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It ain't the first time Val's sent Angel tricking with nothing more than a slap on the ass and an address, especially in the tailend of a blowout.
Angel can still feel the bruise under his eye, caked with powder. He can feel the reddened, tender spot on his neck where Val had grabbed too hard. And the ache drills into skin, spills in the blood, stirs his breaths– knocks over his heart like a rush.
That dull longing for warmth that these days just comes at the end of a needle.
Angel picks out his little hand mirror, touches up his mouth with rouge. Perfect to be smeared, to be ruined. The plug in his ass remains comfortably warm and weighty. He knows many of these dickwads have the time of their lives slipping it out of him.
Should scare him to walk in blind for pain, but Angel's way more than ready to fuck through whatever fucker Val has decided to scribble on his schedule, because practice makes perfect and at this point Angel ain't giving a damn step out of tune.
Pirouette, baby. Twist the ankle skirting the line.
The taxi runs to a stop in front of a building wider than it's tall, running lights from top to bottom.
A casino.
Angel steps off the taxi, tossing a bill to the driver. He holds his clutch tight, feeling the air drifting shimmery across his thighs, licking between the strips at his back. He feels the night in the skin, teasing out that lackluster shimmer of missing something he'll never get.
Angel pulls down at the hem of the red dress that stretches over his hips, obscene as he walks. Silk. Skirt going so short, it's more thighs than fabric.
The usual.
Angel's gorgeous by chance. Beautiful by choice, with a cherry-red mouth and eyes smoked out in black. Striking like a vein cut-open, and just as debilitating for whoever makes the mistake of wanting him for more than a night.
He struts past the doors and the muscle-meat at the entrance. Scans the main floor where the light spangles over felt tables and ringing roulettes. Seems the john in turn had no need for any sort of padding niceties. The fucker is not even waiting for Angel.
From the left, a quick click-clack of heels rushes to him. “Ah, are you here because of Master Husk, right?”
Angel blinks in her direction. It's a girl. Decked in the house colors, pretty but clearly at her wit’s end. Urgency skitters off her like sparks and the cat ears on her headband tilt when she tips her head.
Angel rewinds, picks up the important part.
Master Husk.
He frowns. “Come again?”
The girl’s mouth turns in a little moue. “Did Valentino send you?”
Oh.
Angel's whole body goes loose. Lips first, tugging in a smile. “Yeah, toots, Angel Dust for your pleasure. Or your boss’s.”
“Oh, thank fuck.” The girl blows a puff of air and swivels on her heels. “Follow me, please.” She darts a glance over her shoulder, panicky and frantic. “It's… getting desperate.”
The way she says it slims Angel's breathing for a sec. There's something there in the pronoun, in the flickering dread in her eyes. But paying customers get a 100% rate of satisfaction always in Val's business, and Angel can't kick the board for nothing.
He toddles behind her, slicing through people with eyes manic with hope. Pawing at slots, jeering at tables. Full of greed, yeah. But also lust of a different kind. One that tastes bitter and sweet and paper-money pretty.
Angel tries to wrench some info out of her. “Yer boss must really be itchin’ for a pro to wet his cock, havin’ a pretty thing like ya around and not using ya.”
“That's not his style,” she immediately lobs back at him. “Not when–”
“When?”
Angel sees her bite that glossy-red lip of hers. “You know.”
He fucking does not, actually. His heart constricts in her silence.
Angel follows her, ribboning through black-jack tables, high-rollers rooms, through a door and to the backroom. Far, far back where the crowds thin to whispers and the casino blooms in silence.
Below, the ground thrums. Shakes Angel's calves through his pleasers and he wants to shudder from nape to the small of his back, but he balls it down for later, to let it run when he's finally sprawled on the floor, legs spread and unseeing.
Still, Angel feels like being lured into an alleyway, the humming lick of danger on the spine and bundling there. “Uh, we gettin’ close?”
“The elevator is just up ahead,” she says, so earnest that Angel warms in the throat, marginally.
If it's foul play, maybe it ain't with malice. Maybe her boss just wants to try out a ridiculous fucking sex dungeon or whatever. You really never know with these overlord types what kind of Christian hangups they've dragged to this pit.
The elevator is a cargo one. Big. Steel instead of wood, it opens to a solid door that reminds Angel of the ones at a bank vault, a scissor gate behind.
The girl plucks out a key to open it, and Angel sees there's clawed gouges at the back, chipped ends at the sides of the threshold as if something had dipped a blade there, sharp enough to slice metal like butter.
Fear slithers in the cracks between vertebrae, viscerally like Angel hadn't felt it since the first time he realized stop could no longer be part of his lingo.
Angel's throat strains round sounds, his stomach turning like a doorknob when he shuffles in and sees the row of buttons indicating levels below.
Ten, at least.
What roils in his blood is all rotten.
The girl steps next to him, presses the final level. The tenth.
Angel’s heart wants to shunt out of his ribcage. “We're– going down?”
“Yes. It's…” She pockets the key and watches the heavy door slide closed. “That's where the Master is waiting.”
Angel shoots up the dread that comes up like a tide. It has no place between the silk and his skin, no place in the fantasy of his body soft and open for whoever is paying for it. He's done this a million times over, and he's used to it: to the breathlessness right before the fall– before knowing exactly how it will ache. Where it will hurt.
No. Don't have to be like that. Not today, not with his hair done so pretty. Not with his cheek still throbbing hot, with his heart going relentless to keep him alive.
Maybe… maybe this guy's just fucking secretive, wants to keep his deal for himself. Angel has gotten plenty of those too.
He rubs his thumb up the chain of his clutch and tries, “So, this Master of yours– is he…?”
“The Gambling Demon. Haven't you heard of him?” She answers on auto, but Angel sees the way pearls of sweat form at her temple, sees the flush of her neck.
Going down is scaring the bejeezus outta her and that fear catches him in the momentum of it, makes his thighs shake down the back, the tremble of it running down the seam of his stockings.
“Not much, really,” Angel says. Nothin’ except the ratio of the overlord’s fortune. Guy probably owns more real state than the Vees, and doubles them in cash. A real tycoon.
Men like those rank high in Angel's rotation, but he's never heard of this Husk up close and personal. He don't know what to make of it. Angel don't know where to fit in the glittering venom of fear.
The elevator rumbles to a stop.
“We're here,” the girl says, unlocking the scissor gate, signaling Angel.
He moves with one loose throw of legs, steady as his gut isn't. Angel sweeps his gaze about, across the hallway with scattered doors at the sides and a gate at the end.
“Toots, this is a whole floor,” Angel says, casing the place. “Which door?”
She's already pulling down the scissor gate. “At the end, on that gate. Just press the red button that's left of it. It's— He's already waiting.”
Angel's hard pressed to move forward. “Is… the door fucking steel?”
“Dont worry about it,” she says, already closing the scissored gate. “And if you need uh… water or anything, just press the intercom. Just… just a final thing: he won't remember this happened after— after.”
With that, the steel door slips shut, and Angel sees the elevator disappear in the shaft.
It ain't dark in the hallway. Shadows flick and dance by the sconce lights that row up to the door at the end. When Angel walks his heels click like a ticking bomb, threatening to fire up the way his heart beats. The sound seems to hit louder in the quiet, like a rising thrum in the air, till it presses against Angel, heavy on the sternum.
Fuck. It's just another gig and another body. Another set of grey hours to forget about.
The gate at the end takes almost the entire wall. Sex dungeon probably, and Angel wishes Val had let him shoot an 8-ball before coming. Because beneath, in the brasstacks, Angel can feel the skittering rush in the skin of being close to ache. Presence and threat in the air and the john ain't even in sight.
Angel's pulse froths like a whiterush, breaths shallow when he lifts his hand and presses on the button.
The gate sweeps open to darkness.
Angel slips in. “Hello?”
Like a baseball bat to the temple it hits him: the pungent smell of blood and raw meat. This is a den, and the owner ain't– can't be a regular sinner.
Out. Out, out, out.
Angel's thighs quiver, his stomach turning like a storm. He shuffles back, but the door snaps closed like a fist and Angel's the fly in the grip, and he's done wrong, bad–
Two dots of gold shiver in and out of existence in a corner.
Angel yelps, turns to run. In a second, he's crushed down on the floor by something massive. Bulk and fur and heat blanketing across his body, pinning him face down.
“Holy shit! Fuck—”
Brain working through static, he realizes there's a little brightness coming from emergency lights on the floor. His heart wants to collapse when he blinks away the darkness just to see the huge splay of massive paws next to his head.
Fucking claws that are all metal.
Angel tries to get his legs under, manages to set the knees up. The shift in position tucks the curve of his ass where the plug is still sunk, against the front of the beast holding him down, a growling rumble in the quiet. Like a ripple in the pond, it bounces back against Angel's sex in a way that is horrifyingly familiar.
Want. A triggering landslide of it he can't shake off.
Shivers run across Angel's muscles, loosening the give of his body because there's no way to escape, no way to force his way out.
Angel’s voice squirms out of his throat. “Husk? A–Are ya Master Husk?”
This— animal. Has to be the head honcho of this turf, the fucking Gambling Overlord. And Angel feels the charge of demonic power weighing down like something physical.
The beast growls, the flare of his breath shaking down his body from chest to gut where Angel can feel it. Makes sense that Valentino didn't say shit, that he's sent Angel to be fucking flayed by an overlord in demon form just to remind him things could always hit the skids.
“Please… Sir,” Angel whines, tasting the blood of his own heartbeats. His fingers scrabble at the cement of the floor. “Please, Husk, sir, don't hurt me, I swear I didn't know–”
“Husk.”
It's a rusted-rough boom, layered with intent. Unstoppable and relentless. It rasps across Angel's body leaving it oversensitive.
Those powerful hips grind forward and Angel feels the heavy weight of a cock push between his asscheeks, across his thong. Angel's hands press flat on the ground for purchase but the thrust sends him sprawling on his folded elbows, jostles him like a ragdoll. On sensation alone Angel imagines that erection must be big enough to stretch him until he's panting around each breath, until his cunt is a whole throb with his heart.
The beast lifts a paw off the ground. The next thing Angel feels is the ripping shred of fabric, his dress and underwear scattering like droplets. Doesn't give him time to think, to even fucking gasp, before there's a massive, hot jab that glances off the jeweled end of the plug, gliding down. Angel knows Husk's shoving in by instinct, that he ain't choosing which hole to spread open and his stomach pulls in an arousal that's frantic, desperate.
He can feel the push of those thighs between his own as if they belonged there, and the next press of cock butts on the wet curve of his plump vulva, spreading it impossibly when it catches— sinks. Hardwired for this, Angel's so wet the penetration is luxurious, filthily easy.
“Fuck, you're big– feel ya in my fuckin' throat.”
Unmoored, a whimper sails out of him at the burning spread, at how his labia pulls wide and tight around that intrusion that keeps and keeps coming. It's hot, wet and solid, and Angel shudders a whine at the pricking sensation of dragging pressure across his swollen walls, lush and slippery, when that cock goes balls deep. Little points catching there where Angel's flushed and getting wetter.
Barbs. Fucker has barbs.
Angel arches down on instinct, tilting his hips to give himself better for the filling. “Oh, god, oh fuckin' god.”
Husk whines, ragged like an animal, and Angel tips his head up to where the sound’s coming, just to see the looming shape of a head above. Feline but bestial in the size, in the lines of the jaw all flushed and jagged. That maw drips spit. Fangs steel-sharp that could snap his neck, that could gut him.
Helpless. He's absolutely fuckin’ helpless and there's a revolution in his bloodstream– that fluttering, strobing static of just being flaring under the skin.
So good, so easy, take it, take it.
Because the sight of it has Angel squeezing down around the massive bulk of that cock in a grip so tight it sends Husk growling. The plug jostles inside him, lube-wet and hot.
He knows he's wired wrong, knew it from the kicks. Shouldn't make him drip and tighten to have a beast three times his size contorting around him and spearing him open. Shouldn't have him turning so pliant thinking about how his body is vulnerable like an exposed wound; that on-the-nose obsession for closeness pushing up from six feet under.
But Angel's heart is easy to sway. And he's starved for warm skin and the noises of a john enjoying his sex. Makes him feel useful, saving single-serving packets of that thrilling satisfaction for when the next installment of pain arrives.
Husk don't wait. Angel picks up in a breath that this is a bestial fucking, that there ain't a single sliver of human desire in how Husk sinks inside him, in the raw instinct of burying himself without thinking in the way their bodies catch in sweat. He's working his cock into Angel at a brutal pace, the pushes all slick and blistering hot with hard wet noises when their hips snap. The thrusts jerk Angel off the fuckin’ ground till they quicken and Angel's scrabbling, whining, knees slipping outwards. He can feel the shape of that erection inside, the thick pulse of it against the edges of his sex each time Husk pulls back to push back in.
It gets crystal fucking clear this is all Husk wants. A warm, tight hole to fuck for the two days paid. And Angel shivers out a noise of relief because he's built for this, always gagging for a huge cock, better if the overlord doesn't need to talk while ruining him. Yeah, Angel can do it, can trudge through it with moans in the mouth, and spread thighs.
This is just another overlord.
Husk breathes hoarsely, the solid hind legs pressed to the back of Angel's thighs, all soft twitching shudders each time he sinks deep.
“Shit, please, move like that.” Angel tries to rut back against each coring thrust but Husk's all wild, honest want. Smacking wet and hard inside him. “God, ya just wanna fuck, right? Dun– dunno why but I feel ya just want a pussy to fuck.”
“Need ya.”
The voice is rough, the grumble of a beast. Simple like a heartbeat. So fucking honest. There's nothing to dissect or disassemble, and it brings Angel to pieces, because there's no need to pretend, to pen himself in the act. He don't need to be anything else than warm and tight and soft in the thighs. Ain't been asked to do anything else than spread his legs and take it.
Shouldn't knock his heart askew. It's mindless, Husk's mindless and Angel knows his own purpose. But it digs out a load of unselfish emotion that he knows better than to listen to. Useful and good, for once– brilliant, perfect Angel no matter the angle.
Nobody's fucking watching.
Husk’s curt grunts feel almost solid, how he growls and groans, arching down to press Angel against the floor. The curve of his back is so deep while filled over and over with a single-mindedness that speaks of something primal. Angel can feel the smack of heavy, round balls hitting against his ass, and in a glittering-sharp second he feels the heavy smack of something massive hitting against his labia.
A knot. This fuckin’ beast is gonna knot him, gonna keep him stuffed full of come like a bitch in heat ready to be bred.
Is this what this goddamn thing is about?
Angel whines, blinking through the damp smear of his mascara. “Shit, baby, that thing’s– gonna leave me gapin'.”
He ain't never bedded a sinner with a knot before, and Angel's lost about the twisted biology of it. There's no way to give life in Hell, but maybe Husk only needs to burn out the excess of power somehow, maybe it's just a demon-form curse, a happenstance of this form.
Doesn't fucking matter for the cockslut that is Angel.
The dread filters out of him when Husk grinds and shoves the knot against where he's soaked and ready. Fuck, this animal is gonna leave his pussy flushed and bruised-sore, swollen from it. How can Angel shiver in want at this vicious taking?
Where's the limit? Where's the line?
Angel has none and Val hoped he did, maybe. Sending him here to be sliced into pieces. But Angel searches out more friction, craving that searing contact, hips rutting back, languid when Husk whines and the knot catches in, stretches Angel to aching before slipping free.
There's a biting snarl, and Angel feels the hot rush of breath across the curve of his neck, fangs in the skin, grazing. Every surging thrust goes deeper, and Angel's gut goes liquid at the hard hits of the knot wanting to own him. Angel cries out on the next thrust, body alight in sensation, can't help but clench down when the knot slides in place, tugging at where he's so wet and so sensitive his breaths are all gasping shudders. Husk's release is gritty, claws gouging cement when he fills Angel up warm and liquid, the steady burst of it enough to feel it surging inside.
Angel's knees wobble, not that it matters, being kept up by the solid thrust of cock in his cunt, and he can't remember ever being fucked like this. No pain and all pleasure, trapped in a maw that has no cruelty to give.
“Mine.”
One word, whipping. Angel's heart thumps, he calls it in the air: need.
His sex tightens, reflexive. It's just hormones and Hell, the chemical spark of things beyond his understanding. He don't even know this fucker, but the word hooks and twists in the hollow Angel ignores on the regular.
“Yeah,” he whines, balanced out on that knot. “Yours, just yours.”
The fantasy beats him back. Angel's the john now. The thought hasn't pushed through the soil when he feels the soft brush of that muzzle on his neck. It comes whispery-silk but ardent, warm with care. Husk's snout presses up and down on that curve of throat, as if chasing the scent, the sweat-heady punch of Angel.
It's a knockoff, because tenderness is a misborn in this business but Angel whines and lets him have it, lets himself have it.
Overlords ain't supposed to be like this. And Husk probably wouldn't be in his right senses. No, that's just a blessed-high wish, baby.
Angel tugs himself back down from that cloud-nine and squeezes around the knot, the bulky thrust of that hard erection solid inside him. “Yeah, baby, use my pussy, it's all for ya.”
Husk’s throat rages a groan, hips hitching.
“Ya like it when I squeeze like this, big boy?” Angel does it again, and hears the answering growl, feels the thump of a giant leg on the ground. “Fuck, ya feel so fucking big, so good.”
Drives him on an ecstasy-high, that power. To feel himself so coveted, and his body answers with little rocking peaks of sensation when Husk grinds into him as if he couldn't peel himself apart. Angel slips his hand to where his own clit is ringing hot and straining. It takes him a few rubs and flicks of fingers to rocket up that pleasure, spraying wet the floor, their thighs, staining the air with a quivery whimper.
Angel keens and spasms from throat to cunt, tucked blissful in the current of it.
He likes it, being mounted like this. Unvarnished and messy, with no pretenses, because he's also fucked in the head. Angel likes it more than he knows what to do with even if his knees are sore, and he's trembling in juddery quakes when Husk decides to press down further.
Damn bastard’s so huge there's no way to fight back– unlike Val, that power is real.
Ten minutes spin out while the world goes hazy and Angel breathes through the damp drags of that muzzle reaching his shoulder, lapping– wanting more, wanting everything. When the knot deflates Angel feels it drag out, slippery. It leaves him dripping from both of them, the folds of his pussy ruined open and hot, swollen from use.
Husk draws out with a hissing groan, the noise of the wet mess splattering on the ground, filthy like a stain. God, it feels like so much, the slash of Angel's inner thighs are matted soaked.
Damn, he needs a sec, just a moment to let his body flutter out of that high-energy thrill of orgasm, to let his sex tighten again. Angel twists to his back and tries to shake out from under Husk to press that fuckin' intercom for some water.
The second he wiggles out from Husk's hold, he's pushed back on the ground. Like this, he can finally see Husk from ears to tail.
Massive, Jesus Christ, he's huge.
He looks like a buffed up panther, dangerous like a serrated edge, claws and fangs metal-sharp. Wings arch up in a monstrous span from his back, blood-red and apparently all bone beneath the scattered feathers. Those eyes glow a sick yellow, seemingly unseeing but they pin on Angel, before Husk tackles him on his back.
Angel’s breath wavers when Husk's cock lands on his stomach, hard again. Big. Yeah, hot and barbed, a deep-red hue from the heavy base to the pointed tip.
Fuck, Angel has to tug the plug out.
With a flex of hands he tries to lever up to reach between his legs, but Husk spits out a warning that's all clacking teeth.
Angel raises his hands. “Wait, wait! I ain't trying to leave ya, baby. Just want to offer ya more options, okay?”
But there's no way to reason with a beast.
His pussy throbs, scorching, and Angel needs Husk to let it rest. But Husk ain't one for waiting and yanks him down, knocking him down on his back once more. Angel needs to pull out the plug, guide Husk where his rim is clenching and stretched. Determined, Angel angles his feet and kicks hard against the side of Husk's jaw, sends him rattling.
“I said wait!”
Wide and looming, Husk shakes his head, disoriented, and the confusion gives Angel a sec to scuttle back, pull out the plug.
Jesus, he's gonna be crunched to dust. You just don't kick a demon in the teeth, and Angel feels the light, brittle quality of his bones shake when Husk snarls, stalks forward, this time with a grace that wasn't there before.
He slides over Angel like oil, no threat in the fangs, no punishment in the claws. His hind legs bent low and the jab of his cock pushes in, slips pointed into Angel's rim where he's stretched and wet. Words fly out of Angel's mind, the space between their bodies full of his halted breaths and the steady rumble of a growl.
His thighs spread up and quiver when he feels the unrelenting, heavy slide of that cock spreading him, going deeper in a glide.
“Fuck, yeah, like that. Atta boy, just there.”
It splits him open, his belly flexing when Husk goes balls deep, groaning at receiving the full bulk of that erection that throbs blazing. Angel's hips pulse when Husk starts to move again, his whole body clenching as if trying to push away before going soft for it, because he wants it, wants this aimless violence.
Angel's legs spread impatiently for the smacking pushes of hips so wide he'd feel the strain to fit them if he was less artful. It's the wet-mad want of an encompassing touch. Angel can't fuckin' escape it. The raw smell of musk in the grain of that fur, the heat beneath that skin where he splays his top-set hands, his mind buzzing when that cock buries all the way again and again.
And that breath that flares down, alcohol-full and smokey.
Angel has to do nothing but take it, take Husk deep inside and tremble on it, stretched and filled. Angel's heart skitters because right this moment he ain't expected to perform, to hide or to act, to say no or deflect. Not to even speak. He just needs to be something wet and tight, flushed hot with the desire to be used.
And it's this danger, the one he's always craved. The violence that comes with no pain, like the cocking of a gun that sets in a mouth. That sure, steady finger that doesn't trigger. It's a different sort to the one Val wields. This one makes Angel throw his head back and moan, halting tears, scared but hungry.
The thrusts jostle him up, but Angel grinds his hips where he feels himself burning and wet, his cunt spasming empty, labia hot and rubbing on Husk's fur. Every noise squeezed out of him is a desperate, confused hitch of breath that rounds into jittery moans. The drive of that cock into him throbs and burns as Husk fucks him in a pace that's demanding, that has Angel clutching with all hands to that coarse fur and dipping into tense muscles, heart a clatter of bells.
His rim spasms when he feels that rising tumult in his stomach, that tightening heat that converges in his sex where he's dripping. Husk’s all vaulting size and power, and Angel feels it again, the forceful jam of that knot slapping against where he's already so spread and hot he whines. He shakes in each jolting writhe and surges of movement, heady-raw want bursting underneath his skin.
Husk takes him until Angel's writhing his orgasm that pinches his throat shut in airless pleasure, and in the mouth of that twisting, coring bliss he feels the bruising push of the knot stretching him open and fitting heavy inside him.
Husk's growl rattles across him, tapering into a startled choke that tastes brassy.
Weaving through it, Angel hears himself sob lust-sick, clenches down while Husk drives deep and tight, settles there with a wet grind of hips. He feels it then, the hot spill of Husk's release inside him, the knot pulsing with each liquid spasm. The body beneath his hands twitches and trembles before Husk stills curved over him.
“Woah.” Angel's fuckin' floating in between Husk's ragged inhales. The large head dips down to the left of Angel's own, but Husk keeps himself up as if to not crush him by instinct. “Ya did so good, Kitty Cat. Ruined me so good.”
The words are paired with the sinking dip of Angel's fingers into the fur of his neck. He finds Husk’s pulse, rapid like whitewater. Scratching there, Angel moves the strands back and forth. Husk rumbles what would be a purr in someone ten times smaller, but Angel smiles at it, at that content.
His heart kicks up like an engine, suffused in that strange vulnerability of healed up scars that thrives in warmth, in that pressed up closeness.
“Ya liked that, didn't ya? Filling me up with yer come— ya enjoyed it.” Angel can feel the solid lock of that knot still hard, the flickering soreness where he's burning from use. Gosh, he's so stretched, the heat of it still runs down to his toes like razing pricks. “But ya gotta get off me once your knot dies down ‘cause I gotta bring us some water.”
Husk's answer is a grumbling sigh. Angel has no fucking clue if Husk understands but if this is a heat of some sort, Husk's gonna be reaching a lull soon.
Five minutes go quick before the knot deflates and Husk pulls out. Angel shivers at the wash of come soaking his thighs and he wonders how he can still feel it, the thrum of his skin, with all his nerve endings overcharged.
This time when Angel presses his palm on Husk's chest, he goes back with an animalistic groan. Lets Angel shake upright and walk to the intercom. Christ, even on four legs, Husk's so big his head bumps against Angel's chest fluff.
His legs are warm from the friction and juddery like gel. He pushes the red intercom button. “Hello?”
A tick and static. Then, “Mr. Dust?”
The voice travels through the channel wavery like smoke. Unsure.
“Hey, toots. We need some water here, plus some granola bars and… what d'ya want, baby? Feels like these fangs of yours are starved for meat.” Husk yawns, and yep. Angel can't imagine that that bulk will be full with a bag of trail mix. “Yeah, send water, granola bars and steaks– rare, pronto.”
Five seconds heap. “Uh, are– are you okay, Mr. Dust?”
“Peachy fuckin' keen, just send the food,” Angel says, a little rough.
Not five minutes later, a small little tinted window Angel hadn't cased before lights up with a glow. Angel scuttles there, lifts the glass and finds everything requested.
There's a huge pet bed in a corner, black silk and plush. It ain't a mattress but the resting spot for a cat bigger than a fucking tiger. Angel coaxes Husk to the edge of it, feeding him steak after steak, with a rub of fingers across lips dark as an ink-blot.
Husk's fangs slice the meat like butter. Angel can't help reaching a palm cupping the side of his cheek where the jaw moves.
Suicidal maybe, but Angel's curious about him. About the metal edge of those fangs and the whiskers that tremble.
Husk's mouth lifts in the opening of a snarl and Angel’s pulse staggers.
Fuck. Kiss that hand fucking goodbye.
But Husk pushes against his fingers, rubs the side of his face till Angel's gliding touch through that fur.
Something shifts inside Angel, knocking about his ribs when Husk's eyes flicker – gold on midnight –, that soft rumble dialing back up.
Angel smiles. “Ya like that, huh?”
He can't remember the last time he touched a john like this. With no expectations for it lead to the warmth between his legs. A touch that ain't manufactured to ramp up his value, that stays and remains just because.
“Yeah, I like it too,” Angel says, sculpting the ridge of Husk's cheek bone, the slope of his muzzle. “Just don't tell anyone.”
Husk's eyes flick shut, then open. His paw curls like a hand that lands on Angel's thigh and Angel shouldn't feel that worry-free rush, of looking down the lower jaw he hit earlier and say,
“Sorry for the kick, didn't mean to hurt ya.” And least of all Angel should act on that hook in the chest that makes him fold over. That has him kissing the solid stillness of that jaw and up where it turns mouth. “There, all better now.”
“Oh fuck, yes, yes, please Husky, gimme more, baby.”
Angel could feel his cunt throb on Husk's cock, air displaced by the rustle of feathers. It's been hours of tangling together. Of shaky wake-ups and sweat-hot sleeping with Angel's body overwhelmed and overtaxed, rubbed hot and dripping. Thirty fucking fingers and Angel's lost count of the times he's come shaking apart on that knot, whining and being licked all over.
Husk's mounting him now, Angel's sex hot and pulsing, tightening down in each drive down of hips. His body feels tender all over because Husk's still out of his mind, neck and waist bruised and reddened from the grip.
Angel wails when Husk slams into him, the arch of his spine going so low he's fully flat on his chest, ass tilted up, quivering at feeling the strong hover of Husk's body above. The fill of Husk's cock tugs against the hot stretch of his labia, pleasure rolling like a wave, liquid-soft and frothing from his gut to his thighs, and Angel's lost in the animalistic pants and groans ripped out of Husk's throat, his mouth gone open for whorish wet moans.
It hits Angel, how he misses the unschooled push of those lips that left his mouth damp and warm, tasting danger in the borders. Lax kisses while Husk held him in the nest. Nobody kissed him but as a waystation for sex, just another rung into wrecking him like clockwork.
But those rubs of mouth, like the taking of his body now are just knee-jerk pleasure. The noises are filthier than any AI shit the studio could stamp on the background, the pressure of the heavy stiffness of Husk's cock pushing against where Angel's so full already, it's a wet mess that dribbles out in gushes.
Husk's fangs catch on his neck like barbed wire. It's blood-hot and sex-mad, and Angel wants it, keens for the violent ache that has blood pumping wild in his pulse points. But Husk growls rough wrenching back, sinks his snout down into the linens and sheets, ripping through it brutally. Angel trembles and cries out, feels Husk's driving pushes forcing the knot inside him.
The bulk of it presses everywhere, hits Angel like a bullseye in that place that makes him sob and pulse with an orgasm that has him squeezing long, shivery.
Pinned on that knot, he thinks of it. That it could've been him, the stretch of his neck shredded like the silk beneath. It makes his cunt throb, fingers scraping the bedding while his chest fluff goes crushed on the folds, knees rolling outwards.
There's a wet bunch of cloth in his mouth where Angel bites, still trembling with the streaks of come Husk's leaving inside, until the shake of those powerful thighs stops. Angel's hips buck and grind, woozy with heat and that foreign yank of wanting to delay this.
Husk nuzzles the back of his neck and suddenly Angel needs to turn around, to catch the light in those irises, follow up sclera that's as dark as tar. Juddering, Angel swivels around and feels the shift of the knot inside him, tugging at where he's hot and sensitive. At it, Husk whines as Angel tips him sideways to maneuver until they're front to front.
Seems unimaginable to not push fingers between those ears. “That's it, baby. What— ya just wanted someone to pet you, huh? Here? Behind the ears?” Husk’s throat clicks and purrs when Angel dives further back over his scalp. The fur there is matted. Coarser. Difficult to thread through. “Shit, Husky, when was the last time someone groomed ya?”
Angel scans the surroundings, pinpointing the shape of his purse between bunched slivers of fabric. He reaches for it but Husk's claws get hard at his waist, a rumbling burr as a follow up.
“No, I ain't going, see? I just need my purse.” Angel slips a hand up above his head to grab the velvet pouch and pull it down to quickly retrieve a little comb from it. “Here, it's a comb. Let me do this, yeah? You'll feel better.”
With a quick flick of wrist, he tosses the purse and combs through that matted fur at Husk's scalp, gently, in rubbing pushes.
Husk’s massive mouth moves, roughs out, “Angel.”
His name.
It's a silver bullet. A disquieting flare that goes clean through. Makes Angel feel like a stranger in his own skin, something thumping too big to be contained.
“Yep, that's my name. Just let me do–” He combs all the fur that runs down to the nape, but Husk tips his muzzle into the curve between shoulder and throat, hips kicking in as if wanting to push the knot deeper. Angel gasps, moans. “Oh shit, okay, let me do this and ya can relax in my pussy.”
The skin-rush heat is inescapable. That earnest slide of chest to chest, how his thigh goes open and lifted on Husk's monstrous hip. It's lux, lax— blinkered bliss. Angel wonders about Husk on the day to day. Every single fucker in this joint holds multitudes, and Husk beyond this remains uncharted. But this version of him, all blood-wound claws and cuddlebug on the flipside – Angel wants to catch between his fingers, wants to linger with it.
A facet.
“Have ya ever let someone touch ya like this? Give ya a kiss? I know ya won't remember me, won't remember this and that's aces, baby.”
The beat of his heart waxes, the guilt of want it beats behind his teeth, and Angel feels it in collision-course, swerving lanes.
He leans in and kisses Husk's bestial mouth, the flaring breath of him washing back in a sigh. And Angel presses harder, ragged from want, stretched to whining, grinding up, cunt and ass wet, well-used.
Satisfied.
“Angel.”
A whole chunk of hours go by in conked-out state. Dead to the world, Angel rustles to waking with the intercom’s soft chiming. Behind him, Husk's shape is warm and silent, his chest swelling in a steady rise.
Still passed out, still massive.
Angel collects himself up and shambles to the intercom. “Yeah?”
God, his throat feels shredded.
“The forty eight hours will be up in fifteen minutes,” someone says. “Gather your things and prepare to leave.”
Angel blinks. His teeth clack, despite him. “But… he's still dead to the world.”
“Yes, and he won't wake up until tomorrow.” Then sterner, “Mr. Dust, it's time to leave.”
It's another job and he's standing on the comet-tail of it. Back to the Tower and Val, to the rote of grey-sheened days.
Angel swallows before he chokes on that strange ice-block. “Okay, yeah, sure. Uh, can ya send me a robe or something?”
“Of course.” The intercom flickers with static in the silence. “Once out, you'll be led to the infirmary so they can patch you up.”
“There’s no need, I'm fine,” Angel says. It's true. There's nothing permanent in the soreness, and Angel doesn't want any fucking cream for the bruised lines on his thighs, hips and neck. If to keep a little longer that feeling of melting out of consciousness.
Like this, Val's own feel distant.
Skittering noises rise, then, “Come again?”
“Merchandise’s still in one piece, sugar.”
“Are you sure?”
Angel grumbles. “Of course I'm fuckin’ sure, what– ya think this is my first rodeo?”
“Alright then. Clothes are being sent your way.”
Very pointedly, Angel rounds up to the bed again, gives Husk a scratch between the ears and a little peck on the side of his eye.
Husk wakes up again, fully nude and back to normal. His mind is swirling back into the grid of logical thinking that always gets knocked down beneath the lizard brain in those moments.
Fucking Alastor. Fuck this deal. Fuck the price to pay for the power ramp-up.
But– he's warm in the joints, as close to tired as beast-him can be. The fur around his groin is stiff with dried semen and the release of… Angel.
Angel.
Husk blinks, and like colors moving through glass he picks out threads unraveling. Hands. So many fucking hands on him, a fearless mouth on his own. The crushing weight of a kick to his face.
Husk grasps at that warmth, lifts his fingers to rub at his jaw and feels it– damp and soft.
That kiss.
Who would hit him just to kiss him after?
What kind of man would kiss Husk on that brutal mouth?
He walks to the intercom, sailing on that uncertainty. “Kathy? Bring me down my clothes.”
The reply is instantaneous. “Yes, sir.”
“Did Angel leave?”
“Yes, sir, as you indicated, Mr. Dust left well before the time was due.
“Good.” Husk stares down at his claws. “Book him again, for next week.”
“But you’ve never–”
“Did I stutter?” Husk snaps.
“No, sir,” she says, voice a little trembling. “Sorry, sir. I– I'll book him right away.”
Husk cranes his neck and rolls the base of his wings, walking back to the shredded bedding. And in the craggy geography of it, he sees the glittery pink comb left in the sheets and palms up the back of his head where his fur is softer than he's felt it in ages. Yeah, he just owes Angel a comb and a dress.
That's all.