Implied Sa - Tumblr Posts

TW (S/H, IMPLIED S/A)

this was made to kinda affirm myself that even though my experiences were different doesn’t make it less that it happened. i don’t have to explain myself or describe what happened

DONT READ IF NOT WELL

tw implied csa

awww poor babay :(

I know I’ve made comics about these situations before but since the show ended and I have a better grasp on the characters I felt like I had to draw out some feelings I was having re: Hunter postcanon dealing with trauma and healing and physical touch so ! Here’s this. Darius is such a good dad and I love him so much.

tw blood

saw a artist say how cabalism was used "for metaphpur for love ,desire, and obsession. how about canabalism as a metaphour for abuse/assault.?"

and i thought that was genious because yeah, it just make sense that ,that kind of imagery can be used for showing any kind of abuse.

so i made this.

this is kind of a vent art?

also this has nothing to do with the cakeverse thing lol.

i chose to make a strawbery cake like one of those barbie cakes where there is cake and barbie in between.

i made it cuz when i was 4 i had a barbie cake on my birthday . that day is as far as i can remember .

so like to symbloise death of inoocence or something.

multiple forks to symbolise difrent kinds of abuse slowly taking parts of you away.

and some other things but i am to lazy to right lol.

so interpt however you want thats what art is anyway.

The first night (rewritten)

Author: Aaron of Ithaca TW: implied s.a, manipulation, ptsd, coercion and power imbalance

I Chant: Last night (Part 1) Part 2 -> What the olive tree saw

On the first night in her cave . With the warmest of voices and the sweetest of tones she said: “Let me love be your soul, let my voice be your voice, let us be together in bliss”.

When I tried to punch, to escape… She took my fist and twirled below it. I saw her eyes ignited, her face became a flame, and before knowing vines, warm and soft vines blossomed around me. I tried to fight but with a wrist movement my legs… they became limp. I fell on the warm scented bed while she, as the gracious nymph that she was, twirled her warm fingers to my chin as she kissed my head. In a moment my moist eyes were dried, my hands embracing her, and my lisps prepared, while I was drowning away in my own tears again. “Let your tears be swept away by my embrace, let your cries become laughs and strength, let your shouts become a kiss and kisses, hugs. Let me be your home my dear and no one separates us no more” she said with glee while I screamed for help.

My hands then encircled her skin, we got as close as possible, how I couldn't move. Then her dewy warm embrace, her blazing embrace while I was drowning away in a prison of ice and rain. I was terrified but then a voice that wasn't mine, not from the heart but the throat, came: “I love you, love”, said him And then blackness rose and for 7 years the norm became. But last night, HORRIBLE NIGHT, I dreaded it, I dreaded our bed, our olive bed, our place! Before reaching it, it came to my mind. “I despise you stars! I despise you moon as the flowers that enveloped me before, cowards!”. I gazed out the window and saw them, the witnesses of my pain. “Your dim light forgets, my cries and hopes for the rosy dawn again, why do you want me to stay in hell?”. I thought while walking towards the bed.

But something was odd, the cold, the breeze among the olive twigs, the scent of rain…, the coarse linen, the translucent veil…I felt secure…but SHE, was there.

I only saw her face in you my Joy and froze as you became her; I wanted to leave as snow melts in the sun.

As you tended me on our bed, your rosy fingers in my chest, the chest….

I felt the same as those years away, while my eyes became pools of tears and pain.

How you stroke my skin in that way, how you played with my hair…and then, you sang as a swallow in spring

“My love” she said

My body became still, my gaze disturbed, the room, the twigs, it was again stone, the warmth, the flush, the vines… Her face… I saw her smile again. ”You´re with me dear, there´s nothing to fear”, Calypso said as a warm dawn, a false dawn. The kiss, the strokes, the talk that wasn't my own, it was all again, the same play. I awaited the dark as normal… But no. I felt water on my eyes, my beard became moist, my mouth didn´t form a smile, NO. Iit was a cry of help and from deep inside it rose: “BUT GODDESS PLEASE, OH GRACIOUS NYMPH, PLEASE NO MORE,!” Then as my heart was being torn apart by her eyes ”PENELOPE MY JOY, I CAN'T I JUST CAN'T!!!!!” “FORGIVE ME DEAR, FORGIVE MY JOY!!!!!!”, I said as I was choking in my tears, in my mind, with my voice.

Then I tasted it, salt, sweet salt again! I felt how the fire extinguished, how a drop of dew hit the lip and everything changed again, I was afraid to see her again, but looking towards her, only a figure in distress was who I met. It was YOU! It was you, my Joy! my Queen, my Penelope.! I saw how you fused with the shadows, how your cloth hung in the cold morning wind. I saw how you ran towards the candle.

The first night (rewritten)

Author: Aaron of Ithaca TW: implied s.a, manipulation, ptsd, coercion and power imbalance

I Chant: Last night (Part 2) <- Part 1 II Chant-> What the olive tree saw

While you were away I saw no stone, only flowers and twigs not vines; it was our bed. As you came I didn't see joy nor lust, I saw FEAR, I saw PAIN, I saw a Flame. Not the moon, not the vines, not the stone in her lair, no, it was cold again unlike there. I only thought about how you rushed towards me, crying, cold, coarse. Then notice how your skin wasn't plump, how your voice broke, how your eyes were filled with tears, how you let them free. “Odysseus, please I'm here, you can count on me!”, you shouted as a ravaging ravine.

And there I was, with you. I saw my hands, my arms, my legs. My voice. But it was me, not him. "In the night? A confused cry rose. "My will is only for the day!" I shouted It perplexed me. "How… Can I speak?" My body was still, unmoving as stone, but not the mouth. "What is this new spell you've placed on me? Why are you tormenting me again? Isn't this what you wanted!" I roared, agonized, terrorized as daggers formed in my eyes. "Don't… don't torture me. Enough with home. . Please; I gasped out wetly. "Let the darkness embrace my broken bones! Let the warmth overtake me!"

I was unable to move but my eyes were fixed in the vine, in the twig, in the olive above me.

Then I felt your pain. It was real, not a ruse.

From the enveloping dark in the corners of my eyes I rose from the dead. I rushed towards you joy, I rushed as the morning rays of Eos.

Then I finally saw you, you were AFRAID not of me but of him, the husk of the man I became there.

I felt how your gentle hands touched my cheeks and cleaned my tears.

And face to face I saw, for the first time: your cries.

I felt how your dim warmth gave way to tears, clouding your pearly lights.

I saw how you didn´t close your eyes as I faced away, guilty of making you suffer.

Realized how I was home. Home

I was home with my streets, my ports, my palace ,

" i need to know what happened. "

"Just a bunch more biblical paintings then I'll go back to drawing yaoi" Or you can do both, renaissance style, Michelangelo or Raphael I honestly forgot who drew those naked men on the Sistine Chapel's ceilings ok bad joke aside: I'd love hearing more about your headcannons, specifically about the childhoods of the characters (ranging from the mercs, to Miss pauling, the Administrator, hell anyone you have ideas about!)

Childhood headcanons... How did you know I've had something about that on my mind? Alright, let's talk about...

Little Sniper

(Lots of trigger warnings ahead, check tags!)

Mundy was obviously an unhappy child. When I imagine the surroundings he grew up in, I see miles and miles of empty landscapes, dry yellow grass, unkept barns destroyed by rust and a deep choking sense of loneliness.

The closest neighbour woul be so far away you better bring a bicycle with you if you want to visit. School and Church were the only places to go, which were also very far away. No kids his age nearby. And even if there were peers at school, no one wanted him anyway.

Mundy was "weird", he didn't quite understand other kids' jokes, didn't get what was so fun about what everyone else enjoying to do; he was weaker, always loosing in close fights; he didn't even look very local for whatever reason. Even if he tried to get along with someone, it either ended up with him being ostracized or with him experiencing the greatest boredom imaginable. And the kids quickly picked up on his "difference", making him an object of bullying.

It started with making fun of everything Mundy does, his habits and speech patterns, his morals and ideas... Which wasn't anything too big for him but it was still very annoying and upsetting, he grew to hate school very quickly.

Coming home being exhausted from this kind of socializing, no one would really comfort him. Being very little, he used to tell on his bullies to his parents, telling how hurt he was by their words... And it would only made a mess in his family.

Overreactive mother: "Poor baby, I'm so sorry, I'll tell their parents to stop being mean, my little little baby, maybe we can go homeschooling..."

And a strict father: "Are you a man or what? Yeah, he will end up a bloody baby if you keep spoiling him like that! Suck it up! Of you can't stand for yourself, no one will. At this pace you'll end up a nobody, with no home nor respect from the world".

Mundy didn't want to be neither a baby nor a disappointment. He figured that sharing his feelings with parents wouldn't be that good of an idea, they won't understand anyway. And also that he must fight somehow.

If he can't win in close fights, he thought, he could hit them from a distance: throwing small rocks at the bullies from up the tree...

–He was punished for that. For some reason, every time Mundy fought back, he was scolded by the elders, who for some reason always believed the bullies that HE was the one starting the fights. They forbid him to fight back. He closed his feelings shut and stopped paying attention to almost everything around him.

Why was it like that? Why was he so different from other kids, why couldn't he understand them? Why couldn't he understand anyone in this world? The world was a mess of unspoken rules and suffering, overcoming oneself, pain; he couldn't fit in. He was always on the wrong even if he didn't do anything. He felt like an outsider everywhere he went.

Sometimes he wondered if he was born into a wrong family or that he wasn't a human at all. Looking at the night sky, he was thinking about aliens, maybe they would come to him someday and take him to the planet he truly belongs, being accidentally swapped at birth. Maybe then he will be happy, he will leave this sickening place and finally start living. He thought about dying, too.

He started to spend a lot of time in the forest any chance he got. He was alone here, unwatched, somewhat free. It was easier to breathe here. He was alone but it didn't feel worse than being with those people. He played by himself. He started to believe that he actually liked loneliness.

As Mundy and his peers grew older, the kids started to become more and more savage, thanks to the hormones and age crisis. Bullying intensified as those kids started to feel the need to assert themselves. Mundy was maliciously beaten (he fought back as much as he could and even win sometimes, but the beating only got worse each time). They used any chance to humiliate him.

And each time after that Mundy would take the knife or his father's shotgun and go to the forest to take his anger on animals, "hunting", since he couldn't do anything to fix the root of the problem.

He would hunt for something small, like birds or feral rabbits so he could butcher them and cook on fire to eat. At moments like this he felt like a beast, and somehow it was the most pleasant state for him to be in.

There were no words available to form his pain into, so the pain came through violence. The more violent his abusers became, the more violent he was at his "hunting". The more he felt his father's gaze piercing him with disappointment, the sharper his knife movements would get. Sometimes he would let the bodies to just rot like that, completely butchered in a very non-culinary way.

(Maybe someday he would lure one of those bastards to the forest and kill him the same way and blame it on an animal attack)

And at some point... His classmates would came up with something that would cross all the lines of forgivable. Somewhere there was the peak of what they could do. Something beyond.

There wasn't a known way to him to deal with that. No known words. Everyone would be so grossed out of him if they knew. He was beyond disgusted with himself, too. What was the point of living now?

That day he would shot a wild boar, take his machete out and cut it open, butcher it the way his father would when they wanted a pork dinner for the night... And reached to its heart.

The heart is where the love is stored, right? That's what people say when referring to this "love" he'd never seem to know. A dark read bloody organ that feels like sponge inside of thin rubber. There's something about this that Mundy lacks. He has a heart too, it's pulsating inside him, but for some reason it was unable to produce the "love", a very necessary fluid for a human body. He wondered if it's sweet. He wondered if he was even able to taste it.

He took a bite... And realized what he was doing.

He was, indeed, a monster.

When he went back home, later than usual, he would be met with his father's gaze. He was always throwing gazes, for every occasion, Mundy was used to feel small and guilty under them. But this time... It felt somehow much more personal. More disturbing.

His father looked at him as if he was a dirty little creature, a rat, a maggot. He looked at him the way one would look at a criminal who wronged their whole family. He looked at him like he knew.

His father didn't say anything that day and it wasn't brought up ever again.

Mundy was indeed a monster who was utterly terrified of this though. He didn't want to be one. He made a promise to himself that everything he does will be morally justified, he promised himself to become a good... decent person. He would earn his place in the world, even if his father, everyone else denies it.

It gets blurry at this point. Sniper doesn't really remember his life before about 17, when he was finishing school and starting to work on his sniper licence. For some reason he always knew he would be good at shooting and killing. When remembering his home, Sniper would recall the smell of grass, mother's cooking, the warm sun, and a steady life he had. He knew it was boring, but it still somehow felt like home. Home he felt was lost somewhere he didn't remember.

Either way, he was always a loner.

Blitz was still trying to come down from the combat. His heart was going faster and harder than it needed to be, his breathing a little quicker, and he was looking all around them, gun in hand, still expecting there to be more. Someone else, someone more violent, more competent, more dangerous. Another attack, another anything to come and fuck with his friend, to try and take Fizz away from him again, to come between them and cut off all communication and make them both think they--

Calm the fuck down, he told himself, abruptly realizing that he was spiraling. And if he was spiraling, then Fizz absolutely was. Blitz put his gun away and turned back to his friend.

"Aw, shit," he muttered under his breath, listening not just to what Fizz was saying, but to the way he was saying it. To the tension behind that still-pretty voice, the fear that changed the pitch. Fizz's eyes changed, too; Blitz could see when his focus went from present, from here in their world, to somewhere inside, where all of the chaos was, where the fear lived, where it was far more dangerous. Once upon a time, in another life, he'd been able to reach Fizz when he went away in there.

Now, he didn't know if he could.

"Mammon can kiss my ass," he snapped, stepping closer, moving to be on Fizz's damaged side, so if anything happened he could take up the slack there. But nothing else will happen, he told himself firmly. We're not kids anymore. We're not victims anymore. We're two of the most dangerous motherfuckers in this goddamn neighborhood. We've got this. We've got each other.

Didn't they?

"Seriously, Fizz. Fuck that guy. If he wants to be a bitch about you getting hurt, he can bitch to me and I'll shoot him in his fat fucking eyeballs." That was... maybe not the most socially acceptable thing to say, but so fucking be it. Bliz looked around one more time, and once he was satisfied that there was nothing creeping up on them, that that little rattlesnake bitch had fucked off to go slither off with his buddies, he fully turned to face his friend.

The other half of his soul.

Blitz's expression softened, even while his heart hardened--but against Mammon, not Fizz. All their life, it seemed, all their life, it had been Mammon haunting his friend. Blitz had had his own fucking trauma, his own shit to deal with, his own nightmares in all of the "clients" that Cash rented him out to, but somehow they hadn't gotten in his head the way Mammon did to Fizz. Maybe, in a way, Blitz was lucky that most of his clients back in those days had been one-offs. They didn't get unfettered access and unrestricted time the way that bloated tick did.

"Fizz?" He reached up and cautiously, gently, touched his friend's face. "Look at my eyes, okay? Just... look at my eyes. And don't turn away, alright? For ten seconds. That's all I'm askin. Just give me ten seconds, bud, and then we can go freak out, alright? But ten quiet seconds, just you and me, and the world can go fuck itself for ten seconds."

the engine of the hotwired junk of a car revved to life, and this time fizzarolli wasn't being dragged away from it. it didn't seem like there were any more threats around, crimson and his mafia having been crushed under the rubble of a destroyed warehouse then striker went scurrying off to douse the flames. blitz might have come back for him this time but that didn't make the scene any easier to digest. he could feel his heart pounding in his chest as being surrounded in green hell-fire seemed to show up every time he closed his eyes.

he just needed to breathe-- he needed to be okay--

the jester took in a deep breath, and it wavered audibly; he held it, then exhaled through his nose. "Mam's gonna kill me," he broke the silence. hopefully conversation will distract him from the dissociation that was creeping up on him. he could feel a panic attack coming closer and closer, as if it were a tangible thing that had started to loom over his shoulder. he wondered briefly if blitzo would still be able to recognize the signs? for the longest time, he was the only one who could. fizz had perfected the ability to look okay from the outside meanwhile a tornado of fear and anxiety was raging on the inside. blitzo was the only one who saw through the facade.

he inspected the mechanical arm that was making all sorts of buzzing and whirring noises, little sparks from exposed wiring would light every few seconds. the thing was shot. he couldn't even get it to move. a frustrated groan left the clown as he dropped his head back against the car's headrest. "Do you know how expensive these things are?" fizz held up the working hand towards Blitz. "He's going to lose his shit when he finds out I broke one. Fuck. Fuck." it seemed he only traded one fear for another. actually, he'd rather face Crimson again than an angry Mammon. "I'm gonna be in so much trouble."

@doublejango

I ain't too good at expressing stuff unless it's with my body.

Fuck.

Blitz understood that. He understood that far, far too well. The words hit like blows.

When Angel knelt so as not to loom over him, it had quieted him. He went still, watching him, on the verge of breaking--but only on the verge. Blitz didn't know what it was about this guy that made him so easy to open up to--maybe a sense of shared suffering? That they had enough in common, they could understand? Because Angel sure as fuck seemed to immediately get it, to get everything Blitz said, even the shit he only halfway explained.

The imp stepped in closer, trusting him.

He hated this. Hated crying in front of anyone. As far as imps went, Blitz was peak masculinity and beauty rolled into one; he wasn't the type who was supposed to cry. He shouldn't be broken. He shouldn't be so deeply fucking flawed. But he was, and he hated it, and was ashamed of it, ashamed of so much--

Only, when Angel looked at him like he understood? The shame didn't cut quite as deeply.

"Yeah," Blitz agreed, nodding. He swallowed hard and wiped quickly at his eyes, trying to put on a bright smile. "Yeah, you can fucking kiss me."

It was probably safer for both of them if they communicated through the physical, if they danced around the truth. Because while Angel cared about what happened to him, Blitz didn't. If he died, he died. He'd be away from all of this. He'd be free. He wouldn't be trapped anymore, he wouldn't have to think or feel, he could just be free, and so he was willing, absolutely willing, to risk death if he could help his friend. If Valentino needed an ass-beating, if that would get him to lighten up on Angel? It was worth risking everything for--because really, what was there to lose?

I would risk everything to help you, Blitz thought, golden eyes burning fiercely as he studied this friend he had never expected, never looked for. You're worth it. And if in the end we were both free? Even if that meant I couldn't see you anymore? That would be worth it, too.

Someday, one of them was going to be happy. He clenched his fists, determining that. Someday. And it was going to be Angel. Whatever it took, Blitz was going to find a way to help him.

"Yeah, but the fuckin' difference is yeh' could die, Blitz!" His voice strained, not wanting to interrupt the other, but that was it, wasn't it? If Blitzo were to die, then Angel didn't know what would happen. He didn't know what happened if hellborns, or imps, or goetia, or anyone else that wasn't a sinner were to actively die in Hell. He could double die, sure, and he would cease to exist. Or as far as they knew. But he could be killed, and still regenerate. With few exceptions.

He wanted to go off about this, but he was floored by what the imp was saying to him. He had known a lot about Blitzo since they had first met, but there were still things neither of them had shared with the other. While Angel had yet to explain that Valentino literally beat the ever-loving shit out of him, Blitzo had not mentioned this very important piece of his life. Leaving Angel absolutely stunned, mismatched hues wide.

"Please don't march in and beat the shit out of Val." He mumbled, going down to his knees in front of the other. He knew there was the whole don't talk to short people this way blah blah bullshit, but he wanted to be on Blitz' level for this. He wanted to meet him eye to eye, and tell him he understood. Sitting his butt back on folded legs, he opened his mouth, ready to say that he got it, that he was there for him, that he wasn't going -

"Can ah' kiss yeh'?" Well damn, that....that wasn't in the plan. He hadn't had much of a plan to begin with, but that had blurted out far too easily, blushing slightly and glancing away. "Ah' mean, ah' get if yeh' don't wanna, but all of that....ah' get it. Ah' understand it. Ah' empathize with it. Ah' ain't too good at expressin' stuff unless it's wit' mah' body, but right now ah' just....ah' really wanna just cup yeh' face and kiss yeh'...."

What the hell was Valentino doing with Angel Dust? All this time, Val had been obsessed with him, always coming up with wilder and darker plots for their films, but it had seemed... Vox had assumed it was consensual. That the two of them had a relationship. He'd seen them together often enough, days when Val was in one of his more glowing moods and felt like showing Angel off a little, when Valentino would bring Angel to dinner with Vox and Velvette, nights when they would all curl up together and watch a movie, and Vox would do his best to ignore whatever giggling happened under the blanket over on their end of the couch.

Angel Dust belonged to Valentino in every way, and thus wasn't really any of Vox's business. Unless he knew Velvette or Valentino were going to be out doing something dangerous, Vox just didn't spy on the two of them, and thus he never spied on whoever they were fucking. He could, of course, but he didn't; the three of them had a tenuous truce, ever-flexible, but that was one of the main threads running through it. Vox didn't spy on them, or on their immediate affairs, because he chose to trust them both.

But after seeing Angel like that up on the balcony, eyes desperate, body frantically trying to shut down and escape at once, and the way Valentino had smirked about it and then not even seemed to care... Vox wondered if maybe, maybe he had made a mistake.

Maybe he should have been watching Angel.

So, now, he was.

Not in real-time, not yet, but from his office. Vox locked the door and plugged himself in, frowning as he pulled up every feed, every video, every logged data-point he had about Angel Dust and Valentino. Vox had years of film to go through and he processed it quickly--but not quickly enough. Not quickly enough to avoid feeling it, feeling it creeping through him, coating his skin with that slick oily feeling Val's tongue left behind. Some of what he saw made his lip curl. Some made his cheek twitch.

All of it made his fists clench.

Vox had allowed Valentino to do so much to him in bed because he thought he was Val's outlet. Val sometimes needed to be violent and controlling, and Vox was more than strong enough to take it. He didn't like it, but he didn't need to like it; his lover liked and needed the cruelty, Vox could take it, and as far as he had known, that was that. He assumed he was an adequate outlet--all the more so because he was willing. And, from what Vox was seeing, Angel was not. Not at fucking all. Willing to be loved and petted and made into a star, willing to do his job, sure, yeah, he was willing to do those things. But willing to be physically beaten and terrorized in their downtime? Willing to be gaslit, broken, terrorized, forced into addiction to Val's venom?

Vox was furious.

This wasn't the way to retain good employees.

This wasn't the way to win masses over.

This--

Was vile.

This was Valentino fucking with the Vees' image as a whole.

And, worst of all, Angel was their friend. At least, Vox had thought he was. In some distant way, more of an acquaintance maybe, but still. Angel Dust's image was strongly associated with the Vees through Valentino. He ought to be being treated well. He ought to have nothing bad to say about the Vees. Valentino was fucking that up.

And the footage of Angel crying... angry looks Angel sometimes shot towards a camera as if, all this time, he had expected that Vox was watching... and then they would get together for lunch the next day and Angel must have thought he knew and just didn't care, didn't say anything, and--

Fucking. Val. Why couldn't he just do his damn job without constantly trying to destroy their image? Without betraying their friend? Because what, what were the Vees if they didn't have loyalty? If they couldn't trust each other? And every time Valentino broke Angel, left him crying on the goddamn tiles--

Vox was shaking when he put all of the files back in storage, fury making his nerves quite literally sparkle under the skin, thankfully covered up by the suit. Although there was no one there to see, he straightened his jacket and then his tie anyway when he stood up and walked out to his main office, to his computer.

A few clicks was all it took to invade Val's privacy further, and Angel's, by looking into the paystubs for Val's studio.

Angle was paid less than the key grip.

Vox let out a slow, controlled breath, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back. I will fix this, he thought coldly and calmly, and he took out his phone. After sending several texts, he put the phone away, stood, and headed out.

"Cancel all of my appointments for the rest of the day," he told his assistant--who was paid at least three times what Angel Dust was paid, not including the fact that he actually got overtime, and who had never once had to sell himself on the fucking streets--without looking over at him, voice smooth, calm, composed. Vox walked on, forcing himself to go slowly as he headed up to Val's floor--

To Angel Dust's dressing room.

Although he wanted to burst in, he raised a hand and knocked politely on the door instead.

"Angel Dust," Vox called, his voice perhaps surprisingly serious for once; he usually used his public voice with Angel, cheerful and energetic. "I'd like to come in, please."

Starter for @doublejango

To say that he felt embarassed was the biggest understatement of the century. That emotion barely skimmed the surface of what he was feeling in that moment. Shame, agony, distress, anger. It was a dangerous cocktail, and it was no wonder that Angel Dust spent most of his time in the studio high as a kite if he could help it. There was no other way he'd be able to tolerate the overwhelming emotions that hit him like a truck.

Valentino of course knew exactly what he was doing to Angel. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last time that the pimp had laid a hand on him. Though as far as Angel knew, this was the first time that Vox had been witness to it. He wasn't stupid. He knew there were cameras all over that damn tower, and surely the flat-faced prick had to have seen what went down. Right?

But Vox's expression before he had poofed off to fuck knows where through the electrical currents said that maybe he hadn't known. Either that, or he was just disgusted that Valentino kept letting filth like him into the Vee Tower, especially after Angel had so clearly left. But knowing there were multiple individuals that were judging him, feeding off his misery, it only made matters worse.

Mascara tracks painted the white fur that framed his face, any makeup that the team had worked so hard on to hide that black eye blotchy and revealing now. He slammed the balcony door shut, grabbing the bottle of Velvette's stupid love potion that was on the table and smashing it against the wall, shoving his vanity mirror down too until it shattered into hundreds of fragments, his broken face now reflecting at him times ten.

Collapsing onto the ground, Angel brought his knees up to his chest, curling all four arms tightly around himself, trying to make himself into as small a ball as humanly possible. Face buried into his knees, entire body trembling as he tried to calm himself down. Now that Val wasn't occupied by Vox, he would probably be trying to come into Angel's room any minute, and if he saw the destruction of both his room and himself, he knew there would only be further consequences.