Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The arrival in Hell had been sudden.

One moment, he had been in the bathroom at some official party, his head against the wall, trying to cool some of the incessant heat of his face. He’d been drunk, he remembered that much, remembered the way his lips had gone numb and how his collar had been too tight. He remembered looking at his own reflection as he tried to steady himself, digging in his pocket for the little decorative snuffbox he carried around. It hadn’t been used for snuff in a long time, but its design had always felt multipurpose to Anthony. He’d been planning to snort just a little bump, something to get him through the rest of the evening without embarrassing himself or - heavens forbid - his father. But he didn’t remember the drug hitting him this hard.

The first thing he noticed when he woke up was the smell of piss. It wasn’t wholly unexpected, considering the place he had apparently chosen to pass out, and despite it being highly unpleasant, it was not necessarily unfamiliar either. Anthony had a habit of sleeping in the bathroom when he felt nausea would overtake him at night, the en-suite of his room always cool no matter the time of the year, and a towel didn’t make for a horrible pillow either. The most inconvenient part of this was that it had happened at an official function, where he had been expected to be an example, a face to recognize and respect. Anthony hadn’t feel very respected, but he had done a good job of keeping himself together until after dinner. Apparently he had gone a little too hard whilst playing cards. He hoped he hadn’t thrown anything of importance in the bidding - he’d never hear the end of it if he’d gambled away one of the cars. He carefully moved on his side, testing the state of him. His head was throbbing slightly, but considering the amount of straight liquor he’d thrown back the day before, that wasn’t too unexpected. In fact, it was much less severe than what he would have expected to wake up to, which was a pleasant surprise. 

The second thing that he noticed was the screaming. This too was not necessarily something that he was unfamiliar with, though generally he liked to keep his hands clean from any kind of family business that would include the aforementioned screaming. Anthony was the talker, never the fighter. The sharpshooter, sure, skilled with a gun because he had a good eye, but always from a distance, for the showmanship of it. Never in action. In fact, the greatest credit he thought his father had ever done was to have him declared ineligible for the war efforts. For all that he disliked the general mess of the family business, he did like the privileges that came with the name, so he had all too gladly accepted the opportunity to opt out of making his first ever Europe trip one of war. He would have called it an act of love, if there had been any other reason for it other than shame on his father’s behalf. The same shame that would be bestowed upon Anthony once he dragged himself up from this floor and down for breakfast. Lunch? He had no idea what time it was.

There was a loud bang just next to his head. A wave of dizziness overtook him as he tried to lift his head, and his mouth felt like it was filled with fluff. The air felt stuffy, too, heavy and vaguely smelling like burnt rubber. Had someone started a fire at the party? Had it been him? He was a little irritated no one had bothered to at least move him out of the bathroom if that were the case, and he thought that he might have to bring that up to some of the staff when he finally got himself up on his feet. If no one offered him a massive cup of coffee anytime soon, he would have to start firing people.

“There’s a naked guy in here,” a voice spoke up somewhere behind his back, and Anthony barely managed to hide his own surprise. His heart rate picked up at the unexpected sound. He thought he had been alone in the room. At least the screaming had stopped.

“Fucking… Again?” A female voice, this time, and it was not one that Anthony recognized. That was a little unusual. He had thought he knew all of their staff. There was a clacking of heels on wood, and then on tile, followed by a sudden jab of pain in his ribs.

“Ow!” He said, voice laced with disbelief at the realization that he had just been kicked. It was the sheer indignation that gave him the motivation to hoist himself up into a seated position. The dizziness was vicious, but he shoved it down by force of will. His body felt weird - disconnected and almost loose, like his limbs didn’t quite belong to him. His nose was itching furiously. When he lifted a hand to rub at it, it felt strange, fuzzy. He looked down at his fingers with a frown, and then stiffened. His hand looked weird, too. In fact, his entire arm looked weird. His vision was a little blurry, so he thought it might just be the light playing tricks on him. Hangovers did that, sometimes. 

“You can’t say here,” the same female voice said, and Anthony looked up to ask her who exactly she thought she was to speak to him that way, but the words died in his throat before he even opened his mouth. Rather than a member of their cleaning staff, who Anthony had always known to wear the same black dress, the woman was dressed in a downright eery rabbit costume. One ear was crooked, and its face was somewhere between human and animal. Its teeth were elongated and sharper than a rabbit’s were ever supposed to be, and from the angle Anthony was looking up from, he could see that there was a fluffy tail pinned to the back of her dress. It was bizarre. 

“What the fuck are you looking at?” The rabbit asked, and Anthony spluttered something that he hoped came across as an answer. The dizziness didn’t help. The world seemed to go in and out of focus, and he couldn’t seem to steady himself. The bathroom looked different, too, definitely not his own en-suite, but not familiar as any of the other guest rooms either. He started to press himself up on his feet, and that too didn’t feel right. He squinted down at them, and was horrified to find that someone had covered his legs with something he could only describe as fine hairs, and his feet… He tried to wiggle his toes, but he only succeeded in moving his foot in general, or rather, the thing that was attached to his foot. It was an odd sight, like a hairy boot from his knee down - had his legs always been so skinny? He swallowed, hard, and then changed positions, getting on his knees first and then standing up. He stumbled slightly as his legs seemed to click as he straightened. He realized then that the man who had spoken first had been right, because as far as Anthony could tell, he wasn’t wearing any clothes. But his entire body was covered in something soft, something like fur stuck to his skin. A bodysuit? What the fuck happened the previous night? Why couldn’t he remember anything?

“You gotta leave,” the rabbit spoke again, and Anthony wished she would shut up so he could try to make sense what happened to him. He must have ended up in some sort of experimentally themed club last night, after he blacked out. Some weird sex establishment. That was the only explanation for the costume, or the weird things on his legs and arms. He wondered if he would be able to take it off before going home, or if he would have to call for a private taxi. Something discreet. He hoped no one he knew had been able to track him here. His stomach churned and twisted as his thoughts went to his father, and he had to stop himself before that got too far - it wouldn’t be pretty, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. He needed to be practical about this. Make a graceful exit. He could do that.

He took a deep breath, and then took the few steps over to the sink to wash his hands and throw some water in his face, ignoring the other person for the moment. The drugs must not be out of his system yet, because the world looked crooked as well, off-kilter, like his eyesight wasn’t what is is supposed to be. The water helped, a little, at least until he looked up to meet his own gaze in the mirror, and his insides turned to ice.

“Mother of Mary,” he breathed, and the rabbit behind him laughed.

“None of that holy shit in my establishment,” she said, and Anthony only glanced at her, before turning his eyes back to his own reflection. The sight was one of horror, a type of Gothic that could be something that his grandma would have thought up to tell him off for being naughty as a child, stories of monsters in the night, hiding in the closet or under his bed.

They - whoever they were - had dressed him in the strangest costume; dots under his eyes and a thick fur on his chest that was a crisp white. An extra pair of arms attached to his ribs, impossibly skinny but so realistic Anthony could almost see them moving of their own accord. The furry bodysuit was white as well, with some stripes of a soft pink on the arms, a heart on his chest. More than anything, the delicateness of that shape unsettled him. The combination of the white and pink was all-over too feminine - he surely couldn’t go home like this. He’d have to find some clothes to change into before he ever walked out of the door. He stared at himself a moment longer, blinking to clear his vision so he could properly take in his reflection. Anthony truly had never seen something like it. Still, there was something familiar about the costume design, and it took him a few moments more to realize that he was thinking of the story of the Metamorphosis. Man wakes up as a giant insect.

Anthony almost laughed at the thought, lifted his arm to see how the extra pair of arms that was attached to his costume move along with it. He swung both his arms, and the extra set of arms moved along, the hands waving when he thought of doing so. Fascinating. When he blinked, it was almost like the dots under his eyes blinked as well. The make-up had been done with incredible skill and eye for detail. It all looked so real. What kind of insect was he supposed to be? He leaned a little closer to the mirror, ignoring the way the rabbit behind him was starting to throw a fit about him having to leave again. He was not a beetle or butterfly, he thought, studying the details on the costume with an almost detached sort of interest, bringing up a hand to touch the fur on his chest. It was soft to the touch. All of him was so soft. What insect had fur? When he turned around there was a tuft of hair on his lower back as well, and it almost reminded him of a spider. But, he reasoned, if the costume was supposed to be a spider, he was missing a pair of arms.

Almost as if on command, and out of seemingly nowhere, arms shot out from his body, below the second pair, so fast that he didn’t even notice it until they appeared. Anthony startled, and managed to smack the new hand against the sink as he stumbled to the side. The most horrifying part of that was not even that they had appeared out of thin air, but that when they had hit the cold porcelain, Anthony had been able to feel it. He felt the smack as if he had hit it with his own hands. He felt the ache in the fingertips - his fingertips? - and when he focused on the location of the pain, considering that perhaps he had hit his actual hand as well, his brain told him that he was looking at the right limb.

He took a step back in horrified confusion, staring down at his hands. At his second pair of hands. At his third pair of hands. When he lifted a shaking, unsteady hand, the others moved along, as if they were all connected by some invisible thread. That he could understand, that made sense. It was a costume, a well-made and awfully realistic costume. However when he focused on the sting, put all his attention towards the one hand, and thought to himself, wave, it was solely the one hand that moved. It moved all by itself. Logically, despite it being impossible, that meant the arms were not part of the costume. The nausea was sudden and vicious. He tried again, tested another hand, tried to lift it to his face, and was horrified to find that it moved just like his arms - his usual arms, his real arms. 

His eyes trailed down his body, panic welling up in his chest as he dragged hands over his chest, the fuzziness off his thighs. He carefully lifted a foot. The thing - a spider’s leg, a little hairy paw with something that looked like claws hidden in the fuzziness - lifted. He stretched his toes, and the claws spread, before settling back down. Another wave of horror. The feet were not shoes.

And when Anthony looked up to meet his own gaze again and focused, he understood that the dots under his eyes were the reason his vision had been weird. He still had his regular eyes, though they were pink like the stripes on his body, something he had previously not even noticed. It wasn’t that what caught his attention, however, rather it was the little decorative dots underneath them. When he squeezed his eyes and opened them slowly, he could catch movement, and when he leaned closer to the mirror, the little dots blinked at him, shiny pink pupils gazing up at him, expressionless. 

They were eyes. Eight eyes. Spider’s eyes.

Man wakes up as an insect.

Anthony screamed.

Chapter Text

His first instinct had been to pray. He’d sank down to the floor of the bathroom, hand clasping at his throat for the familiar shape of the necklace he’d worn since he’d turned twelve, manic fingers finding nothing but fur. He moaned, scrambling for any kind of reassurance in the wave of panic that overtook him so sharply it managed to overwrite the headache, sheer blinding shapes of white across his vision. He tried to breathe himself through it, tried to slow his racing heart to the rhythm of pater-noster-qui-es-in-caelis-breathe in-sanctificetur-nomen-tuum-breathe out.

It took a few repetitions of the familiar words, counting them out on his knuckles in the absence of something better, working his way down both of his hands - two of his hands - before his heart stopped feeling like it was about to escape his chest. He emerged slowly, first lifting his head, then climbing to shaky legs, pushing himself back up on his feet. The glance of his reflection in the mirror was almost enough to send him right back to the floor, but he managed to stabilize himself, to take another deep breath, to push down the urge to scream. He turned to face the rabbit-woman, who was watching him from the doorway as if she expected him to lash out at her. He supposed that was fair.

“My apologies,” he said, voice foreign to his own ears, a little higher pitched than usual, and with a lisp he couldn’t explain until his tongue ran over his teeth and they were sharper than he was used to. Another wave of panic. Another deep breath. “Would you be so kind… I mean, could you tell me where I am, right now?”

She stared at him for another few seconds, and he didn’t actually need her to say the words out loud to know that his assumptions were right, that he knew deep in his core that he had died and gone to hell. He knew, without her opening her mouth. Still, it was almost a relief to hear her confirm it. Anthony had always thought he’d either end up getting shot on the job, or that he would end up being poisoned by someone eager to get him out of the way. Never had he considered that he himself would be the cause behind his demise. He did not get much of an opportunity to dwell on it, because not long after this revelation, Anthony was kindly directed to the door of the establishment where he had apparently spawned in hell, and the only good thing that could be said about it is that the rabbit faced woman had at least had the kindness in her to give him a sheet to cover himself with. Though it seemed more likely she didn’t want any potential customers to see him kicked out of the door in his freshly furry birthday suit. 

As if it wasn’t enough of a horrifying realization that he had apparently died and gone to hell, Anthony discovered soon enough that hell was a bureaucracy. Rabbit lady directed him to Hell’s Office, where he was told to take a number, sit, and wait for what might as well have been eternity. The mild headache had by now turned into an insistent ache behind the eyes, which was no small irritation, considering he now had eight of them. Luckily the waiting room had a carafe of water, and he filled up a glass a couple times and drank them, standing. The water was lukewarm and tasted vaguely of copper, but he swallowed the initial disgust in favor of soothing his sore throat. It was uncomfortably stuffy in the office, the same scent of something burnt tickling his nose, and he sneezed a few times, the sound uncomfortably loud in the - hah - dead silence of the waiting room.

He groaned as he sank back down in the just-too-small chair, his limbs awkwardly stretching out in all directions, uncertain where to put all of him. He was much taller than he was used to, this new shape thin as a slat and angular in all the awkward places. His additional pair of arms lay folded on his lap, weirdly proper out of their own volition, and with the sheet wrapped around him, Anthony thought he must look like some sort of monk. Would monks go to hell? Was this Catholic hell? Anthony had always said his prayers at dinner, hadn’t he? Did he deserve to be here? His heart raced with fear of the unknown, and he couldn’t understand that either. If he had died, why was his heart beating like that? Shouldn’t the dead be cold and stiff? Was this only his soul?

When his number was finally called, Anthony was up and out of his seat so fast he almost tripped over the sheet, and snickers spread through the room in a way that made Anthony want to shoot something. His fingers twitched for a gun that wasn’t there. He was referred to a small booth with a guy who looked somewhat how Anthony imagined the little Irish leprachauns to look like, short and bearded, with bright red skin and a straight nose that took up most of its face. Anthony quietly thought he was relieved that he didn’t turn out like that. He thought perhaps he would have hated being short even more than being… Whatever he was.

“Name,” the short guy barked at him, the first of a barrage of questions that Anthony answered, all the while wondering what the guy was meant to be. Was it a leprechaun? A gnome? A satyr? He would ask, but he didn’t think that disrespecting the person who was apparently responsible for his smooth arrival into Hell - and what a messed up sentence that was to pass his mind - was a great way to start off this journey. As much as he despised the droned monotony of bureaucracy, its existence implied there was some sort of system. Systems meant a set of rules. And rules could be bent. Anthony had always made it his job to know exactly how to bend the rules. So he sat back and let the guy do its job, and only spoke when spoken to.

“So the mob, huh? Got plenty of that around here, I’m sure you’ll feel right at home,” the little guy said, and Anthony’s stomach twisted and turned uncomfortably. “Welcome to Hell. Here’s a brochure and a coin for a free drink next door.” So it seemed that at least there was alcohol in hell. Small mercies indeed.

Anthony glanced down at the brochure, which held an almost endearingly bad drawing on the front of a pit of fire and stick figures inside of it which Anthony supposed were supposed to represent people like him. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so terrifying. Though in all honesty, Anthony was beyond being terrified. As it was, he was just sort of confused about the whole situation. The red fella put a bag on the table, and when Anthony checked it, it contained a button up shirt and some trousers. It was a relief that he wasn’t expected to keep walking around wrapped in the sheet. The clothes looked a little grimy, and when he touched them, they were coarse and unpleasant, nothing like the soft fabrics he preferred to wear, but he supposed that needs must. He wasn’t much of an exhibitionist.

“Any questions?”

“So do I have to do tasks or something?” Anthony asked, and the leprechaun gave him a blank stare, urging Anthony to add, “to be punished? So I can get to heaven?” At this, the imp showed its first genuine emotion, which was to laugh in Anthony’s face. He was pretty sure he could feel slithers of spit landing on his arms, and he pulled them off the desk quickly, disgusted, wrapping all four of them around the bag, as if that could protect him. It felt like the hairs on his arms were literally standing up, but in all honesty he didn’t dare to check. He already had had one freak-out about his new shape, and he didn’t much care for another one until he’d at least had his free drink.

“Heaven,” the dwarf said, still chuckling and wiping at its eyes when the torrent of laughter seemed to finally settle down enough for him to speak again. Anthony didn’t think any of this was funny. The imp seemed to realize this, because in the blink of an eye it was back to wearing the same unimpressed expression, shuffling papers and closing the file which held Anthony’s full name. It felt impossibly final. “I’m afraid that this is it, kid. This is your final destination. Hell is forever.”

Once confirmed that he had no other questions, he was ushered right back out of the booth and into a small room where other people - sinners, Anthony now knew - were changing into their new clothes. It was hard to think of them as people when all of them looked like the monsters from the big screen, but as long as he kept his head down, he could pretend they looked normal. That he looked normal. Anthony tried his best to not hyperventilate again as he pulled on the trousers and buttoned the shirt up to his neck, grateful to be covered up. He could feel the rub of the fabric against his newly furry skin, the way the thicker fluff on his chest filled out the top of his shirt even when he tried to pat it down. He tucked the shirt inside the trousers out of habit, but had to immediately pull it back out because his second pair of arms had nowhere to go. This would make tailoring a lot more expensive, he thought distantly, and that made laughter bubble up in his throat, though it pulled out more like a sob. 

As soon as he was done dressing, he grabbed the bag and ran out of the building. The urge to keep running was strong, if only to put a distance between himself and the office which had condemned the rest of his existence - he tried hard not to think of himself being responsible - but instead he took a few deep breaths to steady himself once. The coin in his bag was a shining promise of some kind of relief, and so he followed behind some other unfortunate souls into the bar adjacent to the Office. As a business model, it was a smart one, he found himself vaguely thinking as he pushed open the door, but location was where the appeal ended. Inside it was a cacophony of noise and smell, and it was only the promise of a stiff drink that kept him from walking right back out.

He could clearly feel the eyes on him when he stepped inside, laughter and some literal wolf whistles, and suddenly the clothing didn’t feel like it did much good at all. He might as well still have been naked. He clenched his jaw and pulled his shoulders back, and pretended with all his might that he wasn’t terrified out of his mind as he wound his way through the little tables towards the bar. The bartender, with a dog face on an otherwise perfectly human looking body, turned towards him when he reached the counter, and with no little rush of hysteria Anthony wondered how long it would take for him to get used to that. He supposed he had eternity for that. “What’s the chance this can get me a whiskey?” He held up the coin, and the dog looked him up and down, letting out a soft hum.

“First day, huh, hon?” The voice was a feminine one, a familiar accent with an edge of a bark to it, and it was almost funny, if one were to forget the circumstances.

“What gives?” He asked, putting on a smile he couldn’t even hope to come across as genuine, but it seemed to do what he needed it to do, because she ducked her head and gave an amused little nod of her head. He wondered what she had done to end up down here. She seemed nice enough, but then Anthony was himself more than a little acquainted with how looks could be deceiving. Still, he pulled his smile a little wider, and in return she laughed and took the coin from him, swatting at his hand.

“Let me make that a double for ya.”

Anthony gave her a grateful nod. “Thanks sweetheart,”

With the double whiskey firmly in hand, Anthony found himself a table. He usually preferred window seating, but the bar didn’t actually have any windows that weren’t boarded up, and even if it did, the view would not be much to write home about. He picked a seat that had a candle, and nursed the whiskey as he worked his way through the brochure. With every word he read, he found himself wishing the drink was a quadruple instead. Within the half hour it took him to analyze every single word on the arguably thin brochure, a few things became painfully clear.

First of all, he couldn’t die. This did not necessarily come as a surprise, considering he was already dead, but it was still both reassuring and depressing. No matter what someone did to him, he couldn’t die. There was a little drawing illustrating that even if dismemberment would occur, his body would just start reassembling itself. That, he supposed, was good. On the downside, the brochure emphasized that he would be able to feel every single agonizing second of his body trying to knit itself together. That, on the other hand, was not very good.

Secondly, as the imp had said, Hell was forever. There were no back doors, no clever ways he could talk himself out of here. There was no going back to earth. There was no going to heaven. There was but an everlasting afterlife. It was at this point that Anthony drained most of his whiskey.

Finally, he might be able to find his family. There was a neat list of occupations and life choices that were likely to cause one’s descent to Hell, and rather at the top of said list was being an active member of a mafia family. Anthony thought about his grandfather, who had died just a few years prior, and who would be likely to be somewhere around the area if this brochure was to be trusted - and considering he didn’t have any other source of information, he didn’t have much of a choice.

The thought was briefly appealing; to find a familiar face who would be able to protect him, to give him a purpose in his eternal infernal existence. Yet this thought was immediately followed by the memories he had of his grandfather. Anthony had never been the favored grandchild. Where his sister was known for her beauty and wit, and his brother had been laureled for his strength, Anthony had been the ugly duckling. He had always been too soft, too sickly, and as he had grown older, he had found solace in the bottom of a glass or at the end of a pipe regularly. His grandfather had never held his tongue on what he thought of that. Until the very day he died, he had found bile and gall to throw at Anthony, even when he had sat with the capo to hold his hand as he breathed his final breath. Anthony didn’t relish exposing himself to that once again.

Was this not the perfect time for him to break away the bonds that he had felt restrained him so much during his life? Was this afterlife, this existence, this continuous torture that were to become his reality, not the single opportunity that was handed to him to become something else than that was he was born to be? If he were going to suffer for all eternity, he might as well decide exactly how he was going to suffer, without anyone else to tell him what to do. And perhaps it was the burn of the whiskey in his chest, but that was a spark of excitement that almost managed to burn away the fear that had curdled in his belly.

If nothing else, death would be the final release from his family’s ties. And that, Anthony thought, holding up the brochure to the flame of the candle and watching as the paper started burning, could be a blessing in disguise.

Chapter Text

Daily life in hell was much as it said on the tin, and “Blessing” was perhaps not the word that he would have chosen.

The first challenge of his new existence ironically proved to be of a very living nature: to find a place to eat and sleep. He quickly discovered that eating wasn’t as pressing a requirement as it had been when he had been alive, which was convenient but unsettling. Sleep was of an equal superfluous need, though he did find that by the third day of purely surviving (if you could call it that) on naps he stole in dark street-corners that felt relatively safe, his brain was starting to falter. His vision blurred. Perhaps worse than that, he was starting to stink. The realization was horrifying. He had always been a clean sort, daily baths and cologne, but without the comfort of his chambers, exposed to the filth and grime of the streets for days on end, it was impossible to keep himself as such.

When the clock hit midnight on day three of his eternity, Anthony decided something would have to give. He refused to turn to his family, hell or high water, an expression that had turned infinitely more amusing in the last 72 hours. Over the last couple days, he had explored some of the areas that made up the realm he now lived in, which he had been told was only one of the multiple circles of the hell. He thought that Dante had been closer to the truth than Anthony had ever wanted to know. He was desperate for a bath, a meal, and more than anything else, he was aching, craving, burning for a drink, or something else.

It was that craving which became the motivation for pulling his shoulders back and himself together. He walked into a bar that looked particularly bustling, and straight into the bathroom to wash his hands and run his fingers through his full head of hair, trying to untangle the mess of knots it had become. He was a little grimy, but after scrubbing his face with some toilet paper, he could get rid of the worst of it. There was nothing to be done about the clothes, but when he unbuttoned the shirt a little lower, it framed his fluffy chest almost elegantly. Illusion. Posture. He knew how to carry himself. He remembered the way the bartender had responded to him the first day he arrived, how she had given him a large drink after just a smile. If nothing else, he thought, studying his reflection with a critical eye and adjusting his shirt to make room for his extra arms, he could probably charm his way into a free drink. A drink would take the edge off.

He lingered right outside the bathroom and studied the guests at the bar to look for the right target. It was an eclectic collection of characters, most of which seemed to be there with friends or partners, and he discarded those immediately. He needed someone who couldn’t be distracted, so Anthony could work his charm to the fullest. Eventually his eyes fell on a man at the end of the bar. He was by himself as far as Anthony could tell, stirring his drink with a glum enough expression that it didn’t seem like he was having a good day. He was perfect. Anthony still hesitated for a moment, since he hadn’t had much experience with flirting with men. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in them - rather the opposite - but when he’d been alive, to be openly flirting with someone of the same sex would have been as much of a death sentence to his reputation as if he were to betray his family. Hell didn’t seem to have any of these limitations, since Anthony had seen several queers out and about on the street, flaunting it like there was no shame in them.

As it was, there was no more reputation to be muddled, no family to betray, and nothing between Anthony and a strong, strong drink but a straightforward flirt with the man with the fox ears. He thought he could probably do that. And so he straightened his back and mustered as much self-confidence as anyone could in these horrendously unfashionable pieces of clothing. He never thought he would miss a three-piece suit as much as he did right now.

Turns out, there was nothing like desperation to make a man slip into the sort of character that would get him what he wanted. As he slid into the seat next to the stranger, who gave him but a cursory glance until Anthony turned to him and gave him a playful grin. “Hello gorgeous,” he said, tilting his head a little to the side and obviously letting his eyes run over the man’s body, doing his utter best to ignore the pointed ears sticking out from the man’s messy crop of hair, “you look like you could use someone to talk to.”

The line, as cheesy as it was, taken straight from the girls he used to watch with hawk-eyes whenever he’d hit the town with his buds, the girls who dressed in lingerie and feathers and skirts that were meant to be hiked up around their waist at the flash of a pretty coin, seemed to work its magic. Anthony leaned in closer, angling himself on the bar to show off his figure just a little more, awkward as it felt. The man’s eyes caught on Anthony’s chest, and then flashed him a smile that was sharp teeth and nothing but trouble. Bingo.

“You fishing for a free drink, sweetheart?”

“If a handsome man were to buy me one, who would I be to say no?” Anthony replied, and held out his hand, so strangely slender still, even to his own eyes, “Anthony.”

The fox only paused for a moment before he reached out a hand himself, clasping it around Anthony’s and squeezing it tight, “Philip.”

“Philip,” Anthony repeated, letting the final consonant pop between his lips before he smiled again, “so are you buying me a drink?”

It had been so fucking easy. One drink had turned into several, following each other so quick that Anthony lost count, and somewhere in between there had been a basket of fries that he had managed to mostly keep to himself, though he had fed a few of the crispy sticks to Philip, feigning shock when the man’s lips had closed around one of his fingers instead. He barely remembered the bill being paid, Philip’s hand curling around one of his wrists and guiding him out of the bar. He found it hard to care about where they went from there, because his belly was full and his mind was buzzing pleasantly, and Philip was as much as a gentleman as Anthony could have hoped him to be. Sure, he had a proclivity for biting, and if Anthony had been a little less inebriated, he would have probably said something about that, but as it was, he found he didn’t mind too much. It was good that way, when he didn’t have to think about the details of what was going on, the rough trousers ripped off him and the shirt discarded, his hands tangling in the fabric of Philip’s bed sheets as the man claimed what Anthony had been teasing him with all evening. If he closed his eyes tightly enough, it was almost pleasant.

When it had come to pass and Philip had rolled over and gone to sleep, Anthony allowed himself the same. He shoved his face into a pillow for the first time in days, and found blissful oblivion within seconds. He rose with first light - though morning light in hell was just as gloomy as its night, more reminiscent of Brooklyn than he cared to admit. He briefly glanced over at Philip’s ears twitching in his sleep, before making use of his toilet and shower. Only once he’d scrubbed himself down thoroughly and brushed his teeth with a finger, using enough toothpaste that the inside of his mouth tingled with mint, he got out again, roughly toweling himself dry. His furry skin still felt kind of humid when he put the towel down, but he didn’t want to risk taking too long and Philip waking up before he was done. He dove into the man’s closet and pulled out some items of clothing that seemed like they might fit well enough. After days of being in the same rough suit, now nothing but tatters on the floor (where they belonged, in Anthony’s opinion) a pair of corduroys was like luxury, and Anthony breathed out a sigh of relief as he pulled on a button-down that hugged his body in much gentler manner. It still didn’t have space for his extra set of arms, but he’d deal with that later.

After having claimed these necessities, Anthony found himself briefly debating his next move. If he were to stay there was the potential of breakfast, but along with it came the possibility of being requested a repeat of last night, and without liquid courage, he wasn’t certain he could keep up the facade. The illusion of attraction was simple when under the influence, but in the harsh reality of the day, Anthony would have to come to terms with both his bed-partner’s fur as his own unfamiliar body, and the mere thought of that left a sour aftertaste in his mouth. So instead he quietly crouched down next to the man’s trousers and pulled out the wallet he’d seen yesterday, finding it sufficiently stacked with bills. The man must have just gotten paid. He shoved aside the single pang of guilt as he pulled out the wad of notes and shoved it in his own pocket. Needs must, after all, and it wasn’t like stealing was going to get him in any more trouble, was it? Perhaps that thought brought him a little more peace than it reasonably ought to, but he supposed that’s why he ended up in Hell in the first place. He considered taking a pair of shoes as well, but none of them seemed to be the right size for his new oddly shaped feet, so he discarded the idea. Ugly as they were, they had excellent grip on the ground, and if he was lucky he would have some money left over to buy himself some actual fitted shoes.

He briefly glanced back to the bed as he pulled open the door of the apartment, where the man was still deeply asleep, wrapped in his blankets so tightly it was just his hair sticking out. Maybe in another life, that would have been cute. He quietly slipped out of the door and made his way outside, keeping a firm pace. His head was screaming for a cup of mud and a cigarette, but he wanted to be as far away as possible before Philip would wake up and notice both Anthony and his month’s wages missing. He ignored the by now almost familiar headache as he stalked down the morning streets of Hell. He supposed some people would describe it as a walk of atonement, but with the money burning a hole in his pocket, to Anthony it felt more like a firm hike of potential. Success was like a burning beam of sunlight through the darkness of his new eternity, and Anthony fully intended to bask in it. He could make this work. He would.

Chapter Text

Philip’s generous donation bought him a few days in a cheap motel on the other side of town, which was just enough time to repeat the same scene a few times over. Two times he struck gold, walking away from the night with little more than a hickey or two and a pocket bulging with new currency, and the high of his sequence of successes was cause for confidence almost as pure as the rush of cocaine. The modest button up he had stolen lost one of its buttons every night he made his way over to another bar, and it was no great loss when the third time it got ripped beyond redemption.

He took a little extra cash the following morning, and bought himself a new shirt that when he had been alive wouldn’t have been considered more than underwear. Hell, as it turns out, had very little in the way of propriety, and in a terrifying way it was liberating. He allowed himself only the briefest of considerations that this sense of freedom in a place of damnation was confirmation of the reasons he belonged here. If he were to linger too much on it, he was sure fear would claw its way up his throat, and Hell was no place for that, he had already learned. Anthony had always been told he was of weak constitution, and he was eager to rid himself of that association. He’d do whatever it would take for eternal existence to be bearable.

Afterlife continued in that manner, and after a while Anthony got into a rhythm that he almost dared call comfortable. When he got lucky with the funds, he put a little to the side, building himself some savings that he sewed into his socks. His grandma had once told him about how she used to sew coins into her dress when she had been younger, and it was her words echoing in his head as he sat crouched against the side of his bed, placing neat stitch after stitch, making sure none of it was visible when he pulled up the socks.

It didn’t always turn out well. Even when his advances weren’t rebuked, sometimes his sponsors (as he mentally nicknamed them) wouldn’t stick to the script, and the evening ended up rougher than he had bargained for. Sometimes the men didn’t carry any cash. Sometimes they caught him red handed in the morning and would attempt to hit or stab or shoot him. The first time being shot had been a surprise. He hadn’t ever been shot before, and though he had managed to get out of the room and out into the streets, it had been an agonizing 24 hours before his body had rejected the bullet and started to heal. He was relieved afterwards to find that he didn’t remember much of it, though he did discover he had shoved his handkerchief in his mouth to muffle the screams.

To his horror he realized that he’d also been robbed when he’d been passed out, pockets emptied out and even the buttons ripped off his shirt. He couldn’t stop himself from letting out an enraged yell when he got to his feet. The shirt had been ruined anyway, but the money would have been enough for another two weeks in the same hotel he’d been staying, and food to boot. He tore off what remained off the shirt, and made an attempt to wipe some of the blood off the fur on his chest. Of course it had long dried down, and it only pulled at his fur uncomfortably when he tried to pick at it. It was that sensation, more than the experience of being shot and robbed, which brought tears to his eyes. Violence he could understand, but there was something so perverse about seeing the proof of it on his own body, a body which even after months, still felt foreign to him. And the weirdest part of it was that nothing scarred. His body was as unscathed as when he had arrived in Hell. No matter what horrors he would be exposed to, in the end, there would be nothing left to show for it, and his body was good as new to start all over again.

That evening, after scrubbing himself so severely he was sure he tore out half the hairs on his body, he sat and undid the stitches in one of his socks. He used half the money to book himself another week in the hotel, taking the other half with him to a bar, with the goal of erasing this entire experience from his mind. With a second full glass of whiskey in one hand and a plate of chicken wings in front of him, he found himself finally relaxing a little. These things were bound to happen in Hell, he reasoned, chewing thoughtfully on the cartilage of a wing, eyes drifting across the crowd. The atmosphere seemed wilder than usual, an air of desperation in the air. People were grinding and making out on the dance floor, large bottles of alcohol making the rounds and being shared between Sinners who would otherwise not look at each other twice. He wondered if he had crashed a celebration of some sort, but he wasn’t able to make out what could be the cause of it. He shrugged it off, and instead downed his glass in one go, making a face even as he gestured for the bartender to top him up.

A soft chuckle caught his attention, and he turned towards the sound, raising a questioning eyebrow when it turned out the laugh had been at his expense. A tall man sat one seat away from him, almost handsome if Anthony were to ignore the fangs protruding over his bottom lip, and the long dog ears sticking up from slicked back hair. A doberman’s ears, he thought distantly. His father had had a handful of them on their grounds, and they were all too eager to rip apart anyone who came in uninvited, though they’d just as gladly settled near Anthony as he fed them saucers of fresh milk. Skinny but muscular, harmless until provoked, fierce protectors. He had loved those dogs, even as they had never meant to be pets.

“Problem?” Anthony asked, though he kept his tone light and playful, not in the mood to pick any fight after the rough day he’d had.

The man’s lip quirked, and he neatly slid into the seat next to Anthony, folding his hands into his lap. Anthony’s eyes darted to them, surprised by how large they were, oddly at contrast with the rest of him. A slim frame. Nothing but lean muscle. “Seems like you’re not really enjoying that. Why drink something you don’t like?”

Anthony opened his mouth, and then immediately shut it again, as he had no answer at the ready. Ordering whiskey was a habit, something all the men in his family did on every public event, and Anthony had adopted it easily, despite never having had much of a taste of it. He liked his alcohol strong, for sure, but whiskey always landed on the wrong side of rough, no matter how good it was. And Hell’s whiskey had nothing on the top-shelf bottles his father kept at home. The man chuckled again, and when the bartender came over to top off the glass, he reached over to put a hand - a paw - on top of it. “Hold the whiskey,” he told her, though his dark eyes didn’t leave Anthony’s, “Sweet? Sour?”

“I could be both,” Anthony replied, before he could stop himself, which only seemed to lead to further amusement. The man’s eyebrows raised slightly, mouth stretching into a wider smile, fangs glistening in the light of the bar.

“A Jack Rose for the gentleman,” he told the bartender, and after another long look at Anthony, he added, “extra grenadine. I’ll have a Boulevardier.”

“How refined of you,” Anthony said, though he had not the slightest idea what a Boulevardier entailed. It was French, that much he could guess, and this combined with the man’s general demeanor made Anthony assume the man could have been part of the French beau monde. A writer, perhaps, or a philosopher. Some kind of intellectual. Someone Anthony would have been impressed to meet upside. Not that that meant anything here.

The man shrugged. “It wasn’t even popular when I was alive,” he said, “but I have fond memories of it. I’m Erskine.” He held out a hand for Anthony to shake, and Anthony introduced himself. Their hands stayed locked until the cocktails were brought over, and Erskine only pulled back to drop a wad of cash on the counter, “to cover the rest of the evening, darling.”

They clinked glasses, and Anthony had his first taste of the Jack Rose, which was sour but sweet enough to overwrite the initial twang. The alcohol was a warm apple flavor going down easy, heating his belly and going straight to his cheeks. Perhaps because it was layered on top of the whiskey he had already drunk, or perhaps because it had been a long day, and he hadn’t had more than chicken wings to eat, it also made everything immediately softer.

“That’s better,” Erskine said, a laugh in his voice, and this time Anthony laughed along with him, a little embarrassed to be caught out like that.

“Much better,” he agreed, and when his eyes met Erskine’s, a brown so dark it was nearly black, but shimmering in the dim light. The bar seemed to narrow down to the two of them, and Anthony thought maybe this evening could turn things around.

They drank in companionable silence - or as silent as it could be when around them the bar was rowdy, music playing so loud that even if they wanted to, they wouldn’t have been able to make much conversation. Though Anthony didn’t think there was much need for conversation, the expectant tension between them speaking volumes. As they re-ordered their drinks, their chairs were pushed closer together, and before long Erskine’s hand was on Anthony’s thigh, and Anthony had two of his own wrapped around Erskine’s waist. He was pleasantly buzzed, and the touches between them were flirtatious but gentle, leading him to want more.

When the clock struck 11:30 a bell rang, and the crowd only got more rambunctious in response to it, everyone crowding the bar for another drink and almost knocking Anthony off his seat. Erskine’s hand shot out to take hold of one of his arms, steadying him. Erskine threw back the rest of the drink before he held out a hand towards Anthony. “Thirty minute countdown,” he grinned, “let’s go?”

Anthony had no idea why there was a countdown to midnight, since he had been in this bar before and he knew that they were open pretty much 24/7, but he didn’t have it in him to question it. The bodies pressing against him from all sides were uncomfortable, sweat and grime and Heaven (or Hell) knew what else, and he was eager for an excuse to get out of there. He followed behind the other man, allowing him to guide Anthony out onto the streets, which were much less crowded than usual, a stark contrast to the bustle of the bar inside.

What was going on?

Erskine took him into a narrow alley, down a flight of stairs, and then pulled open a bulkhead door that Anthony hadn’t even been able to see, hidden as it was under crates. He briefly considered this might be an attempt at kidnapping, but Erskine jumped in first, holding out his arms towards Anthony to lift him down into the darkness.

“It’s not much, but it’s cozy enough,” he said, reaching up to pull the door back closed, and Anthony heard the crate moving on top of the door as Erskine slid a bolt in place, grunting slightly at the effort. “My sister’s place,” he added, when he caught Anthony looking at the mechanism in confused admiration.

“You don’t live here?” Anthony asked, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, his small eyes picking up on everything faster than the others, which was always a little disorienting. Dizzying. The drinks didn’t help.

“I only arrived two weeks ago. Don’t have my own place yet.” Erskine said from his left, and then a lamp was lit, revealing a small room with a bed, desk, and a small fridge. Boxes were stacked against the wall, and there was not a single natural source of light. It was, as far as Anthony could tell, a bunker. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling suddenly painfully sobered up. Though he didn’t argue when Erskine’s hand reached for him, pulling him towards the bed with that same sparkling grin.

“We should be good until dawn,” he said, tugging Anthony down on the bed next to him and kicking his shoes off before scooting back on the bed, “just don’t make too much noise, hm? I’ll have to gag you otherwise.” His voice was light, but there was a glint in his eyes that made Anthony understand he was hundred percent serious. He wanted to ask what was going on, why it was important for him to be quiet, but asking questions had not done much for him since he came here, so he just kept his mouth shut as the man leaned in to kiss him.

It was easy to forget about his questions as they focused on each other instead, stripping their clothes and letting their bodies do all the talking. Erskine tasted like bourbon, but Anthony found he didn’t mind so much when that same mouth was working down his chest, pulling little moans from him that had the other man give him a warning glance, though it didn’t stop him from continuing his efforts. He crawled into Erskine’s lap, and brought up two of his hands to wrap around the protruding ears, playing with their tips as they kissed. Erskine grinned into his mouth, and Anthony smiled.

The almost sweet moment between them was shattered by the sound of an explosion followed by a flash of light that was so bright it crept through the cracks of the door, briefly lighting up the room like a lightning strike.

“What the fuck?” Anthony said, eyes wide and sitting up as the light dimmed, but a loud ringing took its place, a buzzing frequency that seemed to shake him to his very core. And then, the screaming started. His heart was pounding a thousand miles a minute as panic struck him, his eyes flashing towards the door, which remained shut but did little to keep out the sound of running footfall, loud bangs and blood-curdling screams. He found himself frozen with fear, unable to tear his eyes away from the door as it sounded much like the recordings he had heard from the battlefields only a few years prior. He couldn’t find it in himself to move.

“It’s just the end of the world, babydoll,” Erskine laughed softly, and he rolled Anthony on his back, grinding down on top of him to reclaim his attention. Anthony blinked up at him, his eyes focusing again. Erskine’s teeth were an uncanny bright in the darkness, fangs glistening as he leaned down over Anthony to kiss him again. It was hard to keep his attention on it when outside seemed to have turned into a war zone. Erskine noticed his distraction, and with a soft huff of something (amusement? Irritation?) he reached over and wrapped his hands (large, so impossibly large, too large for human hands, how had he gotten used to that?) over Anthony’s ears. When he pressed down, the sound dimmed. It didn’t drown out all the sounds, but it made it so Anthony could regain his senses and return his attention to the other man, who smiled at him and rolled his hips. Anthony’s senses sharpened, and Erskine’s smile grew wider. Anthony reached out to wrap his hands around Erskine’s waist.

“Just look at me,” the man mouthed, before resuming his motions.

Anthony nodded.

That is how he survived his first extermination.

Chapter Text

Beyond everything else, Hell was lonely.

Evenings and nights were easier, the sharp edges of his solitude softened by alcohol, drugs, and the warm embrace of whichever sinner he thought attractive or sufficiently wealthy-looking. They almost never said no, which both delighted and horrified him, as he still struggled to meet his own gaze in the mirror. No one else seemed to have the same problem, both men and women’s gazes lingering on him wherever he went, especially openly whenever he entered a bar or dancing. He relished the attention most nights, allowing the compliments and touches to carry him wherever they wanted him to go, to laugh and flirt and take it all in. He’d take what he would get.

Tonight, no one took his fancy. He made a serious attempt at improving his own mood, to put a flirtatious smile on his face and get in the right mindset. Funds were running dry again, but anytime anyone approached him, his body strained with revulsion at the hunger in their eyes. The music was too loud, the smell of the alcohol overbearing rather than appealing, and with a regretful sigh he had to admit to himself that it wasn’t going to work. He dragged himself up from his seat and patted his pockets out of habit, making sure he hadn’t left anything behind. He could feel eyes on him again, but he ignored them, ducked his head and beelined for the exit, his arms wrapped around himself so no one could get it in their head to reach out and grab him.

The outside air didn’t offer any relief. The sky was thick with a summery mug that immediately had him sweating, and when he looked up to the black slog that was the sky, he wished more than anything that he could see stars. There were no stars in Hell. As much as Sunday service had been wrong in its descriptions of the feared afterlife, the Reverendo had been right about one thing: when sinners would look up at the Eternal Darkness, they would see no light, but instead the proof of the inevitability of their suffering. And Hell, as it turned out, was a much more subtle suffering than anyone could have thought. He distantly wondered whether if he would start praying, he would bust into flames.

All of a sudden he was angry.

He used to pray all the time. He went to service, to confession, deposited large donations in the greedy hands of the altar boys when they went down the rows. He did all that was asked of him. His sins were supposed to have been washed away. He didn’t deserve to be here. 

His boots dragged as he put himself into motion, though he had no idea where to go. The alley next to the bar was not as busy as the main road, and there were no lights to distract him from the oppressive darkness of the night. Anthony missed when the dark had been comforting. He also missed when the outside had been crisp, and his breath would fog out of his mouth with every exhale. Did Hell ever get cold? He couldn’t even remember how long it had been since he arrived here. The days blurred together so easily, and faced with the idea of a forever, Anthony had done his best to not think about it.

Now that he did think about it, the lack of knowing made him feel detached, disoriented. He could feel the familiar first spikes of panic climb up his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to rid himself of the feeling. 

His fingers were itching for a smoke. His veins were aching for something stronger. 

Later he would blame this craving for how he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings. A rookie mistake in Hell.

It had to be said that Anthony wasn’t defenseless. You didn’t make it past thirty in one of the most prominent mobster families of his time without knowing how to look after yourself. Yet it turned out there were huge differences between someone trying to start a fight in a meeting when you had two guns at your sides and security just outside the door, and being attacked in a dark alley when you were just trying to figure out what you wanted to do with your afterlife.

In truth, he didn’t even really register what had happened until he was face down on the ground. The pain didn’t hit until several seconds later, when he was pushing himself up on his knees, only to be kicked right back down to the ground. It smelled disturbingly like manure. In another life, it might have felt like being on the farm. In death, there was no such pleasant explanation. He briefly wondered if it was human feces, and then immediately decided he didn’t want to know. He kicked out a foot and heard a satisfying grunt as the weight moved off of him, enough for him to roll over and to get a look at his assailants. There were three of them, as nondescript as any sinner got down here; fedoras on top of faces that looked vaguely like seals. Dark clothes, murderous expression. Anthony gave them an expectant look and a wave of the hand to urge them to come out with whatever they wanted from them, which seemed to put them off temporarily. They stared at each other for a few seconds, until one of them grunted out, “Money”.

Anthony wanted to laugh. “Wrong fucking night,” he said, which was the only thing he bothered with before jumping to his feet and at the crone nearest to him. He felt out of sorts, anxious and angry in ways that the single drink had done nothing to soothe, and this was just the excuse he needed to get rid of some of the tension. He didn’t enjoy fighting, but it was a good way to get out of his head. And in Hell, there was no need to play like gentlemen.

Still, three to one was unfair under the best of circumstances, and the drink he’d consumed plus the hit to his head had rendered Anthony’s reflexes not as sharp as they otherwise would have been. Even with all of his six arms at the ready, he didn’t manage to keep the assailants off him. Their seal bodies were fatty and heavy as they threw themselves against his legs, and though he fought tooth and claw - quite literally - it wasn’t long before he found himself face down once again, head spinning. There was a heavy weight on his back, holding him down. This time, he didn’t bother getting back up. As if he’d simply been waiting for the opening, his father’s voice filtered through the hazy ringing in his ears, clear as the bell for morning service, laced with the specific sort of disappointment he always seemed to have just for Anthony. Weak. Slow. Pathetic. He wished he would pass out so he would not have to be present for whatever the robbers were planning to do to him. If he’d pass out, he could pretend none of it happened.

“Such noise on a fine evening,” a voice broke through the ringing in Anthony’s ears. The weight on his back was lifted suddenly, and there was the sound of a few slaps, followed by a yelp and footsteps skittering away. Even beaten down as he was, it seemed odd to him that the men would just run off, especially since he could still feel the outline of the coins in his pocket, pressing into his skin as he rolled himself over on his back carefully, coughing and spitting out things he didn’t want to think about. The taste of blood was almost welcome, since at least he could be relatively certain that it was his own. Small mercies.

He looked up at his rescuer, who turned out to be less of a knight in shining armor and more a tall skinny figure in a fitted red shirt, with equally bright wings that folded down his back as he looked down at Anthony. He had two long antennae sticking from the top of his hat, swaying in a nonexistent breeze. Anthony sighed, and ran a hand over his face. He supposed that gratitude would be in order, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. The other man didn’t either, and for a few long moments they just stared at each other, before the man leaned forward and folded his hands on top of the cane he was carrying. He gave Anthony a wide, sharp-teethed smile. “You look messy.”

“Fuck you,” Anthony replied, and then instantly felt better, some of the tension leeching from his shoulders as he gave himself a quick onceover, to see if there was any great damage. Nothing more than superficial scuffing, and perhaps a nosebleed, if the warmth on his upper lip was anything to go by. That would explain the taste of blood.

He was surprised when the man didn’t seem offended or angry, but rather threw his head back and laughed. It was a genuine sort of laugh, loud and amused, the cheerful sound in stark contrast with the shadowed alleyway. When he was done, the man extended a hand to Anthony, a clear invite to allow him to help Anthony back up on his feet.

“I can take care of myself,” Anthony grunted, pressing himself up without accepting the hand, though he didn’t flinch away when the other man reached out once they stood face to face and brushed some of the debris off his shoulder. He had helped put an end to what could have been a very unfortunate night for him, Anthony supposed, and besides that, the man was still smiling at him.

“Ah, but that doesn’t mean you have to, amorcito,” he said, smile sharp around the edges, “come on, let me buy you a drink. You look like you could use it. Or perhaps something stronger.”

Anthony’s ears pricked up at the offer, and he met the other man’s eyes as he considered his options. The earlier feelings of disgust at the idea of spending time with someone had all but ebbed away, and with the memory of his father on the forefront of his mind, Anthony wanted nothing more than to have someone look at him and say something nice. This looked like a man who would have many nice things to say. And the money to back it up, if the spark of something golden around the man’s wrist was anything to go by. If Anthony managed to take that off his hands, he would be able to buy himself much more than a few weeks at a motel. He could probably get his own place. His own shower. A bed that didn’t smell like sweat.

“A drink would put me in a better mood,” he allowed, and the tall man’s smile widened.

“Excellent. Shall we?” He held out an arm, and Anthony let out a soft chuckle at the gentlemanly gesture. He slipped an arm through the man’s and set a hand on top of the other man’s wrist in a way he had found to look elegant. His fingers brushed against the cool metal of a large, encrusted watch. He smiled.

Chapter Text

His rescuer’s name was Valentino. He had died in 1973, at the mention of which Anthony blinked in surprise. Had so many years already passed since his arrival in Hell? Many days it felt like he had barely been here for a month, but others it might as well have been a hundred years. Time felt like sand down here. Valentino had laughed when he had told him that, and ordered him another drink and a warm towel he used to gently wipe the dirt and blood of Anthony’s face.

Turns out the 70s had not been much different than the 40s, with the country being involved in another war, this time in Vietnam. What the US was doing in Vietnam, Anthony didn’t even bother to ask. There were perpetual tensions with Russia, and unusually high inflation. On the other hand, there had been significant developments in music and fashion, of which Valentino knew a great deal. He told Anthony about the rise of popularity of long hair for men (Anthony teased Valentino about his unfashionably bald head), about the resilience of rock-n-roll music (very loud guitars), about tight bell bottom trousers (like the ones Valentino wore, so tight around the crotch they left little to the imagination but so flared at the bottom Anthony could probably have crawled inside), and something called Flower Power. Anthony said he missed flowers. Valentino said he would get him a room full of them if Anthony would ask. Anthony asked. Valentino only smiled.

They talked for hours, and Anthony wasn’t bored once. Valentino came from Puerto Rico, but he had moved to New York with idle hopes of better work opportunities in his late twenties, though he’d admitted to Anthony he had mostly been excited about the music scene. He spoke about the bright colors of his hometown, about white beaches and the smell of sun. Anthony hung off his lips, able to imagine it all too clearly, the colors and smells of the living world that had gotten faded into the same muted reds and browns down here. Everything was muted, he complained over another glass of champagne.

“Not you,” Valentino told him, “you shine bright like the full moon on a clear night.”

When Anthony grew sleepy, Valentino pulled out a little baggy with a more than familiar white powder, and effortlessly rolled a bill for Anthony to snort it off a little monogrammed mirror. He gently stroked Anthony’s hair out of his face when Anthony leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes to let the drug take effect. It was the sort of glamorous that Anthony associated with old Hollywood class, and the shine of it only added to the sparkling sharp high that overtook him within seconds. It was good stuff, clearing away the messy clutter of Anthony’s head, and when he opened his eyes again, it was like the world had righted itself. Inside the VIP section, the stink of sulfur was overwritten by the heady scent of incense and perfume, and Valentino himself smelled sweet, a cotton candy floss and caramel apple like the carnivals Anthony loved when he was growing up.

That night Anthony danced whilst Valentino cheered him on, the mild injuries he’d sustained earlier all but forgotten in the rush of endorphins, alcohol and the hit of cocaine. He hadn’t felt this good in months - Hell, probably years, it has to have been years? When he grew too hot, Valentino unbuttoned the bottom of Anthony’s shirt and tied it up, turning it in one of the cropped shirts he said were totally en vogue with the living. The hand Valentino gently ran up Anthony’s stomach made butterflies burst inside his chest, made a rush of arousal pool low in his belly, hot and warm and real. They kissed for the first time when a server brought out a bucket of champagne so stuffed with sparklers that Anthony thought it was a miracle the bottle hadn’t exploded. They watched the sparklers until they went out, and in the ensuing sudden darkness that followed, Valentino pulled Anthony on his lap so they could kiss again, closer together. With two of his arms wrapped around Valentino’s neck and two around his waist, Anthony wondered if it was possible to fall in love this quickly.

When he returned home to his motel room the following day around mid-morning (after Valentino had treated him to breakfast and offered to drive him home), and he found the room absolutely covered in flowers, he knew it was possible. He didn’t even consider asking how the man knew his address, or how he’d managed to get inside. Even when the flowers wilted, too fast without sunshine to sustain them, Anthony kept some of them, hung them upside down on the wall as a reminder.

Valentino showed up with fresh flowers every evening they agreed to meet, whether it was a bouquet or a single flower t pin to Anthony’s shirt. They always smelled impossibly sweet. Anthony wished he could roll in the scent, wrap it around himself even when Valentino wasn’t there. It was more addictive than drugs, he found himself thinking as they shared the back of a limousine, his nose in Valentino’s neck and the man’s hands slipping under his shirt whilst the driver aimlessly drove them around until they were ready to get out. It was luxury, it was comfort, and it was love.

The delight of being in love, and to be able to express it so openly and freely, carried him in a pink haze for months. He told Valentino about how he had been so afraid of being a homosexual when he was alive, and how even when he had slept around with men down here, he had felt so ashamed of himself. Valentino had made appropriate little sounds and kissed away every single of his concerns, had ran his hands down Anthony’s body until he felt as worshiped as if he’d been holy. He couldn’t imagine Heaven could be better than this.

*

Around the year mark of the two of them dating - though Anthony was still bad at keeping time, it could have been longer - he moved into one of the buildings Valentino owned, in a room draped in silks and fluffy carpet. They christened the room on every single surface they could find, and when they were done, Valentino took pictures of him on the bed, stretched out and grinning in his afterglow. They were developed that same day in Valentino’s darkroom, and he brought the prints over to Anthony’s flat for him to see.

They were beautiful, Anthony had to admit, and for the first time he could see the appeal of his own body. With his arms spread out like that, his eyes half-lidded and a blissful smile on his face, he painted a picture that made his own cheeks heat. He hid his face against Valentino’s shoulder and laughed, whilst his lover kissed him all over and repeated the same sweet little words. Beautiful. Ethereal. So fucking attractive, angel, mi amor.

They were wrapped up together that night, or morning, or afternoon - it was hard to tell when the sky never let go of that infernal shade of red, when Valentino grabbed the folder again and flipped through the pictures.

“You know,” he had said, tapping a long finger on one of them, of Anthony looking up at the lens with a soft smile, his hair a mess on top of is head, two of his hands over his head to hold onto the pillow, “people would pay a lot of money for these.”

Anthony laughed, the by now familiar flush returning to his cheeks as he snuggled closer, letting one hand run over Valentino’s hip, then tickling at the base of the wing that always made his lover squirm a little. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m being deadly serious, amorcito,” Valentino said, pressing himself up a little against the headboard, making Anthony move along with him, “speaking as a professional here.”

“Sure,” Anthony said, rolling his eyes a little. He reached to grab the pack of Shermans they kept next to the bed and a lighter, rolling back on the pillows. He pulled one out, lit it and leaned his head back so as to not blow the smoke in Valentino’s face, “gonna make me a star, daddy-o?”

Valentino only hummed, and continued flicking through the pictures. Then he put the prints to the side and turned to Anthony again, picking the cigarette from his hand to take a drag himself. Contrary to Anthony he didn’t turn away, rather exhaled the smoke right into Anthony’s face. Anthony laughed as he made a show of inhaling it, the secondary smoke somehow more potent than the hit he’d taken himself. He relished the heady feeling it brought with it, sinking deeper into the pillows. In the muted red light from outside, the smoke almost looked pink. Everything around Valentino always seemed pink, tinged with the shade like he was perpetually blessed by his namesake Saint.

“Would you let me, angel?”

“Hmm?” Anthony blinked, everything a little more hazy around the edges as the drug started to take effect, “let you what?”

Valentino leaned in to kiss him on the corner of the mouth, which made it even harder to focus, “Make you a star.”

“Like what, a porn star?” Anthony gave his lover an amused look, and took the cigarette back from his fingers, taking a long, lazy drag. The entire room seemed to shimmer prettily.

Valentino made a tutting sound, an offended rustling of his wings. Anthony smiled at him. “So crass, darling. An entertainer. I run an entertainment agency. Cinema. Art.”

“Sex art.”

“Sensual art,” Valentino amended, “just let me take these to the studio, baby. I bet you can take Hell by storm. You told me how easily you were able to seduce all those men before you met me. Those men would be lining up for prints like these.” He leaned in to kiss Anthony again, the familiar sweet taste on Anthony’s lips, and it left him soft and pliant under Valentino’s touch. One hand made its way down his side, the slender fingers wrapping around Anthony’s thigh. His skin tingled.

Anthony considered the request. Where was the harm, really? It wasn’t like reputation was something he still needed to worry about. If Valentino was right and he could make money of such pictures, he could live such a comfortable life. He’d never have to steal again. Truth be told, he was getting tired of it anyway. Sleeping around had lost its appeal since he’d met Valentino, and the risks definitely outweighed the reward most days. Perhaps he didn’t have to struggle.

He gave in. “Ugh, fine. But I don’t want my name on those, you hear?” He reached to tug at one of Valentino’s antennae, gently, since they were sensitive. He loved touching them, loved watching Valentino’s face twitch as he tried to play it off nonchalantly, but the man couldn’t hide the little shiver than ran over his skin, the way his hips bucked into Anthony’s thigh.

Valentino huffed out a laugh and rolled himself on top of Angel, fluttering his wings behind him. “You wanna have an artist name, hm? I hear you. What’s on your gorgeous little mind? Baby doll? Black Widow?”

Anthony cringed at those, unable to keep himself from snorting out a laugh he had to hide behind one of his hands. Valentino’s eyes sparkled mischievously from above him, two hands on Anthony’s ribcage, utterly distracting in the way the ran through the soft fuzz. Anthony met his gaze as he considered potential names for this persona. He wanted it to be catchy. Something that sounded sexy, but playful. Something that reminded him of the way Valentino made him feel. He took another inhale of the cigarette. What did Valentino call him? Amorcito. Mi amor. Angel.

Angel.

The room shimmered around him, swaying gently. Valentino just watched him, eyes unwavering as his hands moved rhythmically, up and down Anthony’s sides. He was a heavy weight on Anthony’s hips, grounding him into the mattress. Anthony exhaled, eyes caught on the smoke that drifted up from his lips, tasted the familiar bitter edge of the pcp tinging the tobacco. Then a brilliant thought crossed his mind. His lip quirked up as he raised the cigarette between them, holding it up as an offer to Valentino. The other man only raised an eyebrow, and Angel’s smile widened.

“Angel Dust.”

Valentino’s eyes moved from Anthony to the cigarette, and the moment he made the connection, his own mouth split into a grin that was so wide it seemed to take up his entire face.

“Angel Dust,” he breathed, lifting one hand to pick the cigarette between two slender fingers, and he put it between his lips, dragging it hard enough some of the fresh ash fell down to Anthony’s chest. It singed the soft fuzz on his chest, but he didn’t care. There was very little he cared about when Valentino was beaming at him like that, like he couldn’t believe Anthony was real. “Mi amor. My brilliant, beautiful boy.”

“Your angel,” Anthony replied, and Valentino grinned at him, taking another drag before he tossed the cigarette to the side and suddenly dove down towards Anthony.

“Mine,” he agreed, and slowly blew the smoke into Anthony’s face. Anthony inhaled, savoring the burn of it, the way the taste was mixed with the eternal sweet sugar of Valentino’s lips.

“Angel Dust,” Valentino said again, as he pulled back a little and pressed his lips to Anthony’s chest, his stomach, his hips. He slid down to settle on top of Anthony’s legs, impatiently shoving the blankets to the side. “You’re going to make them addicted, baby.”

Anthony let out a sigh of pleasure as Valentino pulled him down, and he let his head fall into the pillows. The room was swaying pleasurably, and every single touch of Valentino set his veins on fire. His hands tightened in the mattress cover when Valentino held him down and used his other hand to slide down his stomach, settling between his legs. His grip was firm and strong, making Anthony writhe and gasp with every tug of his hand, unable to shift away as Valentino kept him pressed into the mattress, kept him in place. If this was the treatment he got in return, he thought giddily, he wouldn’t mind being Angel Dust every day.

(Famous fucking last words.)

Chapter Text

Valentino had been right about the pictures. Within the span of a few days, Anthony’s - Angel Dust’s - “afterglow photo shoot” had people foaming at the mouth in front of the studio’s adjacent club, demanding prints and signatures and a formal introduction of this new face. It had nearly caused a riot when they had been told Angel Dust wasn’t there. Valentino had called him and held the phone out of the window, so Anthony could hear the yelling. Anthony listened in awed surprise, laughing when Valentino told him it was Anthony’s fault he had to work overtime that evening. He gladly took the blame, and made sure to make it up to Valentino when he came to his apartment later that night.

It really only took Valentino the barest effort to convince Anthony to come in for a studio-shoot. It was a boudoir style set with him seated at a makeup table, glancing over his shoulder as if he was caught in private, dressing robe halfway down his back to show off the slender line of his waist. There was a bottle of champagne he steadily worked his way through as the photographer caught every moment. With the warm glow of the bubbles in his belly, the blinding light him keeping him from clearly seeing the staff and crew, and the continuous encouragement from his lover behind the scenes, Anthony found himself relaxing into the role. With every click of the camera, his acting and poses grew more flamboyant and playful, teasing the camera.

More as a joke than anything else, he reached for the tube of lipstick, dabbing the bright red color on his lips in the same way he had seen his mother do. It was rough, the edges blurry and the color uneven, and it made him laugh when he took another sip of the champagne and it left a bright imprint on the edge of the glass. The camera flashed several times when Anthony held up the glass to show it, unable to keep the grin off his face. This was easy.

“And that’s a wrap,” Valentino’s voice called, and the brightest of the lights dimmed immediately, leaving Anthony to blink as his eyes all adjusted. Within seconds he was pulled off his seat and wrapped within Valentino’s arms, his lover’s sweet mouth on his. It was messy and demanding, and when Valentino pulled back he ran his thumb over Anthony’s mouth, indubitably smudging the lipstick beyond salvation. Anthony playfully snapped at the finger.

“Did I do good?” he asked, and despite how he had been feeling good about it during the photo shoot, he couldn’t help the uncertainty that slipped into his voice. There was a difference between how things felt, and how they looked. And he had never been good with getting his picture taken.

“You were incredible,” Valentino reassured him, his fingers taking hold of Anthony’s chin and tilting up his face so they could look at each other. He was wearing little round glasses today, which slipped down his face so his eyes met Anthony’s over them. “So hot, mi amor. I had to put a stop to it before I would jump you right here. That would have been unprofessional.”

Anthony laughed, but his cheeks flushed enough he thought they would match the lipstick smeared across his face. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I only speak the truth, angel,” Valentino said, leaning in to kiss him again, “now come to my room so I can tear that dressing robe off of you.”

Anthony would never say no to that.

*

The photo shoot was the main event in that month’s V-Boy Magazine. It was an official introduction to Hell’s newest sensation, proclaiming Angel Dust as a blessing for the wicked, a band-aid for the immortal sins, an angel among demons. Anthony’s ears burned as he flicked through the pictures, reading the captions that accompanied them. The centerfold was a larger poster, and when he unfolded it curiously, it turned out to be one of the final pictures after he had applied the lipstick. His mouth dropped open slightly as his own eyes looked back at him, soft and glazed with the champagne, lips smudged red and pulled into a wide smile, the champagne flute front and center, obscuring part of his body, but clearly inviting the viewer to use their imagination. The poster held his stage name at the bottom, in his own handwriting, and underneath it held a single little caption: coming soon.

“That is so indecent,” he said, unable to keep his eyes of the poster, which was easily three feet long and printed on a glossy paper that made Anthony’s fur look like it was shimmering, “I can’t believe this is the picture you chose.”

“That’s how I see you, amor,” Valentino purred behind him, crawling up to wrap arms around Anthony and running hands over his chest, “the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Anthony wanted to jokingly remark that he wasn’t a thing, but before the thought could even fully form, Valentino had pulled his head to the side to kiss him, and as always, that was plenty of distraction, any and all thoughts abandoning him. Valentino always had that effect on him. Anthony tightened his grip, and hopped up twice so that Valentino would lift him so he could wrap his legs around the man’s waist.

“Gotta celebrate,” he whispered against the man’s mouth, when they deemed it time to take a moment to breathe, “You, me, bed, then dinner, then bed again, preferably. Maybe a shower.”

“Whatever you say,” Valentino purred, already turning away from the office to carry Anthony out, “You can have whatever you want.”

*

His first official paycheck from the studio wasn’t much, but it was the first honest payment he had gotten since he’d died. Truth be told, it was his first honest paycheck ever, since when he had been alive he had lived off his family’s bank credit. So he relished the envelope with his name on it, the crisp bills that were neatly stacked inside, the knowledge that he had earned this himself. With the help of Valentino, of course, which the man reminded him off ever so sweetly when he’d handed it over to him.

“You could be making big money off of this,” he said, “Angel Dust could become a household name.”

Anthony wasn’t sure household name was appropriate for anyone in Valentino’s line of work, but then he supposed there weren’t many children in Hell to be bothered by the presence of adult entertainment within their families. In fact, he didn’t think he’d seen any children at all, except for the ones over in Cannibal Town, a place he avoided at all cost.

“You want me to do more of these shoots?” Anthony asked, putting the envelope in the drawer of his bedside table before climbing on the bed and reaching for Valentino to join him, “I could do that. That was fun.”

Valentino didn’t take his hand, but did crawl on the bed with him, shoving Anthony down into the mattress and grinning down at him. “What about video?”

“What about it?” Anthony asked, distracted as he was using all of his hands to try and unbutton Valentino’s shirt, which had a ridiculous amount of tiny buttons. What did these even serve for?

“Would you like to try a video shoot?”

Anthony paused and Valentino made a tutting sound as he noticed Anthony’s dubious expression. “Darling, don’t give me that look. You sleep around with men all the time, hm? You can do it on camera, and earn money with it.”

The words stung, just a little, and Anthony averted his eyes to hide the flash of hurt he knew must be showing on his face. Anthony knew Valentino didn’t mind that he slept with other men, because he knew it was just a way of getting their money, but when put like that, it made Anthony feel painfully cheap.

“I’m not a whore,” he said, even though the moment he said it, he realized that he basically was. What was the difference between asking for money in exchange for sex, and stealing it from oblivious souls in the morning? Valentino must have noticed, because he immediately brought a hand to Anthony’s chin to lift his face, forcing their eyes to meet again.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Valentino said softly, his breath sweet on Anthony’s face, and the simply statement made him relax completely in Valentino’s touch, “I’m just saying, baby, you are so good at it. I have years of experience and you blow me away. Those hands of yours… You’d look positively sinful on camera.”

Anthony hummed his doubt, but he felt his hesitance wavering as Valentino followed up his statement with little kisses and touches that reminded Anthony just how much he loved the other man. How much he trusted him.

“Tell you what,” Valentino’s voice grew lower, a purr near Anthony’s ear as his fingers deftly tugged the shirt from out of his pants, “we’ll go shopping. I’ll buy you some of those silky things you’ve been eyeing. Let’s give it a whirl in studio. I’ll get you the prettiest man you’ve ever seen.”

“I thought I was the prettiest man you’ve ever seen,” Anthony responded, which was meant to be joking, but came out just a little on the petulant side. Vanity was a sin, wasn’t it? Fuck, Anthony was so guilty of that one. Jealous? Guilty as charged. Greed - he didn’t even want to go there.

“I’ll have to look long and hard to find you one then.” Valentino said without a hitch, pressing his lips against Anthony’s jaw, and it was hard to focus on anything else. “Do we have a deal, amor?”

He hesitated for only a moment longer. Valentino made a good point, and it was just a trial run, anyway. All the people in studio were professionals. If he didn’t feel comfortable he would just speak up, and they could abandon ship. And as long as Valentino was there to keep an eye on things, what was the worst that could happen? Anthony smiled up at his lover, and then resumed his efforts of unbuttoning the shirt. “I guess you’re the boss, Tino,”

“Damn right, Tony,” Valentino said, and rolled them both over on the bed.

*

It was almost too easy to get into character. The moment the lights came on in the studio, illuminating a bed that was made up to look like some uptown apartment, Anthony could feel himself sinking into a different persona. The cameras were hidden in folds of large curtains that surrounded the set and hid them from outside onlookers, creating a illusionary bubble of perfect privacy. Anthony knew the staff were there, but he couldn’t see them, and that made all the difference. The outfit he and Valentino had picked together helped as well. Long flowy trousers in a silky white fabric that rustled softly when he moved, and a shimmering black top that left nothing to the imagination. He’d felt self-conscious for a few minutes after putting it on, but he and Val had smoked some weed together before the shoot, and it had mellowed him right out. Cannabis was Anthony’s recent favorite thing to smoke. It hadn’t been popular when he was alive, but down here it was all the rage. It gave a much more mellow high than any of the other drugs he had tried. He loved the way it made him feel. He loved the way Valentino looked at him when they smoked together. When he’d walked out of the office, he’d already been half hard.

The scene had minimal script and relied mostly on improvisation, which was perfectly fine with Anthony. And if he perhaps used his hands exactly in the way that Valentino preferred, looking straight into one of the cameras as he did it, that was between the two of them. His bed partner was stunning, just as beautiful as Valentino had promised, muscular but soft around the edges, big floppy dog ears that went along with every movement and made Anthony laugh giddily as they rolled around on the bed. They hadn’t exchanged a lot of words before the shoot, but he looked nice, gentle brown eyes and a smile that stretched his face wide. His hands were covered in fur, and his nails - claws - had been filed down to blunt little stubs. To not hurt his co-stars, the man had explained, and Anthony appreciated it greatly. He didn’t really enjoy pain during sex.

He ended up on top of the other man, riding him with his head thrown back in pleasure, and he could not stop smiling.

With the artificial light modeled to look like earthly sunshine, the scene felt like the perfect embodiment of a Sunday daydream.

The recording sold out within the first 24 hours.

Chapter Text

Anthony never cared much for politics. It wasn’t a great trait to have when he had been alive, considering his family’s occupation, and turned out that it was an equally terrible trait to have in Hell. It wasn’t until Valentino said he had to leave for a meeting right after one of their dinners that Anthony found out there was such a thing as Overlords.

Valentino was apparently one of them, as was the guy who ran most of the trashy commercials on the television. Anthony had never been more relieved that he had ended up with just a few extra arms rather than with a massive TV-box as a head. He was pretty sure it must be highly uncomfortable to sleep like that. Anthony really did value his sleep.

“I didn’t know you were pretty much a celebrity,” Anthony said that night, as Valentino walked him to his car to be taken back home, “make my head spin, why don’t ya.”

Valentino kissed him briefly before shoving him into the car, making Anthony giggle as he tumbled on the backseat, a mess of arms and legs courtesy to the five course dinner and generous bottles of wine. One of Valentino’s arms was leaning on top of the door, the other to the side, slender hand holding a cigarette. He’d recently gotten into the habit of using a cigarette holder, which seemed to serve no other purpose than to look dramatic. It suited him, though, and even now the glow at the tip of the cigarette caught Anthony’s attention, almost hypnotizing.

He smiled down at Anthony, mouth quirked at the corner. It did a variety of things to Anthony’s stomach. “I love that you are so blissfully unaware of things, mi amor. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Deal,” Anthony blew him a kiss, and pulled the door shut, almost getting his foot stuck in the process. He laughed and rolled himself into a seated position, leaning his face against the window as he watched Valentino wave at him when the car pulled away from the curb.

*

The video’s popularity was more than Anthony could have ever expected. Somehow, that one recording boosted his social status almost overnight, and he went from being just another Sinner, to one of the hottest new faces of the moment. The best part of it was that suddenly he was being invited to exclusive parties all around the Ring. There was never a dull moment when all club events and celebrations undoubtedly included an invite for Angel Dust, and Anthony loved every minute of it.

He used the money from the most recent shoot on a floor length dress. He’d been wanting one after he’d seen one of the other male actors at the studio wearing one during a shoot, and he wore it to an event that same night. He made sure the fluff on his chest peeked from underneath the tight bodice as if it were a pair of voluptuous breasts. It made him feel weirdly powerful, the way he could mold and shape his body to look so different. There was a sort of weird pleasure in embracing this feminine sex appeal. He got a pair of heels as well, not too high, but enough that he gained an inch or two, and the shape of them had him cocking his hip to the side as he stood on the floor, surrounded by admirers. It was a high unlike any he had ever experienced.

Turned out that attention was one hell of a drug.

The next morning pictures were slathered over every gossip magazine, and Valentino pulled him in the studio whilst he was still hangover to turn the morning-after into content.

“I don’t like when they make money off your back, baby,” he’d said, as Anthony worked his way through a large cup of coffee with a handful of ibuprofen to wake him up and take away the headache. The make-up assistant was doing her best to make him look rough in a sexy way, rather than rough in the way he actually felt. Valentino poured a bump of what Anthony presumed to be coke on his hand and held it out to Anthony, who leaned over to snort it in between dabs of the brush on his face. “That’s my job, you know.”

Anthony rolled his eyes playfully, but he gave his lover an amused yet warm smile, reaching out to lace their fingers together. “I looked good though, yeah?”

Valentino squeezed his hand, and despite how he was trying to keep a neutral expression, Anthony could see the familiar spark of approval in Valentino’s eyes. “You looked mighty fine.”

From then on, Antony’s dressing room started being stocked with dresses as well.

*

Anthony wasn’t sure when he started working at the studio almost full time. Time had always been elusive to him, and once he’d gotten over his initial shyness in front of the camera, he had started to enjoy the attention that was bestowed upon him pretty much constantly. There were photo shoots and short films, followed by fan-cards to be signed and kissed, short interviews and parties where he was treated like a celebrity. One of Valentino’s Hellhounds was there when the man himself wasn’t, making sure Angel Dust was always protected, and all of it was accompanied by a constant stream of drinks and drugs that kept Anthony a very happy man.

So what if the comedown was a little harsh sometimes? Every job had its perks and cons, didn’t it? So far there hadn’t been anything that a bloody mary and a handful of painkillers hadn’t been able to fix.

Over time, Valentino grew more busy as the studio expanded. He’d teamed up with the television demon to get access to the latest technology, and Anthony disliked the man intensely. Not only did meetings with him cut into his and Valentino’s date-time, but Vox always leered at Anthony when he dropped by the studio, screen flickering when his staticky gaze lingered a little too long. When Anthony had flipped him off once, the man hadn’t even had the decency to do more than smirk at him. Anthony wondered if he could unplug his smug little screen somehow. He mostly kept himself from complaining about it, because Valentino didn’t like it when he grumbled too much, but the irritation festered and grew every time the man appeared in the studio or the club. Especially when boxes with the Vox Enterprise logo started to be scattered around his dressing room, and Anthony couldn’t ignore it anymore.

He brought it up one day when they were alone, Anthony messing around with a new gaming box that had been dropped off at Valentino’s office. It came with a little remote with colorful buttons, and Anthony pressed them curiously, glancing at the television to see what each of them did. It came with a manual, but he really couldn’t be bothered to read the fine print.

“You hate on him but he’s the one who brought you that thing,” Valentino said with an amused huff, though he didn’t look up from the paperwork he was staring down at, “is that a way to show gratitude?”

Anthony scoffed as he managed to get the cube connected to the TV, and a game screen loaded in front of him. He stared at the console in confusion, pressing at the different buttons until something happened. Tinny music blasted from the speakers as the game started loading. Valentino’s antennae twitched, and Anthony immediately turned down the volume.

He huffed. “Right, I forgot I should suckle his dick because he provides some mediocre entertainment.”

“Such foul language,” Valentino tutted, and Anthony looked up to see the man give him an expectant look, which pulled a sigh but also the expected apology from him, halfhearted as it was.

Valentine gave a little nod and turned his expression back down. “Anyway, we have a deal, me and Vox. We’re partners.”

“Should I be jealous?” Anthony asked, and though his tone was joking, there was a genuine little stab of the aforementioned jealousy in his belly. He felt the weirdest urge to defend himself. “I’m ten times more attractive than Mister Static. He reeks of electricity.”

This once again caught Valentino’s attention, and this time he put down the pen to lean two elbows on the table, resting his chin on top of his hands. “Angel, darling, you are jealous.” It wasn’t a question, which irritated Anthony, though he supposed he was being rather transparent with his feelings. “Does it bother you that daddy’s attention goes somewhere else?”

“It should at least go somewhere interesting.” Anthony said, officially abandoning the game console and its pitchy audio in favor of walking over to Valentino’s desk, placing two hands on its edge. He leaned forwards with a flirtatious grin, “And I have a hard time imagining there’s more interesting out there than me.”

“Cocky,” Valentino remarked, and Anthony just shrugged.

“It’s true, ain’t it? Just because he’s got a deal with you doesn’t mean that he gets to claim all of your attention. I am your star, remember?”

Valentino’s tongue quirked out to run over his lips, and then he reached out so fast that Anthony didn’t see it happen, did not realize Valentino had a hold of him until his hip banged painfully into the desk’s edge. Papers went flying everywhere as Valentino dragged him over the desk and onto his lap. Anthony settled down more comfortably, and gave his lover an unimpressed look, pouting a little as he rubbed at the sore spot. “You could have asked nicely, mister.”

Valentino made a noncommittal sound, wrapping arms around Anthony’s waist and holding him in place as he studied him. In the red light of the room, adjusted to a dim setting so Valentino didn’t need to wear his sunglasses inside, the focus of his gaze was intense, especially from this close up. Anthony refused to shift under the scrutiny, and returned his gaze directly, curious what the other man might be thinking. It was a long stretch of silence, which would be uncomfortable if Valentino’s fingers weren’t trailing up and down his side, soft and steadying. Anthony relaxed.

When Valentino eventually spoke up, his voice was carefully neutral, softer than usual, and his eyes never strayed from Anthony’s face. “Do you want to make a deal with me, amorcito?”

The request was so unexpected Anthony huffed out a laugh. “Don’t we make deals all the time?”

Valentino smirked at that, but didn’t say anything else, seemingly waiting for Anthony to say something. Eventually Anthony gave in, and took the question seriously. “What kind of deal? Like a business contract?”

“You could say that,” Valentino’s two other hands came up to run through Anthony’s hair, tangling into the short strands and tugging him down none too gently. Their lips touched for the briefest of moments. Then Valentino pulled back to add, “just between the two of us. Me and my favorite performer.” His breath was warm on Anthony’s face, and when Anthony ran his tongue over his own lips, they tasted sweet like cherries. Honestly, he cared a lot less about contracts than he did about the two of them abandoning the paperwork in favor of more of this. He always wanted more of Valentino’s attention.

“Does it mean I get to spend more time with you?” He asked, scooting forward a little, just enough so he could wrap arms around Valentino’s waist and let their chests touch. If he focused hard enough, he could probably hear their heartbeats sync up. A ridiculous thought, that made him smile a little. His head felt fuzzy and soft. Comfortable.

“If I could, I would keep you in the studio forever,” Valentino’s voice was back to its usual amused timbre, though he still spoke softly. It made the conversation feel intimate and private, even though there was no one to overhear. “I’d never let you leave.” Anthony preened at the possessive note in his voice. Even after all this time, it never failed to make him feel wanted. Desired. Loved.

“You can’t keep me here forever,” he replied, taking hold of Valentino’s shirt with two of his other arms, fisting the fabric tightly, and he smiled as he leaned in again, “You know I need my beauty sleep.”

“Hmm, that’s true,” Valentino chuckled, and tightened his grasp on Anthony’s hair, a blissful little sharp tug of it, pulling them closer still. Anthony could smell the heady sugar of his breath, addictive and intoxicating, and he felt himself stir in anticipation. Valentino kissed him again, a deliciously slow and languid stretch of time between just the two of them.

When Valentino eventually pulled away, it was like emerging from a dream. The room glowed pink, shimmering at the edges of his vision. It seemed absurd that he had been any sort of jealous earlier. How could he be, when it was obvious from the way Valentino looked at him, that Anthony was the only thing he cared for? Anthony smiled.

“I will tell Vox to keep out of the studio as much as possible,” Valentino said then, fingertips fingertips trailing from Anthony’s hair down the side of his face, “as long as you’re in here, you’re mine. Vox has no business with us. Deal?”

“Deal,” Anthony replied, smile still firmly on his face, and then he tilted his head to the side as the smile turned wicked, “Now, I think we could make use of this desk in a much more interesting way.”

Valentino didn’t hesitate for a second before he shoved the rest of the papers off the desk.

Chapter Text

Valentino seemed to own an endless amount of property in Hell, and he tended to cycle between them depending on his mood. Yet there was one that he preferred to stay in, and that one was also Anthony’s favorite. It was high up in the building, the penthouse or suite or whatever it was called. Anthony’s own flat was only third floor, so he was still close to the street, the sounds inevitably filtering through and ruining his peace. His latest purchase had been headphones, big chunky things with a bass that made it so Anthony could feel the music in every single one of his limbs, and they drowned out the noise from the outside enough that he’d fallen asleep with them on several times. He knew there was always someone watching his door, so he never felt unsafe wearing them. But in Val’s flat, there was no need for headphones. It was always a perfect, blissful quiet.

Anthony always felt most at ease there. He leaned his head back against the wall and put one arm over the edge of the window to let the soft breeze run through his fingers. They had the upper part of the windows wide open, and up here the air felt almost fresh. Valentino sat opposite him, posture almost an exact mirror of Anthony, their legs half-stretched out and intertwined. They’d stayed up talking for hours, seated there. It was so high up that the city seemed beautiful underneath them. It was the same thing they used to say about Paris, Anthony thought vaguely. A city beautiful from above, and horrifying from below. He wondered if people looked down from Heaven and found beauty in Hell’s despair.

“I used to be so scared of Hell,” Anthony admitted, when their conversation had lulled to a halt, the light fading from the sky as much as it ever did. The room had grown dark around them, but they hadn’t moved, only to refill their drinks or get another pack of cigarettes. “That’s what you get from growing up Catholic. Did the whole thing, praying before meals, confession, church on Sundays and Wednesdays. Went a little extra when we wrapped up a deal, you know. Extort a man, kill a man, dump his body, go to church to get the sin washed away. Classic.”

“Kinda hot,” Valentino said, leaning to the side to tap the cigarette on the outside of the window sill, watching the ashes float in the wind, “did you have a cross necklace?”

Anthony grinned softly. “Wore one every day. Never took it off. Clutched it as I prayed before bed. Shit’s weird looking back on it.”

Valentino’s laugh was muffled around his cigarette.

“We had a little Holy Water holder on the wall as well,” Anthony continued, “bronze statue of the Virgin Mary. Littlesprinkle sprinkle before leaving the house.” He mimicked dipping his fingers in the small basin, flicking his fingers to the side to imitate the habit. “Kept our souls nice and clean. Straight to Heaven, was the promise. We paid the church for that.”

“Didn’t pay enough, didn’t pray enough,” Valentino chimed, voice a little sing-song, “my poor Angel, baby boy, you must have been so scared when you opened your eyes and it wasn’t pearly gates.”

“My first instinct was to pray,” Anthony mused, and the memory now made him laugh, the futility of it, the hope he’d harbored deep in his heart that he’d just been caught in a nightmare, “dropped right to my knees where I landed, stark naked and freshly furry, said pater noster until I got kicked on the street.”

“Big Daddy clearly didn’t listen,” Valentino said, and that made Anthony laugh, before he turned a soft expression to his lover, smiling. Happy.

“He’s listening now. Should I get on my knees for you as well?”

Valentino flicked the finished cigarette out of the window and grinned at him. “I thought you’d never ask, mi amor.”

*

Anthony woke the next morning as sore as he’d ever been. He grumbled as he pushed himself to a seated position, and pangs of pain shot through his entire body. His knees felt raw, complaining when he got to his feet, a little crick and crack as he hobbled over to the bathroom. They’d spent the entire night wrapped up in each other, the first time in a while, and he could definitely tell. He wasn’t surprised that when he looked in the mirror, his reflection’s neck was riddled with little bruises, nips and kisses down his chest that all had left their mark. There was a particularly vivid bite mark over his heart, visible just over the top of the fluffiest part of his chest. Anthony rolled his eyes. He could probably do with a shower.

He hopped in and out, just long enough to rinse himself and shampoo himself down, and just shook out his fur afterwards, toweling off the worst of the moisture. He didn’t want to wake Valentino with the noise of the hairdryer, and he also didn’t think he’d have the energy to commit to the task until he’d drank about a liter of coffee. He dropped the towel in the laundry basket, and padded over to the little open kitchen. He needed to let his fur air dry, so he didn’t bother with a dressing gown, only pausing to pull on his socks. The floor was chilly to the sensitive pads of his feet, and he was glad to see the furry claws disappear into the soft woolen socks anyway. It was still early, the city barely illuminated by the glow of what passed for a sun down here, and when he opened the window, it was just a little chilly. He shivered in the morning air, but took a deep breath anyway, letting it run through his body. Almost fresh. Almost.

He lit himself a cigarette as he got the coffee started. Valentino used a proper stove top cafetière, the only real coffee if you’d ask him, and within moments the little kitchen was filled with the fragrant smell of the robusta. It wasn’t long before he could hear Valentino stirring in the bed. As he looked over his shoulder, he could see the man roll over, his wings fluttering.

“I want whatever you’re having,” the voice came from somewhere between the sheets, a little hoarse but somehow still as clearly demanding. Anthony smiled.

“Coffee and a cigarette,” he said, leaning on the kitchen counter to look at his lover, “do you want eggs?”

“No,” Valentino said, and shifted, wings spread out over half the bed now that Anthony had left, “but I want you back here.”

“Yessir,” he said, and there came a grudging grumble of approval.

It was good he put the cups on the bedside table before Valentino realized he was there, because the moment he did, he pulled Anthony down on the bed none too gently, hands already roaming over his body, one of them eagerly dipping between Anthony’s legs.

“Tino,” he whined, as the landing sent a stab of pain through his side, and he realized maybe he pulled a muscle, or two, as well.

“Tony,” Valentino echoed, in the exact same intonation, rolling himself over so he could land on top of Anthony, pressing kisses all over his neck, until Anthony stopped pouting. “You smell nice.”

“I smell like your shampoo,” Anthony muttered, “get off me, you’re going to make the coffee turn cold.”

Valentino grumbled something that could potentially be interpreted as agreement, and with a final sharp nip to Anthony’s chest he rolled over to the other side of the bed, where he started rummaging around on the bedside table. Anthony scooted upward so he could lean against the headboard, reaching for his cup of coffee.

There was a frustrated click from the side. “Where are my glasses?”

Anthony blew at his coffee, eyes darting to the other man. “You put them there last night.”

“I know I put them there last night,” Valentino snapped back, and Anthony sucked his teeth at the sharp reaction. “Did you take them?”

“All eight of my eyes have twenty twenty vision,” Anthony chirped back, which he intended to be a light-hearted joke, but Valentino’s shoulders tensed at the remark, and his hand was searching over the surface of the bed now, looking for the frames, movements almost frantic. Anthony put the cup of coffee down again, and reached a hand to rest on Valentino’s side. “Hey, let me…”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Valentino said, slapping at his hand with enough force Anthony pulled it back with a yelp, clutching it against his chest.

“Hell, fine. Find them yourself.”

Valentino’s head snapped around suddenly, and as his eyes narrowed at Anthony, he asked again, “Did you take them?” His voice was harsh, and though Anthony knew that the man couldn’t see him properly - that was the entire reason they were having this conversation - he felt like Valentino’s eyes were burning into his.

“I told you, Tino, I didn’t,” Anthony said, irritated now, crossing his arms over his chest. “I would suggest to have a look under the bed, but I suppose you won’t be able to see them even if you did.” Despite his irritation, the flash of anger on Valentino’s face didn’t escape him, and with a sigh he pulled himself off the mattress to walk over to Valentino’s side of the bed. He spotted the tinted glasses on the floor, just outside of Valentino’s reach, and with a roll of his eyes he picked them up, holding them out to the other man. “Here.”

Valentino snatched them from his hand and put them on, blinking as his vision adjusted itself. For a few seconds Valentino was quiet, and Anthony just watched as his hands curled into fists and uncurled, two of them tightly clasped into the sheets. His face did a complicated twitch, eyes cast down at his own legs. Then he looked up at Anthony, and he lashed out to grab a hold of Anthony’s wrist, pulled him down to bend at the waist, until his face was at Valentino’s level. Anthony stared at him, startled.

“Don’t ever fucking mention this to me,” Valentino said, and his voice was calm, but there was a tremor in it Anthony didn’t think he’d ever heard before, “Ever.”

Anthony stayed quiet for a moment, before he replied, hesitantly, “It’s fine, Val. That’s what glasses are for. That hurts, by the way,” he added, eyes darting down to where Valentino was grabbing his wrist, fingers wrapped tight, “in case you weren’t aware.”

Valentino’s eyes flicked down, and slowly he untangled his fingers, dropping his hand into his lap. Anthony straightened, rubbed his wrist with one of his free hands, frowning down at the other man, who had pushed himself up against the headboard, glaring ahead of himself.

“Right,” he said, when Valentino didn’t seem to want to say anything else, “I think you could really use that coffee, hm?” He kept his tone light, and crawled back onto the bed. He never made it to the bedside table, though, because Valentino’s hand was on his arm again, this time more gently tugging him closer, until he could wrap himself around Anthony’s waist and chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as he buried his face into Anthony’s neck, for just a moment, nuzzling in a way Anthony usually did to him. The antennae tickled Anthony’s face. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that, my love.”

“You’re alright,” Anthony said immediately, because apologies never came easy for Valentino, and that meant they were genuine when they did. He brought up a hand to run over his lover’s shoulders, and he turned his face to press a kiss on top of Valentino’s head, nuzzling the smooth skin.

Valentino hummed before he sat up again, bringing up two hands to rub at his face, almost nudging the glasses off his face again. “Hell, I need to lay off the coke. It makes me so jumpy.”

That, Anthony could understand. “More weed instead.”

“Coffee first,”

“That’s also going to make you jumpy,” he warned, but reached for the cup anyway, handing it over, “it’s basically three espressos in a mug.”

“This is the right kind of jumpy,” Valentino said, between the first careful sips. Anthony joined him. It was still blissfully hot. “The kind that makes me want to jump you, that is.”

Anthony’s face warmed, but he managed to keep himself from doing more than that as he lowered the cup to give Valentino an unimpressed look. “You devoured my entire body yesterday and you’re still hungry for more?”

“I’m always hungry for more,” Valentino’s voice was light now, amused as it always was, with that sugary sweet thrill to it that had Anthony’s blood sing in anticipation. “I see you on set and I can’t wait to get you in my arms instead. The things I want to do to you…” He trailed off, staring ahead of himself as if imagining them, and then he turned to Anthony, eyes focused and bright. “The things I will do to you.”

“Yeah?” Anthony asked, as his belly stirred and churned with those words, warmth low in his groin, burning hot like the coffee in his hands, “what sort of things?”

Valentino’s lip quirked. “You’ll find out.”

Chapter Text

Anthony found out a few weeks later.

There had been an incident with another performer. Anthony didn’t know the extent of it, but it had ended with a very frustrated Valentino entering Anthony’s dressing room as he had been getting ready to leave for their regular dinner.

“I can not believe the fucking un-professionalism of some people,” Valentino said, all but throwing himself on the couch with his wings carefully folded down so he could lean against the back. He plucked a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and rooted around for a lighter. He cursed when he came up empty-handed, and Anthony looked up from where he was wiping a particularly stubborn bit of eyeliner off.

Valentino snapped his fingers in irritation, closing his eyes for a moment as he pinched the skin between them, as if he was fighting off a headache. “Angel, give me a lighter, will you?”

Anthony knew better than to test Valentino’s patience when he was in a bad mood, and so he threw down the cotton ball and grabbed his own lighter, marching over to put it in his lover’s extended hand. Valentino took it and lit his cigarette, in the same breath reaching out lightning fast to wrap a free hand around Anthony’s wrist and tug him closer. He gasped in surprise, almost stumbling as he stepped away instinctively but Valentino’s grip around Anthony’s wrist was tight, and with one more sharp tug, Anthony all but tumbled forward onto the couch, half on top of Valentino. He always forgot how strong the man was.

He made a disgruntled noise at being manhandled like this when he was just trying to get ready, but didn’t bother actually saying anything about it. Valentino was clearly not in the mood. So Anthony just made himself comfortable, swinging both legs properly over Valentino’s lap as he sat into the couch and took a cigarette from the pack for himself. They sat in silence for a few minutes, as Valentino finished fuming about whatever had happened, and let Anthony light him a second cigarette. He was wearing small oval sunglasses today, tinted red, and they only made his glare all the more obvious.

“Do you think I’m not to be trusted?” Valentino eventually broke the silence, and Anthony blinked in surprise at the unexpected question. He exhaled, and twisted his arm around to tap the ash on the tray balancing on the couch’ armrest behind him. He raised his eyebrows at Valentino.

“Why do you ask?”

Valentino only made an impatient sound. “Answer the question. Do you trust me?”

Anthony took another drag of his cigarette and shrugged. “I mean, sure, I guess,”

“Sure, as in I trust you or sure, as in I don’t trust you?”

There was an edge to Valentino’s voice, something unfamiliar and sharp, that usually was reserved for phone calls behind closed doors or disorderly staff, and Anthony didn’t much like being spoken to like that. So perhaps he was a little impatient when he replied, “Sure, as in, you know I trust you, Val.”

“Say it again.”

This whole conversation was ridiculous. What was it supposed to achieve?

“I… trust you?” The sentence ended on a questioning note, as he was uncertain if this was what Valentino wanted to hear. Apparently it wasn’t.

“Real fucking convincing, Angel.” Valentino let go off his wrist, finally, but somehow it left Anthony feeling cold, abandoned, despite how they were still basically pressed together. So he scrambled to rectify the situation.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, amore,” he said, voice extra sweet and soft as he leaned his head down on Valentino’s shoulder, tilted his head to press a kiss on his neck, “I trust you. I trust you with my life.”

“Prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Prove it,” Valentino repeated, straightening and tilting his head a little as he gave Anthony another one of those intense looks that he’d been giving him a lot recently, “trust me with your life.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Anthony frowned, “Are you high? I thought you were laying off the coke.”

“I take care of you, hm?” Valentino said, reaching out one hand, one slender finger to lift Anthony’s chin, not breaking eye contact a single moment. “I make sure you’re fed, you’re paid, you can live a soft sort of life.”

“…Yes?” Anthony licked his lips, cigarette all but forgotten between his fingers. Valentino bent forward, leaned closer, close enough that their lips could touch if Anthony tilted his head.

“Then won’t you make a deal with me, baby? Won’t you let me make you mine?”

“I’m not sure marriage is any sort of legally binding down here,” Anthony tried his best to make a lighthearted joke, as he was still confused about what was going on, but Valentino didn’t laugh. Anthony felt like something big was happening, something bad, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. So he stayed quiet.

Valentino let go off his chin, and Anthony’s head balanced awkwardly for a single moments in the sudden absence of the touch. He watched Valentino root around in his pockets again, and he settled back against the arm of the couch with a frown, finally bringing up the cigarette to his lips again. Valentino’s cigarettes always had that weird aftertaste to them, he thought absentmindedly. A little musty. Sweet. Bitter. He wondered why the man didn’t buy himself a better brand.

After another few moments of silence, the other man came up with a scroll. Anthony almost laughed at the sight of it, so painfully out of place in the modern studio. Anthony’s eyes glanced over it when Valentino unfolded it, but the print was small and there was so much text on it that he almost immediately got bored. His eyes drifted to Valentino instead. “What’s that?”

“A deal,” Valentino said, smoothening out the parchment, “I just don’t want to risk losing you, mi amor.”

There it was again. That strange possessiveness that always made Anthony’s belly swoop a thousand times over. When Valentino met his eyes again, his gaze was questioning, almost hesitant, and Anthony knew that Valentino was genuinely afraid of this. Of losing Anthony. His heart stuttered with the realization.

Anthony stayed quiet, finishing his cigarette as they looked at each other, and Valentino took the bud from his hand to deposit it in the ashtray. Taking care of Anthony’s mess. Just like he’d been doing ever since they met. He trusted Valentino more than anything else. He shifted, straightened and pulls his legs back so he could sit next to Valentino instead, eyes on the scroll.

“What does it say?”

“Nothing we haven’t talked about before,” Valentino replied immediately, lifting an arm so Anthony could adjust his position to crawl against the other man’s side, allow himself to be held tightly as he focused his attention on the document again. Valentino tilted the parchment in Anthony’s direction so he could read it. Most of it was cut and dry.

The name of his Angel Dust brand as property of Valentino’s studio. His agreement to the terms of the studio. There was a line about following Valentino’s instructions as long as he was inside the four walls of the studio and to be on call when he wasn’t. Payment was based on the value of the content Angel made, clothing and props provided by the studio. He smiled at the single line that stated Valentino would provide him what he needed, eyes drifting further down the contract. Neatly outlined clauses, one of them including protection for Angel at official events, another about safe housing during Exterminations, and one about protection from perceived dangers. It seemed unnecessary, but then Valentino always liked to have things neatly under control. Anthony was glad to follow along with it, because as his lover had said, he loved to live the so-called soft life. He glanced over the rest of it, and nothing seemed particularly offensive.

It made sense to have a contract, he supposed. He did work for Valentino, and perhaps it was good to separate the professional and the personal. A contract, a deal made between them to make sure boundaries were kept. Both of them agreeing. If he really hated it, they could adjust it later. That’s what Valentino always told him. When they tried something new, he always told Anthony to let him know how he felt about it. And all of those times, Anthony had been perfectly happy. Sometimes it felt like Valentino knew him better than he knew himself. Maybe having this deal between them would allow them to be more focused on the relationship outside of the studio. And if nothing else, it would soothe Valentino’s concerns.

“Alright,” he said, tearing his eyes away from the scroll to look at Valentino instead, “if it will make you feel better, I’ll sign it.”

“I don’t want you to sign anything you don’t agree with,” Valentino’s gaze was fixed on him again, bright and intense behind his sunglasses. “This is your life.”

“I trust you,” Anthony said, more determined this time, eager to prove the truth of those words to Valentino. He wanted to prove that he too, could be trusted. He wouldn’t be like any of those people who left Valentino in the dust. He was there for the long haul. He was Valentino’s Angel.

*

His lover’s face broke into a wide smile, and he procured a quill from what seemed like thin air. The thing was glowing faintly, obviously steeped with the magic Valentino possessed. Anthony was always a little jealous of it - so many things would be easier if he possessed his own magic. Valentino pricked himself in the finger with the quill, and used the drop to write his name at the top of the contract, with a little heart dotting the i in a way that Anthony always thought was cute. The fact he was willing to sign a professional contract between them with such a little detail spoke to him of the true affection between them. Anthony was wanted. Desired. Loved.

When he finished, he reached out the quill to Anthony, and he turned his left hand palm up to present his finger. “As long as you kiss it better afterwards,” he teased, and Valentino huffed a laugh as he pricked the tip of Anthony’s ring finger. The quill sank through his skin as easy as if it were butter. It was surprisingly painful, much more than a regular pinprick was supposed to be, but Valentino lifted Anthony’s finger to his mouth right after dipping the quill into the blood, and Anthony forgave him instantly.

He accepted the quill, studying it with a brief interest before he turned his attention to the contract. The empty space at the bottom seemed to pulse with magic, waiting for his signature. It felt significant. Again he felt that tug, that strange sensation that this was more than what it seemed, but it had been a long day, and Anthony was hungry. He wanted things sorted out so they could go to dinner.

He wrote his name in a large, elegant cursive, and then for good measure he added a little heart as well, mirroring Valentino’s.

As soon as he lifted the quill of the paper, the scroll rolled and sealed itself with a red mark. It glowed bright, so bright that it almost resembled natural sunlight, and Angel’s eyes started to burn. “Christ,” he swore, when he had to squeeze his eyes shut to shield them from the light, and even then his eyes wouldn’t stop hurting. He let out a pained sound, getting up from the couch in hopes that some distance from the scroll would help. He stumbled and hit his shin on the side table, and he grunted in irritation, still blinded by the combination of light and pain. He pulled back his hand so he could press it against his left eye, which felt so hot inside its socket that he feared it might actually have burnt.

What followed, however, made the burn of his eye almost fade to nothing. The pain that cut through his body was such as he would actually have imagined to be representative of hellfire. It felt like every bit of his skin was burning, flaking, being ripped of his body by an army of blunt knives, eager to leave their mark. There was a stab in his chest that was so fierce, so bright that he couldn’t help the scream that was torn from his throat, confused and disoriented at what the fuck was happening. The hand that was not pressed to his eyes were reaching out blindly for Valentino, or the side of the couch, somewhere to ground himself to.

Just as suddenly, the pain faded. His eye still felt hot, his body still faint with the aftershocks of the experience, trembling slightly. He opened his eyes to look around, half expecting the room to be in ruins, for an Extermination to have come early and to have destroyed their studio. But everything was just as it had been.

That was, with the sole exception of Valentino’s hands being firmly clasped around a brightly glowing chain. Anthony realized with another shock of surprise that it was attached to him. He lifted his hands to wrap around it, and it was warm to the touch, solid, and glowing with magic. Anthony recognized the color of it as Valentino’s magic, the same sweet sugary pink that wafted around the other man. His fingers ran over the chains, trying to make sense of the situation.

“What is this?” He asked, and his voice was just as unsteady as he felt, his eyes wide and confused as he looked up at Valentino, hoping for an explanation. “Val, what is this?”

“The deal,” Valentino replied, still looking down at the chain as if he too was confused about where it came from. Anthony wanted to believe more than anything that Valentino also hadn’t known this would happen, that they had made a mistake with the contract somehow, and they’d have to figure out together why they were attached to each other by a glowing pink chain. It would be something to laugh about later; that one time they accidentally made up some kinky contract, because something was misspelled. But Anthony wasn’t dumb.

Naive? In love? Blind? Maybe. Dumb? Not quite.

The chain wasn’t attached to Valentino. Rather it ended in a handle that was heart-shaped. The contract Anthony had signed with such convinced affection. A trap.

He felt dizzy, his breathing shallow and fast. His heart was racing. His voice was barely more than a whisper when he spoke up, hurt and betrayal in every word. “You tricked me?”

“I didn’t trick you at all,” Valentino said, voice tinged with clear and genuine offense, “I’ve told you several times, mi amor. A deal, to make you mine. Your life in my hands.”

“I made a deal to show you I trusted you,” Anthony bit back, voice shaking as his hands clenched around the chain between them. It was an additional wave of horror when he realized the chain attached to a collar around his neck, heavy enough to make him want to hunch over now that he had realized it was there. It was so tight he could barely breathe. “What the fuck does this have to do with trust? Take it off me.”

Valentino just looked at him, a small smile on his lips as he toyed with the heart a the end of the glowing chain. It didn’t look like the weight of it bothered him at all. “It’s just the consequences of making a deal with an Overlord, amorcito. It’s literally binding.”

Those words struck Anthony as if he’d been physically slapped across the face. The realization at the sheer stupidity of his own actions rolling over him like ice water. It was another one of those things he didn’t know - and hadn’t cared to know - anything about. Valentino’s status as an Overlord had always meant little more to Anthony other than prime access to places. Restaurants. Clubs. Free gifts. Protection. Sure, he knew that sometimes the man made business deals that weren’t fair, but he had always been fair to Anthony. Anthony hadn’t thought that it actually mattered much. Such was show business. And other people down here meant very little to Anthony.

He recoiled from the other man, but found himself limited instantly by the chain tightening and making him stumble forward.

“The hell?”

“This isn’t permanent,” Valentino said, as if that was somehow meant to be reassuring, “that would be inconvenient, hm?” He let go off the chain, and it fell to the floor with a sickening thud Anthony thought he would hear echoing in his nightmares for the rest of his existence. The glow dimmed when Valentino let go of it, and upon impact, the chains disappeared. The feeling of tightness around his throat, however, lingered longer. His legs suddenly felt like gelatin. Anthony sank down to the floor, curling into a little ball, and rested his forehead on top of his knee. He closed his eyes. He breathed heavily, gasping as he tried to rid himself of the feeling of wrongness that pervaded his entire body. He couldn’t. His hands came up to fit around his neck, clawing at metal that was no longer there. It was as if he was underwater. He thought it felt worse than dying had. He gagged, and rolled on his knees as he thought he might actually throw up. Had he taken something bad? Could this be a bad trip?

Valentino watched. Didn’t offer any words of comfort, didn’t advance to embrace him or kiss him, or any of the things Anthony would have expected of him. He just stood there, smoking, and watched as Anthony fought to keep himself from panicking.

“Finish cleaning yourself up,” Valentino said eventually, stubbing out the cigarette in the ash tray and wiping his hand on the couch absentmindedly, “we’re going to be late for dinner.”

Chapter Text

Anthony ran as soon as he finished getting dressed, his heart up in his throat and his head spinning. He didn’t even wipe off the stage-makeup, since the moment he glanced at himself in the mirror, he was confronted with the sight of his left eye having turned a muddled black. The sight of it was nauseating, leading to a high-pitched whining in his ears that took him a good few seconds of confusion before he even understood that the sound was of his own whimpering. He lifted a trembling finger to touch it, his eyesight perfectly normal - that is until he poked it and it teared up. It was still hot to the touch, much warmer than his eye was supposed to be, but aside from the change in color, it didn’t seem to have suffered any damage. At least there was that. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to look at it, and so he just grabbed his things and left, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound echoed, and he winced again, scrambling through the hallway.

This late in the day, without any planned shoots, the studio was nigh abandoned, and Anthony had never been never more relieved for the shadows that obscured his shape as he ran towards the exit. It was a pure stroke of luck that Valentino wasn’t yet waiting for him, allowing Anthony to slip out of the front door without being noticed. The tears started almost as soon as the door fell closed behind him, and though he tried his best to keep them from showing, it was impossible to contain the shaking off his shoulders. He could tell passerby were looking at him, and though usually he relished the attention, the last thing he wanted right now was to be recognized by a stray pervert looking for a signature, a kiss, or worse. He thought that if he were provoked right now, he might have to add ripping a man from limb to limb to his already extensive list of sins.

His legs were trembling, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to make it far before the adrenaline would wear off, and he needed to find somewhere to catch his breath. Home was his first instinct, but he knew that it would also be the first place where Valentino would look for him once he noticed that Anthony had left the studio, and he didn’t think that he could handle facing the man again.

A dark alley caught his attention, and he ducked inside of it, relieved to find it empty aside from some bottles strewn around. It was rank, but Anthony could still smell the sweet cotton candy of Valentino above anything else. Rather than comfort him as it so often had in the past, it was nauseating. His stomach rolled over, and he heaved a few times before he emptied out everything he had consumed that day. He hadn’t had much to eat all day, because he knew they were supposed to go out for an extensive dinner, and he was more than grateful for his empty stomach now. He hated throwing up.

The alley felt safe enough that he allowed himself to sink down against the wall, to wrap his arms around himself and let his head fall down on his knees. The tears were fierce but short-lived, as they offered no reprieve from the horror he was feeling, only served to give him a headache on top of everything else. He was still shaking, he knew, but he could not stop himself, had to let the shivers run their course.

His mind was running a mile-a-minute, but one thing stood out to him loud and clear: The contract he had so thoughtlessly signed hadn’t been the figurative ownership of Angel that Anthony had thought he and Valentino had agreed on. Valentino was an Overlord. Anthony knew that they had powers and abilities beyond regular demons, and he knew that one of those was to claim souls. He just hadn’t known how this happened, had never cared to ask. He supposed that he did know now. How had he not made the connection earlier? The proof had been right in front of him the entire time. Valentino had almost literally told him. He had just been too stupid to realize.

It was like whenever he was around Valentino, he lost the ability to think clearly. He curled up tighter, tried to make himself disappear. He’d always felt so safe. He had been so fucking naive about the whole thing. Stupid. Pathetic. Weak.

“Well, you’re looking positively like a pile of dogs shit up their dinner, ate it and then promptly vomited it back up,” a voice spoke up from in front of him, and Anthony startled out of his self-pity, body immediately flooding with panic as he tried to get to his feet and failed, couldn’t even make it out of the crouch he’d been curled up in. His vision was blurred with tears, and so he looked up with bleary eyes to see a short girl, a single eye peeking from between frankly impressively large pink bangs. If he had been any less near an actual panic attack, he might have asked her for advice on how she did her hair.

He just stared at her for a moment, not knowing how to react. Any other day, he would have scoffed and told her to fuck off. Any other day, he would not have been in this situation. He hadn’t been alone on the streets in what felt like ages. And even if he had been, he’d always been good at chatting his way out of things. But he was faint and weak this evening, and he ached to speak the truth out loud. He needed to hear himself say it, to confront himself with his own stupidity.

“I think I just signed away my soul,” he said, and those very words almost brought him to tears all over again, “I mean, I know I did. Hell, I didn’t even know I was doing it. I thought I… I wasn’t fucking thinking. I didn’t know…”

“Holy shit, dude,” the girl spoke up, and she was more of a woman than a girl, her voice mature and demeanor almost like one of his aunts, oddly comforting in her bluntness, “as I’m hearing it, you could use a trip.” She gave him a grin, seeming unbothered by his emotional distress, or the fact that he must’ve smelled like vomit. “I could use a buddy to hit the town with. You game?”

Anthony had no clue what she had to gain from offering him this, but he wasn’t about to reject a helping hand. Hell knew he should know better, especially now, but he couldn’t stand the thought of being alone, nor could he stand the idea of going back to Valentino tonight. And now that he had written away his soul - perhaps the last part of his human self that he had left - what more was there to lose?

“Yeah,” he muttered, straightening and sidestepping the puddle of sick, trying not to gag again at the sight of it. “I need something to rinse my mouth.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said cheerfully, and reached to slap him on the upper back. It was a long reach, but she managed, and her slap was firm. “I’m Cherri. Bomb. Like the Runaways song.” She was looking at him with a vaguely expectant look, though he had no clue what she might be expecting.

“I have no idea who or what those are,” he replied apologetically, “but nice to meet you, Cherri.”

She laughed. “Oh, you’re an old one, huh? That’s alright, I don’t mind. What’s your name then?”

Anthony opened his mouth, closed it again, and saw the contract flash in front of his eyes again. His name, scribbled at the bottom in glowing ink, as if mocking his naivity and stupidity for eternity. Perhaps Anthony was better off buried forever.

“Angel,” he replied, “I’m Angel Dust.”

“Sweet,” Cherri said, “Nice to meet you, Angel Dust. Can I just call you Angel? Such a mouthful, otherwise. How do you feel about crashing someone’s party?”

It wasn’t like he had any other plans.

*

It turned out that Cherri’s idea of crashing a party involved a surprising amount of explosives. They hit up a bar where one of her ex boyfriends was the owner, and within minutes of entering, she had managed to get half the patrons to start shooting at them. Anthony was lucky that a few guns were lying around near his hands so he could defend himself, and he was glad to notice that despite his shaky hands, he hadn’t lost his sharpshooter skills. Cherri had the most insane ability to summon bombs from absolutely nowhere, and despite her tossing them around seemingly without thinking much about it, they always hit true.

The downside of this whole endeavour was that for a solid ten minutes, the two of them were running for their life as people chased them down the street. The upside was that Anthony completely forgot about his misery as he was doing so. He may have to add sextuple homicide to his list of sins, but at least he no longer felt like he was going to break apart. It was all about striking a balance, down here.

They struck down another bar, which Cherri told him they would not need to blow up, and both of them collaborated to flirt their way into free drinks. Once someone recognized Angel, there were more shots on the table than they could count, and in exchange for a signature and a kiss, the bartender put them on a free tab and promised to keep people away from their table. Anthony gladly obliged. Cherri was easy to talk to, and despite her height, she managed to keep up easily with Anthony as the both of them threw back shots like their afterlives depended on it. The evening turned blurry as the hours passed him by, and they only rolled out of the bar around five am when the owner started cleaning up.

Anthony summoned a taxi with no little effort, and Cherri just tossed bills at the poor chameleon demon’s head as both of them fell into the backseat, laughing and struggling to keep themselves together. Anthony didn’t think he’d ever been this wasted, or that he’d ever had this much fun. He couldn’t stop giggling as he gave the driver his address, leaning in to press a kiss on his cheek that turned his entire head a bright red. Cherri slapped his shoulder as he slumped back down, tears rolling from her one eye as she made kissy faces at him that he countered with a fake disgusted expression, which only served to make them laugh harder.

They safely made it to Anthony’s flat, only almost tripping twice as they went up the stairs to the third floor, and there was a terrible four minute interlude as Anthony remembered he hadn’t brought his bag with him from the studio. Luckily, he kept his key inside his shoes, and he let the two of them in after fumbling with it for another minute or so. He remembered to close the door behind himself and lock it, but that was where his memories of the night ended.

*

The hangover the following morning was one of the worst he’d experienced in possibly ever. Anthony woke with his stomach roaring at him, head pounding and bile already pooling in his mouth as he sped out of the bed and towards the bathroom, where he all but fell on top of the toilet to throw up for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Cherri had crashed on his floor, and he heard her laughing whilst Anthony threw up whatever remained of his soul, though she did come in a moment later to pat his back comfortingly. She got him some tissue paper to wipe his mouth, and then she disappeared from view again, returning moments later with a glass of water and the statement that she was getting his coffee machine going. And did he have anything to eat?

Her kindness was of the rough sort, the kind of practical that was devoid of affection, which was exactly what Anthony needed. He drank his water and took a small handful of painkillers and anti-nausea meds, and Cherri whipped up a breakfast of eggs and sausage, poured them both a large mug of coffee, and complained about a kink in her neck from sleeping on the floor. She looked perfectly at home at Anthony’s little dining table, curled up with one leg on her seat as she chattered away at him and sipped at one of his mugs. His headache lessened as he listened to her, and after he finished his first cup of coffee, she even managed to get a smile out of him.

He knew he should probably be more careful with trusting people, especially since his name was starting to gain more renown around the city, but it was hard to care about that when Cherri was re-enacting how she had stabbed her ex in the back with his own bottle of beer. She looked so proud of herself. Anthony was so grateful he wasn’t alone. When his phone rang and wouldn’t stop ringing, Cherri took it off the hook and left the receiver hanging from the wall. Then she made them another pot of coffee, and asked if she could borrow a shirt.

She ended up borrowing an entire outfit, but Anthony found that he couldn’t care less. He thought he would gladly have given her a suitcase of outfits as thanks for how she had managed to save him from the brink of throwing himself under a car or off a building. She showered and changed into his clothes, and then wrote her phone number on a napkin, which she tucked under his phone.

“I’m not always home, but I check my messages every two days,” she told him, “call anytime. And change your sheets, you smell.”

Then she blew him a kiss, and she was gone.

*

When he called her later that week, she admitted that she had fully intended to steal the envelope of money he had stashed in his nightstand, but that he had looked so miserable she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It was at that point Anthony decided they were going to be best friends. It was also the point he realized he hadn’t really made any friends since coming down here, and that made it extra special.

Chapter Text

At first, nothing seemed to have changed between him and Valentino.

Anthony thought he might have preferred if Valentino would have done a complete one-eighty. It would be easier to villainize him if that had been the case. Sure, Valentino was irritated that Anthony had left the other night, talking about dinner reservations and date-time, and how rude it was that he hadn’t picked up the phone. He said he’d been worried, and he’d driven by Anthony’s house several times to check if he was home. Anthony just said he’d been at the laundromat most of the day - not even a lie - and that was that.

He didn’t bring up anything about the contract, though he did take a long moment right before Anthony’s photo shoot to look at him, eyes caught on his newly black eye. For a moment, just a single heartbeat, Anthony thought the man would apologize. The moment passed when Valentino reached out to brush a single strand of Anthony’s hair off his forehead. “Mucha suerte, mi amor.”

His touch was gentle. His voice was soft.

Anthony just ducked his head, and despite knowing better, felt a pang of disappointment.

He did the shoot, changed, did another shoot, had lunch, and then sat with the staff to give green light to the picture for the magazine that was to go out that weekend. He signed about a hundred cards for loyal V-boy subscribers, pressing lipstick kisses on all of them until his lips were raw, and made sure he double-checked the schedule for the following day.

Then he went home without saying goodbye to Valentino. For the first time, he was grateful for the fight that broke out outside his flat that night, because the noise meant he didn’t have to hear himself cry.

*

It went on like that for a few days.

He came in to work, did what he had to do, and left. Valentino didn’t call or come to the flat. Anthony almost started to believe that Valentino had understood that he had crossed a line, that he had broken a trust that wasn’t going to be repaired quite so easily. He even thought, or more accurately hoped, that this meant Valentino felt bad about it. In weaker moments, he even imagined the two of them burning the contract together, the flames reflecting in Valentino’s eyes as they threw it out and crawled in each other’s lap. It was easy to live in this fantasy he’d come up with.

When the man showed up in his dressing room, demanding to talk to him, the fantasy shattered like fine crystal. Anthony didn’t react to the door opening, simply continued applying his look for that day’s shoot. It was some film noir inspired thing where he was to be a weary detective and the clues to solving the murder were to be found in the bedroom. He was a little hazy on the details, but he didn’t suppose that mattered. As long as he looked good naked except for the tie, no one would complain.

“Tony,” Valentino said, and Anthony’s shoulders stiffened slightly, though he kept his eyes fixed on his reflection, patting powder on his face to make sure that no imperfections would show on camera. His tension showed in how he dabbed the sponge into the powder a little too fiercely, and it wafted out in cloud that tickled his nose until he sneezed. Even then, he didn’t speak, just shoved the powder to the side and focused on his eyeshadow instead. Darker under-eyes, a little broody, a little mysterious…

“What the fuck is this icy attitude you’re giving me?” Valentino asked, and Anthony couldn’t keep himself from sending a glare at the other man in his reflection, though he kept up the silent treatment. Valentino just raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with him, and Anthony couldn’t express just how much the feeling was reciprocated. The other man didn’t come any further into the dressing room, simply leaned against the door frame right in Anthony’s vision. He could see the tall figure every time he glanced into the mirror, and still did his best to ignore it.

Valentino didn’t speak for a few long minutes, just lurked at his cigarette and watched Anthony in the reflection. Anthony felt himself growing antsy as minutes passed. It was almost a relief when Valentino eventually broke the silence.

“You know, I really have better things to do than to deal with your temper tantrum.”

“Then don’t let me keep you from them,” Anthony said, between clenched teeth, “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

Valentino’s expression clouded, his eyes narrowing just slightly, but he only sighed. He tapped the cigarette holder, and Anthony watched the ashes fall to the floor. “Mi amor…”

“Don’t call me that.”

Valentino tilted his head to the side. “You love when I call you that.”

“Changed my mind.” Anthony put down the eyeshadow, and finally turned around to face Valentino. The man was leaning his back against the door in a clear message that Anthony wasn’t going anywhere without engaging in conversation, and Anthony wondered if anyone would come looking for him if he didn’t show up on set on time. He supposed no one would. It wasn’t like his and Valentino’s relationship had been any sort of secret, and people knew better than to interrupt them when they were together. And they’d been known for sometimes taking a few extra minutes for themselves to have some fun. Anthony had always felt like the sneaky minutes they stole between shoots were some of his happiest memories.

Valentino tutted. “It’s just your soul, baby. It’s not like you need it down here.”

And that was that for composure.

He threw down the brush, and the little eyeshadow palette he’d been using clattered to the side with the force of the gesture. He turned around to look Valentino right in the eyes, eyes blazing. “If it’s only my soul, then why the fuck did you take it?”

Valentino raised two of his hands in mock surrender, and Anthony barely refrained from throwing every single piece of his makeup at the other man. It was only the thought of someone having to clean up his mess - or worse, he having to clean it up himself later - that had him clenching his fists in his lap instead. His hands were trembling.

Valentino’s expression didn’t change, but he lowered his hands. He took a moment to exhale a mouthful of smoke before he replied. “I like pretty things, baby, you know I do. I wanted to have you.”

Anthony had a million things he wanted to say to that. How Valentino had had him, how Anthony hadn’t wanted to go anywhere. How Valentino’s little possessive streak had been cute to him. How even now, his heart was aching to be held, to feel that safe and trusted again. How Anthony had thought that maybe, he deserved nice things, deserved to be loved, too. How Valentino had made him feel like he wasn’t a waste of a human being. But turns out that heartbreak wasn’t any less painful after you die. Betrayal tasted just as sour.

He hated how his voice trembled when he spoke. “Fuck you. You ain’t have shit of me anymore.”

There was a long moment of heavy silence, no sound but their breathing in the space between them. Until Valentino sighed, weary and long-suffering, like Anthony’s behavior was simply another inconvenience to him. Like it meant nothing.

“Fine, if that is how you want to play it.” He licked his lips, and Anthony felt his stomach churn at the sight of him, but the man only straightened and opened the door, “Get your ass on set.”

“I will once you get out of my fucking room.” Anthony shot back, as Valentino was halfway out of the door. The man paused, turning around to meet Anthony’s gaze. There was no kindness behind his sunglasses.

“It’s my room, angelcakes. Remember that.”

And then he was gone.

Anthony wanted to cry. Instead he met his own reflection, and practiced until the grin looked as it was supposed to. The show must go on, and Angel was in the spotlights.

*

“He’s a fucking bastard,” he said on the phone that evening, holding the receiver pressed between his head and shoulder to keep talking as he repainted his nails. It was messy, which he’d blame on the persistent headache, or the stench of the sulfur outside, or the bottle of gin, or the sachet of some off-brand Oxycodine he’d procured on the street - only Lucifer knew what they put in there. His vision felt a little wonky. He’d been crying since he made it back to the apartment, only stopping long enough to cook himself more eggs. He was craving some pastina, but he had nor butter nor parmigiano at his disposal, so it had been boiled eggs and a bottle of white wine for dinner, or lunch, or whatever meal of the fucking day it was.

“You tell him,” Cherri replied, sounding vaguely distracted, but Angel didn’t mind too much. It was nice to have someone to talk to who agreed with him, and who wasn’t afraid to describe Valentino in all the colourful terminology Angel never would dare to use around him. “Can’t believe he did that. No, actually I can, because he’s a spotlight-hungry crickedy old man. There is definitely a good reason he’s in Hell.” Angel let out a shaky laugh, putting the little brush back into the bottle.

“There’s good reasons all of us are in Hell,” Angel lifted a hand to look at the nail polish, and was satisfied to see it was at least mostly on his nails. He’d wash the rest off later. His hands were shaking again. “I’m a gay man, you’re a terrorist.”

“Terrorist is relative to which side you are on,” Cherri’s voice was amused, filtering through the sound of running water and splashing, which partially obscured her voice, “Some would call me a hero. And you’re not in Hell because you’re a gay man. You’re in Hell for, I don’t even know, tax evasion.”

Angel considered this for a moment, his mind going back to what he could remember from his living years. Ironically, the last years of his life were hardest to remember. “I actually don’t think I ever paid taxes,”

“Proving my point, you bitch.” There was another splash, and then her voice came through more clearly again, “seriously though, Angie, it’s not the gay bit. It’s probably the guns and human trafficking.”

“I did not…”

“Interfere with your family’s business, yeah, I know. Guilty by association. Who knows who makes up these rules. And you are suspiciously good with a gun. That’s not very heavenly of you.” There was more splashing, and a clank that sounded like the phone horn being dropped on a hard surface. Angel winced and moved the receiver to his other ear, careful not to smudge the polish. He’d started wearing it a while ago for fun, but he realized that it was a lot less fun to apply when he couldn’t see straight. And to make it worse, he had several pairs of hands to work on.

“Are you in the bath?”

There was more clanking, and then Cherri’s voice came through clearly again. “You’ve been talking my ear off for like two hours, babe, I am multitasking. How’s the nails looking?”

Angel looked down at them. Somehow his thumb had managed to wipe half of the paint off on his fur. He sighed. “Decent.”

“I’ll be expecting pictures.”

“You can probably purchase them next week at Video Inferno.” Angel joked lightly, switching hands again, “Gotta go fast, though, you know your boy sells out the moment he hits the shelves.”

Cherri snorted, and her amusement did make him feel a little better. He hadn’t seen her often since that first night, but they’d been calling every few days, and he feared that if she wouldn’t have snuck her way into his life like she had, he would have been off a lot worse than he was now. It was easier to work through his emotions when he had someone he could share it with. Someone who could validate the way he felt about it. Who also could keep his head on straight when he quietly admitted to her that he still cared for Valentino. She had gagged, but she had listened, and Angel thought that is probably what friends were meant to do. It was a weird concept. He hadn’t really had friends when he had been alive either. It was hard to make friends when someone was always watching your back, and even harder when they were removed from your life the moment anything about them seemed like a threat. Anthony had had playmates, drinking buddies and colleagues. Never friends. Valentino had been his first. The thought made him tear up again.

“Anyway, I’m going to hang up so I can wash my hair,” Cherri said then, her voice bringing him out of his trip down memory lane, “don’t go out without me, don’t drink too much - who am I kidding, go and black out, babe, maybe you can erase the memories.”

“Thanks, Cherri,” Angel said, putting the brush back into the bottle of nail polish and blowing on the nails of his final hand. It was much messier, but he didn’t think it would be too noticeable. It also in the end didn’t matter. If the studio hated it, they would redo them anyway. “See ya later, alligator.”

“Look at you learning new slang so fast,” Cherri teased him, “I’ll see you later, Angie. Bye!”

He waited for the click of the line before he too hung up. He kept blowing on his nails as he reached for the bottle to the side, and then eyed the sachet of pills again.

“Doctor’s orders,” he muttered, shaking a few of them in one of his free hands - carefully choosing one where the nails had dried - and swallowed them with a good swig of the gin. What didn’t kill him again, might at least solve his headache.

Chapter Text

Angel never really had the healthiest relationship with addictive substances. When he had been alive, it had been common practice to get a little coke up your nose before important meetings, to make sure you were fresh in the head, and a few drops of opium helped with the sleepless nights. He had been no stranger to parties and events where wine flowed liberally, and he had been in the habit of taking a nightcap on those days that had been especially taxing. But these days even Angel had to admit that perhaps he had been going a little overboard.

The disadvantage of being unable to die, was that it was hard to know your limits. When the worst consequence was a day lost or a morning spent heaving over a toilet bowl, it was all too easy to accept a hit or two more than was wise.

A great perk to his job was that he didn’t need to be all too clearheaded for it anyway. In fact, he was pretty sure it looked better if he was a little out of it to begin with. Whether his eyes were glazed in pleasure or a drug-induced haze wasn’t visible on camera, and he knew his viewers loved it. So any time he felt clarity return to him, he caved. He wasn’t picky either, which made it easier. As long as it took the tension out of his shoulders and the buzzing out of his brain, he did simply not care what it was he took. And as long as he made it to work? Valentino did not need to know either. It was a perfectly blissful bubble of oblivion.

It had the added benefit of completely smoothing out his moods, which in turn was beneficial both for his comfort of his day-to-day routine, and for his interactions with Valentino, much less frequent as they had become.

When the man told him off for this-or-that, Angel could just nod and smile. He found that most of the time, Valentino’s irritations were minor, and smoothed over by Angel simply agreeing to whatever was requested of him. And as long as he was high, it was easy to agree.

The downside was that the duration of the high was hard to calculate. Once or twice, he found himself blinking to consciousness in inconvenient moments. Once when he’d been in the middle of a scene, and he’d been lucky that his expression of pure panic at being pressed down by a man with bull-horns dangerously close to Angel’s neck matched the vibe the shoot was going for. His heart had been racing and he had gasped for air, but it had been lost in the grunting sound the other man was making as he pounded into him. Angel didn’t even remember what that scene had been meant to be, but it had been good enough no one said anything about it.

This time he’d come by in Valentino’s office, and from the way his shirt was hanging of one shoulder, Valentino’s teeth grazing along his neck, it was all too clear what had been going on. He had no clue how he had ended up there. He could not even remember coming into the studio that day. The realization shook him more than he cared to admit. He had pushed at Valentino’s chest until the man had finally stepped back, irritation clear on his face. Angel ignored it, and started to pull his shirt back on. The sudden drop off his high had left him woozy and nauseous, and the headache that always followed was already starting to build in his temples. Where had he been today? He remembered waking up and making himself eggs. That was it.

It was dark outside.

Valentino sighed, adjusting his shirt and giving Angel a look. “What is your problem?”

“I’m tired,” was all Angel said, “I’m going home.”

“You’re not going home,” Valentino’s voice was reasonable in a way that instantly managed to flare Angel’s anger, but he just took a deep breath and kept it in. If he acted up, it would only take longer. So he kept his tone neutral as he finished tucking in his shirt.

“I don’t have to be here if I’m not going to shoot. I’m going home.”

“You only just got here,” Was that a little whine he heard in Valentino’s voice?

“Tough luck.” Angel looked around for his bag, which he found tossed in a corner, and he took a quick look to make sure his wallet and keys were there, before he slung it over his shoulders. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” His head was already throbbing, and there was a sting on his neck was pretty sure would develop into a hickey. Did he have any painkillers left at home?

“Angel,” Valentino’s voice was right behind him, and hands settled on his waist, circling him and pulling him flush against the other man’s warm chest. He was always so warm. “why the rush? Were we not having a good time?” Angel’s heart ached, but the headache was worse.

“I’m not having a good time now,” Angel’s voice was soft, more raw than he would like to admit. He put one hand on Valentino’s and pulled his hand free, stepping out of the circle of his arms, “I’d like to go home now.”

To his relief, Valentino let go of him. The man stepped back with a great huff of irritation and a roll of his eyes, crossing his arms. “Fine. Be a bitch, then.”

Distantly, those words stung, but Angel didn’t let it show on his face. He started rooting around in his bag for the bottle of ibuprofen he usually carried around, but he came up empty. Realistically, the ibuprofen wouldn’t get rid of the headache fully anyway. They never did anymore. His head was pounding now. The thought of having to go home like this was enough to make him lose his dignity. He glanced up from his back to see Valentino’s eyes fixed on him, clearly waiting for a reaction. Angel swallowed.

“You got any oxy on you?”

Valentino laughed, sudden and sharp. “Am I your dealer now?”

Angel’s eye twitched at the sneer in his voice, embarrassment crawling up his chest, but he pushed it down. He gave Valentino a saccharine smile as he said, “Isn’t that what you always were? My dealer and my pimp?”

The slap was so unexpected it took Angel a second or two to realize what had happened. He blinked ahead of himself, the surprise fading to understanding slowly. It was accompanied by a tidal wave of emotions, and he couldn’t help the way his eyes teared up. He wouldn’t be able to say if it was because of the pain, a sting that only emphasized his headache, or because despite everything he felt shocked that Valentino, the man who had been Angel’s longest relationship, had hit him. Just like that.

To his credit, Valentino almost looked surprised as well. His hand was still raised when Angel turned back to him, but he dropped it a moment later, flexing and unflexing his fingers as if wanting to rid himself of the memory. Angel wished it was that easy. For a long moment, their eyes were locked, the room draped in a heavy silence.

“Watch your fucking tone,” Valentino said eventually, and the moment passed. Angel blinked away the tears, not wanting to give Valentino the satisfaction of seeing him upset. After another heartbeat, he managed to school his expression, straightening his back. When he looked up again, he was wearing a smile.

“Yes, Val.”

He didn’t stick around to see Valentino’s reaction.

*

There was no longer any champagne on his shoots or in his dressing room. He considered complaining about that, but then realized just how much of a diva that made him sound like, and he refused to sink to a point where he would be the lesser person. Though even on his good days, it wasn’t an easy battle. If he allowed himself to be too sober, he painfully noticed the absences of the comforts he had grown so used to. And there were many.

The car still picked him up in the mornings, but gone were the freshly brewed cups of coffee, the breakfast with his favorite bits to pick over, the surprise gifts on his dressing table. And though Angel knew, at least for him, their relationship hadn’t relied on these things, they had been an important part of why Angel had agreed to work in the studio. It was the comfort of knowing Valentino had Angel’s safety and happiness as his priority which had allowed him to go all in. He never felt awkward during any scenes because he knew it was all fiction, and at the end there was the quiet comfort of his dressing room, and Valentino’s arms to hide in. It was the same knowledge that Valentino now had him literally on a leash which filled him with dread and anxiety at the thought of having to do this same thing. Forever. And that he had done it to himself.

He got himself a cup of sludge from the studio’s communal machine upon arrival that morning, which somehow managed to be both scalding and stale, and he sipped it as he read the schedule that was pinned on the wall above it. He frowned as he let his eyes drift over the planned shoots, and he had to put the cup down as he tried to make sense of what it said. His name was there on the morning shoot, as planned, but then it showed up again. And again. And again. He ran a finger over the different names of the shoots, some of which he hadn’t even heard about before. It was a back-to-back of shoots until late that night, with only a late break for lunch. All including his name.

“What the fuck?” This had to be a mistake. Not only was it impossibly stacked - where was he supposed to clean up in between? - but it was also all video shoots. He’d usually start the day off with photo shoots, and only one or two short video shoots after. Longer ones were scheduled on separate days, because anything more than that would be too exhausting. That was something he and Valentino had agreed upon ages ago. As soon as that thought crossed his mind, he realized the issue with that. It had been ages ago. And it hadn’t been something they’d made any sort of deal about. They had talked about it. It had been considerations between two lovers. And this? This was a petty revenge for Angel’s behavior. This was a power play. And he knew, instinctively, there was nothing he could do about it.

It was no surprise when he heard all too familiar footsteps approach from behind. He closed his eyes, and it took all of his effort to not tense his shoulders. He could feel the moment Valentino stopped right behind him. Close enough Angel could feel the warmth of him, even without touching.

“Is there a problem, amorcito?”

Angel licked his lips, lifted his chin, and reached out a hand to pick up his cup again before he turned around to face Valentino.

“Busy day,” he remarked casually, “you’re not gonna give a guy a break?”

Valentino smiled. He was holding a cup of coffee as well, fragrant and warm, obviously from his private machine. The one Angel clearly no longer had privileged access to. Angel forced himself to keep the eye contact as he took another sip of the mud.

“I don’t think he’s earned one. He’s been rather lacking, lately.” Valentino mirrored his movements, lifting the cup to his lips. His eyes never left Angel’s either. Even behind today’s choice of star-shaped glasses, Angel could see the challenge in Valentino’s eyes. It was a challenge that Angel had zero interest in, but he knew the stubborn streak of Valentino all too well. He knew he would not be let off so easily. This was a point the man was making.

“Look,” he said, “Tino…”

Valentino’s lip quirked up in one corner. “Oh, it’s Tino again now. Here I thought I was just your pimp.”

Angel forced himself to not react to that the way he wanted, which was to scream. “This is unreasonable. Sure, I’ve been in a pissy mood, but for good reasons, if you’d ask me. But this…” he waved a hand at the packed schedule, “that’s not gonna work.”

“It’s going to have to,” Valentino shrugged, “I remember a certain line of, what was it again…” He reached out a hand to run a single finger over Angel’s throat, and for just a moment, Angel felt the weight of the collar around his neck, heavy and solid, nauseatingly real. Valentino snapped his fingers, and the sensation disappeared. Angel inhaled sharply in surprise. Valentino reached out a long index finger, tipping Angel’s chin up so he had to look up at Valentino. He’d loved that, before. Valentino’s quirked smile indicated he all too clearly knew. His voice was spun silk when he continued, “hmm, following my instructions as long as you’re inside the four walls of the studio. I would call this inside the studio, wouldn’t you?” His eyes darted to the side, around the room, the light of the studio reflecting in his glasses.

Angel knew he was right. The truth of the statement sat in his bones as if it were etched there, the words burned into his very core. Worse than that, there was the inexplicable urge inside him to agree. To follow the order without questioning it. A horrifying twist of obedience that cut through his composure. The sinking feeling that had started when he’d first laid eyes on the schedule only grew stronger, his stomach dropping down to his toes. Still, he had to ask. “What if I say no?”

“I suggest we don’t find out, amor.” Valentino’s hand moved to briefly cup his face, and instinctively, disgustingly so, Angel felt himself lean into the touch. It didn’t go unnoticed. Valentino’s smile widened, and he gave Angel a firm pat on the cheek, before withdrawing his hand, “Now, you better get ready for hair and makeup. We don’t want to fall behind schedule and have to stay late, do we?”

Chapter Text

The schedule had somewhat given him an idea of how awful it was going to be. The reality of it was much worse. He read through the first script when he was getting his make-up done, and the sheer amount of setting spray used prepared him at least somewhat for how wet he was going to get. The whole thing was disgusting and painfully out of his comfort zone, but as he met Valentino’s eyes from across the set, he knew that any complaints he would vocalize would only be turned against him. There was an obvious lesson to be learned from this entire situation, Angel thought, as his head was held back by the hair, but it was hard to think when there was water up his nose.

He remembered the first time he had gotten too drunk, just a child, all but fourteen years old and eager to show off in front of his family’s friends. His father had dunked his head into the patio fountain until he had felt like all his oxygen was replaced with water. He hadn’t stopped until Anthony had begged. Anthony had never wanted to beg ever again.

He was still drying his ears when his break was over, and he got whisked off to another shoot, a different set, which had an entire monologue he was somehow supposed to have memorized after glancing at it for five minutes. Angel wasn’t one to shame anyone’s kinks, but long monologues would take a guy out of the mood rather than in it, wouldn’t it? He tried his best, but he’d never been good at learning things, and his memory had only gotten worse over the years spent in Hell. How long had it been since he’d memorized anything?

He stumbled through the script, and as the crew stared at him and his co-star waited in the wings for him to get his shit together, he felt a familiar bright hot shame crawl up his neck which he hadn’t experienced in such a long time. He stuttered and fought his way through every word, until the director eventually called the scene, and they moved to second part. Valentino just watched, and did not say anything at all.

The third shoot featured two women. Angel knew them well enough, and they were kind to him whenever they chatted together over lunch, but he hadn’t done a single shoot with women since the first one had ended with him having a panic attack in the middle of having his head between her thighs. They had cut the scene short.

Angel knew he didn’t like women romantically, but he’d never considered that he wouldn’t like having sex with them. Sex was great, he loved having sex, and he had thought that it would be easy. It hadn’t been. Valentino knew. Angel had told him all these things. He had promised Angel wouldn’t shoot with women again. The betrayal sat heavy in his chest. Still, there was none of it showing on his face when he crawled on the bed - a circular one covered in pink sheets that looked annoyingly like his bed at home - and he got comfortably seated between the two cat-sinners. Angel was nothing if not professional.

“Ladies,” he said, as the light on the camera flickered to life and the spotlights turned to them, “how about a little game of hide and seek?”

By the time they wrapped up the threesome, Angel was thirsty, starving, and so sticky that he almost took the blanket with him when he staggered off the bed to go shower. He made quick work of washing, wrapping his hair in a towel as he put on a gown so he could join the rest of the staff for lunch. It was busier than usual on set, likely due to the large amount of shoots scheduled, which required all hands on deck. The studio was packed with people, actors and tech staff alike, but it looked like there had at least been catering for all of them. He idly hoped that he would be able to slip off to the side to eat in peace, but of course the seat that was left open for him was right next to Valentino, who gave him a smile as he approached. It looked as genuine as it ever did, but Valentino’s eyes held no softness for him today.

“Our star of the day,” he said, holding out his hands, and Angel couldn’t but take them, allow the man to pull him close and place kisses on his cheeks, before guiding him to his seat, “sit, sit. Here’s some water.”

He didn’t want to accept anything Valentino gave him today, but he was impossibly thirsty, so he grudgingly took the large glass, muttering a thanks. He gulped the entire thing down in seconds, and Valentino refilled it for him, making sympathetic sounds and running a hand down Angel’s back in a faux comforting gesture that did nothing. He was so tired. His legs felt like jelly, and the water was cold in his stomach, pooling heavily instead of easing his thirst. He leaned against the back of his seat and allowed his eyes to fall shut for a moment, holding the glass up to his forehead to help with the headache that was once again plaguing him. He should probably drink more.

A staff member approached their group a few minutes later with several packed sandwiches, and Angel sat up in expectation when the cart moved towards them. Valentino accepted his, but when Angel reached out for his own, the man’s hand gently covered his and pushed it down, settling them down heavy on top of Angel’s thigh.

“You’re getting a little chunky, mi amor,” Valentino said, eyes darting over to him with a mockingly apologetic look before they turned back to the staff who was handing out lunches, and told her, “none for Angel today. Just water.”

“Val…” Angel said, feeling his shoulders droop as he watched the packaged meal with his name being carted away, “I didn’t eat breakfast either.”

“You won’t die from a little skipped meal, darling,” Valentino patted his leg in a gesture that could be considered comforting, but which came across as mostly patronizing, “have some extra water. I have some speed too, if you want.”

Angel made a face. He hated the way speed made him feel, razor sharp and spread thin like filo - but as an appetite suppressant it did work wonders. He supposed that was Valentino’s point “Fine, gimme.”

“Don’t pout like that, Angel,” Valentino said, reaching inside a pocket of his coat for the small tin he usually kept on him, holding it out to Angel even as he was already looking somewhere else, “take two. You’ll fly through the rest of this day with no effort at all.”

Angel did as he was told.

*

They didn’t complete filming until long past midnight. Angel’s head was pounding by then, the effect of the drugs long worn off, and he was so weary that it was a miracle he was still standing. He showered - again - and had to hold on to the wall as his legs were shaking with a combination of exhaustion and pain, a weary ache in his thighs and lower back. He furiously scrubbed himself down, hoping to rid himself of the feeling of a dozen hands on his body. It was like they were still there, the echoes as vivid as the touches themselves. He closed his eyes and let his head hit the tiled wall for just a moment, let the hard surface ground him.

Over the years, he had grown comfortable with himself and with this job, grown into the persona of Angel he had carefully built up to be the most desirable and desired version of himself. In a way, it had been sort of liberating, to be able to earn money doing the thing that he had been so utterly ashamed of for his entire life. It had felt validating to be so desired by other men, and to be able to do something so good that others requested his name before anyone else.

Today he hadn’t felt anything but used.

He winced as he touched a particularly sore part of his wrists - courtesy of a restraint which had rubbed the skin raw - and decided he was clean enough. He turned off the water and carefully got out of the shower, before grabbing a towel and briskly rubbing himself dry. The faster he was dry, the sooner he could put on something soft. He didn’t have the energy to blow-dry himself. His head was pounding. He was starving. His muscles ached. He felt miserable.

The last person he wanted to see when he got out of the bathroom to grab a spare set of clothes, was Valentino. Yet with the way today had been going, it was no surprise that he was there, spread out on the couch and smoking. Judging from the ashtray by his side, it wasn’t the first one, and Angel wanted to ignore him, but when he caught a whiff of the scent, the familiar warm sweetness of cannabis, he felt himself hesitate, just a moment.

One moment too long. Valentino looked up.

“Ah, Angel,” Valentino purred, when he caught sight of Angel, sitting up with a smile, “fantastic work today, sweetheart. Here.” He grabbed something from the floor, and held out a bag to Angel, who took it without thinking. When he glanced inside, it was a mass of white, fluffy fabric. Upon pulling it from the bag, it turned to be a sweater with a hood, buttery soft on the inside, and fluffy on the outside, almost as if spun from clouds. It was softer than anything Angel had touched in ages. Underneath it there were a pair of black sweatpants, equally soft. Angel stared at it blankly for a few moments, then back at Valentino, who just gave him a shrug and a wink. He lifted the joint to his lips again and slowly dragged at it. The tip glowed brightly, and the exhale filled the air between them with the addictive mellow scent. Angel took a deep breath, aching to get some.

“Well, get changed. You deserve it so much, amor. You must be exhausted.”

“I am,” Angel replied, still uncertain at this sudden turn of events, and confused by the seemingly genuine expression on Valentino’s face, “I’m just… You’re…”

“Waiting for you to change so I can take you to dinner,” Valentino smoothly interjected Angel’s stuttering. Then he snapped his fingers, as if he’d just remembered something, and he reached one of his arms into his coat to pull out a bottle of something, tossing it to Angel. “You asked about oxy, hm? Daddy got you some. That should take the edge right off.”

Angel’s hands all grabbed for the container so fast that he almost dropped it. He juggled it for a second or two before he managed to grab it properly, and he’d uncapped it a second later. It was full - at least thirty perfectly round little pills gleaming up at him. His head throbbed extra hard as if in anticipation, and Angel walked over to the fridge to get himself a bottle of water to swallow one immediately, gulping down half the water with it. After a moment’s debate, he took another one, and finished off the bottle. He inhaled shakily as the cold water made its way down his belly, but the anticipation of relief right at the horizon also had him a lot more relaxed.

He turned back to Valentino, who was watching him with that same gentle expression that was so familiar to Angel, though it had been weeks since he had seen it. When he met Angel’s eyes, he smiled. He stubbed the cigarette out in the ash tray.

“You’ve been so good today. Do you want wings? I’ll have them free up the booth for us.”

Angel fidgeted with the cap of the bottle. He ran a finger over the jarred edge of it, let the sharp plastic dig into his skin. The booth meant that Valentino intended to take Angel to his favorite place, with spicy and sweet wings that tasted so good Angel could almost believe they were genuine chicken rather than the hellish variety that roamed the streets here.

“You must be starving,” Valentino continued, when Angel didn’t answer, “get changed, mi amor, I’ll take care of it.”

He turned away from Angel and reached for the phone, pulling it on his lap as he dialed the number of the restaurant. When he started confirming the exact booth, the one with the view of the garden and the fluffed pillows Angel loved, Angel’s body finally started to work again. He dropped his towel and changed in the clothes that Valentino had brought for him.

The hooded pullover had cutouts on the side, exactly where his extra set of arms was, and the sweats were butter-soft when he pulled them on, hugging his hips comfortably without being tight. They were the opposite of the tight latex outfits he had been wearing all day, and with his current fragile state of mind, they were exactly what he needed to feel soothed. The pullover was comfortable as well, a little weight on the shoulders like a shrug, and Angel tucked his hands in its pockets, nestling his nose into the soft fabric and closing his eyes. It smelled clean. If he imagined hard enough, it smelled like laundry dried in the sun. The oxy was starting to kick in, and his headache started to ebb away, leaving behind a soft cloudy feeling in his brain. Warm summer mornings at the beach. Sun on his skin.

He only opened his eyes again with the click of the phone receiver being put down, and Valentino got to his feet. “We’re all set. I asked them to ice the glasses too, I know you prefer that.” He grabbed Angel’s bag from the back of his seat, and held it out in Angel’s direction, a clear invitation for him to take it.

Angel did. He checked his wallet and keys, and then shouldered the bag carefully, mindful of his sore muscles. Luckily the oxy was dimming that as well, so he felt a lot better as he quietly followed Valentino out of the dressing room, turning the light off behind him.

*

They must have eaten their weight in wings. Valentino ordered him his favorite cocktails on the side, and made sure there was always a fresh pitcher of iced water on the table. It felt like Angel hadn’t had water in weeks. He drank and ate until his stomach was so round even the sweatpants felt tight, until he thought that if he were to have one more sip of water, he would run over and spill on the floor. Valentino smiled at him from behind pink glasses, and he wiped Angel’s mouth once he finished. Once the plates were empty, Angel excused himself to go to the bathroom, and when he came back, Valentino had ordered an extra meal to go, which he held out to Angel once he got back from the bathroom.

“For tomorrow,” he clarified, when Angel gave the bag a confused look, “you take the day off. Rest.” When he still didn’t move, Valentino pressed the bag into Angel’s hands and squeezed them, gently. Valentino’s palms were warm. He was closer to Angel that he’d been in a while, at least aside from when he’d forced his way into Angel’s space to boss him around. This was like how it had been before the whole thing went down. Angel’s traitorous body reacted without his consent, and his heart thrummed with want.

“Thanks,” he said, fingers wrapping around the bag’s handles, but not stepping away just yet. He missed this. He missed this so fucking much he could barely stand it. And with the alcohol running freely in his veins, he found himself wondering why he denied himself these pleasures. Out of what? Some kind of moral conviction? Some kind of unsolicited pride? Did that contract really matter that much? Sure, Valentino had been awful to him today, but had it not just been in response to how Angel had acted recently? Maybe it was justified. A sort of wake-up call, a reminder of how things did not need to be so hard. Valentino’s hands were warm. He was giving him a day off, wasn’t he? It was all so confusing. Angel was very drunk.

“We should get you home,” Valentino interrupted his thought-process, but he didn’t step away. He brought up a hand to gently rest against Angel’s face, cupping his jaw. It was an echo of the way he had done that morning, but this time, Angel didn’t fight the urge to rest his entire head in Valentino’s hand. He was so tired. It was comforting. He wasn’t the kind of guy to deny himself comfort for long. Valentino’s thumb gently stroked his cheek.

“Home,” Angel agreed, and he closed his eyes. He didn’t argue when Valentino leaned in and pressed their lips together. The sweet taste of him mingled with the spice of the wings, and a little salt from the margaritas they had been drinking. Valentino’s tongue tickled his bottom lip, and Angel leaned in more, lifting his arms to wrap around the other man’s waist and hold on, as if he were a drowning man and Valentino was the buoy keeping him afloat. He had missed this, too. Valentino was such a good kisser. Angel loved kissing him.

When he opened his eyes again, Valentino’s eyes glowed pink behind his glasses, and just like that the world seemed a little brighter. A little better. Angel felt a little happier. He let out a little huff of a laugh, and pulled his hands back, placing them all on the ears of the bag of take-out instead. They looked at each other for a long beat of silence. Valentino ran a thumb over his own bottom lip, and Angel’s eyes were drawn to it, as if fixated. He licked his lips. Caramel apple.

“I think I’ve been a little difficult, maybe,” he said, unsure where the words came from but somehow sure they were the right ones to say. “I’ve been having a hard time.”

Valentino’s expression switched to sympathetic, and it was a rush of relief to see the understanding blossom in Valentino’s eyes. “It must not have been easy for you, amorcito. I sprang that on you so suddenly. We should have discussed it more.”

Those words were a balm on all the wounds that Angel felt had been struck into his heart since the contract had been established. Valentino knew. He understood that this had been a breach of Angel’s trust, and he had not meant for it to have the fallout that it had. He had only wanted to do good. Angel gave a careful little smile, though he felt his eyes well up with tears. The alcohol had softened him up enough that the emotions were at the tip of his tongue. “It… It was a lot.”

“I know,” Valentino crooned, and then he was back in Angel’s space, pulling him in for an embrace. When they pressed close, Angel almost disappeared underneath the folds of Valentino’s coat. It was a sweet, warm cave of comfort. Caramel apple. Cotton candy. Safe. “I know, amor, daddy should have known better.”

Angel almost laughed out loud and nuzzled the side of Valentino’s neck. It was funny how for weeks now, every thing that Valentino had said to him had been irritating, had made him want to throw things around and to fight with the man, but now that he was here, soft and warm and with a full belly, he thought his clumsiness was rather endearing. “Daddy can make up for it,” he said, tilting up his head and angling in for another kiss. The scent of him was almost as intoxicating as the drinks. The headache was completely gone, as if it had never been there in the first place. He was so damn comfortable. Valentino smiled, and leaned down to meet him.

When the car stopped in front of Angel’s flat, he invited Valentino in, but the man shook his head, only took his hand. “Rest,” he told Angel, his fingertips stroking Angel’s wrist, “Take a bath, eat, sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow evening to check in.” He pressed a kiss on Angel’s hand and then let go. He pulled the door shut, and the car slipped away into the night.

The warm promise of care was enough to carry Angel up the stairs to his flat, into his bedroom, and straight into the softness of his comforter. When he wrapped it around himself and snuggled his face into his pillow, the only thing he could smell was cotton candy, and the light filtering through his curtains glowed a gentle pink. He was asleep within seconds.

Chapter Text

Things got better after that. They did not go back to normal, at least not the normal that Angel had started getting used to, but something close. That was fine, he told himself. He had been difficult, so it was only to be expected that Valentino wouldn’t trust him the same way. It was normal that he expected a little more, gave a little less. It would even out eventually, if Angel just tried his best to fix it. He never made Angel cry on purpose. He would always hold him afterwards, hands gentle on Angel’s waist, or cradling Angel’s head as he fell asleep on the man’s lap at the end of a long shift. Love wasn’t ever perfect, but it was close enough.

Despite that, Angel sometimes felt like he was in limbo. Sometimes, it felt like control had been torn right out of his hands. Like he was floating, and no matter how he tried, he wasn’t able to land. The drugs helped. If he stopped long enough to think about it, they helped a little too well. A nice little side-effect was that he didn’t need to do a lot of thinking. Up for the days, down for the nights, or the other way around if he got hired to perform at a club. He loved to dance, and with a little dust in his veins it was as if he existed out of pure glitter. He’d feel just like that very first night, when Valentino had told him he looked like starlight, when the man had run such gentle hands up his stomach and made Angel (Anthony, he’d gone by Anthony back then, how long ago was that?) feel like he was worth the world.

Some days he still felt like that. Some days Angel would be wrapped up in a glowing pink haze of kisses and gifts, to get everything he could ask for, until one of his words or requests hit a wrong nerve, and Valentino would come bearing down on him like - pun intended - hell unleashed. Luckily most days it wasn’t Angel who got the short end of the stick. Mostly, Angel watched.

*

Today had been a good day. Angel had just finished showering, and he’d rolled himself a little treat to settle down for the day, which he sat smoking in of the lounge chairs in the main area. Valentino had promised him dinner, so he’d gotten dressed up nice, a backless top and long pants, pretty little heeled boots, things that were easy to take off. His muscles felt lax and soft, his hair still a little damp from the shower, and the couch was soft and comfortable. Angel would consider lying down, but he knew he would fall asleep before they’d make it to the restaurant. So he just sat back and smoked. They called it a mellow sherman, tobacco and weed and just a sprinkle of his namesake. It made him both feel awake and relaxed, which was a nice change. He felt pretty at peace.

Until the new girl spilled coffee down the front of Valentino’s coat, right on the fur of his wings. Her name was Bambi or Fawn or something along the lines, because she had tiny little antlers and big brown eyes framed by impossibly long lashes. A cute round face covered in freckles. Angel had wondered what she had done to deserve ending up down here looking like she rolled out of a children’s book. Angel remembered her arrival to the studio. She had belonged to another Overlord, and a transfer of power - which Angel now knew to be a polite word for that Valentino had massacred the man’s entire entourage - had put her in Valentino’s care.

She had been one of three new arrivals that night, three women who had been dragged inside just as Angel had been getting ready to go home. He’d been flicking through some of the pictures taken that day, making an initial selection of which ones would go to print, when Valentino had returned, jubilant and victorious. He’d gone straight for Angel once he’d spotted him, pulled him up into his arms and carried him away, and Angel had only caught the barest glimpse of them, distressed and dirty, holding on to each other like they were the only thing that made sense in the entirety of Hell. Angel had never seen the other two again, but this one had stuck around. She’d mostly been running odd jobs in the studio, but along with the cute little face came a pair of legs that didn’t look very stable, and so this hadn’t been her first time spilling something. It had however, been her first time spilling something on Valentino.

Angel watched as Valentino pulled her to her knees by her antlers, following her down to the floor, crouching in front of her. She scrambled and tried to get away, but Angel knew from experience there wasn’t much you could do once the man had his hands on you. She seemed to realize after a few more moments, and once she settled down, eyes wide and panicked and body frozen in fear, Valentino ordered her to beg for forgiveness. She did, words falling from her so fast they weren’t understandable. She looked like a teenager, Angel thought, lifting the sherman to his lips again, though Valentino had told Angel that she had been in her late twenties when she died. It was hard to believe when she was on her knees like that, crying and begging. Angel wondered if he looked like that too.

“Please,” her voice drifted towards him, soft and helpless, choked out between sobs that made her entire body tremble, “I’m so sorry. Please don’t hurt me.” Valentino had his portable camera out and snapped her picture. It was clear no dismemberment was going to happen, so Angel curled around to get a better look, curiosity getting the better of him. Valentino dragged her head back, another picture, and then tossed her to the side. She hit the wall with a disconcertingly loud thud, but she scrambled to her feet instantly, hurrying away from the main hall. Lucky.

When Valentino noticed Angel had been watching, he smiled and sauntered over to him. He pressed a kiss on top of Angel’s head, took the sherman from his hands. “I’m putting her on set,” he told Angel, pocketing the camera and taking a long drag of the cigarette. He hummed his approval, handing it back, “maybe that will make her less clumsy. She’s pretty when she cries.”

When Angel didn’t reply, Valentino’s hand came up to tilt his chin up, still smiling down at him. “Not as pretty as you, though, baby. Don’t worry.”

Angel returned his smile. “I wasn’t worried.”

*

Some days were bad.

Angel could tell from the moment he entered the studio that today would be a bad day. Valentino was on edge, his antennae twitchy and the fur on his coat ruffled. He was barking orders left and right that had the staff scrambling to keep up with demands, and when Angel came for a kiss, he only got an irritated huff for his efforts and the statement that he was late. He wasn’t. Angel’s stomach dropped, and he quietly made his way to his dressing room. It was fine, he told himself, as he changed out of his sweatshirt and into the outfit that had been prepared for him. One of the staff had followed him in to take care of his hair and make-up. She’d brought him the script and a cup of coffee, and got to work without a word. Angel was both glad and nervous that at least Valentino’s mood didn’t seem to be aimed at him personally.

He read through the script as she curled his hair, large tight curls that she pinned down and sprayed, and started dabbing on his make-up. It was a home invasion scene, where Angel supposed he was meant to be the housewife. He frowned at it, but didn’t bother asking any questions. This script wasn’t going to win him any awards, but it seemed fairly standard, if not one of his favorites. These shoots always had a consensual non-consent clause at the start, which worked well enough, but with the way everyone seemed twitchy today, Angel felt a little nervous as well.

He pulled open the drawer of his vanity, rummaging through the variety of things until he pulled up a little glass container. Considering the nature of today’s shoot, a little Miltown seemed appropriate. He smirked to himself as he shook out four of the round pills, swallowed them with a gulp of coffee. When he looked up in the mirror, the staff was looking at him, and he narrowed his eyes at her.

“What?”

She quickly shook her head, and averted her eyes. Angel rolled his eyes and sighed, pushing away her hand when she tried to bring up the brush to his cheeks again. “I’ll finish it.”

She didn’t need to be told twice, and dismissed herself swiftly. Angel picked up the blush and dabbed it on, rouge-ing his cheeks until he looked properly flushed. Flustered, overworked, anxious. He widened his eyes at himself in the mirror, dropped his mouth open just slightly, rounded his shoulders. His reflection looked properly distressed, he thought, reaching for the lipstick to add the finishing touch. It was still a funny sight to him, even after years of cross-dressing, just how much he could transform his face with make-up. He would love to start wearing it a little more regularly, he thought, dabbing on the lipstick within the lines the artist had already drawn. Though taking it off was always a pain.

He heard Valentino’s voice filter through the door, and he put down the lipstick, quickly double checking the dress was on properly - not that it mattered much because it would come off within the first five minutes, before slipping into the heels, and then he was out of the door, just in time to hear the tail end of what was clearly not the first version of “Where the fuck is Angel?”

“Here,” Angel said, before any other staff would find themselves torn to pieces in the wake of Valentino’s impatience, “I’m here.”

“Taking your sweet fucking time today,” Valentino turned to him, eyes darting over his hair, his face, his outfit, coming up with something that was almost approval, but not quite. Still, he just waved towards the set, so Angel went.

If Valentino’s mood had been better, Angel would have made a joke about it. It was a terrible rendition of a 1950s house, complete with tiled kitchen and a small outside terrace, but then instead of a living room there was a bed, made up to look like a couch. He had no idea who had come up with the whole thing, but it was kitschy and theatrical, and the flowers that were used as home decor were so clearly plastic that it made the whole thing look even cheaper.

When the scene was called, Angel fell into the role quickly, pretending to hurry around the kitchen to make some sort of dinner, as his other hands were working on the dishes, the entire time muttering about how no one appreciated him in this household, how he was tired, how he just wished for once in his life something would happen to him that wasn’t the humdrum bore of daily chores. Naturally, that’s when the door was broken down, and a set of men walked in, gelled back hair and leather jackets, and Angel almost laughed again.

“Oh no,” he said, dropping one of the dishes, which shattered at his feet, and he took a few steps back so that he was conveniently in front of the bed, “who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

It was easy. As much as Angel thought the script was silly, it was straightforward, hard to fuck up. Valentino would like it, because Angel would look pretty and messy, and the video would sell well. Valentino’s mood would improve when he was reminded how good Angel was at this. One of the burglars grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him on the bed, and Angel made a show of trying to crawl away, only to be dragged back by the ankle. The dress hiked up his hips, and he arched his back, his mind blissfully cloudy as the meds from earlier kicked in. Hands on his thighs, his ass, the ripping of fabric, and he knew how to make this look good, he would make sure it was perfect.

A hand closed around his throat. He gasped. That wasn’t scripted. Still, he went with it, uttered pretty pleas and little sounds of displeasure as the dress was pulled down his front, someone behind him, someone in front of him, and then his hands were pinned on his back. Suddenly, he couldn’t move at all, and the hand around his throat tightened more. He tried to give a signal at the man above him that he wasn’t good with this, that he couldn’t breathe, but the man wasn’t looking at him, had his eyes fixed on something beyond Angel’s vision. Stage instructions, Angel thought distantly, and he tried to speak, but his voice didn’t come out right.

“No,” Angel croaked, trying his best to struggle against the hands that were holding him down. They were everywhere, no space for him to move, to turn away, nowhere for him to go, and he felt the panic clog up his throat and narrow his vision. He wrestled more, and eventually the hand on his throat loosened enough he could call out a stop. Nothing changed. He gasped for air.

“Val,” he tried, when the men didn’t stop touching him, when they wouldn’t listen to him, “Val please. Please. Tino, have them stop, have them…”

Valentino’s voice cutting through the air, knife sharp and cutting right through his chest, “Someone gag him, that’s ruining the shot.”

Angel’s eyes widened, and he struggled harder, but it was futile. Hands were all over him, holding him down, and his scream was cut off before he even managed to fully get it out.

*

At least it was over quickly. Angel wouldn’t be able to say if he just passed out, or that the pills he’d taken had made it easier for him to tune it all out, but at least at one point he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was alone. Or at least, he was no longer on set. Because when he turned on his back, he noticed his head was pillowed on Valentino’s lap, the man holding on to one of Angel’s hands and massaging it firmly. His other hand was holding on to a colorful little drink with a straw. He looked down when Angel moved, making a little surprised sound to see him awake.

“Didn’t think three men would scare you that much,” was what he chose to greet Angel with, “you were completely out of it for a bit.”

Angel tried to gather his thoughts. His hands hurt. When he lifted one to look at it, there were red marks around his wrists. His fingers were a little swollen from restraints that should definitely not have been this tight, and felt like circulation had been cut off just a little too long. They ached and pulsed as Valentino rubbed feeling back into them, thumbs firm as they dug into the soft flesh of Angel’s palm. The rest of him felt heavy and limp. He was pretty sure he was still naked, but there was a blanket draped over him, so at least he wasn’t cold. He blinked a few times as he realized he was in his dressing room, illuminated only by the lights around his vanity. The studio was quiet.

“I called to stop it,” he eventually spoke up, voice trembling, uncertain, “I called for you to stop it, you were supposed to…”

“I heard you,” Valentino interrupted him, taking a sip from his straw, “Kept calling out my name. I wouldn’t have had you gagged if you’d stayed quiet, you know, but the film ain’t cheap. Do you want a drink?”

Angel stared at him, and when he didn’t reply, Valentino just shrugged, “You looked good, though. The red lip was a great choice.”

“I didn’t want it. I said no.” Angel didn’t know how to put into words what he was feeling. Betrayal. Anger. Sadness. The knowledge that something had happened to him that he hadn’t given any permission for. A word he didn’t dare say out loud.

“That was sort of the entire plot of the scene,” Valentino said mildly, taking another sip, “and you sold it real nice. Editing is going to be easy.” He didn’t stop the massage, fingers pressing painfully. Angel’s hands tingled as blood rushed through them, returning life to his numb fingers. He let out a little whimper, and Valentino hummed, lifting Angel’s hands to his lips to press an apologetic little kiss to them. “But stay awake next time so you can tell me if the restraints are too tight. Those idiots don’t understand how bondage works.”

He studied Angel’s hand for a moment and then put it down gently on Angel’s stomach, hand trailing up and down his chest, running through the messy fluff and lingering there, twirling the longer parts around his index finger. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink? It’s no problem, you can have as many as you want.”

Angel thought there were two possible outcomes. He could start an argument, try his best to make clear to Valentino that he wouldn’t stand for this, that he couldn’t accept to be treated like this in his place of employment, and that they needed to talk about it. Or he could give in and let Valentino take care of him. The man’s hand was warm on his, and Angel was covered and safe, in a quiet space, and he wasn’t alone. Starting an argument would leave him alone at the end of it. He couldn’t stand to be alone.

“A drink would be nice,” Angel whispered, eyes stinging, and Valentino smiled down at him, before reaching for the phone, and ordering some staff to bring them drinks. Angel sniffled. Everything felt wrong. He pushed himself up into a half-seated position, bringing up the blanket with him, and scooted closer to he could lean into Valentino’s side, press his nose into the man’s fluffy collar, and wrap the blanket tightly around himself. Valentino in turn lifted an arm, and moved to wrap his wing around him as well, giving him a dark little cave to hide in. Safe.

“That’s right. You can get anything you want, baby,” Valentino said sweetly, “You deserve it.”

Angel wanted to believe it so bad.

Chapter Text

It took him a few repetitions of this cycle to realize that it was a cycle. And if he were being honest with himself, he wouldn’t have realized it was a cycle even then, if it hadn’t been for Vox’ presence.

It was during one of the good periods that Vox came to the studio again. He hadn’t been back since the time Valentino had promised Angel that what happened in there was none of Vox’ business, so his arrival was a bit of a surprise. Angel had been in the middle of what would have been an enticing lap dance when the door opened, and with Vox’ arrival disappeared any and all of Angel’s appetite.

When Angel was ordered to step outside to let the two men talk business, he wanted to argue, but a look from Valentino and a firm smack on his thigh quickly stole the words from his mouth. He said his goodbye to Valentino, dropped him a quick kiss and made to leave. He figured he would go home, since he wasn’t required on set anymore, so he went to grab his things from his room and then realized he had left his jacket in Valentino’s room. He didn’t necessarily need it, but it would give him an excuse to interrupt Vox from whatever boring monologue he was undoubtedly spewing, and the thought of that was amusing enough he decided to return to Valentino’s office.

He waited for a moment before raising his hand to knock on the door, just to make sure that the two men weren’t having an argument. The last thing he wanted was to interfere when the moment wasn’t right, because he’d really been enjoying the last couple days, and he would love to keep everything calm and comfortable. He was about satisfied they were just having a regular chat, when he heard his name be dropped. He frowned mildly, and leaned closer to the door to get a better idea of what was being said. Curiosity killed the cat, his grandma used to scold him when he did this as a child. But Angel was a spider, not a cat, and he wanted to know what Vox could possibly want to know about him.

He had to put his ear against the wood to properly understand the voices, but once he did, he could hear the conversation clear enough.

“… has been going well.”

“Took you long enough to figure it out,” Vox’ voice, filtering through with the same smug amusement that Angel despised. He wrinkled his nose, but didn’t move, closing his eyes so he could focus on listening. There was a bit of a thrill to it, to listening to something he wasn’t supposed to..

“It was a delicate matter,” Valentino’s voice, “I needed to make sure.”

Vox laughed, and the static was audible even through the door. Angel winced. He’d loved the cinema when he had been alive, but he’d never liked television. He always felt like he could taste the electricity on his tongue. Even at the thought of it, his lips tingled.

“A business man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do,” Valentino’s voice was just as amused as Vox’, and both men shared a laugh over that. What was so damn funny?

“You’re a bad person. But I can’t blame you,” Vox again, “he’s stunning. Hell, I’d fuck him too. Even with that trashy name. Angel Dust. Like something you get tattooed on your ass.”

Angel’s mouth dropped open at the statement. The mere thought of Vox thinking him attractive was enough to make him want to gag or spoon his eardrums out so he could pretend he’d never heard it. He waited for Valentino to speak up, to defend Angel or to tell Vox off for his language, as he so often did when Angel spoke out of line. He didn’t.

“You know I don’t like to share,” Valentino’s voice was still amused, but it also held that warning undertone that for Angel always signaled the moment he had to back down. “Plus, you know he despises you. He’s so cute when he gets jealous, I rather encourage it.”

Angel’s stomach dropped, and Vox laughed.

“Enough of that venom of yours and he won’t even question it,” Vox’ voice was a little breathless now, and Angel could heard the sound of the desk chair scraping over the floor. He knew that sound all too well. He’d climbed over that desk enough times to know why the man would be sitting back. His mouth watered as nausea started to build in his stomach.

“I guess I’ll settle for you, then.”

Angel could clearly imagine the smug grin, the colorful flicker of Vox’ screen. He imagined beating his face to splinters. He had gotten a smaller screen connected to his head recently, and it would probably not be hard. Angel could smash it easily.

The conversation fell quiet then, no matter how close Angel pressed to the door. Then there was only the sound of something crashing to the floor, and then a grunt that must have been Vox. Angel pulled away, disgusted but mostly confused. The thing was, despite what Vox thought of him, Angel wasn’t dumb. He had had his suspicions that the two men were getting it on behind his back, but he had never thought of making a big deal about it. After all, Angel slept with dozens of men for a living, and Valentino wasn’t the most monogamous minded sort of man. He could understand if Valentino wanted something else sometimes. Did Angel think Vox was tasteless, classless, and a whiny motherfucker? Yes. But there was no arguing for taste.

The thing that struck him was the one line Vox had dropped.

Enough of that venom of yours and he won’t even question it.

It played over and over in his head. He retreated down the hallway and out of the studio, opting to walk instead of taking a taxi. He needed the space to think it all over.

*

He didn’t end up going home. Instead, he found himself the nearest phone booth and dug into his bag until he found some coins, fingers stumbling as he put them in the coin slot, waiting for the thing to rattle to life. When it clicked and started beeping, he punched in Cherri’s phone number. To his utter relief she picked up after only a single ring. He didn’t wait for her to say anything before he just blurted out his question.

“Can you meet me at The Dive in twenty minutes?”

Cherri, who on the one hand was always ready for a party, but on the other might have heard in his voice that something was up, accepted the invitation without question and Angel hung up the call.

That’s how he found himself tucked at a table in the back of a bar he would never visit on a better day, with a large bottle of beer in front of him. It was mediocre and too bitter for his taste, but it was cold, and the bitter taste at least had the benefit that it didn’t make him think of Valentino. He outlined everything that had happened to Cherri, who listened intently, working her way through a tall glass of cherry sour. Angel’s hands were shaking on his bottle.

“Is that why his teeth are like that?” She asked, when Angel told her about the venom, how Vox had stated it as such an evident fact, as if everyone knew. Everyone but Angel. And that most of all made him feel like it was true. Angel didn’t know things. Angel didn’t notice things. Angel was always so fucking unaware. Even now he felt that way, as Cherri looked at him with eyes full of understanding, whilst Angel was still lagging behind.

“What?” He stared at her blankly, and she made an impatient sound, motioned at her teeth and tapped them, as if to emphasize her point. Angel just blinked at her, and she sighed.

“I had been wondering,” Cherri admitted, glancing at him over her drink, “I thought, maybe he’s just a little cannibalistic or something, but it’s not blood, is it? It’s uh, venom. It’s just his saliva. Which, let’s be honest, explains a lot.”

Angel stared at her as realization slowly seeped in, and he started to understand what she was getting at. The entire time he had been thinking that venom must imply that the man had some kind of stinger hidden away. Angel hadn’t ever noticed it, but as previously established, Angel didn’t have the best record of noticing things when it came to Valentino. He had thought that it was because he was just in love, rose-tinted glasses combined with a healthy dose of disinterest in anything that didn’t directly benefit him. He hadn’t ever considered that the venom might have been hidden in plain sight.

Nausea roared against in his stomach. He tried to swallow it with a gulp of beer. It didn’t help at all. If Cherri was right about the venom being Valentino’s saliva Angel had been on the receiving end of it since day one. They had kissed the night they met. They had kissed every other time they’d met. Angel had felt like he was in love from that very first night. The world swam in front of his eyes. His voice was breathy when he managed, “Do you think he’s been drugging me this entire time?”

She shrugged, playing around with her straw as she leaned her face in her hand to look at him. “I mean, babes, he has been giving you drugs on the regular, in general. It’s not a big leap to make he would be drugging you also when you’re not aware. We know he’s a piece of shit.” Angel would usually argue this, because as much as Cherri disliked Valentino, Angel cared about him, and usually she would let it slide from there.

“With what purpose?” Angel asked, voice a little more high pitched than he would have liked, but the circumstances definitely deserved it, “Why would he do that? He l…” He cut himself off.

Cherri gave him a sympathetic look. “Maybe it keeps you nice and pliant, you know. You told me last week that you love spending time with him, when the week before he gave you a bruised rib because you didn’t moan the right way, or something.”

Angel ran nervous fingers over his lips. One of his nails felt rough against his skin, and took the nail between his teeth, biting down on it to rip it off. Some nail polish chipped off inside his mouth, and he spit it out, wrinkling his nose as he said, “I fell off the bed,”

“Because he threw you off it.” Cherri said mildly, “that’s not what we’re here to discuss, though. I know you two have a… complex sort of relationship.”

Angel’s temper flared a little, nail finding its way back into his mouth. “Why are you talking to me like I am a victim of a domestic case?”

Cherri didn’t say anything, just sipped her drink as she watched him. Angel shrunk a little under her attentions, feeling his neck heat. When he thought about it, he knew what it sounded like. You don’t spend any significant time in Hell without learning a little about every possible crime that people could commit, and domestic violence was one of the most common ones. He would never even have considered the possibility that he could be one of those cases. The mere thought of it was enough to flood his stomach with discomfort, and he had to press himself up from the table for a moment to excuse himself. His mind was racing a mile a minute, and he found himself hanging over the bar before he even registered his actions. He ordered two shots of whatever was nearest and another bottle of beer, and he took both of them in quick succession before he returned to the table, thinking that perhaps those should soothe his nerves, if only enough to continue the conversation.

“Look, I don’t want to make you talk about things you don’t wanna talk about,” Cherri said, when he sank back down in her chair, “frankly, I don’t really want to hear it either. But you gotta know what it looks like from the outside, and it’s not pretty. Sure, these things are never pretty, since he does, you know, own your soul and all that.”

Angel winced. “Don’t say it like that,”

“I’m not going to lie to you,” she said briskly, “I’m not here to spare your feelings either, Angie. You’re a cool guy and I like being your friend, but being friends means I get to tell you that you gotta stop kidding yourself.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?” He asked, stung and not a little baffled at her straightforwardness, “How could I even have known…”

She surprised him by taking two of his hands in hers, interrupting him before he could go off on a tangent, and he fell silent. She took a deep breath, her singular eye focused on him, and said in a slow and clear voice, “I don’t think he ever loved you. I think he lured you in, strung you along, and you like being loved so much you’re too blind to keep yourself from giving in. He does these things so you keep doing what he wants you to do. Because you’re hot, you’re good at sex, and you make him a lot of money. Speaking of, how much of that money have you been seeing recently?”

Angel froze. He hadn’t gotten a paycheck in weeks, even though he had done several video shoots, which were usually the ones that he got paid for pretty quickly. And between Valentino’s good and bad days, there hadn’t been much time to think about money at all. He hadn’t had a need to buy food since they’d started going on dates again, his flat was paid for him, and Valentino’s gifts had been enough clothes that there hadn’t been any need for that either. He had simply not noticed. Angel never fucking noticed things.

I love how you’re so unaware, mi amor.

His silence must have spoken volumes, because Cherri clicked her tongue and let go of his hands to slap him on the wrist. “That’s what I thought.”

“Hey, ouch!” He said, pulling his hand back in surprise, “what’s that for?”

“For being an idiot. If you’re going to let yourself being taken advantage of, at least don’t be sad about it when it goes south, Jesus Christ.”

There was a gasp from the table next to them, and Cherri didn’t even look up before she flicked them the finger. “Should have done a little more of that when you were alive and maybe you wouldn’t be here.”

Angel glanced over to make sure the offended customer wouldn’t want to start a fight, but it was an older woman with a wasp’s head and a ball of yarn in front of her, so he thought they were probably safe. He gave her an apologetic grin. She buzzed at him in annoyance.

“As I said,” Cherri continued, “stop it. There’s no point in getting all gloomy about it. Now that you know, you can deal with it in whatever way you need. If you want to be a little delusional and let him continue the whole lovey-dovey bit so you can go make the best of a bad situation, Hell, I will support you. If you wanna drink your way through it, I will be right here. But don’t let him get to your head, Angel. You are all that you have down here. There’s no one looking out for you but you.”

Angel knew that she was trying to be supportive. In a way, he knew that she was right. But it was those exact words he had thought himself before he had met Valentino, and it had been during the time where he had been so impossibly lonely. He must have been such an easy target for the other man. The thought was sickening. He’d let himself be trapped so easily. He’d signed his life away for a cheap kiss and a good fuck.

“Gee, thanks, Cher,” he said sarcastically, hoping his voice was steady as he put the bottle down again, “Really made me feel better.” He wanted to cry.

“Look on the bright side, loverboy,” she said, offering him a little smile, and lifting her own drink in a toast, “no one but yourself can let you down either.”

Angel thought that that was not a reassuring thought at all. Letting himself down really was the only thing he was good at.

Chapter Text

This new knowledge sat heavy inside Angel’s chest as he returned home and spent most of the night laying awake, staring at the ceiling. It was a lot to work through. The thought of Valentino having drugged him all of the time they had been together was horrifying to say the least, but the worst was that if he’d been upfront about it, Angel would likely not even have minded it so much. That was a flaw, he decided, rolling on his side to wrap himself around one of his pillows, holding on as if it can somehow help him stay grounded. But could he really be blamed for that? All the time he’d spent with Valentino had been like a dream, the absolute best he had ever possibly felt. Had all of it been a lie?

As he thought about it more, he found his mind started to spiral in a dozen different directions. What did it actually matter? Even if it had all be a lie, did that matter? If Angel had been happy, wasn’t it fine that it had not been real? It had been real enough for him. He’d loved his life. He’d thought he did. And since there was nothing to be done about it for now, he might as well linger in the comforts that Valentino offered him. That was the plan. Angel was going to go along with it, so that he could his life in the easy and soft way that he had been enjoying, and there wasn’t any point in fighting it. Cherri was right, he could simply choose to pretend that he didn’t know.

He didn’t sleep a wink that night, and when morning came, Angel realized that no matter how he twisted and turned the situation, there was no outcome that looked good to him. And as he dragged himself out of bed and got his pot of coffee brewing, he blearily considered that maybe he finally understood the point of Hell. To be eternally caught in a web of your own making - and the irony of his extra eyes and arms didn’t escape him at all.

The car arrived at the same time as always. Angel got in as always. No matter if his nerves were so tense that he thought a single touch might have have him burst into splinters. He tried to settle himself down on the way to the studio. He wasn’t going to bring it up. Angel was an actor. Angel could pretend.

Turned out Angel couldn’t pretend.

*

It was such a dumb mistake. One of the legs of the bed collapsed just as Angel climbed on it, and both he and his co-star went tumbling off of it. It should have been funny. Angel thought it hilarious, as the two of them went dick-over-head onto the floor, and the scene had to be paused.

Valentino didn’t think it was funny. The set-designer had found himself thrown out the window almost immediately, and Valentino was swearing and swinging his fists as the staff scrambled to get the set back in order. Angel wrapped himself in his robe to wait it out, and Valentino turned to him with a cutting word about Angel’s weight and carelessness, and Angel was too tired for this. He rolled his eyes.

It was a universally known fact within the studio that Valentino tolerated more from Angel than from anyone else. On a good day, Angel’s reaction would have only gotten him a frown or a sneer, perhaps a flick on the ear, and it would have been sufficient distraction that things could have been sorted out easily. But today Valentino’s irritation was palpable, and where on any other day, Angel would know to back down and to turn up the charm, today’s Angel’s nerves were fraught. He’d drank too much the night before, he’d not eaten anything since breakfast the previous day, and the knowledge of the betrayal sat heavy on his chest. It wasn’t a good day.

So when Valentino lashed out at him, Angel reacted in turn. Valentino’s temper flared bright, and against his better reason Angel spit the knowledge about what Valentino had been doing to him right in his face.

The studio had been deadly silent.

And then it had been a roaring fury from Valentino such as Angel had never experienced before. For the first time since they met, Angel was genuinely terrified as Valentino jumped at him.

They had to cancel the shoot.

*

The ride home had been the most tense fifteen minutes of Angel’s life. Valentino’s anger had simmered down to a thrum, but his hands were twitchy, and Angel sat ramrod straight on the backseat, as far away from Valentino as possible. One of his arms was wrapped in a sling, and even from the corner of his eyes, he could tell that Valentino was glancing down at it every few minutes.

Angel had been seen to by the studio’s doctor, who had declared none of the damage done was too severe. He had been told to go home and sleep it off, take some painkillers and to stay away from alcohol until the bruising healed. Angel intended to ignore that advice completely, but he had nodded and accepted the strip of pills. Valentino had insisted to take Angel home, and Angel hadn’t dared to argue. One of his teeth was loose, and he found himself pushing at it with his tongue all the way home, relishing the fresh sting every time he pressed it against his lip, the warm pool of iron in his mouth. It was grounding.

When they stopped outside of Angel’s apartment, he got out of the car without a word. Valentino didn’t follow him, and Angel was both relieved and devastated.

Valentino’s reaction was proof enough that Angel’s suspicions about the venom had been right. So when he crawled in bed, mindful to not jostle his arm, arranging the pillows to be supportive of his back, the tears he cried weren’t just because of broken bones, but because of a broken heart. And he couldn’t decide which of those was worse.

*

Valentino bought him a little pet pig the day after.

The thing was painfully adorable, with tiny horns and spikes, and a purple eye that perfectly matched the bruise on Angel’s face. It immediately crawled into Angel’s lap to sniff at his face, and he curled around it in turn, holding it close and hiding hot tears against it’s furry little head.

“I thought you’d like something to keep you company,” Valentino lingered at the foot of Angel’s bed, watching him cling to the pig like it was a lifeline. It had been months since he’d been in Angel’s apartment, and though Angel had always thought he looked like he belonged there, now his large shape was odd, off-putting against the wall where Angel had hung up all his pictures. “You’re always by yourself here, I don’t like it.”

It wasn’t an apology, both of them knew, because Valentino didn’t think there was any need to apologize. Angel had stepped out of line. Valentino had dealt with it. They were good now.

Angel didn’t thank him. Valentino let it slide.

*

The pills the doctor had prescribed him had Angel in relative comfort for the rest of the week. The bones healed, the bruises faded, but rather than setting itself straight, Angel woke up the fourth morning with the discovery that his tooth had fallen out. A panicked call to the doctor assured him that it would grow back eventually, but that teeth took time. Even down here. Valentino called him only a few minutes after he hung up with the announcement that he was going to pick Angel up in an hour to take him to the dentist.

“You look much better,” he said, when Angel slipped into the back of the car, “I’m glad. Here.”

He held out a takeaway cup of coffee and a brown paper bag, which Angel opened to find a soft blueberry muffin and a single blue pill. He gave Valentino a questioning look, and the man just shrugged. “Just Valium. I didn’t know if you were scared of the dentist.”

Angel didn’t know either. He took the pill anyway. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Valentino said, “let me see your teeth.”

Obediently, Angel opened his mouth to show off the missing canine, and Valentino lifted a hand as if he was going to touch it, but when Angel flinched away, he dropped it instantly. Angel’s eyes followed his hand until it was back on his own coffee cup. Only then he spoke.

“So I’m getting a temporary fake one, or what is the deal?” He asked, “how long does it even take to grow back?”

Valentino hummed and then turned to him, pulling his mouth into a grin and tapping his single gold tooth with a long, blood-red nail. “That’s eight years now.”

Angel’s stomach dropped, and he was glad he had taken the Valium. He hadn’t known that had been the replacement of a fallen tooth.

“I usually get the performers gold plated ones,” the man continued, “but I’d say we go full gold, hm? You get something nice and shiny, maybe a little diamond if you want.”

Angel wanted his own tooth back. “That sounds nice.”

“I thought you’d like that,” Valentino sounded pleased, “you can get other gems too, but anything colored looks so weird in the mouth, like you got something stuck there. And you know they say diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

Valentino continued on, and Angel let himself zone out, looking out of the window and holding on to his coffee. His tongue poked against the open wound where his tooth had been. A golden tooth wasn’t so bad. It would look good, he knew. It was just another thing of himself he’d have to give up. Something else Valentino got to take from him.

“I’ll take you out after, how about that?” Valentino’s voice filtered back in, just in time for Angel to be able to give a response, “some food, something nice. Whatever you want.”

“I’m not dressed for going out,” Angel said, looking down at himself. He’d gotten changed into fresh clothes before he left the flat, but it was still just sweatpants and a hooded shirt. His favorite part of this decade was definitely the large and soft fabrics that had arrived in Hell, but there was nothing flattering or elegant about them, nothing that he would want to be seen in outside the comfort of his home.

Valentino waved off the concerns. “I’ll get it sorted whilst you get that tooth fixed. Don’t you worry your pretty head about it. You’ll feel better once we go out, I promise.”

It was a nice offer. It sounded nice. Then why did he feel like he couldn’t say no?

“Come on. Let papi take care of you, alright, Angel?”

A hand on his thigh, squeezing. Angel’s eyes darted up to meet Valentino’s gaze, expectant. Angel relented, and smiled.

“Alright.”

“That’s my good boy,” Valentino purred, and pressed a kiss to Angel’s temple, right where the bruise had almost completely faded, “some new bling, some champagne, and you’ll be good as new.”

*

The worst thing was, Valentino was right.

The dentist gave him a royal dose of sedative that meant the entire process was painless, and so Angel got to float on pink clouds whilst the man took a mold of his teeth and used it to shape his new canine. The man was excellent at his job, and when Angel got the big reveal of his new smile, he was pleasantly surprised. Not only was the golden tooth a perfect fit, sparkling with a little diamond heart that captured the light, but he had cleaned and whitened the rest of his teeth as well.

“Dazzling,” the dentist told him, when Angel blinked at his reflection, “Mister Valentino will be pleased. Tell him you had a good experience, hm?”

“You could tell him yourself, he will be here soon,” Angel said, grinning to get a better look at the small diamond decoration.

“No, no, that is quite alright,” the man was quick to say, “I have other customers. I should really get going. Do you need something else?”

Angel knew that tone very well. Valentino was as charming as he was terrifying, and most people who worked with him were subject to both of those throughout their cooperation. Sometimes even at the same time. Money was power. Valentino had a lot of power. Cherri’s words echoed around in his head, and Angel gave the man a sharp, dangerous smile, “If you’re asking… Do you have some more of that gas for me?”

The dentist hurried to oblige.

*

“Beautiful,” Valentino told him, when Angel walked out of the office and right into his arms, a hand grasping his chin and tilting his face left to right to get a better look, “look at you. My star.”

Angel preened under the compliment, and his mood brightened more when he was presented with new clothes to change into, a tight long-sleeved black top and a skirt that hung low on his hips, long boots that fit just right. He changed in the bathroom at the dentist’s office, ran hands through his hair until the messy waves settled into something presentable, and ignored the way his eye was still a little swollen. He couldn’t feel it, anyway, and that was all that mattered.

They went for brunch. It was French toast and pancakes and so much champagne Angel’s clouds of comfort never once let up. The diamond on Angel’s teeth was quickly joined by a sparkling choker and matching bracelet, and Valentino muttered sweet nothings in his ears whilst the necklace got adjusted to his exact size. There was more champagne as Valentino discussed business with the shop owner, Angel leaning his head back and enjoying how the lights in the store sparkled just as much as the pear-shaped rocks now adorning his skin.

They had sex in the back of the car, Angel’s skirt hiked up around his waist as he sat on Valentino’s lap, kissing him until his mind was so empty of anything but pleasure. This was what he wanted. This was all that Angel asked for. And it didn’t matter if this wasn’t real, he thought, because Valentino tasted like champagne and caramel, and Angel’s blood sang with every single touch, and he was perfectly, blissfully happy.