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Husker had been changing lately. He was still his grumpy self, sure—but more and more, he’d been acting on his feline instincts without meaning to.
At first, it was simple stuff: morning cat stretches, the urge to claw at something just to sharpen his nails. Small things he could easily brush off.
But then there was Erebus.
For some reason, being around her intensified everything. He cared about her—no doubt about that—but enough to go full-on domestic feline? That felt ridiculous… until it happened.
One late night at the hotel, Husk was minding his spot at the bar when Erebus stepped inside, shaking out her wings to dry them off from the hellish rain outside. Husk’s eyes locked onto her feathers. They looked dirty—tainted by the rain. They needed to be cleaned. He could feel his thoughts slipping away from him.
Erebus offered a shy smile. She was never talkative or outgoing, but she often gravitated toward Husk. He felt safe to her. The feeling was mutual, apparently—because around her, his feline instincts weren’t just slipping through; they were taking over.
Husk blinked hard, trying to snap himself out of it, but the pull was too strong. Erebus approached the bar, her damp wings folded close, droplets sliding down the dark feathers. She hesitated before sitting, giving him another gentle smile—one that somehow made the pressure in his chest tighten.
“You okay, Husk?” she asked softly.
He meant to grumble something dismissive. Really, he did. But the moment she shifted her wings, the faint rustle of feathers hit him like a spell. His pupils blew wide, round, and glossy. His breath came out in a soft rumble he did not authorize.
A purr.
He was purring.
“Oh no,” he whispered to himself, mortified.
Erebus tilted her head. “Was that…?”
“Don’t—don’t worry about it,” Husk muttered, ears flattened, tail twitching behind him. “It’s just—hell’s sake, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
She unfurled one wing slightly, inspecting the dirt and grime stuck to the edges. Husk watched the motion helplessly. His instincts surged—loud, demanding, undeniable.
And before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and groomed her.
His tongue dragged over a feather, slow and deliberate. Erebus froze. Husk froze harder, horrified.
“What—Husk?” she breathed, not upset, just startled.
He jerked back immediately, hands flying to his face. “I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—that wasn’t—dammit, I’m losing my mind—”
But Erebus didn’t pull away. Instead, she touched her wing where he’d cleaned it, then glanced at him with a gentle, almost shy warmth.
“It… didn’t bother me,” she said quietly. “It actually felt… soothing.”
Husk blinked. “You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “Not at all.”
And then—carefully—she reached out and placed her hand on top of his head.
Husk stiffened. Her fingers slid slowly between his ears, stroking along the base of his hair. A shiver ran down his spine. His eyes fluttered half-closed, pupils still blown wide, and a deep, helpless purr buzzed up from his chest.
“There it is again,” she whispered, a tiny smile forming. “You sound… happy.”
Husk wanted to deny it. He really did. But with her scratching softly behind his ears, his tail curling with instinctive contentment, denial was impossible.
Finally, she spoke, voice timid but steady. “If you want to… keep cleaning my wings… You can.”
His throat bobbed with a swallow. Embarrassment still burned hot on his cheeks—but her calmness, her acceptance, her touch—it soothed something in him he didn’t know was raw.
“…Yeah,” he murmured, leaning in again, gentler this time. “I… I’d like that.”
As he resumed grooming her feathers with slow, careful strokes, Erebus continued petting him with quiet affection. Both of them easing into the strange, tender rhythm neither had expected, yet neither wanted to break.
The bar felt unusually still—no rowdy guests, no shouting from upstairs, no muffled chaos in the halls. Just the gentle brush of feathers against fur, the soft rumble of a purr, and the faint crackle of a neon sign outside the window.
Erebus shifted a little closer, wing half-unfurled so Husk could reach the tougher spots. She kept one hand in his hair, fingertips tracing slow circles. Every now and then, she’d smooth down the fur at his temple or scratch lightly beneath his ears, small, shy gestures, but steady and comforting.
Husk cleared his throat, still grooming a stubborn line of feathers. “This… hasn’t been normal for me,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “The instincts. They’ve been creeping in for weeks. Stupid stuff at first. Stretching. Needing to scratch everything. Almost hissed at Angel last Tuesday.” He winced. “Not one of my proudest moments.”
Erebus gave a soft, breathy laugh. “I think Angel would’ve deserved it.”
“Yeah, well…” Husk leaned back a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s gettin’ worse. Or… stronger. I don’t know. ‘S like whatever part of me that’s cat is turning the volume up.” His ears swiveled down. “And around you, it’s all damn instinct and no logic. No warning. Just—boom.”
He gestured helplessly at her wings. “Next thing I know, I’m licking your feathers like a housecat on a mission.”
Her cheeks warmed softly, feathers fluffing in a shy ripple. “I… didn’t mind,” she whispered. “Really.”
Husk blinked at her, genuinely thrown. “You’re too kind or too weird, can’t tell which.”
Erebus tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe both.”
He huffed a laugh, then lowered his voice. “I keep wonderin’ if this was Alastor’s doing. Wouldn’t put it past him, y’know? Messing with me ‘cause he thinks it’s funny. Maybe he tweaked something when he brought me back. Or maybe Hell’s changing me more every damn year.” A sigh slipped out of him, heavy. “Or maybe I’m just losing it.”
Erebus listened quietly, fingers still moving through his hair. She didn’t interrupt, but when he fell silent, she spoke in her small, steady tone.
“I don’t think you’re losing anything,” she said. “I think maybe… you’re just letting yourself feel things. Different things. Safe things.” She looked down at him, her wings slightly puffed. “And maybe your instincts aren’t wrong. Maybe they’re trying to tell you something you don’t want to admit.”
Husk swallowed hard. His voice came out softer. “And what’s that supposed to be?”
Erebus hesitated. Her cheeks warmed, feathers twitching in embarrassment. But she didn’t look away.
“That you care,” she whispered. “A lot.”
For a long moment, he didn’t respond, just stared at her, stunned into silence. Then, with a shaky exhale, he leaned forward again and nudged his forehead against the soft curve of her wing, a subtle feline gesture he didn’t even bother fighting.
Erebus, shy but brave, shifted in return, carefully pressing the side of her head against his, crow-like affection mingling with feline instinct in a strange, perfect combination.
She groomed him back this time.
Her beak-sharp nails smoothed through his fur, tidying the messy sections he’d ruffled in his embarrassment. Husk’s purr returned—deep, louder this time—and he let himself melt into her touch, tail curling loosely around her ankle like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
A demon cat and a demon crow—two creatures built for snarling and survival—finding something inexplicably gentle in each other.
“You’re not alone, Husk,” she murmured. “Not… in this. Not in anything.”
He closed his eyes, letting that sink in.
“…Yeah,” he breathed. “Guess I don’t wanna be.”