Husk and Angel's first official date is a surprise to both of them, a cold night sharing the shitty air mattress on a cold basement floor of a haunted house. It's not the first time they've done this and it certainly isn't the last, but it is the first time Angel's gotten Husk's dick in his mouth.
Now, is a haunted house the best place to give a blowjob even if it is hall of fame worthy? Probably not, but Angel hasn't had his Vyvanse today and his oral fixation tends to get worse on those days. Could he have gnawed on a stick of beef jerky instead? Mind ya business.
He's got Husk deep in his throat, teetering on the edge of orgasm, when they hear Alastor screaming upstairs. Now, normally they wouldn't be very worried because Alastor tends to scream when he sees bats and they are very much in bat country, but Alastor is also all the way up in the attic so they shouldn't be able to hear him.
The walkie crackles to life on the floor nearby, Alastor's voice nearly muffled by crackling static. It's high-pitched and has Husk jerking upright, accidentally shoving his dick a little too far forward and choking Angel. It would probably be hilarious if they weren't struggling to get their pants back on before rescuing their friend.
They burst into the attic, Angel breathing hard but ready to fight whatever ghostie or intruder has caused the mayhem. There's a man on the good air mattress which turns out to be Alastor, beneath him is a ghost clown that's taking one hell of a beating. It flickers in and out of sight with each punch, weakened by the salt shaker Alastor is pummeling it with.
Angel has his phone out and is taking a video before he even realizes he's doing it. Later he'll rationalize that it was the smart thing to do, proving the existence of ghosts and that Alastor's a badass in one fell swoop. They'll dub Alastor's panicked wheezing with some manly growls when they're home.
Husk, the only rational one of the trio, marches forward and yanks Alastor back with one hard jerk of his pajama top. Alastor's still swinging when he's shoved against Angel, who smartly puts his phone away and restrains the poor idiot.
The ghost, one Frank Barker, continues to flicker weakly in the moonlight before vanishing altogether. It's fairly anticlimactic after the rude awakening, but at least now they know for sure who they're dealing with. Besides, who hasn't fantasized about murdering a clown at some point? Clowns are fucking weirdos of the decidedly not-hot variety.
"So, uh, what're we supposed to do now that we've actually caught a ghost," Angel asks once Alastor's gone still. He's slow to release the other man, eyes narrowed in distrust. Alastor, for his part, straightens his pajamas with as much dignity as any grown man can when said pajamas are bunny-themed.
"We need to burn his anchor," Alastor says. He's shaking, Angel notes, excess adrenaline retreating and a wave of exhaustion sweeping over him. Without a word, Angel removes his hoodie and thrusts it over Alastor's head. Angel doesn't feel ready to examine the flutter of excitement in his belly at seeing Alastor in his clothes. He's still wrapping his head around having Husk as a boyfriend.
"Uh-huh, and what's that?"
"The thing that's keeping him tethered to—"
"I meant what's the object, smartass." Alastor blinks up at him and Angel heaves a sigh. He forgets sometimes that Alastor doesn't always understand half-assed questions. "Is it that goofy red nose down by the gift shop?"
"I don't believe so. It has to be a recent arrival. He didn't show up until three weeks ago, remember? That nose has been here since this museum was founded." A clown museum in the middle of fucking Nevada. Who visits these places? Who, aside from true crime junkies and John C Reilly, likes clowns so much that they build a museum dedicated to them?
"Curator said they just got a lot of shit donated by a local family," Husk reminds them. "Some of it's still in boxes up here." Which makes sense why most of the activity has been centered around the upper floors. There'd only been a single attack down in the basement, a few sightings of a red-wigged doofus walking through walls on the second floor, but the violent stuff has been centered in this very room.
"Then let's get to work."
"How do we know what we're lookin' for, Al?"
"It'll feel prickly."
"Oh, like you when we run outta Dr Pepper," Angel muses, sharing a grin with Husk. Alastor slaps him across the face with the sleeve of his own goddamn hoodie. "Hey! Fuckin' watch the moneymaker!"
"I'm pretty sure it's my monologues bookending the episodes that make us the money." Alastor gives a prim little sniff that turns into a piggy squeal when Angel pushes him away with a palm to the face. "Hey! No Touchy!"
"Chill, Kuzco." Angel moves past him to the boxes gathering dust at the far end of the attic, starting to dig through them for anything that feels prickly. Angel doesn't have a psychic bone in his body, unlike Alastor, so he's mostly hoping for the best.
They've been at it for ten minutes and Angel's on his fourth box when something in the box sends a sharp pain through his hand. He jerks it back, sore fingers going to his mouth as he glares down into the box. There's nothing sharp in there, just a bunch of brightly colored wigs, so what the fuck pricked him?
"Al, come over here for a minute." Alastor and Husk wander over, Husk groaning as he rubs at his lower back. Dude's old before his time; bad knees, bad back, and some distinguished gray streaks in his pitch black hair. Personally, Angel's really fond of those gray streaks. "Something hurt me."
"Spiders wouldn't be a surprise—"
"No bite marks," Husk says. He's got Angel's sore hand cradled in both of his, turning it this way and that to check it in the shitty lighting. They'd both forgotten their flashlights in the basement in their haste to reach Alastor, so the bare bulb swinging gently overhead will have to do. "Not even any redness."
"Hmm." Alastor digs happily through the box, tossing wigs over his shoulder. A rainbow one smacks Husk in the face and he lets out a disgusted noise when it leaves a trail of gunk over the bridge of his nose. "Ah! Found it!" The wig Alastor holds up used to be bright red, but now it's covered in a black ooze.
"Is that tar?"
"Ectoplasm!"
"Ghost jizz," Angel asks, perking up. Alastor wrinkles his nose, casting an anxious look at the camera on its tripod.
"Ectoplasm is a substance ghosts can sometimes create—"
"Ghost jizz," Husk and Angel say in unison, nodding sagely. Alastor rolls his eyes. He looks about ready to fling the jizz-covered wig at them, but drops it with a gasp and a shake of his hand.
"Ugh, I forgot my gloves." He shakes his hand until Husk produces a handkerchief from his pocket, smirking when Alastor hastily wipes the jizz off on it. Sensory issues are no joke, Angel used to eat Ring Pops with gloves on because the stickiness would drive him insane otherwise. "Angel, do you— Oh, thank you."
"No problem, big guy," Angel murmurs, handing over the little bottle of hand sanitizer. This one smells like fresh cookies and he's got a couple Halloween-themed ones in his bag downstairs. He never goes anywhere without at least three mini sanitizers in his purse.
"Let's go burn this thing so we can get to sleep," Husk says, standing with a groan. "God knows I'm gonna be sore for a week after tonight. Don't know how I'm gonna get to sleep."
"Oh, I know something that'll get ya nice and cozy, baby," Angel purrs. He can't help it, he loves the way Husk's cheeks heat up in a warm blush. Even in the shitty light, the camera picks up the pink splotches nicely. They'll probably edit that part out, but who knows? A little romance might be just what the doctor ordered where views are concerned.
"Could the two of you save the innuendos for when I'm not close enough to hear them," Alastor complains loudly. Poor little ace is blushing even darker than Husk and that's before Angel hits him with a sultry smile. Angel coos and mimes pinching Alastor's cheek, one ungloved hand coming up to bat Angel away.
"Poor baby, ya know we love ya." Alastor grumbles as he rises to his feet, moving over to his duffel to get his gloves out. The leather is pristine and will need a thorough cleaning in the morning after handling the wig, but Angel knows Husk has a backup pair in the truck for just this purpose. He's a real softie no matter how much he grumbles.
There's a fire pit in the backyard, fenced off for staff parties during the summer. That's where Alastor drops the wig, the flame of Husk's lighter catching quickly and easily. The ectoplasm is like gasoline, the flames licking along the edge of the metal grate. There's a loud shriek back in the museum, a flash of orange in the attic window, and then the wig's little more than ash.
"If you two will excuse me, I'm gonna go wash my hands until they're raw," Alastor says, holding his hands away from his body. He looks like a man marching into war as he leaves Husk and Angel alone.
"So, about that offer," Husk starts, but frowns when Angel lets out a low whine. "Hey, no pressure, baby. You don't have to do anythin' you don't wanna." Angel winces, holding up the hand that had touched the wig. The fingers are starting to swell, red and blotchy with the beginnings of a bad rash.
"Husky, I think I'm allergic to ghost jizz."
Y'all remember those clown sightings back in, like, 2016? Shit was wild.