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Chapter Text

There's something of the underworld to Duke Cain's house.

Chase feels like he's moving underwater, the sunlight filtering in through the tinted shades to shield them from the Californian winter sun casting the world in unreal shades of red and teal. He's had his name marked off at the gate, yes, yes, he's Chase Lowry, here for an audition for Willie in The Last Voyage, yes, he had got a callback, yes, he was one of the top contenders for the title. Yes, he belonged; yes, he was a part of this world.

His heart had still hammered in his chest as he had walked into the house.

It's not just audition nerves. It's not just the usual anxiety he feels at every audition, every casting call, mingling with the others, introducing himself ("Chase Lowry - no, nothing very recent, there was that TV role earlier in the year, but - but -"), feeling small and stupid and pathetic amongst his more accomplished peers. When he collects a cup of mostly hot coffee, he finds his way to one of the sofas and is drawn into conversation, chatting with Eliza (auditioning for Marion) and Miles (a contender for Patrick) and Chris (a rival, a rival, another going for Willie, he'll have to defeat this man to get the role), and he waits, watches the door, waits some more.

He wonders what these other actors said in their videos to get here. How much they had opened their veins, opened their souls. What promises they had made. I swore to bleed for you, Duke. Isn't that enough?

His gaze isn't the only ones that snaps up when Vinny Monroe walks into the room.

Everyone looks. Even the staff look. Vinny is magnetic, has that undefinable boon that is charisma, that power that draws every scrap of attention to him like a lodestone. He's all smiles, easy and relaxed, shaking a few hands, chatting amicably with potential costars and staff alike, and then his eyes fix on Chase and he goes still.

Still, he barely skips a beat. It's only knowing him, knowing the way Vinny's body moves in a space, that lets Chase see that hesitation, that raw shock, the hurt that flashes across his expression. And oh, Chase had been expecting it, but - it hurts, still, to see.

Vinny crosses the floor. Looks down at them, at him and Eliza and Miles and Chris, and smiles, and it's brittle. "Hey," he says, deliberately light. "Good to see you all."

He doesn't look at Chase. Doesn't meet his gaze again. He chats with Eliza, some TV show they had both been in a couple years back, smiles, does all the right things. And, one by one, they're called away. Miles joins Harry and others to read for Patrick, then Eliza is whisked away for Marion. They announce the start of the reads for Willie, and Chris departs, and Vinny's shoulders slump like his strings have been cut.

"Your take was for Willie," he says, no question in it. "You went for the role you knew I wanted. What the fuck, man?"

Chase stares down at his hands, rolling the empty coffee cup in his hands, unable or unwilling to meet Vinny's acrimonious stare. How could he explain it, how deeply the script had leeched into his bones? How much he could see himself in the role? How much he was the role? He could barely find the words in his tape, and he can't find them now, not with Vinny and his palpable frustration right here in front of him.

"I had to," he finally says to his painted nails. "I know - I'm sorry - I'm sorry, but I had to. It had to be me."

Vinny makes a frustrated, furious sound and pushes himself up so fast he nearly stumbles, stalking away to the drinks station and getting himself more coffee. He downs one, two; then his name is called and he disappears down those stairs without second glance.

Chase exhales and looks around. Only a few of them remain now. Three others, then two, then one other, and then the last one is called and Chase is left alone, sitting in an immense living room, the ceiling stretching into the sky, dwarfed by the furniture he sits on. One leg jiggles up and down anxiously. He's dug crescents into the paper coffee cup; his chest feels tight.

A staff member's footsteps on the stairs, startlingly loud in the silence. A faint clearing of the throat. "Chase Lowry?"

When he stands, the smile he plasters on his face is fixed like a porcelain mask. When he follows, his stride is even and confident. He cannot show fear. He cannot.

(Unless fear is what Duke wants. Unless reverence and respect is what he demands. Then Chase will worship on his knees, give him anything and everything, to tear himself open and show Duke what he's made of, what he can be, if only Duke give him a second glance.)

Downstairs, he finds others. Amongst a gallery of posters and props, trophies and takings from a myriad of movies, comfortable armchairs. Not everyone remains. There are only four women there, eight men; Vinny lifts his head once then looks deliberately away. Not all of them are going through.

Four for each role, Chase thinks. Four for Marion, for Patrick. Four for Willie. Has it already been decided, then? Has his fate been sealed before he's even stepped into the room?

It isn't Duke waiting for him in the audition room, though. Cameras and lights, yes. A few staff members. The casting director, Gayle, runs through his details, offers him a few excerpts of script. He's to read to the camera for Duke to review, for him to judge; Chase takes the offered papers and opens up his soul.

Gayle takes them back when he's done. Asks him to wait, lingering in front of the camera like a ghost, trying not to fidget with his hair or earrings or nails. She presses a finger against her earpiece, glances back at him. Her expression is unreadable for a long, long moment.

Finally, a nod. "Very well," she says, and drops her hand and turns to Chase. "You're through to the next round," she says, and there's a hint of a smile on her face, "Go and join the others."

Every part of Chase sings in relief. His smile hurts his cheeks as he thanks Gayle and steps back out the door to join the others.

So the numbers, in the end, aren't even. Four contenders for Marion and four for Patrick. Five, now, for Willie. Gareth Rhoades, Eliot March, Samir Devine. All incredible actors, all fixtures of the screen. Vinny, golden boy Vinny Monroe; Vinny, the rising son. And himself. He's part of them too, part of the top five contenders for the role. He's through to the next round, he's so close he can almost taste it, if only Duke will let him close enough to get his teeth into it.

"Well done," Vinny says quietly, and Chase thinks there may be some hint of genuine warmth there.

They're given numbers, little plastic cards. Chase clings to his W3 so hard it cuts into his fingers and does not let go, even as they're called up in many and myriad combinations. Chase reads through the same two scenes four times, with every possible Marion, every possible Patrick. Fifty-six scene reads. Each read, five minutes. Five hours go by, six. They sit, all thirteen of them, and down countless cups of coffee while Duke mulls over his choices (wherever he is, because Chase has not once laid eyes on him). There's an air of camaraderie, mutual anxiety; there's competition, tension between them all.

Finally, finally. Gayle steps out of the audition room and asks for the four top contenders for Patrick to all enter. Chase finally risks a glance up at Vinny as the other actors head inside. He's been so conscious of the distance between them this whole afternoon.

"It'll be Harry, I think," Chase says, just to break the silence. Vinny glances up at him sharply, then nods. They sit, wait. Theo heads back out of the room with a sigh, back up the stairs. Damian, next. Finally, Miles; Chase nods once. When Harry finally emerges, he's grinning, gives them all a thumbs up as Gayle steps out behind him and calls in the Marions.

Vinny gazes at the door. "Ava or Victoria," he decides, and gets up for another coffee.

Victoria is the last to emerge. She looks a little stunned, giving them all smiles. Chase digs his nails into his thighs as Gayle turns and calls them all in.

Duke Cain is there. Chase tries not to jerk back in surprise, but he can't seem to hide it entirely; Duke's gaze lingers on him just for a moment.

How had he even got in? There's only one door. He tries not to think about it too much as he and his rivals take the seats they're gestured towards.

Duke is silent as he surveys them all, one after the other. Chase gazes up at him and feels naked, like Duke can see all the way down to his soul.

"Samir Devine," Duke says without preamble, turning back to the desk and shuffling papers. "Your voice is too flat. I need passion, fire. You can leave."

It's just like that? Chase glances at Samir and catches Vinny's eye instead; Vinny looks a little stunned at the sheer abruptness of the dismissal. Samir's shoulders slump as he gets up, heads out.

They wait.

"Eliot March," Duke says next, and Chase exhales in relief before he can even realise he's doing so. "You're controlled - too controlled. You lack rawness and authenticity. You can leave."

There's three left. Three left, and Chase can't bring himself to look at Vinny. He can't look away from Duke at all.

His name will be next, he thinks.

"Gareth Rhoades," Duke says, and Chase bites his lip hard enough that he almost draws blood. "Your presence is strong, but you lack depth in the later scenes. You can leave."

Gareth rises. Chase doesn't see him go. All of his senses are thrumming, focused entirely on Vinny, beside him; Duke, in front of him. He feels like he's been flayed open, spilling his soul in front of them both. Whatever happens, whatever name Duke calls out, he knows he won't be walking out of the room the same man who walked in.

Duke paces in front of them. Stares down at them both like he's trying to pick what to have for dinner off a buffet. This close to him, Chase can smell expensive cologne and sweat beneath that, an acrid scent on his breath like cognac, cigarettes, and something akin to dark room chemicals.

"Chase Lowry."

Chase almost relaxes, the air rushing from his lungs. Failed again, and that's okay. Failed again, and that's fine, because it means Vinny has succeeded. His eyes prickle; he manages a faint, uncertain smile and waits to hear where he went wrong.

"You weren't sent a script," Duke says, and Chase pauses, because that wasn't in the script, either. "You weren't invited. Your take was not requested. Where did you get it from?"

Beside him, Vinny goes stiff. And Chase can remember it, so clearly - he and Vinny cuddled up on his couch, flipping through the script together, reading lines to each other. They had read a few of the romance scenes between Willie and Marion, just for fun. Vinny as Willie; Chase as Willie.

He can see the future, all too clearly. He can practically hear the words fall from his lips: Vinny showed me. He knows Vinny will be punished for it. He knows that if he condemns Vinny now, he'll win. He'll get the role. Vinny won't. Vinny doesn't need it. Vinny already has a career that's skyrocketing out of sight, leaving Chase in the dust; it's fine to turn against him now, because Chase is the one who wants this, who needs this like a drowning man needs solid ground under his feet.

God, he's been drowning for so long.

"I showed him," Vinny says, and Chase turns so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. Vinny stares straight ahead, past Duke, at the walls of the room closing around them; his hands are shaking in his lap. "When you sent me the script - I showed him, too."

Duke makes a thoughtful sound. "Why?" he asks, and Chase echoes silently, bewildered; why?!

Vinny's gaze finally flicks up to Duke's face, then away, high colour on his cheeks and ears. "I thought he would be good for a role," he says, and it's almost steady. "For - I wasn't expecting him to audition for Willie. But I thought he'd be good."

"Hm," says Duke.

Chase stares at him. Stares and doesn't look away, because Vinny has spoken up for him, Vinny has defied Duke for him, Vinny has possibly thrown away his own shot for him, and he feels suddenly, violently nauseous that he would even contemplate throwing Vinny under the bus for his own sake when Vinny has apparently volunteered to step beneath it himself. I love you, he thinks desperately, guiltily, like a man starving. God, Vinny, I love you, I love you, what the fuck are you doing? I love you. God, Vinny, what the fuck have you done?

"You're close, the two of you. Aren't you?" Duke sounds almost gentle, understanding, and Chase knows that his body betrays him, that the way his body angles towards Vinny, that the way their familiarity informs his very muscles, tells a story that anyone can read. He feels like he's being pulled apart between them.

Wordlessly, Chase glances at Vinny. Nods once; Vinny murmurs something that sounds vaguely affirmative. Duke makes another thoughtful sound.

"And what," he says slowly to Chase specifically, "Would you do for me? For this film? How would you show how much you want this?"

"Anything," Chase says, and the word is ragged. All of Duke's attention on him is like a drug; he feels like a moth pinned to a board, something to be examined and kept. "I'll do anything for you. Anything."

Vinny makes a little sound beside him. Chase's hand twitches with the desire to reach for him; he stamps down violently on that want.

Duke's gaze does not leave him. "Get on your knees," he finally says, and it takes a moment for the request to permeate through the static in Chase's brain before he practically throws himself out of his chair and on to his knees. From behind him, distantly, Vinny exclaiming something Chase can't make out. All of his focus is fixed on Duke, scrap metal locked to a magnet.

Duke's fingers slide across his jawline, his cheekbone, cups his face in one hand. Chase's heart is racing so loud he's sure even Vinny can hear it. He's heard stories of the casting couch. Hasn't been in that position, not before. Suspects he might be, now.

"Obedient," Duke murmurs approvingly, pressing his thumb against Chase's bottom lip, just for a moment. "I remember your take. You looked..." He pauses, like he's savouring the word in his mouth. "Vulnerable. That's rare, Chase."

He can barely hear Duke through the sound of his heart, the blood rushing through his veins, his own breath rendered ragged. He can't look away.

Duke glances up almost carelessly. "Vinny, you have the role of Willie," he says, as simple as that, and Chase's heart skips a beat, disappointment there but distant, too caught up in how it feels to be on his knees in front of Duke Cain. "Chase. I am going to write in a role for you specifically. Not the lead role, but... significant. One bespoke for your sort of soul. Loyal, trusting. Malleable."

Malleable. And with a suddenness that leaves him breathless, Chase wants that. He wants to be clay, shaped by Duke's hand. He wants to be what Duke wants him to be. Duke wants to write a role for him, for Chase specifically? With a lurch, he realises he wants this more than he ever wanted Willie, to be moulded into what Duke wants and needs.

He nods wordlessly.

Duke smiles, smiles down at him. When he speaks, it's like a caress across his frayed nerves. "I see you as a crew member on the Whistlestop. Someone deeply loyal to Patrick, willing to do all he says. Patrick, you see, distrusts Willie. He distrusts his ambition and his hunger. Your character, Chase, will be one who Patrick can make use of, someone who can give him some measure of influence over Willie. Your character will offer his body up to Willie, and all the while his soul will belong to Patrick. We will call him Obadiah, a name which means to serve, to worship. Vinny," he adds, barely glancing up, "Come here. Stand with me."

And - that's different. Being on his knees in front of Duke, his body feeling his gravitational pull, it's a desperate needy sensation. But Vinny - Vinny standing over him as well, Vinny gazing down at him as well, Vinny, trembling, with his eyes wide - Chase can feel his breath catching in his throat, heat flooding through his body, clasping his hands together to stop them shaking too much.

Fuck, he thinks.

"He's something fascinating, isn't he?" Duke murmurs to Vinny, and his smile is conspiratorial. "So willing to please. So quick to trust. Malleable." He repeats the word like the tastiest morsel and licks his lips. "I want you to feed me something real. When Obadiah ends up on his knees in front of Willie, I want Chase and Vinny to know what that feels like."

Vinny glances at Duke, and his brow is furrowed. "Uh - Mr Cain?" he says uncertainly. "Are you - I mean -"

Duke doesn't answer immediately. He presses his thumb against Chase's lower lip again, rubs the tip against it, bids him open his mouth. His fingers taste like nicotine and sweat; Chase makes a wordless sound deep in his throat, too close to a moan to be recognised as anything else. His skin feels electric, pulse thudding in his ears; his eyes have fallen half shut. When Duke pulls his fingers free, it makes a wet sound that's almost obscene.

There's deep colour in Vinny's face now, staring down at him. His lips form the shape of Chase's name, and Chase doesn't know if he can't hear Vinny's voice over the pounding of his heart or if no sound has escaped those familiar lips. Chase gazes up at him and nods, briefly, once.

It's okay. It's okay. Let me show you I can do this.

"Okay," Vinny whispers. Duke makes a pleased sound and moves back to his desk, taking a seat, his gaze fixed on the two of them. Chase shifts on his knees, turning to Vinny more properly. He knows that the way their bodies align will give Duke the best possible show; he's desperately conscious of the way Duke watches them as Chase slowly reaches for Vinny's belt, the clink of metal being unbuckled echoing in his ears.

Thing is - he knows Vinny. Knows his body. Knows how he reacts to being touched. If he's this character, written just for him, on his knees before Willie, he won't know what it's like, and Chase finds himself digging down to find unfamiliarity in the familiar.

It's not hard, in all honesty. Having an audience is pretty new, especially when that audience is Duke Cain. Being in the audition room is familiar, but being in the audition room in the aftermath of being told he's actually managed to make something of himself - that's rare. He lets it show in the tremor of his hands as he unzips Vinny's jeans, in the way he blinks up at Vinny like he's something fascinating, something worth relishing, enjoying.

Vinny makes a sound that's almost pained, dragging down his jeans and underwear. He's half-hard, shivering as Chase gazes up at him and takes him into his mouth; one hand slides into Chase's hair. Chase lets go of thought and slips into something half in character and half nothing and nowhere, a blank half-awareness where the only things in the world are his mouth and hands, and Vinny's body, and Duke's eyes, fixed on them both.

The heat of Vinny's skin. The grasp of his hand in Chase's hair. The carpet beneath his knees. His single-minded focus on bringing Vinny pleasure; Obadiah's bloody-minded attention showing just how good he can be for Willie.

Look what you can do to me. Look what I can be for you.

Willie - Vinny - getting closer, gasps muffled by one hand, the other still tight in Chase's hair. Obadiah - Chase - obedient, on his knees, proving his worth. Duke's voice, a sudden cacophony in the silence of the room - "Vinny, finish on his face."

Chase leans back, eyes half closed, the tip of his tongue kissing his bottom lip. Vinny's normally pretty vocal, but now his cry is strangled and bitten off, one hand pressed against his mouth, the other that had been in Chase's hair dropping to finish himself off in rough strokes, painting Chase's cheeks with hot stripes.

Duke exhales. It's loud. "Good," he says, and there's just the faintest hint of strain in his voice, too. "Good."

Vinny is breathless, gazing down at Chase, something like a shudder running through him. He lowers the hand that had been over his mouth and Chase spots the bite marks in the heel of his palm just before he wipes Chase's cheek clean with his thumb, and Chase catches Vinny's wrist and draws his thumb into his mouth. Sucks it clean and swallows. Doesn't break eye contact. The sound Vinny makes is almost a whine.

Half a world away, Duke clears his throat. "Vinny," he says, and his voice is steady as iron, now. "Gayle will be waiting upstairs to discuss your next moves. Go."

Uncertainty, now. Vinny pauses halfway through putting himself back together. "Uh," he starts, "Sure, uh -"

His gaze meets Chase's again. This time, there's concern there. A question in it. Chase smiles, mouths, it's fine; only then does Vinny nod.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

He looks polished, perfect again. No sign of what had just happened in that room. He doesn't look back as he ducks out the door again.

And Chase is left there in the audition room, on his knees, the evidence of what had just taken place still splattered over his cheeks and Duke's gaze stripping him naked. He doesn't move, his hands clenched in his lap, as Duke finally rises and circles around to him; the hand that tilts his chin back up is gentle but unyielding, like steel covered in silk.

"I see the walls you build, Chase," Duke says, and it's a warm, reassuring, intimate whisper. "Around your body. Around your soul. I know how to open them."

And those walls - they had been there all along, hadn't they? Oh, Chase had thought he had always been a fairly open, honest person. But he hadn't been, had he? Not if Duke had recognised those walls from their very first meeting. Not if he had taken one look at Chase and found something that needed fixing, walls that needed to come crumbling down if he was to breathe freely again.

Slowly, he nods.

"You just need to let me in," Duke tells him tenderly. "You just need to listen. Let me in. Let me guide you. If you trust me, if you let me, I can show you things no one else can."

His mouth is dry. "I trust you," he says, and it's a whisper if it's anything at all. "What do you want me to do?"

Duke hums. "I would have your obedience. Your loyalty. The role I am giving you demands vulnerability, and I want to see it. I want you to let me make you into what you need to be. I want you to let me in."

Chase nods. He nods, biting down on his lip. "Yes, Mr Cain."

"Call me sir."

"Yes, sir."

Duke smiles. There's something terribly pleased about it, almost relieved. Triumphant. "Can you be obedient for me, Chase? Can you submit to all I demand of you? You wrote that if I want blood, you'll bleed. Will you open your veins for me if I ask you to, Chase?"

His thoughts feel like air. His heart is racing so loudly he's sure Duke can hear it. He had promised his loyalty, his love, his devotion, his dedication. His submission and his surrender. Duke shaping him into his best form would be a joy, something he'd yield to so willingly it'd be barely no hardship at all. At this moment, on his knees with Duke's fingers almost at his throat, he'll bite open his veins and let his blood drain to the last drop if it's what Duke wants of him.

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy," Duke says, and something in Chase flutters in glee. "Open your mouth."

It's not like it was with Vinny. There had been familiarity there. Gentleness. Vinny's hand in his hair had been careful, like he was keeping himself rooted to Earth. The way Duke fucks his mouth now is anything but, his grasp tight enough that Chase's eyes water, each jerk of his hips rough enough that Chase would gag if not for long practice. He closes his eyes and lets Duke use him, feeling desperate heat pulsing through his body like a heartbeat, achingly hard, conscious thought a long way away. He's simply a body in this moment, something for Duke to use for his own pleasure; he puts away Chase Lowry and all his little fears and insecurities and anxieties and simply drifts free.

Chase swallows. Duke hasn't finished on his face like he had demanded Vinny had, and it's hard to resist the urge to cough, to stop his eyes watering. But he swallows still, draws in a deep breath and out again, and opens his eyes; Duke gazes down at him.

"Good boy," he whispers.

He whirls away to his desk, tucking himself back into his pants, cleaning himself up. Chase remains there on his knees, glancing back over his shoulder at Duke uncertainly, his knees and thighs aching but unsure if he's allowed to stand yet. Duke pulls out a print-out and flips through the pages, nods once, and returns to stand over Chase.

He feels... small, like this. Diminished. Duke has complete control over him and Chase is finding he does not hate it. It's almost refreshing, having someone take over, having someone else take responsibility and call the shots. Duke can fix things, take the mess that's been Chase's entire existence for twenty years and actually make things come good.

At Duke's feet, doing what Duke wants him to do, being what Duke wants him to be, he doesn't need to worry about auditions that go nowhere, about the perpetual scrabble between paying rent and having enough to eat, between shelter and going back to living in his car. He doesn't have to worry about cops knocking on the car window at night, or long shifts in bars and fast food joints and in call centres and in stores who are starting to wonder if perhaps thirty-nine is a bit too old for entry-level work, but knowing that he's put too much time and effort into acting to start training for anything resembling a normal career.

He just has to exist. Do as he's told. Be obedient, be loyal, be good.

Duke hands him the papers. Chase skims through it and his heart skips a beat.

It's a contract. A film contract, for a small but significant role in a Duke Cain film. He's seen and signed them before, he hasn't been completely useless, but god, it's thrilling enough he almost feels sick at seeing Duke's name and then his own listed on the same sheet. All the standard details are there - engagement, salary (salary!), method of payment, credit...

Chase pauses at the subsection titled Special Stipulations.

There are a lot of them, in varying degrees of explicitness, detailing what Duke expects him to do. What Duke expects him to be. How much of himself he'll be pouring into this role, into Duke's hands, into his world. He reads them, reads them again. Swallows.

Softly: "May I have a pen, sir?"

Duke smiles, and hands him the one he's been holding already, and Chase signs.

Chapter Text

Vinny paces for seven minutes and it feels like half a lifetime.

He's been using every acting trick in the book to look calm, unflappable, as he had left the audition room; as he had left Chase there, on his knees in front of Duke. And yeah, Chase had smiled reassuringly, had mouthed it's fine, had given unspoken promises; Vinny still frets, his copy of the contract almost crinkling in his hand.

There'll be things to do in the morning. Have his lawyer go over the contract, make sure everything is in its right place before he signs. Check in with his agent, give him the good news. Call his Dad, maybe - yeah, that one he's not so sure about.

Celebrate. Celebrate, because he's just got the lead role in a Duke Cain film.

Now, if only he didn't feel quite so sick to the stomach, because Chase is still down there, and he's sure it's fine, Chase had told him it was fine, why would he be worried about Chase being alone down there with Duke? He and Chase have been fans of the guy since forever. There's nothing to worry about leaving the two of them alone, because nothing bad will happen, will there?

(He can't stop picturing Chase's blue eyes half-lidded as he gazes up at Vinny from his place on his knees, even as he sucks Duke's fingers into his mouth.)

Fuck, he thinks.

It's seedy as hell. It's hot as fuck. He knows intimately what Chase looks like when he's turned on, and yeah, he had one hundred percent been turned on, kneeling in front of them, sucking Vinny off in front of Duke Cain, and Vinny -

Well, he had left the evidence of how he had felt about it written all over Chase's face, hadn't he?

(So why is he worried?)

Still, when he hears feet on the stairs, he jumps up with a speed that belies his uneasiness. When Chase emerges, Vinny scans him almost impatiently, noting his pink lips, the soft hazy look in his eye, the - whoops, looks like things have only been one-way after all - visible arousal. "You okay?" he says as soon as he finishes his look-over, and Chase's gaze focuses as it lands on Vinny.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice is scratchy, and goddamn but Vinny can't help but picture just how that happened. "Yeah, I'm good."

Vinny scrutinises him for a moment longer, then exhales with a nod. "Yeah. Good," he echoes with a mumble, folding the contract and shoving it in his jacket pocket. "How're you getting home? Taxi?"

"I drove. Did you want a lift?"

"Yeah, if that's cool." Vinny lets his breath out through his teeth. "Wanna come back to mine?"

Chase's lips quirk, like he knows exactly why Vinny has asked. "Sure," he says, and it's casual and light and laden with two and a bit years of shared history.

He's glad Gayle has already left. He's glad Duke has remained downstairs. The smile on Chase's lips, the affection in his eyes, it's just for Vinny to see; there's no one to raise eyebrows or comment on Vinny's choice of company as he reaches for Chase's hand and heads back out into the evening air with him.

It's dark when they reach the car, a few doors back from Duke's place. Vinny leans against the hood as Chase hastily moves belongings from the passenger seat to the back, head down like he's trying to hide (as if Vinny would ever say anything, as if he'd make any comment other than wanna come back to mine? or hey, want to stay the night? or it's late, you may as well stay, huh?). When it's clear, Chase steps back to let him in; he crosses to the driver's seat, exhales, then glances sidelong at Vinny and gives him an uncertain smile.

"God, it's been a fucking day," he says, and starts the engine.

The ride back isn't silent. They talk about nothing of consequence - a show they've both been watching, a restaurant that's opened up near Vinny's place, a mutual friend's new stage production. They talk about the weather, for god's sake. Anything other than talking about what had happened back at Duke's place, because Chase is trying to drive and Vinny is strangely averse to them going into a tree; anything but acknowledging the simmering, painful arousal growing between them.

Chase parks in Vinny's driveway, grabs a few things from the back, locks up and joins Vinny at the door. It's dark and Vinny's automatic light hasn't worked for a couple of weeks, and Chase helpfully shines the flashlight on his phone at the keyhole; it clicks open.

The door is closed for perhaps half a second before Vinny has Chase up against it, grinding against him, hands already pressed between their bodies to try and unbutton his shirt. Chase's hands are on Vinny's hips, dragging him closer; he's making little whimpering noises into Vinny's mouth, the heat of his body obvious even through two sets of clothes.

Vinny manages to part from him just long enough to growl, "Bedroom." Chase grabs his hand and practically drags him in, and Vinny laughs and nearly trips as he kicks off his sneakers, dropping his jacket somewhere in the living room, his shirt somewhere outside the bedroom door. When the backs of Chase's legs hit the bed, he collapses onto it and pulls Vinny down with him, one leg curling around Vinny's hips; they've both lost their shirts by now and the sensation of hot skin against skin sends little bolts of pleasure down Vinny's spine.

(Frankly, Vinny is amazed they actually made it in instead of just resorting to the sofa again.)

"You," Vinny says between kisses, and it's somewhere between a moan and a sigh, "You were so fucking hot - god - he was right there -"

Chase practically whimpers. "He fucked my mouth. Rough. Grabbed my hair and used me and -"

When Vinny exhales, it's unsteady, but there's the faintest trickle of concern there at Chase's words, seeping through his lust-fogged brain. "You okay?"

"Yeah. God. It was fucking good -" Chase pauses under him, words and hands still. He's got his hands between them and Vinny's belt unbuckled again, and now there's something distant and uncertain in his expression, some thought he's mulling over. "Can we - try something?"

"Yeah?"

Wordlessly, Chase nudges Vinny back, just enough for him to pull the belt out through its loops. Then, he sets the coil of leather in Vinny's hands and settles back on the bed, exhales slowly, then stretches his arms above his head, folding his wrists amongst the pillows.

Vinny glances at the belt, then Chase's hands and wrists. His heart rate spikes; he's pretty sure he can feel any blood left in his brain rushing downwards. "Yeah?" he says again, this time for confirmation, and it comes out hoarse.

"Yeah," Chase whispers.

"Fuck," Vinny says hollowly, and sheds the rest of his clothes save for the belt he's clinging to, white-knuckled. When he straddles Chase's hips to reach over, Chase lets out a breathy little sound of desire; when Vinny wraps the belt twice around his wrists then pulls it tight through the buckle, tying the rest around one of the boards of the bed frame, he exhales unsteadily.

When Chase catches his eye, he's already flushed past his collar bones. He tugs experimentally, then nods. There's something fevered in his eye.

"Is this what you want?" Vinny says, and he's almost impressed with himself at how steady he's able to keep his voice. "For me to tie you up? To be at my mercy?" Is that too much? He feels, suddenly, self-conscious.

"Yeah." Chase sounds half-wrecked already. What he's doing, apparently, is still working. "Vinny - god - I want -"

"What, Chase?"

Chase groans. "I want you to fucking rail me until I forget my own name."

Vinny can't find the words for how that makes him feel. He doesn't even try. All he can do, he leaves to his body, to muscle memory:

To fumble one-handed in his nightstand drawer for condoms and lube;

To bury himself in Chase's skin, in the heat of his body;

To kiss him, again and again, communication that doesn't need words;

To swallow the sighs and moans and gasps from his lips;

To drink in the sight of him, flushed and panting, one hand clutching white-knuckled at the leather straps;

To hold him close, like he can burrow in under his ribs, when Chase reaches his peak then urges through bitten lips for Vinny to keep going, fuck, don't stop;

To lose himself in him, world shrinking down to just him and Chase;

To reach his climax and making the world white out in pleasure;

To hear, like through glass, Vinny, Vinny, fuck, I love you, come for me, Vinny -

Vinny collapses onto Chase's chest, his breathing ragged, sweaty and aching and satiated. Chase is shivering under him; when Vinny lifts his head, he gives him an exhausted, hazy-eyed smile; Vinny pulls out and wraps himself more fully around him.

"Can you -" Chase sounds hoarse; Vinny feels a little burst of pride. "Uh, my hands -"

"Oh, shit, right." Pushing himself up onto one elbow, he tugs the knotted part of the belt free of the bed frame then pulls it back through the buckle. Chase slips his hands free, rubbing his wrists.

They're chafed red. His left palm has crescents dug into it by his nails. Vinny reaches for his hands, pressing a kiss against his palm, against the chafe marks.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm so good."

"You're shaking."

Chase blinks blearily, holds one hand out to observe the way he's trembling, then reaches up to smooth his thumb over Vinny's cheekbone reassuringly, drawing him down for another kiss. "It's just... adrenaline or something," he promises, and punctuates it with another kiss. "That was - so fucking good."

"Okay," Vinny whispers, and lets himself drift, eyes closed, wrapped around Chase like a security blanket. His mind feels pleasantly fuzzy.

He'll have to get up eventually to shower and eat, and even now his hunger - neither of them have had dinner - is making itself distantly known. But he's used to fucked-up schedules, and this, right now... this is good. Brain and body awash with happy hormones, warm skin against warm skin, hearing the steady sound of Chase's breathing, his heart rate slowly coming back down to normal, long fingers tracing abstract patterns on Vinny's back, snaking up his spine to slide through his hair.

"Chase?" he murmurs through his lassitude.

"Mm-hmm?"

"You said -" He bites his lip. Had he heard it? Had it just been wishful thinking something in the moment? He sighs against Chase's skin. "You said it was good, huh?"

"Vinny, fuck, I love you -"

Beneath him, Chase lets out a little murmur, something uncertain. His heart rate picks up, just a fraction. "I - yeah," he says quietly, and now he sounds a lot less relaxed. Cautious. "Was that okay?"

Coward, Vinny tells himself. Out loud, he lets out a hum of affirmation. "Yeah," he says, and pushes himself up to press a kiss against Chase's lips again. "What made you wanna try?"

Chase doesn't answer immediately. "I'm not sure I can work it out in words," he admits finally. "I'm still trying to sort it out in my head." A sigh, some little sign of discontent. "We should like... shower and eat something."

"Yeah, probably." Vinny pushes himself up and off Chase with a groan, settling on the side of the bed and running a hand through his hair. "We're both kind of a mess, huh?"

"Emotionally or physically?" Chase grins.

"Yes." Vinny grins back. "You go shower. I'll get food."

He stands, deftly dodges the swat Chase aims at his ass, and drags on his pyjama pants, making his way into the kitchen. He's still half buzzing, endorphins and hormones and simple physical release, a smile on his face as he gets scrambled eggs together, the sizzling mingling comfortably with the sound of the shower running. It feels comfortable; there's some sort of bodily high just under his skin, some good mood he can't really shake.

And yet...

And yet.

The water shuts off. Chase emerges after a few minutes, hair damp and mussed, dressed in sweatpants and one of Vinny's t-shirts; he drops a kiss on Vinny's cheek.

"Shower's free. Want me to keep an eye on these?" he murmurs; Vinny nods.

"Yeah. Back in a bit. Don't add too much chilli."

Chase grins. "I make no such promises."

Vinny pulls a face at him, hurries into the bathroom to wash off. By the time he's out, there are tempting smells coming from the kitchen; he dresses fast and emerges to find plates set, toast topped with tuna mixed in with - yes, sriracha, Chase absolutely has an addiction, scrambled eggs piled on top (Chase's has even more sriracha, Vinny's is drizzled with ranch). Chase is already on the sofa with his plate, swiping through his phone; Vinny joins him.

They eat in silence. Vinny is starving, a long day behind him, a tempting future ahead. He keeps watching the side of Chase's face as they eat, the smooth movements of his muscles beneath his skin, his hair still ruffled and loose instead of brushed back, warm and pink from the hot water.

(Chase on his knees, Chase's big blue eyes staring up at him with trust and fevered intensity, Chase's mouth around his cock, Vinny's climax dripping down Chase's cheeks - Chase with his hands lashed above his head, Chase with his legs wrapped around Vinny's hips, tight around him, still trying to draw him closer, deeper even without use of his arms, the chafe marks that still adorn Chase's wrists...)

Vinny swallows hard, and not just because he's accidentally bitten off more than he can comfortably chew.

Chase puts down his empty plate, and the smile he gives Vinny now is goddamn luminous. He's almost glowing with it. "So - what happens next?" he says, and there's something dreamy and awed in his voice.

"We -" Vinny exhales, forcing his thoughts back from the less pure. "Oh, wow. Holy shit." He hasn't quite finished his dinner, but he puts his plate down on the coffee table too. The less sexual side of the evening is reasserting itself. "Holy shit, Chase, we're in a Duke Cain film."

For a moment, they stare at each other. Amazed disbelief. Awe, in the great producer, in each other. Sheer glee, if Vinny's honest with himself. He's loved watching Chase's acting since they first met two years and change ago, in the aftermath of an audition where they had both failed to get the role but had succeeded in what really counted.

Now he gets to act opposite him. With him.

"We're in a Duke Cain film," Chase echoes, and he sounds a little stunned now.

"We're in a Duke Cain film together," Vinny continues, and that, god, that's the cherry on the top for it all. "We're going to act together. Cha-"

He never gets Chase's name out; Chase presses their lips together, a dizzying, breathless kiss, laughter bubbling up from within his chest. And they're both laughing, and kissing each other, and grinning and staring at each other in stunned delight and disbelief.

Acting opposite each other. Together. In a Duke Cain film.

"You earned it," Vinny promises fervently, between kisses. "Holy shit. Chase, you earned this. This is - this could be it."

"I'm nearly forty," Chase says, and his voice cracks despite the half-smile still on his face, his wide eyes. "I - it's not too late?"

Vinny kisses him again. "Samuel L Jackson's big break was when he was forty-five. Morgan Freeman. James Gandolfini. Jon Hamm. Hell, Jane Lynch. Lucille Ball. Bea Arthur! You've worked your ass off and now you're finally getting rewarded for it and Chase, you did it."

It's not just reassurance. It's a promise. He's seen Chase's early stuff. Knows how good he's been, how stupid and shortsighted those earlier producers and casting directors had been to write him off. It's all paid off now - his hunger, his passion, his determination. It's all culminating in this: a feature role in a Duke Cain film, acting opposite Vinny.

God, he can't wait to get on set with him. He can't wait to go to the premiere with him. He wants this for Chase even more than himself - to see him be the goddamn star he knows he can be.

"I did it," Chase whispers, his eyes very wide. "Oh, fuck."

"You deserve it. You deserve the fucking world."

Chase reaches for him, curls into his arms. He's shaking again; Vinny can feel a touch of dampness against his t-shirt as Chase buries his face against his shoulder. All he does now is hold him, running a hand up and down his back, remembering how terrified and overwhelmed and in awe he had been when the confirmation of his own big break had come in the early months of their relationship, how Chase had held him the same way.

"I told you," he mumbles into Chase's hair, the smile not leaving his lips. "I fucking told you, and you're gonna be incredible."

"We both will." Chase laughs again, a dizzy, amazed sound, and then lets out a sob. "Oh, fuck. Vinny - we're in a Duke Cain film together!"

They stay like that for a long moment. Hold on to each other, on to the roles they hold between themselves. Disbelief, relief.

"Damn," Chase says wetly as they finally pull apart. His eyes are red, cheeks damp. "I got your shirt all wet. Sorry."

"S'fine." Vinny practically giggles it, leaning back into him. "Man. I cried when I got Last Bone Yard, remember?"

"Yeah. And you said it'd be my turn next, and -" Chase swallows, turning to press a kiss into Vinny's hair. "And you were right. I've waited long enough."

Vinny reaches for his hand and squeezes. "Yeah," he whispers.

A Duke Cain film. Together.

Man.

The realisation eases back a bit, settles into reality. They're still holding each other. Chase's breathing has evened out; finally, he exhales and straightens up. "It's going to be an interesting production, though," he says, and his smile is crooked. "Duke is, um, an interesting person."

Chase on his knees, gazing up at him. Vinny swallows. "What did he ask?" he finally says, "After I left?"

"It's not, like, dangerous or anything," Chase says, and a frown flits across Vinny's lips. "It's... some kind of kinky BDSM shit. He, uh -" He's starting to colour, flushed red across the tops of his cheeks, his ears. "He wants me to be, um, submissive, I guess. And, uh, available."

Submissive and available. Vinny exhales, and it comes out a little on the ragged side. "Are you, like - okay with that?" he starts slowly, and stops, because he's not actually sure where else he can go with it. Because what, then, are Chase's options? He needs this job. He needs it. If he refuses to get on his knees for Duke, will that chance go up in smoke?

Will they lose their chance to act together?

"Yeah," Chase confirms, sounding more or less firm about it. "Yeah, I'm kind of - into it, I think." He's still blushing. If Vinny touched his cheek, he knows he'd find it warm. "I didn't even realise, but - when he told me to kneel, it felt, uh, right."

"And earlier? Like, after we got back here, I mean, not - earlier, at the house -"

"With the belt?" The red isn't fading. "I just - thought I'd like the idea of being - at your mercy. Controlled. And turns out, I did."

Vinny makes a wordless sound of acknowledgement. "I'm not sure how much I get it," he confides quietly. "But like - I liked it too, from the other side. Knowing I could just - do whatever I wanted to you."

Chase makes a needy little noise at that, then pauses, shaking his head. "Yeah," he says, and it sounds rueful now. "I guess we're both a bit into that kinky shit, huh?"

A careful silence. Chase is clearly working something out, chewing on his lip, worrying it between his teeth, and Vinny watches, and he waits.

"Is that - okay?" he finally says. "Are you okay with it?"

Vinny blinks. "With you doing that?" he confirms, and Chase nods. "I mean, yeah, I guess. It's not like we're -" His wave of the hand doesn't convey much at all. "Exclusive, I guess. I mean, uh - I love being with you." I love you. "But it's just - fun, y'know? It's not my business what you do with others."

But if he hurts you - so help me, if he hurts you -

And he stops that train of thought in its tracks, because if he starts seeing anything, anything malicious in Duke's request, he'll never rest easy again, he thinks.

Chase smiles, but it's smaller, more wry. "Yeah. It'd just be sex."

The implication there, then - that it's not just sex with Vinny. That there's something different there, inchoate, nameless. Something neither of them have acknowledged out loud, dancing around it like a land mine.

"Just sex," Vinny echoes, and pushes himself to his feet. "I'm gonna get a drink. You want one?"

Holding up his half-full kombucha, Chase shakes his head. "I'm good."

"Yeah, okay." Vinny gives him the briefest of smiles, then retreats to the kitchen, and tries not to feel like his heart is doing something in his chest he doesn't care to name.

Chapter Text

Special stipulation 1: The Actor will submit to the Producer, including but not limited to social and sexual submission.

The thing is, it's not even sexual at first.

Things are going well. They've started rehearsals and screen tests, and Chase has got to know the other cast. Apparently Marion has already been recast, Victoria replaced by Zara Good, who Chase knew had originally been given a smaller role. Harry had given him a long, cool, appraising look when they had all been formally introduced, and Chase has no doubt he's remembering the messages they had exchanged, Chase all but begging for him to put in a good word; just to be on the safe side, he's all smiles and gratitude in all their interactions.

But it's Duke he spends the most time with - working out the details of Obadiah's character, his motivation, his eagerness to please and his devotion to Patrick. They finish a rehearsal and the others will leave, Vinny leaving with uncertain backward glances, Harry with a raised eyebrow. And Chase will trail after Duke to his office, slip off his shoes, set down his phone and jacket and doubts anything else he carries with him, and get on his knees.

All he does is kneel. All he does is sit by Duke's feet like an obedient dog, keep his eyes down, wait to be spoken to. Sit and soak in the ambience of the room, its posters and trophies, immerse himself in Hollywood grandeur, trying to ignore the burning in his thighs and knees.

The pain is good. The pain gives him focus. The pain means he's still alive, still hungry, still here; he takes the pain and breathes it in, lets it become a part of him, as much as skin, bones, brain, heart.

He belongs here. He's a part of this world: Hollywood, this house, this office, here on his knees at Duke's feet. He's here and he's alive.

Chase has never felt alive quite like this before.

Duke calls on him occasionally. Bids him rest his head on his thigh, runs a hand through his hair. Sometimes, yes, he'll end up between Duke's legs, a hot mouth for him to use as he wishes; more often, he's simply ornament, digging his roots into this place.

He'll grow into it, this role that Duke has appointed for him.

Special stipulation 2: The Actor will make himself sexually available to others at the Producer's discretion, including but not limited to fellow Actors and Crew.

INT. WHISTLESTOP - PATRICK'S CABIN - NIGHT

A QUIET EVENING in the captain's cabin on the Whistlestop, the ship creaking in the current. PATRICK pours himself a glass of whisky before turning back to OBADIAH, who stands obediently, hands behind his back. His head is down, but he's gazing up at Patrick through his lashes.

Obadiah nods, shifting from foot to foot, visibly anxious. He hesitates before answering.

Another long hesitation. Patrick sighs and downs most of his whisky in one gulp.

Obadiah shifts. There's a clear look of something hungry in his gaze, some kind of eagerness.

Beat. Patrick raises his eyebrows, then sets down the glass carefully. His moves are entirely calculated, calm and precise, including when he reaches out and grasps Obadiah's jaw. Obadiah's eyelashes flutter; he looks flustered and aroused.

INT. DUKE'S HOUSE - REHEARSAL SPACE - DAY

CHASE and HARRY stand in Duke's dining room-turned-rehearsal space. They're in plain clothes, Harry in grey slacks and a dark green polo shirt, looking neat and collected but thoughtful, and Chase in tight black jeans and a thin white shirt that clings to his body. Harry grasps Chase's jaw in one hand; Chase has a flush on his cheeks, his pupils dilated.

Chase swallows roughly. His gaze darts to the side too, uncertain how or what to answer. Instead, the answer comes from DUKE, an older man dressed in black, seated in a director's chair like it's a throne.

Duke sits back with a chuckle. Harry glances at Duke again, his expression intense.

A shock of arousal and fear runs down Chase's spine. Harry isn't asking him, he realises with a filthy thrill. He's asking Duke - requesting permission for whatever he's about to do. The choice has been taken from Chase's hands, and so has the burden. He's free to simply live in the moment, to react instead of decide. It's terrifying, it's liberating; when Duke gives them a careful once-over and then nods, Chase feels a flush of warmth all over.

A gasp, a hitched breath stolen from his lips by Harry's. It's a filthy kiss, all teeth and tongues, and Harry's grasp on his hair is unyielding as he guides Chase to the foam blocks serving as Patrick's desk for this scene. He's shoved back against them, almost lifted off his feet as Harry bites down on his lip. Then, Harry releases him, yanks him around by one arm, and bends him over his makeshift desk, one hand on Chase's hip, the other pressing between his shoulder blades.

Chase lets out a whine, the praise going straight to his cock, and obeys unhesitatingly. He's flushed, breath coming out in little gasps, clinging to those foam blocks like a lifeline. Harry glances to Duke again, then leaves Chase there for a handful of seconds that feel like an eternity, returning with a condom and one of the ever-present bottles of lotion around the house; anyone with a less filthy mind would assume that the inhabitant of the house has particularly dry hands. But it's not for moisturiser, now; Harry unzips his slacks, rolls on the condom, and lubes himself up, wiping his hand clean on Chase's denim-clad thigh, then drags down his jeans. Anticipation leaves Chase's mouth dry.

Chase is cut off by his own cry, a desperate messy keen, as Harry slams into him. The air is punched from his lungs; all he can do is hold on, try to meet Harry's movements, try to keep breathing as best he can.

Another hard thrust. Harry bends over, presses Chase further into the blocks, lets his lips ghost over the shell of his ear.

Chase flinches - a different sort of flinch this time, that old self-doubt rising through the haze of need and want. He can hear those old words, that old self-recrimination, in the back of his mind:

Harry pauses. His hand moves to Chase's shoulder and squeezes, almost reassuringly. When he speaks again, his voice rough, the words are quite different.

He aims a stinging slap against Chase's ass, then digs his fingers bruisingly into the pale flesh of his hip. A gasp rips from his throat; comfortable red haze sinking back into his skin.

Harry pushes himself upright, leaving Chase pressed hard against the blocks. His movements are rough, intense, bordering on violent; Chase's eyes are squeezed shut as he tries to coordinate his breathing in time with the thrust of Harry's hips. When Duke finally stands, grabbing a handful of Chase's hair, Chase opens his eyes, half glazed in something resembling pleasure.

Instantly obedient, Chase does so. This is an old game, now. He knows how Duke tastes, how he moves. How to relax his throat so he doesn't gag when Duke's movements become aggressive. How to breathe through his nose, how to let his body settle into the rhythm Duke has dictated for him. And yeah, it's a little different this time, caught between Duke and Harry, but Chase still knows how to let his mind go still and quiet, let his consciousness free, let his entire existence become his body and the way it can be used by these powerful people.

Chase's eyes are open, but he's not seeing anything in particular as Harry and Duke finish in him, as he reaches his own climax. When they pull out, he remains on the blocks, boneless, breathless, his hair hanging limp and sweaty in his face. He feels wrung out.

Slowly, Chase lifts his head. He pushes himself up with limbs that feel like water, wobbling to his feet like a newborn foal. Duke gives him a long stare, then stalks into the kitchen to retrieve a wet cloth, tossing it in Chase's direction. He misses the catch; it hits the floor with a wet splat.

He gestures to the blocks, then turns back to his director chair, dropping himself into it, picking up the script and leafing through it. Slowly, Chase reaches for the cloth and cleans himself, pulls his jeans back up, and then cleans the blocks off, his hands still shaking. Harry lingers nearby, dropping his tissues and used condom in the nearby bin.

Chase draws in a few deep breaths, visibly steeling himself. When he turns back to Harry and smiles, it's more present, but there's still something faded in his eye.

Special stipulation 3: The Actor will attend parties and events held by the Producer where he will make himself sexually available to all attendees.

He doesn't like the parties.

The first one, in the elaborate spa and pool house, had been a novelty, at least. He hadn't got much swimming done, too busy being passed around like a party favour, and the sauna and steam room had been so hot he could barely breathe, but it had been a relief to his burning skin to rest against cool tiles during those rare periods of snatched time, the spaces in between kneeling at Duke's feet or between someone's thighs or being pressed back against the sauna benches or steam room lounges, listening to the soothing sound of water.

The second one is in the house. He doesn't see much of it; indeed, he doesn't see anything at all. Earlier, when Duke had led him into the bedroom, fastening leather cuffs around his wrists and the cuffs to straps on the corners of the bed, he had taken him by the chin and stared intently into his eyes, then had shook his head with a little scoffing noise.

"Those eyes of yours, boy," he had murmured, "Are a danger." He had wound black silk in a blindfold around Chase's face, and shoved him back into the pillows, and then he had settled back and said, "Take heed of what lessons you learn here. You won't be able to see, but you'll be able to feel. React. Do as you're told." He had squeezed Chase's thigh, and then he had left.

He doesn't known how much time had passed, between Duke's departure and the first guest arriving. Time feels fuzzy. Robbed of sight and freedom of movement, all of his other senses have pricked up - the sound of bare feet against carpet and murmurs and laughter and flesh against flesh, the smell of a myriad of colognes and perfumes, and sweat and lubricant and blood and come. The taste of the pills Duke had given him fading as the taste of bodies as they use his mouth take over.

Touch, most of all. God, there's so much touch he's drowning in it, hyperaware of every inch of his body. The hands on him, the mouths. The way he's stroked and fondled. How they spread his thighs or prop his legs over their shoulders or fold them back against his chest. The way they assume that him not being able to see also means he can't hear or speak and so they will simply manipulate him, manhandle him.

He's not sure what lessons he's supposed to learn, tied up, blindfolded, fucked and used by strangers in a Hollywood mansion. There's not much space for any thinking at all. Chase surrenders to touch, lets his body take over, lets his mind fall away and away and away -

A whisper of air over his bare skin as the door opens, again and again and again -

Hands against his arms. He doesn't quite flinch away, more just... recoils, a little -

"You will be obedient. You will follow every demand they give you. But, should you show a little resistance... there are many who would... enjoy that."

A hissed mutter -

Chase?

Mm.

Keeps his eyes closed, even as hands push the blindfold off. It catches in his hair a little -

Hey, uh - are you - okay?

"What you want doesn't matter. All that matters is pleasing them, and pleasing me."

Mm-hmm.

Hands, tugging at the leather cuffs. One is freed from the bed frame, then the other. Hands, fumbling at the buckles. A curse word, harsh and sibilant. He flinches back -

Sorry, shit, sorry - I'm not mad at you -

He should be making them happy, shouldn't he? Letting them do what they want -

One cuff off. The cool air nips at his newly-exposed skin, chafed and red-raw and stinging. Gentle lips against the pulse point -

The other free. Another kiss. Can you stand?

Can he? He doesn't remember -

...'kay. Never mind.

One of his arms, slung around a sturdy shoulder; one of theirs, wrapped around his shoulder blades. (Hands pushing him down against the spa tiles, splayed between his shoulder blades -)

Another, hooked beneath his knees. He's lifted carefully, delicately; lets his head rest in the warm crook of a neck. He doesn't resist as he's carried carefully, delicately into the bathroom. Doesn't resist as he's set on his feet, most of his weight leaning on another, as they fumble with their own clothes, as the water turns on, as he's guided into the shower. He's pliant, running like water.

A hand running down his back, and he shudders -

Sorry. Sorry. Are you okay?

(He doesn't need to be okay.)

Chase, are you with me?

(He doesn't need to be anywhere.)

What the fuck did they do to you?

(He only needs to let them do what they want.)

Fuck. I'm gonna - fuck him, fuck him for doing this to you, fuck him for talking you into this shit, fuck you for going along with it -

(Quiet. Pliant like the water running over his body. Hands in his hair, hands roaming his skin, but scrubbing him clean, not grabbing, not pulling. Gentle, gentle.)

(He thinks, maybe, someone is crying.)

(He thinks, maybe, it might be him.)

Chase?

Low, murmured. There's the hope of an answer, if not the expectation of one. He gives one anyway. Mm-hmm.

An exhale. Vinny exhales, setting his soapy hands on Chase's shoulders. You're okay. You're okay. You're with me, it's over now.

Chase tries to speak and doesn't quite manage it. Words still feel very far away, like they're coming from the other side of a thick pane of glass. Still, it's important. It's important. Thanks.

Vinny breathes in deep, exhales again. All good. I'm going to rinse your hair, okay? He sets a hand on Chase's face, guides him back under the water. God. At least we can use up Duke's fancy bullshit guest shampoo, huh? Least he can fuckin' do.

An attempt at a laugh. It doesn't really go anywhere. Awareness is starting to slide back in around the edges, and he's tired, and he hurts, and he feels only distantly connected to his own limbs.

It had been better the other way, in that soft haze of oblivion. Better not to think. Better just to feel. If he thinks too much, he'll just keep crying, and that's not good, because nothing bad has happened to him.

He had agreed to all of it. Why can't he stop crying?

Vinny's hand on his face. Gentle, but turning Chase inexorably to face him. Are you on anything? he asks; there's more concern there than judgement.

Chase shrugs. It's the best he's got, right now. Duke gave me pills, he says, and there's - yeah, a bit of a slur there. Dunno what.

Spike of anger. And you just took them anyway? Vinny visibly steels himself, calms himself. Okay. Okay. How're you feeling?

He stares at his hands, wet from the shower. A few words bounce vaguely around his head, inchoate, never quite taking form enough to articulate.

(Disconnected. Blank. Overwhelmed. Sore. Dizzy. Wrung out. Satiated. Afraid. Dirty.)

Okay.

Vinny nods slowly, like he doesn't quite believe Chase's words. Why should he? Chase isn't entirely sure he believes them himself.

He's not sure how long they stand there in the shower, Vinny keeping him upright, keeping him connected to his skin, tethered to his bones. He's a warm, solid presence amongst the water; Chase rests his head Vinny's shoulder, laces his fingers behind his back. Slowly, he stops shaking. When he reaches out to turn the water off, his hands are almost steady.

There's a murmur of conversation from the empty bedroom. Chase feels a tug of vague embarrassment to be found absent from the position Duke had put him in; the speakers fall silent, footsteps echoing away.

Slowly, Vinny exhales, letting go of him carefully, reaching for towels. "Where are your clothes?" he says, and it sounds like actual words now.

He gestures vaguely in the direction of the door. Vinny nods once, then guides him to sit on the edge of the bath, wrapping one of the towels around Chase's shoulders and the other around his own waist before darting back out into the bedroom. He returns a moment later, Chase's clothes in hand; when he closes the door again, he locks it.

His jaw is set. Something bitter and angry in his expression. Chase stares at his hands.

"There's blood on the sheets," Vinny says slowly, and doesn't elaborate.

Chase, balanced on the edge of the bath on his thighs, nods. Stares at his hands.

"Duke said..." Shit. What had he said? His thoughts are like treacle. "There's - subspace. When it's - when it's working. It becomes easy. You stop thinking. You just... can submit. Think it was that."

"You're high," Vinny says bluntly.

Chase winces. Shakes his head. "I mean - yeah, but - it was different. It's - I don't -" God, why can't he explain? Why can't he articulate it, those perfect moments where every cell in his body had reverberated, where everything had clicked, where he had found heaven on his knees?

(Why had it felt different tonight? Why had he felt so fucking cold in a heated sauna, in a hot shower?)

Vinny's hand on his face, wiping tears from beneath his eye. He hadn't even realised he had started crying again.

"You shouldn't do this again," he says, quietly. "These... sleazy fucking parties. Chase, this is so fucked up."

"It's in my contract." Staring. Staring at his hands.

"Yeah, but -"

And he falls silent.

Because there's nothing he can say to change Chase's mind. There's no way to go against what Duke wants for him. He signed a contract, and now he must obey it to the word, obey Duke, or Chase's world collapses. He must obey Duke, or he's out of the film. He must obey Duke, or he's back to sleeping in his car. He must obey Duke, or he loses everything.

Everything.

He can't lose everything again. He can't lose even the tiniest piece, or he'll lose himself in the process. He must obey Duke. There simply is no other alternative.

"He's pimping you out," Vinny says, and it sounds miserable.

Chase laughs, an exhausted little thing, and starts drying off his hair. "He's not -" he starts, and stops. He's not paying me, he was going to say; it's not a transaction.

He thinks of his contract. He thinks of what he stands to lose if he walks away. He looks at Vinny, one of those things; he thinks of acting, of acting by his side, of the promise that one day they'll walk down the red carpet together as costars, that one day he'll be right there with him. That, one day, he'll win; that one day, he'll find a way for all his sacrifice and hard work and pain and misery to be worth something. For him to be worth something.

"Yeah," he says instead, voice flat. "Guess he is."

And because there's nothing else he can do about it, he dries off, and dresses, and walks out of the bathroom and back into Duke's world.

Chapter Text

Middle of the night. Vinny's phone tells him it's 3:56 AM when he starts awake, alerted by something he can't quite identify yet. Light streams in through the slats of the Venetian blinds, casting lines of illumination across the rumpled sheets, sliding like a caress across Chase's bare skin.

He's perched on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, long-fingered hands dangling freely. Caught in three-quarter view, his hair falling loose and the light stroking the planes of his face, he makes Vinny's breath catch in his throat. He doesn't even think consciously before he slides out from under the sheets and tucks himself against Chase's back, head on his shoulder, arms settled around his waist.

One of Chase's hands comes up, strokes the back of one of Vinny's. This close, he can hear him sigh deeply, in and out.

"Sorry," Chase whispers, quiet as a breath. "Can't sleep. Didn't mean to wake you."

"S'fine." Vinny kisses his shoulder, flips his hand around to squeeze Chase's. "Wanna talk 'bout it?'

A shake of the head, wordless. For a handful of long minutes, they linger a moment longer, Vinny curled against Chase's back, hand in hand. Then Chase sighs, unfurling and moving back to slide under the sheets again; Vinny follows easily and pulls Chase into his arms, tangling their legs together, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

He can't protect him. God, he wants to. He wants to fight all the monsters that plague him, fight those who would hurt him and use him at Duke's behest. Fight Duke, perhaps.

"'m sorry," Chase mumbles against his skin.

"For what?"

"For - everything." A sigh. Chase is quiet again, long enough that Vinny starts wondering if perhaps he's started to drift off. "'s not easy. 'm sorry."

Vinny's reply is an inarticulate mumble. He feels soft, sleepy, fuzzy. He holds on to Chase, just a little longer. "Mn," he manages from somewhere deep within, feeling sleep covering them both like a blanket. "Nuh. Loving you's easy."

He falls asleep that way, Chase in his arms, in his bed, in his life.

Another party. This one is different, untethered from Duke's world; it's part of the broader collective of sex and kink in Hollywood, the type that's not quite within Duke's tightly-clenched control.

Vinny has invited himself, and Duke can't say a word against it. He knew he had been taking a risk, insisting on attending the last of Duke's and winning an invitation only through charm and compromise; this new one is something he knows the producer can't do anything about.

What he can do... well.

Vinny's gaze slides across the room to Chase. He's kneeling at Duke's side, dressed (for now, at least) in close-fitting black leather pants and a shirt that's more sheer than solid. His eyes are made up darkly, and around his throat is a collar.

Vinny had winced, when he had first spotted the collar. White-red-white, a little embossed logo for Lampblack Productions on it; it's a marker to everyone there that Chase belongs to Duke.

Part of Vinny understands. He knows, theoretically, what the whole submission thing involves. But seeing that mark of ownership (and not even for Duke specifically! For his production company!)... yeah, it does something unhappy to his insides, something cold and heavy in his gut.

Chase catches his eye from across the room and smiles, just briefly, a reassurance. Vinny lets his lips quirk upwards in response.

The discomfort of seeing Chase collared and kneeling at Duke's feet aside, the party is just interesting. Vinny had had no idea how many of Hollywood's elites were into the whole kink thing, and while he's no stranger to an NDA or just to discretion, he's glad that at least Chase is here to see it too, to gossip about it later. Who knew that that dignified, Oscar-winning actor was into latex, or that that control freak director liked being stepped on?

Some, he can't tell. Some are like him, he supposes, just curious (or worried) enough to want to attend but not take part, dressed as for any other party. Some could be hiding their kinks under neat dress, and he thinks of Chase and the belt and wonders if he's one of those too, himself. Some may just want to watch but not touch. Some may be there, possibly, for blackmail. An NDA has never really stopped anyone, has he?

"Hello, Vinny Monroe," says a soft voice from behind him, and Vinny starts violently enough that he nearly spills his drink. A chuckle, a steadying hand on his arm; Vinny turns, and finds himself face to face with Frank Gardeu.

He's met Frank before, although he doesn't know him well. Honestly, if anything, he's a bit intimidated by the guy - his films are fiercely intellectual, deeply involving and emotive. He's cried watching them before, and then spent the next several hours trying to work out if he actually got it; half the time he thinks he's not actually smart enough to appreciate Frank's direction. Somehow, seeing him here in the flesh, at a Hollywood kink event, swirling a glass of wine in one hand and dressed in a paisley velvet smoking jacket Vinny's pretty sure he saw in a period film once, is absolutely no surprise whatsoever.

(Seriously, who wore a paisley velvet smoking jacket to a kink event?)

"Frank Gardeu," Vinny answers, shaking the man's hand with his best Hollywood smile. "Good to see you again. Uh, how've things been?"

Frank's smile could probably generously be described as 'enigmatic'. "I've been delving into some fascinating projects," he says by way of answer, "Although, alas, I will not be adding The Last Voyage to it. Did you you, the studios honoured me with the invitation to direct?"

Vinny blinks. "No, Duke never mentioned it."

A chuckle, and a glance in Duke - and Chase's - direction. "Ah. Yes. He was rather... unenthused about my involvement. We have a past, you see."

They fucked, Vinny's brain informs him helpfully, before his logic points out that it was probably more likely to be creative differences or clashing egos, the myriad of conflicting points that would come up between two notoriously stubborn filmmakers. "Huh. Creative differences?"

Frank chuckles, and Vinny gets the oddest sensation that his first instinct may have been right. "Duke is a man of great knowledge in what he enjoys. I am as well. Rarely do those intersect." When he fixes his gaze on Vinny, it feels like he's stripped to the bone. "You are one of those areas where we happen to intersect."

"Me?"

A graceful incline of the head. "I was privileged enough to see your audition take. Your passion, your ferocity. Willie's ambition, brought to life by your skill, your force of will. Of course, it will pain me to not be able to work at your side, but oh, the humanity you will bring to the role..."

Vinny can feel his ears and cheeks growing hot. He's no stranger to flattery, is the odd thing. He's seen and heard so much over the last year and a half in particular that he had thought he had become slowly, carefully, numb to it.

But Frank's words - yeah, they do something to him he can't quite put a name on. There's the intensity there, the focus. The fact that Frank really seems to mean it. It's weird, he thinks, just how flustered it's got him.

Frank turns his head, quite deliberately. His gaze settles on Duke - or, no, his gaze settles on Chase, a pretty ornament, kneeling quietly at Duke's feet. "And Chase Lowry," Frank murmurs, and there's something fevered in his expression, bright and alert. "His hunger. His desire. I see why Duke has entangled him now, why he so desired to possess him that he created Obadiah to keep him. I can see why he would want." When his gaze flicks back to Vinny, there's a sound almost like a dull roar in the back of his mind. "There is care between you, isn't there?"

Vinny sucks in a breath and feels something expand and snap in his chest. Ice floods his limbs. "What do you want with him?" he says, and he doesn't even pretend to be polite, doesn't even try to push back the fire stealing over the ice by inches.

Frank's expression is grave. He reaches out and takes one of Vinny's hands, holds it in both of his. "Will you introduce me to Chase Lowry?" he says instead, "I would approach myself, but..." One of those chuckles, and now Vinny thinks he can hear something else in it. "Duke and I never did see eye to eye."

"Why do you want to talk to him?"

He sounds defensive. He doesn't care. He doesn't care that Frank has already seen through him, recognised something between him and Chase that, so far, only Duke has bared witness to. He doesn't care that Frank is a powerful director with decades more experience managing Hollywood; he doesn't care that even attached to a Duke Cain film, Vinny himself could still find himself falling under the Hollywood wheel at Frank's word.

"Dear boy," Frank murmurs, genuine affection and something like worry in his voice and expression, or something so close to genuine that Vinny can't spot the artifice. He gazes at Vinny for a long, long time, the thoughts almost visible on his face. Finally, he lets out the quietest of sighs, shaking his head, just fractionally. "I have... concerns."

Vinny swallows. "What kind?" he asks, and it comes out a whisper.

Frank gestures for him to follow, and Vinny does like he's been tethered. The corner Frank guides him to is quiet, dimly lit, but closer to Duke and to Chase, the pair still visible - Duke, socialising; Chase, kneeling. The hand in Chase's hair, the collar around his throat. Vinny glances around at the assembled party-goers, swallows, and seats himself in Frank's lap.

"What kind of concerns?" he repeats, his lips close to Frank's ear.

Frank, at least, quickly hides the brief surprise that had flared in his expression; he chuckles, wraps a supportive arm around Vinny's waist, and makes absolutely no attempt to grope or manhandle him. "You've learned your part well," he murmurs, and gives Vinny's knee a little squeeze, then adds, more gravely, "You see, Duke and I - we know each other well."

"Well?"

"Well," Frank confirms, and a little part of Vinny's brain crows, I told you so. "I know his tastes. His desires." His expression darkens. "His deficiencies. You care a great deal for Chase Lowry, do you not?"

What's the point hiding it? Frank has already seen right through him. "Yeah. We're in a - I'm not sure if it's a relationship, but - we -" Vinny bites his lip, the words not coming and frustrated about it. "Yeah."

Frank makes a noise of confirmation. "Men like Duke," he says, "Love power, and the power they have over others. They enjoy the trappings of - this sort of society - without truly understanding what it means. For those who come under his heel, it could mean... harm. Tell me, do you know what a safe word is?"

Vinny's brow furrows, because the way Frank has phrased it is peculiar - like one word, not two. Proper noun, not a noun with an adjective before it. A safe word. "No," he says slowly.

"Aftercare? Negotiation?"

"I mean, I know what negotiation is," Vinny says, and shrugs. "I've been signing film and TV contracts since I was eighteen." But he still stares down curiously at Frank from atop his lap, because he's assuming, here, that the context is something quite different, some new way to think about things that has not occurred to him before.

"And would Chase?"

Bitterness makes his voice hard. "He knows what it means to do shit because it's in his contract."

"If Duke was to put Chase in a situation," Frank says, and he meets Vinny's gaze, and his expression is intense, "Where he did not feel comfortable, would he have a way to say no?"

"It's in my contract."

Slowly, wordlessly, Vinny shakes his head. "I don't think so," he finally says, and his voice comes out a bloodless whisper.

"Then," Frank says, and it's gentle, so gentle; "Then, we have ourselves a problem."

It's a problem, Vinny soon learns, in more ways than one. Frank simply wants to have the chance to talk to Chase, to see how he's feeling about how things have played out, what he wants to do next. The trouble is, there's simply no way for him to just approach him; Duke detests Frank, and would doubly distrust any attempt at letting him talk to Chase.

So Vinny volunteers himself, readying himself for disapproval, for recrimination in how he had interrupted the last party. He spreads contriteness across his face, apology; he made a mistake, he hadn't understood what had been going on that night, he wouldn't do it again. Would he be able to have a quiet word with Chase, a moment to clear the air? He wouldn't be long, really.

(Hopefully, Duke had not spotted him sitting on Frank's lap earlier.)

Easy. It would be easy.

Still, Duke stares at him when he approaches and gives his pitch, every acting skill he has on full display. He stares at him like he's trying to work out the best way to pin Vinny to a board like an insect, like he's something to be added to his collection. Vinny smiles back (apologetic, deferential, willing to please) and hopes and hopes, and Duke finally sighs and nudges Chase's hip with his shoe.

"Go," he says simply, and Chase stumbles to his feet. A flinch, a bitten-off gasp of pain; Vinny has watched him kneeling for at least half an hour and he knows Chase's legs must be in agony as feeling floods back into them. He offers Chase his arm without thinking.

"Thanks," Chase mutters, his face white with pain, composing himself as he turns back to Duke. "Thank you, Sir," he adds softly, and lets Vinny lead him away, limping only a little.

(Smirks from some of the others around them. A few muttered comments; a laugh. Vinny ignores them. Let them think what they want.)

The main room is the biggest, busiest, but certainly not the only one. To the fringes are other rooms - some for privacy, others for public spectacle. Vinny leads Chase into one of these private rooms and helps him collapse onto the bed; he does so with a whimper, digging his thumbs into his thigh muscles to try and ease the cramps and pins and needles.

"God," Chase groans sincerely, "Fuck - it's fucking bad tonight."

"Anything I can do to help?"

Chase hesitates for a moment; Frank takes that time to emerge from the adjoining bathroom. "Lie back with a pillow under your knees, Chase Lowry," he murmurs, and Chase starts; "Pants off. You may put the sheet over yourself if you are bare beneath them. And Vinny, you may massage his legs, especially the fronts of his thighs. The quadriceps, if you know your muscles."

Vinny glances at Chase, who's staring at Frank like he's some sort of mythological creature, and nudges him to get his attention; Chase jumps again, then, still not tearing his gaze away, does as he's told.

(Vinny tries not to think about that easy, automatic obedience, the way he doesn't hesitate as he peels the leather pants from his legs, tugging the sheet over his lap, cheeks stained in a flush. The way his hands are shaking, but his movements are fluent, like he's done this a hundred times before. Like being invited into bedrooms by older, powerful men and being told to strip is second nature to him.)

"Mr Gardeu," he mumbles, not meeting Frank's gaze, "It's an honour to meet you."

"Chase," Frank says simply, and now, he looks up. "Please, relax. You have no need to perform for me. I wish we could have met under kinder circumstances."

Vinny finds Chase's hand and squeezes it. Chase clings back just for a moment, finally lying back amongst the pillows. He's starting to look a little uncertain, like it's just sunk in that the situation he's found himself in is not actually the norm for... whatever his life has become. His gaze remains fixed on Frank as the director takes a seat in the armchair in the corner of the room. "Kinder circumstances, sir?"

(Quite different, the way Chase had used the same title for both Duke and Frank. There were capital letters in the way he had addressed Duke, Vinny thinks.)

Settling himself at Chase's side, Vinny reaches out, glides his palms down the front of Chase's thigh. Another sound of pain from him, a bite of the lip. He's still pale, shaking a little; Vinny feels the sudden urge to punch Duke in the face and forcibly smothers it down.

"Chase," Frank says again, gently, carefully. "Vinny here has told me somewhat of the… things you do for Duke Cain. How you submit to him. How it's in your contract."

The look Chase shoots Vinny is half-accusing; Vinny doesn't meet his eyes and concentrates on working out the knots in his muscles. "Yes, sir," he says quietly, "Did you want to -" An exhale. "Uh, I mean - for something like tonight, you would need to ask him. If you wanted to, uh, make use of me, I mean. There are - there are events he hosts when I'm, um, available, but if you want to use me for tonight, it's at his discretion -"

Frank holds up a hand, and when Vinny glances up, there's a glimpse of something quietly furious there. "I have no intention of using you, Chase."

Chase shuts his mouth.

For a long, quiet moment, Frank simply gazes at him. Then he sighs, sitting back, folding his hands over his knees. "You know," he remarks, almost light, "I quite enjoy this community. Kink. BDSM. Dominance and submission. I enjoy the rush of power as a Dominant, the liberation of choice as a submissive. This is my community."

(Vinny thinks, with the part of his mind not occupied with soothing Chase's pain, that this explains a lot about Frank's movies.)

"And Duke Cain - Duke Cain," Frank says, and that quiet fury is back, "Does not play by the rules. Tell me, Chase, do you know what a safe word is?"

The same question he had asked Vinny earlier. Vinny glances at Chase, blinks when Chase nods silently.

"And do you have one?"

"Duke -" The name cuts off, brittle. "Duke said it was unnecessary. That it was used to stifle true submission."

A wordless expression crosses over Frank's face. "Aftercare?"

A shake of the head.

"Negotiation?"

A shrug, this time. Chase doesn't meet Frank's eye, staring at Vinny's hands easing the knots from his muscles. "I guess it means something else in, like - a kink context."

"It's an essential part," Frank says grimly. "Negotiation, limits. There is something to be said about total power exchange, but that is something you may - may - delve into with experience. With consent. It is not to be entered into lightly - and certainly not as a condition in a film contract. Duke Cain has never been one to take the concept of limitations into account. If you were to say no, would he listen?"

As Frank speaks, Chase shrinks into himself. His shoulders hunch, he wraps his arms around his chest, he bows his head; the leg that Vinny isn't massaging draws up. He makes himself small. His expression is anguished. Wordlessly, he shakes his head.

"He didn't," he finally says, quietly, not meeting either of their eyes.

Vinny's hands still. He didn't, not he wouldn't; past tense, not a hypothetical future. "Chase?" he whispers, not wanting to word the question that hangs heavily in the air.

"The parties," Chase says, and swallows. "On my contract, it's - special stipulation three, the actor will attend parties and events held by the producer where he will make himself sexually available to all attendees. I wasn't - I didn't want to. I asked if I could... not do that. He said I had already signed, so I had to."

Ice in Vinny's stomach. He's remembering that party vividly, of finding Chase on that bed, tied up and blindfolded, used and bruised and so, so far away. "They raped you," he says hollowly.

Chase blinks, his expression melting from confusion to a quiet sort of devastation. "It's in my contract," he says, like he's trying to convince himself. "I signed it. I can't - it's - I agreed to it. That means it can't be... rape, can it? I signed it."

Frank, quietly: "You were not given the opportunity to refuse. Would Duke have allowed you to change the contract, no matter how little you wanted these special stipulations?"

"I - no. I don't think - no."

Tears in his eyes. Vinny's chest aches.

A sigh from Frank. "Vinny," he murmurs, and nods to them both. "I think Chase would need comfort right now."

"Yeah," Vinny whispers, and pulls Chase into his arms. For just a moment, Chase freezes; then, a shudder through his entire body, a sob he's been holding back all this time, and another, and more still, months of bottled-up pain all coming out at once.

Vinny holds him, and strokes his back, and kisses his hair and his forehead, and wishes there was something, anything he could do. He can feel the anger building like a boiler under pressure and keeps it tamped down for Chase's sake alone, but god, he wants to hurt Duke. He wants to sink his fist into his gut, beneath his ribs, into his smug face. He wants to feel bones break under his hands. He wants to seize him by the throat and shake him until apologies fall out.

He's admired, idolised Duke for as long as he can remember. He had been nine years old and solemnly shaking Duke's hand at an industry mixer hosted by his father, he had been fourteen years old sneaking into a midnight showing of Hoarfrost III; he had been twenty-six years old and holding the script for The Last Voyage with reverent hands.

(He had been twenty-five years old, on his knees in front of Duke at his Christmas party, shaking from a combination of drugs, adrenaline, and - yeah, fear, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand while Duke zipped up his pants, patting him on the head like a dog, patting him and telling him he had done well, that they could keep secrets, be discrete, no need to mention the violent fight Vinny had got into; a week later Vinny would get the callback for the film that had launched him into stardom -)

How had he been so goddamn blind? He had known all that time what Duke had been like. If he had let his fear and disgust and anger override his ambition, if he had let Duke's star tarnish in his mind, if he had let those emotions spill out when Chase had asked, gently, about the hurt in his eyes -

Then yeah, maybe - maybe they wouldn't be where they are now. Maybe they wouldn't be at this party, Chase breaking down at the realisation of what had happened to him, with no easy answers and no way out.

Frank rises, ducks into the bathroom. When he returns, it's to silently hold out a glass of water; Chase accepts it shakily, sipping at it between sniffles, still half curled into Vinny like he's a teddy bear.

"Thanks," he finally says, and his voice is hollow.

"You are welcome," Frank murmurs, and retreats again.

Eventually, Chase's tears stop, his breathing evens out. He looks exhausted, his makeup smudged, eyes red; it's too clear he's been crying. Vinny's heart aches. He wishes he could take him home.

"I didn't hate it," he finally says, quietly like it's something that shames him, not quite looking up enough to make eye contact. "Not all of it. There was some of it that -" A flush spreads across his cheeks, his ears. "Some of it I liked. A lot. Especially when it was just him." He exhales, slowly. "Mr Gardeu, why are you telling me these things?"

Frank lets out a thoughtful little sound. "I recognise something within you," he finally says. "A true submissiveness, that joy and liberation of being able to give up, to let others shape you. A desire to please. I enjoy the Dominant position as well as the submissive, and I do not know whether that is something you will discover within yourself, but your submission, I recognise."

He lets out a sigh, and now he stands, resting a hand on Chase's shoulder to meet his gaze fully. Chase glances at the hand, startled, then back up at him; he's silent, but does not pull away.

"Duke Cain recognises that too," Frank continues grimly, "And his way is to take advantage of it. Your sweet submission, your hunger - he will take it and use it. He will use you. And I wish to save you from that fate."

There's something more to it in Frank's voice, his expression and pose, Vinny thinks. Some knowledge. He finds himself nodding. "So what do we do?" he asks, and he sounds more than a little desperate.

"We do nothing," Chase answers quietly, and Vinny glances down at him, startled. "There's nothing we can do. If I don't do what he says, I lose the role. And I can't. I can't fucking take the risk. If I lose the role, I lose everything."

Vinny opens his mouth, but no words come. Because Chase is right, and Vinny hates it, because - because if Chase loses this role, after fighting so hard for so long, it'll destroy him. It will destroy him more than Duke ever will be able to.

And he can see now that Chase will let it happen.

He'll keep going to the parties at Duke's behest. He'll keep letting himself be tied up and blindfolded and drugged and fucked. He'll keep spending evenings on his knees. He'll keep being used. He'll keep being raped.

Because he can't see a world that will let him have the alternative.

Chase rises on wobbly legs and drags his leather pants back on. Steps into the bathroom to wash off his smeared makeup while Frank sits quietly and broodingly, while Vinny stares at the rumpled sheets and thinks violent thoughts about Duke.

When Chase re-emerges, he looks pale and worn. The excess eyeliner has been scrubbed clean, the remainder artfully smudged. He looks debauched. He doesn't look at Vinny, nor at Frank.

"Thank you for your kind comments, Mr Gardeu," he says softly, "Thanks, Vinny."

He walks out the door, and doesn't look back.

Chapter Text

And it's fine. It's fine, okay?

He knows now, that what Duke is doing isn't... great. And he's still going along with it, because there isn't an alternative, not really. He's not Vinny, young and gorgeous and talented with film roles falling at his feet. He's just hit forty and The Last Voyage is his only and last chance.

If he goes against what Duke wants, he's out of the film. If he's out of the film, there'll be a permanent black mark against his name, of someone who was linked to one of Duke's films and now no longer is. There'll be questions, and even the slightest question could cost him any new role. And yeah, he's getting paid now, but it'll only be a matter of time before what meagre money he's managed to scrape together runs dry, before he falls behind on rent, before he ends up back in his car.

And he can't do it. He can't keep fucking doing it.

A part of him, a quiet, exhausted part, tells him to give up. Leave. Walk away from the bruises and the drugs and the hands all over him. And god, he wants to. He knows that Vinny worries, that even Frank Gardeu had given him dire warnings, but...

But...

He gets to act. He gets to act with Vinny, and they've done so many scenes together now, and their work is electric. It's a high beyond any actual drug Duke has ever given him to be able to make that magic together, to know they're managing this together.

So he'll accept it. He'll deal with it. He's made sacrifices before. He's given up regular meals, a roof over his head. Friendships, relationships. What's his dignity, in all this?

And it's not all bad, is it? It's - good, even. Frank had been right, that there was a genuine submissiveness at the heart of his soul. There's a part of him that sings when he's on his knees, when Duke grabs his chin and stares into his soul, when he pushes him into the sheets and takes him apart. A part of him craves the rough hand, the pain that reminds him he's still real; a part of him needs the security of being told exactly what to do, how to act, how to live.

So he'll tolerate the other parts, the parts that make him feel sick and filthy and used. He'll deal with the parties where he's nothing and no one other than a body to exploit, hoping that at least Duke will drug him enough that he doesn't have to think about it. And that's fine too, isn't it? In the end, isn't that just what he is? He's a small, insignificant part of the Hollywood machine that Duke drives; he's spent too long starving to complain when Duke deigns to feed him a handful of crumbs.

But...

It's bad traumatic wretched not the best day, today. Duke has been in meetings with studio executives, and that always leaves him stressed and ill-tempered, wanting to take out his frustrations on mostly-willing flesh. This particular executive, a younger man who apparently learned all his social skills off Tiktok, clearly doesn't like Duke, still doesn't like Chase, especially doesn't seem to have any respect for him if the raised eyebrows and skeptical expression when he had walked in that first time to see him kneeling there is any indication.

"Chase Lowry?" he had asked, less confirmation, more asking if Duke was quite sure of his decision. "Well - right."

He doesn't like Chase and especially doesn't respect him. He's still more than happy for Chase to suck his cock, on his knees between Carlile's legs, the hand in his hair rough, manipulating Chase's movements like he's a toy. Chase keeps his eyes closed and lets himself drift, lets himself be the object that Duke wants him to be, and waits for it to be over; when Carlile is done and Duke has dismissed him, he's only shaking a little as he rises.

Outside the office, now. Chase leans back against the door and closes his eyes, just long enough for his legs to stop trembling.

It's not his fault they speak loudly. It isn't.

"- actually any good? Or do you just keep him around for passably decent blowjobs?" Carlile says, the smirk practically audible. Chase digs his nails into his palm.

Duke lets out a thoughtful sound. "He has his uses," he says eventually, with a brief little laugh. "He takes instructions well. Very... eager to please."

"Desperate, you mean."

"A touch of desperation can add a great deal to a performance, whether that be in front of the camera or otherwise."

Carlile makes a sound of affirmation. "Are you considering using him for the service?"

The service? Chase frowns, leans that little bit closer. He had heard Duke mention the streaming service he was wanting to set up, was that what Carlile was talking about?

But - using him for it?

"Perhaps. If he's good enough."

Something ugly blooms in the pit of his stomach. If he's good enough, Duke had said. If he's good enough, and god knows he's been trying. He's been burning himself to ashes to be good enough, to let himself be used however Duke wishes just so he'd be worthy to stand up there with Vinny; he knows he'll do so much more to be good enough.

Including whatever the hell this streaming service involves. God, he just wants people to look at him and think he's good enough.

Soundlessly, he takes his leave.

A mostly-nude male figure in contrapposto, viewed from behind, illuminated from one side by red light and backlit in brilliant white. A subtle line of tension runs through his body, in the way the muscles of his legs shift as the camera pans up his body, until it reveals why - his hands are lashed above his head, wrists wrapped in crushed velvet rope. Red, like blood. Like flesh.

He wears an oversized white shirt, unbuttoned, skimming to mid-thigh; the bright white light renders it translucent, revealing the shape of his body beneath it, lean, almost underfed. Other than the white shirt and the ropes around his wrists, his only other adornment is a blindfold in that same bloody red crushed velvet, the ends trailing to mid-back.

Another figure emerges into the shot, circling slowly, languidly. Their face is never shown, just their body - muscled, tanned, the picture of masculinity. This new figure wears black - black leather pants, black leather gloves, black leather boots, laced to mid-calf. In one hand, he holds a black leather whip. Without warning -

The whip cracks.

The bound figure arches his back as the thin white shirt is suddenly, violently, torn open - along with a line in his flesh. No sound from him, no cry or groan, but the camera focuses on his lips, a gasp implied in the wet way they part. Pleasure? Pain? It's left to the viewer's own interpretation.

The figure with the whip circles once more. Lashes out with it once more, this time painting a stripe across the bound figure's thigh. He twists away from it, head dropping before he straightens again, ready for the next lash.

Again, again, again. His back, the shirt left in shreds. His thighs, his ass. His calves, a few times. Any cry he produces is muted, the only sound being the crack of the whip, the creak of leather, the soft wet sound of blood dripping down his skin and onto the floor. His face is never shown in full. His mouth, his lips, parted in agony and ecstasy, yes. The clenching of his bound hands, the way they shiver and shake. His visible arousal. The way his legs tremble and barely hold him up.

When it's over, the rope around his wrists unravels. He falls to his knees in cacophonous silence. The light fades; the screen goes dark.

There's not actually as much blood as Chase had feared, in the end.

What's left on his skin swirls down the drain, and he stares at it, one hand pressed against the shower wall, trying to keep his feet from sliding out under him. They feel only tenuously connected to the rest of him, feet and legs and hips, hands and arms and shoulders, head and neck and chest and back, all lying disconnected in the Mouse Room, their only companion the slow click of the old-fashioned film camera.

He thinks he's left something of himself in that room, splattered on the floor with his blood. There's a void inside him, cold and biting.

He doesn't understand it. It had been, by all accounts, a fairly positive session. He had been clear-minded, Duke not providing his usual pills, telling him he needed to act as well as feel. He had - enjoyed it. Gotten off on it. It had been something good, the bite of leather delicately parting his skin, never once touched by another's hand.

Just him, and pure crystalline pain, sharpening him into some exquisite kind of tool. When Duke had picked him up off the floor, cupped his chin in his hand, and murmured that he had been magnificent, Chase had felt like he was floating.

So why, why does he still feel like he's been flayed open? Why does he feel like his bones have turned to knives, slicing him apart from the inside?

He rests his forehead against the wall of the shower, presses his lips together. He thinks if he opens his mouth, he'll start screaming, or sobbing, and not stop.

And he doesn't understand why.

God. He had enjoyed it. It hadn't been like the parties. He had enjoyed it.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He doesn't show up at the rehearsal space the next day.

The alarm on his phone goes off, and Chase stares at it and lets it ring and ring and ring. He closes his eyes again. The alarm goes off again. Chase turns it off, then carefully turns and curls up on his other side. Eight o'clock comes and goes. Nine o'clock. The phone rings. Chase turns back to it and watches it ring and ring, Duke's name shining on the screen. The alert of a voice mail being left plays, then a text message, then another.

He turns away again.

The wounds on his back slide open like a caress and leave flushed red kisses on the bed sheets.

He doesn't sleep. Not exactly. He's not quite there, but he doesn't quite have the pleasure of oblivion either.

A knock at the door. Chase stares at his bedroom door and doesn't get up to open it.

The rasp of a key in a lock, a click. The door swings open.

Chase?

Soft, cautious. Uncertain.

Quiet footsteps, growing louder. A knock on his bedroom door. Chase, you in there?

Maybe he says something in reply. He's not entirely sure.

The door opens. Vinny regards him and there's something Chase can't read in his expression. When he crosses the floor, he does so like the bed might bite, but he sits down on the edge anyway and reaches out to smooth Chase's hair back.

His hand is warm. Chase makes a needy, pathetic sound and presses his forehead against Vinny's palm.

God, he's really fucked you up this time.

Vinny kicks off his sneakers and lies down, gathering Chase into his arms; Chase's breath hitches as Vinny's hand brushes the wounds on his back and Vinny flinches like he's just touched a hot stove.

Shit. Roll over, lemme see.

He rolls over obediently, never one to ignore an order.

Vinny is silent for a long, long time. Then he stands and walks out of the room.

Chase stares at the wall. His eyes aren't closed.

Footsteps. Vinny returning. When he next touches Chase's back, it's with soft warm wet fabric, easing the blood from his skin, cleaning and soothing. He drops a kiss to the unmarred skin of Chase's shoulder, strokes his hair. Talks to him, quietly and gently, little mumbled reassurances, stories. Conversation. Distractions, he thinks.

Chase, Vinny murmurs as he sets aside the wet cloth, You can't keep going like this.

He laughs, and it sounds exhausted even to himself. Yeah.

Vinny's head against his shoulder. Not a fucking answer. Even that sounds fond.

Chase closes his eyes again, and lets himself fall into Vinny's hands.

"So what, like, actually happened?"

Later, now. Chase feels vaguely human again, or at least less like a loosely-constructed pile of limbs and nerve endings. Vinny has cleaned his wounds, changed the sheets, got him food (toast with peanut butter, sliced banana, and honey, an old comfort food he thinks he's only mentioned, like, once) and drinks (water, coffee) and meds (ibuprofen, and... he's thought it best to start PrEP), and stayed, and talked, and cuddled.

He feels like he's been put back together. Still objectively feeling terrible, but - better.

It's helped. Vinny has helped. Chase strokes the back of the hand he's been holding with his thumb and tries to put words together.

"That streaming service," he eventually manages, "He wanted me to film something for it."

"What, like, porn?"

Chase snorts. "He called it 'independent arthouse erotica'. So yeah, porn." He's trying not to think about it too much, about what his career has become, because at least he has a career. Swallows, and adds quietly, "He - it was the, uh... the S&M part of BDSM."

Vinny reaches out with his free hand, strokes the skin between the marks on his back. "He hurt you?" Chase can't see his face - he has his head in Vinny's lap, turned on his side - but he sounds troubled.

"Not him personally, another actor, but like - it was fine." Shit, he can feel himself flushing. "Not just fine. I was, uh - I was into it. It was just after that it got bad. Like I went to shower and just... started feeling fucked up about it. But at the time, uh, yeah. I was into it."

"Oh. Uh - oh. Okay." Less troubled, now, more flustered. Chase cranes his neck back and catches a glimpse of Vinny's own pink cheeks; despite himself, he grins a little. Vinny visibly composes himself, clearing his throat a little. "So, uh - did anything happen after? In particular, I mean?"

A shake of the head. "No. He just told me to go shower."

Vinny makes a thoughtful noise. Doesn't answer immediately. Chase lets him think.

"I've been doing some reading," he finally says, slowly.

"What, like, an actual book?"

Vinny snorts at the familiar teasing, flicking him on an unmarred stretch of skin on his upper arm. "Nah. Websites, actually. Uh - BDSM stuff, mostly. Frank - I've been talking to Frank Gardeu, he's shown me some, like, legit ones. Good sources. How to do this stuff safely."

Chase can't think of anything to say to that, and so he doesn't. Too many thoughts, too many questions, too many uncertainties. He nods to prompt Vinny to go on; Vinny sighs and reaches down to stroke Chase's hair.

"What you said last month," he finally continues, uncertainty in his voice, "At the party - you said there was nothing we could do, because if we did, you could lose the role, and - I know. I know, man, you need that role. But it's fucking you up, the shit he's doing to you. So we were trying to think, what can we - I - do that'll help you, without you losing the role?"

"Why?"

The word escapes his mouth without him thinking about it. Automatic and bewildered. Vinny, researching safe ways to do BDSM? Vinny, trying to find a way to help without him losing everything? He can't understand why he'd go to such efforts, why he'd care that much, why he'd bother.

"What - why - what do you mean, 'why'?" Vinny says, sounding about as confused as Chase feels.

Why bother with me? Chase swallows down, and instead shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. You, uh, you were looking stuff up?"

Vinny doesn't answer immediately. Maybe he's caught Chase's deflection, but if he has, he sets it aside from now. "Uh, yeah. Like - best practices and stuff. You remember how Frank mentioned aftercare?"

"Yeah."

"And like - okay, boundaries and negotiation and safe words - they're important as hell too. But Duke isn't gonna give you that." Vinny sounds grim, anger simmering behind his words. "And it sounds like he's not gonna give you aftercare either. But I can. If -" Faltering, just for a moment. "If you want."

He's been tapping away on his phone. Now, he offers it to Chase, open to a page titled Aftercare: The Essential Part of Post-Session Recovery. Curious, Chase accepts it, wincing at the sheer bluntness of the first line:

Aftercare is the essential process of providing physical, emotional, and psychological care to participants of a BDSM scene or session. It is not an optional extra or afterthought; rather, it is part of the scene itself. A session does not end until its participants have reached a stable, comfortable, and healthy state of being, feeling safe, cared for, and reconnected after the intensity of the scene.

Safe, cared for, and reconnected - he had certainly never felt anything like that after one of Duke's sessions, no matter how much he had got into it at the time. "It's essential?" he says quietly, already knowing the answer, not wanting to confirm it for what it might mean.

Wordlessly, Vinny scrolls to another paragraph, further on:

While some experienced kinksters may mutually agree to forego aftercare - communication is key, here! - a Dom who insists their sub doesn't need aftercare is negligent at best and abusive at worst. A session should leave all participants feeling safe and supported, Dom and sub alike. If your sessions leave you feeling worthless, neglected, and miserable, you're not experiencing kink. You're experiencing abuse.

Chase stares, stares at those last three words for a long time.

He thinks about shivering in a hot shower. About the emptiness he feels down to his bones. About feeling so sick and fucking tired he can't even bring himself to pick up his phone. You're experiencing abuse, the page tells him, and Frank, and Vinny, and every logical part of his brain.

But, but, but -

But, those excuses seem far away now, with the bluntness of the text spelling it out for him in black and white.

You're experiencing abuse.

Chase sucks in a breath. "So what do we do?" he says quietly, an echo to Vinny's earlier words.

At the time, he had answered them with we do nothing, because there wasn't anything he could see being done. If Vinny has ideas, though -

Well, he can listen now.

Vinny looks down at him, and his smile is one of genuine relief. "Let me know when you have, uh, a session or whatever," he says quietly. "I can just... be there, I guess, afterwards. Look after you. If Duke won't give you aftercare, then fuck him, I'll do it."

"I don't always know when he'll, uh, want me to. It doesn't - it's not on, like, a schedule." He sounds dubious, even to his own ears.

"Yeah. But like, if he says, hey, I want to do something, you can text me, right? And I'll be there as soon as I can."

"I don't want to drag you away from whatever you're doing," Chase says through the lump in his throat. "It might be important."

"You're important, idiot."

He laughs wetly. "I'm not. That's the only reason why he can do this shit."

Vinny sighs and nudges him, prompts him to sit up. Chase does so slowly, achingly, cross-legged and facing Vinny; he takes Chase's hands. "You're important," he repeats, and he looks so fucking intent, "And I wanna do this. I -" He swallows roughly. "I want to do this for you."

I love you, Chase thinks helplessly, and nods once.

You wrote:
15 June 2025, 5:31 PM
He wants me to record something
Dont know how long itll take
Could be 1 hour could be 4
Vinny wrote:
5:33 PM
That's ok. Text me when you're done
Will be ready whenever you are

Chase slumps against the wall and closes his eyes, wincing at pressure against his bruises. His hands are shaking as he retrieves his phone, switches it back on (despite all of Duke's rules), and texts Vinny, a single done. Less than a minute later, a reply of on my way; Chase smiles blearily at it.

It hadn't been bad. If not for the cameras, for Duke's biting criticisms, it might have even been enjoyable. It was less arty than the last one, more outright pornographic; he had been cast as a man picked up by a couple played by Harry and Zara, taken home by them, and...

Well. His character hadn't had any real concept what he was getting himself into. Chase, at least, had a little more idea.

It still didn't help a lot.

He doesn't look up when Zara settles beside him against the wall with a soft groan. They stand there in silence, a new level of bodily awareness between them, the lightest of contact between shoulder and upper arm; when Chase does glance over he's not surprised to see the hollowness of her eyes.

She spots him looking and smiles wanly. "So what does he have on you?"

"What?"

"Duke. He has something on you, right? That's why you're doing this."

"Oh." He tucks that implication away - that for her to ask, he must have something on her - and shakes his head. "It's not dirt or anything. He -" God. It's still so fucking humiliating, what his desperation has driven him to. "I haven't worked in, uh, a while."

"Right." Her voice is quiet, uncertain. Silence for another spell, before she confesses, "I told him about Vicky. Victoria. Victoria Cross."

Chase frowns, tries to recall the name. Another actor, his brain dredges up, the one originally cast as Marion. She had left the role early on, before they had even started the rehearsal process in full. Drugs, or the like. "About her using?"

"She doesn't," Zara says, and it's a harsh little laugh. "Or if she has, certainly not to the point of rehab. No, see, she was going to write to the union about how Duke treated her. I let him know first."

And from there, it's not hard to put the pieces together. An actor, threatening to expose Duke; a promise from a minor player who wants something bigger. Victoria in rehab for drug use when she doesn't use; Zara cast in her role.

"Oh," he says again, quietly.

"So: he has something on me. I assumed it was the same for you."

Chase shakes his head. "No dirt. Just a lack of work and the risk of going back to sleeping in my fucking car again."

She shrugs, letting her hair fall over her face. "Then we're both still trapped."

"Yeah," he whispers, and it comes out aching.

He can't hate her for it. Hunger's led him to some desperate places, he has the bruises to prove it. And Zara seems diminished now, broken down, like her moment of ambition has given her a single meal while simultaneously placing a muzzle around her face.

Vinny wrote:
8:27 PM
hey Im outside
You wrote:
8:28 PM
ok out in a min

Chase exhales, then turns and, surprising even himself, kisses her on the cheek. "We'll get out," he murmurs, and sets out on weary feet to join Vinny.

Chapter Text

"How do I look?" Chase says, brushing back an errant strand of hair.

"Hot," Vinny says. He doesn't entirely mean to say it so bluntly, or at least not without the impression that he's at least thought about the question instead of letting his dick answer for him, but -

Chase is in slim-fitting black pants with the faintest of a pinstripe pattern, making his long legs look even longer. The waistcoat has subtle swirls, clasped at the front and laced at the back like a corset; the shirt beneath it is loose, silky, and the precise shade of blue as his eyes, which are made up with pinpoint-precise black eyeliner. He's switched out his usual star-shaped stud earrings for a pair with little blue gems in them that catch the light; there's a glimpse of a delicate silver chain beneath his shirt collar. His nails are glossy black, tipped with silver.

Yeah, he looks hot. Vinny hasn't quite been able to stop staring.

"Shut up." A flush crosses Chase's cheeks; he raises one hand to his face, self-conscious. Vinny crosses the floor, catches his wrist, and kisses his palm.

"Seriously," he says, in a tone of voice to match his words. "You look gorgeous. You're gorgeous."

Chase shakes his head, turning back to the mirror to fuss with his hair again. He still looks doubtful. Vinny sighs at the old argument, about his complete inability to get Chase to accept his own attractiveness.

Stepping beside him next to the mirror, Vinny gives himself a once-over. He looks fine, honestly. Mostly in plain black, well-tailored but less decorated aside from a tone-on-tone stripe to his button-up shirt, sleeves folded up to elbows (it's July, it's July in Los Angeles and the evening is baking hot). No makeup, no jewellery, no nail polish. His only accessory is his watch (a smartwatch, silver band).

He looks... presentable.

"I hope Frank has air conditioning," Chase mutters, straightening up the waistcoat. Vinny gives him a rueful smile and turns to pull on his socks.

"He lives in Beverly Hills. I'm gonna assume he can afford air conditioning."

Vinny has been in many Beverly Hills homes over the years. Hell, he had grown up in neighbouring Holmby Hills; he's a native resident of the Platinum Triangle, the richest parts of Los Angeles, where stars and filmmakers mingle with tech moguls, business execs, and other disgustingly wealthy people. But there's something about tonight's dinner that has him almost nervous, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he's getting ready for an audition.

Frank Gardeu had invited him and Chase, specifically, exclusively, to dinner. It'd just be the three of them for, as Frank had said in the invitation (hand-penned!), "an evening of dining, drinks, and however much company we are all amenable to."

It's... not hard to read between the lines.

Duke wouldn't approve. Vinny knows that. But there's nothing in Chase's contract, nothing in his own, that says that they're not allowed to socialise with Frank. Whatever happens is still well within the rules, or at least the ones that are on paper.

Still - a bit of nerves. Even outside of everything with Duke, with the entanglements of contracts and rivalries and whatever existed in the past between the two titans of film, there's the more expected anxiety of spending a private dinner with a director he's admired for years. Not even a Hollywood upbringing can erase that little thrill of nervous anticipation.

He glances at his watch just as it hits six and the alert comes through for the car. "Damn, his people are punctual," he remarks, and slides his wallet and phone into his pockets. "Ready?"

Chase licks his lips nervously; Vinny's eyes dart to the pink flash of his tongue and tries not to think of the audition room at Duke's house (Chase on his knees, Chase gazing up at him with trust and desire, Chase's eyes half-lidded and the tip of his tongue resting on his bottom lip as Duke instructs him to -). "Yeah," he manages, pocketing his own phone and following Vinny out the door.

The car is sleek and black, the driver polite and professional. Vinny and Chase slide into the back seat and lean back against the leather, and Vinny traces the line of the door handle and wonders how many young actors Frank has ferried up to his place, if this is something he does regularly or if he's made a special exception for them. The part of him that grew up in Hollywood suspects it's the former. A part of him sort of hopes it's the latter.

He glances across at Chase. His hands are folded in his lap, one leg jiggling up and down. When he spots Vinny looking, he glances back, forces an exhale past his lips, and presses his feet together.

It's fine, Vinny wants to say, and finds the words strangled by the presence of the driver (who, at least, is paying them absolutely no attention; he suspects they could actually outright fuck in the back seat and she still wouldn't raise an eyebrow). It's fine. I'm nervous too.

The car carries them into Beverly Hills, through streets lined with palm trees and multi-million dollar mansions. Vinny gazes out the window and contemplates, vaguely, what it would take to live there.

(What he would have to sacrifice. What he would have to lose. He looks across at Chase, gazing out the car window in wonder, and winces.)

Frank's house, at least, seems to be in keeping with the others from the outside. The evening sun glints off white travertine pavers, bouncing the light around the covered entrance; it's only when Vinny steps out of the car and in front of a glossy peacock door that he can start taking in the details.

Plants, sculptures. Bronze and tile. There's one of those twisting glass chandeliers in brilliant blues and greens hanging above the entrance; Chase is openly staring.

"I feel a little out-of-place," he mutters as he heads up to the door, bumping his elbow nervously against Vinny's. "Maybe we should go back and get burgers somewhere."

"You're fine," Vinny promises him, and is about to speak further when the door swings open to reveal Frank Gardeu.

He's almost dressed down this evening, sleeves rolled up like Vinny's, still in one of those embroidered cravats, leaning casually against the frame of the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Vinny spots Chase straighten up ramrod straight.

"Chase, Vinny," Frank says warmly, meeting both of their gazes as he says their names. Chase flushes slightly, ducking his head. "It delights me to welcome you both to my home. Please - come in." He steps back, honest-to-god bows; Vinny nudges Chase to at least try to get him to relax a little and starts inside.

It is indeed much cooler inside, and darker, and - there's no other word for it - sumptuous. Duke's house had been all straight lines and sharp angles, blacks and whites and greys, the only warmth from pale timbers. Minimalist, modern.

Frank's place would probably give Duke's cleaners a conniption. There's stuff everywhere - thick, rich rugs underfoot and patterned wallpaper around them, curtains that fall in layers, pulled back with tasselled ropes or left hanging. The furniture looks like it's more out of an antique store than a housewares catalogue, full of rich colour and textiles, brocades and velvets and patterned silks. Cushions, sculptures. Plants, just about the only thing he and Duke's decorating has in common.

Art, everywhere. Vinny glances up at the painting of a male nude, eating grapes, reclined on a lounge, then does a double-take when he realises the 'lounge' is actually two more men, entwined, nude, a flood of red velvet fabric turning them into furniture.

"Wow, cool place," he says, tearing his eyes from the painting, and only squeaks a little.

Frank chuckles, and says nothing about Vinny's red face, about how Chase is trying to look anywhere but the painting, his eyes still drifting back to it nonetheless. Vinny sees him swallow visibly, glance up and meet his gaze, then look away with a flush on his cheeks, tries not to get flustered at that in turn, and settles for the safer option of staring at the sofa.

Gay BDSM porn on the walls. Christ, he may not survive the night, and he's not entirely sure he'd want to.

Still, it goes on easily enough from there. Frank makes them drinks (a Bloody Mary for Chase, with plenty of Tabasco; Vinny asks for something new and Frank makes him something called a Sazerac, whiskey and syrup and a swirl of absinthe that gives it an anise flavour he's trying to decide if he likes or not, then puts together an Aperol Spritz for himself). They sit, they talk. Gossip, mostly. Hollywood chatter. What people are working on, ideas being thrown around, meetings being held.

It's... normal. Nice and normal, or as normal as Hollywood ever gets.

Dinner, then. Frank had made the drinks, but he apologetically says he's not much of a dab hand at cooking and instead has had something made up for the three of them, inviting them into the dining room. And it, too, is beautiful, with chairs that don't match but somehow go together, with a broad wooden table so polished it gleams, with tableware that looks like it's been gathered over a lifetime.

The window overlooks Hollywood, stained with the setting sun and beginning to light up for the night. Vinny takes his seat opposite Chase and finds his breath catching at the way the light plays on his skin, the lines and angles of his features, the shadows cast as he moves and talks and eats and drinks, a rapport between him and Frank that even Vinny can see.

It makes him ache to see it, to see Chase content and engaged and, yeah, enjoying himself. And he knows Chase loves acting opposite him, can see the passion in his eyes and face and every movement he makes when they're immersed in a scene together, but - god, there's no trace of the shadow that's been in his eyes over the past few months, no worries or anxieties.

He belongs here, in this world. He belongs here as Chase Lowry, as an actor, as an artist, as a part of Hollywood, and not broken down and lying at Duke's feet. He deserves so much fucking better that Vinny can barely taste the perfectly cooked fish he's eating or the very nice white wine he's drinking, too busy just watching, just listening, just letting his imagination run wild to see what Chase would be like if he could just exist freely in the world they're both supposed to be a part of.

It's dark by the time they finish eating (dessert: these delicate little cakes Vinny thinks might be called petits fours, and a sweet fortified wine that he definitely needs the name of). Frank invites them back to the living room, and now the lamp light is soft and sensuous, casting delicate gold over Chase's features. He seems at ease now, moving through the room with unconscious grace. Vinny feels a little like a voyeur, just watching him chatting to Frank, just taking in the way the evening has eased the stress he carries like a shadow.

"Vinny," Frank murmurs; Vinny starts. He's half-forgotten he's here as well. Chase offers him a sweet, patient smile; even he's seemed to notice that Vinny has been quiet, distracted by his presence.

Vinny feels himself flush. "Uh. Yeah?"

A chuckle from Frank. It's not mean-spirited, but something about it feels pointed. "We should discuss the - circumstances we've found ourselves in," he says, almost gentle. "Chase's circumstances, specifically - although I can only assume you would want to be a part of this as well."

"Yeah." It comes out automatically, instantly. "Yeah, of course." He glances up at Chase, whose expression has melted into something a little more pensive, concerned; tries to smile reassuringly and doesn't quite think he hits the mark.

"Frank," Chase says, and his voice is wary (Frank, over dinner - "Please, call me Frank. 'Mr Gardeu' makes me sound like I'm being asked to sign something" -), "Have you ever been homeless?"

Frank's expression, when he looks back at Chase, is quietly thoughtful. "A period of sleeping on a friend's sofa in my younger years, yes," he murmurs, and studies Chase like a painting. "I can assume from your questioning that this has been a much more... pressing issue. A more recent one."

Chase's jaw tightens. "The last time I slept in my car was last December. I was working at a fast food place. The owner let me sleep in the parking lot. Even LA gets cold in winter at night, it's a good night when it's above fucking fifty." He rubs his thumb over the back of his hand, a nervous little gesture. "It's - I've spent more time in an apartment than in my car, but only just. I had nothing when I first came here when I was eighteen and, you know, beginner actor, I was kind of expecting it. But I was still fucking there twenty years later, and now I have a major role in a Duke Cain film, and -"

His voice catches. Vinny doesn't even think before he gets out of his armchair to join Chase on the sofa he's on, reaching for the hand he's rubbing anxiously; Chase gives him an exhausted look that may have a smile buried in it somewhere.

"You're afraid of what might happen if you defy Duke," Frank concludes quietly.

Wordlessly, Chase nods.

"You can stay with me," Vinny says, and he's said it so many times now, and Chase has turned him down so many times more. "Seriously. I can support you until -"

"Until what?" The exhaustion is clear in his voice, too. "Until I die of old age? Vinny, I don't wanna be your charity case. That's not me. If I can't do this on my own, I'm fucked. If I get kicked from the film, or if Duke decides to fucking sue me for breach of contract, I'll never work again. He'll make sure of it. Then what?"

The silence is only so nasty because the words ring true, and Vinny hates that they do. They both know Duke's reputation, how he can break people as easily as make them. How he can be kingmaker and executor both. It's the rare person who manages to break free from Duke's sphere of influence, and neither of them are that kind of person. Vinny's star is still too new, too tenuous, and even he's in a significantly better position with the power of his father's name.

Chase, who's spent over twenty years struggling with an ever-waning list of credits, wouldn't have a chance.

"What if," Frank says, and there's an actual smile there, cautious, tempting, "I could come up with a counter-offer? Duke Cain is not the only filmmaker with power in this town, Chase."

In the lamp light, Chase's eyes look almost colourless as he glances up at Frank, halfway to disbelief.

"You, uh -" He swallows. "You could get me a role?"

"Yes." And his answer is so easy, so instant, that Vinny thinks he might actually believe it. "Duke would love to have you believe that his voice is the only one that matters, that displeasing him means death. But it is not. His power is great, but there are many others with power of their own. I can help you, Chase Lowry. You do not need Duke Cain."

Chase's hand, in Vinny's, is trembling; Vinny wraps it in both of his. "I'm - if I go against him -"

"You are afraid of him."

Chase nods once.

Something wordlessly sad crosses Frank's face. When Vinny blinks, it's like he's seeing him again - not as an eccentric director who relishes in his oddness, not as the peculiar figure wearing paisley velvet smoking jackets at kink parties. He's seeing him as a man who's been hurt before, someone who covers up pain with a proclamation of fierce independence and a name no one can challenge.

Quietly, Frank says, "I am sorry. There is little I can do to stop you feeling your emotions, because Duke can, does, and has hurt people. I know this better than most. I am sure you have guessed we were once lovers."

Vinny nods; Chase, too. They've discussed it themselves, in quiet, "Do you think...?" "Yeah, maybe?" asides; it's not a surprise to have that confirmed.

"We were younger men, then. Duke's star was rising, mine was yet to. He always had had an interest in power. With the naivete of relative youth, I assumed that it would translate neatly across to the bedroom. It was only as my knowledge of kink grew that I discovered he had no interest in any sort of relationship - just of possessiveness and control." His smile is wan. "His power was not so great then that he was able to ruin me when I left him. I was not able to convince Lia of the same, for he never showed her quite the same... force of his desires. She would stay for their son, and later, for his memory. I was glad when she was able to finally cut herself free."

Slowly, Vinny nods again. A part of him had made assumptions, guesses that Duke had been at least a little more on the normal side before the death of his son. To know that he had been - he can't think of any other way to phrase it other than 'an abusive control freak' - even before, doesn't sit well with him.

His father has been friends with Duke for decades. He had introduced he and Lia in the first place. Does his father know what he's like; had he worried when Duke had cast him in The Last Voyage?

(He had been twenty-five years old, on his knees in front of Duke at his Christmas party. If his father was going to worry about his only child's association with Duke, he should have started the year before.)

"So what do I do?" Chase says quietly.

Frank doesn't answer immediately, a frown on his face as he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, fingers steepled together. "This contract of yours," he says thoughtfully, "Has Duke violated it in any way?"

A shake of the head. "It offered him, uh, a lot of freedom." Chase's voice is bitter. "And not a whole lot for me. I was an idiot. I shouldn't have fucking signed."

"If you had known what he would do, would you have signed?"

"No. Like - I mean, I don't think so." He bites his lip and looks down. "I don't know. I was sleeping in my car, man."

"My Dad has lawyers," Vinny offers, and when Chase whirls to him, eyes wide, he continues, "Like, I don't know if they'd work pro bono, but -"

"Vinny," Chase says, and his voice is strangled, "I really don't want anyone associated with your father knowing what - what Duke has me do. It's bad enough that you know."

It's a little like a slap. "The fuck does that mean?"

"Look at me!" He gestures wildly, his hands shaking again. "I'm Duke's fucking - you said it weeks ago, that he was pimping me out, and you were fucking right, okay? I'm just his goddamned whore. How the fuck can I look anyone in the eye after all this shit? I might as well just let him do whatever the fuck he wants, it's the only way I'll get to have some sort of motherfucking life and it's not like I'm good for anything el-"

Vinny kisses him. Cups his face in both hands and kisses away every bitter, frustrated, self-loathing word spilling from Chase's lips, because if he doesn't he's going to start shouting, and he knows that's never ended well, that the magmatic burn of his temper welling up has only ever caused problems.

He wants to scream. Wants to find Duke and beat him to a pulp, put the boot in, cause him pain. He's made someone Vinny cares about think he's worthless, he's hurt someone Vinny loves, and that's enough to erase every bit of admiration or goodwill he's ever had towards the man.

Fuck Duke for doing this. Fuck him, for putting Chase in this impossible scenario.

So: he says it.

"No, fuck him. Fuck him, Chase, he's a piece of shit and you deserve so much better, okay? You deserve fucking - everything good. You're not a fucking whore because he took advantage of you. Okay?" He puts his hands on Chase's shoulders, shakes him gently. "Okay?"

When he pulls back, Chase is staring at him. His eyes are wide, red-rimmed, the lamp light catching on the tears gathering there. His lips are white and pressed together. Wordlessly, he nods once, swallowing like he can't trust his own words.

"Chase," says Frank softly, who has risen from his seat only to crouch beside them, setting one hand on Chase's arm. And yeah, that's - striking, actually, because Vinny can vividly remember Chase on his knees in front of Duke; he can't see Duke willingly lowering himself to comfort anyone. "I have lawyers as well. And believe me, there is nothing they have not seen before."

Chase glances between Vinny and Frank, still wordless, looking like he's been struck by lightning. There's something changing in his expression, though, just a little easing of the tension, the faintest hint of hope.

"Why?" he finally says, and his voice is hoarse. "Why would you help me?"

"Because I want to," Frank says simply. "Part of it is selfish, I will admit it. A small, petty part of me would very much like to spite Duke. But also, it is because there is a side to you that reminds me of me, of someone who hungers, who desires. Because you are a person who deserves better. Because I am in a position to be able to help you, and so why would I not?"

Chase's shoulders fall in a pained exhale. "What - what would you want in return?"

"Nothing you would not freely and willingly give." When Chase's eyes flick up disbelievingly, he adds with a shrug, "I will not hide that I find you beautiful, that I very much desire you. If you - and perhaps Vinny, should he be willing too - were to find your way to my bed, I believe we could have a very nice time together."

(Vinny, still holding on to Chase's hands, finds his face heating up in a flush, and decides to unpack that thought later.)

"But," Frank continues with a raise of the eyebrows, "I would rather share my bed with willing, enthusiastic participants. If you would rather things stay professional, then I will help find you a role outside of Duke's world, and give you access to legal services, and, should you wish for one, a willing ear to talk to. I will not attach conditions. I am not Duke."

Chase exhales, pulling his hand free from Vinny's, running them through his hair and leaving it in disarray. "I don't think I can just... leave," he finally says, winding his fingers together in his lap and staring at them. "Not yet. Um - if you can try and find a way for me to get out, then yeah, I'd - appreciate it." He swallows, closing his eyes. "I can't just walk away. Not yet. But - thank you."

There's something deeply unhappy on his face, yeah. Vinny's seen it there for months. But he's now also starting to see something that looks very much like hope, just a fragile little thread of it, and -

And it's a start. It's been hell for Chase, but here now is a start, a genuine one. No strings attached, no conditions, no special stipulations signed in blood. There's the potential for an actual future here, and it's one that doesn't involve flaying himself open at the feet of Duke Cain.

"Thank you," Vinny echoes, letting his gratitude show in his voice. "Seriously, man."

Frank smiles, sets one hand on Chase's folded ones, his other on Vinny's shoulder. "You are both remarkable young men," he murmurs. "You deserve a chance at happiness that is not strangled to death by red tape. We will manage this."

Vinny thinks he might actually believe him.

Chapter Text

He hates the pool house.

He hates the sauna, how it burns in his lungs. He hates the chlorine stink, mixed with something else metallic and chemical; he hates the way the light shimmers off the water, leaving chaotic, disorienting ripples over the walls and ceiling and making him think there are people hidden around every corner. He hates the way every sound echoes in there - footsteps, speech, the sound of flesh on flesh.

He hates the steam room. Hates how it feels like he's suffocating every time he walks in, like his lungs are slowly filling up with water. He feels like he's made of glass, condensation sliding down his throat, drowning him from the inside out.

He hates the press of tiles against his back, the hot wet sear of them against his flesh. Hates the way there's nothing to hold on to, his nails scrabbling in the grout to try and keep hold of something, chipping the polish, leaving the edges ragged. He hates the slickness of sweaty flesh, the slide of wet hands over his hips and thighs and ribs and shoulders.

He hates the fucking pool house.

He's in the pool house now, with Duke, in the steam room. No touch yet, just the intensity of Duke's gaze from beside him, the steam swirling around them and filling his lungs with an ocean. Duke's expression is steady, unfathomable; Chase feels small and stripped bare, even the towel around his waist no protection from that hungry stare.

I have given you everything you could ever ask for, Chase.

You have, Sir.

I have helped shape you into who you are today. I have given you purpose. You were empty and I have filled you up.

I know, Sir. Thank you.

Eyes boring holes into his flesh.

Chase.

Yes, Sir?

Who do you belong to?

You, Sir.

Duke moving, Duke pinning his hands above his head. His grasp is so tight Chase can feel his bones grind together; he bites down on his lip and tries not to cry out.

You will not see Frank Gardeu again.

Lips parting in a question, a denial, then he swallows. Yes, Sir.

And once this production is over, you will find it in your best interests to sever yourself from Vinny Monroe.

...Sir?

He can't do it. He can't imagine his life without Vinny in it. Chase stares. Stares at him.

Every great performance has a body buried beneath it. There is no art without sacrifice. I cannot shape you into what you're meant to be if you've bound yourself to someone else. That boy is all surface, no depth. Do you want to barely skim the surface of your abilities, or do you want to reach your truest potential?

I -

Who do you belong to, Chase?

Hands around his wrists, tight enough to bruise.

...You. You, Sir.

Duke's mouth on his. Duke's hands on him, pulling the towel away, slicking himself up with the ever-present bottles of lotion, pushing his legs up to his chest. No warning, no preparation as he enters him, Chase gasping against his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.

Look at me, Chase.

...Yes.

Yes, what?

Yes, Sir.

His eyes stay fixed on Duke. He doesn't look away, even at the friction and burn that runs hot fingers up his spine, even at the scrape of tile against bare, sweaty skin, even as Duke grabs and grasps and digs his claws in. He's being possessed, overwritten, torn open; all the empty spaces are being filled with Duke's presence. He's not Chase, not really. He's an extension of Duke's will, a tool for him to use, a story for him still to write.

And he wants this. He wants to be useful. Wants to be used. Wants his entire goddamned life to have meaning, for all of his struggles to be worth something, for him to have not suffered for nothing. He needs it to be worth it.

If it's not, then why keep fighting? Why struggle, why fight, why suffer? What's the point of all those years of screaming for his voice to be heard, if not this?

Tenderly, Duke wipes the tears from his face. Then he closes one hand around Chase's throat.

Who do you belong to, Chase?

He tries to swallow, tries to breathe. Tries to force the words out. His lips shape the words: You, Sir.

No sound comes out.

I can't breathe.

Panic fluttering in his chest like a bird.

His lips shape words but no sound comes out, no sound comes out -

I can't breathe.

Duke's eyes bore holes into him. He's possessed, controlled, used. He's a toy for Duke's pleasure, he's a tool, he's an object.

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

Duke stares into his soul, down to the marrow, sees what he's made of. Every deficiency, every weakness written into his bones, every fucked-up failure swirling in his blood.

Stop this. Stop! I can't breathe -

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.
I can't breathe -

Duke's lips shape the words, who do you belong to? Dark spots dance in front of his face. The edges of the world are white with steam.

I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.
I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't -

He's going to die here. He's going to die at Duke's hands and suddenly, urgently, he knows that this is not what he wants -

Duke releases him. Twin bolts of release strike him like a knife to the chest. The rush of oxygen, chasing away asphyxia so violently his vision turns white, dragging in gasping, burning lungfuls of air; the climax, leaving him arching his back, no sound escaping his parted lips but every nerve on fire -

He falls limp. Still gasping for breath, high stridor from his ruined throat, eyes wet, shaking like a leaf in a storm. He can't quite seem to gain control of his limbs. All he can do is remain there, trembling, pressed between the tiled bench and Duke's body while Duke finishes in him. When he pulls out, Chase slumps sideways, one arm pinned under him and the other rising tremulously to his throat. He feels like there's an iron band around it; he feels like he's breathing through a straw.

Duke cleans himself up and doesn't look back. Chase curls up on his side and tries to remember how to breathe, tears trickling into his hair.

Get up.

...I can't. Sir.

His legs won't cooperate. His body doesn't feel like his own.

Duke leaves him there. Leaves the door open, at least, and the rush of cool air is a balm against his skin. He only shivers a little, watching the way the steam dances in the air; thoughts drift through his mind like water vapour, never settling long enough for him to take notice of it.

One of the security guards enters after (a few minutes) (a few hours) (an eternity). Bigger man, regarding him without emotion. He's seen too much at Duke's house to be bothered by much, Chase thinks. The man picks him up like he's a rag doll, uncaring of his nudity, carrying him from the room, from the pool house, across the garden and into the house. Up the stairs to the guest room. Deposits him on the bed and walks away.

The door clicks as it closes.

Chase curls himself into a ball, and breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

He must have fallen asleep, because when he wakes, his clothes are folded neatly on the chair. His wallet and keys are there. His phone isn't. Chase stares at them, then drags himself up, the world swaying beneath his feet, and stumbles into the bathroom. When he showers, he keeps the lights off and the water cool. He can't abide the idea of steam.

His hands are still shaking as he dresses. Both his wrists are bruised. When he emerges, voices lure him downstairs; Duke is there, and so is Vinny, and Zara and Harry. There's a security guard - one he recognises, one who's often around, one who Duke has often invited in at his discretion.

Every single person here has fucked me, he thinks idly, and steps out into the light.

Vinny turns, his lips parted in a greeting and relief on his face; then, he stops short. Fury crosses his expression and he takes two long, sharp steps towards him, hand raised towards Chase's neck -

Chase flinches. Draws back, one arm raised defensively across his throat, the other hugged to his chest. Instantly, there's remorse, horror on Vinny's face; slowly, like reaching for a skittish street cat, he sets his hands on Chase's shoulders instead.

"Chase?" he whispers.

He tries to arrange his features into a smile. "Hi," he says, and it comes out raspier than usual (but it still comes out, he can still talk, Duke hasn't taken that from him -)

Slowly, slowly, Vinny moves his hand. Touches just the tips of his fingertips to the side of Chase's throat. When Chase swallows, it burns.

"Did Duke do this?" he says, still in a whisper, practically just mouthed.

Chase hesitates, then he nods once.

Vinny's jaw sets. An instant before he does it, Chase realises what he's going to do; he grabs Vinny's arm as he swings at Duke, arresting his momentum, leaving him stumbling. Vinny straightens himself up, pushes himself to his feet; his fists are still balled as he turns on Duke. "What the fuck did you do to him?!"

"Nothing that wasn't in his contract," Duke says, and smiles and smiles. His eyes flick to Chase; he beckons, then points to his feet.

Kneel.

His legs move automatically. When his knees hit the tile, he doesn't even wince.

"No," Vinny says, and it's a snarl. "No, come on. Get the fuck up, Chase."

Chase stares at the floor. He can feel humiliation prickling in his eyes and a part of him craves it, even now. He knows what he'll see if he looks up - Vinny's fury, Zara and Harry's disdain. Look at him. Pathetic, isn't he? Pathetic.

"He likes it here," Duke says, so damnably calm, and pats him like a dog. "Don't you, Chase? You belong here, at my feet."

"Yes, Sir," he whispers.

Everything he's worked for - it ends here, at Duke's feet. Everything he's suffered - it's so he can be here.

"Chase," says Vinny desperately. "Chase, come the fuck on. This isn't fucking funny. Get up!"

"He signed a contract." Duke sounds almost amused at Vinny's defiance, his anger. "He knows what his role is. What his place is. Do you, Vinny? Do you need a reminder of what you promised? I can elevate you beyond whatever your wildest dreams have ever told you are possible. All you need to do is know your place. You don't want to displease me, Vinny."

A long silence. And then Vinny says, "Maybe I do. Maybe I wanna start some fires. I quit."

Chase lifts his head.

Vinny stands with his hands balled into fists, shaking, his face red with fury. His lips are curled in a snarl. Rage radiates off him.

He looks young. Young and foolish and angry. Wordlessly, Chase shakes his head; Vinny doesn't notice, staring Duke in the eye.

"You don't want to do this, Vinny," Duke repeats. Any amusement has faded. "You are young and you are talented, but you are not above burning out too early. Too many big roles, too soon. It was too much for you, wasn't it?"

Vinny laughs. Laughs, and that is what makes the flash of anger cross Duke's face. "You threatening me?"

"Merely pointing out a fact. You won't walk away, Vinny."

"Fucking watch me." His gaze moves to Chase, he holds out a hand. "Come on, Chase. We don't fucking need him."

"Maybe you don't," Duke says with a smile. "Would you want to take that risk, Chase?"

When he turns to Chase, it's deliberate, bending down, hiding Vinny from sight. He sets a hand on Chase's cheek, and it's almost affectionate, almost warm.

"Chase," he murmurs like a benediction, "Oh, Chase. The boy with such hunger in him that he understands that sacrifices need to be made. Perhaps we don't need Vinny. Perhaps all we need is each other. The blood in your brushstrokes. My hand, guiding yours. What would you be, if you let me shape you? What heights could you soar to? I could make you into something truly magnificent, Chase. I could show you the stars."

All he can see is Duke, the warmth, the affection on his face, in his eyes. All he can hear are his honey-drenched words.

"Stay by my side, Chase. You were nothing before, and you'll be nothing again, if you squander the gift I offer you. You want to be a part of something, don't you, Chase? Who do you belong to?"

Chase swallows, and - it hurts. His throat hurts, so fucking much. It hurts, because Duke had wrapped his hand around Chase's throat and choked him to near-unconsciousness and -

And he could have died in the steam room, under Duke's body, in his hands. He could have died, and it would not have been worth it.

Slowly, Chase rises to his feet. Full height, he's taller than Duke. He hadn't noticed, before.

"I don't belong to you, Duke," he says, as loud as he can manage through his ruined throat, and walks past him, and takes Vinny's hand.

Vinny glances up at him, startled, amazed, and grins like the sun has just come out.

Watching all this time, Zara and Harry exchange glances. Then Zara lets out a little laugh and shakes her head, too. "You know, I don't think it's worth it any more either," she says, and joins Chase and Vinny; Harry gives the trio a bemused look then crosses the floor too.

"If you walk out that door," Duke says like ice, "I will ruin you."

Chase just laughs, a hoarse sound that tears at his throat; he doesn't look back. "You already tried that," he says, "And it didn't work."

He lets Vinny lead him out.

The rest is a little bit of a daze. Vinny is calm and in control as he stops by the security station and retrieves both their phones, as he leads Chase back to his own car. "I got a taxi over," he murmurs, holding Chase's keys up, "Are you okay to -? Actually, yeah, no, let me drive."

Chase nods. He seems to be moving on autopilot now, his defiance playing over and over again in his mind. Standing up. Calling Duke by his name. Taking Vinny's hand. Walking away, turning his back and walking away -

Vinny guides him into the passenger seat, squeezes his shoulder. "Your place or mine?"

A shrug. He can't think too well right now. All he wants is to be away. Vinny hesitates, then nods, ducking his head to give Chase a brief kiss.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is rough and self-conscious, "I'm proud of you, 'kay?"

Proud of him? Fancy that. He hasn't been proud of himself for a long time, it's a novelty to have someone proud of him instead.

Vinny takes him home. It's a shitty little rental but it's his for now, his as long as he can still pay the rent, his so long as he's getting a paycheck. So, really, he might as well get as much use out of it as possible, because he has enough saved up for maybe two more months and then he'll be out again, back in his car, curled up in the back seat with his shoulders and hips cramping from the lack of space, his throat burning from Los Angeles' smoggy air, it's not like he can afford to throw money away on frivolities like throat lozenges; back in his car with takeaway packages over the floor because he's too exhausted, too beaten down to take them out to the trash, with his clothes in a garbage bag aside from a few precious items of jewellery, a few favourite items and toiletries and essentials in a reusable shopping bag; half-sleeping, half-drifting, waiting for the knock on his car window to tell him he has to move on and no, it's fine, the owner says he can sleep there, he's just having a nap, of course he has a place to go -

God, he just wants somewhere to belong. Somewhere he can breathe. He's grateful as Vinny guides him into the bedroom, helps him get his shoes off, his hands shaking too much to undo the buttons of his shirt or undo his jeans. He's pliant as Vinny leads him to the bed. If Vinny wants him to show his gratitude with his body, he'll make no complaint.

Vinny gently nudges him into the sheets and climbs in after him, and -

Holds him.

Just holds him.

It's still morning. He's slept most of the night, and it's still morning.

He falls asleep almost instantly anyway.

When he next wakes, he feels almost human. He's warm, if nothing else, vaguely uncomfortable in a way that suggests he slept in a strange position and had been too worn down to notice. He shifts slightly, and his mattress moves, and only then does he notice he's sleeping with his head on Vinny's chest, their legs tangled together, one of Vinny's hands in his hair and the other scrolling through his phone.

"Hey," Vinny murmurs, and kisses the top of his head. "How, uh - how do you feel?"

"Okay." And worn out, and his throat hurts, and his back is twisted and aching, and he's goddamn terrified out of his mind, but...

He's okay. He's okay. He's away from Duke, now. He's okay.

"Okay," Vinny echoes, midway between confirmation, disbelief, and response. Then, he sighs. "Has Duke choked you before?"

Straight into it, then. Chase pulls a face. "Not like that. He's - put his hand around my throat before. Just sort of held it there, sometimes squeezed a little. I was, um, into it. He's never -"

Would he have done it? If he had left it a moment longer, Chase doesn't know if he would have survived.

"Not like that," he repeats softly, and pushes himself up. "How bad is it?"

Wordlessly, Vinny hands him his phone. Chase unlocks it and opens the camera, switches to the front lens, and immediately winces. No wonder Vinny had reacted like that, with wide eyes and fury - the bruising is livid, a violent purple-red slash, the line of Duke's thumb and fingers clear against his skin. His eyes are bloodshot, little smatterings of purple-red sprinkled over his jaw and cheek like dust. He looks like -

He looks like he's been assaulted. Chase's shoulders slump; he drops the phone. "Shit."

"Yeah." Vinny looks grim. "I was doing some reading. Uh, it says you should stay around someone you trust for like, up to three days. There can be -" He hesitates. "Delayed effects. So, uh, hope you're not sick of me yet, huh?"

"Oh." Chase drops himself - carefully - back into the sheets, gaze aimed at the ceiling. What the hell can he say to that, needing to be babysat just so his fuck-ups don't literally kill him? "I'm sorry. You should - ow."

Vinny pokes him sharply in the shoulder. "Well," he says, faux-brightly, "Conveniently, I just happened to leave a project. So I've got nothing but time. We can - like -" He can't keep up the cheer, even faked; his shoulders slump again. "I don't fucking know. Talk to lawyers. Work shit out. Do you want to press charges?"

Chase tries to laugh bitterly and just coughs instead. "Yeah. Sure. 'Hey, I'm the stupid fuck-up who signed a contract letting one of the most influential men in Hollywood use me as a sex toy and now I don't like it any more.' That'll go over real fucking well."

"You're not a fucking sex toy," Vinny snaps, and there's real anger in his voice; stubbornly, Chase rolls over and away from him, staring at the window. "Chase, come the fuck on. You're not a -"

"Not what?" Bitter, bitter, so bitter he's choking on it. "Not his toy? Not his whore? Not a stupid fuck-up? Did you see the fucking contract I signed? Special stipulation one, the actor will submit to the producer, including but not limited to social and sexual submission. Short version, yeah, I'm his toy. Special stipulation two, the actor will make himself sexually available to others at the producer's discretion, including but not limited to fellow actors and crew - did you know, this morning, every single person in that room had fucked me, including the security guard? Special stipulation three, you know that one, that's the one where I go to his parties and let everyone gang rape me -"

"Stop," Vinny says, and Chase stops, because Vinny sounds like he's about to cry. "Chase - fuck -"

Slowly, he turns back, and - yeah, Vinny's crying. His cheeks are wet, his face screwed up in anger but the tears falling from his eyes. He looks like he's been slapped.

It cuts him short. "I've never seen you cry," Chase says, and it comes out shaken.

"Well, I've never had to listen to someone I c-care about talking about how he got fucking brutalised," Vinny snaps, and his voice is trembling. "Fuck."

He reaches out. Wipes the tears from Vinny's face. Vinny lets out a shuddering little sigh and presses his cheek into Chase's palm, then curls around him, wrapping his arms around Chase's waist, tangling their legs, burying his face in the crook of his neck and kissing the edge of the bruise.

"The whole thing is so fucked," Vinny mumbles into his skin. Despite everything, it tickles; a smile twitches on Chase's lips.

"Yeah."

"I don't actually know what we're gonna do now. I texted Frank but he hasn't replied yet, but - it's only been like half an hour. It was just before you woke up."

"I guess we just wait."

"Yeah." Vinny exhales, soft warm breath against Chase's skin, soothing the hurt there. "You should move in with me."

Chase lets the sigh out through his teeth. "I told you already, I don't want to be your charity ca-"

"Not as charity." Vinny blurts it out, the words tripping off his tongue. "As my boyfriend. Or like - my partner or - I don't know what we should... you know. What we are. Fuck." He lets out a despairing little half-laugh, burying his face in the back of Chase's neck. "I've never done a relationship, Chase. Not before you."

Chase goes still. Quiet. The absurd thought crosses his mind that if he stays motionless, maybe he won't have to think about the emotions that Vinny's words elicits.

They're - not bad words. They are, fundamentally, good ones. If they had come six months earlier, before the audition, before Duke, he would have said yes before Vinny had even speaking.

But -

"Sorry," Vinny says, very quietly, and goes to unwind himself from him.

"Wait," Chase rasps, catching his hand. "Wait, just - I just need to... you know. Process."

He can feel Vinny nod against his back. Chase closes his eyes and tries to force his thoughts into line.

Vinny wants him. Wants him in his house, in his life. Wants him as a boyfriend, or a partner, or whatever they choose to call themselves. He can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes; compulsively, he draws the hand he's holding up to his lips and kisses it.

A little sound from Vinny, like a shuddering sigh.

"I want to be able to help pay utilities," he says finally, faintly. "If I - you know. Move in. Household expenses. I don't want to freeload."

"Yeah," Vinny whispers. "Okay."

Chase turns in Vinny's arms, turns to face him, and manages a shaky smile. "Still don't know why you'd want me to," he says ruefully; Vinny pulls a face at him.

When he finally speaks, it's quiet and thoughtful and pensive. "I've spent like - two hours with you lying here," he says, "Just... thinking. Well, like, I was doing other shit - I texted Frank, I think I said that, and I was looking up stuff like - like the medical stuff." With a defeated little sigh, he buries his face in Chase's shoulder, mumbling something Chase can't even make out.

"What?"

Vinny lifts his head, winces. "I was scared," he finally admits, "When I saw you earlier, and when I was reading stuff about, like, delayed injuries. And I thought about what would happen if I lost you. And I didn't - didn't ever want that to happen. So - move in with me? Be with me? I don't fuckin' know." He lets out a little laugh, pained, half embarrassed. "Shit. I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I've never been in a proper relationship before."

Watching him, watching Vinny's anxieties and fears, the age gap between them suddenly yawns wide. Chase bites his lip. Twenty-seven is an adult, he knows that, he's never doubted that, but - thirteen years is a lot of time. An entire era in Hollywood. The things he's seen, lived through, come to terms with; the things Vinny has seen and survived.

"I'll walk you through it," he says, and smiles crookedly. "No promises I won't fuck it up myself."

Vinny exhales and buries his face in Chase's shoulder again. "Yeah," he mumbles, and Chase thinks he can feel him smiling. "Cool."

Despite himself, despite everything, he thinks - he might be smiling too. "Hey, boyfriend?" he says, and when Vinny lifts his head and smiles like the sun, Chase finds himself returning it, easier than breathing.

"Yeah, boyfriend?"

"Budge up. I gotta pee," he says, and Vinny laughs and rolls away, and gives him a hand up, and Chase thinks that maybe they'll be okay.

Chapter Text

It takes a couple of days for Frank's schedule to clear up enough to meet. They don't go to his house this time, meeting at his office in the city; in that time, Chase's bruises have darkened to a sickly green, fringed with purple. He wears a shirt with a high collar and keeps his head down, but Frank still draws his breath in sharply when he sees it.

"I'm sorry he did that to you," he says solemnly, touching two fingers lightly to Chase's jaw. "It can be... deeply terrifying."

"Did he ever do it to you?" Chase's voice is quiet, his head down, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt.

"A few times." His expression is distant; then he shakes his head. "It took me a little while to realise it was not kink, it was abuse. I was about twenty-five, I think."

The coffee machine makes a friendly beeping sound; Frank turns and starts preparing their drinks (it's too early in the day for cocktails). Vinny accepts his and stares into the cup.

Frank had been twenty-five. He knows the man is in his early fifties, now - did that mean Duke had been hurting people for over two and a half decades? How many people had he hurt, in that time? How come no one knew? Duke had a reputation for being ruthless, for being volatile. Vinny had thought it had been an expression of his irascible genius, had seen a kindred figure, someone to look up to. The people who spoke out against him tended to go quiet. Vinny had thought -

He had thought it had meant they had dropped their complaints. That they had decided it wasn't bad enough to pursue. Some, he had thought, some might have just made allegations for attention, for sympathy.

Now, he looks across at Chase, at the bruises. At his boyfriend's injuries, at the hand of a man they had both idolised. He wonders how many stories there are that have never been heard - stories like Frank Gardeu, a young, aspiring filmmaker, abused by someone he thought he could trust.

(But he had known, hadn't he? He knew Duke was a predator. He had been twenty-five years old, on his knees -)

He feels a little sick to the stomach. Wordlessly, he sets the coffee cup on a coaster and stares into its depths.

Frank clears his throat. He's guided them to a sitting area in his office, still luxurious but less obviously ostentatious than his house; they're seated around a coffee table in plush, comfortable chairs, an equally balanced triangle. There are papers in front of him, legal documents; the pile is intimidating and huge and Vinny has to use every technique he knows to remember scripts so he can actually follow along.

The short of it, the relief that hits him like a wave: Vinny's impulsive act might have, paradoxically, helped Chase too. A producer suing an actor for breach of contract is common, and Duke has done it many, many times. But all four of them walking out, Frank says, is unprecedented; "To lose one cast member is an accident. But to lose an entire principle cast smacks of something smells like bullshit."

He laughs, despite himself, at Frank's peculiar fruity accent saying 'bullshit'; a reluctant smile twitches on Chase's lips.

The details are many and varied. But the takeaway, the most important part, is that they're safe for now - Vinny had walked first, and Chase had followed, and Zara and Harry, and there was no way Duke could go after all four of them without people starting to question if maybe he was the problem.

"Now," Frank says with a grin and a slap of his hands against his knees, and Vinny starts; "Now, my friends, we get to the fun part."

He lifts the legal documents up. They're actually not nearly as thick a pile as Vinny had assumed, because the papers underneath aren't legal documents at all - they're scripts.

Chase leans forward, his eyes wide. "You - did you find something?" he asks, and there's the fainted hint of hope there. Vinny can hear the unspoken 'for me?' in there, knows he's turning Frank's earlier promise over in his head.

"I am sent a great many scripts, every day," Frank muses. "Of course, many will never be made. It simply is not possible to make them all. But we are lucky, the position we find ourselves in. I am at the point in the cycle where my directorial duties are finishing up -" (Right, Vinny remembers vaguely, Frank is still actively directing - some period piece set in Berlin in the twenties, if he recalls correctly -) "And I am ready to start looking anew at my submissions. I would like the two of you to seek something out with me, something we can all work on together. Any that ignite your imagination, that stir something in the heart - set them here on the table, and we will find something we all love."

He divides the pile into three sets of identical copies. Vinny takes his offered bundle and flips through them; they're quick submissions, designed to be read quickly and en masse, a title page, synopsis, character outline, and ten pages of the script itself. Settling back in his chair, Vinny glances up at Chase, exchanges a grin with him, and starts to read.

He loves this part. Loves it. Loves the images that come to his mind, the stories they tell. He can let himself become someone other than Vinny Monroe, inhabit a myriad of characters, immerse himself in a multitude of stories. Many he reads, considers, and discards; others, ones he can see himself in, see Chase in, he sets on the table.

There is, he's starting to notice, a theme emerging. So many of the scripts are - well - gay. Partners in work and life, enemies that have more in common with each other than their superiors, lovers surviving impossible odds. And he's absolutely not opposed to acting in a gay role, but -

But, it feels a little different with an openly gay director, acting opposite his openly bisexual boyfriend, when he is still so... not.

Chase and Frank are discussing one of the scripts, bent low over it, Chase following a line in the synopsis with one finger. He watches them and wonders what it'd be like to be that comfortable in his own bones, to not care if people look at him and recognise his queerness. He wonders why he had to grow up the way he did, the unfairness of knowing since he was a child that every eye would be on him, that he was meant to be a symbol, an object of aspiration and desire. He had to make women want him and men want to be him; he had to be clean and polished enough to be on billboards and in prime time television ad spots.

He remembers being six years old, playing Romance Movies on the backlot with the son of an actor, kissing him on the cheek and pretending they were getting married. He remembers his father staring down at him and shaking his head, telling him that that kind of thing wasn't on, that they wouldn't like it if he kissed boys, that they wouldn't like him if he kissed boys. He remembers being fourteen and being deeply, desperately infatuated with some young star his father was working with; he remembers being nineteen and sneaking out to gay clubs with a fake ID and sunglasses, hiding in dark corners, making out with faceless men to Lady Gaga songs.

He remembers being twenty-four at an open audition, watching a man with earrings and painted nails and bright blue eyes doing a scene read and feeling his breath stolen away with every word he uttered. He remembers sharing wine and whiskey with him afterwards, and lingering looks, and inviting him back to his place so he could kiss him as much as he wanted, with no one to tell him otherwise. He remembers waking up next to him, warm skin against his own, those sleepy blue eyes blinking up at him, the soft smile on his tired lips. He remembers Chase becoming a part of his life, slowly, gently, until Vinny would realise one day that he was actually something approaching happy, that he had someone he could turn to, a northern star to orient himself to.

He remembers gazing down at Chase, utterly worn out in his arms three mornings ago, a violent line of bruises across his throat, and thinking: shit. I can't lose him.

"Vinny?" Chase says softly, and Vinny starts.

"Yeah?"

Chase gives him an apologetic little smile. "I said, what did you think of Bells are Ringing?"

"Oh." He shakes himself off, glances down at the script he has open - yeah, Bells are Ringing, he had been intrigued by that one before his thoughts had carried him away. "Yeah - it looks good, actually. One for the shortlist, I guess." He licks his lips anxiously. "Uh, the love interest - I noticed that it's gender-neutral. Like - it could be one of us, or it could be one of us as Elijah and one as Dorian, and a woman as Elijah's love interest, right?"

Frank gives him a careful look, folding his hands over his knees. "Vinny," he says, his words delicate as a bomb disposal, "Are you, perhaps, worried about being perceived as homosexual?"

"Jesus, when you put it that way..."

"He's not out," Chase says to Frank, although his gaze is still on Vinny. "I mean, I am, but no one cares about me. But Vinny isn't out."

Vinny lets out a defeated little sigh, but he nods. "Yeah, just - you know," he mumbles to his knees. "Dad was always really - he wanted me to be aware of my image, y'know? I mean, I turned eighteen in 2016. You know what the political landscape was like then." His laugh is short and defeated. "It'd be fine for me to be gay in Hollywood. But out there in fucking... MAGA fuckwit heartland? I could be gay, or I could be an actor. Not both."

He doesn't lift his head. Doesn't need to, to know the expression he'd see on Chase's face. It's something he's seen too many times, that combination of sadness and disappointment. And he hates it, hates knowing he's not as brave as Chase is, that he's so much less sure in himself. It's a bitter curl of disgust at himself, resentment that the world is so completely fucked, frustration that he can't just hold Chase's fucking hand while they go grocery shopping without the tabloids ruining his life.

"I was eighteen in 1990," Frank murmurs, and it's quiet, and reassuring, and now Vinny does glance up. "At the height of the AIDS crisis. I made the choice that I would never be afraid of who I was, but that was my decision. I know many others who decided the closet was safest, and I respect their choice. I am sorry. I am sorry that the world is not kinder to us. We can find a script that will not force you out before you are ready."

"Thanks," Vinny says, and his smile is watery, weak.

Chase reaches for his hand, squeezes it. Vinny squeezes back and holds it just for a moment longer, then returns to the scripts.

He's never been brave.

He's never had to fight, not really. Not the way Chase has, the way Frank has. He's had his share of rejections and failures and roles that went nowhere, yeah, of course, but there was never that uncertainty, that risk. He's always had his father's name to fall back on; even if he hadn't tried to do all he could under his own steam, he would still get roles solely on the basis of being a Monroe.

Chase has never had that. He's not sure what Frank's full story is, but he doesn't think he has, either. They're just... more brave than he is. More to lose. More reason to fight.

Vinny exhales. Flips through the script he's holding, takes a deep breath, and slaps it down on the table. "This one."

Chase's glance up at him is surprised; he flips through his discarded pile and slips out his own copy, studying it. "I just skipped that one," he says, and there's a hint of uncertainty in his voice, "I really liked it, but thought you wouldn't be into it, it'd be too, uh -"

"Gay?" Vinny suggests with a faint, tired smile.

"...Yeah."

Wordlessly, he nods. "Artsy gay vampires. It probably wouldn't be a blockbuster or Oscar bait, but I could see it doing well in like, genre categories..."

Chase's gaze is thoughtful, like he's seeing through Vinny down to his bones, to his soul.

It's a smaller, more arthouse film, yes; it's a genre film, yes. That's safer, almost. They do well in their niches, but the greater attention isn't necessarily there; they wouldn't attract the scrutiny that one either more grounded in reality or one aimed at a big, noisy audience would get.

He could just... test the waters. Dip a toe in. See how terrifying it is, being in a film like that.

(And it's a good script. They're all good scripts, but he likes this one, understands the anguish the characters would go through at the prospect of their old lives being ripped away and replaced by a frightening new reality.)

Frank gives them a slow, pleased smile. Picks up the script and returns to it, skimming the synopsis, the character treatment. "Then," he says, "If we are all in agreement, we can proceed." His eyes flick to Chase, who nods, then to Vinny.

Vinny takes a breath, lets it out in a nervous rush, a laugh of disbelief. "Yeah. Yeah, let's do it."

(And it's worth it. Worth the terror, to see the way Chase smiles at him...)

"Wonderful," Frank breathes, and clears the table of all but their single selection. "Then, we can begin."

This, then - this is a game Vinny knows, but stepping in significantly earlier than he ever has before. He's given scripts to read, movies already in the process of being developed. He's never been right here at the birth of a new film, at the point where a script and a director come together to form the start of a film project.

He's enjoying the vibe, really.

Then, the technicalities. There's still so much to do before the script in front of them officially becomes a project. It needs a producer, financiers, the involvement of a studio. But god, it's a start, and they need that start, desperately.

Just - one of those technicalities is money, and that's what has Chase frowning into his coffee as Frank brings up the financiers. He doesn't speak up, so Vinny decides to grab hold of that newfound bravery, raises a hand: "Frank," he asks, and Frank stops, glancing at him expectantly, "Not to put too fine a point on it, but - when would our paid involvement start?"

"Ah," Frank says, and folds his hands; he looks searchingly at Chase. "Depending on how swiftly the pieces can fall into line... perhaps a few more months, yet."

The wince that crosses Chase's face is brief. Still, Vinny had been looking for it; he nods slowly.

Frank, too, is watching Chase carefully. Finally, he says, "Chase, have you ever worked in story editing?"

Slowly, slowly, Chase shakes his head.

"The script, as it is, is good," Frank says, and gives it a pat. There's one of those slow, almost sly smiles on his face. "But it takes a lot of work to prepare it for filming. It requires someone experienced in writing - or, it requires someone who knows character, who has abundant experience on set, who knows what it takes to turn the written word into a filmed performance. Who can understand the characters' passions, their stories. A story editor, working with our scriptwriter, is one of the first roles cast - and one of the first paid. I would like you to work with one of our in-house editors. Be a part from the very beginning. And, of course, get paid for it."

Vinny is grinning even before Frank finishes. Chase and story work - it fits, he thinks, a way to take his narrative into his own hands. It fits, after all the shit he's dealt with.

Wordlessly, Chase nods. "Thank you," he says quietly, then again, a slow dawning smile on his face. "Thank you, Frank. I didn't really want to go back to working at a burger place, you know?"

"Oh, I know," Frank chuckles, and reaches over to pat his knee. "My other suggestion was going to be a sugaring arrangement -" Chase coughs sharply, nearly dropping his coffee - "Oh dear. Are you quite alright?"

"Fine," Chase rasps, wiping his nose. "Sorry, you just, uh, surprised me. Uh, aren't I a bit old for that?"

"Not at all. I've even seen some arrangements where the sugar baby was the older of the pair -"

Vinny blinks, suddenly working out just what sugaring is -

"- unusual, to be sure, but it would hardly be unheard of." He gives Chase a pleased little smile. "Please know that this would be entirely independent from the film, of course. You can accept or refuse as you wish, and I will still cast you. I do not believe in combining business and pleasure."

He says the last word with such relish, Vinny notes vaguely.

But - it's not a bad idea, is it? Not if Chase is interested - and he suspects he might be. Frank, apparently, possesses something Duke does not, namely a willingness to actually listen, to accept boundaries. It would be... healthy, he thinks, if Chase accepted.

He raises a hand. Remembers some of the conversations he's had with Frank, over the past few weeks. "Off the record," he says, "Completely, strictly off the record - you mentioned a little while back that you could, uh, teach me stuff." Shit, he's blushing, isn't he? He can feel his face growing warm. "Like about the whole, uh, kink thing. Is that still, um, on the table? Like, hypothetically, for either of us?"

Because Frank knows what he's doing, doesn't he? He's got the experience and he's got the principles. And yeah, it's probably not the best idea to get involved with his own director, but -

There'll be boundaries. That's the difference. There'll be boundaries.

Chase gives him a sidelong glance, then nods slowly. "I wouldn't mind," he says, his voice quiet. "Learning about it from you. Like - maybe I'd like to take the story editing position, but then... learning."

Frank gives them both a smile, slow and satisfied, his expression almost mischievous. "It most certainly would still be on the table," he says, "For the both of you."

Chase exhales through his teeth. "Could I talk to Vinny for a moment?"

A graceful incline of the head. "Of course," Frank murmurs, picking up his coffee and his phone, and stepping through the door. It closes solidly, reassuringly; Chase sits back in his chair, looking thoughtful.

"I never got to talk to you about it last time," he finally says, picking at the chipped edge of a nail. "Before. I'm not sure what you would have said, but I'm guessing it'd be something like calling me an idiot if I accepted the contract straight away."

"I wouldn't -"

"Yeah you would have." Chase gives him a crooked smile. "And you'd be right to. I was so fucking desperate I would have signed anything. And now it's not as bad, but still..." He exhales, and it's just a bit strained and painful-sounding, and Vinny's gaze flickers to Chase's throat and the starkly visible reminder of what that desperation had led to. "I just wanted to - you know. Talk. See if we're doing the right thing and we're on the same page and shit. Are you really okay with the script?"

He exhales. "I think so. I mean - it's new, I think." He looks down at his hands, not quite able to bring himself to meet Chase's eye. "Just feels a little more vulnerable, I guess. But I think Frank knows what he's doing."

"Do you trust him?"

Vinny nods, his mouth dry. "Yeah. Do you?"

Chase doesn't hesitate, really, but he does pause, the thoughts written on his face. He's thinking loudly again, uncertain but processing. "I think so," he eventually says, echoing Vinny's earlier words. "I don't know him as well as you do. But you trust him, and I trust you complete."

God, he says it so easily. Vinny smiles, and it's just a little pathetic, even to himself. He's been liked by so many people. Trusted? That's something new, and fragile, and valuable. "I trust you too."

Chase looks up and meets his gaze; when he smiles, something in Vinny softens. "I think I'm gonna take the story editor job," he continues. "That's - yeah, that's something I think I can do. And it's better than fast food or bartending or, like, a shitty call centre or something. It's film. Maybe I'll like it more than acting." He says it with a little laugh, a shrug, a 'maybe, maybe'.

Vinny nods. "It'd suit you, I think."

He can see Chase writing stories, not just editing. Can see the work he puts into portraying each character when he acts, and pouring it onto the page. Is it inhabiting the skin of someone else that he loves, or the storytelling he gets to share? He suspects they're both going to find out.

"Okay," Chase finally says, and it's a little less certain now. "And, uh, the last bit, I guess. Um, the kink stuff."

Vinny feels his cheeks and ears grow warm. "Yeah," he says roughly, coughing once to clear his throat. "He, uh - he mentioned that he'd - I mean, we talked after we met at that party, y'know? A few times. And I was... curious. Like, what the whole thing was about. The appeal of it. He showed me some resources."

Chase nods slowly. "You mentioned websites."

"Yeah. And he said that if I wanted, he could show me how to, uh -" Fuck, he really is blushing, isn't he? "Dom- Dominate you safely? Like, safe for both of us. If you want me to."

"I think I'd like that." Chase isn't meeting his eye, but he's flushed pink too. (He's always blushed so easily. It's cute and hot at the same time, Vinny thinks.) "And - you trust him."

"Yeah. But you shouldn't trust him just because I do. Do you trust him?"

Chase doesn't answer immediately. "The thing is," he says, and his voice is quiet, and he's brought one hand up to his throat, "I thought I trusted him. Duke. I thought he knew what was best for me. Even when I hated it, I thought he was just trying to make me a better actor. And then he nearly killed me, and I was so fucking scared, and - betrayed. And there's this part of my mind that's like, what if Frank is like that too? What if he's just trying to butter us up with, like, movie roles and new jobs, but he really just wants to be a controlling freak too?"

And it says something, Vinny thinks, that Chase has never once implied that he mistrusts him. Because he can see it, can't he? He can see how easily Chase might wonder if Vinny's in on the whole thing, if he's the bait in a trap Frank has laid for him. He can understand the mistrust - god, can he understand the mistrust, after all the shit Duke has laid upon him - but there's something that feels so fiercely honoured that Chase still trusts him, even when Vinny hasn't always trusted himself.

(He knows he gets angry. He knows. He's never lost it at Chase, he knows that too, but - there's a tiny, terrified part of him that wonders if it's only a matter of time, if he lets rage consume him and make him do something irreparable, something awful. And Chase still trusts him?)

"If he does," he says, fighting to keep his voice even, "We walk away. Together. I swear it."

"Even if I'm working for him? Even if we're both cast in his movie?"

Vinny nods. "Yeah. I can handle it - and I can help you."

"I don't -"

"Want to be a freeloader. I know. But can't you fucking -" He draws a breath in, exhales slowly. "Can't you let me be a safety net, at least? I fucking hate the idea that you'll do something you hate just because you don't see any other way out."

Chase looks at him for a long, long time. Then, slowly, he nods. "Okay," he whispers, and takes Vinny's hand. "Okay. Yeah."

Vinny leans in, kisses him impulsively. "We take the roles. You get into story editing. Frank teaches us how to get our freaky kinky shit on." He grins, making light, teasing even if the idea makes heat coil in his belly. "If things get fucked up, you let me look after you, and -" A deep breath. "You can, like, help me come out, maybe."

When Chase smiles, it reaches all the way to those gorgeous blue eyes, and Vinny thinks that, yeah, maybe - maybe this will be okay, after all.

Chapter Text

There's quite a different feel to this visit to Frank Gardeu's house, compared to the first.

The first had been... tense. There hadn't just been the usual anxiety of a bit player visiting the home of a major filmmaker, one Chase had and could expect to continue experiencing. That, at least, was in the normal range of experience in Hollywood.

But there had also been Duke. His contract. His - yes, what Chase was recognising now as abuse. The fragile thread of hope that Frank had offered, a way to find his way out, if only Chase was brave enough to take it; his refusal, fear choking him more than Duke's hands would soon after.

Now: they're okay. They're actually okay. He's walked away and survived, and Frank has his legal team on high alert in case Duke tries anything. He has not just one job, but two - the acting role in the future, the more immediate role of story editing. He's already had one meeting with one of the more experienced story editors in Frank's company; they've developed a good rapport, the older woman willing to take Chase under her wing.

He has a home. He's living with Vinny, as his boyfriend, not his charity case. He has somewhere where he doesn't have to worry about making rent, or eviction, or being forced back into his car. Two days ago, he had put a hook in the wall and put up a framed poster he had found in a thrift shop years ago and had kept, rolled up in his car, for all that time.

It's... novel, being able to do what he likes. Oh, he asks Vinny first, but a part of him suspects Vinny wouldn't say no to any decorating Chase might want to do.

And now he and Vinny are back at Frank's place. They're going to have dinner, then have dessert, then have drinks, then have sex.

Anticipation flutters in his stomach. A hint of nerves. Frank had seen him at that party, in the aftermath of kneeling at Duke's side for too long, the awful stabbing pain in his hips and thighs easing under Vinny's gentle hands as Frank explained to him just what Duke was doing wrong, just what hurts he had inflicted. He had met him socially; he had met him professionally.

This is a new element to it all. And he knows this is his choice, this time, that he can back out as soon as he starts to feel the slightest hint of unease, and it would not take away all that Frank has already offered. He knows that. He knows.

Still - anticipation. A hint of nerves. A shivery thread of arousal.

The food is good. Chase enjoys it, indulges in the sweets and drinks that follow. Frank leads the conversation effortlessly, smoothly, his charisma almost as powerful as Vinny's own; Chase feels like he's being swept away and seduced, which probably isn't too far from the truth.

He's enjoying himself. He's still... just a little nervous.

Frank is the last to put down his empty glass and sit back in his seat, arm slung over the back of the sofa. When his gaze rakes over Chase and Vinny, there's something hungry in it. "Well," he says, and that slow smile spreads over his lips, "Shall we retreat somewhere more comfortable?"

Chase swallows, and stands. "Lead the way."

Frank's smile widens. With a wordless gesture for them to follow, he leads them deeper into the house, the lamps playing off the walls and art. The rugs beneath Chase's feet feel decadent, his footfalls quiet. Vinny moves soundlessly beside him; when he catches Chase's glance over, he offers him a smile of his own, tinged with nerves as well.

(Vinny is here. No matter what happens: Vinny is here.)

The room Frank leads them to could barely be used for anything other than sex. Ostensibly, it's a guest room; really, it just has a bed (huge, soft, with a frame already adorned with straps and fixtures), a plush loveseat (for an audience, presumably), and a small closet. The walls are lamp-lit and adorned with what can only be described as tasteful gay porn and a few mirrors definitely visible from the bed; the curtains are half-drawn, the lights of Beverly Hills gleaming outside.

With that small smile still on his lips, Frank goes to close the curtains. "Let us have a little privacy," he tells them, and Chase and Vinny exchange another glance of nervous anticipation.

When he settles himself on the loveseat, it's like a king on his throne, regarding favoured subjects (or, perhaps, concubines). His gaze is lascivious, but not predatory; there's desire to touch, not desire to break. It's... different. "Chase," he murmurs, "Vinny. Welcome to this room. First, I will give you my solemn word - there will be nothing that occurs within these walls that you do not want. Should you want to slow down, we will slow down. Should you wish to stop, we will stop. Now, tell me, my sweet boys - what do you want?"

Chase breathes in, then exhales; it comes out in a faint shudder. Crossing the floor, feet sinking into the plush rugs, he drops to his knees in front of Frank; Frank's gaze flickers to his face in surprise. "Whatever you wish, Sir," he murmurs, hands folded, obedient like he knows men like Duke have always liked.

But not, it seems, men like Frank. He reaches out, caresses Chase's cheek, cups it in his hand. "Oh, Chase," he says, and it comes out a sigh. "While I would like nothing better than to fuck you into an incoherent mess of pleasure -" the sound that comes from Chase's lips is one of the less dignified he's ever made - "That is not what this night is about. This is not about you giving, and me taking. What do you want?"

Chase's lips part, then close again. His thoughts swirl, disorganised. He had been anticipating something different, it seems; he had been willing and waiting to leave himself in Frank's hands. Gentler hands than Duke's, yes, but... in his hands, nevertheless.

He shifts, gets back off his knees and sits back against the frame of the bed. He's staring at his hands like they're foreign, because it's actually starting to sink in right now that this is something for him to enjoy, for his wants and needs to be addressed. He had given himself to Duke and Duke had taken until there was almost nothing left; but Frank is quiet and patient and, he thinks, is just as willing to give as he is.

A rustle and shadow beside him; Vinny's settled down on the floor next to him, legs up, one resting on his knees, the other seeking out Chase's hand. "Hey," he says quietly, "You okay?"

"Yeah," Chase says, and he doesn't think he sounds okay. "It's just - god. It's stupid."

"There is nothing stupid in this room, Chase," Frank tells him, and gets off the loveseat to seat himself on the floor as well. "Tell me what's on your mind?"

He closes his eyes, letting his head fall back. "I thought - I know it's not right," he finally admits, holding onto Vinny's hand like a lifeline. "But I had thought that this - submission - I thought it meant that I just do whatever the Dominant wants. That it's not about what I want. You said you wanted to, uh, 'fuck me into an incoherent mess of pleasure' -" Shit, he's blushing again - "And it fucking - I didn't realise that that was an option. Actually getting pleasure, instead of just giving it."

Frank closes his eyes, and says, half to himself, "I am reminding myself that it is illegal to murder one's ex."

Chase's lips twitch in a smile, despite himself.

"Chase," Frank continues, "All of this, BDSM, kink, Domination and submission - it is sex. It is meant to be a mutual act between consenting parties who give and receive pleasure. I am so sorry Duke made you believe otherwise, but your pleasure, your enjoyment, your desires are just as important as mine. I wish for you to be a partner in this, not a lesser thing to use."

Wordlessly, Chase nods. He doesn't think he could speak if he tried; he's fairly sure it'd come out as either disbelieving laughter or hysterical sobbing.

Duke has messed him up. God, he knows that now. Duke has led him down a path he shouldn't have, and while he knows he's found something of what he desires, it's never been his. It had been something Duke had taken from him, never once caring for Chase's own pleasure, his equal participation in it.

Frank reaches for a box of tissues and, quietly, hands him one; Chase swipes at his eyes.

"Okay," he whispers, swallowing. "Okay. Um - what you said about fucking me into an incoherent mess of pleasure - that sounds pretty good." Vinny, beside him, makes a needy little sound; his hand tightens around Chase's.

"Yeah, that sounds -" He's gone hoarse. "Pretty good. Fuck."

A chuckle from Frank, encouraging; he reaches forward to pat Chase's knee. "Good boy," he murmurs, and this time Chase actually audibly whimpers, little fireworks going off in his brain. Frank beams. "Ah! A praise kink. Very good. What else?"

He swallows. His mouth feels dry; his throat still hurts just a little. "I like being tied up," he manages to say. "Um, not blindfolded, I think, but - my hands. There was a thing, right at the beginning - I was taking Vinny's belt off, and just - got the idea for him to tie my hands up."

"And it was good?"

"So fucking good." The feeling of restraint, of the leather wrapped around his wrists, of knowing that he and his pleasure was at Vinny's mercy - it hasn't quite been the same with Duke, the trust not quite there, but he still knows there's a part of his brain itches in the best possible way when his movements are taken from him.

"And what of language?" Frank says, and there's so much intensity in his gaze. "Do you like being commanded? Degraded? Would you rather be my whore and slut, or my good boy?"

Chase swallows, works to actively dredge blood back up to his brain. "Either," he says, and it comes out a whisper. "Either is good. Just, um -" A memory, Harry in the rehearsal room - "Just - don't imply that I only got roles because I'm a slut."

"Did Duke say that?" Vinny says with a frown, snapping from his fascinated observations. "What the fuck."

A shake of the head at first, then, slowly, he nods. "Harry did, once. Um, he saw me wince when he said it and stopped, but Duke, uh, picked up on it later. Not just during sex."

Frank reaches over, squeezes his arm. "I will not use such language for you, Chase," he says, and it's a quiet promise, "Not if you don't wish it. You know it's not true, do you not? You possess immense talent."

"Thanks," Chase says with a crooked smile, and doesn't answer the question. "Um, and just - please - please don't choke me. Not even - a few times, Duke put his hand there and squeezed just a bit and that was fine, but - I can't do that again. Not any more."

"A hard limit," Frank says with a nod. "I swear I will not. What will you call me?"

"I get a choice?" Chase says, then immediately stops himself and shakes his head, half disgusted with himself. "Yeah, stupid question. Uh - I called Duke 'Sir'. I'd rather not do that. And 'master' feels... uh, weird?"

Frank, whose expression had changed, again, to that slightly despairing look at Chase's question, nods once. "In that case," he says with that hint of mischief, "How about 'director'?"

"Yes, director," Chase murmurs, letting a smile play around his own lips.

"Good boy." Chase squirms. "Now - safe words. I favour the stoplight system. If you wish to stop at any time, you will say 'red'. If you wish to slow down, pause, you will say 'yellow'. You may say these at any time."

"Yes, director."

Frank looks so serious about it, Chase thinks. Like he really might do it. Chase tries to imagine telling Duke to stop and can't; knows that he must be conscious at all times that the choice is in his hands.

"And," Frank continues, "If I ask you your colour, you will tell me. Red to stop, yellow to pause, green to keep going. Do you understand, Chase? Your colour, please."

"Yes, director. Um, green."

Frank chuckles, and then stands, and offers Chase and Vinny his hands. "Vinny, would you like to add any more limitations or considerations?"

Vinny shakes his head, his cheeks and ears flushed red and his eyes wide. "No, uh, no, director. Uh, I like that idea, though. About fucking Chase into an incoherent mess." He's grinning, despite his clear fluster; when Chase glances at him, his arousal is obvious.

"Very good," Frank says, and smiles long and slow. "Then, Chase, undress for us and get on the bed. Vinny and I are going to see how many times we can make you come."

"Yes, director," Chase whimpers, and starts to strip.

He... feels okay, actually.

Good, even. He feels good. He still hasn't quite got use of his limbs back yet, still feeling like his bones have turned to jelly, and the sheer high of the experience is slowly receding back into a normal state of being. He's warm, wrapped in a blanket that Frank had dragged up from the foot of the bed, wrapped in Vinny's arms, Frank seated behind him and stroking his hair.

Maybe it's Vinny and Frank's attentiveness, instead of just leaving him to come down on his own, but he feels present in a way he usually doesn't after being with Duke. He feels like a participant, not an object. He's involved.

Still shivering, a little. It's autonomic, he suspects. Frank is murmuring things to him - you did so well, you were so good for me, such a good boy, Chase; Vinny is mostly quiet but attentive, in near constant contact, wrapped around him like he's a teddy bear, dropping kisses on his lips, his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids.

Frank rises eventually, wrapping himself in a richly brocaded dressing gown that makes Chase almost snort to see it, it's so in-character. "I am going to get us some hot drinks," he tells them, tucking the blankets back around them. "I will be getting myself a decaf mocha, what would the two of you like?"

"The same?" Vinny suggests hopefully; Chase nods muzzily and murmurs an agreement.

"Very well." Frank squeezes Chase's shoulder through the blankets and straightens up. His tone is gentle, when he speaks. "The two of you should use this time to reaffirm your bond together. Give each other reassurances, affirmations. Remind each other of your love for each other. Be together."

Without another word, he slips out, and Vinny exhales slowly, his breath warm against Chase's skin.

"Yeah," he whispers. "Chase - you were fucking brilliant. You were gorgeous. God, seeing you like that - thank you. Thank you for trusting us. For trusting me." He swallows, and Chase can feel the movement of his throat. "I love you. Fuck, I love you. You know I love you, yeah?"

Slowly, Chase nods. He knows. He knows with how Vinny looks at him, touches him, considers him. He knows in how Vinny orients himself to him like a lodestone. He hasn't said it before, neither of them have, but -

Yeah. He knows he's loved.

"I love you too," he murmurs, and Vinny makes a noise that's almost one of pain. "So fucking much. I'm so glad I met you."

God, where would he be without Vinny? Alone, still living in his car? Moment after moment stretched out ad tedium, failed auditions, no one to confide in, no one to seek comfort in? No one to help pick him up when he falls, no one to offer a safe place to land? No one to talk about his day to, no one to curl up with on the sofa, no one to clean his wounds, physical and metaphorical and emotional and spiritual?

He loves Vinny so fucking much, and he says it again, and again. "I love you. God, I love you. Sometimes it scares the shit out of me, how much I love you."

"Yeah," Vinny says, and his voice cracks as he kisses Chase again, presses their foreheads together, breath mingling. "Fucking love you. God." A laugh, verging on hysterical, bubbles up from his lips. "We'll have to, like, give Frank a gift card or something for getting us to finally fucking say it."

"I also accept bottles of wine," Frank chuckles as he enters the room again, holding a tray with three steaming cups. Chase pushes himself up, stifling a soft groan at the ache through his entire body, propping himself up against the pillows. Setting the tray down on the bedside table, Frank takes his elbow, helping ease him up. "Easy. There you go. Are you sore anywhere specifically?"

"I'm okay." Chase offers him a smile, suddenly bashful, as he accepts his mug. The scent of chocolate and coffee swirls around him as he takes a first sip. "Oh, that's good."

Frank makes a pleased noise and hands Vinny his mug too, then sips at his own. "Hydration is important," he says mildly, "And calories. We've all burnt quite a few of those."

"Yeah. I can't believe you got me to come three times. What am I, twenty-one?"

Another of those fond little smiles from Vinny. "I'm gonna have to step up my game next time," he jokes, "Way to set the bar high."

Frank chuckles. "Perhaps next time we will do the same to you," he teases, settling at the foot of the bed. "That is, assuming you wish for there to be a next time?"

Chase turns his gaze to Vinny, then to Frank. Vinny looks calm, content in the warm, boneless sort of way. He's sipping at his mocha, his body language open and relaxed, legs still tangled with Chase's under the blankets, arm brushing against Chase's as he lifts the cup again. And Frank wears an expression of openness, acceptance; Chase knows that whatever answer he gives, it will be accepted.

His choice. His consent. They're important.

"Yeah," he murmurs, "I'm happy to."

Vinny nods his assent too. "It was fun," he says with a grin, and adds teasingly, "I'm surprised you old guys could keep up with me, though."

"Talk like that suggests that perhaps you are in need of a spanking," Frank observes mildly, and Vinny's mouth opens, then closes, cheeks flushing deep red.

Chase laughs, and it's a revelation. It's a revelation to be having fun after sex, to feel like a person, to feel connected with his boyfriend and with... whatever Frank is now (his lover? His Dom? His boss-with-benefits? They can work out the details later, probably). He's had that once, he knows it, but it's been so long since he's just felt at ease being touched. It's -

Yeah. It's good.

They finish their drinks, shower and get cleaned up. Laughter as they shower together, limbs bumping together, casual touches in the warm water. They dress together. Frank has changed into silky pyjamas beneath the dressing gown, sipping on a nightcap as Chase emerges from the bathroom with Vinny in tow; he offers them both a smile.

"I hope you boys enjoyed yourself?"

"Yeah," Vinny says without hesitation

Chase nods emphatically. "Thank you, Frank."

Frank crosses the floor, cups his cheek in one hand, and tugs Chase down gently to press a kiss to his forehead. It's gentle; it disarms him utterly. "You are worthy of good things, Chase," he murmurs like a promise. "Have a good evening. I will see you at the next script meeting, or -" The smile plays on his lips. "Perhaps, before."

"Yeah," Chase whispers, and he can't quite keep the smile from his face.

They're driven home. He and Vinny are quiet on the way back. No tension, just relaxation, a bit of lethargy; he's physically worn out, is fairly sure he'll be feeling the exertions of the night for the rest of the next day. When they step back out into the night, he takes Vinny's hand and kisses the back of his knuckles.

"It was good, yeah?" he says, just to double-check.

"So good." Vinny gives him an absurdly fond smile, leans in for a kiss. "Love you."

"Love you too."

Hand in hand, they walk up to the door. The sensor lights switch on, a pool of brightness in the dark, playing over the stairs, the plants.

Chase stops short.

On the front door, photos. Six of them, three by two, all of him, stripped bare, tied up or blindfolded or gagged or all three, hands tugging and grasping, bruises and blood and come splattered over his skin. All degrading, all filthy.

Written in thick black letters, a word on each photo, standing out starkly against his pale skin.

Don't forget who you belong to.

Chapter Text

Don't forget who you belong to.

Vinny stares at it. Stares at the photos, stares at Chase being hurt, being degraded. Being used. Beside him, Chase, the real flesh and blood Chase, has fallen silent, still.

Then he moves, jerky like a marionette, reaching for the photos to tear them down. "Wait," Vinny says hoarsely, reaching out to catch his wrist, to stop him just long enough to take a photo of the door with his phone. "Evi-" He swallows past the bile in his throat. "Evidence. We gotta have evidence."

Woodenly, Chase nods. His hands flutter at his wrist, abortive movements to grab the photos off the door.

Yeah. Yeah, the photo he's taken is clear. The way the pictures are arranged, the contents, the words. They're clear. He nods, saving the photo to a folder he titles 'IMPORTANT', then deletes it from his recently viewed images. He feels like he's going to throw up.

Footsteps behind him. Vinny whirls around, instantly defensive; Marguerite, the driver Frank employs who had driven them back that evening, raises her hands. "Is everything alright?" she says, glancing between him and Chase, "You looked -"

She stops as she registers what's on the door. Blanches a little, then sets her jaw. "Would you like me to call Mr Gardeu?" she says, and her voice is... gentle.

It undoes Vinny. His shoulders fall. Suddenly, he just wants to be held. "Yeah," he says hoarsely, "He'd better - he should know about this."

Chase moves like he's underwater, and starts tearing the photos down.

It doesn't take long. Marguerite talks to Frank briefly, then glances up at him. "Would you like to come back?" she asks carefully, "If you're feeling - less secure about staying here?"

God. God, someone in Duke's employ had walked up to his house and stuck photos of Chase like that to his front door. Suddenly he feels exposed, vulnerable. He glances across at Chase, then nods once. "Yeah. Chase?"

A nod, even as he stares at the photos.

Marguerite murmurs into the phone again, and nods. "Of course," she tells him and Chase, and half-turns. "Get whatever you need, I'll be waiting in the car."

He doesn't want to walk past the door, even if the photos are down. Gently, he eases them from Chase's fingers, shoves them in his pocket even if it feels like it's polluting him through the fabric, just to stop Chase from staring at them. "Do you want to come in while I get our stuff?" he asks carefully, taking his hand, "Or do you want to wait in the car?"

A gesture to the car. Chase drifts to it like a ghost.

Nothing left for it, then. Vinny swallows and unlocks the door, moving fast - a few changes of clothes for both of them, toiletries and meds, their phone chargers, both their laptops, stuffed in one of his bigger backpacks. Chase's jewellery box and nail polish; the stuffed fox Vinny had been given for one of his first roles, now missing an ear. The pillow Chase has carried with him from car to shitty apartment to Vinny's house. He pauses just long enough to download the night's footage from the door camera onto his phone, to shove the photos into one of the interior pockets of the backpack, then hurries back out and locks up again, the slippery feeling like he's being watched running down his spine.

Sliding back into the car, Vinny sets the stuffed backpack at his feet and hands Chase his pillow; Chase hugs it to him, his expression distant. For a moment, Vinny wavers; then, he settles into the middle seat instead, wrapping an arm around Chase's shoulders.

He turns to Vinny and presses his face into his shoulder. He still hasn't said a word. The ride back to Frank's place is long and quiet.

Frank is waiting for them at the door when they arrive, still in the pyjamas and dressing gown he had been dressed in when they had left half a million years ago. When Vinny gets out of the car, he gives him a sad smile, moving to help Chase out; Chase looks like he's moving entirely on autopilot, his expression blank, his eyes hollow.

"Let me show you to the guest room," Frank tells them quietly, and leads them back into the house.

It's not the room they were in earlier that night (god, was it only earlier that night? Vinny feels like he's aged a decade in the last half hour). This one is much more normal-looking, respectable, the kind of room one would host friends and family in. It's comfortable, beautifully decorated, as dramatic and as eccentric as the rest of Frank's place, but the sexuality has been stripped back to just comfort.

With a promise that he'll be in the lounge room for a little while longer, Frank leaves them to it. Vinny exhales, then drops the backpack, fishing out pyjama pants, socks, t-shirts. They undress quietly. Chase still hasn't said a word by the time he slips under the blankets.

"Chase?" Vinny says quietly, and yeah, he's worried. He can't help but worry.

A wordless murmur, half-heard.

"Are you okay?"

Stupid question. Stupid. Chase nods anyway and turns away, curling into himself.

"Okay. I'm, uh - I'm going to talk to Frank. We'll sort this out, okay?"

Gently, gently. He kneels by the side of the bed, and Chase looks up at him, and his expression looks so tired and sad and broken that Vinny can feel his heart goddamn break.

He hates this. He hates this so fucking much.

"Love you," he murmurs, and kisses Chase's forehead. Pocketing his phone and those awful, wretched photos, he retreats, leaves him to rest, and ventures back into the house to find Frank.

He's in the lounge room as promised, on his laptop, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Marguerite said there were photos," he says as Vinny enters the room, and Vinny's hand drifts to his side. "May I see?"

Vinny swallows. Nods once, and opens his phone to the picture he had taken of the door, holding it and the photos themselves out. Frank's sharp intake of breath as he accepts them, as he flips through them, almost leaves him feeling worse.

"We may well be able to get him on a stalking charge," he mutters, almost to himself, and sets the photos face down on the coffee table, handing Vinny his phone back. "Or intimidation."

"I want to make him pay," Vinny says roughly. "For fucking - everything he's done to Chase. It's not fucking fair."

"No," Frank says, and he sounds tired, "It's not."

Silence for a little longer. Vinny opens his phone browser and searches up 'acting blank after a traumatic event', skims the list of results and the words that tumble over each other (emotional numbness, dissociation, post traumatic stress disorder, god, there's so much that can go wrong with people) and closes it again.

"I don't know if Chase will want to go to court," he says, and his voice is quiet. "Like - having to deal with others learning all that shit. And Duke's known for all these lawsuits that he always fucking wins. If we go against him, we'll lose, Frank. I don't know what to do."

"He's not invincible," Frank says, and he sounds like he's trying so hard to be reassuring in the face of what he'd know are nearly impossible odds. "Despite all his power, he is still just one person. He hopes to intimidate his victims into never coming forward with the force of his reputation. He may not be able to sustain a true attempt against him, especially if there are multiple people standing against him. Do you know of any others he's... victimised?"

Vinny stares at the rug for a long, long time. "Yeah," he whispers. The single syllable falls flat. Pained.

He closes his eyes.

"I was twenty-five," he says before he can think further on it, and Frank glances up at him. Vinny stares at the rug. He feels hollow, cored out. "It was his Christmas party in 2023, a year and a half ago. I was twenty-five. I got into a fight. Stupid fucking thing. A couple people just saying that I was there as like - a fucking nepo baby. Because of my Dad. But I was so fucking angry."

Frank doesn't say anything, just watches. Listens.

"He took me up to his office." He doesn't need to say the name. Doesn't want to. "Told me that if I wanted to be a star, I couldn't do stupid shit like that, that it could ruin me. I begged him to make it go away. He told me to get on my knees."

It's been haunting him. The audition last December, almost a year later - he hasn't stopped being able to think about it, not since he saw someone he loved kneeling before Duke as well.

The feeling of tile under his knees. The feeling of Duke's hand in his hair.

"He - it was just my mouth. And like... I asked him to fix things. All I did was do what he told me to do. Was that rape?" he says, and his voice sounds half-dead. Not his own. "What he did to me - did he rape me?"

Frank's voice is gentle. Careful, like he's talking to something delicate. "He did. I'm sorry, Vinny."

His eyes feel hot. He rubs one, and it comes away wet. Vinny stares at his fingers.

Not just his eyes - he feels hot all over. "Frank," he says, and his voice is strangled, "Do you have anything I can punch?"

A gesture towards a bench, densely padded, covered in thick embroidered tapestry fabric. "The bench, if you'd like," Frank murmurs, and stands, and leaves him to it.

Vinny nods. Moves to it, his lip between his teeth. He can feel that heat bubbling up under his skin, in his bones, begging for release.

He indulges. Lets it out to play. His fist slams into the upholstery with a solid thump, and it doesn't fix a single damn thing, and he does it again, and again, and again.

He's not quite sure when he starts crying, big heaving sobs that leave him breathless and gasping, even as he buries his fists into the bench. It's unfair. It's so fucking unfair that he can't do anything, he can't fix anything, he can't just magically make it better. Because he knows that whatever power he has, whatever draw his face has, whatever influence his name has, is still so much smaller than the shadow Duke has left over Hollywood for too fucking long.

Too fucking long. Frank had been twenty-five (he had been twenty-five). Duke has his fingers, his hands in everything, and going up against him would be like an ant trying to fight a lion, and he can't -

He doesn't -

He doesn't want to just give up. He wants to make Duke hurt. He wants to make him bleed. He wants to make him pay for everything he's done to Chase, everything he's done to him, everything he's done to nameless, faceless others. He doesn't want to give up and the thought scares him to goddamn death.

It could ruin him. It could destroy him, and Chase with him, and it might be the only thing they can do.

Oh, god, it's not fair. It's not fucking fair.

By the time he's done, his hands hurt, knuckles bruised red. Silently, Frank rests a hand on his shoulder and holds a glass of cold water out with the other; Vinny takes it with shaking hands and sips until his throat no longer feels raw. He's still crying, ugly and snotty and wet. He thinks it's probably a fair response.

His life has just changed. He hadn't dared to put a name to it before, but now he can see the line dividing the past and the future. Before, when he hadn't known; after, now that he's recognised the truth.

That Duke raped him. That he's another victim. That it's not just Chase, was never just him; that there are so many of them that Duke has hurt.

"Thanks," he rasps, and sets the empty glass down on a side table, taking Frank's offered hand to help him to his feet. When he looks up, he knows that Frank must be looking down on a mess, puffy-eyed, snot-nosed, cheeks streaked with tears.

"Think nothing of it," Frank tells him with a sad little smile. "You should sleep, dear boy. Get a good night's rest. We will start to fix things in the morning, you have my word on that."

When he nods, it's hollow. Tired. "Yeah," he says, and it comes out a whisper. "Thanks."

He leaves the photos. Takes his phone, pads silently back to the bathroom and then the guest room. Chase is asleep, so he's quiet as he digs out the chargers and plugs his phone in, finds Chase's own phone on the nightstand and plugs it in too. When he slips under the blankets, he curls around Chase like he can protect him from Duke just by sheer proximity, knowing even as he does that there's nothing he can do.

Chase reaches up, entwines their fingers together. Not quite asleep yet, but too worn out to speak, to move.

"I love you," Vinny says like a promise, nuzzling a kiss into the back of Chase's head. "We'll fix this."

"Love you too," Chase whispers back, the first words he's had since they arrived back at Vinny's place, and lifts their joined hands to kiss Vinny's bruised fingers.

They fall asleep entwined, together in their misery, together nonetheless.

Vinny wakes early. He's never slept particularly badly in unfamiliar beds, he's long since trained himself out of that travelling for roles, but there's just too much in his head for him to stay rested.

He gazes up at the ceiling, at unfamiliar shadows writing plays across it, and tries to get back to sleep. He wants unconsciousness, oblivion, to not have to think about it - about the photos, the images seared into his mind, about the feeling of tile under his knees and Duke's hand on his head, about the word, so short but such a punch in the gut, he's finally let himself acknowledge.

God, the whole thing is so unfair.

Beside him, Chase turns. His smile is exhausted. "Can't sleep either?" he says, his voice just a rasp.

Vinny shakes his head. "Just woke up. Have you slept at all?"

A one-shouldered shrug. "A little." He hesitates, then adds quietly, "Had bad dreams."

"I'm sorry." He reaches for Chase, buries himself in his arms, closes his eyes. "The whole situation is fucked."

"Yeah." A long silence; Chase sighs, a miserable little sound. "I never wanted you to see me like that."

"The, uh, the way you were in the photos?" He's wishing he hadn't either, honestly; he knows that it'll fuel his nightmares for a long time now.

"Yeah. Just -" Another long hesitation. "As a victim, I guess."

Vinny closes his eyes. Tell him. "I don't. I mean, I guess, technically, you - but like - I don't see you just as a victim. I see you as Chase, who had some absolute bullshit done to him but who's gonna survive it. You're gonna get through it. Okay?" It comes out fiercely, that last bit. "Okay?"

"You have that much faith in me?"

"Yeah. Always." Tell him. "I -"

It's just a few words. He just needs to push them past his lips, his teeth. Vinny opens his eyes, finds Chase watching him, blue eyes full of pain and curiosity.

Tell him!

"Duke raped me too." Immediately, Vinny winces. He had wanted to... soften the blow, he supposes, explain softly, quietly, say it wasn't nearly as bad as what Chase had been through, it had only been once, it had just been his mouth, it was already over a year and a half ago. But the words just don't seem to be there, other than this: the truth, blunt, delivered without any cushioning.

Chase's eyes widen. Vinny's eyes close.

"Christmas, year before last," he mumbles, half to the pillow. "I was invited to his Christmas party. It was before it all started. I got into a fight, some other people saying I was just there because I was a nepo baby or some shit. Duke took me into his office and said that if I did things like that I'd never make it. I begged him to make it go away. He told me to get on his knees. I tried not to think about it for, like, a year, and then he used the exact same fucking words to you at the audition and I just -"

He's pulled back into Chase's arms. Protective, like he can physically shield Vinny from Duke with his body. "I'm so fucking sorry," Chase whispers. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"I know, but -" He makes a miserable sound. "I'm sorry anyway. Do you want to, like, do anything?"

Vinny doesn't answer immediately. "Frank said something last night, after you went to bed," he recounts, "About how Duke uses his reputation more than actual... like, legal shit. People are too scared to challenge him, so they don't, so he just wins against the few who do. But if a whole lot of people go up against him..."

"We'd be more likely to succeed." Chase sighs against his skin. "This is going to be really fucking hard."

"Yeah. But I don't know what else we can do. Those photos were a threat."

"Yeah." Long silence. Chase shivers a little in Vinny's arms. "Maybe I should just do what he says. Go back to him."

Vinny jerks, pulls out of Chase's embrace to stare at him in disbelief. "Are you fucking insane?" he says, and he only just manages to keep it to conversational level, to keep the cry of fury from his voice.

"Probably." Chase's smile is wan. "But apparently that's what he wants me to do. To remember that I'm his." A shudder down his spine. His next words are soft, soft enough that Vinny barely catches them: "It might keep you safe."

"No, Chase, what the fuck." Vinny swallows down the rage, the urge to take Chase by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. "No, he'll fucking -" When he gulps back a breath, it tastes red raw. "Remember what that article said? About how abusers who start choking people usually end up escalating? Chase, he could fucking kill you."

"I know," Chase says, and closes his eyes. "God, I thought he was going to kill me that night. But I don't want him to hurt anyone else."

"So you'll, what, sacrifice yourself instead?"

Chase's gaze slides away, and Vinny realises with a sick sinking feeling that he might actually mean it. That he would see it a worthy sacrifice to keep him safe. He wants to cry. He wants to scream.

"Come on," Vinny says, and it's a plead. "You can't do that shit, Chase, come on."

A knock at the door. Vinny jerks, Chase freezes, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. Through the door, Frank, calling softly. "Is everything alright, boys?"

"Fine," Chase rasps, just as Vinny says,

"No."

A sigh, audible even through the wood. "May I come in?"

Vinny glances at Chase. His shoulders have slumped, head bowed. Wordlessly, he nods, pulling himself out of Vinny's arms; Vinny swallows and says, "Yeah. Yeah, come in."

Frank looks tired as well; Vinny suspects none of the three of them have slept particularly well this night. He gives them both a quick once-over then moves to stand at the foot of the bed, expression solemn. "I heard rather heated words," he tells them both gently.

A wince. "Sorry. We didn't want to wake you, just -" Vinny glances at Chase, then back at Frank, and says desperately, "Frank, please fucking tell him that going back to Duke just to keep him happy is a really bad fucking idea. Please."

Frank blinks. "Chase, that is an extremely bad idea," he says immediately, and moves to Chase's side of the bed, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Men like Duke will not be content with gestures like that. They will demand more and more, until you cannot give any further. He will destroy you if you return."

"I want to keep Vinny safe," Chase says wearily. "I don't care if - it'd just be for the film. As soon as it's done, my contract finishes and I can leave. But maybe it'd just be safer for now to do what he says."

"He will never stop, Chase. Once the contract ends, he will find another way to keep you in his thrall. Blackmail. Threats. Psychological torment. The only way to be free is if we make him pay. Make sure he can't hurt anyone else - you included in that as well."

"I don't care about what happens to me -"

"You should!" Vinny says, and this time, it does come out as a shout. "I give a shit about you, why can't you care about yourself too?"

"Because I'm nothing!" Chase's voice cracks; there are tears in his eyes. "I'm fucking nothing, okay? I'm a washed-up piece of shit failure who's - nothing. Just an empty void who needs something, anything, to fill me up. I thought I was worth something, and all my entire fucking life has done is proved that I'm not. And yeah, okay, Duke used me. He hurt me. At least I could be good for something for him, even just as a - as a body to fuck."

It feels like a slap. Like Chase has reached into Vinny's chest and yanked out his heart. It actually, physically hurts, seeing the earnest desperate pain on his face, his mouth twisted in anguish, the way he hunches his shoulders. The way hugs himself like he's trying to fold himself inwards, like he can minimise his own existence.

Frank, carefully, so carefully - "Did Duke tell you that?"

Chase nods once, jerkily. His head bows, hair falling over his eyes. "He's right, isn't he?" he says with a harsh bark of a laugh. "I'm nothing. Duke gave me the role because at least I could obey. I would have never got anywhere without him. And you -" He cuts himself off, shakes his head. "I don't fucking know. I don't know why you're helping me, but I'd be fucked if you didn't. I can't do this. I'm not good enough."

"I love you," Vinny says, and it sounds goddamn desperate. "Okay? That's not for nothing. I love you because you're a - you're a fucking amazing person who makes me happy every time I'm around you. If you can't love yourself, can you at least fucking believe I love you?"

(Chase, eyes wide, the deer in the headlights again -)

"And I am very fond of you," Frank tells him with a sad little smile. "You are a person worthy of good things, Chase Lowry. The fact that life has been unfair to you is not your fault. It is not your fault."

Chase's gaze flicks between the two of them, still wide, still something like panic just beneath the surface. "I don't - I -" He swallows, drops his gaze again. When he speaks his voice is shaken and thick with tears. "Will you fuck me again? Please. I don't wanna have to think. It was so good last night, I didn't have to be me, I just had to exist. Please, fuck me."

Vinny's already shaking his head. "I don't think - that's - I -" Fuck, he's doing this wrong, but he can't quite think either. Chase's request has knocked him for a loop at its unexpectedness, its inappropriateness. "I don't - would that even help?"

A shake of the head, too, from Frank. "Chase, there is a lot of overlap between kink and therapy, but I suspect you would benefit more from the latter this time," he says, and finally moves to sit on the bed, to take one of Chase's hands. "There are directories of those friendly to kink, queer, and poly inclinations, those who deal with trauma, relationships, and -" A sad smile, here. "Issues of self-worth."

A desperate little laugh, a rough exhalation. "I don't know if I'm worth fixing. Not any more."

"Yeah, well, I know you are," Vinny says, his voice cracking on the last syllable. "Fucking hell, Chase, you're worth a goddamn million times whatever Duke is. Can I hug you?"

Chase doesn't answer verbally. He curls into Vinny's arms like he's the only thing holding him to this world; from the terrible words he's said, Vinny suspects it's not far off the truth. He's shaking; Vinny feels dampness against his shoulder, quiet tears.

So he holds him. Strokes his hair, kisses his forehead, the top of his head. Frank, too - he doesn't join the desperate little embrace, but still, he reaches out, rubs Chase's back, offers quiet support. He can't read Frank's mind, but the gesture is clear - you're cared for. You matter. You deserve to be happy.

They can't fix it overnight. Not today, not tomorrow. Probably not this month, probably not this year.

But they can be there. Vinny can show Chase, with every action and word, that he's worth the goddamn fight. And if that's all he can do, then he'll do it.

He does not let go.

Chapter Text

The next month has a strange, slippery, surreal feeling to it. Chase and Vinny eventually go home, Vinny updating his home security system, sending the footage from the doorbell camera to Frank's lawyers. (They're their lawyers now too, it seems. Strange, to be actively building up a legal case against someone who Chase would have called one of his heroes less than a year ago.)

Chase had recognised the figure at the door. One of Duke's own security team. Vinny starts wondering if he should get a security guard as well, if that's an overabundance of paranoia or just caution.

He wouldn't have to if not for Chase. This whole thing is because he had signed a contract without thinking about the consequences, and he knows it. The guilt settles on him like dust and he can't get it out.

He's trying. God, he's fucking trying. He starts therapy, twice-weekly quiet little remote sessions on his laptop in Vinny's office (and his, too; Vinny says that it's their bedroom, their office, their kitchen and bathroom and living room; Chase is almost ready to start believing it). Most times, he emerges from the room crying, or feeling scrubbed raw, or half dissociating (and those, too, are new words he's learning for concepts he already knows intimately; dissociation, post traumatic stress disorder. God, Duke fucked him up so badly).

He starts taking antidepressants. They don't work overnight. Every evening, he has another and waits, and waits. It might take weeks, but he's hated himself for this long already. He can wait.

He goes to work, and gets paid for it, and it's a relief greater than cold water on a hot day. Story editing is something he enjoys, something he's good at. He works with Noura, one of Frank's experienced in-house editors, who has practically adopted him; he's starting to learn how to pick a story apart, spin it into a fine tapestry. He tries out lines, opposite Noura or, whenever they can, opposite Vinny, testing the script that he hopes will help lift him back out of the muck.

(God, he misses acting. God, he wants to get back to it, to becoming absorbed into his character entirely. But it's progressing, the film's financing and preproduction process; Frank thinks they may be able to start filming by the end of the year.)

(The Last Voyage was meant to start principle photography that month.)

He tries not to think of Duke. He doesn't manage it, most days. He wakes up sweating and anxious, or cold and shaking, or curled in on himself like an insect; more than once, he's had to contact his therapist outside of hours.

Vinny is busier than he is. He's been working long before The Last Voyage, and the first film in the Shadowglass Chronicles series is to come out in mid-September, his life becoming a whirlwind of publicity, press, promotion. When he can, he returns to Los Angeles, flying back from Seattle or New York or Chicago or wherever he's been required; when he can't, he keeps his phone close. The premiere is to be on home soil and Vinny gets an invitation for him; Chase thinks of Duke's eyes on him from across the red carpet and keeps the invitation in his bedside drawer.

He still sees Frank. He and Vinny both, whenever his schedule allows; sometimes, when Vinny is sleeping in a distant city and the house is too big and too quiet for just Chase alone, on his own. It's not just for sex, for kink; Frank is a friend now. More than once, the three of them spend the evening in his living room, drinking fancy cocktails or nice coffees, talking about film, music, politics, the environment; more often, Frank and now Vinny attempt to, in Vinny's words, 'Dom some self-love into him'.

He thinks it might be starting to work.

It's a Saturday evening in late August. The premiere is three weeks away. Vinny is in Houston for a promotional event; Chase is curled up on the sofa, half-watching a rerun of Skies of Nevada, half attempting the LA Times crossword. He's unfocused, tired, a little lonely. He and Vinny had talked earlier, but he'd be at the event dinner now and wouldn't be able to answer texts.

His phone beeps anyway. Chase reaches for it, blinks when he sees it's a notification for Instagram, and opens it.

Look who's popular! it proclaims cheerily, Your images have been getting a lot of attention lately!

Oh - that is a lot of comment notifications. And it's bizarre, because Chase's Instagram (ChaseLowryActor, he had wanted to keep it simple) has barely been active. His last post had been in October the year before, when he had appeared in an episode of Law and Order (it had been fun, actually, getting to be the bad guy, getting to aim a gun at a supposed loved one); he's posted nothing since.

So what's changed?

He opens one, and the phone slips from his suddenly numb fingers.

It's so nice when someone finds their calling (as a fvcking slvt)

Slowly, picks it up again. His heart is pounding in his ears, his palms prickling in sudden cold sweat.

He cant act for shit but at least he looks pretty getting railed 🔥🔥🔥

lowkey jealous of whoever got to slap him around

Some people just belong on their knees yknow?

"What the fuck," he whispers soundlessly. They're clustered on his most recent posts, the most on the one from October, a diminishing amount as time passes. All posted in the last few hours, all obscene, or cruel, or both.

go, failed actor! digivolve into: cu.m dumpster!

Yeahhh go Lowry it's so refreshing to see people who have absolutely no shame whatsoever 👌

🍇🌽🍆🍆🍆💦

His eyes feel hot. He feels, suddenly, exposed. Naked.

BOY WHAT THAT MOUTH DO (deliver unrealistic dialog and suck 🐓 looks like)

lmao damn what a gd wh0re

F ing called it he looks like he's begging to be stepped on 😳😳😳😳😳

He doesn't get it. He doesn't fucking understand. Where is this coming from? How, and where? And it takes a little bit more searching, it takes opening comment threads and seeing more and more horrible comments, before he finds it:

on the one hand it's kind of sad that he sucks enough at acting that he decided to get fd on camera instead. otoh it's hot 👀

- DM me link?

-- rhymes with 'corn pub'. same username (ChaseLowryActor), it's definitely him

He's seen enough. Screencapping everything he can, heart in his throat, Chase opens up the menu and immediately makes his account private. Then he reaches for his laptop, opens a new browser tab in a private window, and, shaking like he's caught in a blizzard, navigates to Pornhub. Searches his own name. Closes his eyes when the results, when the account pops up.

Yeah. ChaseLowryActor. It has almost the same description ("Chase Lowry, Los Angeles-based actor. Represented by Collodion Entertainment"), with some... certain additions. He stares at the text (Los Angeles-based failed actor and mildly competent whore), at the addition to DM for requests.

Duke - because it has to be Duke - has started a porn account, under Chase's name, sharing video after video after video. The actual films, yes - the whipping one, and the one with Zara and Harry, god, he'll have to let them know, and another of him blindfolded and tied up - but also from the recordings he didn't know for sure were happening at the time. The Mouse room, the pool house. God, Duke's even uploaded the video of himself choking Chase in the steam room, all carefully cropped and framed to hide the identities of those involved.

All except for him, named and shamed in high definition.

He wants to be sick. He wants to cry, to scream; he wants to hide and never show his face again, he wants to hurt Duke until he stops moving. He wants Vinny. He wants Frank. He wants his own life back.

Chase gulps down a breath and opens up the report form. Follows the prompts blindly, mechanically, reporting each and every video. His hand is shaking as he selects 'Non-Consensual Content', selects 'I am the person in the content'.

There are so many of them. He hadn't realised just how much Duke had recorded.

When it's done, when the report is submitted, he sets the laptop down on the coffee table and sits back, still shaking. He doesn't think his brain is working right, the world distant and quiet. When he picks up his phone, it takes him three times to put his PIN in.

You wrote:
23 August 2025, 9:03 PM
Can u come over
Frank wrote:
9:06 PM
Of course is something the matter?
You wrote:
9:08 PM
Not in any danfer
Danger*
But duke did soemthing fucked up
9:09 PM
Bit dalinhg well with it
Not dealing*
Frank wrote:
9:10 PM
I will be there soon.

It feels both like no time at all and an eternity before the doorbell rings. Distantly, Chase opens the bell camera app on his phone, confirms it's Frank (looking serious, carrying his laptop, not even wearing a cravat), and gets up to let him in; Frank appraises him solemnly as he steps inside.

"Tell me what happened."

His words don't seem to be working. Silently, Chase returns to the couch and his laptop, opening the browser again to the horrible Pornhub account. It still hasn't been taken down (he's been refreshing, constantly, obsessively, watching the view numbers tick up); while Frank peers at the screen, he opens the notes app on his phone and types,

duke posted the vids. already sent in a taekdown request but not gone thru. insta got spammed with cmoments, took caps adn privated it

He holds it out. When Frank turns his attention to Chase's phone, he opens the screencaps.

God, there are so many of them. Were they all Duke too, under a myriad of burner accounts? Could he be all of them? How many were genuine?

He doesn't know. He's terrified to find out.

"Jesus," Frank says softly. He scrolls through the caps, then turns and pulls Chase into his arms, kissing him on the forehead like he's a child. "Chase, you've done so well. You know this, yes? You've acted quickly and done exactly what's needed to be done, and I'm proud of you for it."

Chase's eyes prickle. He buries his face in the crook of Frank's neck, shivering like he has a fever, and lets himself be comforted. Praised.

He hasn't fucked it up. He's handled it, he's handled it well. And yeah, he's feeling all sorts of fucked up now, his words gone, half dissociated, but -

He's handled it.

Now, he can fall apart. He lets Frank close his laptop, ease the phone from his hand, keeping it open to the notes app and close by if he needs it. With a gentle encouragement to get him back up on his feet, he follows Frank numbly into the kitchen, settling on one of the bar stools while Frank gets him a glass of cold water.

"Where is Vinny tonight?" Frank asks; Chase reaches for the phone Frank has brought in and types in houston. "Mm. They're two hours ahead, it would be nearly midnight. Do you believe he might still be up?"

A shrug. Jet lag of only a few hours can be a mess; he's not sure if Vinny's still at the event, or if he's back at the hotel; if he's having drinks with the Shadowglass cast, or if he's already asleep.

"No harm in texting him, then," Frank nods, apparently able to read Chase's expression like a book. "Text him, see if he's up."

He nods, this time. He's finding his thoughts going slow and liquid again - subspace, or something like it. It's easy, it's comforting; he's taken care of the awful things Duke has done and now he can let Frank take care of him.

You wrote:
23 August 2025, 9:51 PM
hey can u talk?

No immediate answer. He sits and stares at the little notification that says it hasn't been read yet, exhales unsteadily, and takes the glass of water Frank has refilled for him.

A hand on his shoulder again, gentle. Come along, Chase, Frank murmurs, and leads him back to the living room. They settle together on the sofa, Chase tucked into Frank's arms like he's not five inches taller, Frank stroking his hair, his back. He feels like liquid, malleable, easily swayed; he absorbs the comfort like a sponge.

Vinny calls back a minute before ten. Chase is still nonverbal; he presses the phone into Frank's hand then curls back into him, and when Frank answers with his even, pleasant, Good evening, Vinny, he can feel the arm around his shoulders squeeze reassuringly.

Frank? says Vinny, the concern clear in his voice, Is something wrong? Is Chase okay? He sounds a little tipsy, his attempt to snap back into focus almost audible.

Chase is alright, Frank says immediately, He is right here, but he's finding words challenging for the moment. Are you somewhere reasonably private?

Yeah, my hotel room. I saw the message and came straight back here. Uh, what's going on?

Frank explains. Quietly, delicately. He doesn't let go of Chase, and Chase lets himself drift, letting Frank's deliberate tones and Vinny's (disbelieving, protective, angry) more strident ones float across him. He doesn't stir until Vinny addresses him directly; it takes a lot of focus to let the words permeate the haze he's in.

Chase? Vinny is saying, and he sounds softer, more tired. Do you want me to come home early? I can cancel my morning interviews. Otherwise I won't be back until afternoon.

He wants Vinny back, he really does. But, Chase thinks, he's actually okay right now. Well, alright, he's clearly not okay, but... there's nothing really Vinny can do, other than hold him, reassure him. Even with the earliest possible flight, it'd be a solid ten hours at least before he could get there, and...

He's managing. He's okay. Vinny has promotion events booked for the next few weeks, and missing a few wouldn't hurt, but also might raise the wrong sort of attention. He doesn't want the scrutiny that'd be on him, the questions.

Chase shakes his head. Frank cards a hand through his hair, and relates it back to Vinny: He shook his head. I'll bring him back to my place, I think. Chase, is that alright with you?

A nod, this time. He feels pathetically grateful he won't be alone through the night.

Vinny exhales, the sound harsh over the phone. Okay. Okay. Thanks, Frank. God, he sounds exhausted. Hey, Chase?

He manages a sound. A little, Mm?

I love you. The sadness, the gentleness - it almost makes Chase want to weep. Take care, okay? I'll see you as soon as I can tomorrow. Love you.

A nod, a mouthed love you too, which Frank relays; Vinny says his goodbyes (reluctant, unhappy) and Frank ends the call.

For a moment, he just holds Chase there on the couch, soothing, present, pulling him inexorably back into his skin. Chase exhales and it feels like he's breathing out contaminants; he thinks he can exist a little easier.

"Thanks," he manages to mumble, and moves to get up. Frank helps him up, gently and carefully, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "I'll get my stuff."

Pillow, change of clothes, pyjama pants. Toiletries. His charger. It's easy, routine now. He's stayed at Frank's a few times, now.

He thinks he might be getting used to this life.

Frank guides him back out to the car. Marguerite has been waiting for them all this time, an ebook reader open on her phone; she sets it down with a smile. "Evening, Chase. Back home, Frank?"

"Yes, if you please."

He's getting used to it. He's getting used to Marguerite's good cheer and unflappability. He's getting used to Frank's protectiveness, his care, how everything seems to be worth the effort, from his films to his sense of interior design and fashion to Chase himself. He's getting used to being Vinny's boyfriend, to Vinny being his, to being in a relationship; to being prioritised, to being important. He's getting used to the feeling of being carefully, gently put back together after he's ripped apart, at the knowledge that even when he falls, someone will pick him up.

He's getting used to being loved.

It's a quiet night, after that, and a quiet morning. The guest room bed is quiet, calm, and (he knows) secure, and Chase wakes past ten after the night's exhaustion, the heat of the morning already permeating through the walls.

Checking his phone brings no new horrors. There are a few texts from Vinny, wishing him a good morning, a half-asleep, rumpled, but smiling selfie from a good six hours earlier, and a promise to bring back the hottest hot sauce he can find, a notification from Instagram acknowledging that his account had been set to private, and - he breathes a sigh of relief - an email from Pornhub telling him that the horrible fake account had been taken down, but would be held on the servers in case it'd be required for legal proceedings.

They're not going to let Duke get away with it. They're not. That, if nothing else, is what eventually gets him back up on his feet, to shower and dress and find a late breakfast.

Frank finds him in the kitchen as he's finishing his coffee (he's been over enough now to know how to use the machine, and Frank has given him an open invitation to the fridge; he's got plans for toast with avocado, chilli flakes, and a fried egg). He's already dressed, looking like he's been up for a while yet; when he spots Chase, he props himself against the door frame with a smile.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Mm." Setting the empty mug on the counter, he leans against it too, offering Frank a grateful smile. "Yeah, I feel kind of like a person again, y'know?" He exhales. "Thanks for last night. For saving me."

"You saved yourself, my sweet boy," Frank tells him with that smile that Chase has always thought looks like he knows more than he's saying. "All I did was offer support after the fact."

He shakes his head. "I was freaking out -"

"And," Frank interrupts gently, "You still managed. I am glad I was able to offer you comfort. But you did not need a rescuer, just the support afterwards, and we all need that at times. You are far more capable than you believe you are, Chase."

Chase exhales. He had managed, hadn't he? He had set his Instagram to private, he had contacted Pornhub. He had done what was required and then he had fallen apart. That has to be worth something, surely. "I guess," he says quietly, and smiles anyway. "Thanks for the support, then."

"That, my dear, I'm willing to offer any time." He crosses the floor, leaning up to kiss Chase, close-lipped and almost chaste. "You did very well."

The praise settles into his bones. Chase turns back to the coffee machine to get a second cup, then starts on his late breakfast.

The rest of the morning, the early afternoon, slides past, a lazy content summer Sunday. Frank gets copies of the screencaps and contacts the lawyers, Chase adding in whatever he thinks is needed; he shudders as he reads back over them then sets them in the back of his mind in a box marked 'do not disturb'.

He has a brief chat with his therapist. They'll go over it more during his next appointment on Tuesday, she promises, and tells him he's done well, he's done everything he needed to do, he's developing appropriate coping skills. It's nice, if embarrassing, to be told he's learning to cope like a normal person. He's not nearly as fucked up about how it's all happened as he thought he would be; he'll have time to unpack just how he feels about that later.

He works on the script. Runs through scenes, acts them out, an imagined Vinny opposite him. Works out how to turn words on a page into emotion, expression, passion; to sink into his character's bones and see the world through his eyes. He makes changes in red pen, adds notes of his own in blue.

A little before lunch, a text from Vinny - he's boarding the plane now, due in some time after four. He'll come straight over, he promises, not even dropping his bags home first. Chase replies with a heart emoji and gets several in a row in response.

He's getting used to being loved.

Vinny gets in late in the afternoon, the heat heavy in the air. He pulls Chase into an immediate hug nonetheless, then sets his hands on his shoulders and gives him a once-over. "Are you okay?" he says, the concern clear.

"Yeah, I am," Chase says, and when a flash of skepticism crosses Vinny's face, he smiles, holds his hands up. "Seriously, I am. I kind of fell apart a bit, but Frank looked after me, and I've had a good night's sleep and got a lot done today, y'know. Kept busy. I'm okay."

And he thinks he's telling the truth, actually. Given the night before, he's feeling shockingly well-balanced. Yeah, the messages, the account, they make him feel sick if he thinks about them, but he's not dwelling. He's not shutting down completely. He is, as his therapist has reassured him, developing appropriate coping skills.

(Keep to a routine. Keep things as normal as possible. Frank orders them dinner from a local restaurant, Indian, good and spicy. They have a few drinks. Just one alcoholic drink for Chase, so not to mess with his meds, but the ginger beer Frank buys is delicious.)

If there's a little spike of anxiety whenever his phone beeps, that's normal. He doesn't panic. He doesn't shut down. He just opens it, finds an email back from Zara, from when he had emailed her earlier in the day to tell her about the video of them and Harry. They're both willing, she tells him, to start legal action against Duke; they're ready to report him to the police.

The police. That makes his stomach turn over in anxiety. That makes it all the more official.

He keeps reading. She's got back in contact with Victoria Cross, made amends. She'll be joining them, too. And another name - he pauses when he sees the name Lia Feldman, the name jogging something in his memory; Vinny scans the email when Chase shows him the phone and his eyebrows raise.

"We got Lia?" he says, and he sounds impressed. "Damn."

"Who's Lia Feld-" He pauses, because he remembers, actually, where he had seen the two; a portrait of a younger Lia Cain, the artist signature of Jonas Feldman in the corner. "Wait, Lia Cain? Or, like, the former Lia Cain, I guess."

"Yeah. Duke's ex. Damn, this is shaping up to be serious." Vinny gives him a grin that's half nervous anticipation, half grim determination; he has that blaze in his eye again. Chase's heart turns over in his chest. "Chase, we're gonna get through this. We're gonna take him to court. We're gonna bring Duke to justice."

Chapter Text

Taking Duke to justice is, it seems, going to take longer than either of them had thought. They make the police report and are booked in for interviews; Frank's lawyers turn over all the evidence they've collected. Chase is quiet and tense in the aftermath. Vinny watches him as evening settles and tries to figure out to help.

"Let's go clubbing," he says before he can think better of it.

Chase gives him a bemused look from the other side of the sofa, where he's attempting a game of Solitaire on his phone. "I think my clubbing license expired, like, fifteen years ago," he says drily, gesturing to himself. "Can you imagine how sad I'd look there?"

Vinny snorts. "You're hot as fuck." Crawling over, practically straddling Chase, he gives him a kiss and the full force of his grin; he's using every trick at his disposal. There's something under his skin that itches, a need to get out, to move, to dance, to be free.

He had started going out to clubs under a fake ID when he had barely turned eighteen, wearing sunglasses in the dark and kissing boys in hidden corners, club music pulsing through his body. And yeah, he's not a teenager any more, but a part of him misses the rush, the near-anonymity of being just one of many in a crowd.

"Anyway," he adds, grinning at Chase's flushed cheeks, "I was thinking of Tempest. That's not for, like, twenty-one-year-olds, but it still has a dance floor, you know?"

Chase gives him a considering look. "Tempest is a gay club, isn't it?" he muses, looking long and carefully at Vinny.

"Yeah." He hasn't been there since he had got big. He misses it like a limb; he's terrified. "It's nice and chill."

The expression on Chase's face grows softer, gentler. He smiles, kisses Vinny again (Vinny is still more or less straddling him), and nudges him to get up. "Want me to give you some eyeliner?"

"Yeah," he repeats, and helps Chase up off the couch.

They look good. He looks good, even if there's self-consciousness there, if he keeps tugging at the bottom hem of the carefully cropped tee Chase has loaned him. Dark grey skinny jeans and black boots, black cropped tee, a swathe of flesh visible from ribs to hips. He's adorned his wrists with silver and black, and the eyeliner, okay, yes, makes his eyes look fantastic.

And Chase looks fit to match. Where Vinny has gone for tight-fitting jeans and a looser top, he's gone the opposite, with baggy black cargoes and a body-clinging black tank top, high-collared, making his silver necklaces shine against the dark. Silver sneakers, silver rings. His nails are black, so is his eyeliner.

Both of them in black and silver. A matched pair. Chase offers him a hand, and Vinny takes it, and lets himself be led out to wait for the taxi.

There are lines outside Tempest, young people and not-so-young people, others in their late twenties, thirties, and yeah, forties. Men, women, gorgeous androgynous people of all genders. There are couples, singles, groups; he and Chase don't particularly stand out as they join the line, Vinny still half-hiding behind his sunglasses like a security blanket.

(It's fine. It's fine. So many of the people here look like they're part of groups of friends. Being at a gay club doesn't immediately signal to the world, look at me, I'm gay!, does it?)

(He's a gay man at a gay club with his boyfriend. They're out to unwind, dance, have fun. Why can't he just let himself enjoy it?)

(Are there any photographers around? What would his father think?)

Chase squeezes his hand, just briefly, before letting go again. Vinny exhales slowly, evenly.

It's better inside. Dark enough that Vinny concedes to taking off his sunglasses, the tables and booths lit in dim pools of light, the dance floor a riot of neon. Vinny slides into a booth while Chase heads to the bar (brightly lit, packed with people) and tries to slow his heart rate by sheer force of will, focusing on breathing slowly, evenly, like his therapist had told him how.

It's fine. It's fine. The music is good. Maybe he'll even dance later.

Chase returns, a vodka lime for himself and a paloma for Vinny. When he slides into the seat beside him, bumping their feet together, he leans close enough to murmur, "Breathe, okay?" and sets their drinks down; they sit together quietly and drink, watching the dancers, letting the music thrum through them.

It's been so long since he's been in a gay club. The last time had been over three years ago, when he was just another aspiring actor trying to make a mark in Hollywood, his name invisible and irrelevant in the thrum and beat of the evening. Now, his face is on billboards. There's a fluttery little sense of panic that he might be recognised.

And, beneath it, spite. He's almost - almost - at the point where he no longer cares. Where he's willing to say, yeah, he's gay. He's here with his boyfriend. Who cares? It's 2025. Who cares? And if they do, why should they?

He wants to get up and dance. He wants to get up and dance with his boyfriend. He just -

Has to be brave enough.

A few songs pass. Older club hits, modern pop songs. Something eighties-sounding imploring him to relax. He watches a trio jumping up and down together, belting out Mr Brightside like their lives depend on it; a kid who looks barely old enough to be in here dances on her own to I Want To Break Free and a couple slow-dances to Kylie, one of the guys' hands resting over his boyfriend's heart, and thinks: okay, yeah, maybe this is his place. Maybe it is.

A guitar line starts up, and Chase's face lights up. "I fucking love this song," he grins, and slides out of the booth. "Wanna come dance?"

Vinny swallows. "You go ahead," he says, barely hearing his own words; Chase gives him a sympathetic smile and a squeeze of the hand and heads out to the dance floor.

Michael, you're the boy with all the leather hips
Sticky hair, sticky hips
Stubble on my sticky lips

He looks gorgeous out there. Completely free of care and worry, his only concerns the music. All of Duke's hurts, all of his threats, all of the pain he's inflicted, it's gone. He looks good. He looks happy.

You're the only one I'd ever want
Only one I'd ever want, only one I'd ever want
Beautiful boys on a beautiful dance floor
Michael, you're dancing like a beautiful dance-whore

Vinny slams down the rest of his drink.

So close now, it's close now
So come and dance with me
So come and dance with me
So come and dance with me!

"Vinny Monroe?"

His breath catches in his throat.

It's a girl, a woman, around his own age. Smiling, friendly-looking. Curious, but not judgemental. He manages a smile back. "That's me."

This time, she outright grins. "Oh, cool, thought it was you. Just wanted to say I'm super looking forward to Shadowglass Chronicles next week, I loved you in Last Illusion!"

He smiles properly this time, despite himself; Last Illusion had been a fun indie fantasy film, one of the final ones before his big break. He still had a soft spot for it, for his gruff, protective fighter who would burn the world down for his loved ones. "Thanks. We're all pretty happy with how it came out, you know? It's a great book series, we wanted to do it justice."

"I'm sure you will." Briefly, she hesitates, then adds, "When you next see Sierra Torres at a press thing or something, can you tell her there are a lot of queer women who really look up to her? Seriously, she's a lesbian icon."

"Heh, sure. I can do that." His costar, Sierra, has always been braver than he has. Always.

(Why can't he be, too?)

"So, what brings you here?" she asks, and yeah, it's fair. It's fair. She's only curious. She's gay herself, he assumes, given the message she wants to send to Sierra; it's natural to wonder why he, Vinny Monroe, would be at a gay club too.

Just here with friends, he half-answers in his head. Just here with friends.

Say it.

"Just having a night out," he says (say it!), "With my boyfriend."

It feels normal. Natural. She nods, her eyes crinkling as she smiles. "Cool. I didn't know that you're, uh -"

"I'm not really..." A shrug, helpless. "Out. Yeah."

Her smile, this time, is understanding. "Yeah, gotcha."

A familiar drum beat, a vocal line. Vinny glances to the dance floor, remembering being younger, less afraid, less locked within himself. He looks at Chase, still out there, who meets his gaze and smiles like the sun. He takes a breath. "Anyway, I love this song, I'm gonna head off. Nice to meet you...?" Offers a hand, friendly.

"Brianna," she says, reaches for his hand and squeezes, before pulling back. "Have a great night, okay? Can't wait for the movie!"

"Thanks," he says and gets up, and heads out to the dance floor, only shaking a little.

You're the one that I've been waiting for
Gotta quit this crying
Nobody's gonna heal me if I don't open the door
Kinda hard to believe, gotta have faith in me

Chase's smile when he finds him on the dance floor is luminous. When he starts moving to the music, moving with him, dancing with him, it's like a conversation they never stopped having.

'Cause all I ever wanted was love
All I ever wanted was love
I want your stupid love (love)

He doesn't need to be afraid, out of the dance floor, with Chase. He doesn't need to think or hide or worry about his image. All they need is the music, the space to move together. He lets his body become his language, lets it start up a dialogue with Chase's; Chase puts his hands on Vinny's hips and guides them together.

Now, it's time to free me from the shame
I gotta find that peace, is it too late or
Could this love protect me from the pain?
I would battle for you (even if we break in two)

He had been nineteen years old, kissing strange men in dark corners, wishing he could be brave. He had been twenty-four, entranced by Chase's audition, by the blue of his eyes as they had shared drinks after, getting lost in his body after he had taken him home. He had been twenty-seven, whispering I love you as they had come down from a bodily high together, entwined in each other.

He's twenty-seven, on the dance floor of a gay club, dancing with his boyfriend in a way that could never be misconstrued as platonic, stupidly in love, and it's terrifying, and it's exhilarating.

I don't need a reason
Not sorry, I want your stupid love
I want your stupid love (love)
We got a stupid love (love)
I want your stupid love (love)
I want your stupid love (love)

It's a good evening. They dance. They drink. They kiss, and it's not even in dark corners. More people recognise him, more people approach. He signs a few autographs. He thinks he sees a camera flash more than once. It's a good evening.

In the bathroom, later, splashing cold water on his face. He glances at Chase in the mirror and smiles. They're both sweaty, eyeliner smudged, lips kiss-bruised. His feet are killing him; he wishes he had worn sneakers like Chase instead of boots. "Come with me to the premiere on Thursday," he says, "As my boyfriend."

Chase's smile is brighter than the Hollywood sign.

From: Vinny Monroe ([email protected])
To: Al Monroe ([email protected])
Sent: 17 September 2025 6:37 PM
Subject: Just so you know

Hi Dad,

Remember when I was 6 and you heard I kissed Trent Dennis's son James while we were playing in the backlot during the filming of some movie? You sat me down and said that I couldn't do that any more and that people wouldn't like it (or me) if I kissed boys. So I didn't. I dated girls and played the part. I did my best.

Tomorrow is the premiere for Shadowglass Chronicles. I'm planning on going with my boyfriend, who I've been with for 3 years, and I'm going to come out as gay.

Figured I should let you know before you saw it in the press or something, anyway.

Vinny

From: Al Monroe ([email protected])
To: Vinny Monroe ([email protected])
Sent: 17 September 2025 9:12 PM
Subject: Re: Just so you know

Dear Vinny,

I'm sorry I made you feel like you had to hide that part of yourself. If this is something you want to do, then I wish you luck and the hope that it all plays out well.

I won't lie and tell you this won't make things harder. There are going to be parts of the country and the world who will condemn you for it. There will be studios, directors, and producers who won't hire you, purely out of fear for what having an openly gay actor will do to their bottom line in middle America, or in some of the overseas markets, and there will indeed be those who will know you as 'openly gay actor' before they get to 'Vinny Monroe'. You will receive hateful messages from people who think they know better.

I've only ever wanted you to be happy. I tried to protect you, and I'm sorry that it made you unhappy. If you want to do this then I am with you all the way and we can work out any media strategies together.

(Also I would like to meet this boyfriend of yours! When will you two be available for dinner?)

Love
Dad

THE NEWS
FOLLOWING EXPLOSIVE FILM DEPARTURE, VINNY MONROE DECLARES: "I'M GAY!"

By Lila Kyle | Hollywood Insider
September 19 2025

Shock news at last night's premiere of Shadowglass Chronicles, with Hollywood heartthrob VINNY MONROE officially coming out as gay!

Speculation has surrounded Monroe, 27, since the rumors that he was no longer associated with DUKE CAIN'S upcoming epic, The Last Voyage. Was the young star's news part of the reason why production has halted? Or has Monroe simply decided he has nothing more to lose?

With Shadowglass Chronicles tipped to be a spring blockbuster, we can only guess what industry shock waves Monroe's announcement will make!

COALITION FOR REAL AMERICAN PATRIOTS

Hollywood wokeism MIND VIRUS: another star lost to GAYNESS!
September 19 2025

The Hollywood WOKE MIND VIRUS has claimed another young film star! SHADOW GLASS CHRONICLES star VINNY MONROE has announced he is A HOMOSEXUAL, further proving the hotbed of DEGENERACY that is HOLLYWOOD!

We encourage ALL AMERICAN PATRIOTS to BOYCOTT SHADOW GLASS CHRONICLES and all future productions VINNY MONROE is a part of!

The Hollywood Herald

'Wildly happy' Vinny Monroe on coming out, healing, and what Shadowglass Chronicles teaches about honesty
By Rosalinda Perez
September 19 2025

It's been a rough year for rising star Vinny Monroe.

"I've learned a lot over the past ten months or so," the Shadowglass Chronicles star says at the film's premiere, chatting to us on the red carpet. "And unlearned, as well. The film project I was involved with -" believed to be Duke Cain's troubled The Last Voyage - "collapsed for a few reasons, some of which were extraordinarily painful and personal. It made me think about who I wanted to be as a person, what I wanted my future to look like."

And that future, he says, includes being out as a gay man. "I've known I was gay since I was, like, six, but I was raised to be so conscious of my image that I hid that part of myself for years. It wasn't until events this year that made me realize I didn't want to hide any more."

"There's an ongoing storyline about honesty and integrity in Shadowglass that taught me a lot. Finn's arc involves him learning to come to terms with the magic he's inherited, and while unfortunately being gay doesn't exactly give me superpowers," Vinny concedes with a laugh, "It did help me realize that hiding that part of myself wasn't just hurting me, it was also hurting my boyfriend of three years. Being able to be here tonight with him, to hold his hand on the red carpet - it's the most wildly happy I've been in years."

Vinny's boyfriend of three years, fellow actor Chase Lowry, says he's extremely proud of the strides Vinny has taken. "I never had the Hollywood upbringing, and I've never had to think about my image the way Vinny has," he tells us. "So I was able to explore and be open about my queerness from as soon as I worked it out in, like, middle school. Vinny never had that, and I'm incredibly proud that he's able to work it out now, yeah."

So what next for Vinny and Chase?

"We have a project together we're both incredibly excited about, directed by Frank Gardeu," Vinny tells us enthusiastically (Gardeu, a darling of avant-garde cinema, is openly gay as well). "And we'll be acting opposite each other for the first time, which is like, so cool. It's still in the early days of development, but it's gonna be great."

"I'm working on it as Assistant Story Editor too," Chase adds, "And being able to see the storycraft that goes into a film before it ever goes to the cast has been eye-opening and incredible. It's still a fairly new discipline for me compared to acting, but I've been really enjoying it."

And to those who would inevitably condemn Vinny as an openly gay actor?

"Dude, f--- them," Vinny says with a laugh, and turns to kiss his boyfriend, both glowing with happiness. "I'm not going anywhere!"

[instagram.com/vinnymonroeee]

vinnymonroeee Hey Vinning Team! Guess you've seen the news by now, huh? Yeah I'm coming out as gay, getting in a bit before National Coming Out Day on Oct 11 haha. I'm so glad to finally be able to live my truth and be myself! ❤️ Love y'all, stay vinning! #vinnymonroe #vinningteam #gaypride #comingout

[Image description: Vinny Monroe, a young white man with short black hair and brown eyes, wearing a white t-shirt, and grinning and showing off his rainbow-painted nails to the camera.]

359k likes
SEPTEMBER 19, 2025

catearh00die Congrats Vinny!! ❤️ I'm so happy for you!

briarwitchy ONE OF US ONE OF US 🏳️‍🌈

greenfield Leviticus 18:22 says no, sorry not sorry
- wolfcat dude take SEVERAL steps back
- azar1962 Oh great the god botherers found the post
- paigeturner Wow no
- joachim--heart 1 Corinthians 13:13
-- akiram what do these mean?
--- joachim--heart The Leviticus one is the whole 'don't lie with men like you would women' one, the Corinthians one is "And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love." See, you can find basically any quote to support your stance on anything

raulsf Vinny you're an inspiration thank you for being you! Thank you on behalf of a lot of queer men!

magicpyre whoa his boyfriend is hot
- morganabet Isn't he like 40??
-- magicpyre yes and he's HOT 🔥

edafos Petition for Vinny to kiss dudes in his next film
- vinnymonroeee 🤫🤭
-- briarwitchy 👀👀👀
-- wishforit \o/
-- edafos I'm never washing this reply

edinburghghostdatenight We love you Vinny congratulations on coming out!

cam-eleon GAYS HOW WE FEELING
- cam-eleon GAYS STAY WINNING
-- cam-eleon VINNING IF YOU WILL

fivemoreminutes Aww congrats!!

wrenbird Hey Vinny!! It's Brianna I talked to you the other night at Tempest. Just wanted to say congratulations, and you have all our love and support! ❤️❤️❤️
- vinnymonroeee Thanks ❤️

jjlove YOU'RE GAY???? NOOOO 😭😭😭😭😭
- kamengetit girl you're 15 from kansas you never had a chance with him anyway??

"What do you think?" Vinny murmurs, scrolling through the comments on his post. Yeah, there are some shitty ones. But damn, the sheer amount of love outweighing it all...

"I like the one that said I'm hot," Chase grins, propping his chin on Vinny's shoulder. "But yeah, it's good. It all looks good."

"Yeah." It comes out breathy, half disbelieving, half a laugh. "Man. I've spent, like, my entire adult life worrying about what'd happen if I came out, and just - expecting this influx of bullshit. But it's been good."

Chase snorts, settling back on the sofa with his own phone. "Did you see that one article screaming about the woke mind virus?"

Vinny laughs at that, a genuinely amused one, because it's just... ridiculous. "Yeah. I'm considering getting a t-shirt that says 'lost to the woke mind virus' in all-caps and wearing it to my next press tour in the south."

"You should totally get it in rainbow print."

"Flaming rainbow print."

"I can do your nails again."

"Absolutely," Vinny grins, admiring his rainbow-painted nails. He's not sure he'll keep doing it, he thinks, or if he does, he might just stick with special occasions. Anyway, he likes the contrast of his and Chase's hands together, his tan skin against Chase's pale, his stronger and more solid build against Chase's long delicate fingers, the natural colour of his nails against Chase's in black or midnight blue or shining silver.

He takes Chase's hand now, kisses the back of it. "Thanks," he says quietly, and settles back against him; Chase shifts automatically, making room for him on his side of the sofa, one arm loosely looped around Vinny's chest, resting his chin on the top of Vinny's head. "Thanks again. For everything."

"You too," Chase murmurs, and his exhalation kisses Vinny's cheek.

Chapter Text

It's getting a little less terrifying checking social media.

Still, there's a tightness in Chase's chest every time he opens his notifications, even after starting a new account, even after the police had confirmed that all the cruel, crude comments on his old account had been from a single IP address somewhere in Los Angeles, all with recent activation dates, all with no activity save to slander him.

It had just been Duke. Just him, leaving those messages, under dozens of different burner accounts. Just him.

(There had been a lot more unique views on the Pornhub account. There had been... quite a few, from all over the world, before the account had gone dark. But no one's commented, no one's asked publicly about them; maybe they had realised that he had been less than willing for so many of them. He still searches for his name every morning, just in case. Just in case.)

It's not bad, this morning. A few comments on Vinny's latest post that mention him (one mildly disparaging one saying that they thought Vinny Monroe would prefer a younger, hotter boyfriend, a few that are more flattering). His own most recent post, a repost of an article about the upcoming Newport Beach Film Festival, has a handful of comments, all about the actual article itself.

It's fine. Normal.

Less normal - an email, an actual email and not a text, from his agent.

Chase's breath catches. He's utterly caught by surprise, not even to able speculate what it might be. Commenting on the uptick on searches for his name, maybe, after the Herald article? An increase in fees? His heart in his throat as he clicks, and -

It's a role.

Not a feature film, but not another appearance on a crime or medical procedural - a prestige television series. Not a lead role, but not a single appearance - a major supporting role. Ongoing, six episodes out of eight for the first season, potential for an expanded role if the show is greenlit for a second.

Chase quietly searches for the series, sees the major producers and writers attached to it, and feels a little faint, actually.

"Vinny?" he calls, and his voice is tremulous. "Vinny!"

Vinny is in the kitchen; he practically skids as he scrambles into the living room. "What?" he says, instant worry in his voice, his expression and posture relaxing only when he sees the amazement on Chase's face. "What's up?"

Wordlessly, he holds out his phone.

Vinny takes it, skims the email, then rereads, this time more carefully. There's a grin growing on his face, genuine pleasure; when he hands the phone back and drops down onto the couch next to Chase, it's to immediately drag him into a hug. "Oh, holy shit, congratulations!"

Chase flails, caught off balance by Vinny's wild embrace, laughing. The phone falls from his hand somewhere onto the rug, there's a solid thump as one of his feet hits the arm of the couch. "Okay, okay!" he laughs, making a halfhearted attempt to extricate himself before conceding. "You think I should take it?"

"Um, obviously?" Vinny untangles himself long enough to give him an incredulous look. "Shit, this kind of show is Emmy-bait. Obviously you should take it!"

"It's not - it won't -" Chase draws in a breath, tries to calm his racing heart. "The film. It won't clash? I don't know how much time -"

Vinny shakes his head. "Look, the film is something we have some say over, right? Frank is doing it for us. We can make it work around your schedule. I've still got other stuff too, you know? We can make it work. Holy shit, Chase, do it."

Chase exhales, wriggling out of Vinny's arm so he can scoop up his phone again, reading further in. "Shit. Okay. Shit. Vinny, they asked for me specifically. Lena says they saw the photos of us on the red carpet and thought I had the right look, so they looked up my older stuff and - they asked for me by name."

The manic energy has worn off somewhat. It's just amazement, now. Awe. They had looked him up, and whatever they had seen hadn't been enough to turn them away; it had been enough to get him the job. All of Duke's machinations, his slander - it hasn't worked. He hasn't burnt any attempt at Chase having a career to a cinder. He's okay.

"Thank you," he finally says, and his voice trembles a little. "Goddamn. Vinny, thank you so fucking much."

Vinny raises his eyebrows at him. "What did I do?"

"If you hadn't invited me to the premiere - if you hadn't come out - this wouldn't have happened." Now, it's his turn to pull Vinny into his arms, kissing him once, twice. "I would have just... stayed anonymous, I guess. They only found me because of you being brave enough. Holy shit, I love you."

"You got it because you're a fucking amazing actor," Vinny says, although there's a pleased little smile hovering at his lips. "Like, they could have looked you up, and if you had sucked, they would have just been, like, nah, don't want this dude. They contacted you because you're good."

"We could call it a joint effort," Chase suggests, and that smile is back. He kisses Vinny again, resting their foreheads together. "Damn. This is - damn."

There's still so much left to do. Screen tests against his future costars. Contracts to go over with a fine-toothed comb (yeah, he's learned now. Lessons learned in blood). The show might be a flop, in the end; it could be a non-starter that never even sees the pilot. He'll need to manage his social media carefully, perfectly, because he knows Duke is still out there and won't settle until he's either victorious or in jail. They'd possibly need more home security, or a social media person, or both, especially if he ends up with the kind of work that wouldn't leave him the time to mindlessly scroll Instagram. And there's still the story editing role and, when it gets to that stage, actually acting in the film - a leading film role by a major director opposite his rising star boyfriend, a role that will push him into the limelight like he never has been before.

But that email, that single innocuous email on his phone - it's a start, and if his hands shake as he replies to Lena to say he's interested and to arrange the meeting with the producers, Vinny tactfully doesn't mention it.

"What now?" he says faintly as he sets the phone down. "Shit. Major supporting role on an Emmy-bait show. What the hell do I do now?"

"Now?" Vinny stands and offers him a hand, and Chase takes it, clasps it between his own; Vinny uses it to tug him in for a kiss. "Go shower and get dressed, I'm taking you out somewhere fancy as shit for lunch."

"I can work with that," Chase grins, and hurries off.

A party, again. Not the kind that Duke used to host - he's not half-naked and in a drugged haze, on his knees for anyone to use. He's been to a few of these better parties by now and they've been memorable, fun. Chase remembers one at Frank's that had more or less turned into an orgy by the time dessert had been served. He remembers cuddling with Vinny on one of the sofas, watching people coupling or grouping up. Someone had approached him, intention clear; he had said no, and they had accepted it and let him be.

It had been a revelation. It had been liberating. It had left him feeling sick, remembering just what Duke had pushed him into, Vinny letting him cry into his shoulder in one of the bathrooms, feeling phantom hands on him all over again.

And he had calmed himself, and returned to the party, and when he and Vinny had joined a nice older couple in one of the bedrooms, it was with express enthusiastic agreement from them all. (He had only teased Vinny for his apparent penchant for older men a little, after that. Vinny had laughed and said that his first kiss had been when he was six years old, with a boy who was already seven. Clearly he had been into older men from the start.)

This party isn't bad either. He doesn't know the host, but Frank does, and while there are no doubt people hooking up in dark corners - it's a Hollywood party, he's not naive - most people have kept their clothes on so far. He's outside, on a lounger by the pool, drink in hand; he's tipsy and cheerful and talking to someone in... cinematography, he thinks, about symbolism in the original seventies Suspiria versus the remake. When his interlocutor heads inside to get another drink, Chase closes his eyes and soaks up the cool (for Los Angeles) fall air.

There's a scuff, the sound of someone settling back into the lounger beside him. Without opening his eyes, he says, "What about the use of green against the red? They're complimentary colours, right?"

"Hello, Chase Lowry," says Duke Cain, and Chase scrambles up and out of the lounger so fast his glass falls and shatters at his bare feet.

There is nothing Duke can do to him. He's at someone else's party, other people too close for him to get away with anything, a few who are looking over already with interest at the sound of breaking glass. It doesn't stop Chase's heart turning over in his chest, the roar of his pulse in his ears, the lump of fear when he swallows. He can still feel Duke's hand around his throat.

"What do you want?" he says, and his voice, barely a whisper, still cracks.

"We had a good rapport, didn't we?" Duke says, settled comfortably in his stolen lounger, his voice as even and as calm as if he's discussing the weather. "You were so wonderfully obedient for me. That's rare, Chase. I always think back fondly to the time we spent together."

The time you spent abusing me?

He can't speak. His mouth won't open, the words caught behind the phantom hand around his throat.

"You should come back to me," Duke says, and now he stands, and Chase is taller but he feels cowed, diminished by Duke's presence; his legs threaten to buckle, to send him to his knees amidst the broken glass. He closes one hand around the back of the lounger, white-knuckled. "You should rejoin me at my side - at my feet. We could find a new role for you. A lead role, perhaps. We could be great together, Chase."

Under Duke's gaze, he feels naked. Small and afraid, polluted by his touch. He can't stop remembering the drugs, the bruises, the blood; he can still feel the hand around his throat and he can't breathe -

Duke takes a step towards him. Chase takes one back. Sharp pain lances through the sole of his foot; he's stepped in the broken glass.

For a moment, he wavers there, the short, sweet, sharp pain like a dash of cold water to the face. When he lifts his foot and pulls the sliver free, it's tiny, barely worth the pain it's caused. He stares at the piece of bloodied glass lying in his palm, at how insignificant it is, how the damage is minimal, actually; then he lets it fall back to earth.

"No," he says.

Narrowed eyes. A flare of visible anger. "What do you mean, 'no', Chase?" Duke says, and his voice sounds like a cocked gun. "You forget your place."

"My place? What's my place, Duke? Because it isn't at your fucking feet," Chase tells him, and his voice shakes but the words still slip free. "I'm not your fucking - toy to use."

"You were more than eager to pledge your loyalty to me," Duke tells him quietly. His voice is poison, dripping in his ear. "I can be a friend to you, Chase, if you'll let me. If you don't... I can be a rather dangerous enemy as well."

"You're a bully who gets off on threatening people," Chase says, then takes another hasty step back (avoiding the glass this time) when Duke approaches again. "And I don't belong to you."

Duke stops; Chase does too. Duke regards him like he's a piece of meat, Chase stares at him like a man staring down a tiger that's far, far too close for comfort. He can remember the humiliation of the photos on the front door, of sleaze and slurs on Instagram, of texts and emails reminding him of his place. The tiles of the steam room. Leather cuffs around his wrists and silk around his eyes. The bitterness of the pills, the way they turn his bones to liquid. His knees bruising, his thighs aching, but not getting up because he hasn't been told to. Not being able to breathe.

He remembers Vinny stroking his hair and kissing his brow, the rise and fall of Frank's murmurs as he tells him how good he's been. Pain that's good and sharp and scares away the dull agony from under his ribs, of being helped to his feet and deft hands massaging away the sting of being on his knees, of blankets and decaf mocha and peanut butter toast. The freedom of putting himself in someone else's hands and knowing, knowing they'll never hurt him.

He remembers dancing in the club until sweat runs into his eyes, and dinners at Frank's place; he remembers the warmth of Vinny's hand on the red carpet, and sex that's easy and comfortable and fun, and falling asleep in his arms, and Chase stares at Duke for a long, long moment and then turns and starts to walk away.

"Chase Lowry, do not take another step," Duke snarls.

Chase whirls back and shouts, "Stay the fuck away from me, Duke!"

There's a dip in the faint conversation that's surrounded them like cicadas in summer. A woman Chase doesn't know approaches cautiously, glancing between the two, brow furrowed. Chase spares her a quick glance, then back to Duke; he's suddenly remembered that when most people encounter tigers, there are bars in the way.

The newcomer: "Is everything alright?"

"Everything is fine," Duke says, his voice as calm as a breeze.

"This man has been harassing me for fucking months," Chase says savagely, and the words are out, they've been said, he doesn't need or want to give the details but they're finally free. God, he's free.

The stranger glances between them; her frown deepens when she takes in Duke. "Yeah, I've heard stories about him," she tells Chase quietly, then holds out an arm for him. "Come back to the house, hon. You're bleeding."

She leads him away. Chase doesn't look back. The world feels strange, hazy.

She has him sit down and hold a wad of tissues to his foot, finds a first aid kit. Someone else gets him a glass of water. Someone else recognises him and puts two and two together; they return with Vinny in tow, and Vinny immediately races to Chase's side and grabs his hand in both of his own.

Are you okay?

Yeah, Chase says, and his voice doesn't sound much like his own. Just stepped on some broken glass.

Duke Cain was harassing him, the woman says, and Vinny narrows his eyes, and Chase clings to his hand, don't, he's not worth it -

Vinny exhales. Sits beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Thanks, he tells the woman quietly, and takes the first aid kit from her. I'll look after him. Thanks.

She gives him a smile. Walks away.

I told him to stay away from me, Chase says as Vinny wraps his foot. I told him I don't belong to him.

Good, Vinny whispers, and kisses him. God, Chase, I'm so fucking proud of you.

He's the glass, he says, and Vinny tilts his head; he doesn't understand. Duke. He's the broken glass. It hurt, but it was so small. It was so fucking small, Vinny. It'll heal, easy.

Vinny kisses him again.

They stay together. Sit together. The cinematographer comes by and returns Chase's shoes, left sitting beside the lounger, with a promise to catch up later. A young woman with a nervous smile comes by and says that she knows Duke's a creep, try not to let him get to you, there are more of us out there who know what it's like. At least a few, strangers and vaguely familiar faces, checking to see if he's alright. Frank finds them and takes the seat at Chase's other side, he and Vinny flanking him; wordlessly, he gestures to where Duke is being escorted out of the house by security.

"And there we have it," he says quietly as Duke argues with the host, is shut down, and is shown the door. "The beginning of the end of Duke Cain's empire. All it takes is a few brave voices to speak out."

"I don't feel brave," Chase says. His foot throbs. A drop of blood shows through the bandage.

Vinny squeezes his hand. "Yeah. But you are."

"I yelled at him." Chase feels almost dizzy; he laughs. "To stay the fuck away from me. And I told - I don't know her name. The woman who was with me earlier. I told her he had been harassing me. And she listened. It's not - I don't - fuck."

A shudder runs down his spine. He feels exhausted, suddenly, beneath the exhilaration. Vinny and Frank both reach for him, both bring him into the fold, pour care and affection and pride into him, and Chase closes his eyes and lets himself be loved.

"Refused bail." Vinny's grin is wild, feral, as he shoves his phone into Chase's face. Chase blinks and draws back to read the email from the lawyers on the screen, and a smile of his own starts to grow; Vinny drops back onto the bed and immediately leans over to kiss him.

"Poses a flight risk, has a history of targeted harassment -" Chase wriggles out of the kiss, petting Vinny's hair as he takes the phone to read it properly. "Unacceptable risk to his - Vinny - victims, yeah, now they notice." He shoves Vinny's shoulder lightly, who rolls back with a laugh; Chase gets to the end of the email and hands the phone back. "Fuck. Okay. That's better than we thought."

His words are calm, but inside his chest, his heart is racing. There's a weird sort of terrified elation in finally getting the confirmation - Duke is in jail, and he'll be staying there, at least assuming that he doesn't end up winning the case. And given how many people have started to speak out...

Well, that's looking increasingly unlikely.

"You okay?"

Vinny's murmur snaps Chase out of his reverie; he shakes his head, more to clear his thoughts than to say no. "It's a lot," he admits finally, letting Vinny pull him back into his arms. "It feels so fucking weird. He's in jail, man. There's still the trial to go, and the police interviews were hard enough -"

His voice catches. He had barely made it through them, having to recount in excruciating detail just what Duke had done to him, what he had let Duke do to him. How he had sold his soul and his dignity for a movie role; how he hadn't found his way to the exit, even after Duke had come so close to killing him, until Vinny had kicked the door down and offered him a hand out.

The memories haunt him. They live in under his skin and in his bones. They follow him into his sleep - hands, eyes, teeth.

They're not all bad. That's the kicker, the thing that leaves him feeling sick. The memories aren't all bad. There's a part of him that misses it, the absolute certainty of knowing just what he has to do, what his role in the narrative is.

"Yeah," Vinny says, his voice catching. "The trial's not gonna be easy. There's going to be a lot of speculation."

Chase finds his hand in the sheets and blankets, and squeezes.

There's a little whisper in the back of his mind, still, that says it's not worth it. That he would go back to Duke, if only it'll keep Vinny safe, his privacy intact. And another, then, that says that that itself is doing him a disservice, that as hard as the trial will be, keeping quiet will only mean Duke getting away with it, with all the pain he's inflicted not just on Chase, but on a substantial amount of others.

He can't do that to Vinny. He can't do that to the others; some days, he recognises that he can't do that to himself, either.

"Oh," Vinny says as an afterthought, "Frank added in the forward that we're invited over tonight, if we want. You up for it?"

(A standing invitation. Dinner, and dessert, and drinks, and no further, if that's all they want; more, if that's what they desire.)

Chase thinks of Frank's steady hands, and nods. "Yeah," he says, the kernel of an idea there. "Sounds good."

Vinny nods and taps in a reply, and Chase lies back in the sheets and lets himself imagine, finally, a future where the threat of Duke doesn't hang over his head.

He thinks he might be happy there.

Chapter Text

Frank's hand on his face is so, so gentle.

Chase gazes up at him from his position on his knees, in the bedroom where they end up in for most of their visits. He bites his lip, the words weighing on his mind; he's toying with them, reordering, rephrasing. There's a hint of shame there, still; he needs to work out exactly what he's going to say, how he's going to say it.

(It's like story editing, he thinks bemusedly, and sets that chain of thought out of mind for now.)

"What do you want, Chase?" Frank says, and he's kind and understanding, and - it chafes, just a little. Chase shifts on his knees, glancing across at Vinny, who's settled in the loveseat and watching him curiously; he takes a steadying breath.

"Can you -" he starts, carefully, "Maybe... be rough with me? Like -" How Duke used to be. "Like you're just using me for your own pleasure. Like I'm just another body for you to use." He glances across at Vinny, too, giving him a tiny nod; he's including him in this as well.

Vinny frowns, but Frank only nods slowly, his hand against Chase's cheek shifting to grip his chin. More authoritarian, less overtly caring. "I can," he reassures. "Tell me what's on your mind, Chase."

Slowly, he exhales, and starts putting the words in their right order. "I keep thinking about everything he did. There was a lot I didn't like, but - there was also a lot I did. Not just being used, but also, like - pain. Being degraded. He even -" When he swallows, he can feel the hand there, just the tips of fingers against his throat. "A few times, before, he put his hand around my throat and squeezed and - I liked that. That last time, it scared the shit out of me because I really thought he might kill me. I know neither of you wouldn't. He didn't care at all about me. I know you both do."

Vinny slides off the loveseat, settling at Chase's side, wrapping his arms around his waist and burying his face against his shoulder. "I'd never fucking hurt you," he mumbles. "Never."

"I know." Chase turns his head, kisses the crown of Vinny's head. "That's why I want you just - do it like this. As a scene. Safe words - well, I guess it'd have to be a gesture or something - and aftercare and... I know you care about me. He never did. You do. It's safe."

"I think I get it." Vinny's voice is quiet, contemplative. "It's like - like exposure therapy, or something."

"Yeah."

Frank nods, leaning back against the frame of the loveseat. "You want to recontextualise the experience," he says thoughtfully. "The pain, the roughness of it, being used - it excites you. But Duke did not care for you, and so the experience was tainted by it. You wish to experience it again, knowing you are safe. Does that include being choked?"

Chase closes his eyes, nods.

"We will continue to use the stoplight system. If you are unable to speak, tap my hand twice - I will not tie or bind them if I choke you. You will be entirely free to move, should you need to. Do you understand? Look at me."

When he opens his eyes, it's to see the patience on Frank's face, the understanding beneath it. Sympathy, empathy. He cares, and Chase knows it; he knows that if he taps out, or if he changes his mind, or decides to give up on the whole idea and go play Solitaire on his phone for the rest of the night, Frank will accept it.

Vinny squeezes his hand, offering wordless support.

"Yes, Sir," he says quietly. A flicker of surprise on Frank's face, then understanding. He smiles, caresses Chase's cheekbone with his thumb.

"And you, Vinny?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

"Good boys. Chase, get on the bed."

"Yes, Sir."

And it's easy, after that. Easy to slip into that place where pain is pleasure, where obedience is liberating, where he knows exactly what to do and exactly how to do it. Something in the way he's wired makes letting go as easy as freefall, knowing he has a safe place to land - that the hands that push and pull and drag and slap mean no harm, that the hand around his throat will let go before he suffocates, that the words they say are meant with love.

He's safe. He's safe.

A brutal kiss and teeth that catch his bottom lip, a hand around his throat, the thumb caressing his jaw. Squeezing, just enough for him to feel the pressure, never enough to stop his breathing; it draws back and slaps, the sweet sting pushing away the haze and he leans into it -

"Y-yellow."

Chase opens his eyes.

He hadn't spoken. The only sound he had made had been a fluttery little moan, tumbling free from his lips. The haze retreats a little more; he focuses with difficulty.

"Vinny?" he mumbles through the fuzz, because it's Vinny who's straddling him, Vinny staring at his own hand, Vinny's eyes wet with tears, Vinny's voice who had called this to a halt. "Are you okay?"

Frank, beside them both, rests a hand on Vinny's shoulder, then reaches for the remote control on the nightstand and switches on the main bedroom light, their signal to stop or at least pause, recalibrate. "Sit up, Chase," he murmurs, and Chase does, pulling Vinny into his arms; Vinny buries his face in the crook of Chase's neck and the sound that comes from him is a badly-stifled sob.

There's guilt there, yeah. They had both been so focused on making sure he felt safe - and he had, and it had been amazing, and he had completely failed to recognise that Vinny was quietly falling apart; Chase rubs his back and kisses his forehead and hands and makes soothing noises, wraps the blanket around his shoulders and encloses the three of them in a cocoon, pours all the love he's been given back into Vinny. Whispers to him, I love you, you did fine, you're safe, we're all safe, you did so well.

It takes a few minutes before Vinny's tears peter out, leaving him shivering in Chase's arms, and god, he knows what that feels like, the cold in his bones. "Sorry," he whispers over and over, "I couldn't - I'm sorry."

"Never apologise," Frank murmurs, brushing his hair back and kissing him on the forehead. "If you need to stop, you need to stop. Do you feel able to tell us about it?"

Vinny nods slowly, hesitantly. "It's stupid -" he starts, and immediately, Frank shakes his head.

"No. Nothing is stupid."

The laugh he lets out is shaky. "Okay. Okay, sorry, let me - let me start over." A breath in, a breath out. Chase breathes with him, still rubbing soothing patterns into his back.

Quiet, for a moment. Frank fiddles with the remote, dims the light a little, not quite so bright. Gentle.

"When I hit you," he says slowly, drawing back to meet Chase's gaze, and god, his expression looks devastated. "When I hit you, I'm fucking - terrified I won't know how to stop. That I'll actually properly hurt you. I know I get angry, I fucking know. I've got in fights before. I actually have hurt people before." He swallows roughly. "I know you say it's okay, it's what you want, all that shit. But like - a part of me doesn't understand why. Why you're into it. And I'm so fucking scared that you won't tell me if I go too far, and that pisses me the fuck off because I need you to, you have to tell me and I don't always know if you can, and it makes me so pissed off sometimes that y-you -"

His voice cracks. Chase sits wordlessly, lets Vinny speak. Holds his hands and waits.

Vinny swallows again, then again. A few tears escape; Chase wipes one away. "You've said stuff about yourself like - horrible, fucked-up, self-loathing shit. And I hate that you do. And I'm fucking terrified that I'll get angry enough at you for not fucking loving yourself enough that I really will hurt you, and you'll never say that I did." His sentence finishes in a whisper. "You've never used a safe word. Not fucking once. I have no idea if y-you're scared or overwhelmed or fucked up over something and you're just not saying it. You scare the shit out of me, Chase. I scare the shit out of me. Please, don't let me fucking hurt you."

"You haven't," Chase says, and his own voice is unsteady as he pulls Vinny back into his arms, holding him like he can pull him into his skin, protect him from all his own thoughts. "I swear. I haven't used a safe word because I've never needed to with you. You haven't hurt me, love, I promise. You never have."

"I could," Vinny whispers. "It would be so easy. I get so angry sometimes." He blinks wetly at Chase, his brow furrowing. "Did you just call me 'love'?"

Chase feels his cheeks grow warm. "Yeah. Uh, is that okay?"

"Yeah. I like that." A little hint of a smile, there, uncertain but pleased. "But yeah, it's - I'm still fuckin' scared. I don't want to lose control. I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't, I swear, I want this -"

"Chase," Frank says gently, holding a hand up; Chase quietens immediately. "Please listen to what Vinny is saying. You remember what we spoke of, of limits and boundaries? They are not just for the submissive. Dominants have boundaries too, and I believe Vinny is telling you he is not comfortable with sadism. Is that correct, Vinny?"

Wordlessly, shame etching across his face, Vinny nods.

"Good boy." Frank presses a kiss to his forehead, runs a hand through his rumpled hair. "No, don't give me that look. It takes courage to be able to articulate your desires. It takes strength to be able to say stop. You and Chase are new to this world, and you are still working out what those desires are, and where the boundaries lie. You are both doing so well."

"I feel like we should be getting graded on this," Vinny says with a weak grin.

"This is great," Chase quotes instantly, "I'm going to get a good grade in BDSM, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve."

Frank laughs. "An A plus for both of you."

"And I'm sorry," he adds quietly to Vinny, "That I didn't realise before."

Vinny takes his face in both of his hands, kisses him. "I didn't say, before."

They don't continue, after that. The lights stay on, the blankets up. They clean up. Frank does slip out from beneath the sheets to fetch them their usual decaf mochas, then rejoins them, limbs tangled under the blankets.

They talk, quietly. Boundaries and limits, yes, but also movies and television, books and music. Recipes to try (Frank still claims he can't cook; Vinny is trying to convince him to try a few simple dishes). Politics, briefly and with distaste; fashion, with more enthusiasm. Chase lets the rise and fall of their voices lull him into a different kind of peace.

He's watching Vinny. Contemplating. He's thinking about Vinny's voice trembling as he confides in his fears, at the sincerity of his attempt to understand Chase's more violent desires. He's thinking of trust and comfort, courage and companionship. How Vinny loves him, despite all of Chase's worst, most fucked-up thoughts, his self-loathing, his desperation. Love, despite it all, that keeps him coming back, that keeps him pulling Chase from the wreckage of his own life, over and over again.

Vinny keeps saving him. Over and over again.

But, and this is the most important part, but: Vinny isn't perfect. Vinny gets angry. He gets frustrated, afraid. Their desires haven't always been compatible; Chase will always crave the rough hand, and Vinny may not be willing or able to give that to him. He needs, at times, to be picked up off the ground himself; he's stayed quiet when perhaps he shouldn't have, so not to rock the boat. He's been perfect, polished Vinny Monroe for so long, and Chase has known him for three years and only now does he think he might actually know him.

He's not perfect. Chase doesn't think he'd love him as much if he was. They're both flawed, messy creatures, and their jagged edges don't line up smoothly, and that's okay.

It's okay. He wants to be with Vinny, the person. He doesn't want the ideal, the perfect picture. He wants Vinny.

"Chase?" Vinny murmurs, and brushes back his hair. "What're you thinking?"

"Just thinking." Chase leans in, kisses him. "I love you."

"Love you too." Vinny's smile is sleepy, his eyes half-lidded. "Mm. Frank, can we stay here tonight?"

Frank, carefully, starts to extricate himself from the blankets. "Of course," he tells them, and reaches out to caress Chase's cheek, to bend and kiss Vinny lightly. "Rest easily, my sweet boys."

Vinny grins back, pleased even through his fatigue. "Thanks. And, uh, thanks for earlier. You're like our kinky gay fairy godmother."

Frank's laugh is delighted. "My dear, she gave Cinderella glass slippers and a very strict time limit. Bold of you to assume she wasn't already kinky and gay."

He takes his leave; Chase and Vinny remain.

Silence, for a few quiet minutes. Vinny reaches for the remote control and switches off the lights, then curls in close, holding on to Chase like a teddy bear.

"You're not disappointed, are you?" he finally says, his words half-muffled. "That I couldn't - do that."

Chase shakes his head, and he can feel that guilt starting to return. "Nah. I'm sorry. I didn't really - I was thinking, like, limits and boundaries - they were meant for me. Like I assumed at first that being a sub - it was all about doing whatever the Dom wanted, y'know? And -" He pauses to yawn. "Sorry - when Frank started talking about boundaries, I was like... okay. Those are there to protect me. I guess..." He closes his eyes; even in the dark, he doesn't quite think he can meet Vinny's gaze. "I guess I didn't really think that - if you were the Dom, you needed to protect yourself as well."

Vinny laughs shakily. "I didn't think I'd need to either." A pause, heavy in the night air. "I think I'm gonna start anger management therapy. I don't like not trusting myself. I don't want to - like - bottle everything up so much it just fucking explodes. I can't do that to you. I can't do that to myself."

A wordless murmur of agreement. "It helps. It doesn't fix everything, but it helps."

"Hope so." A quiet exhalation, warm against Chase's skin. "Chase?"

"Yeah?"

"Please try to love yourself more. Please." Breathing in then out again in a shuddery little breath. "You always think terrible things about yourself and it fucking hurts. God, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

"I'll try. For you, I want to try."

He doesn't understand it, why Vinny loves him. He doesn't understand the good he sees. But he'll try, because he trusts him, loves him, wants to see what he sees.

When Vinny speaks again, they're both halfway to sleep. Quiet and warm. "Chase?"

"Mm?"

"Love you."

"Love you too," Chase murmurs, and closes his eyes; falling asleep in Vinny's arms is easy as breathing.

There's something so marvellously mundane to waking up in Frank's house.

Vinny is still sleeping, making little snuffling noises that Chase can't help but find adorable. There's early morning light streaming in through a gap in the curtains, and the day is going to be warm but the air is still cool enough that the blankets are a delight. The scent of laundry detergent, Vinny's shampoo, and sweat lingers in his nose; somewhere deeper in the house, the radio is playing.

Chase slips out from under the blankets and shivers, reaching for a dressing gown that Frank has more or less given him. By the time he returns from the bathroom, Vinny is awake too, stirring sleepily, swinging his legs out of the bed, rubbing at his eyes as he perches on the edge of the mattress. When he catches Chase's eye, his gaze is soft. Loving.

"Get on your knees," he murmurs.

Chase kneels. Without even thinking about it, he kneels there, in front of Vinny seated on the edge of the bed, who gazes down at him like he's something precious. When he shuffles forward to rest his head in Vinny's lap, to stroke an affectionate hand down his calf, Vinny sighs; one of Vinny's hands slides through his hair, the other finds Chase's free hand.

He remembers another room, nearly a year ago. Another voice telling him to get on his knees; another set of eyes staring down at him. But this is no audition room. The gaze on him isn't cold, calculating; it's soft and warm and bright with affection and care. He's safe. He's loved. God, above all else, he's loved.

When he looks up, finally, to meet Vinny's gaze, he finds them bright with tears. Immediately, Chase rises and pulls him into his arms; he kisses the tears away, kisses his cheeks, his forehead. Tenderly, his lips.

"I still don't think I understand you," Vinny says with a crooked smile, his voice catching.

(Duke had thought, once, that he understood Chase. He had thought, once, that he knew best; he had thought, once, that he alone would be the one to shape Chase's destiny.)

"I'll meet you halfway," Chase says, and it's a promise.

Chapter Text

Empire Magazine

'It's fundamentally about hope': Elegy stars on how vampire films can heal

By Caleb Brandt
23 October 2027

It's an uncharacteristically rainy morning in Los Angeles when I meet with Vinny Monroe and Chase Lowry, sheltered from the weather in the kind of cafe that you don't realize is there until you're practically through the door. It's a favorite, Monroe says, reclined in the booth with the kind of relaxation that's hard-won; a little sanctuary to duck away from the frenetic energy of Hollywood.

"We've had to fight for the chance to just be normal people, most of the time," he explains over his mocha and toast. "I had grown up in Hollywood and I thought I knew it pretty well, but I had always seen it from sort of the side. It wasn't until a few years ago that I really got launched into it at mach f--k, and it became overwhelming pretty quickly. So it's nice being able to take a step back and realize, wait a sec, I'm still human."

"And I had just never really had that level of success," adds Lowry, both Monroe's costar and partner of five years. "I had done pretty well in my twenties, early thirties, but the roles just sort of ended up drying up. I struggled for a really long time just to get anything. There were times where I was so broke I was sleeping in my car."

It's not a problem he has now. After the success of his supporting role in prestige political drama Ascension, a role that saw him receive an Emmy nomination for the second season, the offers for both film and television were unleashed. With the upcoming release of arthouse vampire flick Elegy, a film staring the both of them under the direction of idiosyncratic Frank Gardeu, at least two more films and the third season of Ascension in production, and an increasingly busy job in both writing and story editing, sleeping in cars looks to be a thing of the past.

But it hasn't all been smooth sailing. "We've both dealt with a lot of shit," Monroe says frankly. "Things that are now safely in the past, thank f--k, but which still have an impact, you know?"

Some of it is known to the public. Monroe has spoken openly about his abuse at the hands of infamous producer Duke Cain, who died earlier this year while serving a jail sentence after the manipulation, blackmail, and, frequently, sexual abuse of actors, musicians, models, and a myriad of others came to light in late 2025.

"It's something I don't want to be ashamed of," he says, and his voice is contemplative. "Duke forced me to keep it secret, and I agreed because I didn't want that kind of thing attached to my name. It's... scary as shit when you're trying to become established, knowing people might look at you and go, oh, he was sexually abused, and it's the first thing they see. But that secrecy meant it would keep happening to others. I try not to think about what-if scenarios, but sometimes I do wonder if I had been open about it from the start, if I might have saved others from the same fate. If people knew Duke was a predator, would others have still ended up abused the same way? It f--king haunts me sometimes, man."

Lowry reaches over and takes his partner's hand. It's a quiet moment, quiet support, that's seen the pair become one of the most beloved couples in Hollywood, from red carpet appearances together to charity work for LGBTQIA+ organizations across the country (Lowry has also advocated for services for people experiencing homelessness).

"We can't change what happened," Lowry explains once the moment has passed. "And what happened can be... so f--ked up. No one tells you when you get in the industry how hard it is. No one tells you what you have to personally sacrifice to put your art first, to honor these stories. [Not] seeing friends. Walking away from lovers. No money, no apartment, living in your f--king car. Cutting yourself into pieces because you're so desperate, so hungry, that you'll do anything, anything they ask of you, even if it's killing you in the process."

He smiles, and the melancholy dissolves like a spell.

"But we survived it. Should we have had to deal with it in the first place? No, no one should have had to. You shouldn't have to practically kill yourself to make art, and I've always hated the idea that art is built on suffering. Who knows what else we could have done if we hadn't? People say, imagine if Van Gogh hadn't had depression, would he have still painted such amazing works? And I think that's wrong, because I think if he hadn't had depression, he could have produced even more. One of the most productive periods of his life was while he was actively in treatment. So yeah, the idea that you have to have suffered to produce art is bullshit. I would have much rather we didn't go through what we did." He laughs quietly. "But we still survived. And now, maybe, we can help others who have been there too."

Survival after horrific experiences is a theme in Elegy, which releases nation-wide in select cinemas on Thursday. Without getting into spoiler territory, both their characters are dealing with the trauma of their own deaths and resurrection as vampires, the turning of Lowry's vulnerable, violent character Nikolai the inciting incident for Monroe's angry but bruised Arthur, turned only a few years earlier, to finally dredge himself out of the depression he's found himself in. The two vampires clash both physically and emotionally, but the initially unspoken attraction between them draws them into a truce, then deep understanding, then, finally, love.

"It's fundamentally about hope," Lowry says. "The boys go through so much awful stuff. They go through, almost literally, hell. But they're not dead, and thank god, because that would mean they're stuck that way. They're undead, and that means they have an opportunity to start healing. So long as you're alive in some way, you can heal."

This, Lowry says, is what attracted him to the script in the first place, which he says came at a dark point in his life. "I wanted to reflect that lived experience, of starting to heal after bruising experiences. I was also assistant story editor on it, my first story editing position, and we were able to work with Lief, the amazing scriptwriter, and Noura, our wonderful lead story editor, and sort of bring in our own perspectives and experiences. It was basically a dialog, in the end."

Monroe adds, "Some of the stuff Arthur has dealt with in the past are based on my own experiences with Duke. And that did bring an authenticity to stuff, but also a genuine vulnerability, you know? You want to leave something of yourself in a film, but not to the point that you're still bleeding afterwards."

"That's why I'm so grateful we had Frank as our director," Lowry continues, picking up where Monroe left off seamlessly. "He's fantastic at working out our limits and taking us right to them, but never over them, checking in with us at every step of the way. I've worked with directors and producers who saw pain as a way to get the most out of an actor, and yeah, you might get a good performance, but it erodes you away. Frank directed us as actors and looked after us as people."

It's an approach that's paying off. The film is making a stir in the festival scene, already having had a strong reception at its early, limited showing at the Toronto International Film Festival last month and due to show at Sundance and Berlin in early 2028. Lowry's performance in particular has been singled out as a possible contender for a swag of awards, and Gardeu's direction is already winning accolades.

"Good!" Monroe grins when I mention the latter. "Frank's been awesome to us. He deserves the recognition for all his hard work. Not just in the arthouse sphere, he's already pretty much a legend there, but everywhere."

What next, then, for the pair? Lowry looks meditative, dwelling over the last of his mocha. "I try not to think too hard about predicting the future," he eventually says. "If you had asked me fifteen years ago, I would have thought all the roughest parts were over. I had no idea what I still had to deal with - both all of the awful, traumatic stuff, and the good parts that came after. All I can say is that I'd like to keep acting and go further with writing."

Monroe concurs. "I'm not even thirty, you know?" he says with a shrug. "Yeah, I definitely want to keep acting, and maybe look into production or direction myself. But maybe I'll find other things that I love. All I had ever wanted to be growing up was an actor, and I've done that. I'm a Hollywood brat. I grew up here, with a famous producer father, and I haven't really explored other options. Maybe I'll discover a completely unexpected passionate love for competitive snooker playing, or accounting, or retire to a private tropical island to grow pineapples."

"Damn," Lowry jokes, "I was thinking a cherry farm in the Pacific Northwest."

"We can go back and forth," Monroe promises, a cheeky grin on those familiar features. "Who knows what the future holds? We'll be doing it together, and we'll be doing it for us."