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mollymauk-teafleak · 10 hours

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if I didn't love you, it would be fine

My lovely friend @minky-for-short sent me a prompt and then I wrote a whole Las Vegas human au but of course I forgot to include the actual words of the prompt! Please enjoy!

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3 if you like this!

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tw: sex work, drug use, sexual assault. It's Angel working for Valentino so you know what to expect

Angel Dust is one of the best known performers on the Strip, her shows are always sold out, her dressing room is full of flowers from so many high rolling admirers. But theres one rose in amongst them all, folded out of a paper betting slip, with a different name on it.

Anthony. Usual time and place? I’m all yours.

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An hour until curtain up and Angel Dust’s dressing room already looked like a florist’s front window. Nothing but desert, plastic and steel for miles around in any direction but this cramped little room burst with life. Temporary life, doomed to wither away in their ribbon and crepe paper cages, but beautiful life all the same. He’d been in this city long enough to appreciate anything pretty that came his way, sometimes only because it would be gone soon, turned to dust like everything else.

That would come later. In that moment the dressing room was a riot of scent, bouquets of roses that opened like inviting lips, lilies exploding like fireworks, splayed as big as the span of his hand, carnations that seemed to fall in on themselves forever, spiral after spiral down into perfume. A small fortune of an oasis crowding out his make up and trinkets, each extravagant bouquet bearing the same tag, written in some florist’s swooping, elegant script, all so similar that the same person may as well have written them. Same for the men who’d sent them, each one some swaggering Strip hotshot, their intentions clear- they wanted him bound, wrapped and tagged just like the blooms themselves. Each one never imagined that his token of what he probably called affection with a straight face would be crammed in next to so many others.

And each one identically ignored.

The only one that mattered wasn’t living at all. It was folded from a betting slip, one that had been unusually lucky from what he could make out. It was crumpled from being in a back pocket, scentless apart from a familiar amber smell of cologne and whiskey, so similar it was hard to tell which scent was which. The tag on it was a messy scrawl that would make a florist faint, nearly illegible if he wasn’t so used to it, but it was clear that this particular flower wasn’t intended for Angel Dust at all.

Anthony. Usual time and place? I’m all yours.

His heart skipped several beats, his fingers holding the paper rose like he was afraid someone would take it from him. As far as he was concerned, this was the only thing in the dressing room with any real life in it, life that would last.

Angel glanced at the clock up on the wall, barely visible through the darkness outside of the artificial golden glow of the mirror lights. He had time, it wouldn’t feel like enough, but it never did. He checked his reflection in the mirror, trying to focus on himself past the miniature jungle, the polaroids tucked into the frame, the setlist he’d tacked up that was trying to remind him that he really should be doing his makeup, fixing his hair, holding himself ready until Valentino whistled and called him to heel before curtain up.

That was trying to remind him what would happen if his boss knew what he was about to do.

The young man he found in the mirror wasn’t much to look at. He was painfully skinny in a way that made people question his health, a question that would be answered by the red rim around his restless eyes with their too small pupils, the dark hollows underneath them and the raw edge around his nostrils. He was waxy under the scattering of freckles that looked like flecks of gold in the light, his hair a fluffy cloud of blonde so pale it verged on white, refusing to cooperate with any brush or comb or product. There was something angelic about him, though it was bruised and battered, a fallen angel. One of many that lined the streets in this city.

He didn’t look like Angel Dust, darling of one of the raciest yet still somewhat tasteful clubs in Vegas, famous for her short skirts, her high heels, her sharp tongue and honeyed voice. He didn’t look like the prize of Valentino’s stable, one of his biggest ticket items once the curtain was closed and the music stopped and those who were in the know pressed money into his boss’ hand, wanting to temporarily possess the glittering creatures they’d seen on stage. He didn’t look like the one they’d send flowers to the next day, like they honestly believed what they’d had was something real, not something he was forced to do by the shadow of Valentino, always looming over him in his mind, the phantom hand always around his neck.

But the paper rose arrived for Anthony. And that was who gazed back at him from the mirror, a small, hopeful smile growing on his face.

Getting out was easy. Val never showed up for a show this early and every one of the harried crew buzzing about backstage either didn’t recognise him out of drag, let alone out of any make up whatsoever, or had been on the staff long enough to look the other way and let him go about his business, especially the other sex workers. They just let him pass with a slight nod or a quick smile, half into their own glamorous disguises, never denying another member of their sad little family a moment’s snatched happiness. Not that any knew where he was really going, probably assuming Angel was finding a quiet place for a quick bump or a smoke. Cherri would have known but she was already fired up and rolling, he caught glimpses of her in her backstage blacks, heard her barking orders and curses as she marshaled her little army of stage hands. Tonight was the debut of some new pyrotechnics she’d finally been allowed to try; he could hear the excitement in her voice as she hurled insults.

He slipped out of a backdoor that no one ever used, a fire exit that some quirk of the cheap electrics meant didn’t actually trip its promised alarm. Angel took a deep lungful of the evening air, enjoying that brief heartbeat where it actually tasted fresh, before he noticed the stale sandy taste, the smell of gas and smog from the too many cars, the heat like the whole city was trapped in one big air conditioning system. But that first desperate gulp was heaven in his lungs, all the same.

“Ain’t I seen your face on a billboard somewhere?”

Everything about Husker told you what he was, his voice was no exception. It was smoky, hazy, it practically came with its own counterpoint of rattling poker chips and clattering dice. It was a voice made for candlelit tables, green felt, last chances. It was a voice that could spirit the last of your coins from your pocket though they wouldn’t linger long in his own. The voice of a con artist, a huckster, a crook, exactly what most people would say Husk was.

But Angel knew what he heard in his voice, he knew what he was. He was freedom. And hearing his voice turned a light on inside him, a joy better than any high he’d tasted before, worth the far more dangerous come down.

“Don’t think so, baby,” he grinned into the dim alleyway, at the shape leaning against the wall by the door, illuminated only by the flashing lights on the street beyond and the cigarette in his fingers, “But y’know, I get that a lot.”

Husk stepped closer, stepped into the light, becoming that weather beaten face, that crooked smile, those warm eyes that Angel loved.

“Yeah…” he reached out and touched the young man’s cheek lightly, “You’re much better looking than her anyhow…”

Angel snorted with disbelief, though not because Husk would look at him now, swallowed by a baggy, overwashed sweatshirt and leggings, not a smudge of product on his face, and say that. More that Husk would say it and Angel could actually believe it.

But not even his demons could argue with the way Husk brought him close but always left the last few inches between their lips to Angel, letting it be his choice to kiss him, to taste heady second hand alcohol and pure desire on his tongue. And more than anything, as long as he was in Husk’s arms, feeling his heartbeat and all the miles it had done compared to Angel’s, that shadow of Valentino actually disappeared. The fear eased, the fingers on his throat relaxed and his body became his own again, free to do whatever it wanted. And what it wanted, needed, was Husk.

Angel purred against his lips, gasping softly as he felt large, callused hands fist in his shirt, “Tastes like a lucky night, baby…”

“It is now,” Husk chuckled, his laugh as rough and raw as the rest of him, “But I held my own at the table. Enough for this…”

He bent and held up a brown paper bag stamped with the logo of Angel’s favorite bakery, the only place he’d ever found that made cannoli even remotely comparable to his nonna’s.

Husk grinned as Angel gave a yelp of delight and tore into the bag, leaning against the rough brick wall, “Hardly a balanced meal but I know it’ll be a damn sight better than the nothing you’ll have eaten all day…”

Angel gave him what he hoped was his most disarming smile though a mouthful of sugar, “It’s been a busy day, I haven’t had time. But this will get me through the show!”

“And then you’ll have something for real when you get home?” he arched a bushy eyebrow, his smile becoming knowing as Angel set the now empty bag aside.

“I will,” Angel promised, really meaning it, he didn’t break his word with Husk, “Thank you, baby.”

That smile softened, the card sharp leaning close to brush powdered sugar from Angel’s cheek, his thumb lingering, “Well then, I can rest easy. Now, about that busy day…something you wanna talk about?”

The answer came swifty, reflexively, a jerk away from a hot stove and into Husk’s palm where he pressed a kiss, “No…not how I wanna spend our time together. God knows we don’t get enough of it.”

“Later then,” Husk spoke easily, like their later was something guaranteed, again proving that he was someone used to turning games of chance into a certainty, “For now…”

Not only did he sound like a no good, down on his luck card hound, he looked like one too. The light was dim but as Angel sank into his arms, he could see the familiar face that was his safe oasis in this desert. Deep lines in his dark skin that came from glowering but were used more for smiling since he’d met Angel, the scruff of a salt and pepper beard, similar white streaking his slicked back hair that turned Angel on in an animalistic way he didn’t really want to examine.

He’d pushed the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and unbuttoned the top against the muggy evening heat, his bow tie lying unraveled around his collar like a silken snake. Like this, Angel had a perfect, unobstructed view of a broad, haired chest, the same wiry thicket dusting his thin arms corded with muscle, doing much but not enough to hide the scars from the many times the game hadn’t gone his way, from his youth in seedy, bare knuckle rings to last minute daring escapes when his luck found him just in time but not in time enough to keep him out of trouble in the first damn place.

There were other signs of Husk’s dwindling luck. The beer gut, the shadows under his eyes, the wariness he held himself with. He didn’t hide who or what he was, in his voice, in his body, it was written on his skin. That kind of honesty made him more beautiful to Angel than anyone else he’d ever met in this town and all he could do was kiss him like he wanted him to fucking know it.

He pushed the older man against the brick, done wasting their precious seconds on the world outside their alleyway. Husk grunted, responding in kind without hesitation, slipping a hand up his sweatshirt and following the curve of his spine to that place that always made Angel shudder. His tongue was gentle too, licking a streak of powdered sugar from the corner of his mouth before pressing him open in a low, throaty moan like even the air Angel exhaled was something precious.

“You want it, baby?” he whispered against his lips before he gasped for air, the words taking priority over oxygen in his lungs.

Angel trembled, like Husk’s arms were the only thing keeping him together and he’d shake apart otherwise. He found Husk’s hand and snuck it under the waistband of his leggings, letting his lover feel the heat and wet there, “You tell me, gorgeous…”

Angel used to think he knew what desire was but he’d been so wrong, all he’d had was people’s idea of it. He knew the Vegas version of desire, the kind made for pay, that you found under painted skies on the ceiling and in the shadow of fake, plaster monuments. The polished, perfect, choreographed kind that may as well have come in a plastic wrapped box, rolling right off a conveyor belt.

With Husk, he learned what real desire was, how it felt to be truly, honestly needed. It was in the way Husk stumbled in his haste to pull Angel’s leggings down, the embarrassingly off key groan that was pulled from Angel’s lips as his fingers found their target. It was in the half moon indentations Angel’s desperate fingers left on Husk’s shoulders when he pressed a crooked finger inside him, thumb staying to roll lazy circles around his cock. It was in the way his leg slipped at first when he tried to hitch it up to Husk’s hip so he could go deeper, so desperate to take him into his body that he staggered. It was throaty gasps and broken moans, slick, organic noises and breath misting the air, snatched fragments of filth whimpered between sighs but left unresolved.

Real desire had rough edges, it was hungry and needy and vulnerable. But Angel knew which one he’d take, every time.

And he’d take it right fucking now. His whole body was thrumming in perfect sync with Husk’s fingers, three of them deep inside him now, working him so close to the edge that he was hanging on by his fingertips.

“Gonna…fuck, oh fuck, baby, I’m gonna come,” he choked out, voice drawn taut like piano wire.

“It’s all yours,” Husk practically growled, running his teeth down the hard line of his neck, “Anything you want, tell me, tell me what you want…”

“Everything,” Angel’s voice broke as his release pulled him under, as the whole world became the fire raging through his body, the curve of Husk’s neck as he pressed his face there to muffle his cry.

What was the harm in asking for the world when you knew you were only getting crumbs? He was only hurting himself and he was hardly a stranger to that.

But Husk held him like it didn’t have to hurt at all, like he had everything to offer, not just a handful of hours stolen in an alleyway. He just gave what he could and made it feel like everything.

Husk felt the desperation still wracking Angel’s body, not even pausing before he turned them, letting his lover cling desperately to the wall like the rest of the world was tilting on its axis, crowding him from behind, anchoring him.

“Oh god, please fuck me,” he begged raggedly, before Husk could even ask, “I need you, I need you in me, baby…”

His answer was a throaty chuckle in his ear and the throb of the already rock hard erection now pressed flush against the small of his back, “How could I do anything else when you beg me like that? Sweeter than a goddamn songbird…”

Angel shuddered, feeling like exactly that, a bird caught in the paws of a cat. The chase had been breathless, thrilling, but now he wanted Husk’s teeth in his skin, he wanted to be taken apart piece by piece, claimed as prey. He might have hoped the rotten life he was currently living might have drawn a line through these particular desires, seeing as they drove him into Valentino’s golden cage in the first place. But there was something in Angel’s DNA that was clenching its hands and curling its toes in delight at having his cheek pressed to the cold wall of a grimy alley, at the rattle of Husk’s belt releasing, at the firm grip on his hips.

He never had that with the men who bought the right to his body from Valentino, who could never own it in the first place. It might look the same, to someone watching from the outside but the difference was so vast, Angel could barely believe it. Those bought and paid for encounters were like a pill or tab dissolving into bitter acid on his tongue, a momentary, manufactured pleasure, not worth the fear. With them he was a moth trapped in a lantern, fluttering around the candle flame, knowing where the end lay, knowing it was a matter of time. Will this be the one that kills me? Should I care?

It was never like that with Husk, it couldn’t be, he wouldn’t know how. The pleasure was real, honest, and above all, safe. That was the missing piece, the thing to fit inside the hollow place in his chest. He could have it rough, raw, he could scream into Husk’s palm as he finally, fucking finally, pressed between his lips and inside, where he belonged. And Angel could feel safe.

Those men who bought Angel, he was theirs, for an hour, but they weren’t his, never. But bathed in neon light from the street just beyond, Husk’s hips pressed against his own, his heart thumping against his back, there was only one thing Angel could groan out through his gritted teeth.

“You’re mine…”

“Yours,” Husk gasped, his voice swelling with naked desire, his well honed poker face fully cracked, “All yours, baby.”

There was something hesitant about the way he drew back, like the few inches of cool air between their skin was almost more than he could bear. But when he plunged back in, so deep that Angel felt himself lifted onto his tiptoes despite how he overtopped his lover, it more than made up for it. Husk fucked him hard with a kind of devotion, no doubt that the muffled cries he drew from Angel were as much a reward as the clench of hot, eager muscle around his cock.

It was good, so good that words stopped meaning anything, the rest of the world stopped meaning anything. Angel could only gasp and moan and beg for more, pressing every sound into the palm of Husk’s hand like he’d be able to keep them and take them with him. He sank his teeth there too, leaving his mark, writing his name so everyone would know that the old con man did indeed have a heart and it belonged to him.

Like he’d been waiting for permission, Husk growled against Angel’s shoulder where his sweatshirt had slipped down, licking salt from his burning skin before sucking a mark there.

That flicked some switch deep in the pit of Angel’s belly, he was coming before he even knew what was happening, dragging Husk down with him. Stars burst behind his eyes as he howled, heat rushing into him like a tide that swept him off his feet, pulled him under, turned his universe into formless, aching pleasure.

It was moments like this when Angel realized what he chased every time he snorted or shot up, that his addictions were him seeking a pale imitation of this sweet oblivion. A sense of uncoupling from the chains he wore around his wrists, from worrying about the difference between his body and his soul, from the constant fight to force the world to see him and accept him. Here, in this moment, he simply was. He existed, he owned every cell in his own body and it felt so fucking good.

Of course the come down was so much harder with the real thing.

The orgasm faded, leaving Angel weak and trembling, muscles twitching with sparks running across his veins, trying to catch up with the ones long gone. Brain foggy and thoughts hiding from him, his only answer was that familiar fear, the fear of dimly buzzing naked bulbs and motel rooms he didn’t recognise when he opened his eyes, dry mouths and burning eyes.

But it was only for a moment. A moment was how long it took Husk to gather himself, catch his breath enough to wrap his arms around Angel, kissing softly over where he just sank his teeth. Angel turned and grasped onto his solid warmth, like a drowning man would cling to a rock in the storm heaving ocean. And Husk held just as fast. He pushed back Angel’s sweat dewed hair, knowing from experience that the repetitive motion would soothe him, letting him hold on as tight as he needed to until their racing hearts, pressed close together like they were looking for each other, slowed down in perfect synchrony.

“Fuck,” Husk’s voice was ragged but he didn’t stop pressing kisses against the top of Angel’s head, “Don’t know how I keep up with you, baby.”

“Well don’t stop trying,” Angel felt enough like himself again to pull back, ready to face the inevitable with his classic crooked grin, the one from the billboard, “Thanks for coming by…I needed to see you tonight.”

“Because of your busy day?” Husk murmured, taking Angel’s hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, “The one you don’t wanna talk about?”

“Yeah. Something like that,” he sighed, brushing his thumb across Husk’s lips, “But you made it better, baby…”

“I’ll stay if you want me to? Watch the show?”

Angel had to force himself to shake his head, only the fear of having his lover anywhere near Valentino enough to make it happen, “You don’t have to do that, I know you got games lined up…I’ll give you a private show sometime though? Sometime soon?”

Angel couldn’t pretend that he didn’t see the edge of disappointment in Husk’s smile, that it didn’t send a crack down his already battered heart. He hated that look, hated knowing he’d put it there. In that moment, he would have given anything to bury his face against Husk’s shoulder and hear his promise that he’d be right there in the audience, leaning against the club bar with an overproved, shitty whiskey, so Angel could sing all his songs to him and really mean them. And while he was at it, he may as well promise to walk him home, to hold him through his nightmares and make him breakfast in the morning. Hell, he may as well get down on one knee and propose.

Because none of it could happen. That dream was like Anthony’s paper rose back in his dressing room. It was beautiful but, next to the gorgeous, extravagant blooms all bearing Angel Dust’s name, the truth was clear. It wasn’t real.

But Husk was a con man, the finest on the Strip and he could sell a story with the best of them, no matter how fake it was. The disappointment was gone like it had never been there, only a soft, loving smile.

“I’ll look forward to it…best of luck, songbird,” he leaned in and kissed him, soft and sweet and heartbreaking, “It ain’t goodbye, it’s just see you later.”

“See you later,” Angel repeated, the words closer to a prayer than anything he’d ever said since his nonna died, though it was as hard to believe as all those prayers had been.

Another reason he didn’t deserve Husk, he was the one to turn and walk away so Angel wouldn’t have to, giving him the luxury of following his silhouette out to the mouth of the alleyway, down to the moment the flashing lights and sound beyond swallowed him up.

“I love you,” Angel murmured softly, so softly, like he was afraid to say it even with Husk well out of ear shot.

But he needed to say it, to feel the weight of the words on his tongue and know they were true. A last gift to himself before he turned and pushed the fire door open, slipping back inside that dark, frantic world of choking hairspray and clicking heels and raised voices. Fortunately, everyone was too wrapped up in the time before the show, rapidly slipping through their fingers, outpacing the list of jobs they all had left to do, the way it always did. Though no one was as far behind as Angel now was.

Not that he was new to that. Five minutes was plenty of time. He ducked and dodged through the thicker, more anxious backstage press, unnoticed apart from the moment he caught Cherri’s eye. But all she gave him was a gentle, sympathetic look. She’d learned a long time ago that Angel didn’t need to be reminded how dangerous the game he played with Husk was. He knew fine well, he just couldn’t care. He hoped his answering smile was enough to remind her of that.

The moment his dressing room door closed, it slid off his face, exhaustion the only thing he had left. He sat heavily in his chair, blinking dizzily at his reflection. Anthony was back, looking like a man who’d only recently remembered he had a heart and had just sent away the man who held it. Angel said a gentle goodbye to him, picking up his heavy stage foundation, ready to unpack Angel Dust from her box, ready to let her sing and dance until he forgot everything. Five minutes and he wouldn’t have to feel the hurt for however long he was on that stage.

As long as he pretended he didn’t know what would happen after.

The paper rose was lying on the desk where he’d left it, he couldn’t stop himself from picking it up and holding it just for a moment. All the other flowers on his dressing table were already withering under the hot glare of the bulbs, their scent now overwhelming and sickly. But the paper rose still called him by his real name, it still made him think of the strong but gentle hands that had carefully formed it just for him. It still meant more than anything anyone else had ever given him. It was enough for him to face his reflection with a new kind of strength, a new smile.

The love he felt for Husk might be a paper promise. But it would last.

#huskerdust #hazbin hotel #husker #Las Vegas au #hazbin angel dust #hazbin husk #please reblog and comment!

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