Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beneath the hellish sky, the neon glow of Pentagram City bled into puddles of acid rain, staining the cracked pavement in garish reds, purples, gaudy pinks, and electric blues. A Technicolor haze flickered through plumes of dirty exhaust and the occasional burst of billowing flames. Husk walked with his hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets, ears flicking at the usual city noises—sirens wailing, distant shouting, back-alley fucking, and the occasional gunshot. The kind of sounds that told people like him to keep their heads down and mind their own damn business.

And right now, his business was real risky.

Sneaking off for a weekly fuck in a rundown motel tucked behind the city's filthier streets wasn’t the dangerous part. Husk had been tangled up in enough bad decisions to know how to cover his tracks, and he could handle any low-life stupid enough to pick a fight. It was who he was meeting that made it dangerous.

Angel Dust. Valentino’s Angel Dust.

Husk scoffed under his breath, heat searing beneath his skin at the thought. Like that bastard owned him. Like anybody should own anybody the way Valentino owned Angel. But was Husk really any better? He was an overlord, just like Valentino, staking claims and making deals, turning debts into shackles. Maybe he liked to think of himself as a shade of grey instead of rotting, soulless black, but the truth was harder to ignore.

Hell, this whole thing had started because Valentino had pushed the doped-up porn star at him after a bad night in the casino. Husk hadn’t thought twice about accepting—one night with Angel had been just another transaction, another way to make a dent in Valentino’s never-ending tab.

But it hadn’t stopped at one night.

Ever the addict, Husk had found himself making arrangement after arrangement, craving Angel’s company outside the bedroom as much as within it. He’d been fucked the moment Angel’s laughter had stopped being background noise. It got so bad he could hardly work without thinking about him—wanting him, needing his smile. Needing to keep him away from cruel hands and rough johns.

He should’ve cut it off the moment it started. He’d told himself that plenty of times. One look at the way Valentino paraded Angel around, clung to him like a prized possession, should’ve been warning enough. Husk wasn’t a fucking idiot—this wasn’t some street whore he could throw cash at without consequences. Valentino was possessive, and he was the one Angel belonged to.

It was stupid to risk Valentino’s wrath over a cheap thrill—over a few hours in a shitty motel with a man who wasn’t his to have. But Husk kept showing up. And he knew damn well why.

Yeah, the sex was great. Hell, better than great—Angel knew exactly what he was doing, and he wasn’t shy about making his wants known. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t what had Husk shoving his way through dark alleyways, taking the long route to avoid prying eyes.

He liked Angel. A lot more than he ever meant to. More than he’d ever believed he was possible of liking anyone. 

The guy was trouble, no doubt. Loud, crass, all false, flashy sensuality and snide remarks. But Husk saw through all that. Angel could light up a whole goddamn room just by walking in, like he carried a spotlight over his head. He had a way of making people laugh even when they didn’t want to. A way of making Husk laugh, when Husk had long since forgotten how.

And beneath all the jokes, all the smutty one-liners and pushy flirting, there was someone so beautifully real that walls had to be constructed to protect hell from him. Something about Angel's attitude, the depth of spite and sharpness, could destroy anyone stupid enough to get on the wrong side of him. But within all of that there was a kindness that felt misplaced in Hell. A strength Husk couldn’t help but admire. Angel had been through hell—more than Husk could probably imagine—and still walked around so confidently, like he owned the place. Like nothing could touch him. Even when Husk knew damn well that wasn’t true.

His tail flicked behind him as he turned onto a quieter street, the dim glow of the motel sign just ahead. He wasn’t in love with Angel. At least, he didn’t think he was. But fuck, it sure felt that way sometimes.

The flashing motel sign was only a block away when Husk caught the tingle of scented smoke sinking into his fur.  Faintly sweet like the strawberries Angel so often smelt like, pungently floral with carnal undertones that left his mind fogged at the edges. He’d scrunched his nose at that smell enough times to know exactly who had just fallen into step beside him.

"Such a gentleman," a smooth, honeyed voice lilted. "Always so punctual."

Husk didn’t startle, didn’t break stride, though his eyes rolled in irritation. Nothing good ever came from finding Valentino waiting for him—especially when he was on his way to meet Angel. An uneasy twist coiled in his gut, not for himself but for what this might mean for Angel. He pushed the thought aside and forced his expression into something easy, indifferent. Shifting his cigarette between his teeth, he slid a glance toward the towering figure keeping pace with him.

Valentino loomed at least four feet taller, broad-shouldered and effortlessly poised beneath the long, red-winged coat draped magnificently over him. Wicked charm gleamed off his pointed teeth, their natural glow heightened in the streetlights, dull light glinting off his single golden tooth. But it wasn’t his grin that put Husk most on edge. It was his eyes. Those glowering, viciously red slits softened by his wide heart shaped glasses that put Husk most on edge. 

Husk exhaled smoke through his nose, burning out Valentino’s scent to clear his head. "Evening, ‘Tino," he drawled, tipping an imaginary hat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Val chuckled, tsking like Husk had just said something funny. "Aw, come on, baby, no need to be so formal," he crooned. "We’re practically business partners at this point."

Husk feigned amusement, quirking a brow as he took another slow drag from his cigarette. "That so?"

"Oh, absolutely. Numbers don’t lie, mi amigo. You’ve been puttin’ a lot of time and money into my star performer." Valentino’s grin widened, a predator baring his fangs at the scent of his prey. "Got yourself a real expensive habit lately."

Husk clenched his jaw around the cigarette. There it was. Even expecting it, even bracing for it, he couldn’t stop the way his fur bristled, tail sweeping wide across the pavement. He kept his face carefully neutral, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "I pay for my time. In full. Like anybody else." He flicked ash onto the sidewalk. "Nothin’ to be concerned about."

"Mm." Valentino hummed, unconvinced. His lips curled at the corners, gloating. Dangerous. "Sure about that? ‘Cause I gotta say, you do seem to be gettin’ a little… attached."

Husk let out a short laugh, all dry amusement. "That what you think? Nah, pal. I just like consistency in my whores." The word sat bitter on his tongue, a truth that didn’t feel right anymore. He gave Valentino a sidelong glance. "You know. Stick with what works."

Valentino nodded slowly, as if in understanding, then draped a hand over Husk’s shoulder. Casual. Like they were old friends. "That’s real sweet," he murmured. "But see, I like to keep my assets versatile. Can’t have a client thinkin’ he owns one of my products. Gettin’ too comfortable. Thinkin’ they get special treatment."

Husk ignored the disgust curdling in his gut. "Never asked for special treatment, just what I pay for."

"No, but you are askin’ for somethin’ more." Valentino’s voice turned low, slipping beneath Husk’s skin like the brush of a blade. "You’ve been enjoying keepin' my Angel all to yourself, verdad?"

A pause. Long enough to make Husk’s feathers rustle. Long enough for his ears to press back against his head.

Valentino grinned. "That boy’s been catchin’ feelings," he purred, grip tightening on Husk’s shoulder. "And I can’t have that, baby.” No one took what was his. No one else laid claim to the heart he’d tended and body he’d cultivated so carefully. “I won’t have that."

Husk didn’t react. He couldn’t. Valentino wasn’t stupid—he was toying with him, waiting for a tell, an opening, anything to justify tightening the leash around Angel’s neck. Instead, Husk just smirked, took a lazy drag, and rolled his shoulder out from Valentino’s grip. "Ain’t my problem," he muttered.

Valentino’s eyes gleamed. "Oh, but it’s about to be."

The movement was quick. A flick of Valentino’s wrist. A glass vial uncorked. A rush of acrid sweetness flooded Husk’s senses before he even felt the sting of the needle against his neck. Pure, undiluted venom. He barely had time to snarl before the ragged inhale filled his lungs with tainted air that curled deep in his chest like an infection. His body lurched. His muscles seized, then melted, heat flooding his veins so fast it made his breath hitch.

"The fuck—" The words clawed from his throat, ragged, caught between a gasp and a growl. "What did you—‘Tino—what the fuck is this?" The demand wavered, weakened, drowned in the bile rising in his throat.

Husk staggered, reaching blindly for the wall, for something to ground him as the world blurred, as Valentino’s voice dripped into his ears, thick and sticky as honey. “Don’t fight it, gatito,” Valentino whispered, fingers hooking under Husk’s chin, tilting his head just so. “Just let it take you.”

His body was on fire, his pulse slamming through him in thick, heavy waves. His skin was too tight, his breath too shallow. Heat and lustful need coiled low in his gut, clawing, snarling, demanding. 

No! Husk gritted his teeth, fighting to keep his mind tethered, but his body—his body—was already betraying him. His claws flexed, his breath deepened as his tongue curled over his lips, and through the red haze swallowing his vision, the neon motel sign glowed in the distance like a beacon.

Guiding. Waiting for him. And so was Angel. Sweet, beautiful Angel. Irresistible. 

Valentino leaned in close, his breath saccharine heat over Husk’s ear, his voice velvet-slick and satisfied. “Go on, baby,” he purred. “Make my Angel scream.”

~.~

The motel room was bathed in the soft glow of yellowed light, casting long, twisting shadows across cracked walls. Neon bled through the grimy windows, streaking hazy pinks and blues over threadbare sheets, turning decay into something almost dreamlike. And on the old bed at its center, Angel stretched out against the mattress, one arm bent lazily behind his head, the other grazing the inside of his bare thigh while he waited.

He listened. To the distant thrum of the city, the clank of old pipes in thin walls, the low, steady hum of the fan overhead. The air reeked of stale smoke and cheap perfume—cover scents he’d long since learned to live with.

It wasn’t glamorous. But it was theirs.

A place away from prying eyes and loose lips. A place where time together wasn’t just business—even if Husk paid, even if Angel took the money. Because here, Husk wasn’t a powerful overlord. And in this dirty little room, Angel wasn’t a high-profile escort. Here, in the soft glow of secrecy, whatever the fuck this was between them belonged to them alone.

Angel had the receipts to prove it. Every transaction. Legit bookings, perfectly documented. If anyone asked, it was just business. They could have kept it simple, stuck with the casino penthouse, but too many whispers in the bustling casino could draw too much attention and ruin everything.

Husk’s name was in the books just enough—a once-a-month, above-board hire. But for these nights, for the ones that mattered, the ones that happened too often—carefully chosen aliases filled Angel’s schedule. Simple names, nothing that would stand out. Just enough to keep Val from noticing how often Husk was buying time with him.

Not that Val really looked at the names beyond glancing for repeats. He just counted the cash and sent Angel where he was told with the order to make his efforts worth the clients’ time. And that was safer. Less complicated. Because for all his faults, Val noticed when someone else got too much of Angel’s attention. If Angel was happily meeting with the same client over and over again? Val would act.

Angel knew the risks of getting close to anyone, especially another Overlord. He knew what happened when Val’s jealousy spiraled. He knew the price of loving anyone. He wasn’t stupid. This whole thing with Husk? It was reckless. Dangerous. And worst of all, it was thrilling.

Sneaking around like he couldn’t get caught, playing with fire as if he’d never get burned—it was an addiction wrapped in sparkling, sharp-edged gift paper. A high he couldn’t stop chasing, grasping at even as it crinkled in his grip, leaving paper cuts along his fingers. But he liked the way it stung.

The rush, the danger—the sheer fun of it all. It got him hard just thinking about it. And when he thought about it like a gift, it didn’t feel like a double-edged blade waiting to twist through his heart. It didn’t feel like something that could gut him. When he compared it to all his other addictions, it was easier to accept that one of these nights, he might get a bad hit.

All he had to do was focus on the excitement. The thrill. And until recently, that had been easy. But somewhere along the way, the fun had changed. He didn’t know when. Didn’t know how. But it wasn’t just about the sex anymore. Something in the way Husk looked at him had shifted. The quiet admiration in his gaze, the way his touch lingered—soft, unhurried—like Angel was more than a coked-up, fuckable toy. Husk treated him the way Val used to. Like there were stars in his eyes. Like Angel deserved to be cherished.

Angel had missed that feeling. The way it softened the walls he lived behind and cushioned the blows life constantly dealt him. It wouldn’t last. Angel knew that. Eventually, the glass walls he’d built would shatter. But that didn’t stop his heart from fluttering every time Husk brushed his lips across his knuckles. Didn’t stop him from craving the way Husk always gave more than he took.

And some foolish, desperate part of him wanted the impossible to last. To live inside the fantasy his lovestruck heart was stitching across his thoughts as if it would never unravel

An electronic beep drifted through wood and the door handle rattled. 

Angel smiled, eyes bright with mischief as he rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, tossing his hair just a bit. Legs stretched out, posed. His arm moved along his lithe form, fingers curling over his hip. A picture of sensuality, lovely and warm against the dismal backdrop of the motel room.

The door swung open, heavy on its hinges. Angel expected the rough drawl of Husk’s voice, some gruff complaint about whining patrons or a teasing call. Instead, a dark silhouette trembled in the doorway, breath heavy, ragged. A low growl reverberated through its broad chest as darkened, predatory eyes narrowed. 

They hadn’t discussed roleplay for tonight, but Angel was more than happy to wing it. He trusted Husk, knew he was safe no matter how Husk wanted to play. Angel sat up, lips curling into a smirk, a playful tease on the tip of his tongue—until he got a good look at Husk’s face as he stepped into the light.

His stomach twisted. His words caught in his throat. 

Husk always walked with lazy confidence, a sluggish sort of ease. This wasn’t that. His shoulders were hunched, his tail flicking erratically. His pupils were blown wide, golden irises swallowed by the darkness eating at the edges of his stare. And when he looked at Angel, it wasn’t with the usual warmth hidden beneath his gruff exterior. It was hunger.

Angel’s pulse thundered in his ears, an instinctive spike of unease rushing through his veins. Husk never looked at him like that. “Husk?” Angel sat up, instinctively drawing his knees toward his chest. It felt wrong to protect himself in Husk’s presence, like something was fracturing. “You okay?”

A twitch of the nose. Husk inhaled deeply through flaring nostrils, catching his scent. His claws flexed, curling against the air before scraping against his palms. But in his eyes—a tremble, a flicker of fear, so brief Angel might’ve imagined it. And then it was gone. Replaced by a gaze that locked onto Angel like he was starving. Like Husk wasn’t seeing him—just something to be devoured.

Angel’s breath caught. A ripple of unease crawled up his spine, sinking into his bones, a primal warning that something was wrong. “Husk?” His own legs were stiff as they swung over the bed, struggling to hold him upright. It felt wrong to be naked now, like he was too vulnerable. “Baby, what’s going on?”

Husk leaned back on his heels, as if every part of him wanted to turn and run away. His ears flattened, his body rigid as a tremor shuddered through him, and then—a whimper. A low, pitiful thing buried beneath the growl rattling in his throat. “I- I can’t.” The words were muttered, broken, lost under the hungry snarl curling over his lips.

Angel took a step forward, careful, cautious. “We ain’t gotta do anything you don’t wanna do.” His voice was soft, calming despite the way his throat tightened. “Just talk to me, yeah?”

Run. Every survival instinct screamed at him, but his heart ignored the stones raining down onto the ceiling of the glass house he’d been living in. He wasn’t dealing with some stranger or asshole john. This was Husk. Husk, who touched him like he was delicate. Husk, who made him laugh when no one else could. Husk, who—

Husk moved fast. Faster than he should have.

Angel barely had time to react before rough, desperate fingers closed around his arms, yanking him forward like he weighed nothing. Pain. A sharp, searing jolt as claws dug too deep into his wrists. “Hey—Hey!” Angel struggled, twisting against the forceful grip, but Husk just growled—low, guttural, not Husk at all.

“On the bed,” Husk snarled. The command cracked through the air, splitting against Angel’s skull like a gunshot. Long trails of spit hung from Husk’s sharpened teeth, his breath hot and fast, heavy with something dangerous. His grip was steel, unyielding, but in his eyes—fearful remorse. 

Something was wrong. Husk had never ordered him before, not in a tone that left him shaking. Not like this. Husk had never hurt him. Even when they played rough, there were always careful hands, teasing smirks, and safe control. But this wasn’t Husk. This wasn’t right.

A surge of panic coiled in Angel’s chest as his fingers trembled against Husk’s fur. “We ain’t doin’ this tonight,” he said carefully, watching Husk’s eyes narrow, lips curling. “Somethin’s wrong with you. Just—just let me go, okay? We’ll figure this out.”

Husk’s breath hitched. His grip faltered—just for a second. Then Angel’s scent wrapped around him, the fading arousal, rising fear. He could taste Angel’s perfume in the air, feel the warmth of him trembling beneath his claws. Something in Husk lost sight of the person standing before him. Something dark and unnatural crawled through his veins, pushing. His claws flexed. Mine.

“I told you to get on the fucking bed.” Husk’s voice was rough, broken—like glass caught in the gears of an angry machine. His brow furrowed, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts. Still, he pushed forward, slamming Angel’s calves against the foot of the bed.

“Husk, the fuck are you-? Let go! I ain’t in the mood.” He tried to pull back, but Husk’s fingers only tightened, crushing and unfamiliar. This wasn’t how Husk touched him. It wasn’t supposed to hurt when they were together. “H-Husky?” Angel’s voice trembled, disbelief and confusion seeping in. Husk didn’t answer. Instead, his claws flexed, hands twisting against Angel’s wrists with a slow, torturous burn.

“Why do you always have to be such a fucking brat?” Husk’s voice was harsh, strangled. Without warning, his hand shot out, a heavy paw across Angel’s face. The sound of the slap was a shrill ring, the final toll of a death knell echoing against dark walls. And it ached, Husk’s palm stung with regret, trembled beneath his wide, horrified gaze until the fresh scent of blood on his claws and fear in the air clouded his thoughts. 

Angel’s head snapped sideways; his vision swam with white-hot pain as his cheekbone exploded with pain as a copper tang flooded his mouth. He barely had time to register the strike before Husk used the grip on his wrist to spin him around, slamming him against the mattress. Angel’s breath caught in his throat, panic rising as the world tilted around him. He tried to push himself up, hands scrambling across the scratchy, dirty sheets until he saw Husk’s claws slashing down—not at Angel, but at the sheets. Fabric shredded, tearing with loud rips.

“Husk, baby, please,” Angel stammered, his chest heaving, voice raw with a mixture of fear and confusion. Husk didn’t answer. He wrenched Angel’s lower arms back, working quickly to bind them with torn strips of linen, rough hands moving without hesitation. Panic surged in Angel’s chest as Husk flipped him onto his back, holding him down with a force that took his breath away.

“No—please, stop—” Angel’s words were broken as Husk climbed over him, reaching for Angel’s primary wrists as he scratched and shoved against Husk’s chest. His hips bucked, trying to dislodge the weight crushing him, but Husk caught his wrists, wrenching them higher, pinning them down and binding them with strips of cloth before threading them through the barred headboard. Angel’s heart pounded, a frantic, jarring beat that pushed his sobs into his throat until he was choking on them. 

For a moment, Angel couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Then, he started to scream.

Make my Angel scream. Valentino’s maliciously gleeful voice curled through Husk’s mind. Thorny tendrils wrapped around every part of himself, guiding him against his own slipping control.  

Husk’s hands clamped over Angel’s mouth. “No,” Husk snarled, his voice cracking. He blinked, his mind trying to clear, but it was foggy, like he was swimming in a toxic haze. Husk’s tail flicked violently behind him. His claws flexed, trembling, as if his body was rebelling against him. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

Angel whimpered against Husk’s palm, the tears gathering in his eyes, his face twisting with silent pleas. He nodded slowly, lips quivering in a desperate promise to keep quiet if Husk would just let him go. 

But Husk’s hand only pressed harder over his mouth. He could feel Angel’s breath shuddering beneath his palm. The wet heat of his tears. His own pulse racing in his poisoned veins, his heart threatening to whither and explode in his chest. Husk squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to snap out of it, but his body was running on a script he didn’t write, limbs carrying out commands he hadn’t given them.

Angel’s body trembled beneath him, suddenly so enticingly fragile. Husk could feel the way Angel’s hips bucked against him, the way he squirmed, fighting for freedom with everything he had. The scent of fear and confusion tangled with the lingering scent of lust turning sour. It was wrong. It all felt wrong.

Yet, deep inside that part of himself he couldn’t escape, the part Valentino had twisted and puppeteered—God help him—it felt horrifically right.

“Don’t scream.” The repeated warning came low and rough, more beast than man, as Husk dragged his claws over Angel’s trembling lips. His fingers barely brushed the softness of Angel’s jaw before he yanked them away, reaching instead for the shredded scraps of bedding.

“I won’t, I promise,” Angel gasped, looking at Husk with questions he couldn't bear to ask burning behind wide, glassy eyes. Why are you doing this? Why are you hurting me? Why aren’t you stopping?  “I’ll be good.” A haunting whisper cradling an unspoken plea. 

Husk didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His only reply was a low, guttural grunt as his hands worked swiftly, almost methodically, lifting a long strip of torn linen. He tied a series of knots at its center, fingers moving with eerily knowing ease. His breath hitched. His ears flattened, refusing sound, tail thudded angrily against the old floorboards. “No screaming,” he muttered, more to himself than to Angel. If he doesn’t scream, then I’m not following Valentino’s orders. If I can’t hear him scream, then maybe—maybe this isn’t happening.

“Please,” Angel stammered, his voice a strained, fraying thread threatening to snap with the weight of his fear. “Ya don’t have to, I’ll be quiet, I promise.” His bound wrists tugged at their restraints, friction burning red against the delicate skin beneath the silk of his fur.

“Husk,” He pleaded, trying to find a sliver of the man he knew in the creature straddling his waist. “Why?” That single word broke him, left him bruised like a petal rolled between calloused fingers. And when Husk shoved the bundle of knotted fabric deep into Angel’s mouth, tying it tight at the base of his skull, Angel felt himself torn from the stem—ripped from everything safe he’d come to know. A flower crushed beneath a mud-streaked boot, smeared into the gravel.

Why? A single word. Small. Trembling. And yet, it shattered Husk completely. It split him open, laid him bare—because there was no answer that could make this better. No words that could undo what was happening. Even if he could force himself to tell Angel this isn’t me, I don’t want this, I can’t stop, it wouldn’t change the reality pressing down between them. Wouldn’t change the fact that he was still doing it.

The truth was just an excuse. Another tall drink to hide behind. Another way to drown himself and run from his problems. And looking into Angel’s teary, terrified eyes, Husk felt himself sinking. And he let himself drown. let the dark, bitter depths drag him under until what little of his mind he had any control over started to numb.

I’m sorry.

His grip on Angel’s hips tightened, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, holding him steady despite the way he thrashed. Husk’s body moved with a mind of its own, an insatiable hunger swallowing his hesitation, intoxicating him with the scent of Angel’s sweat, the heat of his skin. Every muffled noise—furious, broken, pleading—set fire to Husk’s nerves. It made him ache with a need that sickened him, a hunger that branded him a monster for wanting something that wasn’t his to take.

But he was taking it.

This isn’t me! But the thought was distant, barely more than an echo beneath the pulse of his own blood rushing in his ears. I don't want to do this! A dark, primal part of him wanted Angel to keep struggling—to keep feeding the sick, drug-fueled power thrumming through his body until he was too drunk on it to think, to feel, to face what he was doing.

Husk lined himself up, breath hitching in his throat as he pressed against the tense resistance of Angel’s body. The instinct to rut forward, to take, ripped through him like wildfire, and he choked on the shame of how good it felt, how the heat wrapped around him, how Angel’s body clenched and fought against him in a way that fed into the venomous craving for more.

A low whine, something between agony and hunger, clawed up his throat, as he hooked Angel’s legs over his hips, his tail coiling around Angel’s ankles, trapping them. Angel cried out, a frustrated, pained sound that made Husk wince even as it pulled him closer. Saliva seeped between his bared teeth, spilling over his chin, landing warm against Angel’s thigh. 

Angel bucked hard beneath him, thrashing, sobbing, desperate to throw him off or break free from the linens binding his wrists. Husk snarled, head snapping back, his own body shaking as if something inside him was still fighting, some part of him trying to tear free from the unseen chains holding him captive. But it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t fight the way his hips rocked, the way he groaned low and deep in his own throat with every thrust. 

His hand shot forward before he could stop himself, heavy palm covering Angel’s eyes. Not to further subdue him. Because Husk couldn’t look. He couldn’t stand to see the betrayal shining in every tear. If Angel couldn't see him—if Husk couldn't see himself reflected in the broken glass of Angel’s stare—maybe, for just a moment, he could pretend he wasn’t hurting the only person he’d come close to loving since forgetting how to love someone at all. 

Look at me, you fucking bastard. Angel thought, thrashing beneath Husk’s weight, desperate for him to see. His lashes dragged against Husk’s paw, tears soaking into the heart-shaped pad. Everything hurt. Angel could feel the aching heat of the bruises forming around his wrists, burning against the linen tightening with every attempt to twist free. The corners of his mouth itched from the cloth tugging at them, his throat raw with every curse and plea he’d been denied the ability to voice.

And Husk—Husk—was still forcing himself deeper with a searing force that turned everything Angel had almost believed into ash.  And maybe that hurt more than the act itself, that Husk was taking, stealing what Angel would have freely given him if he’d only asked.

A sob rattled through Angel’s chest, choked and weak. Husk’s weight pressed down, crushing the breath from him, ribs straining beneath the solid mass of muscle and fur. It didn’t make sense for Husk to treat him this way, to hurt him like everyone else did. But maybe it should.

Maybe he’d been naive to think Husk was different. Maybe he’d let himself believe too much in soft looks and fleeting kindness, in steady hands that had never taken more than he was willing to give. Because at the end of the day, that was all he ever was to anyone, wasn’t it?

Something beautiful to destroy. 

So, Husk needed to look at him. Needed to stop hiding like a fucking coward and make this make sense. Because if this was who Husk really was—if everything before had been a lie—then Angel needed to see it. Needed to watch the moment the glass house he’d built around himself shattered, cutting him to ribbons on the way down.

Because that’s all it had ever been, wasn’t it? Just shards of glass, stacked together with nothing to hold them in place. An illusion of safety. A place to rest that was always going to collapse around him. And if that was the truth, then Husk damn well needed to look him in the eyes and own it.

Tears pricked at the corners of Husk’s narrowed eyes, unseen, lost in the thick fluff of Angel’s chest as they fell. A low, graveled growl rumbled in his throat as he dragged his tongue along Angel’s pulse point, tasting the frantic beat beneath his skin. The sharp tang of fear coated his tongue like an aphrodisiac, like poison. Teeth grazed the column of Angel’s throat before sinking deep into the crook of his neck, holding him there. Claiming him.

He didn’t want this. Husk’s voice screamed from every corner of his mind, begging him to stop, to let go—but his body was a traitor. A husk of the man he’d tried to be. And yet, somewhere inside him—some desperate, dying part—still wanted to protect Angel, even if he couldn’t protect him from himself.

So Husk did the only thing he could. His wings flared wide, jagged shadows slicing across the bed, as if he could shield Angel from a world where things like this were allowed to happen. Feathers brushed over muscles stretched taut and exhausted from fighting, caressing whispered apologies he couldn’t force past his lips, as his hips gave one final, violent thrust. His body locked tight, spilling venomous sin onto the shredded sheets.

Panting through bared teeth, jaw still clamped over Angel’s sweat-slicked skin, Husk let out a broken whimper. The venom in his veins cooled, its purpose served, leaving nothing but the rancid taste of regret. His tail uncoiled, dropping heavily to the floor with a dull thud. It took everything he had to look down at Angel—to really see what he’d done. But when he did, the words he needed most crumbled to dust on his tongue.

For the first time since Valentino had dosed him, Husk finally felt like he could breathe again, like he could form words of his own, and all he wanted to say was; I’m so fucking sorry. But sorry wouldn’t mean a goddamn thing. Not now. Not after this.

It wouldn’t matter that he hadn’t been in control, that he’d been driven by the ruinous desire Valentino had pumped into his veins—because in the end, he was the one who had taken control away from Angel. He hadn’t been strong enough to resist, to fight the strings tethered to his darkest instincts.

“Angel,” Husk managed, his voice suddenly so much smaller. A shaking hand cupped Angel’s cheek, searching for something—anything—left in him that wasn’t fear.

But Angel flinched at his touch, and Husk knew that he deserved the way it hurt. He deserved the sharp, cutting sting of Angel’s tear-soaked glare. The soft rustle of fabric and creaking springs filled the space between them as Angel tugged at his bonds, breath hitching on quiet, dying sobs. The cloth between his teeth was soaked, swallowing every shattered sound of someone breaking apart without understanding why.

“I didn’t…” Husk whispered. But the rest never came. Because what excuse was there? What words could possibly make this right? His golden eyes dimmed, the dying light of a sun sinking into a dark, endless sea. His claws snagged at the torn fabric, his limbs heavy with the comedown and weight he was carrying.

 “Angel…I’m…” Husk’s breath stilled, his words eclipsed by the shadows clinging to every inch of him, dragging him beneath the serrated edges of his returning control as his wounded heart flushed the toxins from his system. 

And then it hit. Brutal. Unforgiving. The rancid scent of bitter sex. The heat of Angel’s body, radiating fury and hurt and something far worse between his thighs. Husk felt it—the lingering warmth of his own release pooling at his knees, clinging to his fur, staining everything. And his heart withered.

The haze in his mind peeled away like rotting wallpaper, exposing him to every sound he had tried to block out. The soft, broken breaths. The quiet, murmured pleas—prayers for mercy that he’d ignored. His lungs screamed for air, but he couldn't breathe. His fingers hovered, trembling above the binds at Angel’s wrists, and for a moment—just a moment—he wasn’t in this filthy motel room anymore.

They were back in the casino.

Bathed in glittering light, the brilliant radiance of laughter and company wrapping around them like a blanket of stars. Angel’s smirk, sharp but soft around the edges. The glint in his eye when he teased Husk about drinking too much. The way, just for a second, it almost felt like they had something real.

Then—darkness. And Husk realized, with soul-crushing clarity, that no matter how much he wished otherwise, that light would never touch them again.

Angel watched as Husk’s eyes glazed over, slow and vacant, blinking against a vision only he could see. For a moment, Angel braced himself, every muscle tensing, readying for the horrors of the night to replay. But Husk didn’t move. His lips parted, sluggish, mumbling something too slurred to make out—then his body gave out, slumping forward, tumbling off the bed and hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Angel should have felt relief. Instead, panic struck him like a hammer to the ribs.

He hated himself for it—for straining against his bonds, craning his neck to peer over the edge of the mattress, heart hammering at the thought that Husk might not be breathing. And fuck, he hated the way his body shook at the thought of Husk getting back up.

A breath. Two. Three. He couldn’t wait any longer.

His third set of arms materialized from the empty void within himself, fingers shaking as they twisted at the torn fabric binding his second set. The knots were a mess, but he fought through them, working quickly. As soon as his wrists were free, he reached for the primary set bound to the headboard, tearing at the restraints, at the gag, at anything that still held him down.

Then he curled in on himself, knees to his chest, and screamed.

Unhindered, every sob that had been forced down, every protest he hadn’t been allowed to make, ripped through him. His ribs ached, his throat burned, his body throbbed as he stumbled across the room, grabbing at his discarded clothes. He pulled them on with frantic, fumbling hands, the fabric dragging over sore limbs, over the visceral ache that lingered between his legs. He caught a glimpse of his wrists as he yanked his sleeves down—purpled, tender, the remnants of Husk’s grip still wrapped around them.

The tears only came harder. His breaths turned short, sharp, too fast, tightening his chest until he felt like he might pass out. He needed to run. He needed to get out, to put as much distance between them as possible before Husk woke up and—

And yet, Angel hesitated. Despite everything—despite the bruises, the pain, the betrayal—he still rounded the bed to check if Husk was breathing. And when he found him, lying there on the floor, chest barely rising, Angel’s fingers curled into trembling fists.

He could hurt him. He could kill him. It wouldn’t be permanent—Husk would revive, all demons did—but it would hurt like hell. But maybe Husk would come to before Angel could deal the killing blow, maybe he’d answer the painful question scorching its way through Angel’s broken heart. 

Why? Why hadn’t Angel’s willingness been enough? Why had Husk led him on for so fucking long, let him believe in something good, just to prove to him that there was nothing good in Hell?

His nails dug into his palms, breath shuddering as he loomed over Husk’s limp form, wavering between the lines of a mercy he hadn’t been granted and a hurt he wanted to return. But hurting Husk wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t fix anything. Wouldn’t restitch the heart Husk had unraveled or take back what had been stolen. The answers wouldn’t cleanse his memory of what had happened.

All it would do was get Angel in trouble for damaging a paying client. And that’s all Husk was now. Just another john.

Arms wrapped tight around himself; Angel tried not to think about how much he already missed the lies Husk had wrapped him in. The warmth of whiskey-scented kisses had been replaced with bruises. Tears stained his cheeks where the afterglow should have lingered. Where he usually felt the thrill of their encounters now resided the bitter realization that he’d done what he always did, let himself get close only to be pushed away with violent force. 

Somewhere along the way, he stopped trying to understand. Stopped asking himself what he’d done wrong. How he could have misread Husk so badly. It didn’t matter. It never did. Not when he should’ve been smart enough to know better. So he let his legs carry him forward on autopilot, each step pulling him closer to Vee Tower. Back to the one man who never disappointed him both in affection and expectations. 

Back where he belonged.

Angel wasn’t surprised to see Val waiting for him, lounging across the bed they so often shared, arms outstretched in an invitation wrapped in vice. Whenever Val wasn’t spending his late nights with Vox, he was always here, waiting for Angel to come home.  Usually, it filled Angel with dread, but right now he wanted the comfort of something he was used to. That wicked grin, the promise of something safe in its familiarity—the looming threat of a pain he knew how to navigate. 

"Come here, Amorcito." Valentino’s arms wrapped around him, protectively possessive. It was always easiest to sway Angel when the world had already done the breaking for him. All it ever took was a little nudge, a well-timed push, and Angel’s pretty little dreams would come crashing down on their own, his stubborn disobedience splattered across the pavement. "You're trembling."

“I—” Angel swallowed hard, forcing every violative memory from his mind. He needed Val’s arms around him, not his hand across his face. And if he was honest about what happened, tonight would only hurt him more. But as those arms closed around him, what little was left of his shattered glass heap ground to dust. He hadn’t meant to cry, to let Val see how badly tonight had hurt him, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

"Shh," Valentino cooed, tapping a gold-tipped claw against Angel’s lips. "Did things not go according to plan tonight?" A brush of laughter, the softest stroke of false curiosity on the canvas of his manipulation. He took Angel’s hand, turning his arm, and heat flared in his gaze as he studied the reddish-violet bruises blooming around Angel’s wrists. "I hope they paid extra for marking you up."

A sob caught in Angel’s throat—a devastating storm flooding a barren landscape. "I'm sorry, Val," he stammered. Husk hadn’t paid extra. Angel hadn’t even taken the rest of what he was owed from Husk’s wallet.

Valentino sighed, pressed a soft kiss to Angel’s temple, and pulled him closer, pressing Angel’s ear against his chest, scattering Angel’s thoughts on the rhythm of his steady heartbeat. "That’s okay, mi puta encantadora." His claws slid through Angel’s disheveled hair, soothing despite the way the golden tips scraped across his scalp. "You can make it up to me later."

"Yes, Val." Angel whispered in solemn promise, leaning into the roughly gentle touch he was so rarely granted, taking comfort in it—replacing the way his own comfort had been so viciously taken from him. The words were cruel, but spoken in that smooth drawl, Angel could ignore the way they reopened wounds that hadn’t even had time to scab over.

"You’re mine, Angel." Valentino reached, gripping Angel’s bruised wrists just firmly enough to remind him that someone else had bruised him. His lower hands rested on Angel’s hips, splayed over the handprints left by another man holding Angel down. It didn’t matter that he regularly sold Angel to a plethora of men, that he packaged Angel’s body in reels of film for thousands of strangers to get off to.

Angel belonged to him. Could only find comfort in him. And Valentino wouldn’t let anyone else have that part of Angel. Angel’s body could be sold, used, beaten until it was every ugly color possible, but his heart? No one else could have that. That vulnerable, loving part of Angel was his alone. Even if he had to hurt Angel to remind him of that.

"I’m yours." Angel echoed it like a vow. Only Val’s. Forever Val’s. Because no one else would ever love him the way Valentino did. Even when Valentino’s temper was volatile, it was predictable. Angel knew what to expect with Val. After all these years, Val could never betray him the way someone else could.

The way Husk had.

Angel turned in Valentino’s lap, fingers twisting into the fluff of Val’s collar, pulling him closer until their lips met. "Please, Val. Make it stop hurting." He braced himself to be dismissed. To be thrown down, used, discarded in all the ways he was used to. But Valentino only smiled, his eyes a soft glow rather than a glowering burn. His claws brushed along Angel’s jawline, caressing away the tension of half-swallowed words before coaxing Angel closer with all the gentle warmth of a summer breeze.

And Angel welcomed the softness, leaned into it until he felt Valentino’s mouth against his own, venom dripping from Val’s tongue, filling his mouth and oozing down his throat—soothing the raw walls of his lungs, sore from screaming. That familiar haze wrapped itself around the painful memories, consumed them until the moments with Husk that had made him happy were buried beneath the dull pain that had replaced them. 

"Don’t forget who takes care of you, mi amor." Valentino murmured the words into Angel’s mouth, breathing them into him like a drug. His thumb dragged roughly over Angel’s cheek, smearing the tears that streaked his dirty face with dark mascara. He loved that look—fragile, broken. A perfect portrait of suffering that only he could orchestrate.

This is better, Angel told himself, accepting the lie as an unwanted truth. Valentino’s kiss lingered against his lips, his breath curling sweet and sickly as he shared more and more of that perfect high. It felt so good not to hurt, to slowly forget why he was in so much pain.

“Daddy’s gonna make it all better.” Valentino’s claws trailed lower, gliding over Angel’s arms, his shoulders, his back—mapping out every place someone else had touched that had been touched by someone else Angel had tried to love. The touches weren’t meant to soothe. They were meant to claim. To carve his name back into Angel’s skin like a brand that had started to fade.

“Please.” Angel let himself sink into the promise, let himself believe—just for a moment—that it could be made better. Here, in Valentino’s arms, wrapped in the invisible chains that bound them together, he was safe. To Valentino, he still mattered. He was still worth cherishing after someone else had ruined him.

“That’s my good boy.” Valentino’s lips curled into a grin, pressing against Angel’s forehead as his hands slid lower, gripping his waist, pulling him deeper into his lap. Like he belonged there. Like he was never meant to be anywhere else.

"Now," Valentino’s voice dipped, sultry and expectant, as his claws rounded the curve of Angel’s ass, prodding at the result of his scheme. "Why don’t you show me how sorry you are, baby?"

Angel barely hesitated—just a pained hiss through clenched teeth—because this was safe. This was better than being abandoned. Better than being punished. So he tilted his chin up, parted his lips, and let Valentino hold him, small and trembling against his broad chest. And as Val pushed into him, past the bruised, aching flesh between his legs, Angel scooped up the shattered fragments of the glass house scattered at his feet, let them sink into his palms, and started to rebuild. 

Chapter Text

A warm red glow shone against the curtains the first time Angel’s phone rang. He stirred, unwillingly awake, pinned beneath the heavy security of Valentino’s limbs draped over him. Even in sleep, Valentino’s grip was possessive, locking Angel in place beside him—right where he’d always belonged. Right where he was always supposed to be. The weight of him was suffocating, but it was steady. Grounding. A comfort against the remnants of nightmares that slipped too easily into the rapid current of thoughts crashing through Angel’s mind as it tried to pull itself back together.

It was easy to forget how often he felt trapped beneath Valentino—how inescapable his presence could be—because right now, he needed that weight to keep him still. To keep him from drifting into the sharp slivers of broken memories and the pain still aching along his body. Angel needed to be held by arms that had the power to hurt him but were choosing, for now, to love him instead.

The jazzy chime cut through the quiet, the one he’d picked just for Husk. It hurt so fucking much to hear that song, knowing he’d never hear it the same way again after what happened. The sultry brass instruments, so warm and full of life, felt mocking now. A song to dance to. To sway in a haze of laughter and liquor, wrapped in the glow of amber eyes smiling down at him before they burned through him, leaving melted, crumbling glass in their wake. Angel squeezed his eyes shut, as if blinding himself to the glow of his phone would somehow deafen him to the sound. As if ignoring it could make it disappear.

Stop calling me. His fingers scratched against the sheets, curling into his palm until his nails dug into soft flesh. He clenched his hand tighter, relishing the sharp bite, then hooked his arms around Valentino’s, holding himself captive in that embrace. Within Val’s arms, Angel could pretend he didn’t want to reach for his phone, that his heart didn't ache for the chiseled stone of Husk’s voice and the way it used to make him feel. 

The ringing stopped.

Silence settled over the room again—thick, smothering, just another weight that left his bruised lungs crushed while Angel struggled to remember how breathing was supposed to work. Every breath felt wrong, his throat wet with sobs he refused to taste again. The air was heavy with Valentino’s scent, the saccharine tang of his breath still clinging to Angel’s lips, the musk of sex staining the sheets like a favored perfume.

Angel focused on the rhythmic sound of Val’s breathing, the damp heat of it against the nape of his neck. Val’s chest pressed into his back with every inhale, a tide rolling in—pushing him away, only to drag him right back under. And Angel let himself be pulled in, burrowing deeper into Valentino’s hold. Strong arms wrapped tighter around him. Inescapable. Welcome. A garishly soothing lullaby in the dark.

Then the phone rang again.

The melody of his ringtone was a shovel, burying him beneath coarse sand, scattering dark splotches of glittering shards across his vision. Angel held his breath. His chest tightened, lungs refusing to work as every ring continued burying him deeper. Burying him—just like he was still trying to bury what had happened. Because burying it was easier than digging it up and setting it free. Easier than trying to understand why Husk had hurt him.

His body curled in on itself, his pulse a deafening throb in his ears, drowning out the music. Go away. Leave me alone . The urge to scream surged through him, to rip the phone from the nightstand and hurl it across the room, watch it shatter—watch it break the way he had last night. But he didn’t.

Instead, he curled in tighter, as if he could fold himself small enough to disappear inside Valentino’s arms, to drown in the safety of a cage he had long since stopped trying to escape in earnest. Stiff, trembling fingers knotted into the thick fluff at Val’s neck, every fine hair steeped in that familiar, lulling scent. Angel buried his face in it, breathed in long, shuddering gulps, as if the only oxygen left in all of Hell resided within Valentino’s embrace.

"Insistent, isn’t he?" Valentino murmured, voice rough with waking as Angel pressed closer.

It always felt nice, the way Angel clung to him—so desperate, so reverent, like Valentino was something to be worshipped for all that he so graciously provided. Maybe, in a way, it hurt too. Just a little. To see his favorite little thing wrapped in a web of fine cracks, a stained glass portrait on the verge of ruin. But pride dulled the sting. Because Valentino was the artist. The craftsman. The architect of manipulation, carefully filling in every fracture with the gilded adhesives that kept Angel fragilely beautiful.

"Make it stop," Angel whispered, breathing greedily air thick with the promise of security and the comfort of disillusionment. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted Valentino to do. He just wanted this—the ache, the memories, the sharp edges of his shattered glass house—gone. 

Valentino exhaled slow and deep, his breath hot against Angel’s ear, his arms wrapped firm around him, comfort laced with constriction. "Shh, mi amor," he cooed, claws gliding lazily down Angel’s spine, his hand curling possessively around his waist. “No one can hurt you right now. Not when you’re safe where you belong.”

It was a lie spouted from a liar's promising lips. There was no such thing as safe in Hell. Not for Angel. Nobody loved him without wanting something in return. No one looked at him and saw someone instead of something.

"I don’t understand," Angel muttered into the plush fur at Valentino’s neck. And he didn’t. Didn’t understand why he still cared about someone who had proved they didn’t care about him. Why the glow of regret in Husk’s predatory stare still haunted him.

Valentino pulled back just enough to catch the gleam of fresh tears clinging to Angel’s lashes, and he smiled as his thumb traced the wetness from his skin. “You really thought he was different, didn’t you?” he murmured, voice rich with amusement, lips grazing against Angel’s own—close enough to taste the venom on his breath. “Just because he has power, doesn’t mean he’s worth anything.” 

Angel’s stomach caved inward, cracked walls closing in tight around his broken heart. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because some distant, desperate part of him—the foolish part that still wanted to believe Husk had been different—was clinging to the memory of those warm, whiskey-scented kisses. Foolish as it was, he had believed it. Had let himself think that Husk’s touch, the quiet softness in his gaze, had meant something more than it did. But in the end, Husk had left him with nothing but bruises. Just like everyone else.

It occurred to him then—he hadn’t said Husk’s name. Hadn’t mentioned what was bothering him. And yet, Val knew. That should have set off the alarms that never stayed quiet for long in his mind. But Angel didn’t let himself dwell on it. Didn’t question what it meant. He just let those bells chime, let them drown out the ringing of his phone.

"I warned you about this, mi vida." Valentino sighed with a stalking predator's patience, shaking his head as he shifted, sitting up against the headboard and pulling Angel onto his lap. Long fingers curled over the curve of Angel’s ass, encouraging his sore thighs to spread over Valentino’s legs. "You know how this works, amorcito. Clients pay, they get what they want, and then they leave. That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal."

The phone stopped ringing. But there was no silence. Only the rustle of sheets. The knowing creak of the bed as Valentino buried himself deep inside him, keeping Angel close, locked tight in the warm hold of his arms and cock.

"No one’s ever gonna love you the way I do." Valentino’s voice softened, sinking into something soothing—the low, velvety hum of a carnally sweet lullaby. He cradled Angel’s face between his upper hands, thumbs stroking slow over his cheekbones. "And you know it, don’t you, baby?"

Angel hated how easily he nodded. Hated how much he wanted to believe it. Because someone needed to love him. Someone had to even if it hurt to crawl over the broken shards of what he’d come to know love as. Even if that love came written in fine print, buried between all the terms and conditions of their deal. 

Loving someone was always going to hurt. That’s just the way it was. But at least with Val, he knew what to expect. Knew when he had earned the pain. Because try as he might, Angel couldn’t find a single reason for why Husk had hurt him. Couldn’t think of what he had done to deserve last night.

Angel opened his mouth to speak, prepared to unravel the thorned tumbleweed rolling over his tongue. But instead, he leaned forward, fists tangling in Valentino’s thick neck fur, teeth grinding the bramble to splinters. He didn’t flinch when Valentino’s grip tightened in silent warning. Didn’t fight the way those arms coiled around him, possessive, unyielding.

Because Val was right. No one else would tolerate him the way Valentino did. No one else could love him so unconditionally conditional.

The phone rang again. A sharp, grating intrusion.

Valentino’s claws raked against Angel’s hips, dragging with the irritation bleeding into his otherwise confidently smooth demeanor. Persistent, mangy fucker , he thought, using the tune of someone else’s calls to time his thrust and pull Angel’s attention back onto him. “He never did have any class.”

His lips pressed against Angel’s jaw, dragging soft kisses down to his shoulder, fingers trailing down Angel’s side in slow, possessive strokes. “Callin’ at this hour like he doesn’t know you’re busy takin’ care of Papi.”

Angel flinched, tried to hide the way every word Val had spoken scraped him open, but Valentino felt it. Felt the way Angel tightened around him, sinking lower, clinging tighter. Valentino rolled his hips, loosening his grip just enough to coax Angel back into the moment, to keep him present and teetering on the edge of losing himself.

 “Go on, baby. Answer it.” He chuckled, voice light with amusement, slick and taunting. “Tell him to quit wasting his time. Tell him he ruined everything.”

Angel squeezed his eyes shut. His fingers knotted tighter in Valentino’s fur. The phone kept ringing, stabbing deeper into him, carving jagged wounds through the wreckage of last night. He couldn’t. Couldn’t hear Husk’s voice. Couldn’t let those stupid, shattered emotions slice their way through his throat. Husk had been his. He’d been love wrapped in whiskey and warmth. A glass house Angel knew would shatter eventually, but he had let himself believe in it anyway. And when it broke—when Husk broke him—Angel was the one left bleeding.

Now Husk was calling. Over and over again despite knowing he shouldn’t. Maybe to apologize. Maybe to explain. Maybe to rebuild what was already glittering, razor-sharp shards and dust. But none of it mattered, because the house he'd built out of transparent lies and stained glass fantasies was gone. 

"Please, Val. Make it stop." Angel choked on every word, burying himself deeper into Valentino’s scent—musk and expensive cologne, fragile safety wrapped in disillusionment. Valentino would make it all better. He always did. So Angel didn’t need to answer. He just needed Valentino to keep holding him.

With a lazy hum of satisfaction, Valentino reached past Angel, plucking the phone from the nightstand. His thumb hovered over the screen, glowering eyes flicking over Husk’s name flashing in bright, taunting letters. Valentino considered answering. Just for fun. Just to let Husk hear how desperately Angel was clinging to him after what Husk had done for him. 

But Angel was already retreating into him, shrinking into warmth, into security. So pliant in his arms, obediently giving up on the idea of ever trying to love anyone else ever again. Valentino grinned.

He silenced the call and let the phone slip from his fingers, landing with a dull thud onto the sheets. “See?” Valentino murmured, dragging Angel further into his lap, sinking deeper into his trembling body. “I’m always the one who stays, Angel. The only one who won’t hurt you and throw you away.” His voice dropped to a lethally smooth whisper. "Or come back with cheap lies and fake excuses."

Angel let himself believe it as Val kissed away the pain with poisoned words and venomous licks. Because he had to.

His gaze flickered to the phone one last time, body rocking brokenly to the tune of Husk’s ring tone as he rode out the enthusiastic pulse of Valentino’s orgasm until the ringing stopped. This time, it didn’t ring again. 

~.~

Husk had always believed there wasn’t a damn thing in Hell that a neat glass of whiskey couldn’t drown. Turns out, he was wrong.

The burn did nothing. He could drink until his veins ran amber and his gut rotted from the inside out, until his throat was so raw he never spoke again. But nothing could touch the sick feeling coiled deep in his stomach, that heavy, writhing thing made of shame and self-loathing. Nothing could erase the memory of Angel’s muffled, pleading voice scraping against his skull, or the way those pink eyes had looked at him, not with the usual teasing lilt or that beautifully unholy fire, but with pure, undiluted terror and betrayal.

Husk squeezed his eyes shut. It didn’t help. The image was burned there, seared into the back of his eyelids like it had been branded there. He tipped his glass back, barely flinching as the liquor scorched its way down his throat. It pooled uselessly in his gut, joining the regret already drowning there.

His phone sat on the desk before him, old and beaten up, just like him. Outdated. Trash that never made it to the can for disposal. Angel had laughed the first time he’d seen it, that loud, boisterous snort of merriment that had been so annoying at first. Then, every time after, there had been a chuckle, a teasing glint in his eye whenever Husk pulled the thing from his pocket.

Now, as he looked at the scuffed black and gold case, there was nothing. The laughter he’d grown to adore was gone. The memory of that teasing voice had been stained with pain. All that remained was an empty, bitter silence. Husk felt that silence settle deep in his bones, hollowing them out to fill them with the rancid soil of the grave he’d dug under someone else’s command. 

His fingers curled around the whiskey glass, grip hardening against the thick rim. The pressure sent fine cracks webbing through the glass, pressing back against the heart-shaped pads of his palms, threatening to slice through them.

The last time Angel had looked at him, Husk had been pressing him into a cheap, dirty mattress, claws tearing at his skin, bruising him with makeshift restraints and the weight of his own body. The last thing Angel had heard from him wasn’t an apology—wasn’t even a plea—just the ragged breaths of a weak, dangerous man, a monster who’d let himself become a weapon in Valentino’s hands.

Husk forced his eyes open, staring down at his phone. He’d called. Over and over. Enough times that even he was starting to feel desperately intrusive. Like a bastard demanding something he didn’t deserve. But Angel never answered. Not once. And Husk couldn’t blame him. But that didn’t mean he didn’t desperately need to hear Angel’s voice. Didn’t mean he wasn’t dying for the chance to explain.

His grip tightened. The whiskey glass gave a sharp, splintering crack before shattering in his hand. Shards bit deep into his palm, splitting the soft flesh, sending thin ribbons of red and bitter, stinging trails of amber running over the broken heart etched into his skin. Husk barely felt it.

He just sat there, bleeding onto the desk, staring at the name on his screen. The last call had gone straight to voicemail. Angel wasn’t going to pick up, not now, maybe never again. 

Looking down at his bloodied hands, Husk felt his throat tighten. The deep gashes ran jagged across his heart-shaped palms, fresh wounds laid over old calluses—hands that had once cradled a bottle more than they had ever held something fragile. Hands that had held someone who was never meant to be precious close, that had caressed and adored. Hands that had pressed against Angel’s mouth to silence his cries. Hands that had pinned him down.

Tears stung at his eyes, and Husk clenched his fists, feeling the sting of splintered glass buried in his skin. He’d never wanted to hurt Angel. But he had . Influenced or not, drugged or not, he’d hurt him. And that was the only thing that mattered. It was a truth he couldn’t drink away, a reality that he couldn’t warp into a lie. 

The tremors in his hands weren’t just from the whiskey or the pain. They came from the ghosts of Angel’s struggles still haunting his skin, the desperate, twisting fight against him, every frantic buck of his hips that hadn’t been desire—but the need to escape. Husk could still feel it. Could still smell the sour cocktail of blood, sweat, and sex clinging to his unwashed fur, a scent that turned rancid the longer it sat heavily upon him. 

Husk squeezed his eyes shut, but that forced darkness wouldn’t erase the way Angel had looked at him. Wouldn’t take back the bruises Husk had left in places no one else would ever see. Wouldn’t rewrite the shame of brutal release that kept him caged in regret. And maybe that was the worst part. That he didn’t deserve to forget or be free of it. That he didn't deserve to be forgiven for something he’d been forced to do. 

A sharp, metallic sting laced the air, and Husk’s ears twitched at the sound of his own blood dripping onto the desk with soft splashes. His disheartened gaze back to his phone, lying among the shards of broken glass in a shallow puddle of blood and whiskey. Angel hadn’t answered. Hadn’t called back. Angel was done with him. Rightfully so. And maybe that should’ve been enough. But it wasn’t.

Husk’s claws dragged across the desk, carving uneven scars into the wood before he lifted his paw, reaching for the phone. His blood smeared thickly across the glass as he picked it up, fingers trembling, breath shallow. The weight of what he was about to do settled deep in his chest, an anchor of guilt dragging him under, but it didn’t stop him. The choice wasn’t his alone to make. But he made it anyway.

His blood seeped between the keys, staining every number as he typed in the request. Fake name. Fake credentials. Just another appointment. Just another john. A lie masquerading as a last attempt to see Angel again. Angel didn’t want to talk to him. But Husk couldn’t leave it at that. He couldn’t live with never making Angel understand. And maybe that was selfish. Maybe it was wrong. God, it fucking hurt to confirm the appointment. To lie, just for the chance to see him again. But Husk didn’t know what else to do.

~.~

The calls had stopped, but the ringtone lingered—haunting every stretch of silence like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest. Angel could still hear it, that now-empty warmth, a phantom melody bleeding its mockingly lively tune into the spaces between his breaths. It curled around his ribs, coiled in his throat, pressed against his temples with every pained pulse of his heartbeat.

It had become a bitter, cruel song, one he wished he’d never learned by heart. But it danced through his veins anyway, a sultry crescendo on every beat of his broken heart.

Angel tried not to think about how much it still hurt. The ligature marks and bruises had faded—injuries never lasted long in Hell—but Val had made sure the ache between his legs remained. A dull, insidious reminder kept alive by the weight of Val’s cock gently thrusting while his arms held him close. Just as it was kept muted by the venom Valentino so generously provided, slipping just enough into his system to keep him floating, to keep him drifting around the event horizon of a black hole that would never stop threatening to pull him under.

Angel let it take him. Because anything was better than feeling himself fall. Valentino’s possessive warmth was better than the chilling cold of Husk’s betrayal or the searing rage that threatened to scorch Angel from the inside out every time he looked at his phone. 

His phone, which never stayed quiet for long.

Even without that godforsaken ringtone, every ping was a reminder that his body belonged to everyone but himself. Another shoot. Another client. Endless demands for every piece of him, packaged and sold without a second thought for the toll it continually took.

Any other day, Angel would’ve done a line, taken a few hits, let himself dissolve into a colorful smear in the endless blur of indulgence and sensation. His confidence and charm were usually enough to cover the bruises—perfect bandages for the shadows of abuse stitched into his skin.  Usually, he wasn’t scraping the pieces of his shattered self from gritty pavement.

The next ping rang too loudly in his ears, an uncomfortable scratch, like nails on a chalkboard, and before Angel could swipe the notification away, a heavy hand slid over his shoulder.

“Busy day, baby,” Valentino murmured, leaning down, his breath hot against Angel’s ear. His golden claws tapped against the screen as he scrolled through Angel’s schedule like it was his own. Because it was. Everything he was belonged to Val, every part of him was Val’s to direct.“Looks like your last slot for the evening just got filled,” he purred, letting the phone drop as he wiped a stray dusting of eyeshadow from Angel’s fur.

Angel swallowed hard. He wanted to shove the phone away. Pretend it didn’t exist. Pretend he didn’t exist. The studio was easier. Scripted. Predictable. It was the only place where the pain didn’t feel personal. There was familiarity in the way his costars handled him, in the played out scenarios. Cardboard huts instead of rooms reflecting the shards of his latest glass prison. But outside clients, Angel didn’t know if he could do that tonight. Didn’t know if he could step into a motel room without screaming. 

So he forced a laugh, something light, something teasing, something that hopefully wouldn’t sound desperately broken as it rattled through his throat. “Hey, uh… ya think maybe—” His voice came out soft. Too soft. Hesitant. He cleared his throat, tried again, brighter this time, with a smile he didn’t feel. “—maybe I could take the night shift off? Just for today?”

Valentino’s hand stilled. Gentle, sliding caresses turned into claws raking through fur, scraping bone beneath the surface. The air shifted—thickening, heavy with a storm Angel couldn’t outrun. Thunder rumbled within the chuckle rolling through Valentino’s chest. Then a flash like lightning of that golden tooth in the vanity lights before Valentino’s fingers flexed, kneading his shoulder, affection replaced by creeping warning. 

“You wanna take the night off... after it’s been paid for?” Valentino echoed, his tone strung like curling wisps of sugared smoke, but Angel wasn’t stupid. He could hear the barbed wire coiled beneath it.

Angel didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He forced himself to stay relaxed; to lean into Valentino’s touch like it could still sooth him the way it had that morning. “Yeah, just tonight.”  He tried to laugh again, tried to hide the fractured way his voice grated “Please, Val.”

Valentino clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Angel,” he crooned, dragging his fingers up Angel’s throat until they curled just beneath his jaw. “You’re a star. My fucking star. A whore.” The word landed like a slap, followed by the tightening just enough to break Angel’s tense attempt at a smile into a jagged line. “And whores don’t take nights off.”

Angel bit down on the whimper vibrating against Valentino’s fingertips. No such thing as safe , he reminded himself as the weight of Valentino’s presence that he’d clung to that morning now smothered him. 

“Your body makes me money,” Valentino went on, venom glistening between his teeth, thin trails of toxin curling at the corners of his mouth. “Just because you let yourself get hurt last night doesn’t mean you get to play the victim and skip work.” His grip tightened further, pressing into the delicate line of Angel’s throat before he suddenly released him, his tone flipping back to lighthearted amusement, like nothing had happened. “Those desperate losers pay good money for your time Angel, and you wouldn't want to make me look bad by disappointing them, would you?” 

Gasping for breath without making a sound, Angel nodded, a trained, mechanically poised gesture. “No, Val.” 

Valentino smiled, thumb wiping the beginning of a tear from Angel’s eye before it could ruin his mascara. “That’s my good boy.” He pressed a lingering kiss to Angel’s mouth, spreading poison over his lips. Just a taste, just enough to calm that subtle tremble in Angel’s clenched fists. “Get yourself ready. You’ve got work to do.”

Angel exhaled. Swallowed the nausea then sucked the toxin from his lips. “Yes, daddy,” he murmured, voice flat as he forced himself to stand, to move, to grind the glass into dust before it could cut through his boots and break his stride. 

~.~

At least tonight, it was a different motel.

It made it easier to walk down the cracked, questionably splattered sidewalks without really feeling the ground beneath his feet—knowing that tonight he was taking a different route. Going to a different room, where a face with a name he’d forget the moment he was done screaming it would leave him hardly worse off than he’d been before.

Angel drifted, a shooting star in trails of sequins and shining leather beneath the sinful glow of neon signs and flickering street lamps, body pulled forward by an invisible leash that always felt too solid around his throat. He could still taste the toxin on his lips. That sweet, slick gloss that shimmered along the curve of a lethal smile and settled behind his teeth like welcomed rot. Something corrosive that no longer hurt, just numbed, withering the urge to turn back where the shadows of violent memories were waiting to catch up to him. 

Memories of warm, steady hands that felt safe—until they didn’t. Of sunlit gazes casting vows written in longing before burning regret in brutal splotches across his skin. Of laughter, rough and genuine, turned to snarling grunts and sour, heavy breaths.

Angel shook his head hard, blinking too fast. His vision blurred, stomach twisted. Nope. Not now. He couldn’t do this now. Couldn’t stop walking forward just to stumble back into the wreckage of his own mistakes.

Val was right. He was a whore. This was his job. Falling in love, letting someone close—that was on him. That was the knife he’d handed over expecting it to remain sheathed rather than be used to cut him deep. But tonight was simple. Empty. Just another transactional fuck. Just another notch on a bedpost that hadn’t been whole in years.

So Angel sucked a breath through clenched teeth and raked his fingers through his hair, fluffing it up—adding height and defiance where his heart offered none. He knew this role. He knew the costume, the script. Knew the smile to wear and every sound to make behind it. He knew how to paint his pain in glitter and sensuality, how to crawl across broken glass and make the whole world believe he liked the way it hurt. And that's what he was going to do until it finally stopped hurting again. 

Wearing that resolve like armor, Angel strutted into another dime-a-dozen cheap motel, with the same loudly buzzing lights and cigarette-burned carpets as all the rest. A tap of manicured nails against the greasy counter earned him the key to yet another room with washed sheets that were never really clean.

He slipped off his leather jacket, draping it over a scuffed, time-frayed chair, then turned toward the mirror. Even through the cracks and filmy smears, his reflection looked perfect. Perfect hair. A perfectly salacious smile. Meticulously perfect makeup that masked the hollow, fake glint in his mismatched eyes.

Practiced fingers traced over the lingerie he wore, violet lace and black leather with a midnight sheen that stretched taut over soft fur, clinging to him like an elegant bruise that could be easily torn away. There was a sultry sway in his stance as he adjusted the straps, fluffed his chest, and smoothed away every crease. Those routine movements stitched him back together, wove him into the performance he was there to play. 

He ran a finger beneath the garter strap high on his thigh, testing the give, making sure it sat just right. Presentation was everything. He needed to be perfectly desirable. Perfectly delicate without looking weak—because perfection was armor. And armor kept him from being another sloppy fuck. Perfection made Val happy, and when Valentino was happy, everything else hurt a little less. 

He shut his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Forced himself to let go of last night’s pain so he could face tonight’s ache. Angel sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the door. Rolled his shoulders. Crossed and uncrossed his legs. The waiting was the worst part, always was. The in-between, where there was nothing to do but sit in his own head and listen to the static whispering at the edges of his thoughts.

It was just another night. Another client. Another twenty, forty minutes tops of acting through an hour of his bought time. Finally, a knock at the door. But it was wrong, soft and hesitant instead of loudly demanding. 

Angel’s brow creased. Why the fuck didn’t this asshole just let himself in? Whatever. He was used to opening everyone else’s doors for them. “Full service slut,” he muttered under his breath, pulling the door open with an easy, inviting smirk.

“Hey there, handsome—” The words died in his throat.The air turned thick before it disappeared, vacuum-sealed, trapping him in a split-second eternity. Angel’s pulse slammed against his ribs, bringing him crashing back into the moment as his mind scrambled to make sense of the shape standing in front of him.

Shorter than him, slouched and rigid. Ungroomed, dusky smoke colored fur and velvet red wings. And those eyes, that golden glow dulled but still shining. 

No. No. No. This wasn’t, It couldn’t… But it was. Husk was the last god forsaken person he should be seeing. The last damned person who should be here. And with the fucking audacity to look more hurt then Angel felt. 

His breath went shallow. His stomach dropped straight through the floor.  A sick sort of vertigo hit him, twisting reality around something already impossibly contorted. This was supposed to be a client.  A stranger. Someone he could fake a moan for and forget as soon as they walked out the door. A nameless face that couldn’t hurt him more than he allowed. 

Not him. Not the hands that touched him softly just to leave him bruised. Not the eyes that had showered him in sunlight before burning him to ash. Not the voice that used to rasp his name like it was something worth keeping—before it had reminded him how little he mattered.

The panic coiled, winding so tightly Angel thought it’d twist him into the floor. And then it sprang, fear bleeding into rage. “What. The fuck. Do you think you’re doing here?”

Husk opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He just stared at Angel, wings twitching, drooping low until the tips of his feathers crumpled against the floor. His hands hovered somewhere between pleading and useless. And those eyes—those damn, haunted eyes—kept flicking anywhere but Angel’s face.

“I—” Husk rasped, voice rough from burning through too much whiskey in a futile attempt to cauterize his guilt. There were so many things he needed to say before the fire in Angel’s eyes left him scorched. “I’m sorry.”

Angel blinked. “Sorry?” He almost laughed—almost. It cracked out of him, half-hysterical, a sound so bitter it nearly dissolved into something manic.

Husk swallowed hard, shook his head. “I shouldn’t’ve come like this. I just... I didn’t know how else to get you to talk to me. You wouldn’t answer my calls and—”

“And this was your bright fucking idea?” Angel’s voice cracked like a whip, cutting with a snap as it tore through the breath of air sharply exhaled. “Lure me out with a fake fuck request under a fake name? Dangle a couple hundred bucks and wait for the whore who can’t say no to come crawling?”

“No, fuck, Angel, that’s not—” Husk stepped forward instinctively, and Angel’s body recoiled like he'd been hit. And that hurt. God, that fucking hurt. Husk deserved the anger—he’d earned the fear—but watching Angel flinch like that cracked something wide open inside him. Cut him so deeply he felt like he’d bleed out just by breathing. 

“Don’t you fucking move!” Angel shouted, his voice shaking. His hidden arms trembled on the verge of materializing. “You don’t get to be here, Husk. I don’t care how much you spent or what kind of trouble I get into—you don’t get to pretend you’re sorry to force another fuck out of me.” 

“I’m not pretending!” Husk's voice rose, offended, authoritative in a way that Angel knew better than to challenge but stood his ground against anyway.  “I didn’t know what else to—”

Angel’s breathing was ragged, every word edged in acid tainted venom. “You think I wanted to see you again? After what you did?” His voice cracked, mended itself with the heat of his rage. His legs locked, strained to the point of wanting to buckle and send him crashing to the ground. But Angel kept standing, glaring, seething out every ounce of the anger he managed to hold onto while unwanted tears welled within his eyes. “I trusted you, Husk.”

I loved you, Angel thought, refusing to say those words for fear of what they’d do to him. What they might allow to happen. “You think a fucking apology is gonna fix that mistake?”

Husk flinched, his shoulders caving in under the weight of pained anger in Angel’s voice. 

“It wasn’t me.”  It tasted like a lie. Like a rotted, festering truth he needed to disguise as anything else. It had been him. His body, even if his mind had struggled against it, had done those things. Some part of him had wanted to. Or needed to. Because it had been easier to lose control, to pretend he’d had no way out while he hurt the only person he’d dared to actually care about under someone else’s influence. 

“Wasn’t you?” Angel laughed bitterly, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. His third arms materialized into existence, loaded guns cradled in each hand. He raised them without hesitation, barrels pointed at the wide-eyed, bracing husk of a man in front of him.

“Maybe I don’t deserve to be looked at like I’m anything but fucked up trash. But don’t act for a second like I was too fucked up to recognize you. Don’t you dare stand there and apologize now, after you had every chance to stop but didn’t.”

Silence. Husk couldn’t look at him. His hands hung useless at his sides. Part of him wanted Angel to pull the trigger. Wanted the pain. Knew he deserved it. Knew it wouldn’t come close to what Angel had felt. He opened his mouth again, tasted stale whiskey and bitter regret, then dropped to his knees.

“If it helps—if it’ll make up for what I did, Angel—then shoot me,” Husk murmured. It’d be so selfish to take the easy way out of this, but he’d always been selfish. 

“Fuck you!” Angel snapped, lips curling into a snarl as he blinked back the tears. “You don’t get to kneel there looking like you’re the victim. Not after you—” His breath caught, voice dropped into something jagged and crumbling. “Not after ya tied me down and raped me.”

“I never meant to. To do that to you, Angel, but—”

“Say the fucking word, Husk.” Angel pressed the barrel of the gun into his chest, hard enough to bruise. “Overlord or not, you don’t get to dance around it. You ain’t above the shit you did. So stop looking away. Stop hiding. Say it.”

“I...” Husk’s voice trembled. Then broke. “I raped you.” Just saying it hollowed him out. Husk had never thought himself good, but he used to believe there were lines he wouldn’t cross. Things he’d never become. But he had.

“I did it. I’m no better than anyone else who’s ever hurt you. But I didn’t want to. I swear to God, Angel. I didn’t. I could make excuses, but I won’t. You can shoot me. Hell, I’ll pull the trigger for you. But before I go down for this, before I regenerate and crawl back out of this fucking floor, I need you to understand that I regret it. I was drugged. Valentino knew I was going to see you. It doesn’t excuse me being too weak to fight it. Or me hurting you. But I need you to know—I wouldn’t have... I wouldn’t have done that to you.” He stumbled on the word again; felt it swell in his lungs until he couldn't breathe. “I’m sorry.” 

Angel’s arms trembled. Not from exhaustion—no, he had strength for days when rage like this ran hot through his veins. Not from the weight of his guns, but from the war being waged inside his own chest. His grip tightened on the triggers, and he could feel it, the moment where all that fury begged him to just do it. One shot. Maybe two. Center mass. Leave Husk bleeding on the carpet until Hell spit him back up again.

But he didn’t pull. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Just stared at the man kneeling in front of him, broken and guilty and still wearing Husk’s goddamn face. That was the worst part—he looked like him. The man who made bad jokes and poured cheap whiskey like it was holy water. The man who kissed but never took more than he thought he deserved. The man Angel had gifted with the keys to his glass house—who’d kicked down its walls and dragged him across the shards.

Angel swallowed, hard. His voice came quiet, but the bite hadn’t dulled. Not yet. “I know what Val’s venom does to people. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.” I’m addicted to it , Angel thought bitterly, wishing he had a dose of it now just to make this stop hurting. “When it isn’t numbing all the pain and getting ya high, it’s melting your brain. Makes your skin burn if someone’s not touching it. Makes your cock hard or gets ya wet just from breathing. And if you don’t get laid—if you don’t get off—it fucking rips you to shreds.” His voice cracked again—lower, hoarser now. “Makes you let people hurt you, or it makes you hurt them. And it feels good. So fucking good you almost forget it’s not.”

Husk said nothing. Just bowed his head, watching the way those guns trembled in Angel’s grasp but didn’t lower. He could still remember the feeling. Could still feel it now. The awful hunger of it. The shameful relief. And even now, even now, he hated himself for still wanting the feeling of holding Angel close. Still craving what they'd had before everything turned.

“I thought you were stronger,” Angel hissed, venomous accusation in his breath and tempered glass in his eyes. “Got it in my head that you were different. You didn’t treat me like a whore, you treated me like a person. Made me think I deserved something better than everything I knew. And then you—fuck, Husk—”

The barrel of the gun pressed harder into Husk’s chest. Angel could feel the give of Husk’s jacket, the resistance of his fur. He felt his pulse against his fingertip where it touched the trigger. 

Husk didn’t move, didn’t offer a single word to defend himself or dismiss the things Angel was saying. Not because he wasn’t breaking beneath the weight of it all, but because he wanted every word Angel spoke to cut through him. He’d taken Angel’s voice away from him once before, he wouldn’t do it again now. 

“You were kind. Someone good. And that’s why it hurts so fucking much.” He closed his eyes. His third arms twitched with indecision. “I should shoot you,” Angel said, quieter now, more to himself than to Husk. “Because part of me... part of me thinks maybe that’ll make this stop hurting. If I hurt you back.”

Angel wanted to be infuriated by the silence. He needed Husk to deny everything, twist it like Val would. Make it ugly and familiar. He needed Husk to give him a reason to scream and fight back the way he hadn’t been allowed to before so that maybe it would hurt in any other kind of way then it did. 

 “Maybe it’ll kill the part of me that thought you were more than just... more than just another asshole who couldn’t resist shoving a loaded cock into the hottest ass in Hell.” Angel cursed under his breath—low, vicious—and finally lowered the guns. His third set of arms vanished, retreating into his body. His shoulders slumped.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Lowering his guns didn’t feel like mercy, it felt like surrender. Like accepting something he hadn’t wanted to see because he wanted Husk to be something more than he really was. There was no retribution in killing Husk for being just as human as everyone else in Hell. It’d been his own fault for putting Husk on a pedestal. For believing he wasn’t just as damned as the rest of them. But fuck, he’d wanted Husk to be different, to be untouchable. Something good that he could have, that Val couldn’t ruin. 

“You don’t get a pass for this,” Angel muttered. “Don’t think for a second that just ’cause you cried and confessed, I’m gonna forget how it felt when you took something I was willing to give you.” His voice hitched. “What it felt like to beg you not to.”

Husk closed his eyes, throat dry and fists clenched at his sides to stop himself from reaching out. Trying to comfort Angel would just feel like trying to ease his own pain. 

Angel’s voice wavered as he forced out the next part, soft and tired but no less furious. “I know what that poison does. I know what Val does. I should’ve known better.” His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into skin until it bled. “I should have known he’d find a way to make you just like everyone else.” 

The silence that filled the room hung heavily over them, dark clouds drifting through the pressurized atmosphere. Husk remained on his knees, mouth full of words he wasn’t sure he had the right to speak—until Angel’s sigh cut through the tension.

“Get off the floor, dumbass.” It wasn’t kind or spoken with the usual teasing lilt. But it wasn’t cruel, either. Angel didn’t have it in him to put any more emotion into this. He just gestured toward the door, a silent confirmation that he was done with it all, before sitting on the edge of the bed—elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

Husk stood slowly, legs stiff, bones aching under the weight of a heart that hadn’t carried anything in years. He glanced toward the door, knowing he should leave. Then he looked at Angel—and knew that, for just a moment, he needed to stay. He told himself it was for Angel’s sake. And a part of him believed that. But at his core, Husk knew he was doing it for himself too.

“I always thought…” Husk began, then paused, rubbing a hand over his face. “No. That’s a lie. I wanted to think I was better than the scumbags crawling around down here.”

Angel didn’t respond, but his eyes flicked to Husk’s face. Listening.

“I wanted to believe I was different. That the drinking, the gambling, the bullshit didn’t make me as bad as the rest. I own souls. Don’t always treat them like they’re people. Scare people into doing what I want. But I never hurt them. Told myself I wasn’t as bad as I could be, so I didn’t have to care about how bad I was.”

He swallowed hard, voice turning rough. “And when I was with you—when we were good—I felt like I finally cared about something again. Made me feel like I should start caring about everything. Knew it was dangerous, knew that I shouldn't have cared and tried telling myself I didn't,” didn’t love you . Husk thought, choosing not to say those words, to leave it as it was so that it might hurt less. “Kept pretending I was the better person.” Self righteous bastard . His voice dropped to a gravelly rasp. “But I’m not. I never was.”

This time, Angel kept silent. His hands dropped from his face, folding across his lap. He waited. Watched Husk sit down—not close enough to touch. Just there.

“I’m not gonna make excuses,” Husk said, voice quiet. “What I did... I’ll live with it. I don’t want you to forgive me. I didn’t take the threat seriously, acted like I was above it when really, I was just as weak as anyone else. And I’m sorry.” He hesitated. Then added, “Not in a ‘poor me’ kind of way. Not like I deserve your sympathy. Just… sorry. Because my arrogance made it easy. I hurt you. And you didn’t deserve that.”

Angel exhaled a breath that sounded too rough. Then, gently, he leaned against Husk’s shoulder—just barely. Just enough to feel his warmth. To embrace the shattered remnants of something he’d known he couldn’t keep, but had still tried to have. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was a goodbye.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” Husk asked, voice heavy with longing and grim acceptance as he carefully wrapped an arm around Angel. Not as a lover. As a broken man, sitting in the wreckage of something they’d both tried to polish into more than it was ever meant to be.

Angel didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low and soft, like he was trying not to let it crack. “Glass houses never last. And what we had… it was always gonna shatter.”

Husk didn’t argue. He couldn’t. But fuck, he wanted to. 

“You can’t hide the truth behind transparent walls for long,” Angel added, swallowing the bitter truth of it like another pill. He didn't let himself think about all of the what ifs that might make it possible to keep this going on. All of those impossible scenarios were best left in the dark, at least for now. “Val knows. And that means whatever this coulda been… it’ll just keep being something that hurts one of us. Or both of us.”

He looked down at his hands, at wrists that just the night before had been bruised. “I can’t forgive you, Husk. Even knowing the truth, I won’t ever be able to look at you the same way. And I ain’t gonna live with you always having regret in your eyes when you look at me.”

He felt the way Husk tensed. Knew the ache behind it. Knew, even if Husk didn’t want it to be true, it was. And it hurt. It ground the fragments of every could have been and might have had deeper into Angel’s heart. But that was okay. It was better to say goodbye on cracked foundations than be impaled by the shards of something that couldn’t be rebuilt. At least now—even if the door was broken—Angel could close it before he walked away.

“I don’t want you to call me again. No more appointments. Nothing. It’s gotta be done, Husk.” Angel whispered, pulling away. “Overlord or not, you can’t hide from Val. And I can’t run. Not from him.”

“Angel—” Husk tried, but Angel was already on his feet, pulling his jacket shut and moving toward the door. Still, he reached, claws closing against empty air before falling against the mattress. Lips trembling with the weight of hope filled words that couldn't be spoken until there was a chance that maybe, maybe they could be realized. Because Husk didn't want to give up, didn't want to accept that this was the end, but right now, he didn't know what he could do. 

“This ain’t a love story, Husk. Never could’ve been. Life in Hell doesn’t work that way.” Not for us. Not for me . Not if either of us is ever going to be safe. “Goodbye, Husk.” He stepped through the door but paused in the frame. “Don’t stop tryin’ to be better just because I’m gone,” he added—almost too softly to hear.

And with that, he left. Walked away from the ragged sound of Husk’s breath catching in his chest. Away from the anger that still clung to his own shadow. Stepping outside the motel, Angel moved toward the bars of a cage that shimmered with the illusion of freedom—gilded glass pillars that held him fast in their cold, sharp embrace.

And he trusted them as much as he could trust anything. He knew he could exist within them the way he always had—trapped, but surviving. Caged in the reconstruction until all of this was another smudged memory against the window. Just like he knew they’d keep Husk out. And that meant Husk would be safe, that he could rebuild too. 

~.~

Valentino was waiting—body a relaxed, sensual silhouette draped across their bed, watching the penthouse door when he wasn’t scrolling through his phone. His claws curled absently through the plumes of pink smoke, dragging their fragile trails until they broke. Watching them ascend, only to dissolve into nothing but the memory of their scent.

The door creaked open, slow and uncertain, and there he was—arms wrapped around himself, head down to hide the way his mascara dripped beneath those glassy pink eyes. Angel. His Angel . A lovely portrait behind smudged, fractured glass. Something to be displayed and adored by everyone, but could only ever truly belong to him.

Angel didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Valentino knew just by looking that he’d won—because there was a quiet hum of desperation in Angel’s gaze that affirmed his need. He watched Angel cross the room with aching determination in his steps, heard the song of surrender in the click of his heels.

So Valentino stood. Opened his arms and waited for Angel to fall dutifully into them. The smile that curled on his lips wasn’t warm. It was satisfied. He wrapped an arm around Angel’s waist, the other threading into damp, tangled hair, stroking it back with slow, practiced affection. “Welcome home, amorcito,” he murmured, voice like velvet dragged across a razorblade.

Angel didn’t reply. Just pressed his face against Val’s chest like he was trying to crawl inside his ribcage—into something that felt like safety, even though he knew it was just another cage he’d built for himself.

Valentino inhaled deeply—and there it was. That familiar burn of cheap whiskey. The lingering scent of someone else’s power clinging to Angel’s fur like a secret he hadn’t bothered to wash off. He’d gone back. Back to Husk.

Val’s fingers snagged in Angel’s hair. His grip tightened around his waist, pulling him flush against his chest. Didn’t matter. Angel knew the truth, but it didn’t matter. Because he also knew he had nowhere else to go. No one else to turn to. Valentino could feel it in the way Angel clung to him—desperate for comfort, for something steady. Silently pleading to be kept, even if it hurt. Especially because it hurt.

He’d learned, by now, that pain was the only thing that ever stayed. Heartache was the only thing anyone else had to offer him. All of Hell could abuse him, admire him, hurt him until the surface cracked. But only Valentino could give him love. Only he would be there to collect the broken pieces and put them back together. 

Val hummed, low and pleased, and leaned down to kiss Angel’s temple. “You always do this,” he whispered, voice sweet and saccharine with just a hint of tease. “Always gotta chase that dream like there’s something better waiting for you, when you know you belong here with me. Like someone’s gonna come along and fix you.”

His hand tightened in Angel’s hair, pulling his head back just enough to meet his eyes. He smiled, wide and gleaming, the performance of rough affection masking a time worn warning. “But you’re already fixed, baby. I made you perfect.”

Angel’s breath caught around the sob buried in his throat. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t protest. Just stared—hollow and shining, like a porcelain doll cracked down the middle and still sitting pretty on the shelf.

Val smiled wider. He leaned in, brushing his lips across Angel’s mouth, drawing him closer with the promise of escape from the ache of knowing. And Valentino was generous when it served him. He could be kind when the chips were stacked in his favor. So he gave. Kissed deep. Shared the poison that welded the pieces back together in all the ways that benefited him while convincing Angel this was all he deserved. Left him gratefully defeated.

He’d played it just right. Said just enough. Pulled just hard enough. Broken just deep enough. Now, he could rebuild Angel. Piece by piece. He’d reconstruct the ruin he caused. Reshape Angel’s splintered spirit and lay him gently back in the glass cage where he belonged—where he could be watched, adored, possessed.

Where Angel would always be his. Because even if he never said it, Angel was his pristine, glass castle. Transparent safety, love etched in delicate lines. And Valentino wasn’t willing to lose him.