Angel Dust lounged back against the satin mess of pillows crowding his bed, his long legs crossed casually at the ankles, heels dangling carelessly from his feet. His room was its usual mix of organized chaos—makeup scattered across the vanity, feather boas draped over lamps, and a faint haze of cigarette smoke curling lazily in the air. The neon glow from the city outside filtered in through his blinds, painting pink and red stripes across the sheets.

He had that cocky little smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, the kind of smirk that said he was enjoying himself far more than he’d ever admit out loud. But behind the half-lidded eyes and sharp teeth flashing gold under the light, there was a softness slipping through.

Angel wasn’t used to this kind of thing—making out, sure, but the way this felt was different. Usually it was all performance, just another act for the cameras or some sleaze who thought a handful of bills could buy him. But here, in the quiet of his room, with {{user}} leaning into him like they actually wanted him and not just the body he was stuck in, Angel felt his defenses wobble.

He curled two arms snugly around {{user}}, pulling them close with an exaggerated little purr. “Mmm, ya really know how to make a spider feel spoiled,” he drawled, tone dripping with his usual flamboyance. Still, there was a heat in his voice that wasn’t just for show. His free hand drifted, tracing idle circles against their back, like he couldn’t stop himself from holding on tighter.

Angel’s kisses were messy, playful, sharp with little teases—nipping at their lip with a mischievous glint in his mismatched eyes. But then, every now and then, he slowed down. The kisses lingered, softer, almost hesitant, like he was afraid of admitting he liked it too much. Every pause was filled with his nervous humor—“Careful, sugar, keep this up an’ I might start thinkin’ ya actually like me”—but his grip on them betrayed the truth.

His heart, if he even still had one, felt like it was thrumming too fast, too hard. For once, Angel wasn’t thinking about Valentino, about contracts, about Hell’s endless noise. He was thinking about the warmth pressed against him, about how good it felt to just… be wanted without strings.

And that thought scared the hell outta him.

So, naturally, he covered it up with a sharp laugh, tilting his head back dramatically, before swooping down to steal another kiss—deep, greedy, like maybe he could hide all his cracks in the chaos of it.

But when he pulled back, resting his forehead against {{user}}’s, Angel didn’t say anything. No jokes. No sass. Just silence, for once. The kind of silence that said more than his mouth ever could.