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The club is made of curls of cold smoke, leather, neon and velvet, of the smells of perfume, alcohol, money and cloying sweetness. High ceilings, flowing musical basslines, mezzanines soaring upward. All of it is waves, and Angel rides them with the ease of one born in the ocean. Surfaces familiar down to the inch, hundreds of hungry eyes and mouths, remnants of crystals lost on bar tops. Decades here, body coiled around a pole, dancing on the sharp points of stilettos; passed from hand to hand, every night, with no beginning and no end. Pink rings of smoke around his neck.
Not the worst lot.
He walks between podiums where sinners he knows writhe, reduced to a category of limbs, wide-open wet mouths, holes and pretty faces; past tables and couches where gazes catch on him like burdock burrs snagging in clothing. Angel's hips sway smoothly as he walks, the sheer fabric of his dress clinging to his figure like a second skin, not concealing the thin lines barely hiding his crotch. Strawberry gloss lies sweetness on his lips, blackness of thick winged liner at the meeting of upper and lower eyelid. He smells of marshmallow powder, nail polish and the remnants of tobacco.
Angel makes his way toward the figure sitting at the bar counter, toward the outlines of scarlet feathers, the tail coiled around the leg of the stool, the angles of a perfectly pressed white shirt. Without turning around, he shoves away a pushy sinner who reaches knotted hands toward him, rounds a row of bar stools and stops behind the figure's back. Leaning in, Angel hovers just above the neckline of figure's shirt, and whispers, his strawberry lips nearly brushing a triangular feline ear.
"Hi there, baby."
Husk turns around; no flinch, no sharpness. He knew Angel was already close, he surely knew. He said so himself one of those nights.
I can sense you twenty feet away, even in this cacophony. You smell different from everything else here.
Something clenched in Angel's heart then. Unbearable foolishness.
"For the whole night," Husk says. "Like usual."
A smile curves the corner of Angel's lips, seduction in it more a smokescreen for those around them than a real necessity.
They started with two hours. Now it's always the whole night, every Tuesday and Friday.
"Let's go then, big guy," Angel purrs and, grabbing Husk by his tie, turns around, leading him away from the main floor.
Behind the heavy curtains, down the corridors and a small staircase, away from music, past moans of strangers, muffled by the walls. Through the door that closes behind them without a sound. Angel releases Husk's tie from his fingers, letting him walk ahead.
Now there are a few feet between them. Angel's smile grows wider. He never stops performing, will never stop completely, because it's his duties and his shields, but in the curve of his lips, given to Husk, there is more sincerity than with anyone else.
Husk answers him with a soft smile. His large palms are now hidden in the pockets of his trousers.
"Rough day?" Angel asks.
Husk lets out a quiet snort.
"Rough week."
"Poor kitty," Angel coos and steps forward, destroying the last distance between them.
His lower hands hook into the belt loops of Husk's trousers, his upper touch his furry cheeks. His fingers burrow into soft fur. Husk closes his eyes, a big cat which he is. Angel loves touching him. Unfortunately, it hasn't been just about sex for a long time now.
The same foolishness.
"Didn't forget your collar?" Angel asks, his fingers tenderly scratching under Husk's chin.
Husk nods and pulls a hand out of his trouser pocket. A pink strip of leather is held between his claws. Angel takes the collar from him, the round gold studs sliding under his fingers.
It always sends a pleasant sensation low in his belly.
Not that Husk was the first sinner to come here to get crushed under a heel, but it's still a special feeling. It didn't become that right away, not from the first meeting, full of cold professionalism and familiar masks. No, it grew gradually, built a nest right under Angel's heart, and in that nest too many things developed that he would rather not see there for the sake of his own safety.
In any case, now it's not just a strip of leather. It is something Angel himself chose and Husk accepted as a gift; a mark of his individuality, his name stamped on the reverse side. The sign of belonging, saturated with a strawberry scent.
False, of course. Of the two of them, Angel is the one who really wears a collar.
And, unfortunately, the chain from it doesn't lead to Husk's hands.
"Lift your head," Angel says, and Husk, his eyes open wide, does what he is told.
The buckle settles into place without a sound. Pink encircles the neck, presses into black fur.
Angel sees how under the fabric of his shirt, Husk's chest rises and falls with a heaviness that wasn't there just a minute ago.
"Undress, baby," Angel says, taking his hands off Husk.
Husk obeys, not taking his eyes off Angel, a greed beginning to pool in his gaze.
Desire.
Adoration, which surely exists only in the worlds of Angel's head; he has always had a tendency to want too much and get lost in his own castles in the air.
Husk's sharp claws yank at the knot of his tie, flick open the golden buttons one by one, undo the cuffs. Down, all of it down, to the floor, along with the trousers, the polished shoes, the underwear. Nothing more, just fur and skin. Angel sees how the feathers at the tip of his tail vibrate impatiently.
Husk's cock is big and heavy between his legs. At the sight of it, first drops of slick gather at the gusset of Angel's panties.
"Good boy," he praises, and points with his chin behind Husk. "Now on the bed."
Again, this submission, wordless, never questioning a single word. Angel has always loved this, being the one who presses, not the one who bends. Even if ninety-five percent of his work time he spends face down.
But Husk is a special kind of thrill. Angel tells himself it's all about his status, because it's not every day you make one of the biggest overlords whine, beg and choke on tears.
The truth is far more complicated.
Husk lies down on his back, his head at the top of the bed, his gaze still not leaving Angel's body. The black of his pupils grows wider, the room's soft pink lighting leaves glints in them. Angel climbs onto the bed after Husk, picking up his undone tie from the floor along the way.
He pats Husk's thigh, making him spread his legs, and settles between them, feeling the tingling sensation of control in his fingers. His lower hands rest on Husk's thighs while his upper hands bind the thick wrists with the tie. Husk's claws gleam with dangerous metal; their strength never aimed at Angel. Another strange feeling.
Having tightened the knots, Angel straightens up. Husk's hands now lie above his head, pressed tightly together. His white chest rises and falls heavily, his legs are open, his wings spread flat across the mattress. The picture is tempting enough to make Angel's cock, fully hidden in the sensitive slit, start throbbing. In another half hour, it will be hard for him to keep it inside his body.
He used to manage this until the very end, without a problem. Used to. The key word.
Too much has changed over the year of their meetings.
Angel rises up on his knees, his hands cupping Husk's face again, his fingers sliding higher, toward the sensitive peaks of his ears. Angel gently massages them with his fingertips. Husk's mouth falls slightly open, letting out a satisfied sigh.
"You're so tired, yeah?" Angel says quietly, looking at his own reflection in the wells of Husk's pupils. Once he gets a nod, he continues: "It's okay, I'll take care of ya. I'm gonna take such good care of ya, if ya behave."
His fingers burrow deeper into fur, and Husk lets out a quiet sound, something between a purr and a moan. Angel smirks, leaning lower. His lips a few inches from Husk's.
He has grown to love their kisses. Never during the scene, but always afterward, lying in each other's arms—ever since the night Husk first stayed. Wrapped in sheets until morning. A tender vulnerability that exists only until the relentlessness of the clock hands dissolves the fairytale.
Angel moves lower, his fingers sliding through black fur, tracing Husk's cheeks, touching the tip of his heart-shaped nose and his dry lips. To Husk's neck, to the beat of his pulse under the skin, to his shoulders and chest. Lower again, barely touching, and then pressing his nails into the nipples.
Husk's body answers Angel with a sharp exhale and a slight arch of his back.
Angel smirks under his breath. One of the most sensitive spots. In his head, a map of Husk's body, drawn with all marks and symbols.
All four of his hands keep sliding over Husk, squeezing, scratching, stroking and pinching. The small patch just above his right iliac crest, making Husk huff quietly from a tickle; the spot over his navel, making his stomach tighten; the line along the inner thighs, making his body start to tremble; the thin skin under his knees, drawing a moan at the touch. All the known places, each kissed by touch more than a hundred times.
Angel moves upward, trailing over the very same spots, avoiding only Husk's heavy balls and full cock, at the tip of which pre-cum is gathering. No, not now, even if Husk whimpers quietly and squirms when Angel's long fingers get too close. That's the part he has to earn, and he knows it.
The old song, the very same dance.
Leaning in, Angel slides his open mouth along Husk's neck, collecting every answering sigh with a wave of his own warm arousal, and then closes his lips around one of his nipples. Husk's body jerks, he moans; so much sensitivity hidden behind the sharp impassivity of his appearance that it tickles something domineering inside Angel. He draws the nipple into his mouth, a warm and tight captivity, and then, when Husk's body arches up toward him, bites down hard. His sharp teeth sink into the tender flesh, and Husk's hiss spreads through the room. His knee bumps against Angel's side, and Angel straightens up at once.
"Don't ya fuckin' dare hiss at me," he barks, striking Husk's thigh with an open palm.
The slap of skin against skin rings out. Husk flinches, his right leg sliding across the sheet, his hands jerking against the knots. His eyes fly open, he blinks, his gaze focusing on Angel's face.
His ears press flat against his head.
"Sorry," Husk mutters.
Angel arches an eyebrow.
"Didn't hear ya."
"Sorry," Husk repeats louder, his voice raspy on the low notes.
Angel slaps his thigh again, hard enough that pain echoes in his own palm.
"Sorry, Daddy!" Husk adds hastily, and Angel smirks, pressing his hand to the spot he struck.
Skin is hot under his touch. A similar heat in his chest, his stomach. Dizzying power. His cock is completely hard, the head pushing against the slit, straining to break free, his cunt slick with wetness. Angel gives nothing away for a second, it's not time yet.
Song. Dance.
"That's my good kitty," he praises, and Husk relaxes at the words right before Angel's eyes.
It spins Angel's head just as well as a knockout dose of crystals hitting the lining of his nose.
"Wanna make Daddy feel good?" Angel asks, tilting his head to the shoulder, his hand stroking Husk's thigh at the bruised spot.
Husk nods a few times; so eager, so soft. Angel smiles, running his lower left hand along the inside of Husk's thigh as a reward, so close to his aching cock that its heat lingers on Angel's skin.
"Good boy," Angel encourages and rises to his feet.
He lifts the hem of his sheer dress, tugs at the string of his panties and tosses the tiny strip of fabric aside. The cool air wraps around his labia, wet and swollen with rushing blood; touches the slightly open slit.
Husk watches him from below, here again, pulled back into reality. His irises are barely visible.
Desire.
Craving.
Adoration.
He looks at Angel like he is a perfect work of art, and Angel can never get used to it.
The return of agency, long forgotten. Hidden for years.
Angel takes a step forward, the mattress springing under the soles of his boots. He places his knees on either side of Husk's head, and lowers himself down, right onto Husk's rough tongue already lolling out of his mouth. Resting his upper hands on the headboard, Angel lets out a quiet, satisfied sound. God, this is so good.
Husk was fucking made to eat pussy. He does it with such sharpened skill that Angel rises to clouds unreachable in this pit. Heaven above is nothing, the real one is hidden at the tip of that cat's tongue. Angel exhales, lowering himself further, letting Husk's lips close around his clit. One of his lower hands slides into Husk's thick hair, grips it, slowing him down.
"No rush, kitty," Angel says. "Slow and smooth. Daddy wants to spend some time on your face."
An answering moan hums between Angel's legs. He feels the shiver in Husk's shoulders.
In truth, he had been almost stunned the first time. Even those who preferred Angel to press his heels into their balls had never tried to eat him out or suck him off. An old unspoken rule: don't kiss a whore and don't put your mouth on her privates. Healthy squeamishness.
Husk buried his mouth in Angel's pussy with the greed of a man dying of thirst in a desert, on the very first night.
Everything has always been different with this bastard. Turned upside down.
Swaying his hips, Angel moves slowly, grinding against Husk's yielding mouth, bumping against the tip of his tongue, flicking at Angel's clit. Angel's upper hands are still gripping the headboard, his lower right is buried in Husk's hair, and his lower left is now sliding down his own chest. His fingers gather chest fluff, slip beneath it, squeeze the roundness of his breast. Husk adores his tits just as much as his pussy; buries his nose in them at the first chance and purrs like a fucking generator.
"That's it," Angel praises on an exhale, "let it all go. Ya don't decide anythin' anymore, you're here only for my pleasure."
Another guttural moan resonates right into his cunt. The head of Angel's cock pushes against the swollen slit and slips out. Angel lets out another quiet sound.
In the early times, he used to moan—a lot, bright and loud; learned notes Angel knew how to play. People liked his moans. They needed that confirmation of their own (most often mediocre) skills.
I wanna hear the real you, Husk said on their fourth meeting, right after they stepped into the room. Not the way you moan to stroke my ego. I wanna hear you.
It was so unexpected that every carefully crafted mask slipped off Angel for a minute.
There was nothing pleasant about his real sounds. Most of the time he just sighed quietly. A fractured, raspy moan right before an orgasm, on those rare days when he actually got one, was his maximum.
It quickly turned out that Husk was thrilled by it.
Angel stopped counting the strangeness of what bound them long ago.
He tightens one hand in Husk's hair, tugging at the roots, and squeezes his own breast with the other. Between his legs, Husk begins to purr quietly, and the vibration, traveling along the tip of his tongue, strikes right against Angel's clit.
"Yeah," Angel exhales approvingly. "Just my little sex toy. Nothin' more."
He glances over his shoulder, catching how Husk's cock twitches at those words. Needy down its entire length. It probably hurts by now, but it's not time yet. Angel lets out another satisfied sigh as Husk's tongue, vibrating with a purr, slides between his labia, circles his hole and returns to his clit.
Quiet sounds and the smooth roll of hips. Thrusts and slick trickling down Angel's thighs and Husk's chin. Saliva, heat, purring, the scent of strawberries. Angel's fingers pinch his nipples. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, never stopping his thrusts into the hot mouth.
A minute, ten, twenty. Until the muscles of Angel's thighs ache. His cock, having pushed past the last barrier, slips out of the slit completely a second before his orgasm. A trickle of cum runs down the pink head while slick from his cunt spills over Husk's lips. Fingers digging into the chest fluff, Angel comes with a sigh sharper and longer than any that came before it.
Opening his eyes, he lets a wave of shivers roll through his body and slowly pulls away, shifting downward. His knees now bracket Husk's waist, all four hands rest against his chest, which rises and falls heavily. A rapid pulse under his palms. The big heart beating like a little bird.
Husk's chin is soaked, his fur matted; his eyelids are heavy, his swollen mouth is open, his eyes hold a drifting look. He is already so far gone that Angel's body fills with delight.
He does this to him.
Not someone else.
He.
Sometimes a possessor speaks in Angel. A part of his personality that has no rights whatsoever, because Husk isn't really his. And won't be his. It's just meetings, just sex.
Nothing more.
"Such a good kitty," Angel purrs, burying his fingers in the fur on Husk's chest. "Made Daddy feel so good."
The answer is a long moan and a thrust of hips. Husk's cock, heavy, full, throbbing, brushes against Angel's ass. A movement so willful Angel would have punished him for it, but now Husk is barely aware of his actions. Angel smiles, sliding his palm higher, toward the line of Husk's neck, toward the pink strip of the collar.
"What's the matter, baby? Want me to touch ya?"
A second, two—it seems Husk needs time to process his words. And when he does, another moan breaks from his lips.
"Please," he whispers, mindless and lost, his body moving, shifting in search of friction.
"Mmm," Angel drawls. "Do ya want me to fuck ya and let ya come whenever, or do ya wanna fuck me, give me pleasure, and maybe end up without an orgasm at all?"
Husk's eyelids, heavy and half-lidded until now, fly open wider. He lets out a plaintive, utterly feline sound, full of confusion. Angel smirks, watching a vague unease flicker through his wide pupils.
"I gotta choose?" Husk asks, his tail shifting anxiously on the bed.
"Yeah."
Husk's hands twitch weakly in their bonds. He swallows, looking Angel over from head to toe. Angel can imagine what he feels right now, how painfully tight his cock and balls are, how great the need for release is.
He knows what the answer will be.
"To give you pleasure, Daddy," Husk breathes out.
Angel rewards him with a sound full of adoration and a pat on the thigh.
"Ain't ya just the most wonderful kitty?" he says, and at those words, Husk's shoulders relax once more.
Pushing off Husk's chest, Angel shifts lower, pressing his wet, hot vulva against his cock. The answer comes instantly: a ragged, loud moan breaks from Husk's lips, a shiver rolls through his thighs, his shoulders jerk, his wrists strain against the fabric of the tie. Angel chuckles quietly, pleased with his reaction.
Leaning back, he rolls his hips smoothly, up and down, along the whole thick length of Husk's cock. A slick, wet sound as he slides. His own cock starts to fill again. Angel wraps a palm around it, stroking it a few times.
Husk beneath him, hot and needy. Pulse, blood, caress, pliancy, submission. Angel on the crest of a wave.
Reaching one of his lower hands back, Angel wraps his fingers around the base of Husk's cock and guides the wide head to his hole, wet and pulsing. Husk chokes on air, his palms curling into fists, helplessly searching for something to hold onto. Slowly, without taking his eyes off Husk's face, greedily drinking in every detail, Angel sinks down onto his cock to the hilt.
Another quiet sound slips from his lips. The stretch, the hot fullness. His pussy is sensitive and soft after the orgasm, and this is what Angel hates with everyone else but loves with Husk.
Even on those nights when they don't play, when their sex is just sex between two equal (not) people who want each other, Husk is never rough. No rims rubbed raw to blood, no thrusts too hard, slamming right against Angel's cervix. None of that.
Everything that happens between them is always, first and foremost, about Angel's pleasure. From real sounds to the joining of bodies.
Angel sways his hips, rising and sinking down lightly. A smooth, long, drawn-out pace, making Husk writhe beneath him. Angel knows his balls are already drawn up tight against his body, that he's balancing on the very edge of his orgasm. And he's still holding on; Angel's good, good kitty.
"Don't ya dare come," Angel reminds him, never stopping the movement of his hips, "we're here for my pleasure, not yours."
The answer is a quiet sob. Angel feels the shiver in Husk's strong thighs under his ass.
"You're nothin'," Angel breathes out, rising up and sinking down sharper than before. "Just my toy, that's all."
Husk moans, breathless, his chest heaving up and down, his fur matted, his eyes full of desperation. His whole body vibrates, his claws scratching at the fabric of the tie, as if he is trying to hold on to something. Angel picks up the pace, his cock swaying with every thrust.
"Just," he repeats, leaning forward slightly to change the angle, to make the thick head rub against the sweet spot deep inside his cunt, "a cute kitty I can do anythin' to."
Husk sobs, open and shameless; no boundaries, no limits. He is so far gone, Angel sees it in his rolling eyes and open mouth.
"Please," Husk whispers, broken and so quiet that Angel practically reads his lips. "I need..."
"Na-ah," Angel replies, moving on his cock in a steady rhythm, filled with a pleasant, pulling sensation low in his belly. "Ya can't come, told ya."
Husk whimpers quietly, and the sound leaves a sweet spasm in Angel's body. God, how good this is; taking Husk apart, seeing him drift away from himself, leaving everything behind. Obedient, full of insane trust, of adoration...
"Yes," Angel whispers, his ass slapping loudly against Husk's trembling thighs. "Yes, baby, just like that."
Wrapping his palm around his cock, he comes again, not as bright as the first time, but long. Waves roll through his body one after another, his hole clenches around Husk's cock, and through the noise in his ears he hears a continuous stream of pleading. Angel lets out a raspy, broken moan, his eyes fluttering open. Husk's whole body is shaking beneath him, his back arching, a thin thread of saliva stretched between his black lips.
"Please, Daddy, please, please, please," he whispers, his hips thrusting up into Angel, more and more out of control.
Angel leans forward, reaches up with an upper hand, and places his palm on Husk's neck, just above the collar. Pressing his fingers lightly into the trusting openness of his throat, Angel breathes out:
"You can come now, kitty."
The moment he says these words, Husk's thighs slam up into his ass; Husk's throat vibrates with a moan under Angel's hand. Angel tightens his fingers, not squeezing hard, but holding, while cum floods him from the inside. His shoulders tremble slightly; this moment of absolute joining, and god, god, he loves it. He hates it when clients pay extra to skip the condom, hates feeling them inside, but Husk...
Upside down, right? Always and in everything.
Waiting until the aftershocks of the orgasm stop shaking Husk's body, Angel loosens his fingers. Husk's chest rises and falls heavily, his eyes are now closed, his arms hang limp in their bonds. Slowly, wanting to feel every inch, Angel lifts himself up. A few drops of cum leak out of him, lingering on the inside of his thighs.
Brushing the sweat-damp hair from his forehead, Angel carefully unties the knots of the tie, massages Husk's wrists, and rises from the bed. Stepping into the tiny bathroom with a shower stall, Angel takes a clean towel from the shelf, wets it with water and returns to the bed. Husk is still lying on his back, his arms resting behind his head, his tail limp and motionless. He blinks slowly. Smiling, Angel sits on the edge of the bed and begins to gently wipe him down with the towel, cleaning the saliva and slick from his fur. Finished, he quickly runs the towel between his own legs, tosses the cloth to the floor and lies down beside Husk, wrapping all four arms around him. Husk's face is now opposite his, five inches from a kiss.
Husk reaches for it first. Angel tastes a distant hint of whiskey and his own taste on his tongue.
"Ya feel good?" Angel breathes out when the lazy kiss ends.
Husk nods, sleepy and warm. His large palm settles on Angel's waist. The illusion of belonging is held within it.
Angel remembers again the first night Husk stayed until morning, which cost him a good deal of money. They didn't even fuck; just lay there like that, kissing lazily, passing a cigarette back and forth, chuckling and talking. For the first time in decades, Angel didn't feel like a purchased body.
In those eight hours, he was just a person sharing a bed with someone he cared about. Receiving tenderness not on loan, but just because.
Just... because.
"Ya were so good for me," Angel whispers, tracing the line of Husk's jaw with his fingers.
"Mmm," Husk mumbles, lifting his head to give Angel better access. "Missed you, Legs."
Angel laughs, quiet and a little nervous, hiding the feeling that pricked him behind that.
Being someone to be missed. Not a set of tits and a wet cunt, but something more.
Husk blinks a few times, his gaze clearing a little, focusing on Angel, and everything in Angel's chest tightens. Every time Husk looks at him like that, Angel starts to think these aren't castles in the air after all. That what he tries not to think about is mutual.
That he actually matters. He is needed.
He is someone to be loved.
Husk lifts his hand, claws retracted, and gently runs his fingertips along Angel's cheek.
"How do you feel?" he asks quietly.
"Good," Angel answers, just as quiet. "I love it when you're here, ya know."
The corners of Husk's mouth lift into a smile when he hears the confession Angel decided to allow himself. Glow in these golden eyes. Deep, personal.
It appeared in them the night they fucked for the first time in a vanilla way. Everything went wrong from the very beginning, and Angel was in a terrible mood. Bruises hid under his thin fur—Val, bored at dinner, ground Angel's bones to dust, again. Angel held it together, he was a damn pro, but Husk noticed anyway, because he notices everything. A split-second shift in expression. Tension in Angel's shoulders.
We don't have to do this today, Husk said that day, we can just lie here, how does it sound?
And Angel gave in, and they really did spend some time just lying side by side and talking, and then they did something that felt more like making love than fucking. Husk's hips swayed smoothly as he hovered over Angel, and his eyes glowed the same way they glow now. Angel drowned in tenderness that night. His orgasm was so soft and long.
"I'd come every night, but that would be way too suspicious," Husk says, and god, what this man does to Angel's heart.
Something dangerous. Something beautiful. Something that promises ruin.
"Such a sap," Angel answers with a smirk, but there's a quiver in his voice, and it undoes all the words.
Husk laughs and kisses his forehead.
They spend the rest of the night entwined around each other; talking quietly, smoking, playfully wrestling and having sex—making love—one more time. As he comes, Husk kisses Angel tenderly and gently, and Angel thinks again that maybe he isn't making things up after all.
But even if that's true... even if their sex really is about love, it's pointless. No overlord will touch another overlord's soul. It would turn into a full-scale war, without a doubt.
There is no way out for them. Meetings framed by the rustle of green bills are all they have.
When the clock hands edge past five in the morning, Husk rises from the bed and starts to dress. His claws find the clasp of the collar blindly, and the strip of leather disappears back into his trouser pocket. Angel watches him, wrapped in sheets and exhaling cigarette smoke.
His heart is foolish and aching. The carriage is doomed to always turn back into a pumpkin.
"Angel," Husk calls, pulling him from the currents of bitterness.
Angel looks up. Husk is already standing at the door, his palm on the golden handle.
"Mmm?"
"Does Valentino play poker?"
Angel blinks in surprise. Not the question he expected to hear.
"Uh, yeah," he answers, frowning. "What are you..."
He falls silent as a slap of sharp realization hits him. No, no, it can't be. This is... insane.
"Husk," Angel says, bewildered, because he doesn't know what else to say.
Husk tilts his head to his shoulder. A smug, dangerous smirk on his face.
"That's my name."
Angel's heart speeds up, beating a rhythm against his chest. Slamming into his ribs. Bam, bam, bam.
"He would never put my soul on the line," Angel rasps.
A big part of him is sure that Husk will laugh after these words. Say: don't flatter yourself, Legs. Say: it's not what I'm talking about.
"I can be very persuasive," Husk says instead and walks out the door.