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Summary
“Fuck, baby, you’re so pretty,” Husk groaned. He wanted to reach out and give him a little brush, maybe a flick of his nerve, or even feed him a few inches of his fingers.
But he didn't, because there was something deeper about this, about seeing Angel perform for an audience that let him slip and falter and be imperfect. Who treasured him because of it.
Or
It was the night before extermination, and Husk suddenly knew this was his last chance.
