Archive of Our Own ^beta

Angel should have been asleep. 

Husk was, snoring softly with his forehead pressed between Angel’s shoulder blades. 

Between Husk having errands and Angel having small mountain of homemade porn he needed to edit, it had taken until bedtime for them to get to their usual ritual of Husk surveying the evidence on Angel’s body of his escapades with Alastor.  Husk had sworn and pressed gentle kisses over the bite marks and gashes, by then healed shiny-pink under Angel’s fur, and Angel had giggled and squirmed, basking in the attention that evolved with little prompting into sweet, snuggly sex.

Now, Husk was asleep and Angel should have been, but a handful of words and half an idea had clawed its way into his brain and he had to get it out, or at least start to, so he lay they in the dark, Husk at his back, Fat Nuggets at his feet, thumbing at his phone, mumbling to himself, backspacing, counting syllables on his fingers, and mumbling again.

The next day at work, between photoshoots, and later between clients, it was more of the same.

It took a couple days for Angel to feel like it was done, and that’s when the scary part came.  He copied it out by hand on paper, pulled the page from his little-used diary, folded it into his pocket, and went to find Alastor.

He found him tucked away in the “Staff Only” office behind the latent desk at the far end of the foyer.

“Hey,” Angel said, knocking lightly at the ajar door as he leaned on the frame.  He nodded to the little plaque.  “Do I count as staff?”

“Certainly, my dear.”  Alastor folded his arms on the logbooks spread out in front of him.  “You’re our mascot!”

With a snort, Angel stepped fully into the room.  “Doin’ the books?”

“Double checking Vaggie’s accounting,” Alastor half agreed, flipping the largest of the books closed.

“Yeah?  How’s it looking?”  Angel leaned on the wall.

“Perfectly accurate,” Alastor shrugged.  “Though, if this endeavor were anything but a royally-funded commune masquerading as a charity we’d be in rather dire straights.”  He looked up at Angel.  “Did you need something?”

“I, uh,” Angel cleared his throat and pulled his folded page from his pocket, “I wrote us a song? Well, lyrics—I wrote some lyrics, and I got a tune in my head for ‘em, but I don’t know shit or fuck about actually writin’ music, so I was kinda hopin’ you might wanna do that part?” Tentatively, he held the page out. 

Interest evident, Alastor took the page and read it over. 

 

We smell like whiskey and my cigarettes
My perfume and both our sweat
Been out dancing all night long
Jivin’ to your favorite song
Don’t let no one say that we’re in love 

You’ve got a glimmer in your eye
I stole your second glass of rye
We’ve been dancing hand in hand
Singing along with the band
Why would someone think that we’re in love? 

Midnight, laughing at your jokes
You’ve got no eyes for other folks
Happy to have you walk me home
Know I’m not sleeping all alone
Doesn’t have to mean that we’re in love 

Feel your eyes on me when I wake
Heart in your hand, not gonna break
Cuz I’m your pal and you’re my guy
Match made in hell, yeah that’s no lie
Never ever say that we’re in love 

Why would somebody think that we’re love?

It doesn’t have to mean that we’re in love 

Know better than to think that we’re in love 

Slowly, one of his ears swiveled back. “Hm.”

“You don’t like it,” Angel said small. 

Alastor’s head snapped up. “No, cher, I like it just fine, and I’ll be quite interested to hear the tune you have in mind,” he assured. “I like it a lot…” he added more softly, looking back down. “It’s just,” he cocked his head, both ears swiveling this time, “I was under the impression that you are…in love with me….”

“I mean,” Angel shrugged, “I’m not not in love with you, but—I dunno.” He sat on the edge of the table. “Context’s wrong, I guess.  Way I feel about ya is that kinda feelin’s, but you’re not in love, so we’re not in love, but this,” he gestured between them, “ain’t one-sided or unrequited or some shit, it’s just…somethin’ else.  Like how a violin and a fiddle’s the same thing ‘cept for how ya play.  Same feelin’, played different.”

“Pa ‘I love you’ manyè ‘mo limn twa,’” Alastor said softly, more to himself than to Angel. 

“If you just said what I think you just said,” Angel grinned, “then yeah, exactly.”

A few days’ noodling at the lobby piano produced a wonderfully jaunty expansion on Angel’s melody, some hand-scrawled sheet music to match, and four full pages of Husk’s sketchbook filled with quickly captured moments of Alastor playing or notating, Angel leaning on the piano or Alastor’s shoulder, or laying on the ground behind Alastor’s bench with Fat Nuggets on his chest, Angel and Alastor laughing, grinning at each other, or bonking their heads together, and the notable incident when a misjudged leap from KeeKee had sent her careening off the end of the piano and Alastor had caught her, both of them looking equally shocked that he had. 

“You really love a lot him, don’t you?” Husk said, accepting his sketchbook back from Angel, having let him look through it. 

“Yeah.” Angel’s smile made his eyespots shimmer, but then threatened to turn melancholy. “I know that’s weird for you—“

Husk held up a staying hand, set his sketchbook aside, and sat up on his knees to hug Angel to his chest. “I’m used to it,” he said softly, Angel’s arms wrapping around his waist. “Most important thing to me is you’re happy. And, hey, it’s not like I gotta be sweet on the guy.”

“No,” Angel agreed, “but you do gotta put up with him.”

“I gotta do that anyway,” Husk shrugged. “And you’ve sure as shit made that easier. Some just by bein’ you, some by stickin’ up for me, which I appreciate.”

“Course I stick up for ya.” Angel straightened up and looped his topmost arms around Husk’s neck. “I love ya.”

“I love you, too,” Husk chuckled and kissed him with a purr. 

~

“You’re sure?” Angel asked. 

“I don’t see why not,” Alastor answered easily. 

“I wasn’t so sure you’d want this out there in public like that.”

Alastor shrugged. “Well, my dear,” he pulled Angel into hold to waltz them across the lobby, “I figure any souls that know enough to guess your song is about us either know us and know better, or already have enough reason to come to whatever misconceptions they’re going to, and I’ve already decided not to care.”

“Okay,” Angel agreed with a little laugh and let Alastor twirl him. 

And so, an exclusive live performance of a new original song by Angel Dust got added to Alastor’s broadcast schedule. 

The slinky dress wasn’t necessary—it was radio, the audience couldn’t see him—but it felt right to dress up to perform, it looked good in the couple of spontaneous self-promo posts he put up on tungle.hell, and, as far as Angel cared, any outfit that inspired Husk to kiss him breathless up against the wall for a minute was an A+.

The performance felt good—and if Angel was being honest, he was really singing to Alastor, not for an audience. From the look of his grin as he accompanied on piano, it looked like Alastor knew it, too. 

Angel’s song was followed by a trivia section Alastor had not warned him about, but they both had fun with, and then Angel’s regular segment, which Alastor segued into by saying, “Now that you’ve used your brain for a minute, I think it’s time for our dear listeners to turn theirs off—the ones in their skulls, at least.”

After concluding the night’s audio erotica—a rough and tumble cowboy romance co-written by Niffty and Cherri—Angel was happy to lounge in his chair, watching the Radio Demon in his element as Alastor handled the end-of-show housekeeping, signed off, and switched the broadcast over to its usual downtime assortment of jazz, tormented screams, and screams set to jazz. 

Equipment all set to be walked away from for the night, Alastor braced his hands on the edge of the desk and shot Angel a sidelong glare. “I am going to be forever haunted by the knowledge that you can do a passable Texan accent.”

Angel laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. 

As had become their habit for evenings when Angel joined the radio show lineup, he also joined Alastor in his room for the night. He fell asleep easy, curled around a pillow, Alastor’s fingertip petting a soothing rhythm down the flat of his nose.

He woke again some time later to an empty bed. Rolling over, he found Alastor sitting at his desk across the room, lamp on, head bowed over a book, elbow propped on the wood, thumb pressed into his temple.

“Al?” Angel croaked groggily. 

Alastor’s ear preceded his head in turning towards Angel. “Did I wake you?”

“Mm-mh,” Angel shook his head and resettled, cheek on one folded arm so he could more comfortably look at Alastor. “Was havin’ one a the deer-skull-god dreams; woke up the same point I always do.”

A hint of amusement tugged at Alastor’s tired smile. “When your heart gets ripped out?”

“Yeah,” Angel confirmed with a breath of laughter. “Fragola, have you slept?” he asked softly. 

Sighing, Alastor shook his head. 

“Have you tried?”

“Yes.”

Angel made a sympathetic sound and got himself out of bed. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

“Just restless.”

Coming up behind Alastor’s chair, Angel murmured, “Can I touch you?”

Alastor nodded.  Two of Angel’s hands started at Alastor’s shoulders, peachfuzz fur gliding smoothly over the cotton sateen of his night shirt as his fingers firmly followed the lines of muscle and sinew through Alastor’s back and neck.  Another of Angel’s hands gave a quick fond scritch to the shorn-short underside of Alastor’s hair, then joined its pair to rub at his antlers.  A low sound in his throat, Alastor leaned into the touch.

“There’s my deerheart,” Angel said, soft and fond, and risked a quick caressing stroke up Alastor’s ears before returning to his antlers.  Alastor made a little bleating sound and clapped a hand over his mouth, wide-eyed.  Angel paused.  “Was that a good noise or just a surprised noise…?”

“It was nothing,” Alastor hissed behind his hand.

Angel rolled his eyes and resumed massaging.  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody you squeak adorably.  C’mon, smiles, relax so’s maybe you’ll sleep.  Won’t touch your ears again, I promise.”

Slowly, Alastor lowered his hand.  Quietly, ever so quietly, he said, “You can.”

“Hm?”

“Touch them, I mean,” Alastor clarified, then sighed, ears drooping.  “And not much point swearing you to secrecy—it happens just often enough that people know.”

Angel hummed sympathetically and manifested his third arms to rub Alastor’s ears gently between his fingers, soothing at the tiny muscles that moved them, the flesh of them warm under silky soft fluff. “Y’know,” Angel said, thoughtful and low, “you bein’ a goofball don’t damage your big scary overlord cred; I don’t think bein’ a cutie would either.”

Alastor snorted but nonetheless did begin to relax under Angel’s hands. 

After a bit, Alastor shifted restlessly in his seat, then again a moment later, then he jerked his head away from Angel’s touch with a sharp curse under his breath.

Angel retreated half a step, all his hands held in a cautious, placating gesture.  “You okay?”

Alastor huffed a breath and ran a hand over his face, the calm comfort he’d been slipping into completely replaced with prickly agitation.

“I’m fine,” he bit out through his teeth.

“Uhh,” Angel said, inarticulate with doubt.

Alastor huffed again and ran both hands over his face this time, ears flat to his head.  “I’m horny,” he muttered with obvious distaste, “and I’m mad, because this was nice, and I don’t want to have to deal with it, but it’s not going away.”

“Ohhh.” Angel took another step back.  “Do you need me to go so you can handle that?”

For a long moment, Alastor didn’t answer. Then he got up, kicked his chair to shove it under, and went to his dresser. “You can stay if you make yourself ignorable.”

Angel saluted and folded himself to the floor in an out of the way spot while Alastor shut the dresser drawer and went to pull the coverlet up over his bed. Just as he had months before, the last time he’d been allowed the privilege of seeing Alastor in so private a moment, Angel kept still, kept quiet, just watched, hands folded in his lap—this time, though, he wasn’t so much studying as internally preening just a little smugly that Alastor was indeed making use of some of the presents and advice Angel had given him after that previous occasion.

A change in position from last time: up on his knees, braced on one forearm, head bowed to dig the points of his antlers into the bed. Slightly more undressed, though that was partly necessitated by the position, but which in combination with the position meant his previously hidden tail was fully visible. A toy—the one Angel had suspected he’d prefer. And, well, Angel was certainly right that he was freer to move like this. 

That was going to inform a few fantasies, that’s for sure. 

When Alastor was finished, Angel waited a spell for him to settle and catch his breath a bit before carefully getting up and taking a cautious step towards him.  

“Wanme to clean that thing up for you?” Angel offered softly.

A heartbeat’s hesitation, a flick of an ear, and Alastor wordlessly unfolded one sharp-jointed arm to hold his toy out to Angel without looking at him.

Angel took it, careful to not let their fingers brush, and headed for the bathroom, but faltered at the the threshold, looking down at the red silicone, still warm in his hand.  He chewed his lip.  “...hey, Al?”

“What?” Alastor snapped.

Angel flinched a little but asked anyway: “Can I taste your, y’know…?”

A moment of deeply tense silence, then a heavy exhale and the creak of mattress springs.  “Do whatever you want.”

Startled, Angel turned over his shoulder.  “Do you realize what kinda permission you’re giving me?”

“Yes,” Alastor huffed exasperatedly, sitting up now. He yanked a wetwipe out of its pack with more force than necessary.  “Do whatever you want, just don’t bother me with it.”

“Okay,” Angel agreed, ducked into the bathroom, and shut the door. With something like reverence, he circled the tip of one finger around the opening of the toy then dipped it inside. He withdrew it slow, appreciating the sheen of lube and spend slicking the short fine fur of his fingers, then licked it savoringly, a little thrill of arousal running through him. 

The next fingerful he spread on his lips and licked off with a happy little hum. 

He smacked the faucet on for some auditory obfuscation, knelt on the rug where he could brace against the edge of the tub, coaxed his half-hard cock from its sheath, gave it a couple encouraging strokes, then pressed into the toy with a bit-back groan. Almost body-warm and deliciously wet, the feel of the toy was at once familiar—Angel had one of the same design in pink—and thrillingly new. 

Eyes shut tight, he pleasured himself, hips working in time with his own stroking, mimicking Alastor’s rhythm without really meaning to, biting his lip to keep quiet until he pricked himself bloody on his own teeth. 

Angel found his climax with a gasp and a jerk of his hips, fucking his way through it as he added his own mess to Alastor’s. He leaned hard against the tub, muscles trembling and a lazy laugh on his breath. 

After taking a moment to gather himself, Angel got up, cleaned up—both himself and the toy—set it to dry, and ventured back out into Alastor’s bedroom. 

The lamp was off. Alastor was curled up in bed with his back pressed to the wall, the coverlet folded down past his feet, his eyes closed, but Angel could tell from the way his ears lay rather than flopped that he wasn’t asleep. 

“Caro, can I come back to bed?” Angel asked softly. “Or should I leave you alone?”

With a little flick of his wrist, Alastor tugged the blanket down in invitation, eyes open a slit. “Just don’t touch me.”

“Okay.” Angel lay down facing him, the space between them broader than usual. He curled his fingers in his own fur against the urge to reach out. “You okay?”

Alastor nodded and sighed. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, good.”

They were both quiet several long moments, then, eyes closed again, Alastor murmured, “Angel?”

“Hm?”

“I have a question I expect to regret.”

“Yeah?” Angel prompted, utterly falling to restrain an amused little grin. 

“Why?”

An array of crass and flippant responses vied for position on Angel’s tongue—because I’m a nasty slut, sloppy seconds are hot—but instead, he shrugged a little and said, “It makes me feel close to you.”

Alastor opened his eyes and Angel offered him a small fond smile. 

“You’re my guy.”

Alastor hummed softly and closed his eyes again. “That I am, cher.”

“Would petting your nose be okay, or no touching at all?”

“Mm,” Alastor hummed thoughtfully, “that’ll be fine.”

Angel lifted one hand to gently pet a downy fingertip along the bridge of Alastor’s nose and began softly to sing an old Italian lullaby. 

~

In the morning, Angel was woken by the gentle jostling of Alastor snuggling against his chest fluff. 

“Hey, cerbiatto,” Angel murmured groggily, letting a hand find its way to scritch gently at Alastor’s ear, then between his antlers. 

“Mhmng,” Alastor responded articulately. 

Angel chuckled softly, adjusted how he was laying, and dozed comfortably, thumb brushing a lazy rhythm back and forth against the warmth of Alastor’s velvet. 

Eventually, Alastor took a deep breath, let it out, and moved enough to look Angel in the face. “Morning, cher.”

“Sleep good?” Angel asked, his own voice still a little thick. 

“Mhm.”

“Good.” Angel smiled and pressed their foreheads together. 

Alastor pressed against the touch in an affectionate in-between point of a headbutt and a nuzzle. 

Angel smiled, warmth bubbling in his chest that then started to tighten and prickle at his eyes. He took a breath that shook just a little. 

Brow pinched in his version of a frown, Alastor pulled back, ears alert. “Angel? Is something wrong?”

With a slightly wet little laugh, Angel shook his head and wiped his eyes with a couple hands. “Nah, I’m just bein’ greedy an’ makin’ myself sad about it.”

One of Alastor’s eyebrows ticked up in curious confusion. 

Angel shrugged and gestured between them. “I love this,” he said earnestly. “I love wakin’ up with you. Just—these kinds a quiet mornings. Love ‘em with Husk too, an’,” he shrugged again and sniffled, “I wish I could have ‘em with both a ya without having to earn it by being raped the day before.”

“That’s not—” Alastor began quietly but Angel cut him off. 

“That’s the only time you both stay.”

Alastor snapped his mouth shut, smile small and brittle. 

Eyes downcast, Angel sighed. “It’s okay. I…I get that shit between the two a youse is sticky with you ownin’ his soul. You like him okay, I know, but you’re not close with him like that an’ he can’t be comfortable with you like that. I get it.” He fiddled with his own fingers. “I appreciate that ya get along for me, I really really do. I just….” He sniffled more. “For a long, long time—pretty much ever since I figured out that monogamy ain’t the only game in town—I’ve kinda had this sense that what I’d really like is to have is a whole little group a folks who love each other and I know love me, who I can have these kinda lazy mornings with.  I dunno, probably the shit family life talkin’,” he half-laughed. “I just keep feelin’ like I’ve almost got that. Spent a couple real deluded weeks back in the day thinkin’ that was gonna be me an’ Val an’ Vox.”

“Vox?” Alastor asked incredulously. 

Angel nodded. “The two a them hookin’ up and business-merging an’ shit was when me and Val were still a thing, so I’d got this picture painted for me of Vox as this great, smart guy, funny, good business sense, gonna help make me a star, nice dick too.” He rolled his eyes while Alastor grimaced. “Yeah, that didn’t turn out like I thought. Vox never gave a single solitary shit about me. Treats me like furniture, or maybe an expensive dog on a good day.”

“Vox doesn’t care about anything but himself and getting what he wants,” Alastor said, tone in an odd place between sympathetic and cold. 

“Yeah, Val too—guess that’s why they get along,” Angel muttered. He sighed. “There’ve been others, though. Before Val, and back when I was alive. Always been somethin’ missing or somethin’ that goes wrong, though, and I kinda gave up thinkin’ I’d ever get to have that kinda thing. But with you and Husk, we’re so close to it.” He smiled sadly. “So close, but it’s just not gonna happen, and in a way that hurts worse. But it’s okay. I’m happy with what I’ve got with each a ya—like I said, I’m just being greedy. Just…sometimes makes me wish I’d met the two a you first, back in the day, before everything. All it woulda taken was me deciding one night to go gambling ‘stead a clubbin’. Maybe then….”

Alastor let out a breath and pulled Angel into a hug. “I don’t think things would have gone the way you wish even if you had, my dear,” he said gently as Angel hid his face against his chest. “Husk as you know him is not the man he was decades ago, and frankly neither am I.” He ran his nails through Angel’s hair. “Neither are you, I’m sure.”

“Mm.”

“If we had met back then, I have serious doubts as to whether we would have wound up being us,” Alastor murmured into Angel’s hair. 

“Maybe,” Angel sighed. “Still a nice daydream.”

“I’m sure it is, cher.”