Work Text:
The music of the club was hypnotic, loud and grating in a way that could’ve killed a healthy man on earth.
Angel had floor duty and was currently grinding his way to a hefty tip, if the expensive drink long since spilled on the floor was any indication. The man had his hands on Angel's hips, big and warm, might’ve been a bear demon of some sort, and Angel briefly wonders how the man died. It’s hard to get a good look in this light.
His grip becomes bruising for a moment as he presses Angel down harder into his lap, grinding his half hard dick against the smaller demon. Angel cringes at the feeling, sore and tired and overstimulated from the 5 hours of floor work already under his belt. But he’s a professional, and gives the man a cheeky smile despite the overwhelming urge to spit in his face.
“How much for an hour?” He growls against Angel’s cheek, the stench of alcohol heavy between them from his breath.
“I’m not doin’ private rooms today.”
“Whatever happened to ‘the customer’s always right?’”
Angel giggles and moves coyly in the man’s lap, trying to soften the inevitable blow of denying a John.
“Boss’ orders, gotta be a good boy for Val don’t I?” He prays that the mention of Valentino deters any attempts on his life.
The man laughs.
“Since when does he turn down a good payday?”
“He don’t want nothin’ showin’ up on camera tomorrow. Can’t have me lookin’ like a whore before the dicks come swingin’”
“Don’t worry about that, I’ll be real gentle with you”.
The claws digging into Angel’s sides told him otherwise.
“Sorry, daddy. Maybe another time”.
He leans down to kiss him again, but stops dead in his tracks at the familiar feeling of a blade against his neck.
Not angelic, but not threatening with a good time.
“I’ll cover the damages, but if you still want a throat to suck your boss off with you better come with me”.
Angel clenches his jaw.
His smile doesn’t falter.
“Whatever you say, baby”
The man grins, showing off a silver tooth similar to Angel’s gold one.
And then it’s gone, along with the rest of his head.
Angel hasn’t processed the sound of the bullet, but he knows it was there. If not by the warmth of blood covering his face and tits, then by the knowledge of Vox’s cameras installed in every corner of the club. The ones there for the prostitutes’ safety as well as surveillance. The ones giving a disproportionate amount of screen time to Angel whenever he’s on the job.
Angel coughs and hacks up blood and fur that had flown into his mouth, spitting profusely as he gets up and away from the crime scene.
He wipes his hands over his eyes in an attempt to regain his vision looking around for the person who undoubtedly placed the bullet in the man’s head.
Valentino.
He’s barely eight feet away, gun still raised despite him being more focused on a phone call. He hangs up as two imp bouncers walk over to carry the man’s body outside.
“Look at you, Angel-baby! Is it shark week again so soon?”
“Nah, bear week”, he punctuates his sentence by flicking a chunk of bloody fur from his shoulder. Val cocks his head at him.
“We gotta get you off the floor, baby, you look a mess”
The message was clear, but the intention was not.
Being brought back to the dressing room means one of two things, a fucking or a beating. The fact that he ruined one of Velvette’s custom outfits was a strong indication of both.
Angel smiles dashingly and strides towards the back of the club where the dressing rooms are guarded. He feels every pair of eyes in the club follow him and makes sure to not give any indication that the event bothered him.
He steps into his dressing room with Val following him shortly after.
Angel bends down provocatively by his desk, pretending to check his makeup in the mirror. Might as well get into position.
“That’s not the shower, is it?” Val asks with disinterest.
Angel is taken aback for a split second.
“S’pose it ain’t” Val presumably doesn’t want to get blood on his own outfit. Not that it’s bothered him before, but-
“I’ll ask for a change of clothes. Don’t take too long”
Angel nods and quickly makes his way to the shower.
He would’ve preferred a long soak in a tub, something to relax his muscles and take his mind off work. A break from constantly reading Val’s moods or watching his back.
He scrubs his body efficiently, washing all the blood and brains out of his fur. He doesn’t bother putting a towel on once he’s done, it’s nothing all of hell hasn’t seen before.
When he exits into the dressing room Val is on the phone again. He’s screaming at the device in everything from English to Spanish to inhuman squeaks. Undoubtedly Vox is on the other line, either screaming right back or, more likely, making it known how hard he’s rolling his eyes.
Angel takes a step back. There’s no point in going back into the bathroom, it has no lock, seemingly by design for situations like these. Instead he just closes his eyes and tries to prepare for the blowback.
Val ends the call by smashing the phone against the marbled floor, and immediately pulls out another one from his robe, brand new except for a red bedazzled case.
He listens absentmindedly as Valentino calls for a limo and insults his driver in the process.
Angel’s lower set of hands anxiously fidget.
“Angel, baby, how about we get outta here, hm? You’ve worked so hard, you deserve a break” Val says sweetly, words dripping and honeyed.
Poison.
“Whatever you say, boss,” Angel smiles.
-
Angel barely got his clothes on before being ushered out of the club, likely to Valentinos disappointment.
The limousine was flashy and loud like everything else the moth demon owned, (including Angel himself), but there was no question of comfort not being a priority. Angel knew from experience how much Val liked to fuck in this car, and you can’t very well do that on cheap leather and scratchy floors.
The seats were soft and luxurious, with decorative pillows in each corner. There were champagne glasses, a liquor cabinet, and several bottles of pills in all kinds of fun colors.
Angel steps in first, taking a seat in the familiar corner of the limo, where the best pillows get stashed. Val takes a seat next to him, not taking his eyes off his phone.
He’s texting someone, probably switching between Vox and Velvette since his finger movements vary in intensity every minute or so.
One of his hands have found their way to Angel’s thigh, absentmindedly tracing patterns against the smaller demon's fur.
Angel wonders distantly how long it’ll take for it to turn painful, for the one hand to become four, the smell of smoke clinging to his fur and he’ll have to sleep in its suffocating odour and Charlie will ask him where he’s been and-
Shit.
He hasn’t even told Val that he’s moved yet.
The pimp doesn’t go to his apartment often, other than unpredictable check-ins to confirm he hasn’t run off somewhere.
Which is, by definition, what he’s done now.
Angel prays that he hasn’t come by the past week and is just waiting for a moment to tell Angel that he knows.
But no, Val doesn’t have that kind of discipline. If he knew he’d let Angel experience the consequences within the hour.
Which means he still has a chance to get out ahead.
“I’m moving into Charlie Morningstar’s hotel. She offered me a good deal on rent and it’s still close to the studio”.
A “good deal” was a hefty allowance every month in the form of cash, warm meals every day and a room bigger than his entire apartment, but Val didn’t need to know that. Didn’t need to stick his claws into Angel’s growing pile of money, and therefore, his independence.
Val scoffs.
“No, you’re not.”
Angel tenses.
“I am. Most of my stuff’s already there, and on paper I’m an official resident”.
Val looks up from his phone, narrowing his eyes.
“Then move back”, he responds simply.
Angel feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise, but he refuses to lose his nerve.
“No, Val, I’m goin’. It’s 10 minutes away from my old place, tops-”
20 minutes away from the tower.
”-and it’s, like… non-refundable.”
He knows Valentino, and today might be the only day he can get out of this alive. He hasn’t been insulted or slapped, Val hasn’t jumped at the opportunity to fuck him, presumably because he’s preoccupied by whatever fight he and Vox are in, and whatever fight that may be it’s one that makes the moth demon seem melancholic rather than murderous.
All these things point to this being the day where-
Angel’s head slams against the door of the car so hard it sways, and he lets out a yelp of pain. The anonymous chauffeur is seemingly smart enough to keep his mouth shut and keep driving.
Valentino’s hand is in his hair, and he rips him from his current position and slams him down onto the couch.
Angel feels as though the taller demon might actually rip his hair off, and grabs his wrist with two hands.
“It’s just a hotel, Val, I’ll still make it to shoots, I’ll pay for my own cabs to the club-“
“You think I’m an idiot, Angel? You think I haven’t seen that bitch’s advertisements all over town, on my own tv channel?”
Angel huffs.
“You mean your boyfriend’s-“
Another slap.
“You think you’re gonna get into that hotel, sweet talk the princess and prance right into heaven, huh? You think you can just walk away from your job, from me? I swear to God I’ll get down on my own goddamn knees and sing every verse in that book and come right up after you”.
The pressure on Angel's scalp tightens with every word and he whines as quietly as he can manage.
“They’d let you in after Satan himself-“
“Oh, but you can get in?”
“I don’t want to get redeemed, it's just a stupid rent issue!” Angel cries out, the pain from his ever growing headache combined with his own words threatening to bring tears to his eyes. He’d never said that he didn’t want to get redeemed. In a way he’d been hoping he could keep redemption in the back of his mind, that maybe a temporary safety from Val could give him the space to maybe, possibly work on himself.
Val lets go of his hair and Angel lets out an audible sigh of relief. His head falls against the couch and he brings a hand up to relieve the ache in his head by putting pressure on the place Valentino had grabbed him.
The moth demon seems to have cooled off enough to partially bring his attention back to his phone. The next time Valentino speaks his voice borders on disinterested.
“There’s nothing for you in heaven. You've known me longer than your own mama anyways”
Angel freezes. A suffocating pressure is put on his undead heart by Valentino’s words.
He’s supposed to let it slide. For 50 years he’s been hardwired to let everything, anything, slide.
But this..
He’d never had this in life, the warmth of a body next to him as he wakes up. Staying the night meant probable death for boys like him. Soft, silk sheets, steady breathing warming the hair on his scalp. Streaks of sunlight through sheer curtains , still too bright for his sensitive eyes. Stillness.
Like a newborn.
He lunges at Valentino, who had seemingly had his guard up as he blocks him with two of his arms. Angel still has the upper hand, or four upper hands, if he could focus enough to extract his extra pair. Val drops his phone and cigarette holder and grabs ahold of two of angels wrists as they aimlessly try to land a punch. He thinks he gets one in, on his cheek, because his glasses slip halfway down his face. Maybe one more, against his torso, but he really can’t tell what’s a punch and what’s just skin against skin. His coordination is off, his exertion is focused on the wrong parts of his body - fuck - why did he take that bump before going out on the floor?
He screams wordlessly as Val gets the upper hand and manages to pin him against the seats again.
Arms, come on, arms, he just needs-
The brief attempt to summon his third pair makes his hands freeze in the air for a second, enough time for the larger demon to grab ahold of them as well, encircling his wrists with one hand.
He tries to kick his legs, but is quickly shut down by Val putting his full weight on them.
As always, he ends up here, underneath him. Sitting duck, waiting for the inevitable fucking that will play on repeat in his head all week.
He can’t stop thinking about it, the way he felt, the way he spoke, unlike any other.
The son of a bitch just glares at him.
“What’s the matter, Val, can’t get it up anymore!? What are you gonna do, huh? Go on you piece of shit, hit me, fuck me, I don’t care-“
Val firmly grabs his face with one hand.
“Are you done!?”
Angel doesn’t falter.
His fists are still tightly balled up against the seats, Valentino’s knees are digging into his thighs and he’s pretty sure he popped his knee earlier.
They remain deadlocked.
Angel doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe, strung high enough to almost beg Val to take action.
After several seconds that drag on, something finally shifts in the other demon's eyes and he sighs, letting go of Angel who falls back onto the pillows.
Angel lays still, his body remaining in attack mode despite the threat apparently losing interest.
He studies Val suspiciously.
“Your heart’s not in it”.
Val scoffs, lighting a cigarette once he’s back in a sitting position. Angel, still trying to process the fact that Val isn’t actively killing him, stays where he is.
He looks at Val, the adrenaline pumping through him leaves his heart and lungs and settles in his muscles, shaking with no fear to be seen.
He backs up further against the car door.
“You gonna drop me off?” He asks, hoping they’re still walking distance from the studio since he kept all his cab money in his soiled outfit back at the club. Maybe he could call Charlie and-
“No. Come home with me.”
It’s not a question, but Angel can pretend it is.
He nods.
It’s not the first time Angel has instigated a physical fight that didn’t end with his head torn off. Sometimes he’d lose steam halfway through and they’d have sex, and he’d pretend they were a couple in a rom-com where fights would end the same way. Sometimes he’d get locked in the bedroom at Val’s to ”cool off”, and he’d come out of it with little to no harm done to his body.
He’s not as familiar with this outcome, a blatant display of disrespect is never met with disinterest.
After a few minutes of silence he sits up and goes back to his previous position next to Val, head on his shoulder. Val silently offers him a drag of his cigarette.
These are Vox’s brand, the hell equivalent of Camels, which means they’re only poison coming out of Valentino’s mouth.
Angel accepts the offering and takes a slow drag, his grey exhale mixing with Val’s red.
They never used to have moments like these before, back when Angel was starstruck by the pimp’s presence and Val was playing his role of charismatic heartbreaker.
It was all surprise gifts and lingering kisses and never ending compliments that in hindsight seemed so malicious. They had an understanding of each other now. They knew exactly who the other person was. Despite the literal hell Angel’s life had become, he’d found his place in it. He’d found times like these, where for brief moments he and Val could coexist without the plastered on personas of their respective roles.
He hated Val, in these moments where he felt safe enough to hate him.
They remain like this until the car slows down in front of the Vee’s tower. The driver comes around and opens the door, avoiding eye contact with both of them.
Angel’s first thought as he exits the vehicle is that his knee is definitely fucked up in some way, and he struggles to keep up with Val as they enter through the doors. The elevator ride is silent, as well as the short walk to the entrance of the penthouse.
As soon as they enter, Val takes a seat on a couch that looks like it cost twice as much as angels rent, and with the way Valentino carelessly ashes his cigarette on it Angel assumes it’s replaced as frequently as the box of said smokes. He could never truly wrap his head around Valentino’s wealth, with the way he acted anytime Angel dared to rip a hem off his dress on stage you’d think the man had never seen a warm meal.
He stays by the door, awaiting some kind of acknowledgment.
Eventually, Valentino speaks.
“Take your clothes off.”
“No.”
Val takes a drag of his cigarette and looks Angel up and down.
“Sit,” he finally says, gesturing at the spot on the couch next to him.
Angel doesn’t move, just hovers anxiously a few steps away from it. He’d been in Valentino’s apartment before, had probably been fucked against a replica of this couch, but he’d always been carried, hidden in a cloud of smoke and drugs and pushed down or bent over before he had a chance to get a proper look at his surroundings.
How many times has he been fucked in a bed he wished to sleep in, on a couch he wished to sit on, a table he wished to eat at? And now that the opportunity presented itself it felt like a crime.
Slowly, as if the leather of the upholstery might lunge at him rather than the man seated on top of it, he sits down next to Val.
Their bodies aren’t touching, no hands snaking their way under angels skirt or thrown over his shoulders, locking him in place. You might not be able to fit a bible etween them, but by Val’s standards it’s virginal.
“Do you know why I signed that contract?” Angel asks, breaking the reinstated silence.
The question feels forbidden. Everything he’s said tonight sits acidic on his tongue, words that have no place in a whore’s vocabulary.
There’s a pause before Val answers.
“Yes.”
Angel nods.
“Did you ever feel the same way?”
“No.”
Angel clenches his fist in his lap. He already knew the answer, of course he did, and he knew it was the preferable one. He’s not a child, he knows good-touch bad-touch, he knows there’s no place for love in the relationship they have.
He knows. He knows-
“I wish you did.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t you?”
Angel finally looks up at Val.
“There’s no way to answer that question. I love your talent, your presence, your body, and on occasion the way you can run your mouth-“
He wants to cry, wants to scream and wail on the floor until Valentino is forced to love him, to tell him it’s going to be okay, to hug him like he used to. He wants to fabricate a moment of comfort.
“-and your fearlessness before you signed. I love you as my star, nothing more.”
But he remains, eyes dry and hands kept closely to his side.
“You certainly love the money I make you”
“Yeah, that’s sort of my point. I was trying to put it in a nice way.”
Angel smiles. The pain of hearing these things laid out is one he was used to. Once Val got his soul there was no point in keeping up the illusion, but he still liked to go back to the naive idea of Valentino loving him that had felt so plausible to Anthony in the year before signing that contract.
It was the thing that made the frequent 16 hour shifts bearable, or made him want to work harder when he was working floors at the club. To greet the higher up Johns with a smile and a quip and a sway of his hip because he knew Val was always watching.
Because on a good day he’d be rewarded with a kiss that wasn’t laced and venomous or sharp and bleeding, but one that might’ve meant something before.
“I hate you,” Angel whispered.
“I know”
I love you, Anthony screamed.