Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Wakey, wakey, sunshine, you having a nice nap?”

“Mmmm…fuckin...five more minutes, Husk.” 

Dammit, his head hurt. And ohh, the nausea…

Waking up to a throbbing headache, queasy stomach, and feeling like he’d just been crushed by thirty buses was nothing new to Angel.

But laying off the hard stuff for more than three days always made Angel forget that the payoff of being stoned, hungover, or whatever the fuck had cooked up this massive headache, fucking sucked .

Cause normally the featherlight touches of Husk’s claws, which were now trailing circles across his arms and legs, would’ve had Angel cock-hungry and very pissed off that his boyfriend’s outrageuosly hot ass wasn’t on his, right fucking now. 

But as of late, Husk's touching wasn't turning him on, just pissing Angel off.

“Ugghh…this ain’t funny, ya furball! Fuck offff!”

Being uncharacteristically ruffled, Angel tried rolling over and away from the curious hands that couldn’t fucking read the room. 

Yet the tangle of tight blankets locked him in place.

Another poke to the ribs and a pinch to Angel’s thigh had him sluggishly attempting to pull the covers over his head, swatting the air above him, with arms oddly heavy and unresponsive.

“Oww, not…now, Whiskers, arghhh, lemme sleeeep!”

Satan’s balls, just how fucking high was he?

And just when being a doped-up crackwhore had became yesterday’s news.

He’d been real good at playing it sober. Free of drugs, sex, and Valentino up his ass (both figurably and literally) ever since he’d wheetled out of his contract. For three fucking months! And for what?

Probably because those heroin syringes and whiskey were like a beacon to Angel, with the glass bottles catching the light and reflecting it back, brighter than everything else, like it was the light atop a lighthouse. A cure-all for the phantom pain. 

But also a deep plunge into a sea of nameless faces and numbness, null of all feeling. Even the shitty sex was blotted out, leaving any shred of an orgasm a distant memory. 

And the grande finale was always Husk’s audible disappointment through drooped wings and downcast golden eyes, shaking his head solemnly.

(‘You know ya better than this, Legs. The Angel I know ain’t a quitter, and sure as hell wouldn’t throw away his chance at Heaven for a three-minute high.’)

But…life had been way too good to fall back on old habits. 

His afterlife was not and never would be perfect, but lately, it had shaped up to be a damn better life than he ever would have expected.

Rehab at the hotel. Actual freedom. Husk.

So at what point had he fallen back to shit?

As the darkness ebbed and flowed, so did Angel’s memory.

Cherri. He’d been with Cherri.

He’d had a shot, or seven. Just to let loose at the club for a few hours while Cherri scouted out some takers for a lap dance.

On the way home, alone and only slightly tipsy, some burly bastard had asked Angel for directions.

 Real sketchy. Even had his hood up, with a switchblade in one hand and a blunt in the other. 

Well aware of the blowjob beggers that skulked that streets, Angel kindly told the man to fuck off, cause he wasn’t on the market today. 

A whistle through the teeth signalled an ambush of demons to all leap on Angel and stuff a chloroform-scented hankie into his face…

Wait, he’d been fucking jumped!

And that’s when the rather loud and obnoxious voices cut through the beautiful silence in Angel’s mind.

“...you know my Mom wants me home by 8, sooo…”

“It ain’t my fault the bosses said not to disturb Sleeping Beauty and her beauty rest, else we’d already been wined and dined and fucked by now!”

“Let’s just get this ball rolling, I wanna get my dick wet.”

Angel’s eyes snapped open.

Oh, fuck. 

Far from the first time Angel had been invited to a involuntary gangbang with no RSVP. 

It’d usually be a Valentino hater who’d snag Angel off a street corner just to make his old boss jealous (Those, he would fuck just to get under Val’s skin). Sometimes, it was the typical “held for ransom” schtick. In those cases, Angel played negotiator, making sure all the broke bitches got their money’s worth. But every now and then, it was an obsessed fan who’d clearly never been laid once in their afterlives, resulting in Angel kindly taking the lead to make it seem like they were doing something right.

But why did all the kidnappers have the same two things in common? One, being horny little leeches who’d never take no for an answer. And two, always rallying in some random hotel room that rocked that biohazard aestatic, had over a dozen healthcode violations, and stank like ass. 

This one was definitely one of those hotels, as Angel was immediately hit with the rank smell of death and old sex.

 Just the standard sketchy establishment where they’d bang the roofied bitches and market the overlord-level nose candy. 

Angel crinkled his nose in disgust as he inhaled the stale air that hung heavy with a cocktail of mildew, cigarette smoke, and a range of many bodily fluids that had spotted the threadbare carpet. A dingy lampbulb overhead, on its last leg, flickered shadows onto the faded yellow wallpaper that shed and flecked plaster like scabs. An outdated AC system was embedded under the tattered floral curtains of the window, which creaked as it pumped a semi-cool breeze into the dank, stuffy, shoebox of a room. A thick sheet of dust covered every piece of the mismatching furniture that littered the room: the plush armchair, the tiny side table, and the miniature dining table, excluding the bed Angel was tied to, which was unusually clean. Except for a crusty, discolored patch on the pillow’s edge, which was scented suspiciously like pussy juice.

And as was customary of these kidnapping escapades, Angel had been bound to the lumpy bed that could’ve doubled as a wooden board. The rope of choice at these shindigs was usually something makeshift, like an old shoestring, belt buckles, or once, some pantyhose snatched off an ex. But no, these guys were above that thrift store chic. These were premium restraints from the Lust Ring, proven through their leather, padded cuffs, ironclad lock and keys, and that spicy Valentino-like aroma of sex.

An experimental tug revealed that they were moored to the base of the bedposts. 

Fuck.

The icing on the cake was the straitjacket-type vest fitted over the middle of his torso. Wrought of elite angelic steel, complete with criss-crossing straps at the front that encircled his underarms. For what, Angel had no fucking clue. 

He had worn dozens of corsets and shapewear in his day, but Jesus, this one packed a punch. It was actively competing with Angel’s lungs for space, making breathing a struggle. And his too-tight booty shorts and pink crop top weren’t helping the mix, as the vest practically vacuum-sealed the fabric to skin. 

That’s when it clicked. The vest wasn't a trendsetter, it was a contraption to prevent his 3rd set of arms from popping out.

Dammit, these guys had thought of everything!

“And there she is.” A gruff voice whispered in his ear, calling Angel’s attention to the motley crew of beraggled demons that surrounded the bed. All of whom were giving the rape eyes with a fountain of drool dripping from their jaws.

At the front of the demon pile-up, stood a wolf with a jet-black hide, seemingly the leader, given all his snout’s war wounds and that skull tattooed across his chest. While the rest of the crew consisted of a medium-sized fox, a massive bull, a snake with a hoop in its flat nostrils, and a rat who’d looked like it’d been through the wringer with its patchy fur and lopped off toes. And finally, two imps that stood off to the side, one tall and gangly, the other pint-sized and very twitchy, like he’d just downed fifty Red Bulls. 

“Well, well, well, look who finally decided to come to,” the wolf welcomed, bending his knees to level with the rousing spider. “Hello, pretty.”  

“Hello yaself, handsome, sorry tah keep ya’ll waitin,” Angel crooned, with the expression of a coked up hooker looking for an easy lay. 

Angel really did have a certain something. Anyone with two eyes could tell. He was obscenely beautiful, and despite being a retired porn star, there was still something about his tantalizing gaze that made it look like he was there, pliant, and ready for whatever anyone threw at him.

Then came an awkward stretch of silence.

The air thickened with palpable tension, as a staredown arose betwe en Angel’s cocky mismatched eyes and the wolf’s eyebrow-dance of seduction. 

In a bid to dispel this tension, Angel looked to the left and then to the right, looking completely over this.

 “Okay, this “tough guy” act is cute and all, but let’s cut that bullshit cause I’m gettin bored.“

Angel tilted his head back over the edge of the pillow, eyeing the wolf looming over him from the head of the bed, upside down and completely apathetic. The spider gave the ropes a few tugging flicks, wrists lifting as far as they'd go in a limp, exaggerated wave. 

“Hellooo?” He sang, shaking a bound hand. “Are any of ya gunna tell me what the fuck this is? Ya running some kind of underground sex cult or what? Cause initiation for the last one I got roped into was just a bunch of deadbeats comparing dick sizes.”

“Hey! Is the whore trying to be fucking smart with us?” The fox called out from behind the large bull, standing on his tiptoes to get in on the action.

“Glad to know at least one of ya’s got two brain cells!”

The rat demon thrust a scraggly finger into Angel’s face, “Think we’re stupid?! That’s real big talk from a weak slut, who couldn’t hold his own for shit!”   

“Yeah!” the snake agreed, flicking open a switchblade to press it under Angel’s throat. “For that, we should just stuff his scrawny ass in a body bag and be done with him! Cause we’re in charge, here, whore!”

“Aww, but I wanted a turn with him! And I thought the boss wanted him in one piece!” Bull whined, stamping his foot.

“Shut the hell up, Randy!” The black wolf commanded the bull, shoving the snake and his knife aside. “He don’t even know why he’s here, and I’d wager that empty little head of his is just swimming with questions.”

 With plush, almost girly lips donning a mischievous grin and a voice much too chipper for someone about to get his ass wrecked by a bunch of strangers, Angel raised a cuffed hand as high as he could, wiggling his fingers like a student eager to be called on.

“Oh, oh! But I know this game! It’s the one where the dicksquad rail a bitch cause they don’t get any pussy from their old ladies and cry themselves to sleep every night sucking their own cocks.”

Angel could’ve sworn he heard one of the guys near the back mutter, “Wow, he’s good.”

On the flip side, Wolfman didn’t appreciate getting clocked with the obvious. 

“You little–”

But Angel was on a roll, beginning to bounce up and down on the bed, jostling in place like he was trying to dance through the restraints.

“No, no, no, don’t tell me! I got this!” 

The spider pursed his lips, pretending to think.

“Hmm, Valentino sent ya n’ gave ya the orders ta yak a whole lotta tough guy shit before we get to the good part where I help ya unpitch those tents! So glad to see we’re all in agreement! So let’s get on with it!”

Angel had played this game way too many times.

It was just another role.

He’d play along. Butter 'em up real good. Fuck how they want to. They let him off easy.  

Cause if Angel allowed them to do it, he was still in control

It was simple.

It was okay.

But it wasn’t

Husk didn’t deserve this.

Sigh, sometimes, keeping up his new monogamy profile was a real ball-ache. 

Godamn his luck. And fuck these assholes.

“I think. You talk waaaay too much for your own good.” Snakeboy remarked. A stupidly obvious observation. 

“Yeah? And you breathe too loudly. Life’s tough for all of us, toots.”

“It’s a medical condition!” 

“Marlon, I swear!” Black Wolf barked, whacking Snakeboy on the shoulder, then rubbed his temples with a sigh, looking about ready to retire for the night.

Someone was clearly not compensated enough to babysit this lot. 

“We ain’t working for Val. But don’t think that lets you off the hook, babe, cause our boss was quite picky in who we… acquired tonight.”

“Yeah! He’s fucking crazy about you!” the rat demon chimed in.

With a wink, Angel’s tongue slipped out to the corner of his mouth, provocatively teasing his lower lips, “Looks like it’s his lucky day! Cause I love me a choosy bastard, especially one with good taste! Any idea where His Selectiveness is right now? ”

The imp, the littler one that barely hit knee height, decided it was high time to make his presence known. 

“Oh my fucking god! Didja just hear that! He just spoke! And he’s flirting and did his trademark wink! Just like in the videos! The Angel Dust is actually flirting with us! Wait, he was flirting with us, right? Oooh! Have I ever told you guys this is a fantasy of mine?”

The poor guy looked like he was about to either pass out or cream his pants from excitement. 

Really giving the Angel Dust cultist dialed up to eleven. 

Zero chill. Motor mouth energy. Had no fucking volume control. 

Probably the type that carried erotic fan art like a badge of honor.  

Apparently, the others were used to the guy’s antics, cause they all spewed out an orchestra of groans, practically pulling out their own fingernails in exasperation at the live wire.

“Yes, you have Carl. FOURTEEN FUCKING TIMES!”

“I’m sorry! But how am I supposed to focus when he looks like this? The cameras really don’t do him any justice! I just can’t believe this is for real!”

Like a kid pumped up on sugar, Carl began bouncing up and down on his heels, literally foaming at the mouth. So caught up in his own excitement, the imp’s staccato breaths were just shy of hyperventilating.

“Um, don’t deprive yaself of oxygen, there, buddy. I mean, it’s okay to breathe around me.”

This guy must’ve been running on batteries, cause even a pair of hijacked, wheezy lungs didn’t shut up or slow down his motor mouth.

“Holy shit. Yes! Yes! Whatever you want, Angel! Hold on, it is okay that I call ya Angel? That is your real name, right? What am I saying, of course it is! I know everything about you! I’m the president of the Angel Dust fan club! We do polls and collect a ton of Angel Dust fan art. Got a couple here if you wanna see!”

And there it was. Officially earning his stripes for the IFuckAngelInTheAss fan council. (Yes, unfortunately, that was a thing.)

Carl continued to stare at Angel, unblinking. 

Sweet Jesus, what was wrong with this kid? 

“Gosh, c-can I actually touch you?”

“Umm…”

Without waiting for the go-ahead, Carl’s petite fingers began to patter across Angel’s arms.

“Wow! This is the best fucking day of my life! Damn, your skin is so fucking soft. Do you moisturize? Sometimes when I use lotion, I pretend it’s you stroking me off! Oh, shit did I say that out loud? Sorry, I’m just so fucking excited to finally meet you in person!”

Upon closer look, one of the imp’s eyes was bulgy and bloodshot. Must’ve been courtesy of Angel, cause the inflamed eyelid still fluttered flecks of dried blood into the tear duct. Angel only ever socked his attackers with the thumb out to catch the fucker’s skin in his bedazzled nails. Sure was nice to know he’d doled out at least one mean uppercut before getting abducted by popular demand. 

And needless to say, Carl shared that same sentiment.

“I can’t say how honored I am to be suckerpunched by my favorite pornstar! Ya know I sometimes borrow the boss’s on-brand Angel body pillow to jerk off at night? Cause you can’t ride the knock-offs unless you wanna wear them out after one go. But the on-brands are so damn expensive, I can’t get my own! Hey, you wouldn’t mind if I snapped a quick picture with you, huh?”

After withdrawing a phone with a cracked screen from a back pocket, tapping a few buttons to set it to camera mode, Carl started hovering over Angel, craning his neck to snap a selfie.

 In the dim light, the hellphone’s overly bright screen sliced through all eight of Angel’s retinas, making his lashes fan rapidly. 

 Raising two fingers in a peace sign, Carl called out, “Just want proof to rub in my boyfriend’s face! Maybe post it on Voxagram? And make it my profile picture? Of every account I own? Fuck, this is gunna get so many views! Now say cheese!”

“Ooh! Can you tag me too?” Randy pumped his fist, hand reaching into a back pocket for his phone.

But the wolf was not on board with the idea of this whole hostage situation going viral. 

After a click and a camera flash, his paw backhanded the phone out of Carl’s hands. Gravity did its thing and made the device tumble face-down on the bed, right next to Angel’s hip, spiderwebbing the already cracked screen into a cluster of broken glass and dead, flickering pixels.

“Carl, Randy! You dumbasses! Boss’s exact words were not to mess with the package! And that means no photos!”

With his phone and his lifelong dreams of a photo with his idol shattered, Carl was not a happy camper. 

“But whhhhyyy?” With a long, drawn-out whine, Carl’s head hung low, “Boss himself said he was gunna film it! That doesn’t seem fair that we can’t!”

“Hey…now that ya mention it, that is unfair!”

“Yeah! Whatever happened to equal opportunity?”

Then came a heated debate, where all the demons huddled up and conversed with one another on the blatant double standards. 

But amidst this argument, one small detail seemed to slip through the cracks.

Angel Dust. Still tied to the bed. Now forgotten.

Until the fox paused in the middle of his impassioned speech, blinking in confusion as he pointed at their captive.

“Wait a second, that’s Angel Dust!”

Angel waved casually, tone nonchalant. “Took ya fellas long enough.”

That became the topic of their next conversation. 

“Well, Carl’s right about one thing, he’s even hotter than he is on the screens.”

“I know, right? It’s like an interactive meet and greet! 

“I’d say it’s more like using those VoxSpecs Virtual Reality Ultra 4-D Simulator.”

“No fucking way! You actually tried that out?”

“Naw, the real thing is straight up robbery, I just used the generic that made my eyelids stick together for two days.”

“The fuck? Then why the hell did you use it?”

“I ain’t wasting thirty bucks! You don’t even wanna know what that crap did to my dick…”

“Ugrrhh! Can’t we do something to pass the time? I’m fucking dying over here!”

“How about we play spin the slut? Whoever get doused in jizz gets to take the whore first!”

“Mark, you’ve been watching way too many of those damn sex cartoons.”

“Hey! It’s called hentai! And I don’t understand why we couldn’t have snatched up a hooker off the street! Would’ve been way easier, and more selection! Preferably a succubus…whose Japanese? And lets us use the tentacles?”

“Oh my god, Mark, you’re almost as bad as Carl and his mini Angel fuck dolls!”

“Those are collectables! Worth way more than your Queen Bee Soak n’ Slay set!”

“Thought we agreed to never talk about that!”

Not the slickest condoms in the pack, were they?

“He’s so cute. See him looking around like that? Probably wondering what we’s gunna do to im.”

“Maybe boss wouldn’t mind if we rough him up a bit before he gets here.”

“I fucking would!”

Everyone stiffened.

The tarnished and splintered door didn’t creak. It just opened, wide and slow. And suddenly there he was, filling up most of the frame. The gang’s head honcho, a backlit silhouette looming in the doorway.

Ooooooohhhhhkay…not exactly what Angel pictured.

This guy wasn’t the usual chain-smoking, made-for-the-movies mob boss type. The ones who were tall, cut like a buzzsaw, and had a voice like a bootleg cigar. Complete that image with a dozen red rings on each finger, clad in leather and iron, and looked like he could bench press a tank. The classic gangster shit.  

Not…this. 

This “boss” had a massive beer belly that hung over a pair of jeans at least two sizes too small for him, with an ill-fitting shirt that read “I LUV FEET,” that accentuated the wings of flab that made up his arms and legs. Part of his neck had disappeared under a roll of fat, alongside his weather-beaten skin, bulbous nose, and the stale scent of nicotine clinging to his breath. And as for that brown, stringy combover...well, it was more of a last-ditch effort to hold onto something that clearly wasn’t there anymore. Underneath his dry, cracked lips was a bushy, yet well-trimmed mustache that could’ve had a place on a washed-up politician. 

Come to think of it, this demon did look so uncannily human.  

It was like he hadn’t shaken off the old life. 

His old humanity long lost, yet his body still holding fast to pass as some semblance of a mortal soul, now stuck in Hell.   

But still, not a chance in hell that Angel could take this man seriously if not for those fucking eyes.

Real attention grabbers. Gold and shimmering.

But these weren’t the cozy irises of Husk’s sunset eyes.

No, these were molten. Fused with something slick and slow, like a lustful thirst distilled into color. 

And in the dead center of those lust-swirled pools, sat the long-limbed reflection of the man’s potential prey. 

Angel forced down a swallow.

But besides that, the man was pretty much everyone’s creepy uncle, that your mom tells you to avoid at the family reunions. The one who tells off-color jokes, reeks like old cologne, and somehow knows way too much about the kids’ personal lives. If you know, you know.

But, hey, Angel’s seen uglier, and he’s most definitely done uglier, so maybe fucking schlumpy wouldn’t be all bad.

“So this is the man in charge. The one y’all were nutting over? Damn. Ya really live up to the title of being the ‘big’ boss!” 

A brown spit of tobacco answered Angel’s observation. He could even hear the moist sloshing in the other’s mouth as the boss gathered ammo for another shot at the floor, which joined the scatter of mystery smudges on the carpet. 

The man padded closer to the bed, chin nodding up and down as he examined his prize.

“Nice to see you shitheads came through for once . Now…hellllooo gorgeous.” 

With a lecherous smile, he glided a split and yellowed knuckle across the heel of Angel’s boot absently.

“Isn’t he, boss?”

“Excuse me, what are you s till doing here?”

“Waiting for our turn to backdoor the broad?”

The man’s eyes rolled into oblivion at the incompetence of these idiots. 

Did they think with anything besides their dicks? 

The boss pointed at the exit, his finger and tone unmoving as he laid down the law

“Nuh, uh. You’re waiting in the car until I’m done giving our guest the proper welcome. Move your asses.”

As expected, he was met with a chorus of boos as well as a din of accusatory jeers. Yet a smug smile still curved the boss’s face, as the malice from his gang was like wind beneath his wings.

Their disappointment also amped pheromones to a nice, safe level, as Angel eyed numerous hands flying into pockets to conceal their obvious boners.

“Wait, what!”

“But Bryrin, you promised!”

Angel froze.

Did he just say Bryrin? As in foot guy, Bryrin?

Oh…shit.

In the meantime, the rest of the gang were putting their two cents in, obviously bent out of shape that their big orgy blowout had just been canceled. 

“Are you fucking serious?"

“Why can’t ya just let us have one go?”

“How about this, you get first dibs. Fuck whichever side you want, while we take turns with the other end.” 

‘Okay’, Angel plotted, ‘now that the whiny horny, hoardes were in full swing, he could seize the opportunity and do what he did best.’ 

Distract, fuck, then go about his merry way. 

Because if he knew anything about Bryrin from his fan mail, foot fucking was inevitable.

Hence came a deep breath and a prayer as Angel shifted his posture. Despite being flat on his back, he managed to puff out his chest fluff, the buttons of his crop top clinging for dear life as the silky strands poured over his neckline.

“Oh, this is that kind of party? And y’all were generous enough to save a front row seat for little ol’ me?” Angel gave the once-over to his lower bound wrist, pretending to check an imaginary watch, before flashing with a sultry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And look at that! My weekend’s free! So I don’t suppose you can loosen these ropes so we can do this shit right!” 

“See, even the whore agrees!” the rat pointed out.

“Don’t care. March!” 

Angel sulked, “That’s no fun, the more the merrier, I say! I’ll even give ya’ll a discount!” Turning back towards the fleet of thugs, the spider began to rally and hype them up, 

“How about it, boys? Free blowjobs all around?”

An earful of cheers rippled through the crowd, all nodding at each other in agreement, while also pleading and vying for their boss’s approval. 

“Plllleeeeaaase, Boss!!”

But Bryrin wasn’t having any of it.

“Nice try. All of you, out.”    

Now damned for certain, Angel threw his head back against the pillow.

 Well, it had been worth a shot.

Meanwhile, a flock of middle fingers accompanied the clamor of grumbles and tromping boots as the men stormed out of the hotel room.

But Bryrin stopped the straggler at the back of the line, Big Imp, from exiting. 

“Except for you. Go set up the camera.”

 The imp’s eyes brightened, raring to remain somewhat involved as he pranced over to an unpacked black tripod that stood in the corner.

While the camera setup was underway, the reflection of the device’s protruding cylindrical lens mirrored the spider’s every movement. 

Just the look of it made Angel’s skin crawl, like someone had eyes on his soul, not just his body.

Every time a camera focused on him, Angel felt it. The memories of his past life, the humiliation, the exploitation.

He had learned the camera never cared about consent; it just wanted more. More skin, more shame, more of him to feed its hungry gaze. 

Sensing his discomfort, Bryrin’s vivid gold eyes fixed on Angel, “No need to worry, love, this film isn’t for the public eye.”

“Ya don’t see me complainin, suga, I’m flattered when they wanna keep a momento.”

All lies pushed out from a gritted smile as Angel’s shoulders nearly sank a foot in relief.

Phew, thank Satan this wasn’t making the gram.

The last thing Angel needed was more publicity for this ever growing movement of creepos going to the extreme to get free fucks out of this retired porn star. He thought that most of that shit died down after he’d broken his contract with Valentino. But obviously, that was just wistful thinking.

Meanwhile, Bryrin had strolled over to the bedside, his shit-eating grin white against the shadows of his face, rivaling even Alastor’s haunting cheshire-like smile, as he mussed his dark hair back in faux-modesty.

“It’s just you and me now, love. And I–Oh my god, what is it, Carl?!”

The smaller imp had peeked his head around the corner, sheepishly twiddling his index fingers together.

“I think I left my phone in here. And what do you know? It just happens to be right next to Angel! Who's looking just fabulous in those ropes by the way…”

“GET THE FUCK OUT, NOW!”

After the barbed tail streak of reds and blacks skittered away, quite dejected, Bryrin pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“That kid, I tell ya…”

“You and me both, tubby,” Angel agreed. 

Despite projecting his usual bravado, Angel was quietly dying inside.

Of all the fucking pervs and stalkers in his entire shitty career, why did it have to be Bryrin? 

It was like God itself had a personal vendetta and was hell-bent on repeatedly screwing him over. And not in the sexy, “I’ll fuck you from behind” kind of way.

If you hadn’t already guessed, Bryrin had a deranged fascination with Angel’s feet. But he wasn’t just a fan, this man was a legend in the porn community. Rising from humble beginnings as a lowly porncritic with the uncreative name of Bryrin#1FanCritic, whose reviews predominantly consisted of him picking at the creators to show Angel Dust’s feet in his videos. 

But there came a dark time when foot content wasn’t screened as often in Angel’s work field, as it received lower recognition and mediocre scores, given how Hell dished out some helluva weird demon anatomy. So Bryrin and the rest of his online foot buddies who squatted the lesser-known corners of the net, like OnlyFeet and Toe-tallyDown staged a public sit-in at Val’s Studio to protest the limited representation of feet in their pornos, claiming that it was “fetish discrimniation.”

 Long story short, Bryrin was labeled a hero for his “courageous act” for the feet-loving community, as it boosted the amount and production of foot content.

After this great feat and gaining tons of internet fame, Bryrin eventually switched his pseudonym to FootWorshipper, still critiquing porn, but now posted and promoted (ugh) photoshopped and AI generated images of Angel’s feet.

All in all, it meant that the standard grubby quickies weren’t going to work here.

But by god, Angel would do everything he could to steer the conversation away from feet.

Just pull out all the stops, throw out some steamy innuendos, and he’d be back at the hotel in no time, nursing cocktails and love bites with Husk like nothing had ever happened.

So Angel’s teeth caught the corner of his lip, expression shifting to a facsimile of a come-hither-and-fuck-me look.

“Oooh, ya starting tah got me hard orderin all ya lackeys around, daddy. I’ve always loved a man who can put me in my place!”

Bryrin snorted, sucking in his lips, “These dipshits aren’t mine, thank god. They belong to my brother Ziggy, who owns a few blocks on the East side. I’m just his second in command, borrowing some of his muscle.”

“Still pretty impressive. Being up there with the big dicks ain’t nothing tah sneeze at!”

Even when you knew jackshit about politics.

 But true to form, Angel kept that to himself.

“So, how about we down tah business? Hell’s top rated whore hates gettin blue balls!” Angel shimmied and rolled his shoulders, bouncing his plush pillow of a chest. 

Controlling exactly where every eye in this room landed.

Except for Bryrin’s. Who kept a remarkable and unwavering eye contact, while rounding a finger where the handcuffs bit the other’s wrists, eliciting a low hiss from Angel.

“I ain’t about that sort of shit, sweetheart.” 

“But everyone wants a piece of Angel Dust, baby. Trust me, once I get ya off, yah won’t be able tah stop!”

Out of nowhere, cold betrayal and a hurt tremor pitched Bryrin’s voice, “But you don’t even know who I am, do you? After I’ve followed your entire damn career! Staying up hours every night, watching you. Attending every single convention. Just waiting for you to finally notice me!” 

Literally all of Angel’s fans did that, including Val, but okay.

“I mean, yah can’t really forget the guy who sends ya 400 fan letters and emails a week. And the shitload of text messages that actually made me change my phone number three times so Val wouldn’t think I fucking anyone else. Am I missing anything? Oh, and askin for pictures of my feet at every. Single. Fucking. Meet n greet.” Although his hands were immobile, Angel still managed to count down the events on his fingers, flicking a finger down as he chipped away at the long list. 

Until he came to the last, which just so happened to be his middle finger.

“So you do remember me.” Bryrin was so appeased that he turned a blind eye to the salute, tone evening with a satisfied grin, a crimson blush dying his previously pallor cheeks.

Angel shrugged, “I mean, I remember all my fans. But yah kinda stand out when yah gotta be dragged out of a convention for not only trying to lick my shoes, but also the shoes of every security guard on the premises.” 

Not to mention the literal floor that Angel had been walking on. 

And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

It had gotten to the point where Bryrin was banned from every property of the XXX-Travaganza expos, with Val upping the surveillance and bodyguards if Angel was making any sort of guest appearances. Also drafting not just a VIP, press, and guest roster, but also a no-admission list for all the particularly rabid fans. 

But no matter how many barricades were put up, one or two kooks always managed to skirt around the security’s radar.

Often enough that Angel and Cherri made a game out of it—spot the crazy, and guess how fast security could tase them and tow their asses out.

But Bryrin. Fucking Foot Sniffing Bryrin ranked number one that “no entry” list.

Yes, he was aware that wasn’t his name, but if the shoe fits…

On that whim, Angel casually blew a lock of hair out of his face, “When ya put that much time into stalking someone, it stops being admiration and starts being a lifestyle. So I applaud ya for the effort.” 

“You can call it what you want. Stalking, obsession. But I call it divine devotion.” Bryrin stated, quite seriously, “So you already know I've got the hots for you, and these beauties.”

Half-lidded eyes zeroed in on Angel’s shoes, which were partially hanging off the bed, yet still fused together on the bed’s narrow footboard with leather shackles.

Lowering to his knees, Bryrin cocked his head, studying the bound boots in front of him, eyes twitching, as he memorized every curve and crease of leather.

Angel blanched. (Or as much as he could with a coat of white fur)

Angel fucking hated his feet.  

And very, very rarely had he let anyone living or dead sneak a peek.

Anyone who was anyone knew that. 

Given how often he shared on his pay-per-view livestreams that he didn’t do foot requests. Hell, it was even how he kicked off every convo when working the street corners.

(“Just a few quick rules. Don’t look like that, doll. Fucking me ain’t a total free-for-all. The shoes are off limits, but the rest? Free game, baby”) 

Why?

The answer was simple.

Someone up there had really outdone themselves when it came to Angel’s absolutely flawless body. But then said “fuck this” when it came to the feet and slapped on a ugly hoof just to see if it’d stick. 

They weren’t graceful or sensual, everything his normal feet used to be. Now they were block-shaped, clunky, and freakishly weird.

But it had been a bit uplifting to hear Husk, who couldn’t give two shits about beauty standards, see them and complement how cute they were. Unlike Val, who’d taken one look and not only had thrown a pair of boots at him, but treated them like a fashion faux pas, banning Angel from anything foot-related at the studio.

Which was a-okay with Angel, cause fucking nobody was allowed to touch his feet.

Not Val, not Cherri, not even Husk.

And most definitely not this foot-chasing freak Bryrin.

With that thought, Angel’s smart-ass mouth went dry, holding up his bound hands to restore the conversation at hand.

“O-okay, w-why don’t we just tah fucking? We can even bring in the rest of the guys to do a daisy chain, you can just sit back and crank it, ya don’t even tah get outta ya seat!” Angel had to swallow a snarky comment, cause honest to God, it looked like this man didn’t get off that greasy ass to do anything but eat, jack off, and repeat.

“Angel, like I said, I’m not about that.” Bryrin assured him, “You don’t have to worry about anyone sweating all over you, or sticking their hairy balls in your mouth, cause this is my fantasy.”

Bryrin drummed his fingertips up the neck of Angel’s boot, indenting the leather with the poke of a nail.

Even the word “fantasy” fell short of the truth. 

From the first time he viewed one of those Lustline live streams ten years ago, Bryrin knew Angel and his feet were meant to be his.

It was 3:42 a.m., a Tuesday, flipping through the static-ridden channels on a stolen soul-screen, half-hoping for some background noise while he reorganized his treasure trove of looted shoes and socks. 

And then there he was. Sprawled across a velvet chaise, four arms draped in pearls and fishnets, hips rolling to the beat of a sleazy jazz loop. Cupping a strap-on while purring, “Oooh, baby, I didn’t peg ya for the shy type.”

The camera panned back, revealing more—there was a hint of long, spider-like legs, and then the feet.

Or rather, a tiny flash just above the ankles.

But that was all it took.

After that night, it became a small obsession, a hobby, really, to monitor his social networks, spy on him strolling the streets every now and then… and searching his garbage for discarded socks. All while scouring every video, frame by frame, that Angel had ever appeared in, trying to crack the code of what lay beneath those sultry leather boots.

Now, it was years of unshakable love, sleepless nights, and nearly two dozen bottles of lotion to finally witness the two objects of his infatuation in front of him.

It was mind-boggling and almost too much to fathom.

Although breathless with disbelief, Bryrin still preened, “And now...you’re here. In the flesh. And all I want—really—is to see these feet up close. To witness perfection without a screen between us.” 

Exhilarated and breathing hard through his nose, Bryrin cheekily pinched the tiny metal tab of the shoe’s zipper. To which Angel shot him a withering glare, while yanking his foot as far as the restraints would allow, curling his toes inside his boots.

“Yeah, see, this is the part where I don’t take my shoes off.”

That warning did absolutely nothing, as Angel heard the sound of the boot zipper sliding down slowly, its teeth parting with a gritty metallic rasp, which made his blood rile and adrenaline spike full force. 

Defiant and determined to make this as much of a hell for Bryrin as it was for himself, Angel’s head wildly tossed from side to side, yanking his wrists and ankles raw at the ropes. 

Although his feet twitched a little, the bonds wouldn't budge. 

“You mother–god fucking dammit!” Angel growled.

But on a more positive note, it did make its mark of being a nuisance for Bryrin, who patted a leather boot to calm him down. “Fucking relax! I’m not some creep grabbing your tits, I’m not even going to touch them.”

To drive his point home, Bryrin reached over to cop a feel of Angel’s boob fluff, making the younger take in a sharp breath that doesn’t sound far off from a squeal.

“Again, yah mean?!” 

“I’m just showing you what I’m not doing. Oh my, ohhh–” Bryrin moaned,  as the boots were pulled free with a resistant pop, part suction, part squeak, before the tight leather was drug down Angel’s leg, catching slightly at the heel. The cycle was repeated as a second boot was tugged off. 

Dusty pink and black thigh-high socks soon joined the tableau. 

But like a shed skin, they were also peeled off inch by inch, from the curve of his calf, and over the arched foot, to join the stack of deflated boots on the floor.

The fur and flesh of Angel’s ankles had given way to his…umm…not feet?

“Hooves? Oh fuuckkk…” Bryrin whispered.

Where Angel’s toes should have been was an ivory-like piece of hoof, with a cloven split that ran down the middle.

And instead of continuing the hard surface, the back portion of each foot faded back into fur, with heels that jutted out in a flattened, squarish shape. All patchworked with blotches of shaggy pinks and freckles. Quite a strange mish-mash of humanoid features. 

But Bryrin was in awe, mouth agape at the beautiful sight.

Until an unfamiliar voice broke the silence, and quite woefully, Bryrin’s big moment.

“Oh my god, when you took the boots off, I was hoping he’d piss himself in a silent scream, but watching him scream his tits off was way hotter!”

“Jerry!”

Both Bryrin and Angel had forgotten camera guy. 

One whiplash of a neck turn later, and they were face to face with that taller, lanky imp who was supposed to be setting up the camera, but apparently had hung around to catch the full performance.

And worse, the Peeping Tom had been caught red-handed and shameless with one hand stuffed into his crotch, with the look of a thirsty bitch who’d kill to be in either party’s position.

“Jerry, what the fuck!”

“What? Just adjusting the uh, camera lenses! Yep, they look good!” Jerry halfassed a show of fine-tuning the lens, twisting and rattling the knobs as some unconvincing proof.

“Get your dumbass out of here, before I come over there, and beat it!”

“Okay, okay! Sheesh.”'

Before heading out, Jerry meticulously snuck a folded piece of paper onto the bedside table. Then, he curled his fingers, with a pinky and thumb still out, miming a phone to his ear as he mouthed “call me” at Angel, following a wink and two fingers guns.

(Later, Angel found a phone number scrawled into that note, right beneath a proposition for a surprise birthday three-way for his partner. This was Hell, but damn, romantic date nights nowadays were really scraping the bottom of the barrel.)

After a grainy, irritated sigh, Bryrin returned to admire his muse, the driving force of his wet dreams. 

He leaned in closer, the tip of his nose only a hair away from Angel’s feet.

“So beautiful. That pimp was real stupid to not make a killing off of these. But that man wouldn’t know beauty if it pole danced in his face.” A drawl coated in something vicious as the older man licked his lips.

Pressing his forehead to the soles of the two feet, Byron whispered a prayer of thanks to the gods above, a childish giggle slipping through his lips.

What the fuck…?

Being seven levels of weirded the fuck out, Angel’s body recoiled like the snap of a rubber band, the jolt involuntarily bumping the top of his head into the bedframe. Another recoil when Bryrin’s nostrils flared to inhale the fumes of the sweat and the essence of every mile walked, that had been marinating in Angel’s socks for hours.

Then Bryrin parted his face from the foot’s underside, now feverish and completely self-lubed.

“You have such deliciously cute feet, I wonder how they taste…” Bryrin wondered aloud.

“No, no, we don’t need tah fucking test that ouuuttt-” 

Words cut off as Angel nearly choked on his tongue, as Bryrin’s own dipped out of his mouth, lapping at each foot with gusto.

On instinct, both hooves tried to buck away, but being tied down so tightly, the movements only made the tongue pivot to another target, striping saliva down the arch to the calloused heels.

It felt so fucking unnatural. Unlike Husk’s barbed tongue, no papillae textured the slimy muscle, making for a squishy and slithery organ that tickled as it now slotted into the chink of the hoof, to slurp up the lint that burrowed in the deep groove. 

It really made Angel regret everything that led up to this point. His throat convulsed, and bile crept at the back of his mouth. But he managed to keep his stomach’s rebellion at bay by tensing the muscles of his belly and diaphragm.

“Ughhh, so fucking gross,” Angel groaned, lip curling in disgust, “You’re real lucky my feet are tied or else I’d kick your damn teeth in! But, oh god, you’d like that…”

Following that thought was another lurch of nausea that bubbled in his gut.

But even as Bryrin’s tongue went to town on both of Angel’s feet, his fingers still moved and circled over both feet with an inconceivable gentleness.

Normally, the creeps were all muscle and anger, fucking Angel like he was nothing but a gloryhole. 

But Bryrin wasn’t like that.

He was…something else entirely. 

Actually acting like a doting lover in the midst of violating Angel?

That was very Valentino-coded. To a chilling degree.

Angel’s eyes quietly followed the gentle, tactful fingers on his feet back to Bryrin’s face, which was now sweating profusely.

It had been what, ten minutes, now? And Bryrin still hadn’t come up for air, as he now had practically dislocated his jaw, trying to blowjob both feet at once. Continuing to cram more and more hoof as saliva blanketed his voracious lips, deforming both his cheeks.

“Of all things unholy, how the fuck are yah still going!” 

The now puffy lips relinquished both feet with a wet pop. Angel cringed, swallowing down another gag as he felt his poor feet ooze with a sickly glaze of saliva, thick and disgustingly warm.

Byron looked proud as he swiped a bit of leftover drool from his chin. “Had a lot of practice, just for you, babe.” 

Angel didn’t buy one word of that.

“Now that’s an image I could live without. And I find it real fucking hard to believe. First impressions said yah haven’t had a sober dick in what, fifty years? Poor you. Havin tah resort tah this.” 

But Angel was all bark and no bite, as Bryrin carelessly brushed the taunt aside. Fingers began to tamper and flick his belt buckle, wearing an expression that sat somewhere between delirious excitement and overworked from delaying a long-overdue sperm spill. “Now, you ready for the main event?” 

“Not really. I’m a lotta things, but I don’t do free foot shows! That's above premium content! And–oh fuck me now.”

Bryrin had decided now was impeccable timing to unzip his fly and brandish his fully erect dick.

Way too many demons at these last minute fuck fests didn't stop to mop down their slimy cocks.

The case in point: Bryrin was a member of that majority. With a putrid-smelling dick and a wrinkly ballsack that hadn’t been scrubbed in at least a year. 

Noticing Angel ogling him, Bryrin began to proudly flaunt his package. 

Flexing his non-existent biceps, the old man gyrated his hips, flapping his meat around in circles. 

“Can’t look away, huh?”

 Angel didn't even have to look up to see the impish smirk on Bryrin's face; he could hear it well enough.

“It ain’t a compliment. Do I even wanna know the last time yah washed yah balls?”

“Come on! Don’t tell me you don’t like older men! I see all the sugar daddies you run around with. First that whore mongerer of a moth, and now that fallen overlord, Musk?”

Angel’s breath hitched at the mention of his boyfriend. 

How had he known? Angel and Husk hadn’t officially come out as a couple yet.

Bryrin smirked knowingly, “If it’s their money you’re after, I could get you all the things that he can’t, maybe more!” He puffed out his chest, convinced that he’d just sold Angel on the deal of a lifetime.

Angel eye rolled, 

Wow, never heard that one before.

Like when he’d actually believed all of Val’s empty promises of money, diamond rings, and fancy-ass cars. 

Only to receive said items after Val had used him as the currency. 

All it took was one conversation with Husk, the broke asshole who didn’t give a damn about shiny trinkets, to realize that money and the materialistic weren’t always what they cracked up to be.

“You can’t, actually,” Angel said, voice cold and chin held high. 

“My sweet Angel, when are you going to understand? I’m not like the rest! I know what you want!”

Angel puffed out his cheeks, firing back, “Listen, Cinderella, you don’t fucking know me. Ya literally just kidnapped me this afternoon. And for Christ’s sake, anyone eva told ya porn ain’t even real? Let alone very convincing!” Momentary pause to shoot Bryrin a flat look, while also bracing himself to finally put some porn misconceptions into perspective.

“Cause let’s be honest, how the hell can a 90 pound twink genuinely enjoy having his ass ground by a fucking lumberjack with a dick longer than his arm? Not any I know!”

“I didn’t kidnap you, Angel. I rescued you. From all the phonies who never saw you. Not the real you.” There wasn't a hint of fondness in Bryrin’s voice; only crazed passion that blew his eyes wide with fantasies that would never come true. An expression that really did his face no favours.

Angel stared at the sad little man for a beat, then burst out laughing.

“Ohhh honey, I’ve met freaks, stalkers, and pervs, but ya? Yah take the cake. Yah didn’t want the real Angel Dust. Yah wanted a cardboard fuckdoll tah put on yah sad little basement shrine.”

Quite affronted, Bryrin drew back, rebutting defensively, “That shrine is tastefully curated.”

Holy shit. 

Angel, you’ve really gotta work on the art of shutting the fuck up. 

That would probably help with the nightmares. Or at least cut down on the number of new ones. 

That’s when Bryrin chose that exact moment as his time to pounce. 

The bedsprings creaked slightly as the older man plonked his dick with its slit leaking its pre, directly onto Angel’s hoof.

It felt worse than it looked, if that were possible. 

“Oh, yesssssssss.”

Bryrin then started humping at Angel’s feet.

It was similar to an awkward footjob. Except it wasn’t a consenting partner wringing the other’s dick between his toes. Rather, it was Angel’s assailant chasing his orgasm by forcibly grinding all three inches of his grubby dick into both hooves, making a foul squelching sound with each piston-like thrust of the hips.

Angel’s face burned after he felt Bryrin deliver a stinging swat to the soles like you would an asscheek. 

This had long since pushed the envelope of fucked up. Driving Angel to double his previous efforts of resistance. 

Despite knowing it was a wasted effort, Angel, in a renewed rage arched his shoulders forward to tear himself loose from the cuffs. His arms contorted behind him as he pulled, kicked, and thrashed wildly, making the bed frame rattle and muscles bulge beneath matted fur.

If Angel was going down, he sure as fuck wasn’t going down a pussy.

The ferocious battle against the restraints continued until Angel had basically ripped his arms and legs out of their sockets, animalistic snarls turning to muffled pants as his stamina steadily depleted.

And as expected, Bryrin didn’t grant Angel any reprieve for any of his struggles.

“Stop that squirming, doll, it’s inevitable. You’re going to make us both cum, and you know it.” He breathed, voice low, lulled with a contented sort of building exhaustion.

“And I’m gunna make sure this fuck is your last, you fucking filthy–”

Angel trailed off. 

That was what he was.

Filth. 

And it wasn’t even the violation itself that felt so filthy and wrong, but what it represented: losing control.

You see, Angel prided himself on keeping his bodily autonomy. No matter if he was cornered in a back alley or ass up in front of a camera lens, if it felt like it was Angel’s choice, then it wasn’t someone taking. 

It was him giving. 

Never rape. Not really.

 That logic was twisted, sure. But it was how Angel kept in control. 

But this…wasn’t Angel at the helm, calling all the shots. 

And that scared him, more than he would ever admit.

Which is what made Angel finally put his foot down. 

(Stupid foot puns, damn them!) 

“I’m done playing your game, Bryrin. T-this is too much.” He managed to mutter out, meekly.

Yet Bryrin continued. With his dick never losing pace as it rammed back and forth against squirming hooves.

For the first time that night, Angel let out a pained whimper.

His feet, his feet, of all things. A place where nobody could reach. The only small sliver of himself he could control in a Hellhole that had long since stripped him of the rest.

 They were always his safe place. That one hole still flowered. 

And now that, too, was gone.

It should’ve been Husk.

Why couldn't it have been Husk?

Then Angel could’ve spun it, laughed it off, or called it a kink gone wrong. 

But it hadn’t been.

Now more desperate, Angel choked out.

“What’s it gunna take tah get through tah yah! Just let me leave! Please. ” 

“I can't do that, my love. I’ve been working too long and too hard to have this.” Bryrin purred, as his heavy balls proceeded to slap against skin, cold trails of pre-seed now dribbling down the younger’s feet.

Throughout all this, somewhere beneath the searing disgust, humiliation, and the prison that was Bryrin’s disgusting dick, a different, far less appropriate problem arose in Angel. One far worse than getting his feet plowed by a rabid fanboy.

Somehow, the leather and the bondage and the cock now sandwiched in his feet had all conspired to make Angel’s dick harden.

The fucking traitor.

And the last thing Angel wanted was to alert Bryrin that he was actually getting off on this shit. 

So, to fight that compulsive urge to buck back into Bryrin’s dick, Angel turned his head and caught his pillow edge’s in his teeth. Biting down hard, Angel slowed his breathing, focusing only on counting down from ten to one in his head. 

An age-old trick he’d learned at the studio during some partially brutal edging shoots.

Once sure his incoming erection was staunched, Angel spat out the wet fabric that bunched in his mouth. 

But without the makeshift gag, Angel found himself weakly crying out again, 

“Please, leave 'em alone! Leave my fucking feet alone!” 

Dismissing all pleas and not breaking stride for even a moment, Bryrin dipped his neck to nip at Angel’s instep, scraping his teeth down to the base of the hoof. Like nails on a chalkboard, the enamel screeched horrifically.

“They’re so perfect. The arch—oh, the way the hooves curve just so... oh my fuck!…”

Perfect…

Husk would’ve said that. Word for word. Like a damn poet. 

And with a sexy ass voice that could easily get him off in less than two words.

Closing his misty eyes tightly and focusing only on the pleasure, Angel's mind clung to that image of Husk murmuring sweet nothings in his ear. Willing him to be there, to be the one fucking his feet.

Valentino had taught him well, because it was almost second nature for Angel to disassociate, separating his mind from his body, and drifting somewhere more favorable. Usually, to a place where Husk was passionately fucking him, with Angel’s full consent.

It was only Husk.

It was only Husk.

It was only Husk, godammit.

A mantra whispered until his mental shields were bombarded with intrusive hands and breathless worship, like hammers to a wall. Ripping through that blissful curtain of detachment and yanking Angel back into reality.

And what a hellscape of a reality it was.

Bryrin’s dick was now a blur, as he pitched forward to crush as much of himself against the hooves, digging his fingertips into the back of the other’s calves to steady himself.

“Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, OHHH, ANGELLLL!!” Bryrin grunted as he hit his peak.

For a split second Angel thought it was going to be a reverse bukkake situation, with Bryrin spraying loads onto his feet instead of his face. But thank Lucifer, Bryrin decided not to leave his calling card on Angel’s feet. 

Instead, Bryrin sloped his cockhead downwards, hot jets of cum discoloring the already shit-smeared carpet, as his body seized and eyes rolled back in his skull. 

With feet finally free from Bryrin’s grubby mitts, Angel tried to right himself, only to collapse back into the mattress, with his own dick aching between his thighs, having never reached orgasm. 

Meanwhile, Bryrin’s gush had now petered to a halt. With his brain still whooshing away the sex fog and re-awakening each braincell one by one, he fanned himself, panting mindlessly, “This was the best fucking night of my life! Holy shit!”

Angel wanted to lash out. To tell him to go to hell. To do something, an ything, that would wipe that stupid expression off Bryrin’s face.

But he didn’t.

Because there was no point in fighting back.

Not when he was just a body. A boundary crossed. A silence shattered.

A broken, dirty thing with no walls left to hide behind.

Angel’s chin lowered, triggering the suppressed tears, which now streamed down his face. Not in single drops, but what felt like lumps of agony gushing from his eyes. 

As Angel wallowed in misery, Bryrin had already clambered to his feet, dusting his hands off, like he was congratulating himself for a job well done.

“Well, I'd better be off. Got places to be and the boys are probably getting antsy sucking each other off by now. Oh, and I’ll be taking these babies with me! They’re definitely going on my wall.” Bryrin held Angel’s boots and socks high above his head like a trophy, before pointedly licking their soles, slathering the leather with a fresh sheen of spit.

That only twisted the knife deeper. 

Now Angel would be forced to pathetically crawl back to the hotel barefoot, like a kicked dog. 

And that was only if, by some miracle, these cuffs were to slip off by themselves. 

But as luck would have it, Bryrin granted Angel the slimmest of mercies, reaching over the foot of the bed to unlock the leather shackles. Even going the extra mile of helping unbuckle the vest straps that clinched around Angel’s middle. 

Then, Bryrin retreated to the far corner of the room, where the video camera stood, ejecting and retrieving the physical evidence of their rendezvous. Most likely for a good beat-down with the boys later.

Angel didn’t move, his head bowed, chin resting on his own chest. Too broken to pursue his violator, even to reclaim his precious boots. 

Bryrin shouldered the shoes under one arm, twirling the old-fashioned cassette tape on his finger, while saying, “And I would say, we should do this again sometime, but without you being all tied up and shit, I doubt you’ll let me. So we’ll just call this a bittersweet goodbye?”

Leaning over Angel one last time, Bryrin thumbed away the remnants of the other’s tears, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple before pulling away.

“See you around, love.”

With those final words of farewell, Bryrin was gone.

Leaving Angel alone in the dark.

Angel didn’t know how long he lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling above him, eyes unfocused and distant.

Valentino had broken his spirit, mind, and body over and over. 

But Angel would’ve taken that any day over this. Tenfold.

At least then, Val would’ve been predictable.

Even if it would hurt like hell, Angel had learned how to steel himself against it, to survive the endless cycle of abuse.

But this…this was far from something Angel could’ve braced himself for. 

And that made the pain so fucking worse.

Angel sucked in a short breath.

Well, at least one thing was for certain. 

Angel HAD to get out of there.

Now.

His dignity, what little crumbs he had left of it, pushed Angel to sit up and slide off the bed.

With limbs on pins and needles, he trudged towards the door, knees wobbly and legs not cooperating. Yet he kept his eyes trained forward, shuddering and avoiding the dripping mess of his desecrated and bare feet.

‘Out. Just get the hell out,’ Angel reminded himself, as he shakily gripped the doorknob, wrenching the door open.

His wrists, feet, and heart still ached miserably, but all Angel could focus on was his desperate need to get out.

And getting back to the hotel.

And…back to Husk.

Chapter Text

Only four blocks away.

Gotta make it four blocks.

FOUR BLOCKS.

Run and don’t look back, or at those bare hooves that pounded the craggy cement. 

Only at his final destination.

 That single luminous H that hovered like a hell-lit guide above the rust-bitten gates of the Hotel.

One foot in front of the other. 

He could do it.

Angel ran like hell.

Or like a scurrying spider with two left feet.   

Unaccustomed to the lack of footwear, his legs were uncoordinated. They kept getting in the way, tripping themselves up, and making his limbs tangle together, making puffs of dust flick up against naked legs with every racing step. 

Each cracking branch and kicked-up pebble sang a symphony of his miserable escape.

Bare feet continued to slap against the cracked cobblestones as the city’s looming, fire-scorched buildings distorted in the periphery of Angel’s vision.

Only a little further.

The stink of rotting carcasses and burning debris clung to the air like a second skin. Must’ve just missed an acid rain, as the atmosphere held a corrosive residue, one that gave off a toxic, metallic stench, which pricked at Angel’s eyes.

A lungful of the putrid air was enough to choke any fucker to double-death. And here Angel was now, chugging those fumes through his nostrils like a coke whore snorting lines with a dollar bill. And instead of getting euphoric and high off his shit, this toxic smog licked at his lungs, burning with every shallow gasp. Nearly closing the back of his throat like invisible hands around his windpipe.

Yet Angel kept running.

Thankfully, at this hour, the only passersby to witness the strange sight of a long-limbed blur sprinting barefoot down the street were two female succubi fucking in an alleyway. With boobs bouncing and pleated skirts rucked over hips, they paid no mind to the spider. 

Angel also happened upon that little old lady from Cannibal Town. The one shriveled hag with the hunchback who Alastor deemed an “ornery old bitch.” 

Suki? Suzanne? Susan! That was it! 

Fortunately, the crone’s back was turned to Angel as she waved her cane, after throwing a flower pot at a random bird’s nest, screeching like a banshee. Go figure.

A bit of gravel had now collected in the crevices of Angel’s hooves, chafing the tender skin, making each footfall a tug of war between momentum and discomfort. All compliments of the abrasive pavement underfoot. But as long as he didn’t step in the dregs of some cannibal’s ready meal, there was no grounds for complaining.

Finally, finally, Angel’s hooves hit the stairs at the entrance of the Hotel. 

A fucking glorious sight. Looking like a mirage come to life. With its opulence and grandeur backdropped against a Hell that teetered on the brink of collapse.

His threshold.

His second chance. 

His fucking home.

Wait…

Oh, god, Husk couldn’t see him like this. 

For just fucking once, please let Husk go back on his pledge to lay off the whiskey and be shitfaced drunk tonight.

But whatever star Angel had wished upon was either a dud or a petty little bitch. Cause after bursting through hotel doors, there was Husk, completely sober, routinely scrubbing the shot glasses behind the bar counter, his acclaimed haven of liquor bottles and late-night heart-to-hearts.

Looking up from his glasswork, the bartender tossed the dirty rag over his shoulder with a warm chuckle. 

“I’ll be damned. Someone’s early for last call. Thought Cherri wasn’t giving ya back until–” Husk broke off, switching his tune when Angel keeled forward, coughing up a lung to catch his breath. Husk was immediately at his boyfriend’s side, rubbing circles on his back. 

“Oh, baby, what the hell happened to ya?”

“Don’t. Just don’t look at my feet. Please .” 

His boyfriend was never seen without a pair of those designer knee-highs since fucking Val killed any dreams of being a foot model. Yet here he was, feet more naked than a stripper with rent due.

Thus, Husk’s golden eyes respectfully locked on Angel’s, not once lowering below the chest fluff. Yet he also unfurled his wings out to their full span, readying himself to corral a runaway Angel to his room. This was what, the umpteenth time, the cat had had a run-in with an intoxicated Angel after hours? 

On nights like these, the cat would have to shut down the doped-up spider’s mating calls, dislodging the four grabby hands combing his trousers for a loose dick. Then, the said spider would hightail it to careen up and down the hallways. Usually, to host a twerkfest on the coffee table, dancing off the booze. All while ducking, dodging, fucking somersaulting over anyone who’d managed to gain on his lead, chanting “Wheee! Catch me if ya can, babes!!” Leaving Husk to inwardly facepalm and grumble to himself about a raise.  

First time Angel had ever lost his shoes in the fray, though. And it was most definitely his last. No way was Angel ever going out for “just a small drink” with that pyromaniac party girl again.

“How could she send ya back like this? I fucking swear, I’m gunna knock Cherri’s eye out for this one. She’s more than welcome to hit rock bottom with the PCP, especially after her thing with Pent, but dragging someone else down with her? Of all the–”

“No, this wasn’t Cherri’s fault…it was..and he, he, he…I told him tah stop…” 

The proportions of Husk’s distraught expression, the drooping jowls, and wiry whiskers blurred together as another river of tears trickled down Angel’s cheeks. His chest began to clench, heartbeat racing in his eardrums. That feeling of sickness returned, snaking its way around his insides, threatening to suffocate him from within. 

The spider wanted to barrel right back out of those double doors. Blow a few veins with heroin, drink to his heart’s content, get fucked up to forget.

Meanwhile, the gears in Husk’s mind were turning.

And piece by piece, those words, still fresh in Husk’s mind, began to unravel.

The cat’s fur bristled, standing on end, as feathered eyebrows knitted together until it created a crease between them.

“He didn’t. He couldn’t hav–that motherf–!”

When in deep anger, the cat didn’t throw an over-the-top hissy fit like Val. Instead, there was an eerie kind of restraint to his rage, like a pressure cooker about to explode. His eyes, those two bottomless pits of amber that were usually half-lidded in indifference, were now ignited with an unmistakable fury, on the cusp of an outburst.

Yet the fires dimmed, almost snuffed out completely at the sight of Angel in tears, so raw and broken. 

Words piled at the back of Husk’s throat— mainly “You okay?” and “What the fuck happened?” But none of them sounded right in his head. None of them would fix this.

So his voice came out stumbling and hesitant, a far cry from the gruffness he usually used to deflect.

“Oh s-shit, b-baby, I’m sorry. Is touching ya a no right now? Please, tell me what you need me to do.”

No telling if Angel needed a hug or some space. Because during these episodes, there was no open-book reading that Husk was so known for. 

“Bed. I just wanna go tah bed. If…ya don’t mind.”

“Done.”

No sooner had Angel spoken, Husk had already whisked him up the stairs and into his bedroom. The cat carefully maneuvered the spider to recline cozily on his bed, amongst the mini fortress of pillows, comforters, sheets, and more pillows that were strewn about the top of the canopy like casualties of war. Jesus, how many pillows did one spider need? 

Then Husk got up and turned his back to amble towards Angel’s overstuffed closet, presumably to scout out a pair of socks for bare hooves. But the spider caught his wrist, weakly tugging him back onto the bed.

“Why are ya leavin me? Please stay!”

“Always, Legs.”

Without opening his eyes, Angel found that broad chest beneath the preened fuzz, pulling himself toward it with a handful of starched suspenders. In return, Husk outstretched his wings, sweeping Angel up in their weathered, sun-warmed elegance, who sagged against the bulwark of fluff and plumage.

Involuntarily, the somber spider, unabashedly lost himself in the synthetic light shining on that handsome face, the coarse spines of the feathers enshrouding him like a weighted blanket, the dark tousled hair, and the deep-set stars in his golden eyes.

Husk, with his quiet glances and rare, unspoken warmth, is exactly what Angel’s never believed he could have.

And now that he did, it was like walking on glass, each breath a risk.

It all felt like a ruse, like this Hell was playing a game of how badly it could screw around with him before he breaks.

Angel’s grip on the taupe fur squeezed tighter, as if by holding on, he could stop time, stop everything from slipping away.

Cause Husk was definitely going to break up with him after this.

With claws still carding through the younger demon’s hair, Husk asked gingerly, “Angel? How did he–fuck me. Easy words, Husk. I meant, if ya ready, we can talk about it.” Husk’s mouth pinched into a firm line. “And if Val put one damn finger on ya, I’ll make sure the next time that mothball fucks, it’s gunna be with a fake dick.”

“Damn, kitty, neva know ya could talk dirty like that,” Angel managed a faint smile, yet the deteriorating resolve was still apparent in his heterochromic eyes. 

Nothing could take back the loss of something so precious. Even if it was the thing he hated most.

His first time foot fucking. Gone. Wasted. On an obsessed Angel Dust junkie.

It should’ve been Husk…but it wasn’t.

Angel broke away from Husk, biting back the sound of his heart crashing into his stomach.

“It ain’t Val. This sicko fan named Bryrin fucking stole my v-card. It was meant tah be fah ya!”

“Baby? I’m not following.”

“My feet! The fucker raped my feet!”

Fuck, why’d he say it like that? It made it sound so stupid.

And why did he have to go and throw around the “r word?” 

Once a whore, always a whore.  And whores didn’t get raped. At least, according to Valentino.

(“Don’t use that word, Angelito. Look at yourself! So pretty, so selfish! And your body doesn’t lie, see the mess you made on the sheets?”) 

For a reason unbeknownst to Angel, Husk never saw it that way.

(“Kid, nothin gives anyone the right to touch ya like that. Even if you weren’t wearing a damn thing and fucking around in the streets, no means no. End of story.”)

Yet Angel still half-expected Husk to laugh.

But his boyfriend’s tilted head and knitted brows spoke volumes of his bewilderment, like his brain was still trying to process in slow motion. 

“Christ on a cock, what did he even do to em’?”

“Don’t get me fucking started! Feeling him rub that slimy-ass tongue and that dick that’s probably jizzing ova my stolen boots right now is right next tah snuff duty with Val. Wait, why am I tellin ya this? Ya probably don’t wanna hear how I was fucking cheatin on ya.”

“What the h–Angel, in no fucking universe is saying “no” to this Bryrin equivalent to cheating! And that’s just…fucking repulsive.” Although visibly disgusted, Husk let his thumb trace over the back of Angel’s bottom hand, which dwarfed his own. He brushed back the soft fur until Angel’s palm turned upwards, entwining their fingers. 

“Baby, I ain’t sure where ya head’s at right now, so ya gotta tell me what I can do to help ya.”

Fuck, what did Angel need now?

Husk. Always Husk.

But Husk couldn’t cure him. 

Nothing could.

But what if…

Maybe, Husk could help him face it? Or reframe it?

Like…a trauma to overwrite another trauma? A new scar to hide the old one?

 Shit, anything to make sure he’ll only think of Husk when looking down at those ugly-ass hooves.

Angel bit his lip.

Fuck it all.

“Touch my feet.”

“What?”

“Ya heard what I said. Touch my feet, right now.”

Husk took on a more authoritative tone. “Angel, ya ain’t thinkin' straight. Whatever that guy did to ya is making ya spout nonsense. This ain’t you, you’d nev–” 

“This is me. I fucking swear that on my motha’s grave. And this is me telling ya tah quit the prefucking jitters and get nasty with my feet.”

Was this all levels of wrong? Yes. Was that stopping Angel? Fucking never.

It also didn’t stop the thick, awful feeling that had settled in the back of his throat, as if he’d swallowed a pill without enough water. 

But with pink dusted cheeks and shoulders squared like he was gearing up for war, Angel confidently shoved his foot under Husk’s nose.

Husk pushed the foot out of the way like sweeping a curtain aside, his movements fluid and effortless. Yet his pupils, now dull of their usual aloofness, widened by a hair, displaying the anxiety gnawing at his creaky joints.

“It ain’t a good time to be trying this kind of shit, baby. Give it a few hours, and maybe tomorrow we can–”

“Green, sir. Fucking green.” 

Their safeword. 

Only recited when consent was absolute.

Angel sure knew how to play Husk like a damn fiddle. 

Husk looked torn, with teeth setting harder into his lip, eyes red-rimmed and pained-looking.

“Angel…please don’t make me. Not like this.”

“Please, Husk, I need tah know how it feels.” Every syllable seemed to punctuate like punches to the air in front of him.

Husk looked over his boyfriend, whose white hair, usually perfectly styled, draped his face with loose strands; his eyes, pink and celestial, were pleading without words. Eclipsed with the pure, unadulterated need for Husk. 

His manicured nails dug into the cat’s glossy coat, trembling—the frantic grip of someone who had nothing left to hold onto.

Husk was no stranger to the ins and outs of consent play. Shagging Hell’s horniest pornstar did that to you. 

But even a fucking saint couldn’t miss the connotations of what Angel was asking.

Reproducing a real-life rape scene that had literally just happened.

Husk continued to scrutinize Angel, trying to get a read underneath that mask of persistence. Yet Angel still held his head high, expertly staunching his despair, all four hands now fidgeting in wait for Husk’s response. 

No deterrence at all.

So against too much of his better judgment, Husk caved.

“A massage. But we ain’t going any further than that.”

Something very mild, cause Husk wasn’t letting no damn foot nut call the shots in their sex life.

“Thank ya, Husky,” Angel whispered, opening his eyes, which, as ever, were like galaxies spun into an ocean of churning pinks and blacks.

 For the barest of seconds, all Husk saw was the small, wide-eyed victim he’d been the day they’d met. With the larger-than-life bravado being the only armor he had left after being used, sold, and discarded over and over again. Reminding him of the way a younger Angel’s eyes would dart from one person to the next, always chasing approval, to convince him that he was still worthy by backbanging that disgusting pimp. 

With that image in mind, Husk skated on thin ice, cupping Angel’s jaw with the same tenderness he'd use to touch a timid animal. 

If they were doing this, Angel had to be one hundred percent on board, not getting spooked or relenting at any time. And as usual, communicating intentions was non-negotiable.

“But first, let me level with ya. I’m only doing this cause you want to. I ain’t taking back what’s mine or doing no pityfucks. We clear?”

“Crystal.”

His boyfriend gathered one of Angel’s hooves at the calf to angle it delicately over his lap.

Angel inhaled through his teeth, which sounded more like a hiss.

It felt so surreal. Letting Husk touch the bane of his existence.

Husk palmed the dry and cracked heels, despite them being unwashed and sore from that balls-to-the-wall dash back to the hotel.

But even the most minuscule kiss of skin was walking on a tightrope. Husk searched for any signal of indecision or the smallest flinch away, knowing he was one slip-up away from shattering Angel permanently. 

When there were none, only contortions of leisure on the other’s face, heavy-duty thumbs began to meticulously knead the flesh beneath the hoof, focusing on the individual tendons that lay beneath the skin.

Meanwhile, the sheer contact of skin on skin was sending Angel’s blood pumping in all the wrong directions.

All that bottled up heat from earlier was rushing right back to his dick.

Only because this touch was so inexplicably Husk.

Schooling his rapid breathing, Angel concentrated on the touch, rather than the patterns he felt being pressed and etched across his feet. His muscles drew rigid to keep himself stationary while Husk’s intimate caresses made him melt so obediently.

With a pause in the foot rub, Husk readjusted his position, scooting back, twisting a little to find a spot that didn’t make his lower back scream, while noting, “And to set the record straight, ya know I always thought these were the cutest feet in all Hell. Even if they weren’t, they’re a helluva better sight than some of the folks I’ve seen down here.”

The spider shakily tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and looked away. So shy with genuine praise. 

Yet the judgment of his feet hadn't softened.

“I still can’t fucking stand them,”

“Angel, if this is ya having second thoughts–”

“No! I want this! It’s just…are ya and that foot-obsessed weasel fucking blind? Just look at them!” Angel balled his hand into a fist and shook it at the cloven hooves like they were his arch-nemeses. “Fuck ya, ya…oversized lumps of demon shit!”

“Are ya actually cursing at ya own feet?”

“I sure as hell am!”

Husk sighed.

After memorizing the pink freckles and blemishes, coupled with every other nook and cranny of his boyfriend’s feet, he still couldn’t understand the unappeal.

This was all Angel. Through and through.        

He followed the elusive purple veins of the foot like a map, climbing up to a perfectly sculpted leg, before cascading back to the unpolished hoof.

Beautiful.

Then he ran his hands along the soft fur and taut muscle, unspooling the knots accumulating amidst the raised skin with practiced fingers, stopping at the ankle. To which he orbited his thumb over the inside and outside of the joint, around the axis of the knob.

In a world of sin and imperfections, nothing was truly perfect. But when it came to Angel’s body, you got pretty damn close.

If only Angel could see that…

“Well, I think,” Husk presses, using a claw to tap the hoof’s peak for emphasis, “that these hooves are you. They carry ya through the rough patches. They’re strong, like ya. And no matter how bad things get, they keep ya standin.”

Angel scoffed. “Where’d you get that proverb? A fucking fortune cookie?”

“Call it some old bartender wisdom. Now, ya want me to keep going?”

Angel nodded, replaying those words in his mind.

Something that forged him? Huh. Never thought about that way before.

He let his ankles flex, as if testing the weight of Husk’s words.

True that his hooves weren’t pretty. No ifs, ands, or fucks about it.

But those feet had walked him through Hell itself. They had carried him when no one else could.

And that? That fucking meant something .

Yet, his boner conquered all those thoughts, cause Husk’s massage techniques were already beginning to leave his brain in the dust.

That godsend of a massage hand that worked from the ankle to the heel, and right down to the apex of the hoof and back again, was a bit too good at its job, making more and more heat pool at the base of Angel’s spine.

Mentally checked out and dick tingling for a beat down, Angel made quick work of unzipping his fly. 

He slowed down once cognitive function caught up to him. Not wanting to come off as a total nympho, he surreptitiously wormed his hand into his shorts. Then, with serotonin backflipping across his nerves, he hastily white-knuckle fisted his length. 

Keeping a low profile, Angel discreetly throttled his veiny, bulbous base and thrusted downward, milking his balls and girth, rolling his thumb over the oozy slit.

Husk noticed all this. A single eyebrow raised, but he said nothing.

Give a man an inch and he’ll take the whole fucking foot.

“Keep, keep doing that, oh yeah, that’s the shit.” 

“Angel…ya alright there?” Husk probed, his expression harboring that slight apprehension always intrinsic on his face.

“Couldn’t be betta! Keep at it, kitty!” Angel said a little too loudly, his face flushed a bright shade of red.

Fuck, it’s so pitiful. 

To be reduced to this much of a horny heap? Especially when the sure, deft strokes of Husk’s roving fingers shouldn’t even be counted as sexual.

Yet his brain shut that out, cause Angel’s hands were already full (excuse the pun) with how inconvenient shorty shorts actually were. 

His obvious boner was already at full mast, crafting an all-out mountain that was poised to break free from the pinching denim.

 ‘It could just look like a fold in the shorts,’ Angel thought. 

(Goddamn that thin silver lining).

That was, until a pearly trickle of spend tracked down Angel’s legs, dampening the thick white fur of his inner thighs.

Well. Guess no sense in pretending now. 

As if anyone was buying that bargain-bin performance of not fucking himself.

Picking up the pace by pumping his joystick faster, Angel’s gaze then trained at the ceiling, as though ignoring how the sluttish spread of his limbs and being elbow deep in his panties nullified it somehow. 

Drifting into his own headspace, Angel mainly thought about climbing Husk like a fucking tree.

Maybe he would ride Husk, his own twinky ass undulating against his.

Oh fuck, yeah.

Heavy panting bounced his adam’s apple as Ange l’s rigid manhood wept against his abdomen, the cockhead full-blooded and twitching from thoughts of Husk.  

He was pushed over the edge, his climax a tidal wave, when Husk offered a final kiss to the point of his hoof.

 With his mind incoherantly blank, and cumming a dumbly large amount for a foot care session, Angel, spurred by nothing but muscle memory, plowed his tongue into an unprepared Husk’s mouth, yanking him by the back of his neck into a full French kiss. 

It was so fucking awkward. With teeth clinking, noses smushing, and very frantic sucking at each other’s faces. 

Not the brightest move on Angel’s part. Blame it on the literal heat of the moment. 

After the ectasy subsided, with a thick gush of cum thinning to a drip, Angel untangled his tongue to pull away from Husk, his now newly pampered feet retreating to curl underneath his thighs.

The two then stared at one another, with a silence hanging heavy between them. The kind of quiet that wasn’t serene, but suffocating, closing in from all sides. 

With the worry that panged Husk’s face, conveyed through a clenched jaw, the corners of his mouth curving downward, Angel knew he had fucked up, big time.

Angel’s face scrunched up, lips pulling down as his floodgates threatened to retrace the long-dried trails along the hollows of his eyes.

“...Husk–”

“Hey! What the hell!”

Out of nowhere, Fat Nuggets, who’d just awoken from an early night nap, had toddled over to Husk to headbutt him in the leg that hung over the bed’s edge.

“Knock it off, ya little shit! I’m trying to help!”

The pig responded with an angry snort. Backing up for a running start, he bowed his head to deliver another blow to Husk’s ankle. The collision with those two spiky horns punctured two tiny nicks in his heel that stung like a bitch, but no worse than the clatter of skin against skull that made Fat Nugget’s little forehead pound, dizzying him until the world spun before his beady eyes.

His tiny brain had misunderstood the entire situation.

Justifiably so, as the poor piglet had firsthand witnessed Valentino’s abuse from afar. Often, when buried underneath his baby blanket or behind a nearby vanity. 

 And it appeared history was now repeating itself.

Fat Nuggets had been fooled by the kitty’s nice head pats and snuck treats under the table during mealtimes, but never again! Not when he made his daddy cry like this!

He’d take the monster head-on.

Despite barely passing up Husk’s ankle, the young pig stood his ground, nipping at Husk’s heels, baring his stubby teeth and tromping his hooves menacingly, like a miniature guard dog who’d just waged war on his newly found enemy.

Angel snatched up the wriggling piglet, who now had resorted to glaring with fuming snorts coming in short bursts, the sound equivalent to a small growl.

“No, baby! He ain’t hurtin me!” 

Fat Nuggets looked unconvinced, stubbornly giving the cat demon the stank eye. A narrowed scowl that consisted of glowering piggy eyes, which looked less like an attack dog and more like a pouting toddler. 

Husk scoffed at Fat Nugget’s expression. He’d never been judged by a pig before, but he had to admit that that whole ocular sideslap was pretty damn cute.

“Look, Husk didn’t do shit to me,”

Nuggets licked at the salty tears tracks that mingled amongst smears of mascara, as if to clap back, “Oh yeah? Whaddya call these?”

“He ain’t like the others, pumpkin. H-he’s one of the good ones, I promise ya that. This…” Angel motioned to his tear-washed cheeks. “Was someone else, someone like, like…Valentino.” 

Like a flip of a switch, Fat Nuggets immediately fell silent.

Being nothing but a hell-born pet, the pig couldn’t comprehend a lick of any demon “babble.” Most often, he’d ticked off the boxes when listening to how people conversed. Loud, obnoxious, boring, chatty, and the ones who just went on and on and on were just a few standards on his “talking” criteria. But the best of all were the doting coos of baby talk by his adoring fan club! (which mainly consisted of Angel and Charlie) He was also fluent in the rattling of pellets hitting his food bowl and also that whoosh of water from those wretched bathknobs that usually followed squawking curses from both spider and pig, as the tangle of six arms and a thrashing pink blur made them both question if this was truly worth it. God, Nuggsie hated bathtime.

But despite the obvious language barrier, the pig plainly understood the seldom spoken “V word,” as the scary moth, the holder of that name, was the harbinger of some very unpleasant memories. 

Of those times when all he could do was tremble as he watched Valentino scream, throw things, and beat his poor daddy black and blue. After that meanie bug left, Fat Nugget’s tears would match the shuddering sobs of his daddy, as they would then curl up in a puddle of Angel’s own blood to cry.

But…maybe he’d been too quick to judge the kitty. 

Nuggets humbly oinked his apologies, burying his snout into Husk’s extended palm, who didn’t take the mini-attack personally. Truthfully, he didn’t blame the animal for chewing him out.

Him being bent over a distraught and bawling Angel…no wonder the little guy had jumped the gun.

Meanwhile, Angel’s eyes bored at the floor, a sudden realization sinking in. Not the fluttering unease of a mistake caught too late, but a gut-level revulsion that turned his stomach to wet clay.

Questions began to replay in his mind like a horrible broken record. 

What the fuck had he done?

Why the fuck did he do this?

He’d just guilt-tripped Husk into bedding him. 

He’d known his devoted boyfriend would never walk away from another one of Angel’s trauma-fueled breakdowns. But that didn’t stop him from casting Husk in a role he never auditioned for, dressing him up in a ghost of a fucked up memory. Then, begging him to cross the line he’d drawn at the beginning of their relationship. 

Just one night. One scene. One lie. 

And for what?

To fill him with the impression that he was rewriting his story page by page–rebuilding himself, cell by cell, and turning it into something else. Something better. 

Something that he actually chose. 

And why? 

Because he was the dumbass who clung to the hurt like a splinter under his skin.

“Fuck! I’m doing it again!” Angel cried out, flinging all four of his hands in the air, releasing Fat Nuggets, who decided it best to have the time of his life, sniffing, nibbling, and rolling across the pink comforters, blissfully unperturbed by the room’s tension.

Choking on a suppressed sob, Angel buried his face in his hands, “I told myself I wouldn’t push nobody’s boundaries no more! That I wouldn’t force ya tah do shit ya don’t wanna do! I’m no betta than Val!”

“Calm down, Angel, you didn’t force me to do nothing–”

“Ya don’t understand! I’m reliving this shit through ya! I just wanted tah fix it! Tah fucking fix me ! But now I’m using ya and suckin’ you dry like everybody else ever did tah me!”

Appalled and disgusted with himself, Angel’s breaths began to come in shuddering gasps, overshadowed by the rising tide of all-encompassing pain washing over him, like sea water lapping at open wounds.

It hurt to fucking breathe. Like white-hot pain inside his ribs, compressing his lungs with every wheeze exhaled.

So Angel dropped his head between his knees, barking and hacking his diaphragm blue, trying to catch his breath.

His lungs alternated between paralyzed and overachieving, and the combination of oxygen deprivation and hyperventilating made his vision wavy and unreliable. 

These panic-induced attacks hadn’t been this bad in a while, but that didn’t slow down Husk jumping into action, as Angel’s ever-saving grace.

After lifting Angel upright by the armpits, Husk’s hands found purchase on the younger's shoulders, terse lines wrinkling his brow with worry.

“Breathe, baby. You can do it.”  

Relief coursed through both demons as Angel finally choked down a lungful of air, while Husk rubbed between the other’s shoulder blades, a quiet act of care in the aftermath of the coughing fit.

Breathe. In. Out. Slow it down….stupid fucking buzzing....

Angel covered his ears.

Oh, fuck my life.

His vision was still blurry, the images not quite matching up with the humming sound supplied by his ears. This wasn’t an uncommon aftereffect, but it always made him feel a little off-kilter, not unlike some of the coke he’d used to huff between porno takes. 

But at least the actual panic episode had ended. 

After calming down, Angel opened his mouth, ready to ramble some shitty I’m sorrys and psyching himself for the big break up announcment, with the “it’s not you but it totally fucking is” speech. But Husk interrupted, putting up a hand to hush him.

“Angel, first ya gotta hear me out. What we did wasn’t ya using me. It was you needin someone. And me choosing to be there. Cause I’m way too old to be your emotional support cat unless I actually gave a damn.” Then the ever-vocal cat stated firmly, “And wanting to reframe trauma ain’t wrong, kid. It just means you’re trying to make peace with it in your own way. And that kinda shit don’t need fixing.”

Although truly touched by Husk’s from-the-heart sentiment, Angel still reflexively apologized for being this much of a bother. (Cause with Val, those two words were fucking ingrained on his tongue the moment he stepped out of line)

“Well, I’m still sorry fah taking so much of ya time, Husky, I feel like a nagging housewife unloadin all my shit onto ya.”

After pressing a kiss to Angel’s hair, the spider felt a chilling aura encapsulate him once the fury of Husk’s fiery irises intercepted his own.

“Do not fucking go there, Angel. Ya got absolutely nothin to apologize for.” Husk spat.

His boyfriend’s genuine concern for Angel’s safety always threw him a curveball.

Because if Angel had been caught fucking the drunks, playboys, or any random dick without Val’s permission, even if by no fault of his own, there’d be hell to pay.

(“Tu puta mentirosa! No one cheats on Val! No one! If you wanted to fuck the trash so badly I would’ve had that new batch of hellhounds gangbang you till the next exorcism! Fucking gutter whore!”)

And that was coming from the pimp who’d openly dickflashed for a quick fifty. Also, the one who regularly walked out of the studio with someone else’s lipstick ringing his cock. 

That still didn’t stop Val from curb-stomping Angel till he pissed blood.

Husk disrupted Angel’s reverie by skating a thumb over his cheek, nudging the other’s face to turn to his.

“If ya don’t mind me asking, why out of all things…Val forced ya to freak fuck and that didn’t turn ya off from it. Last week ya made me string you up by your tits for fuck’s sake! Now this foot guy does this to ya, and I know ya hate feet, but ya immediately started houndin' me to do the same!” Husk doesn’t look suspicious, doesn’t look upset by all the possibilities - just curious.    

And this definitely wasn’t a first, either.

Angel’s fascination with recontextualizing past traumas made so much sense. Kind of like him watching an old nightmare, but this time he held the scripts and refused to be the passive participant.

But what stumped Husk, was how the real fucked up stunts, like sensory deprivation, cutting, waterboarding, that fucking hospital kink last month with real scalpels (Husk’s heart nearly gave out during that one) all seemed to rank really high on Angel’s must-try list. 

He was all too aware of Angel’s love for sex. But why revisit these specific scenarios that he particularly abhorred, especially when there were so many others?

After glimpsing Angel’s now downcast expression, the cat hastily added.

 “And there’s absolutely nothin wrong with that! But I’m trying, Angel and I still don’t understand it.”

Angel himself couldn’t put it into words.

How could he explain something so twisted, and aching, and strange?

“Just…I need it. If anyone’s gunna fuck me, it’s gunna be on my terms. And I’d rather you be that fucker to mark me,”  Voice cracking as Angel swallowed tightly, his lips quaking a bit as the shame cuts him to the core.    

It’s sick. 

Playing pretend with your own trauma.

He imagined telling someone else—Charlie, maybe, or Vaggie. 

He could already see the look in their eyes: soft pity, but behind that, horror.

"He really is too far gone."

"He’s turned this shit into a fetish."

"He doesn’t even know the difference anymore."

They’d all think it’s messed up.

Hell, he thought it was messed up.

This dirty little healing-yet-destructive itch he couldn’t stop scratching.

“The control, it’s just, there’s no otha way to take it back! And I know ya wouldn’t do nothing tah hurt me so–Oh, shit! All this sounds so wrong! I’m so fucked up!” 

 “Baby, like I said before, if this type of shit helps ya cope, or gives ya some kind of closure or control, than I’m more than willing to give it to ya.” Husk pauses for just a few fractions of a second, entranced and drowning in those misty, doe eyes looking at him ever so intently, before continuing. “And if I’m being honest, we’re all a little fucked up in one way or another, huh loser?” With those last words, Husk’s left cheek balled up with a suggestive wink. Such a novel gesture that it tinted the ends of Angel’s ears a bright red.

Then, after stretching out to recline against the bed’s headboard, Husk wordlessly made Angel follow suit, rearranging them until they were situated comfortably, with the older slithering his arm around Angel, sticking his chin atop the younger’s freckled shoulder, stubbly whiskers grazing the side of the other’s throat.

Angel parted his lips, the tips of white and gold teeth sparkling as he habitually trenched his nails into Husk’s fur to scritch behind his soft and supple ears. The cat shifted nearer so that his forehead pressed into the curve of the younger’s collarbone, eliciting a melodious, throaty purr that tickled Angel’s eardrums. 

“Are ya sure, Husky? None of this has eva sat right with me. Like ya taking all my baggage and fuckin me every which way, and I can’t give ya nothing in return.” Angel said, tone still dubious, like he wasn’t fully convinced of Husk’s or even his own words.

“Angel, ya pay that debt when I see ya smile all big afterwards,” Husk reassured, with an undercurrent of earnest honesty threading through his voice. “And ya already know any type of off-the-wall fucking is always open to discussion. Even if this re-enacting kink ain’t my thing, if it helps you’ll heal, I’ll fuck and drool over ya toes till hell’s frozen over!” 

Damn, he really layed it on smooth, pulling out the charm and wise old bartender talk like aces up his sleeves.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Remember we’re in this together, kid.”

Husk leaned in and took Angel’s lips in his own. 

The kiss was like a hundred waves crashing against the shore at the same time.

Maybe…it was okay. 

Maybe this is what the road to recovery looked like for someone like him, someone who had learned love in all the wrong languages.

Sure, it was a pretty unconventional agreement. On rape reenactment, of all things. Incredibly bizarre, perhaps even unhealthy, to anyone outside looking in, but it was Angel’s way of reckoning with his demons.

And Husk? He truly was his knight in shining armor. A valiant hero rescuing Angel from those demons, even the ones that only existed in memories.

A sheen of moisture gathered at the edges of Angel’s lower lids.

“All ya sweet talk got’s me tearin' up again, Whiskers. I really don’t deserve ya.”

“That makes two of us.”

Even under the lamp’s muted glow, Angel was shining with an almost otherworldly luster. Tears couldn’t taint his beauty as they broke free from lashes, coasting down his dimples. And yet, despite the messiness, despite the hurt, despite the vulnerability, Angel still shone. Heart open and soul exposed, keeping his light alive when the darkness tried to swallow him whole. 

So Husk opened his arms, drawing Angel in to nestle him into his chest, scent marking the lithe body with a perfume of earthiness, like an old tavern with a fragrance of cigar smoke and aged rum. 

If Angel didn’t have a scent kink before, then by god, he was doomed now.   

With arms still laced together, the butterflies in their stomachs danced as Husk steered both bodies to lie back on the bed. The mattress gave beneath their weight, swallowing the two lovers in the plush landscape of pillows.

Already half-asleep, Angel barely moved as they settled, exhausted and done with this fucking shit show of a day.

Meanwhile, Fat Nuggets squealed an objection. Stamping his hooves across the mattress in a fuss, indignant that he hadn’t been invited to the cuddle pile. 

Very wounded and betrayed, the pig sat on his haunches with his front hooves reaching up, like a dramatic toddler asking to be picked up.

There were two high-maintenance divas in that room with one soft sucker of a cat, and Fat Nuggets knew this.

“You’re lucky you’re so cute. Fucking attention hog.” Husk muttered, begrudgingly snatching up the spoiled pig and depositing it into a groggy Angel’s arms, like a particularly cranky throw pillow.

Nuggets let out a dainty snuffle that somehow managed to sound passive-aggressive. 

Then with a snobbish flick of the ear, he deliberately turned his back to Husk–tail in the face and all, as if to say, “Took you long enough, peasant.”

With a fed-up sigh, Husk swatted the tail out of his face, having a feeling that he’d just been nominated third wheel.

Contrary to the popular belief that the winged demon wasn’t a fan of the touchy-feelys, Husk was, what Angel embarrassingly called a “snuggle bug.” 

Call it a cuddle kink of sorts, maybe stemming from that cat-like tendency to curl up in a warm spot and snooze.

Which was why every place where skin touched skin was a tactile comfort. From the flutters of cream-colored hair that tickled his nose to the denim-swathed thighs that girdled his furry, muscled legs.

Pulling the other closer, the cat examined his lover. 

Angel’s face was tilted slightly upward, resting against a Husky pillow, with a forehead partially tucked into the crook of the shoulder. So from this angle, the cat could make out the ridge of his cheekbones, the upturn of his pixie nose, the cluster of pink freckles dotting the bridge of his face. The subtleties that made Angel perfect.

 The thud of his slowing heartbeat was a lulling, thrumming melody to Husk’s ears as he wound the cloud-like locks of Angel’s hair around his fingers. Watching as all the spider’s features softened, fully succumbing to slumber, with the tension of that shitty day slipping away with each breathy exhale. There was something almost sacred about his stillness, like time paused just for this moment.

Only for it to end.

With no wish to disturb his boyfriend, Husk peeled back the corner of the blanket and, with surgical precision, slithered out of the arms belonging to the curled-up spider, who didn’t stir. Once the cat’s paws met the plush carpet, he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He could breathe easier now.

No follow-up to the creaking or shift of the mattress, just a snow-colored bedhead rolling over to face the wall, pulling the bundle of blankets and an irritable half-asleep pig who oinked in annoyance.

After a full-body shake, ears flapping wildly, Fat Nuggets snuffled his complaints about his humans not respecting his schedule, let alone his beauty sleep. 

While oinking out a few choice words in pig-speak, something, or rather, someone caught Fat Nugget’s eye.

The pig, of all things, had caught Husk in the act, trying to make a getaway. 

Busted!

With a scandalized snort, the pig’s snout crinkled, button eyes squinting into slits.

Not on his watch! How dare the kitty abandon his daddy!  

Teetering to his hooves and pouncing onto the bed corner nearest to the cat demon, Fat Nuggets angrily puffed out his pink cheeks, back arched into a defensive stance. After a sequence of shrill war cries, the hellpig had bravely apprehended the traitor, who’d stopped short in his tracks, caught off guard by the tiny animal’s wrath.

“Shhhhh, yeah, yeah, I know!”

Husk knew his name had just been added to the little rodent’s hit list as it now squared itself up to throw down. Pawing the ground with a stumpy hoof, Fat Nuggets prepared to launch a full-scale offensive.

In an attempt to defuse the little curly-tailed bomb, Husk got to his knees and gently patted its head. 

“Listen, pig, I know ya don’t understand shit, but I promise I won’t be gone long. I’m putting ya in charge of ya daddy until then, okay?”

Message received.

In a surprising twist, the young pig nodded his understanding. The chubby animal spun around, belly bouncing with each step. Tucking its small hooves under the covers, the patchwork of pink and black spots disappeared as it tunneled under one of Angel’s arms. But not before tossing back one last side eye, the kind that said, “You live… for now.”

Shaking his head in amusement at a tiny war machine who thought himself a force to be reckoned with, Husk shuffled over to Angel’s clothes closet, a newfound mission at hand. 

After swinging open the closet door, the cat was met with racks upon racks of clothes, most of which were overtly flashy and scanty to a degree that bordered on theatrical. The skimpiness of the reservoir of mini-skirts, backless gowns, leather bodysuits, and sheer tops with sexual innuendos and middle finger graphics competed with the sparse silk of all the lingerie.

As much as Husk liked to admire his Angel in these meager dresses and frillies, in all honesty, he preferred the spider wearing nothing but the cum-crusted fur of his nature’s uniform.

Pushing aside that thought and another curtain of tightly packed fabric, Husk reached for a stack of large boxes, housed in the funky scent of mothballs and an avalanche of dust. After a round of rifling through the cardboard cartons, coming across some forgotten vibrators and a mean-looking motorbunny with a needle-shaped phallus, Husk had found what he needed. 

A bundle of fan mail, enough for a single demon to swim in, all tied together with a piece of frayed twine. 

After exiting the closet, Husk crept back to the bedroom door, footsteps ever-wary of the creaking floorboards. Until his tail snagged on a loose curtain, pulling it down with a loud crash.

Damn this stupid cat-form!

“Husky? Where ya going?” 

A bleary-eyed Angel sluggishly pushed himself to his elbows, having overheard the cat’s clumsy attempt at stealth through a smothered pillow. Meanwhile, Fat Nuggets was taking his victory laps across the mattress, dancing and squealing in celebration at Husk’s misfortune. 

Was that fucking pig laughing at him? 

Theory confirmed when the little swine paused mid-hop, throwing his head back haughtily with a pig-like sneer.

Fuck you too, pig.

“Just out for a stroll, be back to cuddle before ya know it,” Husk reassured the frazzled spider, his sonorous voice coming out with a slight uptick, curling the air of his vocal cords. Less neutral, and more…desperate. 

Angel only nodded, knowingly.

“Ya betta have a game plan before going afta that asshole.” 

“Ya bet your sweet ass I do.”

“Well, ya got my permission to tear his greasy nuts off.”

“Go to sleep, Angel.”

Chapter Text

Imagine Alastor’s surprise when his pissed off lapcat decided to unceremoniously tromp into his bedroom after hours! And the audacity of not even bothering to knock! You’d think after all these years, that unruly pet would’ve learned not to be such a troublesome nuisance! Especially regarding all those punishments Alastor had to concoct and administer time and time again! Husker knew the protocol. Smart off there, sarcastic snipe here, fucking enter his room without call, made for that shamble of feathers and fur to be tainted by crimson running in rivulets down his back. 

Yet here stood the travesty of a demon. Quite dishelved and breathless, he might add. In his haste, his hat had nearly tumbled off his head, with suspenders loose and dangling at the elbows, and trousers so wrinkled, they begged a rigorous ironing. And to top it off, he bore a determined expression that brazenly lacked any apology. 

 God bless such a stupid animal. 

The deer man had settled himself in the mini alcove of his bedroom’s entrance, across from the chirping crickets, the moss-draped canopy of nature, and the peaceful marsh of his bayou. Lounging on an upholstered armchair, with an ankle perched on the opposite knee, Alastor ferried his second cup of coffee. Although appearing untroubled, casually sipping his drink, Husk could detect a seething fury behind those radio dials that seemed to decimate his crimson eyes.

The bartender gulped nervously.

“Listen boss, I know ya don’t like people droppin in unannounced–”

“Then I do hope for your sake, there’s a good reason behind this unscheduled visit.” Alastor finished, singing in a tinny trill that echoed across the room’s non-existent walls.

Then the deer reevaluated those words, pressing a finger to his lips, thoughtfully. “Hmmm, but be that as it may, I so enjoy your company…do you prefer tea or coffee?” Alastor offered sweetly, placing his own cup aside to fold his pasty, elongated fingers in his lap.

“Um, maybe another time, Al–”

“Oh, how silly of me, forgetting your partiality to something much stronger. I suppose I can accommodate your request!” Twirling his staff, which was a blur of finesse and momentum whistling through the air, arcane swirls of green mist conjuring up a fresh bottle of brandy in Husk’s hand.  “Now, onto the formalities, Husky! Come, sit! Talk with me, my old friend!”

Being so worked up by the thought of that fucking creep’s mitts on his Angel, Husk saw red. 

The explosion of glass hitting the floor felt so good. Husk found relief in the violence, as the bottle’s shards burst outward in a glittering halo, bitter, sticky liquid and glass fragments ricocheting off legs, floor, and furniture. Making a dark puddle seep into the carpet, creating murky stains in the porous imperfections, like the floor itself is holding onto the trauma.

 A proxy of his Angel.  A shattered heart smeared across the floor in jagged edges and warm, dripping liquid.

“I’ve had it up to here with your bullshit, Al, if you could just shut up for once and fuckin listen–”

A crackle of radio static cut Husk off, snapping him back to reality. 

“Pardon me?” Alastor asked politely, raising an eyebrow disapprovingly at the dampened rug. “You might want to rethink your next words, Husky! May I remind you how I so kindly brushed off your blunder of barging into my room without any invitation? Only for you to so rudely make a mess of my carpet?”

Alastor tittered, a sadistic smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

Entertainment came in many forms, yet tormenting his lowly manservant was entertainment at its finest. Oh, how he reveled in watching his kitty squirm under his claws. Husk was, after all, the perfect specimen for his twisted games; still ripe with weariness but just stubborn enough to keep the fun going.

Meanwhile, Husk, more irritated with himself than intimidated by Alastor, berated himself for his own stupidity. Damage to anything of Alastor’s, his overbloated ego, his dildo staff, his fucking carpet, meant hell to play. Shit, he may have just lost his only chance at retribution for Angel.

Husk swallowed his pride; if he had to beg, he would beg.

Cause there’d sure as hell be blood on Husk’s hands if he let this Bryrin guy get away.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Husk mumbled.

“Much improved. Now what ails you, my kitty? Surely something grave, to put you into such a flutter!”

“I just came here to ask for…your help?”

“Oh, ho! Someone seems to be taking advantage of my generosity tonight! I presume you require gambling money or something becoming of your crude and crass nature?”

Alastor reached out a hand to pet the cat’s folded ears.  

Husk deliberated the option of going for that fucker’s throat, as the lethargy of his ears being gently caressed and groomed had heavied his eyelids and his thought process.

Amusement sparkled in the radio demon’s eyes.

  Just the mere brush to the ears, and the cat fell into the palm of his hand like putty. 

Because Alastor knew exactly what made his pet tick. 

But unfortunately for the radio demon, so did Husk. Enduring years of abuse at Alastor’s hand and spending half your afterlife as a seasoned gambler did that to you.

Cause Husk didn’t just count cards. He counted people.

People revealed themselves in flickers, in eye movements, in breaths held too long.

But, as of late, he observed them through a truth serum he called fermented relief. Bringing out their insecurities while playing drink-slinger, wiping counters, nodding at their bitching and sob stories.

Collecting those leftover bits of people from a pulled cork and a thirst to forget.

 And after two decades of being the radio demon’s barkeep, stocking ice, beverage garnishes, and the confessions of some tipsy regulars, Husk had become well-acquainted with several of his master’s weaknesses. 

Shaking off the fatigue and a handsy Alastor, who had already moved on to pinch the tips off some worn feathers of his wings, Husk hurried to explain, “No! Nothing like that! Just a small job. Guaranteed a hell of a lot of bloodshed and a chance to let off some steam.”

Alastor’s ears perked up. 

Husk already had him at the word “bloodshed.”

His clever kitty knew exactly which buttons to push when it came to persuasion. 

“Color me intrigued. Although you surprise me with your petition, Husker. You were always one to turn your nose up at my… more particular tastes.”

Knowing he’d just won the radio demon over, two fingers smugly held up a scrap of envelope, flashing the address and the scrawly handwriting of a certain foot fanatic in for a hell of an awakening.

 “Let’s just say, I’m returning a favor.”

“Go on.”

Chapter Text

“Pleeeease boss! I’ll even take a dock in pay! Just lemme take home those Angel boots for one teensy weensy night!”

“And for what purpose?”

“...research?”

Carl had been driving Bryrin up the fucking wall.

 The rest of the gang hadn’t bitched this much about the big man’s baby brother taking the whore for himself. 

Though that lot had been more than a little irked that Bryrin bullshitted them on being the righteous afterfuck of the holy grail of porn stars. 

There were many formal grievances filed about dry dicks, and even more written petitions to go nab another whore and their fuckable holes.

“Chief, think back to the days when we all shared and partook in the spoils of war. We’d all line up, waiting patiently while the youngbloods went first. Fucking the floozies so fast the sweat n’ jizz would go flying. What a fucking beautiful time to be alive.” They’d said, actually starting to tear up at the sweet memories. 

But putting up with those fuckwits and their droll was nothing compared to Carl’s whining. Something about that nasally twang that seemed to funnel every word through the sinuses and overenuciated every motherfucking vowel really scraped at what was left of Bryrin’s will to live. Holy mother of Satan, just gouge his ears off now.

The two men were lounging in the main office of “headquarters,” which consisted of an abandoned warehouse, formerly belonging to some rich heifer on the East side as a storage locker. Once the bitch fell prey to the exorcists, bam, free warehouse for the taking.

The main office was a sad square carved out of the back corner, walled by a grungy, moth-eaten bedsheet, separating Bryrin’s space from the rest of the obnoxious dribble. An attempt at making the area respectable was a handwritten sign pinned to the blanket, saying “Do Not Disturb, Serious Business Happening Inside.”

Didn’t do much, seeing how a certain rat had made ignoring it an art form.

Bryrin exhaled a neat line of smoke into the stifling air of the flat, the cigarette almost burnt down to the filter, forgotten between his scaly and peeling lips. 

The ritual of the drag calmed him down some, before a mucousy cough blew the cancer stick out of his mouth.

“Nice try, kid. But you’re welcome to jerk off to these beauties behind their glass case.” 

A sandpaper palm patted the glossy pane of glass, the oils from Bryrin’s thumb smudging a half-circle of fingerprints, warm breath forming tiny droplets on the transparent veil. 

You fucking bet Bryrin already framed Angel Dust’s shoes. And yes, he splurged on the glass display with the industrial steel padded locks to become a fortress and altar to the coveted footwear. Too bad his wallet had been stretched too far to afford the one with the blood oath, or even a laser grid or thumbprint scanner. So Bryrin settled for a crude doodle of a middle finger etched into the lamented glass, alongside the words: Do Not Touch Shoes (That means you, Carl).

And Carl felt personally attacked by those inscribed letters. 

With a snitty humph and a lower lip jutting out in a full pout, the young imp crossed his arms sourly.

“It isn’t fair! I didn’t even get his autograph! We could’ve followed through with the actual plan, which was to worm our way into Angel’s pants, forcibly if need be. But we fucking didn’t!” Carl’s pinched voice plummeted to a muted murmur, “You and your little master plans. Fucking foot perv.”

“Kid, you really need speak the fuck up. Sounds like ya got a dick in your mouth.”

“You’d know what that’s like.” Carl snorted.

“Why, you–”

BOOM

The main office’s wall exploded, shaking the very bones of the ramshackle warehouse. 

Bryrin and Carl hit the floor, scrambling to shield their heads from the raining debris. Choking puffs of smoke filled the air as chunks of masonry plating from the storage unit continued to crash around them. A sharp crack of splintered metal echoed through the now hollow shell of a building, alongside an elk-like scream, which shook what was left of the rafters, vibrating through rusted pipes, cracked support beams, and the very hearts of both Carl and Bryrin.

Alastor always had a liking for dramatic entrances. 

Fear was, after all, his favorite applause. 

Then there he was. 

The Radio Demon, stepping through the smoking hole in the warehouse wall into the gang’s “foyer.” With the calm confidence of a man arriving fashionably late to a dinner party he himself had burned down.

Not a fleck of grime smudged his pinstriped coat, although plumes of dust and crumbled bits of metal billowed the air in a choking cloud around him. Like the laws of nature had bent to make way for their maker. Red light bled from the edges of his silhouette, casting warped shadows on crates, catwalks, and rusted machinery long past their prime.

With ears ringing and a puffy face painted in soot, Bryrin tried pushing himself to his knees. Yet the grit and gravel offered no traction for scraped palms, so the older man went right back to hugging the dirt.

Meanwhile, Carl had effortlessly popped up like a jack-in-the-box. 

Starstruck and buzzing with an uncontainable passion, the young imp began geeking out at yet another one of his idols. 

With absolutely no qualms for Alastor being that guy you’d never wanna fuck with.

“Whoa! Am I dreaming? First Angel Dust and now the Radio Demon at our headquarters? This day has been unreal! I’m a huge fan of your work! Can I get a quick pic with–”

One menacing glare of radio dials from Alastor and it suddenly dawned on Carl that the newspaper clippings and whispers through the grapevine were a lot less shit your pants scary than seeing the real thing up close.

“You know what? It can wait! You guys obviously got some shit to work out, so I’ll just leave you to it!”

A crestfallen Carl, with a spade-tipped tail tucked between his legs, scampered off and away from the blackened husk of a warehouse.

“What in all the nine circles…” Alastor muttered, staring vacantly after Carl, moderately confused by the odd little creature.

He’d borne witness to Angel Dust admirers, who’d flung themselves at the effeminate spider, imploring sexual favors. Because all the demons down here obnoxiously stuck their dicks into whatever stole their fancy.

Celebrity status as Hell’s radio show host didn’t entail such vulgarities. Aside from Vox, the listeners of his broadcast weren’t the usual entourage that lusted shamelessly, flashed cameras, and asked for signatures. And rightfully so, given his reputation of duality, as seen flaying and devouring the flesh of his foes one moment and veneering normalcy the next, having a nice cup of coffee at Rosie’s or preparing jambalaya for the staff dinner.

So this special attention given from that peculiar imp. This…fame of sorts. It was a concept so foreign to him that he didn’t know what to make of it.

Alastor shook his head, pushing aside those thoughts. 

Clearing his throat, he turned back to the cowering Bryrin.

“Now, that that’s settled, let’s get down to business, then, shall we?”

“M-m-mister Radio Demon, clearly, there’s some kind of mix-up. My brother owns this block. I’m not the person you’re looking for to talk business.”

“Oh, but you are! You see, my associate informed me that you’ve been inciting trouble with the one named…Angel Dust?” 

Bryrin turned an ashen grey at the name.

“Now, I simply cannot abide such unnecessary cruelty to the lowly and meek. We’re all more than just pawns in someone else’s game.” Venom dripped from his fauxed and saccharine timbre, as the red demon indulgently soaked in the shorter man’s fear. “Anything you have to say to that? No?”

Pride be damned, Bryrin was going to find a way of out of this. 

For the sake of his own preservation and his prized, limited edition Angel boots that now lay scuffed in a sea of glass and fallen steel beams. Turns out that bargain military-grade glass displays don’t hold a candle to sociopathic deer demons.

Bryrin had blown over four thousand dollars on that damn thing, and it hadn’t even lasted a day.

Fuck these off-brands, man.

“Please, you don’t have to kill me! Wait, you’re a soul dealer, right? I’ll give you my soul! Just spare me, and you can take it!” Still on the ground, Bryrin pushed himself into the prayer position, flat palms together in a silent plea.

The utter effigy of desperation.

Most demons often devolved into juvenile-like welps that blathered irrationally to be relieved of their most certain death. Like a chatterbox of a rat caught in its own trap, they would feebly ramble about families, repentance, and the preposterous of all, mercy. 

Hah! How laughable indeed.

Mercy was a relic of the living. Something as human as mercy befitted the earthly saints that still clung to their foolish ideals. 

If anything, death was a mercy to one of such inferior caliber.

But…then again, prolonging the hunt aged the meat most divinely. Perhaps this simpleton could entertain for a tad longer? Alastor was, after all, a connoisseur of the finest delicacies.

“And pray tell, what use would your soul be to me?” The deer demon asked, rubbing a finger against his chin, feigning fascination. His heels clacked against the concrete flooring, circling around Bryrin like a wolf sizing up its next meal.

Although the sight of Alastor’s glowing eyes and that eerie grin that pulled past his cheekbones was enough to quell any bravado, Bryrin still saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

This was it. 

This was his chance.

Bryrin’s attempts to straighten himself to some semblance of neatness and order were unsuccessful. His shirt, which read “I’m Just Here For Feet”, once crisp and pristine, was now covered with smudges and bits of charred fragments. In addition to his oily combover, which now sat untamed in a spiky, singed rat’s nest. Both were reminders of the havoc in Alastor’s wake.

“Okay, I know I don’t have much to offer. No property. No souls. Not really any talent to speak of. My brother Ziggy got all that. Leaving me with noth–”

“This really isn’t helping your case now, is it dear?” The tip of Alastor’s cane teasingly tapped the top of Bryrin’s head.

“Right, right. Okay. You don’t know me, but I’m somewhat of a foot expert, slash fetishizer, slash enthusiast.”

The static that had crackled softly in the background stilled for a heartbeat. 

Alastor’s ears dropped as he paused his prowly, cat-like saunter, unsure if he’d heard the man correctly.

“I’m sorry, a what now?”

The shorter man began to dramatically recite his monologue, like a stage actor in the midst of their final, most climactic scene. Placing one hand on his heart, and outstretched the other towards Alastor, losing himself in his long-awaited speech and devotion for a demon he’d known for all of four minutes. 

“It’s been my lifelong dream to dominate a pair of sexy, succulent feet. But perhaps it is time for me, Bryrin Dullard, to become the dominated and surrender to you, oh mighty Radio Demon.”

Bryrin, still groveling on his knees, clutched the hem of Alastor’s coat, overrun with the passion of pledging himself to this god.

 

“What the–”

“Let me be your foot slave, as I vow to serve you for the rest of my afterlife! I will not once betray or turn my back on you, all the while worshipping and sucking those sweet little toes!” he mused aloud with unwavering certainty.

‘Oh…dear.’ Alastor thought. He was one of those reclusive oddities.

For a moment, the overlord lost his composure. 

With eyes bulging wide out of their sockets, Alastor looked at the guy like, “are you out of your fucking mind?!” 

His smile, whose effect was usually puppet-like, like invisible strings tugging his expression into a permanent rictus of joy, nearly vanished in his repugnance. It twisted in a way that no one had ever seen before, the edges pulling back as though he had just sucked on a sour lemon.

For the first time in a century, Alastor, the harbinger of dread in Hell, was mildly afraid of this…flabby foot-obsessed degenerate.  

Every second between them then felt drawn out, amplified, like the calm before the storm.

And Bryrin stupidly took that silence as a yes, clearly not taking the hint of Alastor’s obvious discomfort, as he’d already backed up several paces.

To Alastor’s horror, Bryrin practically pounced on his heeled shoes. With a waning patience and eyes clouded over with an unbridled desire, the shorter man desperately tried to claw off Alastor’s shoes, causing a bash of squeaking leather. 

If Alastor hadn’t died already, he was officially dead now.

“Oh my god, deer hooves, correct? This is a thousand times better than Angel Dust! If I can just show you my skills, master, you’ll see I’m worth keeping! I promise I won’t disappoint you!”

 Without a doubt, Alastor had met his match in utter lunacy.

No wonder Husk had been so keen on ridding Hell of this villain. 

Not to mention, Bryrin’s delusions were getting painful to watch, though there was a certain dark humor to them.

So just like that, an unsuspecting Bryrin was plucked up and away from the deer demon’s feet, thanks to the tangled mass of inky tendrils sprouting from underneath Alastor’s coat. 

“I think not,” Alastor said airily, modulating his radio interference to a low hum. Some variation of leftover trepidation still flared in his scarlet eyes. Yet he now mimicked nonchalance, gaze averted down toward his own hands, casually picking at his fingernails.

The airborne Bryrin now dangled precariously, several inches from the ground, with the Kajiu-like vines coiled around his frame. Much to Alastor’s chagrin, he still appeared more enraptured than alarmed.

“Oh, wow, if you liked using the tentacles, you should’ve said so!”

 Getting tentacle-fucked sounded a lot less enjoyable when there were literally dozens of those shadowy things gunning for you. Especially when the gelatinous vices clamped a little too snugly around his bloated frame, pinning his arms to the trunk of his body. Also, the undulating appendages secreted some kind of foul, gluey mucous, which acted as a little suction cup, pasting the rubbery tentacle to his skin. 

But hey, Bryrin wasn’t one to kinkshame.

Still tremendously uncomfortable, the red demon rearranged his wrinkled lapels and bowtie, while his ever-present smile shifted into something of a grimace.

“I do admit, you are quite the comedian. On any other day, I may have considered sparing your pathetic life for a little longer, on behalf of entertainment, of course.” Alastor hissed out on a silver tongue.

Naturally, this was a lie. His scarce goodwill and leniency had been tossed aside the moment “feet” had entered the conversation. 

“Sex” and “Alastor” were two words never used in the same sentence. And as of today, “feet” also filed neatly in the same category.

And after this psychologically scarring ordeal, the decision was final. Killing Bryrin was not only necessary but required little deliberation. 

In some ways, Alastor envied that blissful ignorance he possessed mere minutes before this encounter. 

Perhaps a therapy appointment was now in order…

“However, this isn’t 'any other day' now, is it? And your death was a personal request from a friend of mine. Husk sends his regards, by the way.”

At the word “death,” Bryrin’s stomach pitched in fear and realization. Even in the warm air, bumps of gooseflesh stood erect on the man’s skin. 

Then, with the click of Alastor’s finger, the cluster of writhing tentacles brought Bryrin to hang in front of the rangy overlord. Eldritch power swirled and sparked in the deer’s pitch black sclera before his smile tightened like a noose made of teeth. 

“Perhaps the best course of action is to uphold ironic tradition!” 

Whorls of green coalesced in Alastor’s palm as he swept his hand upward. The shimmering tentacles intelligently followed the path of his hand, so Bryrin’s sandaled feet dangled inches from his face. 

For an avowed foot fetishist, his own were quite unkept. Being a horror show of reddened bunions, uneven tufts of wiry hair sprouting like weeds from every toe, fungal-infected nails, and athlete’s foot.

Alastor’s nose wrinkled, gesturing to the crime scene that now wafted a cloying, vinegary stench throughout the warehouse. “You are the foot worshipper, are you not? Hmm…do you consider your own feet to be of decent quality?”

Wait. Was this Alastor volunteering to reverse gears? Maybe lash that sexy-ass tongue between his toes? Or better yet, go all in with a footjob?

Hell yes! 

This turnout was looking miles better than what he’d hoped!

Bryrin then found hesitancy when looking into those scarlet eyes—eyes that promised both unimaginable rewards and unthinkable consequences.  

“...They’re pretty good, I guess?” 

The toothy yellows of Alastor’s ear-to-ear smile shone brighter as the wendigo’s jaw unhinged to open his mouth wide.

“Here’s hoping, dear Bryrin.”