The box had been left in Angel's dressing room, as he'd been told to expect. A deep purple carton with a stripe of silk wrapped around one end. Velvette's fashion logo was printed on its face, the simple, classy version she put on her high-luxury, 'sophisticated' lines.
Angel pulled off the silk and let it fall. The urge, just a little, to scoff. There were plenty of demons who would be driven wild with envy by this- who would kill over it- a custom, one-of-a-kind piece fashioned just for them, by Hell's most prestigious designer. The kind of thing you could never be so crass as to buy. No, this could only come as a gift.
The box had been left in Angel's dressing room, as he'd been told to expect. A deep purple carton with a stripe of silk wrapped around one end. Velvette's fashion logo was printed on its face, the simple, classy version she put on her high-luxury, 'sophisticated' lines.
Angel opened the box, haphazardly pushing aside the tissue paper lining. It was a dress, all opaque, black silk, so smooth it seemed to glide against the skin, hardly there at all. The rather expected, sleeveless bodycon cut, with a hem that just barely snuck past his ass. But it was the neckline that was really interesting- the fabric split apart at the chest, dissolving into a spray of independent silk threads, wrapping around otherwise bare shoulders and all the way up the neck, settling just below the chin. And tastefully supporting the tits, of course. The pattern the ribbons formed across the skin was unmistakable- a spiderweb.
The dress came with three pairs of fitted black opera gloves, all of the same fabric as the dress. And instructions to wear the lot- to keep all limbs in play. Well, there was clearly a theme. But Angel had already known that.
(A very particular client, he'd been told- one that wouldn't be paying. Tonight, Angel was a present- a gesture of good-will. The Vs had just finished bloodily expanding into new territory, after all- and that territory came with a new neighbour to make nice with.)
The box had been left in Angel's dressing room, as he'd been told to expect. A deep purple carton with a stripe of silk wrapped around one end. Velvette's fashion logo was printed on its face, the simple, classy version she put on her high-luxury, 'sophisticated' lines.
The box had been left in Angel's dressing room, as he'd been told to expect. A deep purple carton with a stripe of silk wrapped around one end. Velvette's fashion logo was printed on its face, the simple, classy version she put on her high-luxury, 'sophisticated' lines.
The effect wasn't so bad. Vampy.
"Cheesy goth shit," Angel muttered to himself. Stuck his tongue out at the reflection, cocked his hips.
He would have preferred a little pink.
(But then, his preference had nothing to do with it.)
This club was one of Valentino's most exclusive. More of a lounge than a niterie, all low polished countertops and velvet couches, dark marble and glass. Hardly enough light to see by- there were candles at every table, burning different colours, with a selection of variously spiked incense wands for sampling. The end effect was a faint, drugged haze in the dim air. High ceilings, a few too many mirrors- but then, all of Val's places had those.
Entrance was invitation-only. Overlords, then, and their cronies, owners of bougie little businesses the Vs didn't want to see turned into competition. Angel had danced here before, but not often- he was still more valuable as a public performer. Yeah, no one shattered those streaming records as hard and fast as Angel Dust. Porn Studios' beloved cash cow.
At the center of the room was a raised, circular stage, a base of shimmering tempered glass. Musicians could play there, sure, but tonight a pole had been erected, black and glittering like an oil spill, catching the light of the candles. Beneath the glass some proper electric wiring provided a dreamy glow- Angel could applaud good set design. The eye couldn't help but be drawn to the stage, its centrality, its surreal, theatrical brightness. In other words, the eye couldn't help but be drawn to him.
Well, if a show was what they wanted…
The quiet hubbub of conversation in the lounge dimmed as a magnified voice announced, with a certain showman's pleasure, the night's special entertainment. A private live showing with one of Hell's most acclaimed sex performers.
The glass clicked under Angel's heel as he stepped onto the stage. No applause- not that kind of crowd- but a few subdued, appreciative murmurs. Angel grinned- not entirely ungenuine- and winked at the musicians across the room. Only when his fingers coiled around the pole above his head did they begin to play.
But this was Angel's favourite kind of show. Perhaps- it did no good to think this, no fucking good at all- but perhaps, if things could've gone more his way, he would've been a dancer. Just a dancer.
(The best fucking stripper on Hell or Earth, thank you very much- hot enough to have hordes of men lining up for a chance- only from them, he'd be the one taking his pick.)
(He knew himself well enough- he'd still have been picking plenty.)
The choreographed section of the act was a double-length feature, slow and sensual, the tricks intended to appear floaty and effortless rather than athletic (which is what they were, and extremely). The music, all strings, played eerie minor melodies. Victorian, melodramatic lust. Angel smiled lazily and licked his fangs and let his eyes rest half-lidded. He knew in which booth the evening's target was sitting. He didn't look over that way even once.
When the dance was done the band didn't stop playing; Angel stepped gracefully from the stage onto the surface of the nearest table. A few excited murmurs from the crowd. Now was a bit of improvised play- rolling around on the counters, coiling, arching his back. The occasional flirty touch under a chin, or a tap on the end of a nose. It was a pain in the ass trying to avoid the damn candles, but he managed- he was a fucking pro. And this was a look-don't-touch kind of show, which he particularly enjoyed. Those that did cop a feel- usually a palm on his ass or thigh- could be rightfully rewarded with a firm smack across the face, which was usually what they actually wanted, anyway. Anything more than that- any attempt at diverting his course, pulling him out of the rhythm- and security (a pair of brute, hammerhead sharks in dull black suits and earpieces) would be having a stern, perhaps even a biting word. But in the end no one was drunk enough- or foolish enough- to try.
The path he languidly followed across the room had been predetermined, the tables arranged so that he could stride gracefully from one to the other without having to get down even once. The last stop on the line was the shadowed booth at the back. Here, the guest of honour, whether he knew it or not. Surely, he did.
Some fearsome, infamous, ancient Overlord- or so Angel had been told. He wasn't that big on politics.
The other demon, a tall, thin man, was sitting alone, nursing a…something in a teacup. Okay. His candle had been extinguished, so the most immediate light came from his eyes, the collar of his cloak, the inside of his liquid mouth. Angel stood boldly over him, hands on his hips, leaned down. A smell like old, wet wood and black earth, like the inside of a coffin.
(Halloween-y motherfucker.)
A certain familiar vibration that made the fur on Angel's spine fluff up. Recognition.
"Well, hello there, Daddy," Angel murmured, low under the music, voice breathy, for only one set of ears. The end of his pointer finger stroked the glowing clasp at the other demon's throat. A gesture like petting the back of a small animal. "Seems we have somethin' in common. Mmm?"
A wink. A little wanton, but not to the point of being vulgar. Up until then, the expression on the other demon's face had been entirely composed- a faint, lofty little smile. Distant, disinterested amusement, as probably befitted a properly-ancient Overlord. But when Angel leaned away- back across his marble islands, hips swaying, returning the climax of the show to the stage- there was a sound. A quiet, tattered inhale.
Angel didn't look back. He didn't need to. He had to bite down on a grin that wouldn't have suited the performance's character.
Well, couldn't he be a little proud?
Hook-line-sinker.
The room where Angel waited was sleekly modern, if a little plain; all stylish black-and-white, crystal glasses and satin sheets. He sat in the center of the bed, legs stretched out, framed by the pillows at his sides. Still in that little spider-slip, posed. Everything was already prepared, clean and stretched and slick between his thighs.
(After all, it was rare that anyone had the patience for foreplay with a whore.)
If the Overlord in question was even going to show. Angel took a drag of his cigarette (tobacco, and a little something more), flipping with no interest through the tabs on his phone. After the performance, Zestial- that was his name, Angel had checked- was supposed to have gone into some backroom meeting with the Vs (or at least Val and Vox). A special office with nice furniture, a door that locked, a businessman's atmosphere. There would probably be a decanter of something expensive, a bit of congratulatory back-patting; a smug toast to the blooming alliance. To the assurance of the coming profits. To the stability of mutual interest.
(Until either party thought they could get a leg up on the other, of course.)
And to round it off, a gift- a little sampling of something fine. A treat, like a plate of pâté, or a bottle of wine. Take it or leave it, but we've set it out for you.
Perhaps he'd decided to leave it. That, or things were taking a while. Another buzzing drag of the cigarette.
There was a knock at the door. Surprised, Angel muted the phone and stuffed it aside, kept the cigarette. A pause. Beyond the door, the corridor seemed entirely silent.
"...come in?"
The door opened slowly- perhaps it was supposed to creak- Zestial entered, alone. He was taller than Angel had expected, seeing him standing all the way; as tall as Val, and a similar build. Exoskeletons, all of them. Angel disguised the little shudder of distaste in another puff, and when he had blown the smoke away he smiled.
"Well, this is a pleasant surprise." A low purr. "Don't tell me it's you I've been waitin' up for."
Zestial stepped around the bed, a looming presence. His footsteps made no sound- and he had that look on his face, same as before, that kind of polite, uninvested amusement. It was hard to tell exactly what he was thinking.
"Thou art not informed of thy patrons?"
Angel pouted, shrugged. Shifted his legs a little on the mattress.
"Just told to wait up," he said innocently. "Didn't realize I'd be gettin' a treat."
He ran his tongue under the point of the golden tooth.
There was another pause. A moment of just looking- and not even particularly lecherous looking- Angel had the sense he was being evaluated, but for what precisely, he wasn't sure. A moment where the tension in the air could have broken either way.
But Angel saw it when it happened- the very slight relaxing of those angular shoulders, the miniscule downwards tilt of the dark chin. Acceptance. A kind of submission.
Angel grinned.
"...thou art very fair. And a cousin of the spirit, methinks."
Zestial sat down on the bed very slowly, carefully removing his ridiculous hat, placing it to one side. Not close enough to touch; Angel puffed once more on cigarette, and then put it out in a dish on the side table. He could change that.
"Cousins?" he cooed, sitting up to kneel at the Overlord's side, to run his hands over the cloak, down long, hidden arms. "Well, if that's what you're into, baby, we can pretend."
A faint, aristocratic snort. Angel rested his chin in the crook of one shoulder, breathing in that coffin smell. He was cold to the touch, this man. Sometimes they were.
"We can do anything you want to."
A hand emerged from under the cloak- long, spindly fingers, sharp like tree branches. A touch that found the wrist of one of Angel's lower arms, curling around, stroking up the glove.
"T'has been some time, did I enjoy the companionship of mine own kind."
The leg-like spines of the cloak- perhaps not just a cloak- twitched, curling into Angel's hair, brushing against the line of his jaw. Angel turned his head slightly, just enough to lick the end of one. Two sets of glowing green eyes narrowed- what was that, surprise? A certain disarmament. Angel smiled at him, lolling his head, cheeky and young.
"Well, tonight I'm yours to enjoy, babe."
The next move, Angel saw coming in the tilt of the other demon's spine, the forwards shift; he met the kiss halfway, cupping the dark cheek in his own warm palm. It was long, this kiss, but hardly filthy. A steady pulse of lips on lips as those cold, bony hands found their way to his waist, maneuvering him back to the center of the bed, propped up against the pillows. When Zestial pulled away Angel let his limbs fall loose, legs open.
"You like my dress?" Angel cooed. Hands in his own hair, and limp on the pillows, and pushing up the fluff in its spiderweb wrapping. "Y'know, I'm not wearing any panties."
Zestial's nails raked gently through the fur on his thighs. The cloak was beginning to part just a little, revealing more of that eerie green light.
"...thou art an eager tart."
"Tart?" It was Angel's turn to be disarmed. He'd been getting on alright with the old speech patterns until this. "Like- like the things you eat?"
"I intend to do so."
Angel didn't quite manage to parse this before Zestial's head dipped down between his legs, the hem of the skirt pulled up around his hips. That was a lot of tongue. Angel twitched, but the slick chill of it was only a passing pain. Zestial took a brief interest in the base of his cock, which was rapidly rising to the task, and then found what was located under it. A strange skittering sound, not unlike falling marbles, and a low, satisfied laugh.
"...what merry secrets thou doth keep."
"Secrets?" Angel couldn't help jolting a little, again, as the long, cold tongue slipped between the folds of his pussy, coiling up into the core of him. "No-o-o, no babe, that's hardly a secret."
No response, other than another lascivious hum. Not that Angel was complaining. Claws gripped under his thighs, cupping his ass, holding him split open. But fuck, he actually seemed to know what he was doing. Angel shivered, arching his back; the wetness between his legs suddenly wasn't all artificial. And as a matter of fact, it was increasing significantly with each plunging swipe. The top of Zestial's head was smooth and bare; Angel rested a palm there, though he didn't dare push. Let his legs tremble and kick, wrapped about those pointed shoulders. A well-practiced outpouring of delicate gasps and kitten-mewls.
Zestial's tongue slipped out and, to Angel's surprise, licked up, coiled about his cock again. A curious brush of lips, of grave-cold breath. Withdrew enough to speak:
"...thy spinneret?"
"Y-yeah," Angel panted, keeping his mouth slack, eyes hazy. "Yeah, Daddy, what gave it away?"
"Hmph."
Almost a laugh, that sound had been.
Angel was starting to get a handle on this. So Zestial was an old, powerful man, a lord, surely superior as they come- but his condescension came out sweet, instead of violent. What was the word he had used? Patron. Angel guessed he was the type that liked to be made fond.That liked the magnanimous pleasure of playing with a pet.
Well, Angel could be a very good pet.
"Oh-h-h, Daddy- yes, yes- ahhh…!"
A calculated amount of wriggling, not so much as to disrupt Zestial from the task. Fingers running up his own throat, a delicate flash across his collarbones, squeezing the mounded fur on his chest. Even- and this was very well-practiced- a couple of hot, tremulous tears to smear the mascara around his eyes. It did feel good, he wasn't lying. Wasn't that part of why he'd ended up like this in the first place? It was so easy to make him feel good.
The blade-like legs on the cloak pinched into his thighs, and a clawed hand rubbed gently over the bone of his hip, and that damn tongue stretched up inside him, a deep, curling, seeking lick- Angel came.
It shuddered from him, a quick, hot clamp of muscles, taken nearly by surprise. His head tossed back against the pillows, throat bared, breast heaving. So much for Velvette's dress- there was another kind of silk striped across it now. A shade of pink so pale it looked white.
The cold tongue withdrew.
"Lovely."
Angel only moaned.
He recovered quick enough, but pretended not to; pretended he was all helpless, squirming jelly as Zestial turned him over, gently arranging the splay of his limbs on the bed. Long fingers plucked at the zipper of the dress and pulled it undone, an easy glide- but Velvette did know how to make a nice garment. It was drawn gently away, leaving him unwrapped, bare. Then Angel felt a similar tugging at the zipper of his boot- on instinct his head whipped around, and he caught Zestial's fingers in his own.
"Oh, don't worry 'bout those," he said, a little too quickly for the act. "We can keep 'em."
A pause- Angel hoped that look was just curiosity- it was so damn hard to read that creepy jack-o-lantern face. He wiggled his ass a bit, changing the angle of his neck to look coyly over his shoulder. Temptation.
"...as thou wilt."
The gloves, Angel thought, he would've taken off- but it seemed Zestial liked the look of them.
The nails on those spindly hands could have dug in, could have torn at him, Angel would have expected it. Instead, there was a surprising leniency to the way he was groped- evaluatory, even respectful, like touching a sculpture. Cold thumbs marked the points of his shoulder blades, all eight, dipping between the vertebrae on the back of his neck. The hips again. A particular interest, it seemed, in bones.
(Freaky. Well, at least it was different.)
Finally, the cheeks of Angel's ass were cupped and parted, exposing everything in between- both glistening, well-stretched holes. Angel deepened the arch in his back, turning his head to peer over the opposite shoulder, licked his upper lip.
"Take your pick, big guy. I won't be complainin' either way."
Zestial hummed. The cloak, which was surely a part of him, had parted now, a loose split that draped across the bed, almost a tent of possessed space. Angel could see, between the fleshy fluorescent panes, bat-like joints, thinly covered bones; another spiderweb. Maybe they were wings.
(Another unlikable comparison. Not that it was Zestial's fault, really.)
The sound of a belt buckle, a soft fabric drag. Angel wiggled again, then turned onto his side, folding his legs to rest on one hip while his upper body twisted at the waist. This position made him look thin, even thinner than he already was; made his tits puff out. A nice reminder of all the available assets.
"Lemme see what I'm workin' with, hmm…oh."
A long, thin cock, the dark skin glistening, likely with some readying internal fluid. No spikes, thankfully, no tearing ridges or pinching, segmented armour. And as far as size went, certainly not shabby. The trick was this: there were two of them.
"Well, I guess you ain't gonna be choosin'."
Angel laughed, a lewd titter. Zestial's wings flared, the glowing colour throbbed, and Angel was pushed back over- firm, moreso than rough- into that flatiron position.
"Settle thyself. Bawdy little creature."
"I dunno what you're sayin' half the time, baby-"
Cut off by the press of a slick, blunt cockhead against his asshole. Oh, the merciful johns with their self-lubricating dicks. Angel held still, kept his muscles lax despite the instinct to tense against the cold- but Zestial only slipped aside once. He must have taken himself in hand, the accuracy was surprising- the slow-growing pressure- the steady stretch of being opened up, filled. Like finally scratching an ever-present itch, getting rid of that emptiness. As Zestial bottomed out Angel shivered, a tremour of real pleasure shuddering up his spine. But it'd been a while since he'd taken two cocks at the same time- at least, two down there,not with one in his mouth. And never, now that he thought about it, had they been attached to the same man.
(Well, if he wasn't going to be paid- at least there was something to get out of this.)
Angel probably made some noise. Long, twitching fingers coiled around his hips. The first thrust was slow but deep, hardly leaving him at all; a rhythm of steady, rolling pressure. Angel tossed his head, his hands gripped the comforter. Pinned down on his belly, legs still mostly together- it made him too fucking tight. He could feel everything. Like this even the most poorly-aimed penetration would rub over all the sweet spots. In both holes. Fuck.
"Oh, this is good, Daddy…this is really good…"
He clenched on purpose, inner muscles rippling, and heard Zestial take a faint, ragged inhale. Another of those inhuman skittering sounds. Though it was probably hidden by the pillow, Angel still smiled.
It wasn't rushed, or savage, this fucking- not like the wolves and boars Val usually set him up with for the movies. All movement felt narrowly controlled, a fluid, mechanical pumping; like clockwork, unhurried and inevitable. Arachnid. Angel's own responses seemed to come out of him in this way, as though drawn by it- sudden, clicking spasms in his legs, in the joints of his fingers. He could feel it all the way up under his ribs, all the way down his thighs- even sparkling a little in the curving claws he kept hidden in his boots. He'd gotten ridiculously wet. If this kept up he had a feeling he'd cum again, and quite wonderfully.
"At times," Zestial murmured, voice steady, but with a certain low rasp it hadn't possessed before. "...one finds yond one's prey hath grown too big for the web."
"Yeah, yeah, sure, uh-huh- mmph-!"
Angel had tears in his eyes, and organically so, this time. Fangs worrying his own lower lip. His hips snapped back to meet Zestial's movements, amplifying them, that sucking, liquid contact, the deep thump-thump-thump against his core. His thighs were shaking. God, it was good. But he was such a fucking slut.
"Bloated…usurpers…the six-legged pests…tearing through fine silks, yond ought to imprison them…"
These low murmurs, like a poetry recitation. Angel barely heard them over the filthy, wet smacking, over the feeling of his insides melting into mush.
"Don't stop fuckin' me, just like that, fuck, I'm gonna cum-!"
It was harder now, faster, the mechanical jolting of Zestial's hips. Angel had managed to get one of his own arms under his belly, pawing at himself- the Overlord hadn't stopped him, which was another nice surprise. Been at least a month since he'd gotten like this- since that massive alligator co-star with the ribbed shaft. He felt like there was lightning in his bones. Couldn't think about anything but the cocks fucking him, about having a man all over him, pinning him down, the heat and drag and want. Sinner. He loved this. He loved being like this too much.
One of those frigid, skeletal hands closed suddenly in his hair, his head pulled up taut, spine deeply arched. He squeaked, mouth falling open, tongue lax against his own lower lip.
"...thou art enslaved, art thou not? To a moth…"
"Wh- wait, what-"
The thought was burned blank in Angel's head. Zestial ground into him at some perfect, unlocking angle, and the orgasm that followed felt like a seizure. Like getting struck by lightning. All his muscles shuddered, bound tight in ecstasy, that kind that shot all the way up into his scalp, prickling in the follicles there. Another jet of webbing sprayed across his chest, and the comforter, but his pussy gushed too, a slick flood around Zestial's cock. Tears like heat-trails on his cheeks, the salt of them on his lips. Buffeted, inverted, chewed up, implosion. It didn't stop right away- he was still being fucked- it kept going, throbbing golden aftershocks, pleasure-pleasure-pleasure, until that gold tipped over into silver. Stabbing pangs, a mounting distress. Whole body weak and trembling, too sensitive, and pain-pleasure-pain…
Zestial yanked his head back so far Angel could feel his heartbeat in his jugular. Then that fluorescent jaw closed tight around the delicate line at the side of Angel's neck, fangs slicing, white-hot, deep into the nerves. And everything was already so raw and overwrought and fragile- the wild scream Angel let out was one of sudden, total agony, with no pleasure in it at all.
The muscles in his cunt and ass clamped tight around nothing. Zestial had withdrawn, spinning thick, heavy threads of vibrant green silk across his back and thighs.
Then, release.
Angel wasn't able to catch his fall. Face first against the pillows, genuinely limp, fucked out of himself. He had to gasp for breath, the edge of hyperventilation, fingertips numb. He could tell he was shivering- there was a chill under his skin, prickles on the back of his spine, like a blood sugar drop. Or maybe it was just that Zestial had settled on top of him, those cold wings folding over his outstretched arms. Over his head, even- the artificial lighting of the room was covered in shadow, replaced by a faint green glow.
A few long, quiet moments. The buzz behind Angel's eyes gradually withdrew, and he swallowed the coppery taste from the back of his throat. Something tender about it, the stillness, this hold. Like being tucked into a cold bed. Like being buried.
Unlike Angel, Zestial didn't have a heartbeat- from here, Angel would have felt it pressed against his back.
(Well- those were artificial fantasies, anyway.)
Then, with nothing particular in the room itself changing, they both seemed to remember themselves simultaneously. Zestial peeled his wings away, curling them slowly back around himself. The unmistakable jingle of rebuckling pants. Angel turned himself over, scooching back up against the headrest, movements still tremulous, sex-drunk. His cigarettes were on the side table, and with incredible relief he found he was able to reach them without falling over, to flick the lighter aflame. After the first merciful suck he shook the box at Zestial, but was waved aside.
Angel looked the other demon up and down. But there was a bit of stiffness to those pointed shoulders, a certain over-deliberation in the focused way that Zestial picked back up his hat, replacing it on his head. Angel knew it well. All johns got like that, even the worst of them, even the most arrogant and depraved- and Zestial hadn't been either of those things, not particularly. A certain self-conscious awkwardness. No one knew quite what to do with themselves after fucking a whore.
"That was really good, Daddy," Angel purred, proud that his voice came out steady. He picked a piece of green silk from his thigh, letting it wisp through the air and fall to the bedspread. "You messed me up. Honestly. I came so hard. Didn't ya see?"
Zestial snorted softly. He looked back at Angel- another mild appraisal. Angel grinned sharply at him, winked. Hoped his face wasn't too fucked up. The next breath of smoke he blew out in the shape of a heart; a little magic trick. The Overlord's glowing eyes seemed to relax into his smile.
"'Tis a pity I did not find thee first after thy fall. Thou would have made me a pretty mistress."
Angel giggled stupidly at this, but did not reply. Not the first time he'd heard something to that effect- and it would be far from the last.
(What- and be your toy, instead of his?)
(Fuck you.)
That little bitterness he swallowed in the cigarette.
"Well, you can always visit," Angel cooed, rubbing his legs together. "Drop by my- uh- web, anytime, baby. No charge."
"That is a matter for thy masters, as I bethink thee knows."
Angel's upper lip curled, a slight sneer. He licked along the bottoms of his fangs, then caught himself, turning the expression into a pout around the stem of the cigarette. Zestial had stood, wings pulled close and imposing. Already looking as though nothing had happened- no difference from how he'd been coming in, save perhaps for a certain added languor. It was Angel who bore the brunt of the evidence.
At the door Zestial looked back to the bed, and his expression seemed- however oddly- rather pleased.
"Farewell then, spiderling. And forget not thy nature. Thou art still a predator."
Then the door was open, then it was closed, and then it was over. All done with.
Angel was alone again.
With a sharp huff he flopped back against the pillows. First thing to go was the coy posture, and then the lowest set of arms, which disappeared with a deep muscle twinge. Angel winced. Leaving them out for so long always messed something up with his ribs- his sides would probably be sore all day tomorrow. Which was to say nothing of other places.
Cautious, Angel pressed one palm against the side of his neck- the skin was still throbbing, tingling with something hot. He hardly touched it at all, and yet his hand drew away painted by a brilliant stripe of blood.
"Oh, shit."
With a groan Angel kicked his legs over the side of the bed, forcing himself to stand and stumble into the ensuite bathroom. There was a floor-length mirror- of course, Val- so he was greeted by the full breadth of his dishevelment. Wrapped all over in webs of different colours, and all their lewd meaning. Big watery panda eyes, eyeliner and mascara smeared over his cheeks; the fur between his thighs was matted with his own fluid. And his neck looked positively mauled- the bite was deeper than he'd thought, enough to make his blood run, a thick dark stain that crept down past his collarbone.
Angel wrapped toilet paper around a hand and pressed it to the wound, hissing all the while under his breath.
"Fuckin'- vampire- asshole-"
It was a mess to clean out of his fur- he didn't want to swipe too hard, leery of the pain. And for his escape-outfit (always one of those- no guarantees that a client wouldn't want to rip apart whatever else he was wearing), he hadn't packed a scarf. The hood on the jacket would have to do. Or maybe he could pass the toilet paper off as something intentional.
But back at the flat he had a jar of special ointment, one with a little magic- a spell for healing these kinds of surface wounds with an impressive, scarless speed. A gift- no, a provision- from Valentino. The star couldn't keep showing up to set with black eyes and split lips.
He had other things back at the flat. Other things in that very same drawer where he kept the ointment. A little pink jewelry box, tucked well into the back behind everything else- and not for jewelry, no…
Angel cleaned himself up with a professional speed, redrawing the lines around his eyes, picking off the webs (easier to deal with than mammal semen, there was that) and flushing the clump they formed. No need to think too much about it. The evening's events were already passing into the distance, a type of memory no nearer or brighter than yesterday, or last week, or last year. Just another day at work. Even the stinging at the side of his throat seemed to subside, pulled underneath another, greater draw. That little box. Yes, really, there was nothing worth thinking about at the moment, other than that box. The itching on the end of his tongue, and in the tips of his fingers. He knew he'd better stop it, before he started scratching.
Angel ate, sometimes, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd really wanted food- the last time he'd thought about it- and thirst was a passing thing, after hard performances or long shoots. No, once the sex was taken care of, Angel had only one other type of hunger.
And he was starting to feel very hungry.
It would be good to go home- dim the lights, close the curtains. He was off duty for the night. He could have as much as he wanted.
(It couldn't kill him this time.)
Angel pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, and checked his reflection- there, the blood was hidden enough by the shadow, as he'd hoped. He looked pretty- a little messed up- a little slutty. He posed, hands on cocked hips, blew the reflection a kiss.
"Hey, baby. Lookin' good, Angel Dust."
Yes, he had some of that in the box. His precious, dizzying namesake. Perhaps he'd mix a little in with the molly. In fact, he almost certainly would.
Not much longer now. It wasn't far, back to the Studios- a couple blocks, a pair of elevators- not long at all.
Just another day…another ordinary, routine day...a routine day in an endless line of routine days. Didn't matter if that routine was obscene, was delightful, was excruciating. Everything fell into the fog. Already distracted, he couldn't really remember what Zestial's face looked like. Give it a week and he probably wouldn't remember the Overlord's name.
Well. What he had in the box was enough. Or close enough, rather. Close enough to something worth living for.
Wasn't it?
The streets smelled, as always, of something burning. There was a sourness in the atmosphere. A coming storm- acid rain- and the slow, steady ticking of Heaven's doomsday clock.
Many curious things here. A sudden outpouring of mysteries.
"...and I, eke, was told…thither is a spider, in thy new domicile."
The slipping-loose of an idle thought. A thread of passing memory.
"Spider? Oh, yes- there are plenty of spiders! Our maid runs them through with her sewing needle. Ahahahaha!"
(Static, and canned laughter.)
Avoidance. But no reason to dwell on it. An ephemeral little fancy. At present, there were far more important things to be concerned with.
After all, there was a decent chance the kingdom would soon be at war.
End Notes
