They jump apart at the first bang.
The door rattles on its hinges. A series of aggravated knocks accompanies the first, followed by openhanded slams. An angry voice follows suit.
“Al! Stop fucking hogging all the goddamn water! Some of us need to fucking clean our assholes too!”
“Stop fucking jacking off! I only got a coupla minutes!”
Alastor puts a finger to his lips. For once, Angel is not in the least bit upset. The panic overrides that particular reaction.
Shit, Angel thinks, he’s supposed to be at work.
Angel judiciously requested to take the night off, which Vox hesitantly granted. Husk, on the other hand, was supposed to be behind the bar at Franklin and Rosie’s down the road, and certainly not here: in front of the door of the bathroom he and Alastor were getting frisky in.
A moan slips from him, unbidden, and he bites down on his lip as Alastor watches him with still-darkened eyes.
The same beckoning gaze that got him into this position in the first place.
Alastor had ushered him into their bathroom, shut the door, and slid to his knees. He worked Angel open with his tongue and lips as Angel bent over in their shower directly under the spray, arms braced on the wall for support. It sluiced in rivers down their bodies, cleansing them of filth, their obstinate original sin. Angel felt simultaneously wanton and nubile, and judging by the state of Alastor’s erection, he thought more of the same. Alastor’d loosely stroked himself as Angel keened under the vicious onslaught of his tongue.
Angel is more than a hundred percent sure that Alastor gets off on the noises he makes, so he never really tries to stifle them.
The blaring exception being right fucking now, with Husk an angry presence behind the door. The noises he’s currently trying to muffle are less lustful and more squirrely, he thinks. Not in the least bit sexy.
“I’ll be out soon!” Alastor snaps, pretending to be affronted. It cloaks his panic impressively, and Angel takes a second to marvel at his range.
Only a second, though.
“I thought you had work?” Alastor continues, eyes darting frenetically around. Angel uses that time to pull on his clothes, previously scattered throughout the floor.
“’M going back. Some asshole threw up in the fucking well and I had to fucking clean it.”
A pause. “Thought Angel went to work? He here?”
Meaning the house, of course, but Angel’s heart still leaps to his throat. Confused, he looks to Alastor for explanation. Alastor mouths it to him, and his heart sinks back down to his stomach.
Oh shit. His car.
“Ride-share!” Alastor’s voice rings out. “He caught a ride-share! Mentioned something about an after party at work!”
Angel could kiss him, so he does. It’s unbearably delicate and fraught with tension. Alastor’s eyes, when he pulls back, are indecipherable.
And just as well. Husk’s impatient battering doesn’t cease.
“Ah. Well, shit, hurry the fuck up, man! I fucking reek!”
In the end, Alastor points to the window.
He mimes something that Angel understands just fine, and he fires back with a rude gesture.
Sure, they’re on the second floor, but it’s a short drop to the opened window under it as long as he sticks the landing, and then easy enough to sneak around the back way.
Alastor glowers at him. He makes a figure eight motion with his hands, then points to Angel’s waist.
Bullshit, he thinks, squeezing through the channel.
All of this is bullshit.
Angel’s got a bit of an exhibitionist streak, to nobody’s immediate surprise.
Alastor’s the same way, and they really do match each other in terms of mulishness. It’s rarely a positive thing; oftentimes it devolves into a convoluted game of gay chicken. The thrill of almost being caught is just that: a thrill.
Actually getting caught is another story.
They’re sneaking around again, hoping Husk doesn’t discover them in a compromising position. He’s frankly tired of hands clutching to the back of his head, impeding him from breathing when he’s on his knees, mouth stuffed full of Alastor’s cock.
Alastor stutters some bullshit excuse to Husk, who heads for the liquor cabinet anyway, not even bothering to round the corner or spare a passing glance towards the kitchen where Angel’s hidden behind the island.
Fucking exhibitionist, he thinks, peering up from under his lashes.
Flaring his nostrils, he glares up at Alastor as best as he can, with so many inches of cock jammed down his throat.
He hums once, out of spite.
Alastor weaves his fingers through his hair, carding sweetly at first, then gripping and tugging back as retribution.
“Hey Al! Where’d ya keep the wipes again? Hadda run in with Baxter’s fucking dog and I gotta head back out.”
“Can’t you use the hose?”
Angel almost snorts in disbelief.
The asshole is really about to have a conversation right now while his lips are wrapped around his dick, cock tickling his vocal cords, and Angel refuses to take that lying down.
On his knees.
Angel retaliates, humming deeper and longer, pulling the vibrations from his throat, depravedly serenading his cock.
“Fuck’s the matter? You okay?”
“I’m fine, Husker,” he manages. “Wipes are in the cabinet to your left.”
Husk apparently locates them, as he lets out a relieved, “Sweet. Thanks, Al. Be back in a hot minute.”
The door slams shut, and Angel risks another glance upwards.
Alastor is incandescent. It radiates off him, and Angel is thrilled.
He fucks Angel’s mouth, ramming himself as far as he can go, and punctuating each thrust with punishing circles. Angel’s eyes water at the rough treatment and he struggles to breathe, but he refrains from digging into Alastor’s thighs for now.
God help him, he enjoys this. Nothing to be done, he thinks like a good Catholic boy.
Act first, penance later. Business as always.
Alastor suddenly switches hands, flying the one previously at the back of his head to the base of his cock. His other hand replaces it, carding again through his hair. His hips move back and he pulls out of Angel’s mouth. He cants forward.
He pumps twice, and oh.
Angel closes his eyes as Alastor spends all over his face.
It’s warm and messy and Angel feels divine.
He holds Angel’s head in place, hand tangled in his hair. Using his other hand, he guides his cock to Angel’s lips. He trails his cockhead over his bottom lip, smearing come all over it like a filthy approximation of lipstick.
“Pretty little thing,” Angel hears in his head.
He doesn’t look up when Alastor rifles through his trouser pockets, withdrawing his phone. Alastor places gentle fingers under his chin and tilts his head heaven-bound.
The perfect angle.
“Beautiful,” Alastor breathes.
Angel coquettishly lowers his lids and poses for the camera.
“Throw those gorgeous legs over my shoulders, dear.”
Another peremptory order, framed as a request.
Angel swings his legs as Alastor catches an ankle mid-air and presses a kiss to the delicate bone. He slides his lips up his ankle, then nuzzles the area with his cheek.
“So obedient,” he murmurs. “One would think you’ve finally been broken in.”
Angel does his best to strangle his neck with his legs, to no avail. Alastor smiles indulgently, desirous, and Angel, against his better judgement, swoons. He’d die for those dimples.
“But I know better.”
He tilts his hips as Alastor pushes inside, at that perfect angle nudging his prostate. Angel moans, then takes himself in hand.
If Alastor keeps doing that, Angel has no choice but to be contrary forever.
There’s no accounting for taste, he thinks.
He slowly fucks into him. Angel moans, bent in half, thanking god for his dancer flexibility. He moans the deity’s name as Alastor gradually speeds up the pace.
I’m wrong, Angel thinks absently right before shattering. Alastor’s not God.
He’s a demon.
Alastor follows suit shortly after Angel clenches around him, pulsing. Angel notes how much Alastor loves coming inside him, after he affirms the sentiment out loud as he spills.
He did promise, Angel thinks giddily, as Alastor nips his ankle while reluctantly pulling out.
Conversely, there’s the sound of a car pulling in the driveway.
They look at each other, telepathically communicating, before springing away, laughing as they race up the stairs.
Angel knows that this time, he’s to blame.
“Bored,” Angel bemoaned. “Bored,” he repeated, driving the point further home.
Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose, right above his frames. He pointedly ignored him, pushing the appendage further into his book. Angel straightened up, scowling.
“Al, I’m bored. Let’s do somethin’. Anythin’.” He trailed off, lost in thought and possibility.
“Hey,” he exclaimed, “How ‘bout we play a game? Know any good ones?”
“Russian roulette?” Alastor suggested dryly. Angel stuck his tongue out in response.
After a moment of inaction and incessant bitching, Alastor sighed. Angel fiddled, touching everything within reach, before growing listless and tossing them.
He set his book down.
“Angel. Come here.”
Which is exactly how they ended up in this position.
The drag of Alastor’s cock in his palm is glorious, but nothing compared to where Alastor’s fist is loosely pumping his own. They’re sitting, thigh to thigh, and Alastor’s hand is wet-slippery-slick around his cock. His soft panting is music to Angel’s ears. He rocks his hips with the momentum as he matches Alastor’s rhythm.
Alastor groans as they stroke each other off, his head rolling back into the couch cushions. The sordid scene blurs into a series of moans, the slick slap of skin, and-
Angel’s phone rings.
The loud noise slices through the iniquitous symphony.
Jesus fuck, he thinks before glancing down at the offending machine vibrating on their coffee table. Alastor continues pumping, so Angel chooses not to let up either.
Husk, the caller ID reads.
He’s a finger pinch this close to ignoring it, when Alastor breathes into his ear.
“Answer it,” he coos, before nipping at his earlobe. Angel shudders, thighs temporarily leaving the couch.
Jesus fuck, his brain loops on repeat.
He glares at Alastor while the final modicum of sense packs its bags and heads out.
“H-hey,” he stutters as Alastor’s tongue laves up the shell of his ear and his hand picks up the pace. “W-what’s up, Husk?”
“Hey, kid. Heading past SafeFood now. We need anything?”
His mind is blessedly blank as Alastor twists his wrist on the upstroke.
“I-I’m not sure,” he stammers honestly, squeezing Alastor’s dick in catty reply. The ensuing hiss satisfies him for the time being.
“Al’s not picking up, and I really don’t fucking wanna come all the way back for chips or some shit. Can ya either do a drive-by through the kitchen or ask him?”
His hips buck into Alastor’s tightened fist. He swears, making stink eye contact with him, and pointedly slams down on the speaker key.
“Al’s here, Husk. He’ll tell you what we need,” Angel spits, petulantly.
Alastor narrows his eyes, but responds regardless.
“Milk, eggs, orange juice, onions,” he recites sonorously, sliding his palm over Angel’s cockhead. “Stewing meat,” he adds, gently playing with his foreskin, dipping it down.
“Ah,” he half-sighs, as Angel switches hands.
“Anything else?” Husk’s voice comes less louder now, most likely from typing it out on his phone.
“And pasta-,” he purrs, thumbing Angel’s slit while running his tongue over his bottom lip.
“Angel hair,” he finishes, punctuating the sentence with a firm press in.
Angel clamps a hand over his mouth as he comes, violently.
“Roger that,” Husk answers, oblivious. “Anything for the kid?”
Head spinning, Angel tries to regroup. He gets on all fours and crawls over to Alastor, stacking another hand around his cock, then twisting. He pumps.
“’M fine, Husk. I don’t need nothin’. If anythin’…”
Alastor hisses in warning. His hips jerk up. Angel’s hand flies to his phone.
“I’ve got Al.”
He ends the call as he wraps his lips around Alastor’s cockhead, catching his release.
Angel sighs as he feels the glide of Alastor’s cock fitting between his lubricated thighs. His legs are shut tight, so Alastor’s cock is snug and trapped between plush skin. Angel’s knees sink into the mattress. Alastor’s a hot, solid weight against his back, and it’s a crude re-enactment of their very first time.
“An-tho-ny,” he drawls out, syllabic.
He ruts under his sac, slipping against the underside of his cock.
Oh, Angel thinks, suddenly struck with a quixotic notion. If he were a girl, he’d allow Alastor inside everywhere, holding him in place with his cunt as he fucks in and takes his pleasure. He tells Alastor so, and the man shudders so hard, Angel feels him convulsing against his back.
“You want that, darling? You’d like me to breed you?” he hisses, teeth precariously close to bare skin. “Get you pregnant?”
“Make you my darling, little, submissive wife?”
Angel moans, drawn-out and warbling, and arches his back as Alastor whispers filth into his ears.
“I already have you wear that plug to keep me inside you,” he snarls, sibilant. His nails dig into Angel’s thighs as he thrusts forward. He pitches his voice, impossibly low.
“But if I’m to make you my wife, you’re going to need more than that, dearie.”
Angel’s hips stutter, and he comes so hard the world spins. He’s spurting as Alastor pistons wildly with short, shallow bursts.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Kid? You in?”
Alastor’s wide eyes meet Angel’s panicked ones, and everything fast forwards from there.
Angel’s mildly impressed at how fast Alastor reaches his closet and locks himself in, as Angel himself catapults the sullied sheets around himself, unintentionally bundling up burrito-style in the blankets.
His arm shoots out and grabs his phone from the side table. Clearing his throat, he answers.
“Yeah?” He winces at how raspy it sounds.
“Can I come in? Gotta ask you something.”
Angel flicks his eyes over to the closet.
“Er, yeah, sure.”
The door opens, and Husk sticks his head in. Angel, swaddled in his makeshift Japanese bridal gown, grimaces, phone stuck in sweaty palm.
Husk, either drunk or dense, barely notices as he begins a long-winded spiel about Alastor and if he’d noticed anything off about the guy lately, since he’d been coming home earlier which was weird for him since he preferred spending time at the station, and do you think he got fired or something because this is way out of line for Al, and so on and so forth.
He rants for a good solid while, gesticulating with a half-empty tumbler. Angel holds back a whine as the liquid inevitably sloshes out of his glass and onto his floor. Husk, of course, fails to notice as he rambles on, spouting Sherlockian theories as to what Alastor could possibly be up to. Angel wisely holds his tongue, nodding at the appropriate intervals. He shrugs noncommittally when asked a direct question, which doesn’t seem to deter Husk in the least. After forever and a day, he seems to accept the fact that this mystery must be at best, undecipherable, so he nods curtly and thanks Angel for his time.
As best as he could, anyway. Husk’s forehead grazes the door on the way out.
He waves feebly as Husk leaves (“Fuck”) and shuts his door in the process.
Quick as a wink, Angel leaps out of bed and locks the door. He jiggles the handle twice for good measure.
The closet door swings open, revealing Alastor’s furious, apoplectic face.
Alastor, blue-balled to oblivion, lunges.
Husk meanders upstairs, foot skipping past the last two steps, accustomed as he is to the noisy squeak. He jots a mental note to inform Alastor, who’ll probably hit it with some WD-40 or whatever magic he possesses of his handyman skills. He looks up from where he lands on the second floor, and starts.
Angel’s door is ajar.
That, in itself, is odd; the kid usually locks it when he leaves, and Husk had thought he left for his friend’s place a while ago.
“Force of habit,” he’d said when he first moved in, laughing nervously. Husk hadn’t bothered to pry.
And now, the damn thing is open, which either means that Angel is home or that some asshole’s broken in. He fervently hopes for the former, but prepares for the latter.
Husk creeps to the door, praying to a god he didn’t believe in, and splays his hand over the wood. He takes a deep breath. He slowly pushes. It swings open, and-
He didn’t know what he expected, but it was most assuredly not this.
Alastor’s propped up by two pillows at a low incline on the bed. His head droops to the side, dark hair fanned between the pillow and his cheek. His glasses are missing from his face, and its absence lends an air of innocence to the picture. His eyes travel down past Alastor’s shoulder to where his arm snakes around Angel.
Angel, who’s curved snugly against Alastor’s side in repose, rests his head on Alastor’s chest, moving with the rise and fall of his soft breathing. They’re tangled up in the sheets, chests and arms bare, and ah.
Resting in a loose fist over Alastor’s heart, is Angel’s left hand, curled around a pair of glasses, the bits of exposed lens flaring in the afternoon glow.
They look like kittens, sunning in the dust-speckled, midday light.
They look for all the world like lovers, too.
Husk isn’t going to lie: it’s fucking unexpected. Just a tad.
He’s keenly aware that this discovery is probably his own damn fault, since he planned to be out the whole day and halfway into night for Blitzo’s Poker Sundays. It dawns on him that they must have planned for it too.
He slowly backs up, hastily checking behind him so as not to eat shit on his way out. He reaches the door undetected, backs up into the hallway, and slowly closes it, easing the handle this way and that. After his successful retreat, Husk slaps a hand over his face to keep from laughing hysterically.
After all this time, he thinks, Alastor still manages to surprise him.
He lets loose an errant chuckle after he reaches the ground floor. He grabs his belongings from the counter and heads for the door. This calls for a different class of booze tonight, he thinks. If he leaves now, he can catch the next bus.
Shutting the door behind him, he’s greeted with a feathery breeze of cool air.
Fucking guy, he muses. Had him pegged all wrong.
He claws back a grin, and breaks his stride to gaze up at the bottle blue sky.
Who knows, Husk thinks, whistling.
Maybe he’ll give Niffty a ring.
“The fuck were you last night? Heard ya got the night off. Coulda used a drinking buddy.”
Husk takes a good long pull of his whisky, bracing himself.
Alastor shoots a disdainful look at his choice of receptacle, a pink plastic cup proudly stating “Hazbin Hoes: Some cake for your rake”, but he benevolently ignores that.
It’s time to win this round.
“Had to head over for an impromptu recording session. Something to tide the audience over were another lockdown to occur,” he says, smoothly.
It always impresses Husk at how well Alastor can lie. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he probably would have taken the lie at face value. The thought should sober him, but it truly doesn’t. Husk has always been a betting man, and well, you’re only as good as your last game.
“Whatever. Hey, so I’ve been seeing that hot twink around more lately, ever since the lockdown. Seeing as it’s just been me doing the five knuckle shuffle,” he says as Alastor wrinkles his nose, “think he’ll be up for a good time?”
Alastor’s eyes darken.
“Not for nothing and not just trying to get my dick wet, but that boy’s pretty as hell. Wouldn’t mind burying deep in that cunt, let me tell you.”
Alastor, for his part, looks like he’s fighting down a murderous rampage. After a butt clenching moment, he takes a deep, grounding breath.
“Are you deliberately trying to elicit a rise out of me.”
“I fucking knew it. You fucking liar.”
And this time, softer but no less deadly: “Who told you?”
“No one, Scout’s honor,” Husk promises. “Came up with it all by my lonesome.”
“How obvious is it?”
Husk snorts. “Honestly, not at all. Only just caught the kid stumbling from his room, neck fucked up with hickies. Guy’s careful to ask clients not to leave marks, seeing where he works and all. You’re just too damn possessive not to.”
He wisely omits the nap. Husk has a feeling it wouldn’t be conducive to his health.
“And not going to lie, buddy. That’s hot as hell. Not to make it weird, but sometimes Niffty would drop these hints about having you come join us.”
Alastor curls his lip in disgust, while Husk holds up a hand, laughing.
“Nah, no offense, Joe, ya ain’t my type neither. But you bossing around that hot twink? Yeah, I’d pay to watch that.” Husk takes another generous swig, smirking, delighted to toss Alastor off-kilter, for once.
Finally gaining the upper hand in one of the trickster’s scheming games.
It all comes crashing down when Alastor leans forward, all shark.
“Why, you’re in luck, then. We’ve just uploaded the first of an ongoing series to his webcam channel. Keep your eyes peeled, and stay tuned!”
Husk sprays out the contents all over the table. He thumps his chest, hacking as Alastor stands up, heading in the direction of his room.
“What the fuck?” he manages, choking.
The king of the assholes glances back, smirking with mirth in his eyes. “Oh, Husker. When will you ever learn?”
His mocking laughter follows him down the hall.
“You know what they say,” he sing songs, “there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”