Warning: this chapter contains brief, subtle paraphrases of rape. As subtle as I could get, at least.
Reflections Pt. 2
A little water kink, nothing too savage, as long as it doesn't involve him holding his breath in the tub for too long. Just one measly reshoot scene to reimburse for all the work he missed throughout the week and he shall take a breather. That was the Vees' topic of the day in the parlor room of the V Tower, one that Vox suggested, and to which Valentino acquiesced. Then a phone call... two. No answer. Rangy slut got some spunk.
Torn between attending and ignoring the call, Angel slowed his pace in the sidewalk to listen the incoming voicemail. Them soundwaves don't look friendly. Valentino's low-pitched tone on the other line thinned Angel's nerves into his ear, so casual it frightened him. He didn't buy the message, of course, but that didn't stop the downtrodden pornstar from walking on thin ice.
He was no fool. To call in the morning and 'calmly' discuss contractual issues wasn't like Val; Vox in all likelihood reprimanded him into toning it down if he wanted to get to Angel— rather, getting on with the sugarcoating if he wanted to keep him under his thumb. Angel thought this behavior seemed a tad predictable in his life, but having entered the abusive cycle, he stopped caring too much. Then it occurred to him, he still hadn't gotten any script copies as to what the pompous mothman wanted exactly to shoot. Angel felt in the dark about everything, but alas, he was falling behind his arrears. Perhaps it was time to stop trying so hard and suck it up.
He tucked away his phone and retraced back down toward the Vees' erotica district, clad in a chic-style overcoat and neon-shield sunglasses all the way through. Eventually, Angel rushed past the guarded entrance into his personal restraint dungeon, filtered in a lurid atmosphere of pink-tinted windows that resembled candy, followed by the main hall guards standing upright before the elevator. Angel removed his sunglasses and stepped into the lift cabin, all the way up to the fourth floor. The door slid open to reveal a strait passageway with nothing more than a few tables, ornamented with soft-core figurines and framed photographs. Cameras hooked to the upper corners of the walls tilted downwards, watching from the depths of the edifice, on a certain blue-lit surveillance room.
Angel bit the inside of his cheek, something shone through the ajar bathroom door at the end of the hallway. When he slipped inside, the aroma of scented candles hit him squarely; a prominent cinnamon tang settled on his eyes and lips, bathed completely in the natural light of salmon-pink walls that enclosed him. He inhaled deeply, the floor tiles were freshly patched with soapy water, so he assumed someone recently scrubbed and scrammed. Steam rose off the faucet as he proceeded to turn on the hot water, completely wreathed in heated sweat— abstracted, sunken from the waist down, forming globs of shimmering foam on his hands.
No more wake-up calls or texts so far, he surmised something was done right after all. He could condone all the torment inside workhours, close to the tormentor, maybe even turn into someone else. Because, behind the scenes, he wasn't himself. Never was, actually, not even standing in the flesh. A gay man in the mob was martyrized for as long as he could witness throughout his earthly life, enduring his brother's belittling remarks and his father rubbing in for taking a 'pansy' boy under its wing, so he embraced to deceit for what remained of his well-being and not go crazy. He was an actor, but also a puppet. Now in Hell, Angel exulted in his limited freedom to become an artist.
It took him blood, sweat and tears to learn that, both in a literal and non-literal sense. The art of seduction, the talent to compel someone to need him for their advantage. Like Valentino did with Angel, and Angel nearly did with Husk. But it was different. It had to be. From his perspective, Husk could act old-fashioned, but he respected his sexual boundaries, Angel gave him that. Still, words stung. Husk made sure they rankled deeper than an old scar. He'd frankly ripped out a fresh scab, and Angel hated him for it.
Don't be like Valentino.
Something held him back in the hotel, it most certainly wasn't Husk's rejection nor his choice of words. Angel was too passionate to refrain from contact, like coitus or a fight. Husk aroused him at both ends, so what stopped him? Was it truly Valentino's impact as he'd said earlier? The chains were tight, but also spaced, scattered with some flexibility to escape for a few hours. That meant he could choose. Choose to welcome the cat nicely to the smooth pavement below, see if it could land on its feet. Choose retaliation, even if he didn't, he thought about it; he was a narcissist.
Maybe it was true. Maybe Valentino's reflection was starting to rub off on Angel. He smiled unconsciously in disdain, his golden tooth sparkled swiftly in the bathtub and he recoiled with horror, splashing water across the room. He pursed his lips together, his mind had tricked him again into thinking he saw the mothman sneering behind him, ready to take him. His eyes were shut, attempting to embrace utter darkness all around him, without fear of looking back at Valentino's lewd caress.
Angel wasn't feeling at his best. A golden star glistered in the spotlight and his vision dimmed around the edges, hoping it was a mirage, an illusion, a side-effect from the drugs. Maybe he did want to open his eyes and see Husk's scowling face again, instead. Maybe they're still hanging on top of the big sign of the hotel, kissing under the sun. But he was afraid. Husk's gaze was downright unnerving, he couldn't stand it.
Don't you fuckin' give me that look.
He hissed menacingly, the hairs of his body puffed up like thorns; a small portion of his eldritch, demon form. He prostrated himself on the wet floor, clumsy striding forth to straddle his lover with greed. Blood flowed down nethermostedly as he rocked himself back-and-forth, allowing the shallow penetration and nothing more. Time froze for all he feared when he realized he was getting thrashed, and he transported with violence into a powerful haze of raw gratification.
Angel's glazed eyes darted about, looking tipsy, he closed his lithe legs in quivering modesty from the dozen cameras after hearing someone shout 'cut'. He didn't even know if his boss approved the end results, for he'd stood unstirred next to Travis, like a block of ice. Those heart-shaped sunglasses glinting in the spotlight concealed a black look that made Angel shudder.
"Someone get the PAs to mop all this jizz." Said Valentino bluntly, to which the cast and camera crew darted off of the studio to carry on with their duties. It was a short-spoken instruction for them so they'd understand filming was currently at pause. For strictly personal reasons.
"Not you." A cloth of sort was tossed over, stopping at Angel's feet. "My office." Was Val's dry demand, his boots clicked under his weight as they got out of Angel's earshot. Who knows what sort of horrors he'd unknowingly underwent this time to later overcome another punishment.