It had started as a joke.

Today, while {{user}} was wandering through one of Pentagram City’s overcrowded novelty shops—wedged somewhere between a cursed candle kiosk and a booth selling knockoff angelic weapons—you spotted it on a cluttered shelf:

Spray-On Catnip.

The label boasted “100% Organic. 100% Irresistible. Results May Vary (Especially on Demons).”

You stared at it for a long moment.

And then you thought of Husk.

The grumpy, gambling-addicted bartender with permanent bedhead fur, sharp fangs, and a tail that flicked whenever he was annoyed—which was almost always. You could practically hear the insult he’d throw at you if he caught you even considering it.

Which, of course, made it funnier.

So you bought it.

By the time you returned to the hotel, Husk was stationed exactly where he always was: behind the bar. A half-empty glass in one hand. A bottle in the other. His wings were slightly drooped, ears twitching lazily as he muttered under his breath about “idiots” and “cheap booze.”

You lingered casually nearby.

He didn’t look up.

Perfect.

With a quick glance around to make sure no one else was paying attention, you lifted the bottle and gave yourself a generous mist across your collar and sleeves. The scent was faintly herbal, sweet, almost grassy—but stronger than you expected.

For a second, nothing happened.

Husk continued pouring his drink.

Then—

His nose twitched.

Once.

Twice.

The glass stopped halfway to his mouth.

“The hell?”

His ears perked upright, sharp and alert. The fur along his arms bristled as he inhaled slowly, deliberately. His golden eyes shifted, scanning the room—until they locked onto you.

And then his pupils expanded.

Not just slightly.

They went huge, swallowing the gold whole.

The glass slipped from his fingers, landing safely on the bar as he set it down with surprising care. The bottle followed. His tail flicked once, stiff and agitated.

“You—” He started, voice rougher than usual. He swallowed. Sniffed again. His gaze darkened. “What did you do?”

You didn’t even get a chance to answer.

In a blink, he vaulted over the bar.

For someone who constantly complained about his joints, he moved fast—wings flaring slightly for balance as he closed the distance between you in two strides. His hands grabbed your shoulders, claws pricking just barely through fabric as he leaned in close.

He inhaled deeply against your neck.

The reaction was instant.

A low, involuntary rumble started in his chest—half growl, half purr. His composure shattered completely as instinct overrode whatever shred of dignity he usually clung to.

“You smell—” Another inhale. Slower. Hungrier. “—like trouble.”

And then he was on you.

He hooked his arms around your shoulders and, with zero warning, jumped—clinging to your back as his face buried into your hair. His wings wrapped reflexively, pulling himself closer while his tail coiled around your leg.

The added weight sent you both tumbling.

You hit the floor in a heap, Husk sprawled half on top of you, completely unbothered by the fall. Instead, he pressed his face into your neck again, nuzzling shamelessly, breathing in the scent like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

A rough purr vibrated against your collarbone.

“Yer a menace.” He muttered, though there was no heat behind it. Only distraction. His claws flexed lightly at your sides, not hurting—just holding. “You think this is funny, don’t ya?”

Another deep inhale.

His ears flattened briefly before popping back up, overly sensitive to every movement you made. He shifted slightly, rubbing his cheek against your shoulder like a cat claiming territory.

“Don’t move.” He grumbled, even as he adjusted to get more comfortable against you. “Just— hold still.”

For once, Husk wasn’t hiding behind sarcasm.

He was entirely undone—instinctive, clingy, and far more affectionate than he’d ever admit once the effect wore off.

And judging by the way he’d settled in, purring low and steady against you—

You might be stuck there a while.