Joe Wilkinss Growing Up Hard

Saturday, January 1, 2022 8:49:12 AM

Joe Wilkinss Growing Up Hard



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His fingers were indeed pointy. Vox looked weirdly put together—for the most part, Angel knew this was how he usually looked, but at least half the images of Vox in his mind usually had him with a broken screen. The cool tone in his voice was foreign. Was that a bad thing? A good thing? He froze. And Vox continued. There was something much more serious in his eyes. The relief was followed with a realization. Molly squeezed his hand—because she knew it was bad. Miele seemed to have a sixth sense for those sorts of things, or maybe she could just read her brother like a book.

It got hard to tell. Probably a lot. Probably way too many. Not the first time. But Valentino only did that when he was really mad. And just like that, anger returned full force—sure, Valentino hit him and all, and Vox was broken up with him for now , but he had still gotten into a relationship with him. They were on even ground, Vox was supposed to be stronger than Val anyway. It was his own fault. And Angel did not trust him for a minute. He pulled out a business card—sleek and glossy, and held between two fingers. Angel looked at it. He bet how the glass would crack beneath his fist would be so satisfying.

He continued. Angel looked over the card and then realization dawned on him and he looked back at him. Behind him, Charlie and Vaggie exchanged a look—they had also caught onto the implication, apparently. He could barely resist the temptation to wipe it off his stupid fucking face. Vaggie watched him leave, hand still on her spear like he might turn on his heel and attack someone—but he left quietly. And then he was just gone. He was shaking. He found himself stepping out of her reach. Husk looked at him flatly, Vaggie and Charlie whispered quietly too each other, and Cherri was thinking really, really hard. Angel looked at the notification on his phone. Later that day, Vaggie gave him a package he found on the doorstep, unmarked except for the curly lettering on the side with only Angel Dust written on it.

Vaggie raised an eyebrow and Angel peeled the tape off the box to lift the flaps. He shut it near immediately, before Molly could see what it was. He would have preferred Valentino taking another thing he liked from Cherri like his nickname and sending him a pipe bomb. Sometimes, Angel got lucky and Val forgot about the one advantage he had over him. Sometimes, Valentino remembered and bound them so Angel was completely helpless. His favorite this month seemed to be keeping his third pair—the ones closer to his hips—tied behind his back with a cotton candy pink rope, his second the ones he kept hidden away bound in front of him by the wrists with an identical one, and his last one above his head, in those stupid white, furry handcuffs Angel hated with a passion.

Recently, Valentino had been more pissed than usual. Fucking coward, Angel thought. What did it matter if Vox was going to heal up anyway, and then take Val back? Val had him bent over his desk, his ankles bound together at least through his boots, not that that mattered, really and his handcuffed wrists tied to something that was looped around his ankles. How long had he been here? He remembered reading that when average people had sex, the deed lasted about seven minutes not including foreplay or aftercare but he swore Valentino took longer than that, something more like twice that, but maybe it was just that Valentino was He swore he had been there for at least an hour. His limbs ached.

He tried to keep his mind occupied—but the buzz had worn off awhile ago, and flames were getting closer. Valentino did not look alarmed in the slightest at the state of his precious studio. This was really starting to hurt. He could barely hear his voice over the crackling flames. Valentino might have said something—but definitely nothing Angel really wanted to hear—and untied his ankles before flipping him onto his back and thrusting back inside him.

The position had a pair of his hands cramped beneath his back, but at least his front ones now that had been previously pinned were free Either way, he could kind of stretch his fingers out now. The fire was closer than it had been. At the end, Angel always caved. Being smacked around just hurried things up—to the point where Angel had a tendency to give without fighting. Angel felt his hand move from his hip to his groin—he bit back whatever lingering shame the whole situation made him feel.

Well, he The posters on the walls had long since burned away in the flames that were currently curling around his arms, dangling over the edge of the desk. Valentino stroked him until he finished—whining and moaning, just like Val wanted from him—and then kept stroking him. Fuck, Valentino could hit. Angel tasted blood. His grip was bruising. Manhandling Angel or any of his employees was one of his favorite hobbies. It was the wrong answer—and Angel realized that only as he said it, which was far too late. He already knew what he did wrong. The taste of blood worsened on his tongue, trickling down his throat, but goddamn, he was not about to try and right himself. Movement was just gonna piss Val off worse. He tried to stay as still as possible—and stayed relatively quiet.

Angel was drooling uncontrollably. It was difficult to move his mouth, to align his teeth—it felt Val had never hit him that hard before. When Valentino finally—and actually—finished, Angel thought the glowing, orange light in the room was gonna leave him blind. He was soaked with sweat. Valentino shoved him to the floor—it felt like a million degrees on his body. Angel hurried to pull his clothes back on, trying to ignore his jaw—Val must have broke it. That had never happened before. He got to his feet, shaking and aching, and looked to the door—the fire had burned everything on the walls, any posters or pictures but none of the walls. And there was no leaving the room. Just him and his abusive douche nozzle of a pimp, in his office, in flames—his blood somehow managed to run cold, his jaw smarted.

A hand reached, wrapped around one of his forearms and tried to pull him back—. His sheets and blanket clung to him like plastic wrap, damp from sweat. Peaches squirmed and sat up and looked at him, confused by his reaction. Fat Nuggets was currently nuzzling one of his hands. There was no burns—with the blankets off, he could actually feel the cool air of his bedroom. The anger returned full force—he was the safest he had probably ever been in his afterlife, and he was supposed to be free of Valentino, but he still feared him. How did that work? He rubbed his face—and fucking Vox. It was disgusting and horrifying—he wanted to be sick, just thinking about being turned on by a nightmare like that, but He had came too.

His stomach turned and he sat up again—a part him wanted to jerk off, because it had been awhile since he gave himself some much needed self-love, but he would up and die all over again before he masturbated to a memory warped through a bad dream of his fucking pimp, so he settled with pulling up his phone and browsing though Voxtagram, but even that made him angry. He went about his morning exhausted, still kinda angry and frustrated. Niffty gave him coffee, but he could only sip it half-heartedly when she was looking. Charlie pulled him away to speak to him, under the guise of something therapy related and tugged him into her office.

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