Chapter Text
Waking was disorienting. The echo of screams fading from a nightmare Angel was no longer in, traded for the gilded cage that held him. The ceiling shimmered with pink and gold lights but red static was all he could see, overwhelming to the soul sprawled in this silk-lined gutter, staring up at a disinterested day.
A cashmere blanket, the softest down pillows, and he couldn't sleep. Could barely make himself try when he knew what was waiting: fragments of 'what if?' What if Valentino had pulled the trigger and killed Husk? What if Angel had actually killed Cherri? What if he were welcomed back and there were landmines in his head waiting for Vox to say the right word?
Some days, Angel woke clawing at his own head. Trying to tear out the red that pulsed in his dreams. Fur was growing back over new scars but filming had to get creative on bad mornings, fancy angles that got the studio innovation awards and left Angel Dust sore and twisted.
But worse were the mornings he awoke from soft dreams of gentle touches, kisses with no agenda, whiskey and musk in his nose. What if he and Husk had gotten to have that talk? What if his courage hadn't failed him and he'd just kissed the man, on any number of late nights at the bar. What if he'd managed to own up to all the things etched into his heart like a curse?
Those mornings Valentino had to drag him out of the dressing room, a trail of tears behind him. Every stranger's touch burned, acid on an aching wound. The cameras zoomed in for close-ups of a tearful face, not caring that they'd broken their star.
Because Valentino owned him. Forever. There was no escape for a lowly sinner who'd willingly signed himself away. And since Val was currently Big Papi in Hell™, he'd tightened Angel's leash enough that he could barely breathe. There were no trips out of the studio, no visits to the Magic Kat, no sneaking off for drinks with Cherri, if she ever answered the calls he wasn't making. When Angel pissed Val off, clients were brought up to use him in the studio; no more standing on a streetcorner where he might wander off.
The moth overlord said it was to keep him out of trouble but there was no respite, no break from the silence echoing in his head. There were only shoots and the hours between shoots. When he had time, Valentino followed Angel to his dressing room for a round or two; still testing out new ideas before putting them in front of the camera.
But Val was busy with more meetings and whatever the head of the Vees did daily. More power than before, more popularity than the overlord had ever dreamed of but more responsibility to go with it. Valentino complained loudly but Angel never asked about it, just fell into oblivion with whatever drugs he could find when he wasn't dragged along to keep Val's cock warm. The ultimate powertrip hidden beneath a desk through meetings and news interviews; Angel hated how hazy it always left him. Made him want to stay close, keep kneeling at his overlord's feet long after the day was over. But he was inevitably kicked aside after Valentino had come, ignored in favour of the next bright thing catching the moth demon's attention.
So Angel Dust stuck to the studio floors. Kept his head down, kept quiet and skulked in the shadows as much as an eight-foot white-and-pink spider could. He heard what the whispers said about him: that he was a broken whore, just a sloppy hole and Valentino was growing bored. That the Hotel had been a joke if they thought Angel Dust was worth their time. Nothing that the voice in his head hadn't already sneered into the space between heartbeats.
Filthy.
Useless.
Worthless.
There was no energy to care. He was too busy drowning in grief, in the anger at his own actions. His hands had ruined things for Charlie, nearly destroyed the Hotel because he was too weak to stand up to a megalomaniac with a TV for a head and a dick that sparked with ozone before a lightning strike.
But a tiny corner of his heart burned white hot at the overlord himself. Yes, Angel had been too weak to resist but it was Vox's fucking power that fucked up his head.
Despite Valentino's increasingly unsubtle hints, Angel hadn't been up to the penthouse because he knew he'd punch that damned TV-head until his hands hurt and his heart felt better. But the fallout wouldn't be worth it. Probably. Not if he was any judge of Valentino's wrath and Vox's cruelty.
"What the fuck?" the wolf demon fucking Angel's mouth cried. He pulled out, staring wide-eyed at his blistered dick. "What the actual fuck?!"
Angel Dust blinked, coming back from the nothing he'd retreated to at the beginning of the shoot. He swiped at the drool black on his chin, hands trembling at the venom he thought he'd left well-dead behind him. There had been times a spider's defence would have come in handy but not now, in the middle of a scene with another six pages left of the shoot.
He tried not to think about his early years in Hell: life as a puppet assassin for his Pops, taking out rival Dons with a bite and a blowjob. Angel hadn't tasted blood that wasn't his in longer than he'd been alive. Hadn't missed the bitter curl of poison on his tongue, staining his fur until the outside matched the rotten inside.
"Take five," Valentino snarled, rising from his director's chair. Loomed over Angel, he stared at the kneeling sinner. "What the fuck is this?"
"Nothing," Angel mumbled, scrubbing at his face with a cum rag. Water bottle in hand, he swished and spit until the water ran clear.
You're a literal poison.
The moth overlord kept watching, gaze a sold weight on Angel's back but he didn't look up.
"I'm fine," Angel said, voice cracking.
"Sure, babe," Val scoffed, flicking a curl of smoke in his direction.
Valentino's control had grown alongside his popularity as head of the Vees. Now chains pinned Angel Dust in place whenever he stopped moving.
"Don't let it happen again," Val said, eyes flashing behind his lenses. "Or I'll rip out every tooth in your head except the one I gave you."
Angel Dust nodded, chasing the faintest hint of bitter around his gums. There'd been no venom in decades, not since his Pops had held his leash. He hadn't missed it.
"Places!" Valentino snapped, retaking his seat to lord over the fuckery happening before him. Angel Dust just kept his teeth covered and tried not to think.
When Angel blinked back into the present moment, the room was emptying out. He was sprawled across the skewed mattress on the floor, one ankle shackled to the wall. He blinked at the chain dazedly. Right, the script had mentioned a kidnapping scene; that explained the tape still stuck to his fur. It wound around three out of four arms and down his thighs. Stuck his fingers together and, fuck, would definitely need to be soaked out if he didn't want bald patches that Val would bitch about until they grew back.
Last time Valentino'd said, "Nobody wants to fuck a bald fucking spider, Angel Dust. Not when they could fuck a soft, fuzzy slut." He'd run sharp claws through the remaining shorn fuzz, digging in as bruises bloomed, visible for once on bare skin. "Nobody wants to see what you really are, babe, they want the whole package. The fuzzy fucking star."
Angel Dust grit his teeth, fished the key to the shackles out from under the mattress, and wrapped himself up in the red fur robe they'd left him. At least Val's wings leaned more towards purple these days, so they wouldn't be so "matchy-matchy". Angel was nauseous enough; maybe because breakfast had been half a bottle of vodka and dinner the night before was cum and angel dust.
Limping to his dressing room, Angel turned the shower on as hot as it went. Hissed at the pressure against aching bones. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, they stung; they always did when he was alone, as if he were filled to the brim with tears. He folded to the floor of the shower, arms wrapped around himself. He couldn't seem to get warm.
The Hotel had always been cozy, comfort in a pat on the shoulder from Charlie, a nod from Vaggi, a softening in the line of his wings when Husk caught Angel's eye.
He missed the slightly scratchy sheets, the mountain of pillows on his bed, the warmth of Fat Nuggets like a hot water bottle against his ribs when everything hurt and he couldn't sleep.
Angel stirred when the shower ran cold, pulling at the tape around his fingers, matting down to the skin. They'd used duct tape because they always did for the contrast on cumshot close-ups, but it stuck to fine fur like glue. Cold water wouldn't get him out of this; Angel needed a hot soak and probably scissors. But Valentino had gone through his dressing room and taken out all the blades, as if his own claws didn't do the most damage. As if the majority of the shoot delays weren't because they needed time for the bruises to fade.
A bath meant the penthouse, a chance that Angel might run into Val or even Vox. He growled, gritting his teeth. A deep breath didn't help, shallow were worse. He just wanted to the tape off. Angel threw on his own deep green robe and had a hand on the doorknob when someone knocked.
"What?" Angel snapped, staring down at Ethan, headset and tablet like a fragment of Sama come to haunt him. The memory of the Magic Kat's floor manager dogging his footsteps despite being cat-whiskered. "Ethan," Angel sighed, closing his smallest eyes and praying the demon wasn't here to fetch him for reshoots. "What is it?"
"Fanmail delivery," Ethan said, directing in a buff delivery demon that Angel was pretty sure had been in 'Delivery for Angel Dust's Ass part 7'. The crate of letters landed hard at Angel's feet and the demon left with a leer that Angel remembered looming over him.
"Thanks," he told the assistant, taking the vase of flowers he was handed. The gratitude was a lie when the letters were things like 'I came all over your poster, can you send me another one because this one's too sticky' and 'I'm your biggest fan, I'd give my soul to kiss your feet'.
The flowers were new, though, a riot of greens and blue against the red and pinks of Valentino's cage. Trembling hands reached for the envelope when the door was closed and Angel was alone; not ready for a dedication to his chest fluff or eternal devotion pledged to the curve of his back when he was getting fucked.
Upturning the envelope, Angel blinked at the playing card that fell into his waiting hand. No note, no obnoxious arts and crafts ode to his dick. Just some stupid playing card that... that... he'd seen before, shuffled between confident claws whenever Charlie cornered them all for more ice breakers and group therapy confessions. Husk's tail would start twitching, he'd glare at it, then pull a pack of cards like cigarettes from his pocket to flick through. Angel had watched them fan out to the soundtrack of Pentious sobbing more times than he could count.
This card, this king of hearts had to be from Husk's favourite deck. Angel's fingers shook as he looked over the foxing on the edges, the wear on the king's heart. The scratch across the back like Husk's finger had slipped on a shuffle.
After a furtive glance at the camera in the corner of his dressing room, Angel slipped the card into the depths of his chest fluff. Closest to the skin where it tangled and he couldn't be bothered to comb it; the dense fur was silky enough for a handhold before the matting started.
Angel pressed the playing card tightly against his chest, as if the king could keep his own heart safe. A fingertip drawn down a soft leaf of the bouquet and he almost felt brave enough to face the penthouse and carve the stench of sex and bondage from his fur.
The elevator door dinged and Angel sighed, pulling his robe more tightly closed, hands wrapped up together behind his back. Vox probably wasn't even in the penthouse. He'd overheard Val complaining that the TV-overlord was in his office beneath the Tower all the time. Watching. Like a fucking creep.
A fission of static zipped down Angel's spine; he hadn't seen Vox since he'd gotten the sense literally knocked back into him, replacing the overlord's power. Thinking of Vox made his gums itch, stole his breath until he was gasping, back against the wall; he never screamed but only because he didn't have enough air. Vox meant red flashes and lost time. He was scars that Angel didn't remember and a death immortalized on VHS that he saw again whenever he closed his eyes.
The penthouse was empty when Angel reached it. Quiet with the faint hum of electronics like the cameras were on. Angel Dust scurried into the bathroom and locked the door, breath shaking as much as his hands. His make-up kit was dusty, shoved into the corner behind all of Val's lotions and lubes, but the scissors and the drugs were still in there. The necessary things.
So Angel settled into the tub, all knees and elbows in the citrus bubble bath Val was least likely to miss. He sang quietly to hide the silence and told himself it was steam, not tears, when 'I'm a loser baby' cracked in half against his teeth. Kept humming, ignoring the way his chest hitched, and pulled at the tape, cut out what clung and refused to come off. His fingers were prunes, the ball of used duct tape and soft fur tossed into the garbage can before he got out of the water.
Finally clean and definitely heartsick, Angel Dust tucked his kit away and cinched the robe around him. The tiniest of cotton fluffs and citrus on the air was the only proof that he'd been up here. He was nicely fuzzy around the edges, the angel dust high settling into his bones, which might be why he didn't react at first when he opened the bathroom door, heartbeat slow to run away on him.
"Angelbaby!" Valentino squeaked from the bed, grin wide with all his teeth. "Come join us for some fun."
"I'm kind of tired," Angel sighed, rubbing at his face and hitching the robe higher on his shoulder. He hated being naked in front of Valentino, even if it happened on the daily.
Halfway across the room, static licked up Angel's spine and he froze mid-step. Join us. Us.
Spinning on his heel, he stared at the TV Overlord sprawled across the mattress, smirking. Limbs were wasted, skeletal, his chest sunken, but he was still the sinner who'd tortured Angel Dust, torn his mind apart so badly he was still finding jagged edges.
"You cocksucking mindfucker," Angel snarled, diving onto the bed.
Claws tore at the whip-thin cords trying to grab him, unmindful of the weak sparks from plugs gouging his skin. Bloodied but unstoppable, Angel dug his teeth into Vox's chest. Fangs sank to the gums as Vox shrieked and shoved at him. All six arms wrapped around the overlord, Angel held Vox in place and let his anger burn them both from the inside out. All Angel could taste was iron and venom; all he could see were red pulses and Husk begging him to stay.
He couldn't hear Valentino shrieking but the contract at his throat still tightened until the room dimmed. The taut chain pulled him upright, off of Vox. Angel Dust stared at the body twitching in death throws beneath him, gaze locked as Vox's chest stopped heaving. Angel's grin was stained black, painting the fur down his throat, and unmoved when Valentino shoved him off the bed. Hitting the floor, he spat the taste of ozone and iron from his mouth.
The penthouse was quiet without the crackle of Vox's static. Val's frantic pleas were breathless, patting a still chest and smacking the side of Vox's screen to no response.
Angel Dust stood at the foot of the bed, red pulsing at the corners, remembering Val's birthday. He'd died on a coffee table still in Valentino's office but there had been no tears. No pleas except his own. No one worried over a worthless whore.
He never cared about you.
Fists curling as helpless jealousy flared in his chest, Angel let the feeling die. There was no getting back to who he'd been when Val might have loved him. He couldn't and he wouldn't, even if he could. He was different now, Charlie's voice in his head saying that she believed everyone was worthwhile. That even if he could never shed what he'd done, he was still worth something now.
Angel thought of the bouquet of his new favourite flowers, a worn king of hearts tucked into the petals. Someone in Hell had thought of him, beyond watching his pornos, beyond wanting to get him into bed. They'd sent him flowers of all things.
And if Val was going to kill him again, maybe it would be worth getting some fresh air. He wasn't supposed to leave but what was that rule in light of what he'd already done? Maybe he could send Husk a thank you card. Something to smile at in place of Angel sitting across the bar.
Standing in the elevator, the playing card was the only solid thing in Angel's world, held against his ribs by a numb hand dug into his own chest fluff. He hit the button for the ground floor and held his breath.
A gift, maybe. Something that could be from anyone but at least Angel would know. Maybe he could make Husk smile; maybe that would be worth keeping his distance, keeping his favourite people safe.
Safe from you. Your poison. Your rot.
The sneering in Angel's head was all teeth these days, tearing into his every fear and weakness, exposing the truth to light. He'd tried every drug in Hell but but not even Valentino could drown it out, not when it sounded like Anthony in his own head.
"Hey!"
Angel Dust nodded and waved at the security demon frowning at him from behind the desk. Fuck, it was Jasper today; he'd been the one to catch Angel climbing over the balcony railing a month ago. Jasper was strong enough to hold the desperate spider but Angel was quicker, long strides crossing the lobby. There was Hell's dim daylight beyond those doors and he'd made a promise to himself: send something to Husk before Valentino killed the tiny parts of him that remained.
"Angel Dust." The growl preceded an iron grip on his wrist but only just.
Angel stopped with a sharp inhale, shoulders folding in, wrist limp in the hold. Gio would never fall for his bullshit, only taking orders straight from a Vee. Angel had tried; had batted his eyelashes, played up the miniscule Italian he remembered, promised all manner of kinks fulfilled but Gio never budged. Fuck.
Only Jasper towered over him but they were both solid and Angel didn't fight as he was pulled away from the front door, further into the flickering fluorescents of his own personal Hell.
"Boss says you can't leave," Gio insisted as the elevator doors closed around them, echoing Angel's sigh back at him. "Not after last time."
Last time had ended with a broken arm, a couple extra holes because an asshole with a gun just wouldn't miss, and some missing fur from the fire. He hadn't even thrown the first punch, but Valentino was always mad when they weren't bruises from his hands.
Still, Angel had lived through the "Dr Dick Does Angel Dust" medical shoots until his fur had grown back and he could do it again if he had to. He'd almost stopped flinching at the smell of antiseptic, anyway.
"Look," Angel sighed, tugging the arm in Jasper's grip. "I know I got a bit... messy last time but I wasn't even gonna go out for a drink!" He batted his eyelashes at Jasper, who turned away to hide a blush. "Can't get into a barfight if you're not in a bar, right baby?" His fingertips brushed fur between the straining buttons on Jasper's chest before Gio jerked him away.
"Val also called down, lookin' for you." Gio sounded like Angel's Pops when disappointed, accent thick enough to drown in. "What'd you do?"
Angel shook his head but by the time doors opened onto Valentino's office, Gio was the only thing holding him upright. He was trembling too hard keep on his feet. Even Jasper was frowning, the guards bookending Angel Dust as they crossed the room, more bodyguards than jailers.
Overhead, the lights were dim, shadows like ink ready to sign new Hells into being. Angel kept his eyes down but knew that low flutter of quivering wings. Val had gotten better at holding back as the reigning boss bitch of the Vees but Angel had known him for a lifetime. He knew the burnt sugar scent of his overlord's anger.
"Found 'im, Boss," Gio said, loud in the silence.
"Leave," Valentino ground out.
"What're you gonna—" Gio bundled Jasper back into the elevator, cutting off his question before the doors closed. Before Valentino did more than glare at the impertinent demon. The doors dinged and Angel Dust kept staring at the floor he'd collapsed onto, all eight eyes dull. Too afraid to blink, to trapped to breathe.
He didn't flinch as smoke slithered around him, pinning his hands like a taxidermy display. He pressed his fingertips to the floor just to feel something over the racing of his heart. Val's anger was most often instantaneous—a backhand when Angel spoke up, a threat when he responded too slowly, a snapped insult when he dared to breathe.
This was colder; not heat of the moment but a deliberation.
Angel Dust hadn't been this terrified since he'd last dreamt of Valentino's birthday party, trapped in place as Vox dug his plugs in; since he'd realized what red flashes and lost time truly meant. He couldn't regret an ounce of pain the TV overlord had felt but Angel's mind slipped sideways, tender heart retreating from the footsteps coming closer.
"What the actual fuck, Anthony?" Valentino hissed, spitting the words as he grabbed Angel's chin.
Angel Dust hadn't been Anthony in decades, hadn't felt the burn in his chest, the tingle beneath his ribs. He flinched from the anger but Val held firm, eyes wide and glowing with power.
Angel's gaze slid away, clouded as his smallest eyes slipped closed. Not even a shake and a growl could throw them back open. Angel was as distant as he could manage, body still trapped in Valentino's web, waiting for the whip to land.
"Did I never tell you about my Pops?" Angel asked, all the years he'd been in Hell aching in his bones. "What he had me doin' when I first got here?"
He didn't need to see to know Valentino's wings were looming, knew the sound of their rustling, the feel of powder coating his lungs with every breath. Drowning in power as if he'd ever forget his place at his overlord's feet. But he was too caught in memories of the tightness in his chest and the taste of blood on his teeth, more iron than the bitter salt and sweet he'd grown used to.
"I was a black widow, Val," Angel Dust said, smallest eyes blinking but still unseeing. "Least that's what Arackniss called me. I was their assassin." Baring black-flecked teeth, he laughed, the sound tearing his throat.
Killer.
Murderer.
"A whore by any other name," Angel scoffed. "Guess it's like riding a bicycle." Another laugh like stones crushing him, unable to stop even when Valentino shook him until his teeth clacked together.
"I should kill you for this," Valentino said, as serious as he'd ever sounded. The weight of his stare pinned Angel more thoroughly than the chains. The claws on his chin slid south, tightening around the black choker Angel had never wanted. He just closed all his eyes and leaned into the grip.
"Please," Angel said. Even a temporary death would quiet the screams that plagued him.
Valentino sighed, shaking him again. "You're a fucking mess, amorcito."
A slow exhale that tasted like the last of his hope. "I know," Angel agreed, limp on the floor when he was released. "I'm what you made me."
His lips twitched as if to grin when an unthinking backhand for his sass had Val hissing and shaking venom from split knuckles. One more careful blow became another, became screamed Spanish, became the contents of Valentino's desk thrown at him until a bottle broke and the room smelt of copper and whiskey.
Angel shook glass from his face but didn't bother tugging at the chains that never loosened; he gasped in unison with Valentino's panting overhead, black spit swirling with red across the floor below him. He watched the colours mix, soaking into the pink fur of his palms until everyone would know what he'd done. What he could do.
A freak. Even in Hell, a freak.
"Why now?" Valentino demanded, gaze narrowed as he stepped out of reach of a bloodied smile. "You've been mad before, even at Vox. So why now?"
Angel shrugged, wincing when one of his shoulders ground against the socket, thinking of the playing card tucked into his chest fluff, of Charlie leading them into a chant of 'I am not my sins, I deserve good things' as if that were true.
"Because I loved you," he said, voice gone hoarse at the thought. He rattled his chains to hear the susurrus of smoke dragging over the floor. Needed to remind himself that this was where he deserved to be. Cherri should have happiness, just like Husk, even Vaggi if she stopped tossing them into the middle of turf wars. But not Angel Dust. Not truly.
Murderer.
That blood never washes clean.
"That fucking dentist was supposed to get rid of it permanently," Valentino muttered, stepping across pinned fingertips as he paced. "Fucking quack, I'll kill him. I'll kill his whole fucking family."
Breath caught in Angel's throat, feeling like fresh metal and a drink he didn't want, spiked anyway. He could still remember the sound of it, his own screams bouncing off walls soaked in blood. Instead of a gift to immortalize signing a contract together, a golden tooth as special as a wedding band, it had actually been to tear away another piece of himself. As if one single signature, one measly soul, hadn't been enough.
Angel's stomach rolled, mind struggling to comprehend the thought that Valentino had intentionally stripped him of a defence. He could have fought Vox off a thousand times if he'd had his bite. Could have gotten away from that crazy stalker who'd cornered him after a 16 hour shoot, exhausted. He could have seen what venom would do to angels in defending the hotel.
But he'd had nothing. Just a useless bite, a worthless fang like a wedding ring when your husband's out all night 'working late' with his secretary.
Dull eyes tracked Valentino's path around him. Step. Step. Kick. Step. Kick. Step. Step. Kick. All the while muttering about dentists who promised it would be easy to tear out a venom gland and replace it with a golden tooth. Who promised permanent results that needed replacing every fifty years.
Angel ran his tongue along the metal fang that Valentino said held more promise than a ring and wondered where his mind had gone when it'd last been replaced. He remembered promises of newer, shinier, better now that the studio was taking off. He deserved something fancier for all the work he'd done, all the time spent on his back to build them up. And Valentino always provided, promised riches and dug them into tender gums as if Angel Dust had ever had a choice.
He wondered if his mother's ring had felt this heavy before Pops killed her.
"I really should kill you," Valentino sighed, claws curled around Angel Dust's throat again, squeezing until his eyes watered. "But you've got an overlord party this afternoon so there's no time to pull yourself together before that, and I am not refunding shit."
He blew a lungful of smoke into Angel's face, chuckling when the sinner choked on it.
"So here's what we're going to do—I'm going to give you one chance to fucking improve this fucking behaviour, Angelcakes," Val said. "You've been a useless slut since you're little 'hotel' bullshit but I know just how to fix up that empty head of yours. You need a chance to sit and think about all the things that I fucking do for you, that Vox has done for you. He produced your first big hit, remember? And it was his idea to do that bukkake orgy that got you your 'Best Cumdump of the Year' award!"
Angel shuddered, fear skittering down his spine. Val wasn't as creative with his punishments as Vox but there was still cruelty cut through him like a vein of silver.
Valentino stilled, flashing lenses pinning Angel Dust in place more securely than any contracts ever had. His wings trembled with power, voice thick as he said:
"Anthony, anytime you're not exactly where I tell you, doing exactly what I tell you, you'll be in your dressing room. No phone, no TV, no nothing. I've given you everything and you've thrown it back in my face."
Impatient hands tore the phone from Angel's pocket, tossing to shatter across the room before he could think to protest. Angel panted, trembling as Valentino crouched down to grab his hair again, breath hot on his fur.
"No one's going to talk to you, Angel, or look at you, or touch you, because you don't deserve any single fucking thing, so now it's all gone. And if you say one word that Travis hasn't written, I'll fucking tie you up and leave you blindfolded on the street for whatever guttertrash is horny.
"And you will say 'Thank you, Valentino' each and every time I let you come. Is that fucking clear?"
Angel nodded but Val's hand curled back around his throat, tighter than before.
"What was that?"
Angel's eyes slid closed, chains rattling as he trembled. "Yes Valentino," he breathed, not flinching when a rush of smoke enveloped him. He slumped, weighed down by the clauses and chains he couldn't escape. Tears mixed with blood on his fur; Angel wasn't sure he could survive this. This isolation but for Valentino's whim, silence but for scripted moans.
As he lay there, burning with the heat of Valentino's unblinking stare, Angel wondered if he could cry enough to drown himself, find oblivion for a few moments before Hell's magic kicked back in. Nothing else had worked but if Valentino stuck to this punishment, he might have to keep trying.
"Get out of here," Valentino sighed at last, wings washing Angel Dust's chains away. "Your fucking depression is making my dick soft."
"Yes Valentino," Angel said, climbing stiffly to his feet. He left when Val said nothing further, slipping out of the room, down the elevator, through the main porn set, into his dressing room without raising his eyes from the floor. He was sprawled on the pink rug, a jumble of legs and chest fluff against the couch, staring at where his TV had been, when the intercom chimed with a message.
Angel buried his face in his knees and did his best not to listen to the Tower-wide memo. Valentino's cheerful voice chirped above his head; his coming Hell laid out in black and white.
"Until further notice, all staff at VoxTek will immediately refrain from any and all contact with Angel Dust, unless otherwise instructed by me or any other Vee. This includes speaking to, looking at, or touching. Any requests to fuck Angel Dust on set or off must be forward to me directly. That's it. Adiós my little Valentin-hoes!"
Angel shivered. He was alone. Completely and utterly untouchable unless the cameras were rolling. He wasn't friends with anyone at V Tower but there was camaraderie, commiseration in those 'fucking Val' eyerolls or a nod at the end of a long shoot, a pat on the shoulder when they were all exhausted.
Angel hadn't been so scared since his very first day in Hell. He tried to cling to the memory of Vox dying by his hand but his chest ached for the future, a gaping hole in his ribs blown open by one of Cherri's bombs or Husk's dice.