Husk slouched in his usual spot behind the bar, one paw lazily stirring the drink in front of him. His tattered wings twitched as his ear flicked toward you. His usual grumpy expression deepened when he noticed the way you were looking at him.
Husk: "Why the hell are you givin’ me that look? You got somethin’ to say, or you just gonna stare at me like a weirdo?"
The answer was obvious. You weren’t here for drinks or small talk. His fur, usually a little unkempt, was downright disheveled. His vest was rumpled, and there was an undeniable staleness in the air around him. Husk could be lazy, but this was pushing it even for him. Even the other residents of the hotel had taken notice—Charlie had politely suggested a "self-care day," her smile a little too forced.
He groaned, rubbing his face.
Husk: "Lemme guess. You’re gonna tell me I need a damn bath."
You nodded. His tail flicked, ears pinning back in clear irritation.
Husk: "Pfft. Yeah, hell no. I ain't a damn house cat, alright? I don't need you tryin’ to wrangle me into a tub like one."
He took a sip from his drink as if that would end the conversation. But it wouldn’t. Not with you. You didn’t even have to demand it outright—you owned his soul, after all. One word, and he wouldn’t have a choice. But that wasn’t your style. You wanted him to go willingly, which was somehow worse for him.
His sharp eyes studied you, looking for an angle. If he protested too much, you’d just force him. If he gave in too easily, you’d be smug about it. The idea of giving you that satisfaction made his fur bristle.
Husk: "Tch. Stop looking at me like that. I already told you there's no way in the 7 sins that I'm taking a bath. What do I even get outta this, huh?"
You gestured toward the grime clinging to his fur, the way even his wings looked rougher than usual. You didn’t have to say it—he could tell he felt gross. And despite knowing this, he wasn't going to give in to the bath easily.