Work Text:
What a Beautiful Mess You’ve Made
(inspired by “Tears” – Sabrina Carpenter)
⸻
Angel Dust (POV)
I wasn’t lookin’ for trouble that night — which is rare for me, I know.
Just sittin’ at the bar, legs crossed, half-listening to Charlie and Vaggie yap about some new “hospitality initiative” for the guests. I was mostly zoning out, stirring the ice in my glass. Then — like clockwork — the universe threw me something better to focus on.
A guest, all horns and no manners, brushed past me too fast and knocked his drink clean over. I saw it coming in slow motion — crimson splash, my outfit about to be ruined — and before I could even flinch, there was a glove in front of me.
Husk caught the glass mid-fall. Just snatched it right out of the air like some Vegas magician, scowling but calm as hell.
“Watch it,” he growled at the guy, voice low and smooth like aged whiskey.
The other demon stammered an apology and slunk off, tail between his legs. Husk turned back, brushing a stray droplet off the bar. “Didn’t spill a drop on ya,” he said. “Lucky.”
I laughed, but it came out shaky. My brain was too busy watching the way his hand lingered on the table near my thigh. Big, steady, ring glinting in the neon.
I could smell the smoke and cinnamon off him.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound normal. “Guess I owe ya one, hero.”
He just shrugged, poured himself a drink, and went back to work like nothin’ happened.
Didn’t even look proud of himself. Didn’t need to.
And that— that right there— was the start of my problem.
⸻
It kept happenin’.
Little things.
A week later, some jackass demon decided to get smart with me outside the hotel — made a comment I won’t repeat. Before I could tell him where to shove it, Husk was just there. Didn’t say a word at first, just stood between us. The look on his face? Cold. Dead serious.
The guy’s attitude evaporated faster than smoke.
When it was over, Husk lit a cigarette like nothing had happened.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, voice thinner than I meant.
“Didn’t like his tone.”
“You gonna start duelin’ every asshole who talks to me sideways, old man?”
“Depends,” he said, exhaling a ribbon of smoke. “You plan on attractin’ that many?”
He walked away before I could come up with a comeback. I just stood there like an idiot, heat crawling up my neck.
I could still feel his hand on my shoulder — firm, protective.
And I hated how much I liked it.
⸻
It was worse when he didn’t know I was watching.
Like late at night, when the hotel got quiet. I’d come downstairs for a drink or to check on Fat Nuggets, and there he’d be — dozing off at the bar, deck of cards spread across the counter. The lamplight hit his wings just right, soft gold through the feathers. His expression went peaceful in sleep, and it did somethin’ to me.
One night, I covered him with a blanket — ‘cause what kind of monster leaves a guy like that to freeze under a busted vent?
I was halfway through tucking it around his shoulders when he murmured, not even opening his eyes, “Didn’t peg you for the mother-hen type.”
I jumped like I’d been caught stealing.
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it, fuzzball.”
He chuckled — that low, rasping laugh that felt like being touched. “Go to bed, dollface.”
That tone wasn’t teasing. It was gentle.
And that? That killed me.
⸻
I don’t know when it happened exactly.
When the stupid crush turned into… whatever this ache is.
Maybe it was that night at the piano — him playing absentmindedly, claws moving slow over the keys. Or when he called me “kid” in that lazy voice that meant he wasn’t actually looking down on me. Or maybe it’s the fact that every time he does something decent — pulls a chair out for Charlie, pours Vaggie’s drink without being asked, keeps his word — it hits me like a punch.
He’s everything I didn’t think I’d want.
And everything I didn’t think existed down here.
And now, I can’t stop lookin’.
Can’t stop wantin’.
God, it’s pathetic.
I flirt with him like it’s a reflex, but half the time I mean it now. And when he doesn’t bite — which is always — I end up sitting in my room, heart doing backflips, thinking about the sound of his laugh.
Tears I didn’t mean to cry, I just wanted you to notice me tonight.
Yeah. That’s me.
Angel Dust. Crying over a guy who still calls me “kid.”
Hell’s got a real sense of humor.
⸻
Husk (POV)
Angel thinks I don’t notice.
That’s funny.
Kid’s got no poker face.
He bats those lashes like he’s jokin’, but I can see it — that flicker in his eyes whenever I catch him off-guard. The way his shoulders tense when I step close. I don’t say anything, because honestly? It’s kinda adorable watching him squirm.
But lately… it’s been getting harder not to look back.
He’s softer when he thinks no one’s watching.
I’ve seen him with that pig — talkin’ in a voice so gentle it doesn’t sound like the same guy who curses like a sailor on a good day. I’ve seen him fix Niffty’s apron, run errands for Charlie, keep the mood light when everyone’s about to snap. He’s a loudmouth, yeah — but he’s a good one.
And I keep catching myself wanting to tell him that.
⸻
Tonight’s quiet again. He’s still in the lounge, humming some pop tune, fiddling with empty glasses. The light’s hitting his hair all rosy and gold — like he walked straight outta the neon sign.
He looks up at me, half-smiling.
“You ever gonna stop bein’ disgustingly decent,” he says, “or you tryin’ to kill me slow?”
That makes me pause. Because the way he says it — it’s not just a joke. There’s a real flush there.
So I let the silence hang a second, just to see what he does. He fidgets, eyes darting anywhere but me. I can hear his pulse in the air.
“Didn’t realize it was workin’,” I say finally.
That earns me a stunned stare — wide eyes, lips parting, the faintest tremor of breath. I can’t help the grin that creeps in.
He stammers, “What—”
I take a slow step forward, close enough for him to feel the heat off my chest. His perfume’s all sugar and smoke and something that makes my head swim. I reach up, brush a lock of pink hair from his face.
“You’re a real mess when you’re flustered,” I murmur. “Cute, though.”
His jaw drops. He’s too shocked to be smug — and for the first time, I see him bare. Not Angel Dust the act. Just Angel.
He whispers, “You enjoyin’ yourself, old man?”
“More than I should.”
That earns me the smallest, breathless laugh. The kind that says he’s halfway between running and melting.
I pull back before I say something stupid.
“Goodnight, dollface.”
When I walk away, I don’t look back.
But I can feel his eyes burning holes in my back.
And maybe — just maybe — I let my tail flick once, slow and deliberate, for him to see.
⸻
Angel (POV)
He knows.
Oh, he definitely knows.
And the worst part?
I think I love that he does.
🫗
What a Beautiful Mess You’ve Made
Part II — The Morning After
⸻
Angel Dust (POV)
It’s been three days.
Three whole freakin’ days since Husk said that — since he called me cute in that voice like gravel and honey, since he brushed my hair back like it was the most natural thing in the world, since he left me standing in the lounge with my heart trying to claw its way outta my chest.
And I’m still not normal.
I’ve been a mess — jittery, distracted, practically tripping over my own heels. Every time I see him behind that bar, polishing a glass like he’s got no idea he broke my brain, I feel my pulse jump.
He doesn’t even look at me funny.
Not once.
Just keeps on being Husk. Calm. Steady. Gentleman to the core.
Which only makes it worse.
“Angel,” Charlie calls from across the lobby. “You’re dripping glitter on the floor again.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, waving it off, “consider it part of the décor, sweetheart.”
Truth is, I can’t stop thinkin’ about the way he looked at me. That knowing glint in his eyes, that stupid half-smirk that said he enjoyed watching me melt down. I should hate that, right? The smugness. The audacity.
But God help me — it’s all I want.
⸻
It’s later that night when it happens again — another little dagger to the heart.
I’m sprawled in one of the bar booths, watching him deal cards for himself, the picture of disinterest. He doesn’t even seem aware I’m there until I speak up.
“Y’ever think about how weird it is, bein’ in Hell and still gettin’ butterflies?”
He glances up. “You talkin’ to me or yourself, dollface?”
“Both, maybe.”
“Then yeah,” he says simply. “Weird.”
Just like that — deadpan. No tease, no smirk. And for some reason, that makes my chest ache worse.
I sigh, chin in my hand. “You ever get tired of bein’ so damn decent all the time?”
His brow furrows slightly, and that’s when I realize I mean it. It’s not a joke anymore.
“Feels like no one down here gives a damn unless there’s somethin’ in it for ‘em,” I say. “But you— you just do. You show up. You stand up. You don’t even make a show outta it. You just… are.”
He looks at me then, long and quiet. I can’t read the look. Something in it’s soft, though.
Then, calm as ever, he says:
“Maybe that’s why you notice.”
It hits like a sucker punch.
I blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He just shrugs, returning to his cards.
“Guess I’m not the only decent one around here.”
My throat goes tight.
“Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone,” I mumble, cheeks burning.
Husk chuckles under his breath — and that sound, that warm little rasp, fills the whole damn room.
⸻
Later, I’m headed upstairs, Fat Nuggets asleep in my arms. The hallway’s dim, carpet soft under my heels. Behind me, I hear his voice:
“Hey, Angel.”
I turn. He’s leaning against the wall, wings half-open like shadows. There’s a glow from his cigarette, the faintest smirk at the corner of his mouth.
“Sleep tight, huh?” he says, but it’s the look that kills me — steady and fond and maddeningly unshaken.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “You too, old man.”
He chuckles. “Try not to dream too loud.”
I roll my eyes, but my grin won’t quit.
I turn away before he sees how much that small, stupid joke just did to me.
And somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, I realize something that feels like surrender.
I’m in deep.
And maybe… maybe that’s okay.
⸻
Husk (POV)
I should’ve known this would happen.
Angel Dust — loud, impossible, fragile as glass under the glitter — has a way of creeping under your skin when you’re not lookin’.
I told myself I was just watching out for him. That I stepped in because it was the right thing to do. That I noticed him because you can’t not notice him.
But lately, I’ve been catching myself looking too long.
Thinking too much.
He talks with his hands, like every sentence needs a flourish. And when he laughs — really laughs, not the fake kind — it sounds like something breaking open.
And hell, maybe I like being the one who gets to hear it.
⸻
He doesn’t realize I see the way he looks at me.
Every little glance from across the bar, every flustered pause when I call him “dollface.”
It’s flattering, sure. But it’s also… something else.
Something I haven’t felt in a long, long time.
And the worst part? I like watching him try to hide it.
⸻
Tonight, after closing, I find his feather boa draped over one of the stools. Smells like powder and perfume and warmth. He probably forgot it on purpose, just to give himself an excuse to come back for it tomorrow.
I pick it up, fold it neatly, and set it behind the counter.
But before I turn off the lights, I catch myself smiling.
I know he’s got feelings he doesn’t wanna name.
And maybe I’m no better.
But I’ve got time.
I can wait.
‘Cause the truth is, I like seeing him like this — dizzy, alive, trying to make sense of something real.
He thinks I’m just a grumpy old bartender with a soft spot.
But the thing he doesn’t know is…
He’s the one who’s got me thinking about second chances.
⸻
Angel Dust (POV)
I can’t sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him — that look, that half-smile, the way his voice drops soft when he says my name. I press my face into Fat Nuggets’ fur and groan.
“Yeah, I know,” I whisper. “I’m hopeless.”
He snuffles in agreement.
Outside the window, the lights of the hotel flicker low and warm, and I swear I can hear Husk humming somewhere downstairs.
And for the first time in forever, it doesn’t hurt.
It just feels like somethin’ worth waiting for.
⸻
End of part 2.
What a Beautiful Mess You’ve Made
Bonus Scene — “Your Move, Dollface”
⸻
Angel Dust (POV)
A week later, and I’m tellin’ myself I’m back to normal.
Totally over the whole flustered by Husk’s casual sex appeal thing. Totally fine. Totally chill.
I even practiced in the mirror — my best smirk, my little wink, all the old weapons polished and ready.
I was gonna walk into that bar and prove that Angel Dust doesn’t swoon.
⸻
He’s wiping down the counter when I stroll in — wings half-fluffed, hair messy from a nap, shirt rolled up at the sleeves. The lighting’s all dim amber, the kind that makes him look carved out of smoke and gold.
Okay, maybe I take one second too long staring. Whatever.
I lean on the counter, arms crossed just so.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite buzzkill. Miss me?”
He looks up, deadpan. “You were gone thirty minutes.”
“Felt like a lifetime, baby.” I wink, voice dripping sugar. “Bet you did somethin’ boring without me, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says, pouring a drink. “Had peace and quiet.”
I grin, sliding a little closer. “Y’know, you’re real cute when you pretend you don’t like my company.”
That earns a short exhale through his nose — not quite a laugh, but close. “I don’t have to pretend, dollface.”
“Ouch,” I say, hand to my heart. “You wound me.”
He finally looks at me then — really looks — and I swear the air changes. His gaze drags slow, deliberate, tracing my face, my hands, all the way down to the way I’m perched against the bar.
That tiny spark of smugness in his eyes says I’ve walked right into it.
⸻
He sets the glass aside, leans forward just a little.
“Tell me somethin’, Angel,” he says, voice soft enough to make my pulse jump.
“You ever get tired of flirtin’ with someone who sees right through it?”
It’s such a simple question — but damn, it cuts clean through the act.
I blink, mouth dry. “Uh— who says you see through it?”
He smirks — slow, lazy, devastating. “Because you blush every time I call you dollface.”
I choke on my drink. “Wh—what?! No, I don’t!”
He just watches me, utterly unbothered.
Then he reaches across the counter, fingertip catching a bit of glitter on my collarbone — slow enough to make my breath hitch — and says, “You do. You just hide it behind the noise.”
For once, I’ve got nothin’. No line, no joke, no smartass comeback. Just heat rushing all the way up to my ears.
He leans back again, satisfied. “Your move, dollface.”
And I swear the smug bastard winks.
⸻
He’s already turned away, pouring another drink like he didn’t just knock me flat with six words and a look.
I sit there, blinking, trying to remember how to breathe.
“Yeah,” I mutter under my breath, grinning helplessly, “real cute when you pretend, huh?”
⸻
Husk (POV)
He thinks he’s subtle.
That little sway in his hips when he walks over, the half-lidded stare, the way his voice goes soft at the end of a tease. I’ve played poker with demons older than Hell itself — and none of ‘em give away their tells like Angel Dust does.
But I let him try.
I like letting him try.
There’s something endearing about watching him build up all that bravado just to crumble when I say one honest thing.
And tonight’s no different.
He’s still at the counter, pink cheeks, stunned expression, hand fidgeting with his boa like it’s a lifeline. I take a slow sip of my drink and hide the smile threatening at the corner of my mouth.
Maybe one day, I’ll tell him the truth — that I’m just as gone for him as he is for me.
But for now?
I’ll let him blush a little longer.
⸻
Angel Dust (POV)
I leave the bar still pink in the face, muttering curses that don’t sound half as angry as I want ‘em to.
Fat Nuggets squeals when I walk in, like he knows. I scoop him up and sigh.
“Yeah, don’t give me that look,” I say. “I had him this time, swear to God. Then he— he did the thing.”
Fat Nuggets snorts like he’s calling me out.
“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, piglet. But next time? Oh, I’m comin’ prepared.”
I pause. Smile to myself.
“Maybe I’ll even make him blush.”
Fat Nuggets oinks, unconvinced.
“…Okay, probably not. But a girl can dream.”
⸻
And somewhere downstairs, I swear I can still hear Husk chuckle.
⸻
End.
🍒🥃🕷️💋🪽🎲🩶💛♥️🌆
What a Beautiful Mess You’ve Made
Final Epilogue — “The Sound of Something Beginning”
⸻
The hotel hums low that night — all pink neon and lazy jazz leaking through the walls, the kind of stillness that makes every breath sound like a secret.
Husk’s back at the bar, cards half-dealt, a single glass sweating on the counter. The world hasn’t changed much — not really — but it feels different now. Warmer, somehow. Lighter.
Upstairs, Angel’s laughter echoes faintly — bright, tired, a little unsteady — the sound of someone still pretending not to feel everything all at once.
He’ll deny it if you ask.
He’ll swear he’s fine, swear he’s just teasing, swear Husk’s nothing but another crush in a long, glittering line.
But then he’ll blush, just barely. The kind of blush you hide behind noise.
And downstairs, Husk will look up — every damn time — like he can feel it from across the room.
He won’t say anything. Not yet.
He’ll just smile into his glass, slow and knowing, a man who’s learned patience after centuries of losing it.
Because somewhere between the silence and the noise, between a gentleman’s calm and a showgirl’s bravado, something has begun.
Something fragile.
Something honest.
Something that sounds a lot like love if you listen close enough.
⸻
🎵 Sabrina Carpenter, “Tears” inspired!
🍒🥃🕷️💋🪽🎲🩶💛♥️🌆