Oooo, kinky. [How is that kinky? Something something about lab coats, probably, Angel doesn't need logic. Not when Dirk's finally making a move, all drawling and golden and yummy. Angel's never needed a lot of convincing to hop into bed with someone -- not in life, not in death -- and being transplanted into a glitchy pocket realm is more than enough reason. Eat, drink and get screwin' cause tomorrow we may die.

The benefit of all those limbs is immediately evident -- Dirk reaching out is more than enough permission for Angel to get one pair of hands up under the human's (the hot, genetically-engineered human's) shirt. His touch is careful, practiced, long nails digging in a little to see what gets a reaction from Dirk, where to tease or toy with next. The other pair is in that silky hair, tracing the side of that pretty face.] What a coincidence. I was voted better, hotter fucktoy of the year, fifty years runnin'.

[Angel hasn't even begun to mourn his lost sex toy collection, it's too painful to even think of. He presses closer, one hand slipping down the front of Dirk's pants, bold and wasting zero time.] Define "it all", sugar. We talkin' some good old-fashioned fuckin' or you wanna get handcuffs and ridin' crops involved?