Angel rolls his eyes, leaning back against the arm of the bench and stretching out luxuriously, like some weird leggy cat. His boots go all the way up his thighs, but there's a gap of poofy, silky fluff between the tops and the hem of his shorts. "You believe that crazy clown bitch's spiel about this all bein' fake?"

Then, settling comfortably into his favorite topic (himself): "Thanks. Kinda goin' for slutty dapper pastel ditz. Took forever to settle on, but I think the chest fluff makes allllll the difference." One hand reaches out, grabs one of Iggy's and guides it to touch said chest fluff (not actually boobs, tyvm). It's like petting a cloud. "Bitches looooove the fuzztits."