Huskerdust Cat Tails

Author’s Note:

This story is my original work. I drafted and wrote the fic myself, and I used an AI assistant (Perplexity) only to help with some phrasing, grammar, and spelling. All plot, characterization, and ideas are mineThis story is rated 18+ / Explicit and includes:Explicit sexual content (sex, masturbation)Angel as a porn actor/starToxic and emotionally unhealthy relationships (primarily Val/Angel and Val/Vox)Emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, yelling/argumentsUnrequited love (especially Val→Vox, Val→Angel)Substance and venom use (including mind/body-altering effects)Minor injury and non-graphic blood (e.g., kitchen knife cut, first aid scenes)Body-related themes: heat cycles (Husk), molting/shedding (Val’s wings/scales), mild body horrorStrong language and adult themesHurt/comfort, angst, and relationship healing (toxic dynamics improve over time)Ships / Dynamics (for tagging):Valentino / Angel Dust (toxic, improving)Angel Dust / Husk (HuskerDust, eventually healthy)Valentino → Vox (unrequited

“HuskerDust payoff scene later in the fic (vanilla but explicit

--++--++--+++-+++

Evening settled over Mulberry Street like cigarette smoke—slow, clinging, and threaded with the smell of baking dough. 

The sign above the door read La Famiglia’s, the red paint a little chipped at the edges, but the glow from inside made the whole place look like a promise. Warm yellow light spilled onto the sidewalk, catching on rain-damp cobblestones and the polished shoes of men who walked too confidently for this part of town. The bells over the door jingled every time someone came in or left, setting off a chorus of voices and laughter and the hiss of pans from the kitchen. 

“Table four wants another basket of bread, Molly!” 

“I got it, I got it, keep your apron on,” Molly shot back, snatching a wicker basket off the counter. 

She moved through the cramped dining room with practiced ease, weaving between chairs and elbows, dodging busy hands with the grace of a dancer. Her dark hair was pinned up in a loose bun, a few curls escaping to frame her face, flour dusting one cheek where she’d brushed a hand without thinking. She wore the same simple dress she always wore to the restaurant—white with little blue flowers—and the same bright smile that made old men leave bigger tips and kids ask for extra cheese. 

“Here you go, Mr. Romano,” she said, setting the bread down in front of a balding regular. “Careful, it’s hot. Don’t burn those pretty fingers.” 

“Ah, you’ll just kiss them better, eh, Molly?” he teased. 

She laughed, swatting him lightly on the shoulder with her order pad. “Dream big, mister.” 

From behind the counter, the kitchen window framed Anthony like a stage. He stood in front of the flour‑dusted prep table, tossing a disk of dough into the air with effortless flourish. It spun above his head, perfectly round, catching the light as customers near the front paused to clap. 

“Look at that, huh?” Anthony grinned, flipping the dough and catching it on his fists. “Better than the shows uptown, and you don’t gotta wear a suit.” 

He tossed a wink toward a small group of girls in bright dresses near the door. Two of them giggled, hiding behind their hands. One rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite hide her smile. 

“Tony,” the cook grumbled from the stove, “less circus, more pizza.” 

“Relax, Frankie,” Anthony said, spreading the dough onto the wooden peel and reaching for the sauce ladle. “I’m givin’ the people a show. Happy people eat more. You want tips or you wanna retire broke and alone with your onions?” 

The older man muttered something in Italian, but the corner of his mouth twitched. 

Anthony—Tony to his family, Angel to a handful of customers who’d picked up the nickname—worked like he’d been born to be watched. He hummed along with the radio as he dragged sauce across the dough, sprinkled cheese in perfect circles, and tossed on toppings with dramatic little flicks of his wrist. Every time he slid a pizza into the big brick oven, he did it with a flourish, like presenting a gift to the flames. 

The restaurant smelled like tomatoes, garlic, yeast, and heat. The walls were plastered with framed photos—neighborhood kids holding up soccer trophies, family portraits, a black‑and‑white of Henroin standing in front of the building when it first opened. In the photo, he looked younger, sharper, without the weight in his eyes he carried now. 

In person, Henroin sat in his usual corner booth under that same picture, a glass of red wine in hand and a newspaper spread out in front of him. He pretended to read it, turning the pages occasionally, but his eyes were never on the print. They tracked the room instead—the door, the registry, the men who came and went. His suit was dark and pressed, his tie neat, hair slicked back without a strand out of place. 

Every now and then, one of the men at the other tables glanced his way, like they were checking the weather. Henroin would give the smallest tilt of his head, a raised eyebrow, the ghost of a nod. Conversations rose and fell accordingly. 

Molly’s path through the dining room curved instinctively to avoid blocking his view. 

“Tony, order up!” she called, balancing a tray of drinks with one hand and pointing toward the kitchen window with the other. 

“Yeah, yeah, keep your halo on, I’m workin’,” Anthony replied, sliding a finished pizza onto a metal tray. He leaned his elbows on the counter, chin in his hands, and called, “Molly, tell me you saved me a slice. I’m wasting away back here.” 

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “You had three already.” 

“I’m a growin’ boy.” 

“You’re twenty‑one.” 

“And yet, tragically underfed.” He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning heartbreak. 

“You finish what’s on the docket and maybe I’ll smuggle you a crust,” she said, though her smile was fond. “No promises.” 

“You’re an angel, y’know that?” 

“Funny. People say the same about you.” 

He snorted, pushing back from the counter to grab a pizza cutter. “They must not know me very well.” 

The bells over the door jingled. 

A chill slipped in with the night air, just for a heartbeat, before it was swallowed by the restaurant’s warmth. The man who stepped inside wore a dark coat over a suit that was a little too nice for this neighborhood, a fedora tilted low. He paused, letting his eyes adjust, then smoothed his lapels and looked around like he owned the place. 

Molly’s smile didn’t slip, but it stiffened around the edges. 

“Evenin’,” she said, voice still light. “Table for one?” 

The man’s gaze slid past her, straight to Henroin’s corner. He didn’t answer. Henroin folded his newspaper, set it down, and raised his glass in a small, almost cordial salute. 

“Back room,” Henroin murmured, just loud enough for Molly to hear as she passed by his booth. “Give him the good table.” 

“Sure, Papa,” she replied, carefully not looking at the newcomer as he moved past. 

Anthony watched all of this from behind the counter, fingers resting on the wooden peel. There was a familiar rhythm to it now—the entrance, the look, the quiet signal, the way Molly’s posture changed, losing a little of its bounce. 

He tossed a glance at the clock above the door. Still early. Dinner rush wasn’t over yet. 

Molly returned to the counter to grab a bottle of imported wine, her hand brushing his. 

“Busy tonight,” she said, too casually. 

“Yeah,” he replied, matching her tone. “City’s hungry.” 

Her eyes flicked toward the man now lingering near the hallway that led to the back of the restaurant—the narrow corridor that ended at the storage room and the door to the alley. He pretended to study a framed photo on the wall, but his attention kept drifting toward Henroin’s booth. 

Molly wet her lips. “Don’t keep him too long if Papa sends him your way. We’re slammed and Frankie’s gonna have a heart attack if you vanish.” 

Anthony swallowed a sigh and leaned forward to nudge her shoulder with his own. “You worry too much.” 

“Somebody has to.” Her smile was small, but real. “Besides, you’re the one who says you’re the star of the show. Can’t run this place without its main act.” 

“Now you’re talkin’ sense.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her, earning a quiet laugh. 

The door to the kitchen swung open as Frankie shoved a tray of empty plates onto the counter. “You two gonna gab all night or you gonna work?” 

“Relax, Frankie, you’ll wrinkle,” Anthony said, already reaching for another ball of dough. To Molly, under his breath, he added, “Go charm your tables, Mol. I’ll… handle whatever needs handlin’.” 

She hesitated for a heartbeat. Her eyes searched his face, like she wanted to say more. Then a kid in the corner knocked over a soda, and she jolted back into motion, turning with her usual practiced cheer. 

“Uh‑oh! Flood on aisle three!” she called, hurrying away with a rag and a fresh glass. 

The stranger finally moved. He crossed the room in measured steps and stopped at Henroin’s booth, removing his hat with a smooth, practiced motion. 

“Evening,” he said, voice low. “Place is jumpin’.” 

Henroin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We do alright. You enjoy the city, you gotta eat. Sit, sit.” He gestured to the opposite side of the booth. “You like pizza, Mr…?” 

“Call me Sal,” the man said. 

“Everyone does,” Henroin replied, the briefest hint of amusement in his tone. 

They spoke quietly, heads bent together, glasses of wine refilled by an attentive Molly who slipped in and out like a ghost. The hum of the restaurant covered their words—the clink of cutlery, the radio crooning some sentimental tune, the sizzle from the kitchen. 

Anthony tried not to watch. He focused on the dough, the sauce, the orders Molly pinned to the line. Still, he felt the weight of his father’s gaze brush over him once, twice, like a hand tapping his shoulder without touching. 

He knew what that meant. 

A little later, when the plates at Henroin’s booth were mostly empty and the wine bottle was half‑finished, Henroin leaned back and wiped his mouth with his napkin. His tone turned lighter, more casual. 

“You look tired, Sal,” he said. “Too much business, not enough… relaxation.” 

Sal smirked. “City doesn’t relax much.” 

“Ah, but this is a special place.” Henroin’s eyes slid toward the counter, toward Anthony. “We take good care of our friends. Tony!” 

Anthony looked up, abandoning the half‑assembled margherita he’d been working on. “Yeah, Papa?” 

“Come here a minute.” 

He wiped his hands on his apron, untied it, and stepped out from behind the counter. Without the barrier of the prep table, he seemed different—less cook, more performer. He straightened his shirt, smoothing the fabric over his chest, and put on his easy grin as he approached. 

“Evenin’, Sal,” he said, like they’d met a dozen times before. Maybe they had; faces blurred together, sometimes. “You enjoyin’ the food? Best in the city, swear on my mama’s grave.” 

“Your mama’s not dead,” Henroin pointed out mildly. 

Anthony flashed him a quick, crooked smile. “Then I’m just really confident.” 

Sal laughed, the sound low and appreciative. “Food’s good,” he said, looking Anthony over in a way that had nothing to do with the pizza. “Service seems… promising.” 

Anthony’s grin didn’t falter. It never did. “We aim to please.” 

Henroin rested his hand on the table, fingers drumming once. “Tony, why don’t you show our friend the, ah… special selection. In the back. It’s quieter there. Good for… relaxing.” 

The air around the booth thinned. Molly, passing by with a tray, slowed for just a second. Her eyes flicked from Henroin to Anthony, then to Sal. 

“Sure thing,” Anthony said, voice light, like this was nothing more than a mundane chore. “We got a room where the noise from the street doesn’t bother you. You look like a guy who could use some peace and quiet.” 

Sal rose, smoothing his tie. “Lead the way.” 

As Anthony turned, he caught Molly’s gaze. She balanced the tray on one hand, the other clutching her order pad so tightly her knuckles went white. 

“Don’t keep him too long, Tony,” she said, forcing her voice into a teasing lilt. “We’re busy. Frankie’s gonna throw a fit.” 

Anthony gave her the brightest smile he could muster. “Hey, when do I ever take long? I’m quick, efficient, and charming. Boss’s dream.” 

A faint laugh escaped her, but her eyes were soft with worry. “Yeah. Just… come back hungry. I saved you a slice.” 

“You’re too good to me, sis.” 

He brushed his fingers against her elbow as he passed, a little squeeze that said more than he could with words. Then he headed toward the narrow hallway at the back, the click of his shoes muffled by the worn carpet runner. 

The corridor was dim compared to the dining room, lit by a single bulb that buzzed faintly. The walls were lined with crates of canned tomatoes and sacks of flour, the smell of yeast sharper here, mixed with the damp stone smell of the alley beyond the back door. 

“You do this a lot?” Sal asked, voice echoing softly in the tight space. 

Anthony shrugged, not looking back yet. “Depends what you mean by ‘this.’ We got a lotta regulars. Some like their sauce extra spicy.” 

Sal chuckled. “Your old man runs a nice operation.” 

“He runs a busy one,” Anthony said, reaching the door at the end of the hall. He pushed it open to the small back room—a cramped rectangle with a wooden table, two chairs, a dusty window looking out over the alley, and a single lamp hanging crooked from the ceiling. A cot was folded against the wall, half‑hidden by a stack of crates. 

He stepped aside, gesturing in with a flourish. “Our VIP lounge. Real exclusive. You should feel honored.” 

Sal entered, taking off his coat and draping it over the back of a chair. He tossed his hat onto the table, then turned and closed the distance between them in three slow steps. 

Anthony’s smile stayed in place, even as something behind his eyes dimmed, just a little. His hands slid automatically to his shirt buttons, undoing the top one, fingers practiced and steady. He’d done this before. Enough times that his body knew the script even when his mind wanted to drift somewhere else—back to the warmth of the dining room, to Molly’s laughter, to the sound of plates clattering and the radio crooning about some distant, dreamy love. 

“You seemed real friendly out there,” Sal said, studying him. 

“I’m friendly everywhere,” Anthony replied lightly. “House policy.” 

“Your sister know what kind of policy this is?” 

“Sure.” He met the man’s gaze head‑on, defiance flickering in his expression. “She knows we make people feel good. We’re in hospitality.” 

Sal’s smile widened, impressed by the bravado. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.” 

“Yeah,” Anthony said, letting the door swing shut behind them with a soft click. “That’s what they keep tellin’ me.” 

The sound of the restaurant dimmed, turning into a muffled hum—laughter and clinking glasses, the faint croon of the radio, all blurred behind the thin wall. Life went on out there, bright and noisy and oblivious. 

In the dining room, Molly wiped down an empty table, her eyes flicking toward the hallway every few seconds. A fresh pizza slid out of the oven, the crust perfectly golden, cheese bubbling. Frankie cursed as an order ticket fell off the line and fluttered to the floor. 

“Where’s that idiot?” he grumbled. “We need him.” 

Molly forced herself to smile at the family that had just sat down near the window. Two little kids pressed their noses to the glass, pointing at something outside, chattering about the snow that might come later in the week. 

“Welcome to La Famiglia’s,” she said, voice steady. “You came to the right place. We’ll take good care of you.” 

She hoped, silently, that somewhere in all this taking care of everyone else, someone would remember to take care of Anthony. 

+__+ 

Angel lay on the bed beside Val, staring up at the ceiling where a huge, glowing heart motif shimmered faintly in the low light. It crowned the headboard like a neon halo, all soft curves and sharp color. Hearts on the wallpaper, hearts in the pillows, hearts in the stupid little charms hanging off the lamp. Val liked hearts. Val liked owning them. 

The coat still smelled faintly of dye. 

Angel smoothed his hands down the front of it, fingertips tracing the fresh seams where the fabric shifted from pale pink to even paler, almost white, near his cuffs. The whole thing was a bright, sugary shade that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. On him, it worked. Val had made sure of that—he always did. 

Little hearts, stitched in delicate lines of darker thread, framed Angel’s chest like target marks. 

“Cute, huh?” Angel murmured to himself, tilting his head. One of the hearts caught the light and glittered slightly, thanks to a few rhinestones that definitely hadn’t been there before. “Gotta hand it to ya, boss… you got taste.” 

Behind him, the mattress dipped as Val shifted. Or maybe it was his wings; those were always moving, even when the rest of him looked perfectly still. One leathery tip brushed Angel’s side and then pulled back, like it had accidentally touched something fragile. 

Val didn’t like being held from behind. He tolerated Angel leaning on him, draping over his chest, lounging across his lap like an overdecorated house cat—but the second Angel’s arms had tried to wrap around his back earlier, that easy smile had gone brittle. 

“Don’t crowd me, baby,” he’d said, sing‑song sweet, eyes sharp. “You know I don’t like surprises.” 

So now Angel lay on his back, not touching. Close enough that their shoulders almost brushed, far enough that Val’s wings had room to twitch without bumping him. On the pillow between them, a curl of pink hair tickled Angel’s forehead where a few strands had fallen loose. 

He liked the coat. He really did. It made him feel… seen. Decorated. Pretty in the way he understood—bright, loud, impossible to ignore. Val had rolled the sleeves up just right, fussing with the fit until it hugged Angel’s waist and flared over his hips like it had always belonged to him. 

“Gotta keep my star lookin’ like a star,” Val had purred, hands smoothing down the lapels. “Can’t have you blendin’ into the background. That’d be a crime.” 

A crime, in Hell. That was funny. 

Angel’s mouth curled into a small, private smile as he stared up at the heart above them. If he squinted, the edges blurred, and it almost looked like the stained glass in some old church. He wondered what the priest would say, seeing this bed in that light. 

All in all… his life wasn’t the worst it could be. He had a soft mattress, fancy clothes, more glitter than he’d ever dreamed of when he was hustling on busted city streets. People knew his name. They screamed it, chanted it, moaned it. There were nights the applause still rang in his ears long after he left the stage. 

He had a place. A role. A purpose. 

It just happened to come wrapped in claws. 

Beside him, Val exhaled a slow, satisfied breath. It smelled like smoke and expensive cologne and something sour Angel tried not to think about. One of Val’s hands slid lazily across the sheets until his fingers brushed Angel’s forearm. 

“Not sulkin’, are ya, sugar?” Val’s voice drifted up, lazy and amused. “You go quiet, I start thinkin’ I broke somethin’ important.” 

Angel blinked and turned his head just enough to see him. Val lounged on his side, propped up on one elbow, white hair falling just so across one eye. His grin was soft, almost fond. His eyes were not. 

“Nah,” Angel said, forcing a lightness into his tone that came out smooth from years of practice. “Just admirin’ the décor. You really went all‑in on the heart theme, huh? You tryin’ to tell me somethin’, Valentino?” 

Val’s smile sharpened. “Just makin’ sure you remember who loves you most, doll.” 

Angel rolled his eyes, playful. “Pretty sure Hell don’t do love.” 

“It does my version,” Val replied, reaching over to tug on the front of Angel’s coat, fingers pressing against the stitched hearts. “You like it?” 

Angel looked down at himself again, at the pink, at the shine, at the hearts that marked him out as Val’s favorite toy. His chest warmed with a familiar mix of pride and something heavier he didn’t examine too closely. 

“Yeah,” he said, honestly. “I look adorable. Like cotton candy with legs.” 

“That’s my boy.” Val’s hand lingered, thumb brushing one of the heart motifs in a way that might almost have been tender if Angel didn’t know better. “You were made for this color. Sweet. Soft. Sticky.” 

Angel snorted. “Sticky’s one word for it.” 

Val laughed, the sound low and smooth, and then flopped back onto his pillow, wings shifting.

Vox burst into the room on a wave of static and too-bright blue light, the glow from his screen-face cutting through the dim pink haze like a knife.

“Val!” he said, voice pitching high with excitement. “You are not gonna believe this, babe, our water park idea is about to pay off in a huge way—”

“Mmnnnngh.” Val didn’t even open his eyes at first, just dragged the sheet higher over his hips. “I’m naked, dear.”

Vox froze two steps inside the doorway. The image on his screen glitched, flickering from a sleek news anchor grin to a flat blue error bar before snapping back. If a TV could blush, his did.

“I–I know,” he sputtered, volume dropping. “Believe me, I know, I’ve got it in 4K, but listen, Val, the projections came in and we’re lookin’ at a fifty percent increase in—”

A pillow hit him square in the face.

“Give me an extra hour to sleep,” Val drawled, finally cracking one eye open to glare at him. “It’s six in the morning. The only thing I wanna see surge right now is my REM cycle.”

The pillow slid down Vox’s screen with a soft fwump, feathers hissing against glass. For a moment, his display showed nothing but “NO SIGNAL” in big block letters. Then it blinked back to his usual sharp-featured avatar, now frowning.

“I just thought you’d want to hear that we’re going to absolutely annihilate the competition this quarter,” Vox muttered. His shoulders hunched, static fuzzing around the edges of his frame. “But sure. Sleep. Whatever.”

He turned toward the door, the glow of his face dimming as he went. The big V on his chest logo burned a little less bright, and his antennae drooped like kicked dog ears.

Val watched him go for exactly half a second.

Then he rolled over and grabbed Angel, hauling him in without ceremony. Angel let out a startled squeak that turned into a breathy laugh as Val wrapped around him like a very possessive octopus, wings and arms and tail all curling close.

“C’mere, sugar,” Val mumbled into Angel’s hair, already half-asleep again. “You’re warmer than any stupid neon.” 

Angel blinked at the door, where the last flicker of Vox’s light disappeared into the hallway. For just a heartbeat, something like guilt pricked at him—not for Val, never for Val—but for the way Vox’s shoulders had dipped on his way out.

Then Val’s mouth brushed his forehead, lazy and unthinking, a soft kiss pressed right between the stitched little hearts on his coat’s collar.

The guilt evaporated.

Angel relaxed into the hold, letting himself be folded up and tucked under Val’s chin like an oversized stuffed animal. He knew this wasn’t tenderness, not really. It was ownership, a dragon hugging its favorite treasure close so nobody else could touch.

Didn’t stop it from feeling good in the moment.

“Y’know,” Angel murmured, voice low so it didn’t carry past the door, “he’s gonna be sulkin’ all day. You coulda at least let him finish his little villain monologue.”

Val huffed a faint laugh against his skin. “He’ll live. He loves me. He’ll come back with charts and confetti when I’m awake enough to fake listenin’.”

Angel smiled, eyes drifting shut as Val’s hand smoothed down his back in slow, lazy strokes.

Outside, somewhere in the tower, Vox was already pacing in front of a dozen screens, working himself up into a new pitch to make the water park sound even more irresistible. Inside the bedroom, the neon heart hummed, the room warm and still.

Valentino slept. 

Angel let himself be held. 

And the future of Hell’s tackiest, most profitable water park waited one more hour for its king to get his beauty rest.