Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1.

“What’s your number?” Husk asks clear out of the blue, like that’s a normal question to raise on a Thursday evening at the hotel bar when Angel’s only two drinks into the night.

It’s blunt, sure, and maybe a little uncomfortable to be asked so directly, but Angel hasn’t exactly displayed an abundance of boundaries regarding information about his sex life, so he can’t really blame Husk.

“C’mon, Whiskers, you think I managed to keep count? I lost track a little past a hundred, and that was ages ago.”

Angel takes a sip of his drink and throws Husk an exaggerated wink.

“What?” Husk asks, but it comes out so flat that it hardly sounds like a question.

“But you really shouldn’t pry when it comes to a guy’s personal life. I mean, I wouldn’t imagine you want to tell me yours, huh?”

Husk fixes Angel with a stare that is equal parts blank and withering.

“Your phone number, Angel. I’m asking for your phone number. To put in my phone.”

For a moment, Angel simply sits there, dumbfounded, before regaining his composure and scribbling his number on a nearby cocktail napkin, signing his name with a heart and a flourish.

Husks takes the napkin, glances at it briefly, and slips it into the pocket of his jacket. 

“You gotta be the only person who would’ve taken that as me asking for your body count,” Husk grumbles. “You know I don’t give two shits about any of that.”

Angel’s halfway through his next drink before it hits him fully—Husk isn’t kidding.

He doesn’t give two shits about Angel’s sex life. Doesn’t pry. Doesn’t gawk. Just plain doesn’t care. 

Never has.

2.

As shoots go, today wasn’t bad.

Sure, no one watches porn for the script, and Angel has no doubt most viewers are fast forwarding through the ridiculous, contrived set-ups before the actual fucking starts, but personally, he likes filming those parts.

It’s actually fun. Not just in comparison to the sex scenes, which are boring at best and hellish at worst. But genuinely fun. Angel did always want to be an actor, and down here, filming a scene where he actually gets to keep his clothes on, at least for the first few minutes, is the closest he’s going to get.

So today’s shoot wasn’t bad, but it did have him on his feet, in heels, for just under fourteen hours.

His back is killing him. His legs are screaming. And his feet are in pure agony.

Half-blind with exhaustion, he stumbles into the hotel lobby and throws himself onto the couch, one arm tossed over his eyes and two others dangling towards the floor.

“You doing okay over there?”

It’s Husk’s voice, carrying over from the bar, soft with a note of genuine concern.

In response, Angel simply groans.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“‘M fine,” he mumbles. “Just tired.”

“Can someone give the kid an Oscar? This performance sure has me convinced.”

From the couch, Angel waves his middle finger in Husk’s approximate direction.

“Unless you’re offering me a drink, some ibuprofen, or a foot massage, I don’t wanna hear it.”

Fortunately, that shuts Husk up, and Angel quickly falls into a comfortable doze. By now, the sounds of the hotel are relaxing and familiar: the soft creaking from the ceiling, the clink of glasses at the bar, the occasional footsteps as someone passes by the lobby. It’s almost enough to put Angel into a real, deep sleep.

“Move over.”

It’s Husk’s voice, pulling Angel back to awareness. And just as he was starting to get really comfortable, too.

“You move over,” he mumbles in response. “I was here first.”

Husk merely sighs and lifts Angel's feet so he can sit on the far end of the couch, lowering his legs back on top of his lap.

Husks hands reach toward the zipper on Angel’s boots and Angel freezes. In an instant he’s fully awake, eyes open and mind alert.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

Husk shoots him a confused look.

“Your feet hurt, don’t they?”

For a moment, Angel weighs his options.

Because he’s starred in a scene just like this before. Dozens of them, in fact. He never would’ve guessed that Husk was a foot guy, but he supposes everyone is into a least a little freaky shit.

It always starts as a simple, ostensibly innocent offer, just like this one. Oh, your feet hurt? Here, let me help you. And next thing he knows, Husk’s pupils are blown wide, his breath is coming in sharp, shallow pants, and he’s asking to suck on Angel’s toes or something.

And sure, Angel can turn him down, and Husk’s the rare sort of guy who will take no for an answer. But Angel won’t pretend that the whole situation doesn’t sour his stomach a bit, Husk thinking he’s found some slick, subtle way of getting his hands on Angel. Like he hasn’t seen it all, starred in it all, endured it all before.

But the truth of the matter is that his feet really are killing him. And maybe he’s willing to set aside what little self-respect he has for a minute or two of relief before Husk tries to put the moves on him.

“Yeah, they do,” Angel says at last, flopping back onto the couch and closing his eyes again. “Go ahead, I guess.”

Husk slips off Angel’s boots so slowly and carefully that it borders on reverent, before taking one of his feet in both his hands and getting to work.

And suddenly it’s all Angel can do not to groan. Not in one of those breathy, exaggerated ways he plays up for the camera, but in genuine relief. Husk wastes no time in finding the sorest spots along the arches of his feet and applying just the right amount of pressure.

“That alright?” he asks

Angel cracks open an eye. Husk doesn’t look hungry and eager, but genuinely concerned.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Angel shakes his head.

“Feels really nice,” he murmurs, almost ashamed of himself. Sure, he can playact at ecstasy in even the most compromising of positions, but admitting that he truly, genuinely likes the way someone is touching him, even something chaste and innocent like this, is too vulnerable. Too real.

And it stays that way—chaste and innocent. Husk’s hands never once stray. His brow remains furrowed in concentration, and his eyes never go wide and wanting. And when he’s finished, nearly half an hour later, he doesn’t even suggest that Angel try to pay back the favor.

He just mumbles something about how Angel should really set some better boundaries on set, because Husk doesn’t want to have to keep scraping what’s left of him off the lobby couch, and leaves. Simple as that.

If Angel weren’t floating in the bliss of relief and relaxation, he supposes he’d be perplexed by the whole thing. But instead, he’s asleep before Husk even turns off the lobby lights.

3.

Husk:

I need a favor. Can you come down to the kitchen?

The text comes in on Angel’s phone a little past five in the evening.

Giving Husk his phone number all those weeks back at the bar had been a risk that, for once, hadn’t blown up in Angel’s face. Husk didn’t leak his number online. He didn’t send unsolicited pictures or invite him over for a late-night hookup. Mostly, he texted Angel to complain about the latest nonsense at the hotel, send pictures of Nuggets while Angel was away at work, and occasionally ask him to pick up a few supplies for the bar when he was out on a grocery run.

He didn’t even mind when Angel left his texts unread for hours during a shoot. The first time he’d returned to his dressing room to find a few texts from Husk (Charlie wants us doing this art therapy shit now. I’m never gonna let Niffty get her hands on glitter again.), Angel hands had started shaking. He’d texted this long, rambling apology about how Val didn’t let him have his phone on set and he hadn’t had a chance to read Husk’s texts and he promised that he hadn’t been ignoring him on purpose.  Husk’s response had been short, to the point, and completely revelatory.

I don’t expect you to reply right away, Angel. I know you’re working and you’ll get back to me when you can. Don’t sweat it.

Angel’s not proud of it, but he’d sunk to the floor then, clutching his phone tight to his chest, inexplicably close to tears. The first time Angel had missed a call from Val, Val had thrown his phone off the Vee Tower balcony (“Why do you have this fucking thing if you’re not even going to use it?”) and given him a black eye for good measure.

But Husk wasn’t like that. Now, instead of dread, Angel felt a rush of excitement when he noticed an unread text on his phone. He liked the idea that Husk thought of him when he wasn’t around. Sometimes, sneaking a glance at his phone during breaks on set was the only thing that got him through the work day.

But now, at a little past five in the evening, Angel’s end of the bargain is finally coming due.

Husk is kind and patient. He lets Angel leave his messages unread and massaged his aching feet after that impossibly long shoot. Angel’s not stupid; he knows those sorts of things don’t come for free. So now, at last, Husk is cashing in his favor. Angel is well acquainted with favors. He knows that word only ever means one thing.

And it won’t be awful; he knows that. Husk won’t slap or choke him. Not hard, at least. He isn’t the sort of guy who will get off on watching Angel cry. Beneath his gruff exterior, he’s actually pretty sweet.

He’s sweet, but he’s not an idiot. He knows what he’s owed, and he’s finally come to collect. 

In the kitchen, Angel doesn’t waste any time—better to get this over with quickly. He saunters up to Husk, confident as anything, and snakes his arms around his waist from behind.

And Husk jumps about a foot in the air.

“Christ, Angel! You scared the shit out of me!”

He pushes out of Angel’s hold and turns around to face him.

“That wasn’t funny,” he scolds, “especially right near an open flame. You could’ve burned yourself, idiot.”

And only then does Angel stop and take in his surroundings. Husk doesn’t look excited and knowing, eager for Angel to come onto him. He looks frustrated, wearing a stained apron and gripping onto a wooden spatula. There’s a pot bubbling on the stove, over an open flame, just like Husk had said. The air smells rich and savory; it’s familiar, although Angel can’t quite place it.

“What?” Angel manages.

“What do you mean ‘what?’”

Angel frowns.

“I thought you wanted a favor.”

“I do. This pasta sauce ain’t coming out right and I don’t know how to fix it. Thought you might.”

Angel pauses for a moment, carefully scrutinizing Husk for any indication that this is some strange, contrived innuendo, and comes up empty.

“Your favor,” Angel says slowly, “is that you need help fixing a recipe?”

Husk’s ears flatten and his brow furrows.

“Either help me or don’t. You don’t gotta make me feel like an idiot about it.”

A strange, implacable weight lifts from Angel’s chest.

“Move over, Whiskers. Lemme see what I can do.”

“I’m not wasting good liquor on a pasta sauce,” Husk grumbles.

“It’s called penne alla vodka, dumbass,” Angel shoots back, but there’s no real venom in it. “Not penne alla fucking nothing.”

Husk crosses his arms and frowns, just this side of pouting.

“Vodka doesn’t taste like anything, and the alcohol cooks off. So explain to me how it’s gonna make any difference whether I put in the sauce or not.”

Angel bites back a grin. This is comfortable, bickering with Husk as they make dinner, familiar despite it being the first time. A small, weak part of Angel wishes he could freeze time and live suspended in this moment forever.

“You’ve got cream and you’ve got tomatoes. Functionally, oil and water. The vodka is your emulsifier, which means your sauce is just gonna keep separating until you bite the bullet and let me pour a shot in.”

Husk frowns, but concedes, handing the bottle of vodka over to Angel.

“Good. Now get out of the kitchen so I can cook in peace.”

“But I…”

“I’m not gonna be but ten minutes. This shit actually isn’t that hard when you follow the recipe.”

True to his word, Angel emerges from the kitchen ten minutes later with two steaming plates in hand. He places them down and joins Husk at the table, and watches, perhaps with a bit too much fascination, as Husk takes a bite.

Husk’s eyes go wide and the tension bleeds from his shoulders. There’s nothing like a good meal at the end of a long day, and Angel doesn’t want to think too much about the warm curl of satisfaction in his stomach at knowing that meal is his.

“That’s damn good, kid,” Husk says, voice suddenly softer and lower than usual.

Angel doesn’t even want to say “I told you so.” The moment is too quiet and fragile for that.

“I’ll make you something else next time.”

The words hang heavy in the air, holding a weight Angel can’t quite make sense of.

“Sure, but the dishes are on me. You cook, I clean. That’s only fair.”

For a brief, all-consuming moment, Angel wants to kiss Husk stupid.

And it’s not until late that night, when Angel’s half asleep, that the realization hits him in full.

He meant to make that goddamn pasta for me, didn’t he?

Chapter Text

4.

Things get easier after that night in the kitchen. Not easy, but easier.

Work is still torture, sometimes literally, and Angel still can’t call his soul his own, and Husk still gets that half-angry, half-worried frown when Angel stumbles into the hotel, bruised and exhausted, well past midnight.

It’s not easy. People like Angel don’t get easy.

But Angel makes dinner for the two of them more nights than not, and Husk does the dishes without complaint. Husk keeps sending Angel texts throughout the day, and Angel has to fight a smile whenever his name appears on the screen. Once, Husk shoves Angel in the shoulder after some bad joke, and Angel doesn’t even flinch at the touch.

Not easy, but easier.

And Angel gets comfortable. Too comfortable. So comfortable that he leaves his phone face up on the table in his dressing room, instead of burying it in the bottom of his bag like usual, and the notifications blinking across the screen catch Val’s attention when he stops by.

Husk

You know any good soup recipes? Been in a soup mood lately

Husk

Let’s do potato leek soup tonight. I’ll run by the store on my break.

Husk

I’m sure your chunky little hellhog will like the potato peelings

Val reads the texts to Angel, aloud, his voice shaking with rage, and Angel doesn’t even have time to brace for it before Val has smashed his phone against the floor, and Angel himself soon after.

Angel tries to explain. Husk is a friend. Hardly a friend, really. An acquaintance. They’ve been taking turns making dinner at the hotel. Angel isn’t sleeping around. It’s not what it looks like. Friends, that’s all.

Val doesn’t listen. He’s beaten Angel bloody over far less, and tonight, he really lets him have it.

“You backstabbing whore! You’ll fuck anyone who will give you the time of day, huh? You’re running around playing house with some bitch at that hotel, like I don’t fucking own you.”

Angel gives up on trying to explain; his split lip makes it hard to speak clearly, anyway. With fights like this, when Val is really worked up, the only thing Angel can do is go limp and pliant and wait until Val tires himself out.

Time always slows during one of these beatings, fear stretching out each moment to an impossible length. Every blow is drawn-out and distinct and hyper-real, a build up of terror to an explosion of pain. Some of his sharpest, clearest memories are of Val hitting him.

Maybe that’s the point.

Val does get tired eventually, and leaves Angel a trembling heap on the dressing room floor after a final, brutal kick to his ribs.

Angel presses his face against the cool linoleum, trying to get a grip. Either he manages to drag himself off of the floor and return to the hotel, or he spends the night curled up in his dressing room. No one is going to swoop in and save him; when it comes right down to it, the only person he has to rely on is himself.

Eventually, he stumbles back to the hotel. It’s later than he usually gets in, and Fat Nuggets will no doubt be upset about his delayed dinner, but tonight, it’s the best he’s got. He just wants a hot shower, and then to lie down in bed and get so perfectly, blissfully high that all of this feels like a bad dream.

“Angel?”

Angel flinches at the sound, still panicked and jumpy, but it’s just Husk, staring at him with wide eyes from behind the bar. Right—Angel still owes him dinner.

“Sorry I made you wait,” he says. He tries for light and casual, but the performance falls flat, even to his own ears. “I can probably get food on the table in a half hour if I hurry.”

For a long moment, Husk just stands there with that same wide-eyed stare. When he finally does speak, his voice is soft and shaking.

“What happened?”

Angel is suddenly so achingly tired. He doesn’t have it in him to try to explain, so he ignores the question and heads to the kitchen.

But Husk is right behind him.

“What did he do to you?”

There’s a bag of potatoes on the counter, and Angel grabs a peeler from the drawer. He tries to start peeling one, but his hands are still shaking so badly that he can’t get a clean slice.

Husk reaches out and places a hand on top of Angel’s, stopping him. Angel makes the mistake of looking into Husk’s eyes, warm and worried and kind, and he’s suddenly struggling to breathe.

“It’s almost ten at night. I ordered takeout about an hour ago. I’m not asking you to cook me dinner this late.”

Angel nods, not trusting his voice to stay steady.

“I got you drunken noodles,” Husk continues. “Let me heat them up and I’ll bring them up to your room.”

Back in his room, Angel feeds Nuggets his dinner, splashes some water on his face, and changes into pajamas before Husk comes in with a warmed bowl of noodles and a pair of chopsticks. Angel’s halfway through his food before Husk tries to broach the subject again.

“So what happened?”

Angel pauses with the chopsticks halfway to his mouth.

“What does it look like?” he replies, and this time he almost pulls off the nonchalance. “I got my shit rocked.”

Husk’s mouth flattens into a thin line.

“Val beat you again.”

Angel shrugs.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Husk offers.

“What’s there to talk about? Val looks through my phone, Val gets pissed, Val smacks me around. Beginning, middle, end. Is that narrative arc satisfying enough for you?”

“He looked through your phone?” Husk echoes.

Something must show in Angel’s expression, because a look of horrified realization comes across Husk’s face.

“It was me, wasn’t it? He saw that we’d been texting and that’s what set him off. Christ, Angel, I’m—

“Don’t apologize,” Angel cuts in. “It ain’t like you were texting me anything you shouldn’t have. Val’s just the sort of guy who thinks that I’m trying to fuck anybody I so much as look at.”

Husk shakes his head. 

“Still, I gotta be more careful. Shouldn’t text you so much when you’re on the clock.”

“No.”

Angel surprises himself with his vehemence.

“I like hearing from you, Whiskers,” he continues. “If I gotta deal with Val losing his shit every once in a while, that’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

“He gave you a split lip and a bloody nose,” Husk counters. “You walked into the hotel looking scared of your own shadow.”

Angel knows all about deals, about contracts, about debt. He knows what it means to play things risky with someone like Val; he’s got the fresh bruises to prove it.

Tonight won’t be the last time Val’s going to come collect. It won’t be the worst time, either, not by a long shot.

“Doesn’t change my answer. It’s still a price I’m willing to pay.”

5.

Angel had hoped that Val would’ve cooled off before work the next day, but if anything, the distance only sharpened his cruelty into something colder and more precise.

He puts Angel through hell. And he gets all of it on camera, sparing no angle of his misery.

But that’s not the worst of it. The worst is when Val pulls him aside to talk, under the guise of giving him notes on his performance.

“You’ve been in this game too long to be this stupid, baby. You really think that washed-up bartender likes you for your personality? You’ve got plenty of good qualities, doll, but they’re not exactly on the inside, are they?”

“You’re a whore, Angel. You think he sees anything else when he looks at you? Self delusion isn’t usually your style.”

“If he’s satisfied with my sloppy seconds, I guess he can have what’s left of you at the end of the day.”

“And when he gets tired of you, I’ll let you come crawling back and try to make it up to me. Because I’m all you’ve got, sweetheart. I’m the only one who’s gonna put up with your shit.”

By the time the shoot wraps for the day, Angel is hollowed out and raw in more ways than one. Walking home, he feels more exposed than he ever does on camera; he’s certain that anyone who looks at him can see every filthy, awful thing he is with one glance. He just wants to go home, put on some trashy reality TV, and bury his face in Nuggets’ side, away from everyone.

What he doesn’t want is to get roped into a bullshit party Charlie’s throwing to celebrate some meaningless achievement in Baxter’s redemption.

But Charlie’s never been one to take no for an answer—not where the hotel’s involved, at least. So Angel finds himself nursing a drink against the wall of the lobby, watching the clock as he calculates just how much longer he has to hang around before he can sneak upstairs unnoticed

“Why the long face, kid?”

It’s Husk, joining Angel at the fringes of the party. He mirrors his posture—leaned up against the wall with a drink cradled in one hand.

“Gee, I don’t know,” Angel snaps. “Surely couldn’t have nothing to do with Val smacking the ever loving shit out of me last night.”

A look of shock and hurt flashes across Husk’s face, so raw Angel almost softens enough to apologize. But only almost.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Husk says softly. “That was a pretty stupid question.”

They fall quiet for a moment. Maybe if Angel stands here long enough, silent and unmoving, Husk will take the hint and leave him alone.

“You should go dance,” Husk says finally.

“What?”

“You love to dance. It’s a party. Let’s put everything aside for an hour or two and go enjoy ourselves.”

Something hot and furious bubbles up in Angel’s stomach, flushing his skin and making his breath come fast and shallow.

“Yeah, you’d fucking love that, wouldn’t you? Sorry, honey, but I don’t dance for free.”

Husk stands in shocked silence for a long moment before he manages to reply.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“No,” Angel spits, the fury throbbing in time with his heartbeat until the whole room pulses with it, “it’s never what you mean, is it? You’re so careful. You’re so sweet. So you’ve always got this bullshit deniability to fall back on, right?”

“What exactly are you trying to say?” Husk says, his voice a low growl.

“I’m saying that I’m an expensive whore, sure, but this gentleman shit ain’t gonna get you a discount.”

Husk reels back as if he’s been slapped.

“That was completely fucking uncalled for.” Husk still doesn’t raise his voice, but it’s shaking with anger all the same. “You know that’s not what I think of you. I’m sure your day was hell, but you don’t get to take it out on me.”

“I’m not taking anything out on you. You’re the one always telling me to quit being fake, right? To drop the act. All I’m doing is giving you the same advice. Stop acting like you’re some white fucking knight. Stop acting like you’re any different.”

Husk’s eyes go impossibly wider with some awful mixture of hurt and betrayal.

“You don’t get to do that, Angel,” he hisses. “You don’t get to lump me in with the sick fucks who hurt you. I’ve never once done you wrong like that, and it ain’t my fault that you’re so fucked up!”

Some deep, twisted part of Angel cries out in victory. Finally, Husk admits it. That to him, Angel’s nothing but a fuck up. Damaged goods. Sure, patching him up was fun the first few times, but the novelty wears off fast. It’s like Val said; only one person in Hell is willing to put up with him. Only one person stays.

Angel’s about to start crying, and he refuses to give Husk the satisfaction of seeing it, so he turns and leaves without another word, dropping his drink in a nearby trash can, glass and all.

Chapter Text

1.

But storming out isn’t that simple. Nothing is, anymore. Not since Husk.

He’s behind Angel from the second he leaves the lobby, following him up the stairs to the guest rooms.

“Fuck off!” Angel shouts, not even bothering to turn his head. He isn’t sure he could bear to look Husk in the eye right now.

“Like hell I will!” Husk shouts back. Angel’s aware, distantly, of the sounds of the party growing quiet behind them, no doubt in response to the scene they’re making, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Angel stops at the door to his room, whipping around to really give Husk a piece of his mind, but he hesitates. He doesn’t know what he was expecting to see in Husk’s expression, but it wasn’t this.

He’s angry, sure, Angel could’ve guessed as much. But he also looks confused and more than a little hurt. Not in that overdramatic, crocodile tears way Val would always use to guilt Angel into forgiving him, but genuinely hurt.

But Angel knows better than to trust appearances.

“I told you to fuck off, Whiskers. I’m not in the mood.”

“Well I wasn’t in the mood to have this stupid fight to begin with,” Husk shoots back, “but if we’re gonna fight, let’s have it out. No one’s ever fixed shit by storming off in a big, dramatic huff.”

That isn’t enough to completely put the brakes on Angel’s anger, but it’s unexpected enough to slow him down, at least.

“‘Have it out?’” Angel echoes. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means you tell me what all that bullshit was about back there instead of expecting me to read your mind! ‘Cause from where I’m standing, things were fine between us last night, and then today I’m just like every other scumbag who’s ever done you wrong, and I don’t have one singular goddamn idea how that happened.”

Angel hesitates for a moment, considering Husk carefully. For all his bluster, the hurt bleeds through his voice, stronger than ever.

“That’s really all you want?” Angel says softly. “You just wanna know what I’m mad about?”

“It’s a start, at least. Can’t make something right if I don’t even know what went wrong.”

And just like that, the fight goes out of Angel entirely, and he makes an odd, choked sound, half-laughter, half-sob.

“You drive me absolutely fucking crazy,” he says, crying in earnest now. “I blow up at you over nothing, and all you wanna do is make things right with me. I mean, you have this perfectly good staircase you could’ve pushed me down right here.”

Husk’s eyes go wide and shocked.

“Angel, I’d never put my hands on you, let alone—

“I know! That’s the point! Any other guy I’ve known, if I pulled that shit with them, I’d be picking my teeth up off the floor. But not you; you just want to fix it, and it ain’t even your fault.”

And then another realization, sudden and even more profound, hits him.

“And all this time, you never once were actually coming on to me.” Angel says it slowly, still struggling to make sense of it all. “It was never about double entendres or deniability or any of that shit. You’ve been nothing but genuine. Since the very beginning.”

Husk huffs a little half-laugh, half-sigh.

“You’ve really gotta get out of your own damn head, you know that? No, I haven’t been coming on to you on the sly. Is that what this whole stupid thing was about?”

“Sort of,” Angel admits softly. “At least a little.”

Husk shakes his head.

“I’m too old to play games, Angel. If I were gonna come on to you, you would know."

And just like that, a strange crackle of energy electrifies the air, like the moment right before a lightning strike. A prickling sensation begins on the back of Angel’s neck and his heart starts beating a little harder. He swears he even catches the scent of ozone.

“Yeah?” he prompts, voice coming out breathier than he intended. “And how exactly would you do that? Come onto me, I mean.”

Husk meets Angel’s eyes, honest and open.

“I’d just ask if I could take you to bed.”

Despite all the unabashed filth Angel’s heard over the years, those words alone send a rush of liquid heat into his stomach.

“Is that purely an example?” he asks, voice hardly more than a rough whisper. “Or are you really asking?”

“Depends. Which would you rather it be?”

Angel is kissing Husk before he even realizes what he’s doing. His hands move of their own accord, sinking deep into the downy fur behind Husk’s ears, and his mouth is no better, chasing Husk’s lips with a strange mix of desperation and reverence. And Husk gives as good as he gets it—of course he does, he’s never been one to back down where Angel is concerned—pulling Angel closer and deepening the kiss.

When they at last pull back, breathing hard, Husk’s voice comes out low and gravelly.

“You sure about this?”

“Alive or dead, I’ve never once been more sure of anything.”

Husk scrutinizes Angel’s face carefully, then nods to himself.

“One rule, though,” he says, as Angel leads them into his room. “No bullshit.”

Too desperate to hold back any longer, Angel goes to kiss Husk again, but Husk stops him with a hand against his chest.

“I’m serious,” he says, and though his eyes are wide with want, his tone is firm. “Ain’t no cameras here, so I don’t want some performance. I just want you.”

Were Angel not a trained professional, his knees would’ve buckled then and there.

“Yeah,” Angel breathes, “yeah, okay. No bullshit. Christ, how much longer are you gonna make me wait?”

Husk pushes Angel back onto the bed, and crawls on top of him, straddling his hips. His grin is feral and hungry.

“As long as I please,” he murmurs into the softness of Angel’s neck, “and you’d shut up about it if you had any sense.”

Angel giggles. No exaggerated moaning like he would for some shitty porn dialogue. He just giggles, because he likes this side of Husk, the side that’s a little bossy, always fighting for control. Because it’s fun, kissing him, hands roaming everywhere. Because he’s happy.

“When have I ever had any sense?” Angel shoots back, just before Husk kisses the smirk right off of his face.

Husk’s hands are practiced and confident, caressing Angel’s body with a commanding surety that’s starting to make him come undone. His mouth is even worse, seeking out sensitive spots along the column of his neck and refusing to relent until Angel is a squirming, whining mess beneath him.

“I swear to God,” Angel manages, just this side of a whimper. “If you don’t get me out of these clothes in the next ten seconds, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

At that, Husk’s ministrations stop entirely. When Angel opens his eyes, Husk is sitting back on his heels, one eyebrow arched.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Angel whines. “Get back here.”

Husk grins like Angel played right into his hand, and it sends a rush of heat coursing through his body.

“You’re giving me a lot of orders, huh?” Husk teases.

“Not orders. Just asking, that’s all. Husk, please.”

Angel’s aware, distantly, that the want is so all-consuming that he can’t put together a full sentence anymore. He might be embarrassed about it, if he had the presence of mind for that sort of thing right now.

“If you like calling the shots so much,” Husk continues, in that same light, lilting tone, “why don’t you tell me what you want? I’ll give you anything you ask, but you gotta ask for it.”

Angel can’t remember the last time anyone asked what he wanted done to him. Sex was always a matter of endurance, of putting up with the pain and the fear and the degradation as long as was necessary. It should feel good, for someone to finally give him control.

It doesn’t.

It’s paralyzing. He freezes, heart hammering against his sternum and mind totally blank. For the first time in years—decades, maybe—he’s given a choice. With a certainty he can’t explain, he knows he’s going to make the wrong one.

“Hey? Angel?” It’s Husk’s voice, but with none of the playfulness from earlier. He sounds scared. “Shit, Angel, what did I do? Are you hurt?”

Angel manages to open his eyes, and Husk’s expression is drawn and frightened. Angel doesn’t like that; he doesn’t want Husk to be afraid. He wants to be the one who caused it even less.

“Sorry,” he manages, voice raspy but at least not a whisper. “Sorry, Husk, I just kind of… I don’t know. I’m feeling better now. It’s okay.”

Husk doesn’t move.

“What happened to ‘no bullshit?’”

“Huh?”

“Bullshit you’re ‘feeling better now.’ You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s going on?”

The problem, Angel realizes, is that he does want this. He wants it so much it might drive him crazy. But he’s still going to balk every now and then, because he’s too fucked up not to. And that’s what sex will be, a jerky, frustrating start and stop as he tries to balance desire and fear.

Either that, or he can do what he does best; he can put on a carefully crafted performance. He can slip into that persona, the one who doesn’t know terror or pain. The one who’s game for anything, because he doesn’t have the choice not to be.

“It’s okay, baby,” Angel croons. “You just get me so worked up, that’s all. Lost my head for a second, but it’s all good.”

Husk’s face falls.

“Yeah, nope. We’re definitely not doing that.”

For a brief, terrifying moment, Angel thinks Husk is going to leave, but he doesn’t. He just sits on the edge of the bed, regarding Angel carefully.

“Look,” Husk continues, “I wanna keep going. Won’t pretend about that. But I need you to level with me. What’s going on?”

Angel hesitates for a moment, humiliation growing ever-larger in his chest.

“Should I not have been teasing you?” Husk asks, the tender concern in his voice almost unbearable. “I was just messing around. I don’t actually care about those stupid power plays.”

Angel buries his face in his hands and groans.

“This shit makes about as much sense to me as it does to you, Whiskers. I don’t know, okay? I don’t know why I freaked out. I don’t know why I do half the shit that I do. But it’s like you said downstairs—ain’t your fault that I’m so fucked up.”

Husk grimaces.

“I shouldn’t have said it like that, huh? ‘Cause it ain’t your fault either. But if we’re serious about whatever this is between us, we’re gonna have to deal with it regardless.”

For a moment, Angel is speechless.

“You still wanna give it a shot?” he asks softly. “Even though the first time we try and fuck, I have to go and ruin the mood like this?”

Husk laughs, just a low rumble in his chest.

“Speak for yourself,” he shoots back. “I’m still so turned on I can’t hardly think straight.”

A wave of affection swells and crests in Angel’s chest, so overwhelming that he’s kissing Husk again without a second thought. Husk reciprocates, gentle but not hesitant. Somehow, Angel managed not to scare him off.

“Angel,” Husk pants between kisses. “Wanna put my mouth on you.”

Angel groans at that, but when he doesn’t say anything more, Husk continues.

“Please, sweetheart?”

And suddenly Angel can’t get undressed fast enough. Husk actually laughs at him, half tripping out of his pants, and Angel can’t help but laugh too.

Husk’s mouth is soft and hot, and his focus is so singular that Angel actually blushes under the intensity. When this is all said and done, if Angel can ever again manage a full, coherent thought, he needs to know exactly how Husk got so good at this. He’s so attentive, so determined to find every possible spot that will bring Angel undone, and so relentless once he does.

Angel tries to warn Husk when he gets close, but Husk simply looks up at him, a gleam of determination in his eyes, and that’s all it takes. The pleasure is sudden and all-consuming and impossibly, entirely good. It’s not like in a film shoot or with a client, when any enjoyment he gleans is soured by a constant undercurrent of pain and disgust. It’s just good, pure and uncomplicated.

By the time Angel comes back to himself, Husk has pulled him close and is gently stroking his neck and shoulders, as if everything’s finished. Angel can’t abide that.

“What about you?” he insists.

“‘M fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Angel frowns.

“Absolutely not. I won’t have you walking away from our first time thinking I’m selfish.”

“Who said anything about walking away? I’m perfectly comfortable right here.”

“I’m serious!”

Husk sighs.

“I, uh, took care of it already.”

Angel scrutinizes Husk carefully for a moment, then laughs.

“Seriously? You finished just from—”

Husk slaps a hand over his mouth to cut him off.

“You don’t have to announce it to the whole neighborhood,” he growls, but Angel can hear the smile beneath his words. “It’s been a little while, and it doesn’t help that you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Angel buries his face in Husk’s shoulder, grinning.

“Besides,” Husk continues. “The important thing is that you know I’m a man of my word.”

“How do you mean?”

“If I’m gonna come onto you, you’ll know. Can’t be much ambiguity left now.”

Angel laughs.

“I don’t know. You might have to try again. Just to be sure.”