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The bulbs across the marquee dotted the dull night in vibrant shining reds, greens, and goldens, making the hotel a massive source of light pollution if light pollution even exists in Hell. Dangling all across the exterior were tinsel boas in sparkling silver. An evergreen wreath sat atop the welcoming door.
Countless hours that could have been spent rehabilitating sinners were spent in a much more festive endeavor. A poor civilian sinner could spot the hotel from a mile away and the gaudiness would give them a migraine.
Faintly outside one could hear carolers— mostly new sinners, the ones who slipped and died on ice, the ones who got hypothermia, the ones who couldn’t yet believe they’d be spending the most jolly season of all in Hell. They made beautiful voices, though, trolling all around Pentagram City at the expense of their safety.
In the heart and soul of the lobby, drinks would clink and clank and cheers would be shared— That freezing Friday evening would be the Hazbin Hotel’s very first Staff & Resident Sinsmas Party. (A get-together for a cluster of people who already spend every current day of their afterlife living together. Just with more festivity and more decorations to clean up.)
Charlie handled most of the arrangements, from the food to the decorations and music… until she got high off candle fumes, sniffing too many back to back to back to create the best “good-deed encouraging aroma” and had to have Vaggi step in and finish preparations, with minimal help from her father-in-law’s heavenly magic.
Tossed on the couch was an arrangement of holiday gears, ranging from reindeer antlers on a headband to a massive scratchy white beanie that resembled a snowman. (Had Charlie ever seen snow? Where’s she find this crap?) Spirit was mandated, Charlie informed, hoping the love and giving in the air could lead to some resection and even redemption.
Every party’s gotta have a sour, though. A naughty to combat the nice. And so the feline Grinch of it all was perched behind the bar defensively as soon as the clock struck seven, hoping to ignore the forced participation as much as he could. Sat in a low stool, in the most obnoxiously close position, was his bestest bud.
“Sweet shit, old man, you look,” Angel Dust snarked, a malicious giggle in his throat, “…like a true silver fox. Should grow those fine whiskers into a beard sometime.”
Husk was donned head to toe in Santa Claus apparel— Complete with a cotton-lined hat, beard, and a massive sack he filled to the brim with liquors. “I’m killin’ the fucker who organized this.”
His handsome ass had the belly for it, anyway. The suit, fluffy and garish as it was, hugged the hanging curve of his stomach pouch in a way that drove Angel up a wall.
The spider whistled. “We both know damn well it was Charlie’s doin’. She wants this holiday party to be hot shit. And she needed a Daddy Claus to get us all onto the nice list.”
“Company holiday parties ‘re just excuses to get drunk and sleep with ya’ boss anyway,” Angel mumbled. “But I’ll be here, probably passed out on the couch.” If all went as usual, he’d be crashed in the next hour.
Scattering the rest of the lobby was a frantic Charlie checking preparations, Alastor enjoying Ponche Crema devoid of all responsibilities, and overenergetic Niffty mistaking every dropped cranberry for a roach and spilling fruit guts all over the carpet.
Could be worse. If Husker had to spend his Sinsmas Eve at this rinky-dink hotel he was going to make it pleasant. With alcohol, of course, the only remedy to boredom. In recent years nearly all of his holidays have been spent in his casino, surrounded by strangers sharing the same spirit. He never threw a flashy, cheap holiday party for his employees and they still loved him plenty.
He groaned, letting a moment pass before he turned to face Angel, who was adjusting his tits in his tight attire. “Enough commentary, what can I get’cha started with tonight?”
Angel’s head perked up, glowing under the shine of multicolored string lights. “You got anything special for the occasion?”
“Legs, I’ve had the same damn liquor since the day you started crashing here. Pick your poison or get out’ta my face.”
The party was picking up around them as Vaggie finally arrived from picking up extra wrapping paper for her fiancée’s neverending gift exchange. Radio speakers bellowed out carols, and the television streamed a low resolution rewind of a black-and-white Sinsmas classic (Al’s pick).
His teasing smile slipped forward. “No need to be so mad, Husky. The holidays are the season of giving.” His honey voice grew deadpan as Angel became determined. “Giving me stuff.” He huffed. “C’mon, stuff I haven’t tried before.”
Yet amidst the layered noise and the filed-in residents, the play between Husk and Angel was one-on-one, the rest of the hotel fading out around them. A soft rosy buzz filled the air before the drinks were even out.
Scratching his claw lightly across the bar counter, the cat grumbled. Such a vague request. “You wanna drink something new? What sorta new?”
“You know me well enough by now, and my preferences. In the bedroom and at the barstool. Surprise me with somethin’ I’d love, kitty.” On Angel’s lean torso was a strapless cherry dress, reaching down to his mid-thigh with a minor slit running up his left leg, with thin black stockings underneath and matching red Mary Jane heels. The top hem of the dress had a line of crimson rhinestones that resembled cranberries.
Teasing his open neck, Angel completed the look with a knitted scarf in soft, snowy white, with red sprinkles. It contrasted his light fur just enough to be a pop of color.
Husker’s paw was planted onto the bar counter, turning his body to face Angel in all his glory with a serious expression.
“Fine, I’ll get’cha stirred up somethin that’ll get ya up to Heaven. If you do me a small favor.”
The spider’s hand rested teasingly atop his cleavage, his dumb porn voice kicking in. “Mm, y’know I love a good favor. Does my Daddy Claus need some milk to go in his cookie?” He’d used that line in a porno the week prior— the reception was phenomenal.
Fuck, Husker’s poker face was great, perfect even, but it was hard not to let his guard down around this fuckwad and end up smiling. ‘Tis the season, anyway, Husk wiped the smile off his face poorly and gave his next order.
“Shut yer trap, kid, I just need something from that cardboard box in the living room, next to the tree. Next to Vaggi.” He cleared his throat. “The jar of seasonal berries, they keep in it there. Fetch.”
Berries, hm? Angel was never one to turn down a fruity cocktail—- from a classic Sex On The Beach, a Cosmopolitan for somethin’ tart, or his favorite Strawberry Daquiris that any relevant bar in Pentagram City will have a version of named after him. He could trust the judgement of a ‘refined gentleman’ bartender in a stupid red hat if it meant spending his evening with someone he could bother.
“On it.” Angel saluted before hopping off the stool, waltzing his way across the lobby, weaving through chatting pairs or weirdly placed inflatable reindeer.
His feet were starting to grow sore from the heels, noticing they were most likely a size too small, but who was a queen to complain? They were gorgeous, and… he might’ve worn this pair around the hotel before and noticed a bartender getting an eyeful of his silky legs. In the season of giving, he might as well give the grump something to entertain himself with.
It dawns on Angel Dust that it’s been a while since he took a day off for Sinsmas. He argued with Val that the average gross sinner wouldn’t be watching porn on Sinsmas— they’d be shopping for half-off vibrators, or boning with a stranger in a brothel under the mistletoe. In exchange for excess hours next week, he got Sinsmas Eve and Sinsmas to spend on his own.
In the living room he quickly found the magical box in reference, a plain cardboard box carrying some bonus decorations, string lights, peppermints, and The Goods, a clear Mason jar with cranberries, blackberries, strawberries, and all the rest of ‘em in a variety filled up to the red lid.
Using both sets of arms Angel grabbed the jar, heavier than it seemed. He flexed his back as he made his way back to the bar while avoiding tripping over the Niffty afoot.
“Got’cha this,” he whined, plopping all twenty pounds of berries on the counter. “I hate blueberries, but anythin’ else is on the table.”
Husk gave a grin back, peeking at the jar while he schemed something up in his mind. The bar wasn’t busy— borin’ fuckin drinkers staying in this hotel— so he’d have plenty of time to get some magic mixers in order.
His tail was tapping against his ankle under the bar counter, an unfortunate habit that came with the feline body he piloted. The old fuck was giddy, wasn’t he? He could blame the spider’s floral perfume wafting his senses, or the way his lacy bra straps sat proudly on his shoulders, but some part of having Angel so close was making his heart flutter.
He was purring already, eugh.
Though, the recipe was already coming together in the bartender's mind. A festive twist on the spider’s usual tastes, something that looked and tasted as bold as the pornstar always flaunted himself to be. Something that would please him and his expensively trashy pallette.
(He’d never let it show on his face, but his friend’s cheesy smile when he puts his lips to a great drink and tastes something sweet makes his crappy job here at the hotel worth every second.)
He turned around and grabbed two bottles from the shelf behind his back, hearing the spider’s dumb whistle at his ass in the Santa suit. Angel Dust would never change, would he?
Husker shook his head, giving a small toothy smile to himself and the wall. “Go mingle, kid. It’ll be ready in five.”
. . .
One swift bathroom break later, the spider was waltzing his way through the halls, taking in all the sounds and smells spilling out through the hotel.
The buffet in the lobby was surprisingly stocked with a diverse arrangement of food, snacks, and candies. Most of the deserts were pre-purchased junk from bakeries in the Greed ring that Lucifer had snagged for the party. Cookies of all varieties, some small cakes, chocolates in the shape of stars and ornaments…
Heated containers at the buffet held proper dinner meals like classic pasta dishes (marinara, alfredo, pesto, all the works) or the homemade macaroni Al’s buddy Rosie had donated that Angel was currently staring daggers into. He was going to get loaded on free hotel food tonight, and then spend the weekend working it off to keep his stupid figure for that prick.
Angel grabbed onto a paper plate, fork, and spoon, and scanned over the arrangement again. Decisions, decisions.
From across the lobby, the spider called out, “Whiskers, ya want anything?” Should he grab Husk some of the gross-looking bio-engineered tuna that Baxter had contributed? Kitties eat fish, don’t they? How was he to know, he’d never owned any pets back in his human life.
“Uh, Hell, grab me some of the mashed potatoes,” he chirped back. In his hand was a bottle of Rosé, which he was effortlessly popping the cap off and tossing into a Boston Shaker. A tiny container of gold powder was on the table. Angel wouldn’t look too hard to not spoil the surprise.
He scooped a sizable portion of the potatoes, giving them a little shake of salt n’ pepper for the old man’s liking, when he heard a cheery voice pop up behind him like a little burst of confetti in his ear.
“We’re stoked you and Husk have been getting along so well,” the princess beamed, mentally kicking her heels together, “because friendship is a great step on the path to redemption. Having someone to keep your progress in mind, to share your heart and your moments with—“
“We want to talk to you, Angel.”
She was softly interrupted by an arm on her shoulder, from the fallen angel she’d been spending her life with. Vaggi shot Charlie a one-eyed look, nodded, and had her own point to present.
They took him a few steps away from the buffet, into the long corridor outside the lobby. Paintings of Charlie and her family, of gorgeous hellscapes, and of motivational quotes were decorated with
Her voice was low and quiet when she began.
“Hey, I don’t know if I can ask this, or if you’ll even say anything, you’ve got no good reason to. But it’s been on my mind, and I bet Charlie’s, too.” She talked slowly like this was some interrogation, the hell? Were they gonna ask about his progress, or his failed attempts at sobriety, or his boss again? The ex-exorcist paused for a moment, and so Charlie nodded her head caringly to keep going.
With spaghetti in one hand, Vaggi put her free hand on her hip. Low and slow she ripped the bandaid off. “Are you and Husk… anything, yet?”
The princess beside her chirped in. “Anything other than residents, she means.”
He paused his scooping of the potatoes and just. Stood. There. What is this, high school? Being investigated about crushes? When was the last time Angel brought a boyfriend around the hotel? Never, so what made them think he was on the market?
Ignoring the meat of the question, something had caught his attention. Shit had barely processed through Angel Dust’s furry head before his lips were popping out a response. “Yet?”
The spider’s question was met with silence. Hear the ticking of the clock sort of silence. Hear Al’s weird static radio noises sort of silence. Hear Husker’s ice clinking sort of silence. And then, the peace was shattered with rapid, confused babbling.
“Yeah, yet? H-Hold up, we thought— after he said what, we—“ Her mouth was running a race and winning, which from Charlie was never a good sign. She was spilling her brain out through her throat.
While that fiasco was occurring, the sinner was still shell-shocked. Sure, he flirted with the kitty, but that’s just part of the Angel Dust experience. And, sure, he’d sit on his lap, but that’s just because there was now plenty of his lap to go around ever since Angel made sure he was eating enough to make up for his drinking. What would make the chicks consider him n’ Husker a pair? He could’ve sworn he was better at hiding his flush than that. Curse being pale. Curse the cracks in his acting. The blonde was doing mental rocket science, the gears in her eyes turning as it came together, seemingly adding new information to her data bank. She was about to blurt something else irresponsible out when—
Before she could say anything, her femme was to the rescue as with every damn issue in this hotel.
“Charlie,” a firm grey hand gripped her lover’s, “pause. We were just asking because you two seem… tight,” she shot Angel a suspicious glance, “but it doesn’t make a difference either way. So you’re not an item?”
“…No? What, what m-made you think that?”
“Doesn’tmatterbecausethebuffetneedsrefilling, gotta dip, c’mere Vags, haveagood night, love you, happy holidays!”
Alone the spider was left in a cloud of dust as the princess and her lover fled the scene. More accurately it could be described as the princess fleeing the scene and taking her lover captive with her. The content of the conversation was now making its way through Angel’s neurons and into his processing center.
(They thought me n’ Whiskers were goin out?
They think I could have a chance with him?)
The mashed potatoes in his lower hands were growing cold, so he wandered back to the buffet (no sign of Char), trashed the plate and whipped up a new one. Still with a sprinkle of salt n’ pepper, the kitty wouldn’t eat anything he deemed too plain. Angel had better be getting back to Husk soon before it seemed like he was ditching his tab. Just what the hell had happened?
Just what had they meant by asking him that?
Just what had caused that interaction?
“Kitty, here’s your potatoes, just as you like ‘em,” he shook his shoulders seductively as he placed the paper plate gently on the bar. Husk had his back to him, giving Angel a classic good second to admire his back and ass— he picked this seat every time for a reason: the view.
As ice and alcohol shook in a shaker, bottles of liquor scattered across the counter and berry juice dotted along a few messy napkins. The drink was in Husker’s paws, keeping it a surprise as it was obscured by the delicious thick cat ass in his face.
“Finishin’ up, gimme a moment,” he grumbled out, tossing in a finishing touch, making sure Angel didn’t steal a glance.
“Y’know I can make you finish up a whole lot faster than this if you let me, Husky.” He was met with an adorable growl from the kitty, deep and annoyed, that made his knees buckle. It never got old. Unlike the old fart mixing up his poison.
“Alright, here—“, he purred as he slid it across the bar, the excited energy in the air rising, and Angel had to take a good long moment out of his evening to appreciate the craft.
From the top view, the clear glass was shaped like a heart, with a thin handle to fit in Angel’s palms and a base in the shape of a rose. The drink was a light pink with edible rose gold glitter sifted into it, with sugar tracing the rim and a single strawberry on a toothpick peeking out.
In his senses he could pick out various fruity scents, namely strawberry and cranberry, and based on the bottles on the counter, it had been mixed up with his favorite expensive brand of Rosé. Light ice, as he liked.
“Fuck.” Angel Dust caught his breath, fidgeting with his stockings as he twitched in his stool. “This looks perfect, y-you didn’t have to put in all this effort for me.”
The glint in Husk’s eyes was dangerous; it made Angel feel like he was going to puke, pass out, and get a raging hard-on all at the same time. Husker nodded. “Happy Holidays, Legs. It’s on me.”
It stunned him. Down to his core, the care and consideration stunned him.
It stunned him how badly he wished he could have Charlie and Vaggi at his shoulders again, to turn around and scream Yes, we’re an item, the best of all items to ever walk this ring of Hell,
How purely he wished this drink came with an “I Love You” etched into each and every ice cube, into every speck and sparkle and berry, into every glance they share,
How thoughtful this bartender was, despite the shit Angel had put him through, despite the pushing of his nerves and buttons and boundaries that he’d worked on, despite it all,
How deeply he wished he could reach over the bar, grab that pussycat by his dumb, gorgeous scruff, mark his territory with his teeth, and get him shaking and smeared in crimson lipstick from head to toe—
Composure, composure. Angel still had a conversation to manage. “Then, shit, thank you. You wanna make a toast?”
“Lemme pour myself up some classic whiskey and then, I don’t see why not.” Husk did his best to mask and stifle the flapping of his wings in response to the proposition.
This was going to be a long night. Husker and Angel faded into a sneaky laughter, descending into the night, conversation blossoming.
Charlie, watching from afar with comical binoculars, was watching her dreams come true and her dreams crumble at the same time.
Someone finding love from her hotel, finding a reason to better themself and aim for a brighter future… She craved it, for the people of Hell to find love as easily as she had. She would totally appreciate all that.
She wasn’t alone, of course. “They’ll get to it eventually. They’re stubborn pricks— the both of them— but I see your vision, babe.”
“Uhhn, Vaggi, think of this like a passion project. How can I take initiative? Get them together? Sinners in love is such a beautiful thought I think I could sob, uuh, right now. Dad once told me it’s a ‘disgusting sight,’ but I know it’s disgustingly pretty, like a wet puppy, o-or…”
She sighed. “You can’t really ‘take initiative’ with that, can you? The potions are highly unethical, and they’re both snotty and won’t say anything even if they were in love.”
Vaggi gave her sweetheart fiancée, her brain probably turning to childish mush as they spoke, a gentle pat on the back. Slightly awkward, but it was adorable seeing her so enthusiastic about wanting to make her guests and staff happy.
Lightbulb moment, an idea struck Vaggi harder than Adam had struck her upon making a mistake in the exorcist army. “I’ll handle your— your, uh, wishes for them, starlight. You go enjoy your night. You put way too much time into this party to not be having fun.”
With a peck on the cheek, and then a proper kiss on the lips, Vaggi swore on her duties as manager she’d get something done, the idea already coming together. Her lover wobbled out of the closet, dizzy, back over to the buffet where she’d load her plate with seasoned vegetables and two scoops of caramel ice cream.
Her eye drifted back to the bar, where the toast was about to begin.
In Husk’s paw was a shotglass, and in Angel’s slim digits was his gorgeous cocktail, which had been informally titled a Santa Claws, so the bartender could jot down on a notecard exactly how to remake it for his most special customer.
“Let’s make a toast to the New Year. Set some goals.” The kitty cleared his throat, quieting his wagging tail. “My resolution is jus’ to drink less to forget and drink more to taste. Got some recipes from Al’ I wanna test.”
Cute. It would be about a week into the New Year before he broke that resolution, but doesn’t everyone? Angel hasn’t set specific aspirations or goals aside from being the redemption guinea pig, which was stolen from him by the big weird lonely snake guy anyway, bless his heart. What did he want for the upcoming year? Without the threat of extermination, his chance at making next year fun was actually achievable. How strange it is to have your life guaranteed again.
Angel Dust tapped his nails along the bar counter as his head cycled potential resolution ideas:
- He wished to spend less time in the studio,
- he wished to have his work conditions improved,
- he wished Val would be a better man in the new year,
but nothing was fruitful, nothing was likely, and nothing was invigorating. He felt dreary thinking about it. How many years had he spent working in this studio in the same ol’ way? Besides, nothing he truly craved would be associated with his workplace at all. There was a Who on his mind.
The wise thought was that he needed to reach for something plausible. He fidgeted with his chest fluff mindlessly as he tossed over cliche answers, pros and cons to each and every. More time in the gym, less drinking, more time spent with friends making memories, healthier eating…
He shrugged his shoulders as his heart pitter-pattered in his chest. “I dunno, Husky. Maybe this whore’ll dive back into the dating pool next year.”
Husk’s handsome eyes dilated in that stupid adorable way, pausing his movement to glare at Angel for a second. His reaction stemmed from shock, that was the last thing he expected to hear from the star, yet Angel couldn’t help but take it as disgust– who’d get with this body after all the hands and lips, marks and whips, bruises and fluids that had stained it dirty? Who’d give up their hand to a spider who wouldn’t be home half the week, getting his back blown out to make a living? Who would choose him, the fakest slut in Hell, to be theirs besides a lonely virgin.
He settled into a softer reaction as the surprise dimmed down, noticing the spider flinching at the squint of his eyes. The bartender gave him an approving nod, quiet and solemn like a grandfather, thinking of the words to come next. His whiskers were perked up like an erection. Angel’s fingers traced his glass, before he snuck a lick of the sugar rubbing off on them.
“Y’know, Legs,” he mumbled, eyes glancing down into his whiskey, “I agree. You’ve been deservin’ of some good dates for a while now.”
“No shit. How come you haven’t taken me out then?”
Their usual bickering and flirting, Angel begging for dates like his attention whore ‘self’, though it was mostly an exaggerated ploy to see the kitty blush, backing himself into a corner trying to defend himself… Fuck, the spider was greatful for the fur covering his body now– back as a human, he was pasty, and still ever the playboy, and whenever a guy told him he was turning red he felt like crawling up and dying. At least now the fur hid his flush.
Husk’s fur was raised instinctively as he turned back to Angel. “Don’t get cocky with me, Kid, I took ya to that Italian place downtown jus’ last week. And I paid the whole bill.”
“No, nono, that wasn’t a date! Don’t pull that card! You took me there ta apologize for knocking my Sex-X-X award mug off the counter, l-like a fuckin’ stray. That thing costs more than your whole bar.”
His shoulders were perched, taking a massive swig of his whiskey before plopping his cup down on the counter having forgotten about the toast. “Hell. Why would I be takin’ you out on dates? My cards can’t handle that on the regular, got too many people to pay back still.”
“Why?” His toothy grin made the room shine brighter. “Only because I’m the hottest sinner in this whole dump city, sitting riiiight at your bar every night.” He toyed with the lower hem of his dress, raising it an inch higher on his thigh to show off a rip in the thigh on his stockings that had been covered. “I can think of a thousand reasons to take this bod out on a date, and the great sex is only half of ‘em.”
“You’re not my broad, Angel, you’re jus’ fuckin’ with me. And put those”-- he gestured vaguely to Angel’s legs and thighs, flush on his face, “away.” The star chuckled and snorted a little, covering his mouth and massive smile.
The party was nearing a close, clock getting close to striking ten o’clock. Other staff and residents had popped over to the bar across the evening, gotten a quick drink, made some small talk, and then went on their merry way, leaving Husk and Angel nearly alone in this area of the hotel. Charlie was still within ear range, though her eyes were laser-focused on the black-and-white television, and she was face-deep in her fourth helping of ice cream.
“It’s almost quittin’ time, huh? Everyone’s had their fill of drinks for the night, kitty, go on n’
pack up.”
Crispy holiday candles had fully burnt out by now. The lobby was darkened besides the illumination of the trees and lamps– a soft golden glow, with sprinkles of rainbow light, made the lobby look picturesque. A quiet intimacy swept across the room in rippling waves.
Husker’s eyes locked in on the buffet, on the scraps remaining upon the ending of the event. “One last serving for the night, then I’m hitting my room.” The kitty gave his tired back a stretch and Angel had to bite his lip to not flat-out whine at the scene. “Come with me, Kid.”
He paused, hard, at the invite. A gunshot pointed blind hit straight through the star’s nervous system. Something about that nickname never failed to kill him on the inside. Legs wobbling gelatin, his friend stood up and extended a gloved hand, which a large paw quickly grabbed, playing along with their ‘game’ of messing with the other's head. Husk gave him a smug smirk. Angel hated how hot his body temperature rose at the gesture, his pupils blown out as a maniac on crack.
With his spare hands, he fluffed up his chest within the dress and fanned himself like a damself in distress. “Alright, gatto bello, be my escort.” The ridiculously large eyebrows on the kitty perked up in annoyance, as the pair made their way to the barebones buffet.
The remaining selection of food was nothing to be in awe of. The pasta had been annihilated, rightfully so, and the only dishes left in proper condition were the desserts– a lovely way to end the night, regardless. Low-cal sprinkle sugar cookies were Angel’s pick of treats, shoving one into his mouth and one more sneakily into his pocket.
The bartender, finally stretching his legs, served himself a classic brownie that Charlie had triple-checked was not an edible when she picked it up. Sucks, but based on the scent, it would still be phenomenal. The star stood in the dim light of the buffet and took in the scenery around him once more, through a much calmer, more enjoyed lens than at the start of the evening.
Nift and Baxter had made their escape about an hour ago, yelling something about a re-run of season n of Aquatic Housewives. With them left Alastor without much of a notice for his whereabouts. After around eight o’clock, residents filtered out to their respective rooms or busywork, leaving the spider and the feline in a quiet, unattended lobby. Even Charlie and her fiancée made an exit after one too many longing glares, and if either of the men listened close enough they could hear evidence of that.
Like a drama queen, Angel threw his shoulders back and lifted a hand to his forehead, announcing in a theatrical tone, “Truly, all by my lonesome on Sinsmas Eve… fair maiden, alone, with no gentleman with an open lap for me…” (He pushed his tits together to emphasize the maiden part. The stare from the kitty didn’t go unnoticed.)
“Hg, you’re blocking the brownies,” Husk dryly spit out while still chewing one up, “and yhhn’re nnnt ggtiing m lpp.”
Angel held back a snort. “Swallow, baby, swallow.” Eating with his mouth open was gross, but this was Hell, and Angel had seen grosser just that week, when Val brought in the new guy with the puke fetish– euugh. “You’ll choke if ya don’t.”
Crumbs of chocolate littered his muzzle getting up in his fur which would be a bitch to wash out later, as he vapidly refused any skincare (fur???care??) the spider tried to put him on. Poor old geyser would never understand the relief of a good cleanser.
Angel extended his free hand out to wipe at the crumbs, tease him a little, give him some hot fantasy for jack-off material like he did with every man he interacted with– and in the soft golden light, above his head, is when he spotted it.
Hanging from a red-and-white twisted thread was a soft sage plant, with little spikes and a minty scent, donned with pink berries and a matching twisty bow, dangling from the overhang of the buffet. It hung high, about two inches above the spider’s tall frame with his heels on. It was real, he noticed first from the smell, and it was reallllll, he noticed after his brain fully processed it.
“Whiskers, up ‘ere,” the spider whispered, breathy, suddenly way too aware of the heat radiating from the lights, and of the tightness of his dress on his hips. His eyes traced the kitty’s pupils as he moved his head up, froze as his eyes went wide, and glared back down at the floor avoiding eye contact.
Mistletoe. And they were standing front and center under it, the kind of shit that only happens in dramatic holiday rom-coms. Was Husk going to mind; going to participate; was he into the tradition, the old-fashioned playboy he was?
Angel’s lower arm teasingly moved to scratch Husk’s chin, kneeling down to his level (fuck, sore knees from work, why’d the kitty have to be this damn short?) He was going to milk this out as long as he could— the perfect excuse to drop comments and flirt without pushing his expectations.
“Awhh, dont’cha gotta gimme a kiss now?”
The mistletoe’s scent wafted down the air filling their lungs with a crisp sense of clarity. Angel’s smile dwindled from mischievous to a normal, soft grin, remembering the conversations he and Husker had about boundaries, and bringing the teases too far… The boy wasn’t getting kissed tonight. And that wasn’t anyone’s problem but his own, god damn it.
But, oh Lord,
(That muzzle, still littered with brownie crumbs, he wanted to lick every last hair off that mouth until he sun came up, rub that wet rough nose against his cheek until he was bathing in Angel’s perfume, take those damn paws and get them down where God couldn’t see, fuck, fuuuckkk, too close—)
Their eyes met in silent tension so thick it could cut a knife. Too real, too real, too close, abandon ship.
From a scratchy throat, the spider backed out. “I-I’m playin’, an’ the bar’s getting lonely without its daddy Claus.” His eyes softened. “Head on back and I’ll meet’cha.”
The bartender’s eyes were dark and shaky, darting around the room, in contrast to his bright, hot face dotting in sweat, a low grumble in his throat. The overhead light hit him beautifully.
You’re not helping, handsome, I’m supposed to refrain from you.
Upon Husk’s awkward silence, the spider cleared the thick, cold air. “We don’t— Have. To. ‘S a dumb tradition anyway.”
Angel rose back off his aching knees, reaching to dust them off before the dotted scarf on his neck was grabbed with a strong paw’s grip, yanking him and forcing him to bend over forwards with a rumble. Kinky?
Back to Husker’s level he was brought, hearing a low flustered growl before his scarf was tugged to bring their lips messily together, direct under the mistletoe. Angel’s eyes shot open as the sensation enveloped him and he let a whimper slip from behind his lips. Blood in his brain ran directly downwards through his body leaving him dumb and hard; nothing like the confidence he expected to exert if (when) the bartender ever made a move.
The kiss lingered in the air as Husk pulled away first, dropping his grip on the scarf. Red lipstick had made a smear on his muzzle that he wouldn’t notice until later— though he could feel the warmth, and the stickiness, and just how real the moment was.
The cat stood dazed for a moment, birds and stars swirling around his head, before he cracked in an instant. “S-Shit,” his ears flapped down, “I shouldn’t have—“
Was that regret spiraling through his head, Angel wondered, or clarity? Did he regret kissing Angel, or— just the circumstance?
“Kitty, I swear to fuck,” the spider’s eyes darkened and his expression turned downright horrifiying, “if you don’t give me another…”
Angel Dust has never been one to think before he speaks,
(Husk throws back a rapid nod. He looks like he could topple over, hearts for pupils, tailed puffed up and wings pitter-pattering against the floor…)
Or, apparently, before he acts; before he jumps; before he holds the idiot’s face perfectly in place to plant another kiss, this time with a wild expression of permission on Husk’s face, on that stupid, stupid whiskey-laced mouth. His heart burned hot but his groin burned hotter.
All-consuming heat swallows them up as their bodies align, Angel using just about all his arms to keep his sweet boy right where he needs him, maybe with one wandering back where it shouldn’t be. The kiss is electric as it quickly develops into something more heated and prolonged, a drop of pussycat drool sliding down the spider’s chin.
The mistletoe watches, observes, and sways in the soft breeze from the draft of an open window on a Winter night. A silent hotel, disrupted only by the sound of skin on skin, whines, and low declarations of praise and want. One mouth grunts out an order— “my room?”, and the rest of the night falls into history. The lobby now emptied and quiet as a mouse, the first Holiday Party draws to a close.
They wouldn’t truly forget to make their toast, though their drinks at the bar were long discarded, no; the cheers would end up falling on Sinsmas Morning. Over a bottle of milk, while Husk was lazily pouring them up sugary cereal and Angel was discovering feathers in crevices on his body he never knew he had.
That would be the first Sinsmas that it snowed in the Pride Ring,
and the first Sinsmas of many that would have mistletoe shenanigans for those two newfound loser-lovers.
. . .
(Alastor, who had been seeking an extra plate of mashed potatoes, became deeply devastated and slightly disgusted at the sights he witnessed. Such activities in front of his buffet and his food that he conjured with his magic for his employees.)
(Whatever. Merry Sinsmas, Happy Holidays, wear protection, and to all a good night.)