himself forward, the slouch in his posture straightening. Years have passed since the last time Husk stood tall, like a man rather than an owned soul. It's almost too easy to fall back into his predatory stance as he approaches the large guards stationed at either side of the studio doors.
No one warns him to stop or turn back. There's no noise on the other side of those doors. It's unsettlingly quiet. The guards are grinning, relaxed, as if they’d been expecting him.
Husk stops. Something is wrong. This is a mistake but it’s too late to turn back now.
Before he can take a step back, one of them grabs his arm and twists it behind his back. Pain jolts up to his shoulder. Another clamps onto his throat, steering him forward, through doors opening to a dark studio set.
His tail whips across the floor, knocking over lighting stands. He growls, makes threats and demands that no one bothers listening to. Realizes far too late that this was a trap and he walked straight into it.
~.~
Angel hates being walked through the studio blindfolded.
He knows the layout better than most of the crew—hell, he could navigate this place half-conscious, high as a kite, or freshly blinded, though he really doesn’t recommend that last one. But the blindfold makes everything clumsy and wrong. With all his arms bound, he’s already off-balance and stumbling. Someone’s gripping his bicep too tightly, steering him past what should’ve been the scene’s opening shot. The script said he’d be tossed onto the bed on the main set, but they breeze right by it without slowing.
No one talks. Not the assistants dragging him along. Not Val. Even the crew is dead silent. There's no between scenes chatter, no clatter of equipment being set into place, no bored commentary about lighting setups. Just silence stretched tight, broken only by the click of his heels on tile and the strained leather squeak of the boots and miniskirt that have been damn near painted onto him.
Anxiety coils hot and mean under his ribs. He wants to ask Val what’s going on, wants someone to explain this detour or the unnerving silence in the studio, but the gag is wedged too firmly between his teeth, pressing down on his tongue, locking him in suffocating silence. So he swallows the questions, feels them slide down his throat alongside dread-thick saliva. He shakes his head in irritation as it leaks from the corner of his mouth and drips down his chin.
When they finally stop, Valentino’s hands settle on his shoulders. Gold-capped claws dig into his exposed arms, burrowing sharp enough to break the skin. Stopping just short of drawing blood.
“Naughty boy,” Valentino purrs in his ear. A soft chuckle fills the silence, though there's nothing playful about the sound as those hands squeeze tighter. “You’ve been keeping secrets.”
Angel’s entire body locks up. He wants to deny it. Wants to apologize without even knowing for certain what he’s pleading forgiveness for. It doesn’t matter what Val knows, what he's being punished for, he just wants to beg Val not to do what he knows Val is about to do.
There isn’t a single goddamned thing Angel can do though. Not with his mouth gagged, not while knowing that Valentino isn’t going to listen to anything he has to say anyway. Because nothing he says ever matters when Val decides he’s been slighted.
A few more jarring steps stumbled forward, and a door opens. Metallic claws scrape along his arms as Valentino shoves him forward with enough force that Angel crashes hard onto his knees with a painful crack. Darkly amused laughter rises behind him, but that's not the sound that shakes Angel to his core and steals his breath.
It’s the voice that cuts through the room a second later. “Let go of him!”
Angel’s whole body goes rigid again. Muscles pull so taut he’s shaking.
No. Fuck no. Don’t be here. Don’t be real… His heartbeat slams so hard against his ribs that he can’t hear anything else. That voice shouldn’t be here. He fucking warned him not to come here. Angel squeezes his eyes shut beneath the blindfold, praying it’s the wine in his veins, the venom, the stress, anything except reality twisting into his worst nightmare.
Valentino’s claws rake slowly through his hair, sliding toward the blindfold’s knot.
“Get your hands off him!” that sweet, stupid voice snarls, and Angel knows it’s real.
Practiced hands slip the blindfold free. Studio lights sear against his blurred vision. For just a few blissfully ignorant seconds the world is nothing more than blotted silhouettes and distorted shadows.
Then everything clears, and Angel’s world comes crashing violently down around him. Because kneeling on the floor across from him, held down by heavy hands on his shoulders, bruised, furious, is Husk.
Husk, here in Val’s studio, held down by Val’s henchmen. Eyes that burn with all the vicious hate of a darkened sun lock on Angel, softening for a single breath before narrowing. His teeth are bared, fists shaking with rage he can’t act on.
Angel’s heart breaks in a single, soundless moment. Because he told Husk, begged him: “No matter what happens… don’t ever come to the tower.” And Husk came anyway.