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He doesn’t notice much at first.
Which causes his mouthy self to keep fucking spewing dumb shit, even after the witch warned him the first time.
And maybe the second.
Whatever. The point is, he doesn’t realize it until later, trapped in the familiar surroundings of his room, when he gasps for breath after his blazer tightens and constricts around his chest, his dick shrinks in his pants, and his balls disappear into the goddamn ether. All the while something else, utterly foreign, forms between his legs, and cleaves open a part of him a little more chasmic than before.
He would scream and might have for a brief, splitting moment, but his curiosity quickly overtakes any sensibility he could have possessed, if he were not, well…himself.
And so, for the next few hours, he spends his time poking and prodding his newly bestowed developments.
In the name of research.
After the dust settles, everyone treats him more or less the same. Charlie and Niffty barely notice: the latter keeps alternating his pronouns as usual, and the former is busy fielding complaints up to her neck from disgruntled hotel patrons and nosy naysaying reporters lurking around every conceivable nook and cranny. Vaggie quips something snarky about it being an improvement, so he volleys it right back with extra teeth. Pentious stammers out what could have been a compliment were they all struck deaf, then turns tail and retreats to his room after ruthless jeering from his egg entourage. Husk shrugs, tips the glass to his lips, and swigs down his breakfast. Cherri offers to loan him her clothes.
It is all so anticlimactic.
Or Angel thinks, until he collides with the hotel’s primary investor.
Literally.
The buck stops short, and he’s knocked off balance.
He flails, bottom two arms windmilling as he careens off course. One of his hands shoots out and scrabbles for purchase—for anything—and latches on.
To unusually warm skin.
Sharp claws encircle his wrist. With serrated pricks, they sink into his skin before seizing his hand and ripping it away. Widened eyes meet his.
“No!” The air crackles with static. “No, no, no, no!”
Come to think of it, Angel has never really seen the Radio Demon’s smile drop before.
It isn’t like he and Alastor interact, much. Angel has never shared many commonalities with overlords, barring the customary hedonistic hobbies and carnal pleasures. And the few he’s had relations with couldn’t be bothered with the likes of him past one night, anyway. Lack of exclusivity aside, it was always a substantial risk to be involved with another overlord’s indentured sex servant.
One man’s trash, etcetera.
He glances down, where one of his hands inadvertently grabbed hold of him before being forcibly removed.
And does a double-take.
He’s greeted by the sight of lean, bare forearms punctuated by sleeves rolled and tucked up at the elbow. Even disregarding their history, that specific detail is glaring enough. The omission of fabric, and the shock of fine red fur smattered atop pale grey, scarred skin.
That, coupled with the genuine panic splashed across Alastor’s face.
Without so much of an explanation, he turns on his heel, tucks his tail between his legs, and bolts away. Leaving Angel standing there, stunned into silence in his wake.
After gathering himself, he lifts his hand.
It pulses, strangely. He swears it almost glows under the flickering lamplights.
Like a brand.
For some reason, Alastor’s been sniffing around.
Strictly speaking.
He flings open the door after yet another round of horrendous scratching and the faint stench of musk and blood seeping through the cracks.
“Let me in,” Alastor says, and Angel is reminded of fae, witches, and iron horseshoes. Rolling his eyes, he grants permission; the assent laden with choice words. Nodding once, Alastor takes a hesitant step and crosses the threshold.
Angel offers him a chair, and he gracefully accepts. To Angel’s surprise, he all but collapses into it. Looking more than a little worse for wear. He doesn’t bother with formalities: instead, he launches into a spiel that Angel isn’t sure he understands.
Needing clarification, he interrupts. “Wait. All this because I touched ya?”
“Unfortunately,” Alastor replies; perpetual, manic smile straining at the seams. “You’re in estrus, aren’t you?”
“What?” At Alastor’s accusatory glare, he lifts his hands. Placatingly. “Woah! Pump the brakes, pal. Or buy me dinner first. The fuck do ya mean I’m ‘in estrus’?”
“Sexually receptive. In cruder terms: heat.”
“I…I don’t know,” he admits. He doesn’t feel any different, besides the blatantly obvious. He sure as hell hasn’t clocked anything unusual oozing from his new feminine equipment, but it’s not like he's well-versed in this particular situation.
“Well, congratulations. You, through no fault of your own—although if I ever discover anything to the contrary, I’ll end you—and the malediction of animalistic impulse and godforsaken biology, have inadvertently jumpstarted my…” He pauses, before spitting out the last word, “Rut.”
“Look, buddy, I’ve only had this body for a couple of goddamn days! How the hell was I supposed to know I’m fuckin’ fertile?”
Wait.
“Rut?” When the freight train finally catches up to him, it just about flattens him. “Wait, so that means—”
“It’s far from a death sentence. Obviously. Just terribly inconvenient. It means I’m either barricading and sequestering myself in the tower for the foreseeable future, or…” He trails off.
Before suddenly sitting up.
Ramrod straight.
The tufts on the side of his head twitching.
“Or?”
He tilts his head in an unnerving way. The neck snapped at a stilted angle. “You’re a sex worker, correct?”
“Is water wet?” He resists the urge to flirt (“Like me?”) since the homicidal expression that storms across Alastor’s face is nothing to sneeze at.
“Are you…” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I usually don’t do this, but this time, I thought, well, why the hell not? After all, this is your bread and butter, right?”
His radio persona slips and something else takes its place. His voice drops to a sultry drawl. Southern, maybe? Angel can’t place it, but it crawls right up his spine like grazing teeth. A serpentine tongue lapping, famished, at the base of his neck.
“In any case, I would like to solicit your services.”
Time freezes.
At least, Angel’s mind sure as hell does.
“My…what?”
However, Alastor’s mouth still seems to be moving.
“I do hate repeating myself.”
“Yeah, I doubt that, but just hang on a minute, okay? I’m tryin’ to soak it all in.”
Understatement of the century.
His heartbeat thuds in his ears.
“It’s nothing too untoward, I assure you. At least, with what you’re used to. And I trust you’ll be of the utmost discretion.”
It takes him a second, but he eventually lands on his feet. He automatically repeats the rehearsed reply: “My lips are sealed. Not, like, durin’, unless ya like that kinda stuff. But, sure. After.”
“You’re not very subtle.” Angel snorts in admission. “And, I can sense your trepidation from here. I presume it’s to do with your current predicament.” Angel opens his mouth to protest–another knee-jerk mechanical habit–but Alastor silences him with a tut. He wags a gloved finger. “Not to worry. One of my stipulations is absolutely no penetration. Biology notwithstanding, I shudder to think what a cursed copulation like that is capable of.”
Folding his arms, Angel parrots the oft-mentioned, equally disappointing, and reassuring fact of Hell: “Sinners can’t get pregnant, Al.”
“And how sure of that are you? Call me paranoid, but unlike Husker and that worm down the hall”—“Pentious,” Angel corrects, which he deliberately ignores— “I’m not much of a betting man. Or patsy. Let’s not tempt fate.”
“Fine.” Angel taps his chin. “So, I take it you’ve done this before?”
“Absolutely not. To be fair, I usually don’t allow anyone to touch me during this time, especially other sinners.”
“Oh. Not even Rosie?”
“I like my hands where they are now, dear. Attached to the rest of my body. What on earth makes you think that Rosie would tolerate unsolicited pawing of any kind?”
Angel shrugs. “I dunno. I thought broads like to be touched.”
“I’m starting to see why you were cursed.”
“Asshole,” he says, without any real heat behind it. “Anyway, how d’ya know if it’ll work?”
“I don’t,” Alastor admits. “But it’s worth a shot, and I’d rather not deal with this any longer than I have to.”
“Uh-huh. So lemme get this straight. No fuckin’. Or P in V stuff.”
“Precisely. Essentially, tricking my body into thinking it impregnated you.”
A frisson sparks at the base of his spine, coiling inward before blossoming into a pulsating ache in his belly. Angel judiciously elects to ignore it. And nudges it to the side like most uncomfortable truths.
“Gotcha. Basically, ya wanna smell and lick and watch me touch myself while ya jack off until your rut’s done an' dusted."
“That’s not—”
“Sure.” Angel grins. “I’m game. Got nothin’ else to do. ‘sides, it gives me a reason to check out all the bells an' whistles on this body before I turn back. Audience reception and feedback, and all that jazz. We can discuss payment later.”
Raising a brow, Alastor adjusts his monocle. “You trust me?” he asks, with naked disbelief.
Not exactly.
But it isn’t Angel’s first rodeo, and hopefully won’t be his last. On the other hand, he acknowledges that his survival skills leave much to be desired.
“Eh, I wouldn’t go that far. But the lezzies won’t let ya eat me. That’s enough for me to go on. For tonight, at least.”
“So, it’s a deal, then?”
“Sure. Do we need to shake, or somethin’?”
“Unnecessary. Besides, we’ll be skin to skin soon enough.”
“Wow, Al,” Angel purrs. He winks. “Ya don’t waste any time, do ya?”
Alastor offers a wan smile in return. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather get this over with.”
“You got it, Prince Charmin’. Gimme me a mo’ to change into somethin’ more comfortable.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Satan, Al. Just let me set the damn mood, okay? Who knows when these sexy curves and big tits will disappear?”
Alastor rolls his eyes. “Do what you must.”
“Damn right. Shower’s to your left, robe’s on the hook if ya want it, and lube and tissues are in the first drawer next to the nightstand. Wait on the bed, and don’t fuckin’ touch anythin’ else until I get there. Capiche?”
“Loud and clear, dear.”
With a parting curse forming on his lips (“Fuckin’ smartass”), Angel rushes off to his dressing room, nerves jangling, and the arrhythmic, anticipatory thrum singing in his veins.
After spending an inordinately long time searching for suitable lingerie and finally making do with bobby pins and strategically placed clips, he swings the curtains open, sashays out of his boudoir, heads towards the bed, and—
“Holy shit.”
“Something wrong?”
Angel falters. Which is bizarre, in and of itself. Because Angel never fucking stutters.
“Did…did ya grow a leg?”
Alastor blinks. He furrows his brow. Not that Angel notices; rapt attention focused elsewhere. “I’m not quite sure if that was a compliment or not, but for your sake, I’ll assume that it was.”
It’s not technically the largest that Angel’s ever seen—and he’s witnessed his fair share, including those of hellborn dragons and overgrown roosters—but it’s way up there. Metaphorically and literally. Not to mention it’s wholly disproportionate for someone of Alastor’s size and stature. And sinner status.
The demon in question casually lying on Angel’s bed, shamelessly flaunting his slim physique and the not-so-slim microphone stand between his legs.
Distantly, bouncing around in Angel’s padded room of a mind, he wonders whether the oversized appendage is meant to be a blessing or a curse. Fortunately, his motor mouth fills in the blanks for the both of them.
“Jesus. I don’t know what I was expectin’, but it sure as hell wasn’t that goddamn monster!” And: “How did it escape that one lake in Scotland?” Also: “Yeah, chief, that ain’t it. Ain’t no way that anaconda is fittin’ in here. Even in my normal body, it’s a maybe. On a good day. After the stretch of a lifetime. An’ a whole lotta elbow grease. This is ‘ya gotta be fuckin' jokin’’ status.” He whistles. “Man, Vox is gonna hate ya. He bet everyone at the studio that ya had a tiny baby pecker.”
The smug asshole chuckles. “A fool and his money are soon parted.” He tuts. “But let’s keep this between us and hush-hush for the time being. Let that moron believe what he wants to."
Curse, then.
“Suit yourself.” Angel struts the rest of the way, keenly aware of Alastor’s inquisitive eyes tracking his every move. Once there, he perches demurely on the bed, waiting for a signal; hyper-aware of triggering his partner’s fight-or-flight response. To his relief, Alastor doesn’t budge.
“Before we begin, do you mind telling me how this all came about?” He gestures up the general outline of Angel’s voluptuous silhouette.
Feigning loosening a kink in his back, he lifts his arms over his head in a feline stretch. Showcasing his generous bosom. “Eh, pissed off some old witch broad in the old Badlands. Not the new development, the one north of here.”
“Ah. Esme. Yes, she is her own particular brand of awful. She despises me.”
“Ooh, ya must be special. She told me I’m too unimportant to hate properly. I just tend to piss everybody off.”
“Isn’t that your default?”
“Har har, Al. I’m gettin’ wetter by the minute. This your idea of foreplay, or what?”
Alastor inches forward. He bares his teeth.
“Oh, darling. You’ve no idea.”
Angel swallows. He rubs his thighs together, the sudden friction chasing away the unexpected, pulsing ache. Alastor may look and act like a prude, but in his experience, it’s always the batshit wildcards that toss him off-kilter and keep him on his toes. It should be disconcerting, and he knows he should be more cautious than he actually is, especially in full view of an apex predator, but of course, his body betrays him.
This time, in an entirely novel way.
As if scenting the shift in mood, Alastor’s nostrils flare. A screech of static bursts from his microphone. His eyes flash, pupils dilating pitch black before morphing into spinning radio dials. His mouth tugs into a snarl as he wrenches himself back into the bed’s plush headboard.
Morphing his sneer into something resembling a jagged smile, his garbled voice asks, “Shall we?”
It’s far from the most seductive segue, but Angel works around it. With his newly minted shapely hips, mostly. Arching his back, he flaunts his perky cleavage, a quick bounce on the mattress adding to their captivating allure. A shiver ripples up his spine at the wolfish stare boring into them. Raking up and down his body like greedy claws. Devouring every inch of him.
Sucking in a shaky breath, he parts his legs.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” Alastor rasps, before a look of disgust crosses his face. Angel’s stomach plummets. Until Alastor clarifies: “These biological impulses are ridiculous.” His chest rises and falls, the tuft of red fur moving with it. “You look stunning, by the way.”
Angel looks away. Preening a little, even as his stomach churns.
“More improved, right?”
The word, the implication, tastes acrid on his tongue.
“Is it impossible for you to accept compliments?”
“Sorry,” Angel mutters. “Wound’s still kinda fresh. Pussy, too.”
Alastor hums. “Yes, it appears so.” He pivots smoothly, back to the matter at hand. “As I was saying, you look delicious,” he purrs, and it’s colored with such conviction that Angel’s rapidly emptying mind clouds with lust. He attempts to unclasp his brassiere, but his hands fumble as waves of anxiety, performance and otherwise, hinder their progress. He swears, about to extend his lower limbs for assistance, when it comes in the form of long, dexterous fingers slipping under the filigreed band; snapping the clasp open with ease. Free of their lacy confines, his breasts sway as the delicate fabric slips off, exposing them to present company.
Chasing Alastor’s hungry gaze back down to his chest, closes his eyes, arches his back, and begins touching them.
He runs his palms over soft pink nipples, pinching and rolling them to stiffening peaks. Biting back a hitched gasp at their increased sensitivity, he drags his hands lower, cupping the tender heftiness as he gently fondles each soft mound.
At Alastor’s lack of verbal response, he cracks open an eye.
“Still there?”
Oh.
Oh, yes.
Alastor’s red irises are eclipsed by pitch black. Hands clenched into fists at his sides, the reek of fresh blood and sizzle of static increasing in crescendo. Angel hazards a peek at his cock, and the hint of swelling at the base. Precum pearls from his slit, and he swears the bulbous tip twitches under his gaze.
His head swims. He clenches his cunt, slick uncoiling from that torturous ache throbbing between his thighs.
“Ya know,” he says, voice pathetically frayed, “we can always renegotiate the whole deal. I wouldn’t kick ya out of bed for a mouthful.”
An ear-splitting shriek pierces through the still air. Angel recoils, his free hands flying to shield his ears. An invisible wind gusts around them, whipping the blankets into a frenzy. Even the shadows retreat.
“For your sake, I’d get on with it, Angel. B̶̢̍e̷̱͠ș̷́ẗ̸̳́ ̸̪̌n̶̥̈ö̴̮́t̴͓͗ ̶̟̑t̷̩̎ȏ̵̘ ̸̤̽t̸̪͊e̷̘͐m̶̀ͅp̶͍̋t̶̥͛ ̴̡͘m̵̥̈́e̷̘̽.”
It dies down, almost as quickly as it arrived. As Alastor reins in his outburst. His self-control.
It's such a stark departure from his phony radio facade, and it is utterly fascinating. The idea shouldn’t be as exhilarating as it is, but Angel revels in it. Like catnip. His skin flushes as heat rushes to his face.
As well as other areas.
“Your funeral.”
Angel trails a hand down his stomach, teasing his soft pink fur as he reaches that impossibly warm spot nestled inside his thighs. His finger grazes that sensitive mound of nerves; circling tentative, curious strokes around his clit.
He jolts.
“Fuck,” he moans. Slick lubricating the way, he glides his fingers up and down, his trembling legs falling open as he experiments with varying degrees of pressure and feather-light flicks. He's so wrapped up in the silky, electrifying sensations that he nearly forgets himself. And the carnivore leering at him from the shadows.
His body thrums with need. By the time his fingers breach the wetness building inside him, he’s already gone.
“Al,” he whines. “Fuck me.”
“The contract—”
“Fuck the contract,” he groans, tossing his head back as he adds another finger and pushes in deeper. “Please. Please fuck me.”
“I’m not getting you pregnant,” Alastor manages to snarl, voice hoarse and steeped in yearning.
“That’s impossible. Ya won’t.”
“That’s what you think.” Stripping away his paper-thin attempt at propriety, he pounces. Fangs elongating. Those sharpened canines skim and nick his exposed neck, piercing skin until a frustrated growl tears from Alastor’s throat. He yanks away. Angel’s traitorous body swoons at the utter loss of control. Lamenting it when Alastor creeps closer, blood staining his breath.
“Remind me again when I breed you and you’re heavy with our offspring.”
Angel shuts his eyes at the warning. The threat.
The promise.
It’s his scent driving Alastor part mad, Angel knows. His estrus. Olfactory senses running haywire during a primal crisis. All his senses betraying him in a vicious, overwhelming onslaught. Mind and sanity warring with biological need and desire.
It’s why his body keeps glitching; a constant state of flux shifting through scattered, disparate dimensions. Threatening to shred the last vestiges of his humanity; conscience sewn together by the thinnest of threads and the final sliver of self-restraint.
A dark, low rumble snags in his chest, and Alastor lurches forward, snaking his arms around Angel’s waist. He flips their positions with shocking ease. Angel’s back slams into the pillows. He sinks under the weight of Alastor looming over him, shadows flitting into focus. Clawed hands boxing him in. Fangs glistening in the dark.
Ravenous eyes greedily roaming over his body, Alastor starts to stroke himself.
He thumbs his slit, ignoring the lube in the drawers to slick up his shaft with his own precum. His mouth falls open, saliva dripping past those sharp, yellow teeth, as he picks up speed, tightening his grip.
His antlers lengthen and the spires hone into speared points. He thrusts erratically into his hand, head bowed as his crown grows preternaturally heavy.
“I would destroy you,” he growls, sonorous voice reverberating in the gloom.
Angel wishes. So very much.
He wants him to split him open.
“Al,” he pleads, strangled. “Let me.”
Dipping lower, his hands trace the trail of red fur down. Alastor bows his head, scenting him through flared nostrils, then bucks his hips up. Allowing him access to his cock. Angel’s hand ghosts over the length of it.
It glitches. A current, reminiscent of electricity, courses through his fingertips like livewire. Waves of vibrations rippling down his body. He shudders at the onslaught of sensation.
Chest heaving, Angel angles his hips as he parts the soft folds of his cunt and beckons him closer.
With a choked, desperate thrust, Alastor nudges his cock up against Angel’s wet cunt, the tip slipping and urgently pressing into that tender bundle of nerves. Using the slick to rub his thickening dick up and down the slippery lips, essentially stroking himself off with Angel’s willing, easy body. Spasming against his clit. Angel's thighs quaking with the electrical static currents sending tiny zapping bolts to his melting core.
He barely registers Alastor leaning forward.
His prehensile tongue darts out, flicking lightly against a nipple, before capturing it between his lips.
With a wail, Angel shatters, sopping cunt clenching and fluttering around nothing.
A few urgent strokes, and Alastor quickly follows. Discordant static rends the room, rupturing the once-still air into shards. The bed convulses as his thighs flex and tense and his cock pulses. A choked curse, and he comes, glitching. Drenching Angel’s aching cunt and quivering fingers. Clawed hands shredding the pillows bracketing Angel’s chest.
Mind foggy and overstimulated, Angel stares at the spectacle. Alastor comes undone in front of him, and it’s all too much to bear. Hips undulating, he scoops up the spill with his fingers, come rapidly cooling on his trembling stomach and heaving breasts, then glides his soaked fingers over his puffy lips.
Alastor’s eyes widen.
Angel, too far gone and lust-drunk beyond repair, shakily slides his fingers and as much come as he can into his hot, over-sensitive cunt, riding out the rest of his orgasm. Thrusting in and out.
One finger.
Two.
A hoarse growl rips from Alastor’s throat. Through a fucked-out haze, Angel blearily watches as those antlers rocket upwards like thorns, spearing through and past the bed’s canopy. He jolts forward, jaws snapping shut a hair’s breadth from Angel’s jugular. He barely registers long fingers clamping around his wrist. Guiding Angel deeper inside himself.
Indirectly fucking him open, fingers slathered in Alastor’s come.
As Angel sinks further inside himself, Alastor dips down and nuzzles his cheek. Eliciting a surprised sigh as he mouths spells on his skin. Coaxing whines from Angel’s throat as the remaining pleasure scorches through his body, leaving him a ruined mess. While something slick and heavy thrusts against his thigh. Exhausted, Angel peers down.
Alastor rocks his swelling cock against Angel’s clit, dick pulsing and vibrating as more come spills atop his stomach. Marking him indelibly. On purpose. Hesitating, Angel slowly reaches out. As if sensing his apprehension, Alastor meets his gaze and nods. Brief, but noticeable.
Wrapping his hand around the shaft as best as he can, Angel strokes him off, palming his balls and the thickening knot at the base. He holds it flush against his slit, murmuring muted words of encouragement and praise in his ear until the knot finally begins to recede. He drifts in and out of twilit sleep, and dreams of a soft press to his lips.
It feels like an apology.
Or maybe, a promise.
He turns back a few days later.
It’s just as relieving as it is disappointing.
He thinks as much as he makes his rounds through the hotel. Charlie offers him an encouraging smile and an awkward thumbs-up before sprinting in the direction of the fire. Elbowing past him, Vaggie mutters something about male privilege while swinging the fire extinguisher like a seasoned gladiator. A tiny blur swoops around his ankles, cackling in glee.
By some stroke of luck or comical twist of fate, he bumps into Alastor later that afternoon. This time, the opposite way around. Apologizing, Alastor tentatively removes his hand, and Angel swallows his disappointment at the gloves.
The diffident greeting gives way to exploratory banter, and they eventually circle back and revisit those unusual circumstances without alluding to anything more. The bend in the hallway where they find themselves cloistered is secluded enough, and Angel is bolstered by good spirits. He excitedly echoes his glee about returning to his normal form, to which Alastor chuckles and agrees that it's for the best.
“You snore in your sleep.” He adds, unnecessarily, “It’s very unladylike.”
“Fuck off, Al,” Angel replies, giddily. His heart skips at the teasing reminder. His hands start to twitch, so he tucks them behind his back.
“I don’t mind it. Of course, it’s set at a different frequency than my static, but well, it’s similar enough.”
“Flatterer. Betcha say that to all the ladies.”
“Lady. Singular. Just you, I’m afraid.”
The skip morphs into a full-fledged gallop and threatens to burst from his not-as-busty chest. It hits him that Alastor hadn’t ever sought out anyone else to relieve his professed problem, and for some inexplicable reason, it adds a swing to his step. It can’t possibly be because he might actually trust him, or something equally stupid.
Unless—
“Oh my god, Al! Are we friends?”
“Don’t push it, Angel.”
Angel grins from ear to ear. He ducks down, minimizing the distance between them. “Promises, promises.” He can’t help it. He teases, “Ya still up for breedin’ me? Like, properly and as is, this time?”
“Impossibility aside?” Alastor steps forward, closing the gap further. Radiating heat. “Oh, sweetheart. Stranger things have happened.”
The unexpected response floors him.
It takes several moments to pick his jaw up off the ground, and in the meantime, he just stands there, stupidly. Satisfied with Angel’s dumbstruck reaction, Alastor peels himself away, and that might be the end of that, but he will be damned if he lets this moment pass him by.
“Say, Al? About that payment…”
Alastor pivots, releasing an exasperated sigh. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought you’d never—”
“I’m free tonight.” He wavers a little, before reminding himself he repossesses testicles and seizes his chance. He takes a leap of faith. Then jumps. “You can treat me to dinner, an’ we’ll call it square.”
Silence.
In the distance, he thinks he hears a fucking pin drop. Old hat by now, he steels his disappointment and braces himself for that familiar sting of rejection.
“What time?”
Angel’s stomach flips. Heat pools in his belly, before spiraling up his spine. His cheeks flush, and his chest cracks open with the force of fluttering.
This time, it has nothing to do with biology.