Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One last glance at the piece of black cardboard in his hands, he rolls his golden eyes in annoyance and throws it into the trash along with an empty bottle of alcohol.

In life, he heard that every bad deed has its punishment. Right?

Well, when he was an Overlord, he never felt that way. Hell had become his personal paradise, a reward for all the shit he'd been through in life, so much power in his hands and a bunch of souls to please him, he never imagined it would end.

Mr. Husker always wins. The house... never... loses...

Another shitty day, cleaning glasses and "tending" an empty bar for the nonexistent residents of the Princess of Hell's Hostel Following the stupid orders of the damned Alastor and voluntarily/forcefully "participating" in the activities of Lucifer's daughter.

Listening to the sorrows and depravities of the wretched, damned souls around him.

But who listens to him?

Pathetic. He should have gotten used to it by now; after all, this is Hell. Easy come, easy go.

"Whiskers," the cherry on the cake...

Yes, he's in Hell and paying for his sins. Enduring the porn star's flirtations and advances.

Every night, his routine is punctually carried out; he spends hours listening to Angel's whining and "fake" whining; a miserable wretch who's only looking for attention.

Right?

 He's always been good at reading people, seeing through their masks.

The spider has no other way of speaking, Valentino this and Valentino that, Valentino is a pain in the ass, Valentino blah, blah, blah...

"Husker, dude..." that damn staticky voice.

Husk glances sideways at the trash can.

"Regret."

Angel, Angel, Angel, Angel will love this, Angel will look great in... that will affect Angel's recording, Angel is my favorite, Angel is a bitch, I will kill Angel, I want a threesome with Angel, I will kill them all and get Angel back, I WILL NEVER LET THAT Bitch GO, blah, blah, blah...

"Voxxy, are you jealous of Angie?~"

"Stupid addicted whore"

....

Vox pushes his way through the crowd of sweaty sinners. The blaring music and strobe lights denote the social strata of the area; they are as ordinary as they come. The smell of stale alcohol and the lack of hygiene are nauseating. He's definitely in the slums of the city, if that's even possible.

 He looks at the place with disdain; it's not really his scene, though he's no stranger to it; he's used to it, thanks to Valentino, his partner, even though the moth clubs are much higher-class.

His eyes focus, like a camera zooming in, and he smiles, having located his target.

—So, Hazbin Hotel...— the Overlord takes a seat at the bar, next to that wretch.

—What the hell are you doing here?— the winged cat looks up and snaps in a hoarse voice.

—"Friend", it's good to see you again, too.—

—We're not friends, never have been— Husk growls, to which Vox smiles and shakes his head.

—True, if you knew who to do business with, you wouldn't be in the situation you're in today.

—The mighty Husker, lord of fortune and abundance, master of deceit and vice; reduced to the pet of Alastor's bastard.

 —Fuck you, Vox— Husk gets up from his seat, drops a bill, and prepares to leave. Vox rolls his eyes and grimaces.

—I have a deal for you~—Vox says quickly. —I can free you from the damn Wendigo— Husk stops immediately, but doesn't turn around.

—Oh yeah? What? As I recall, last time, Alastor almost exterminated you, if Valentino hadn't stepped in and saved you.

—Do you want your soul back, or would you rather keep licking the soles of Alastor's shoes?— At Vox's words, Husk's fur prickles with rage. —Just think, Husker, all that power, in your hands. You'll get your casinos back. Your name will be spoken with respect again—Vox takes Husk by the shoulder in a semi-hug—Maybe we can do business, I don't know, an online gambling house, that doesn't sound bad, you could also include shows with Val's whores.— He winks at him.

—I've heard that making deals with the Vee's is worse than making deals with Alastor— Husk replies, while looking suspiciously at the Overlord of the media.

Vox starts to laugh at the former Overlord's statement and sighs—"Stupid Angel and Pentius.” Husk, as eloquent as ever, but be careful what you say, you might regret it.

—Regret, you sound like the princess, and you know what? I'm sick of that word.

 —Trust me, it's a Win, Win, you have nothing to lose— smiles the TV demon, extending his hand towards the cat demon, offering him a black card with the VOXTEK logo printed on it.

Angel Dust climbs down from the pole, his arms and legs terribly sore. He's been rehearsing Valentino's new choreography for hours, "days." The mogul has just acquired a new club and intends to inaugurate it with a grand new show, starring his favorite star, his gold mine, "Angel Dust." And well, who knows, maybe if someone pays enough, he'll earn the privilege of debuting one of the "dark rooms" with the spider.

Rehearsals aren't over, but Angel is exhausted. Knowing that Valentino won't allow him to rest until after the premiere, at least Angel thinks he deserves a small privilege. The spider heads toward his boss's office.

...

Without knocking, Angel opens the door and enters, bumping into Vox, who seems to be whispering into Valentino's ear. Valentino is sitting behind his desk with a huge smile on his face. The sound of the door opening breaks the pair's dream bubble, and when they turn their attention to the chandelier, they frown.

—Angel~, it's 6:00 pm, your shift isn't over yet.

—Yes. Well, I need to talk to you, Val— Angel says, glancing sideways at Vox, who rolls his eyes in annoyance.

—I'll see you tonight, Val— after which the blue demon disappears in a flash toward one of the office's surveillance cameras.

—What do you want, Angel? What could be so important that you'd ditch rehearsals and barge into my office?

—Well, ermh...— he scratches the back of his neck and heads inside, taking a seat in the chair in front of the desk.

—Since the opening is tomorrow, I wanted to ask you to leave early today and not see us until opening time.

—Are you fukin' kidding?!—yelled the moth.

 —Val...

—I don't want any mistakes. There won't be any breaks until after the premiere.

—Val, I've been practicing all month. I'm tired, really! I need to rest a little. I promise there won't be any glitches. I've got this all under control.

—Oh, Angie.—Valentino stands behind Angel, placing his hands on the dancer's shoulders and squeezing, digging his golden claws into the soft, exposed skin.

—Val?

—Angie, Angie... Are you tired, Amorcito?—he begins to laugh.

—Yes. Well, I...

—Do you want to see my damn face?! Do you think I'm an idiot?!

—No, Val! I just... You know what, forget it, Val! I'm going back to the damn studio.—Angel raises his arms in peace and tries to stand up, but the Overlord's claws hold him in the chair.

 —Maybe when you were my good boy and lived in the tower, I would have considered it. But now that you're a...

—Stop it! Maybe there's a reason I chose to stop being your damn good boy— Angel takes Valentino's hands off him and leaves the office, slamming the door behind him.

Angel hasn't taken three steps when the sound of something crashing against the closed door is heard behind him.

—Angel, the boss texted me, saying that...

—Fuck you, Travis! You and the boss can kiss my ass—The white finger of the furious spider makes an obscene gesture and disappears behind the door. The bird demon rolls his eyes and returns to his seat in the studio.

Back in his dressing room, the frustrated dancer begins to throw everything in his path against the walls, finally leaning back in his chair and beginning to cry. He's furious, his whole body hurts. His boss is an idiot. He knows he's made a lot of mistakes, but God certainly owes him.

Angel had fallen asleep, fast asleep. He hadn't even noticed when Valentino entered his dressing room. How long had he been standing there watching him?

Suddenly, the moth's enormous hand began to run its fingers over his fluffy white chest. The gentle touch wakes the tired spider, who, upon seeing the great demon, immediately jumps and stands up.

—Val!

—Calm down, Angie— he says, smiling. —I know I was a bit rude earlier, but it's for your own good, for both of ours." The large hand rises to Angel's warm cheek and caresses it. —I don't want us to fight; tomorrow will be a great day. You didn't keep practicing like I told you, you destroyed everything, and you shamelessly fell asleep...— he says in a sweetly accusatory tone, as if he were speaking to a little boy. Angel looks at him in bewilderment; the moth is acting strangely "calm."

—What do you think if we rehearse one more time, and then you can go?— he offers. Angel, not entirely satisfied but tired of arguing, agrees. After all, he had to take advantage of the fact that Valentino wasn't furious and unhinged from his previous explosive reaction.

 —Yes... Valentino— Angel looks away as he answers and stands up to head for the door, still feeling frustrated.

—But honey, cariño, smile for Daddy— the purple demon demands, who immediately reaches the artist, grabbing him by the head with both claws, one on each side of his face. Angel has no choice but to force a fake smile or risk having his head ripped off.

—Angie... Come on, do your best. Are you going to show that face to the customers?

Angel sighs and rolls his eyes. —Val, I am...—

—I know, what do you think about this? I'll give you tickets to your stupid friends at the hotel and that bitch Sugar or whatever her name is.— Valentino pulls out eight tickets.

—Cherri, her name is Cherri— Angel corrects irritably.

 —It doesn't matter, it's not important. In fact, tell the little princess to invite her daddy~—he says cheerfully while waving the tickets in front of the spider, who looks on in amazement.

—Really, Val?!

—Sure, Sweetheart, anything for my favorite star. But you have to pay for what you consume! There's no free bar for anyone!— Valentino clarifies.

—Thanks, Val— Angel takes the tickets and tucks them into his chest, then hugs Valentino and places a sweet kiss on his lips. Valentino reciprocates the affection, but before Angel leaves the dressing room, Val grabs him by the forearm.

—But Angie...—

—Val?...—

—I don't want you to feel bad if they don't come, okay? They don't appreciate true art. They're trying to change you, so I wouldn't be surprised if they don't come.

 —Val...—

—I only care about you, my love. I know what's good for you. What you need.

—Let's rehearse, Val— Angel replies, his head down.

—That's my boy!—

Once they've finished rehearsing and Valentino makes sure Angel has left, he immediately heads to Vox's office.

—I don't want them in the club!" the moth slams his palms against the blue demon's desk.

—What?— Vox looks at him, uncomprehending.

—I don't know, do what you have to do, but under no circumstances do I want those assholes from that filthy hotel in my club!

—Those prudes bought tickets?" Vox asks incredulously.

—Angel will pay for the tickets; I already charged them to his payroll. Don't digress, Vox. Angel will give them tickets for tomorrow, and I don't want them there, neither does that fucking cyclops!

—And what am I supposed to do? Why do you authorize the tickets?

—I'm not interested. Just do it, I don't know, hypnotize them, send them a subliminal message through their cell phones, like you do in those commercials on TV, I don't know. I need that silly little Angel to stop trusting them, I want him back.

—No!— Vox yells.

—What?— Val's head turns to his partner and he smiles at him, a chilling smile.

—Listen, Val, we don't need Angel to return to the tower. As long as the contract is valid and he fulfills his end of it, everything's fine. He won't return.—

—That's the problem. Angel only fulfills his end of the contract. And what about what I WANT!?

—Valentino...

—Listen carefully, Vox. Those idiots better dash Angel's hopes, or there won't be a single screen left in hell to replace your head with—

—Really, Val? All this fuss over a whore!

—Are you jealous?

—Why Angel? Val.

—Oh, Voxxy— Valentino gently took Vox's screen head. "There's no comparison with you, but Angel came first. Angel is mine, always. Before you, Angel was there, with me, for me.

—Tino... 

 —Don't challenge me, Voxxy!— he warns. —I'll see you tonight— Valentino blows him a kiss and leaves the office.

—Honestly. I don't know why I put up with it.— Vox looks at a photograph on his desk, an image of the two Overlords in their early days, happy; he sighs nostalgically —I'll show you that spider isn't worth it. 

The Overlord's phone begins to ring, pulling him out of his thoughts. He still has a lot of work to do, he's not in the mood to indulge stupid whims. Vox answers the call with annoyance.

—What is there to do? I don't want your dirty tricks— warns the thick voice on the other end of the line. Vox smiles victoriously.

...

—See you then, Husker— Once the call ends, Vox proclaims himself the victor. He'll finally be rid of Angel Dust and regain Valentino's full attention. —I told you you'd regret your words, old cat. In the end, everyone has a price.

—Give me a ticket to watch you be sexually exploited... Thank you— Alastor flashes his most forced smile, and once the spider is distracted by Husk, he burns the ticket with a green flame.

...

—Thank you, Angel~— the princess responds enthusiastically.

—Are you serious, Angel?— Vaggie looks at her with distaste, remembering the time the spider took them to a bondage room, but says nothing more.

Happily and excitedly, Niffty snatches the ticket from Angel and runs to put it away.

Once Angel finished handing out the tickets, he takes a few drinks. It's been a tiring day. He wants to go to his room. He needs to sleep and rest. Tomorrow will be Val's big day.

—Are you going to bed early?— Husk asks, astonished.

—Yeah, well, Val's expecting me tomorrow morning— he replies, somewhat dejected. —But don't miss me too much, kitty. Tomorrow you can see me and revel in my amazing figure— he winks.

—As if we haven't already seen you naked, everyone here— the demon cat laughs.

—Who knows, if you're lucky you might win a night with me, all to yourself.

—Go to sleep, legs,— Husk says goodbye and starts cleaning up the bar.

—Dream about me~— Angel shouts from the stairs.

—I do this every night, you're in all my nightmares, kid."

...

Finally, everyone in the hotel has fallen asleep. Husk has a moment of insecurity, but he shakes those thoughts from his mind and leaves the hotel.

—Husker, where are you going so late at night?—

"Shit," doesn't Alastor sleep?

—What could be so important that you're leaving the hotel at dawn?— the deer asks from the doorway.

—I have matters to attend to, I won't be long—Husk replies curtly. Alastor stares at him and smiles.

—Fine. Just don't neglect your obligations tomorrow morning. Don't let me down, Husker—Alastor vanishes in the blink of an eye. Finally alone, Husk relaxes his shoulders, rubs his face, and heads off to his "meeting."

...

—Let me understand what you're saying—Husk pinches the bridge of his nose. —Are you asking me to "seduce" Angel?

—I want you to make him fall in love with you and keep him away from Valentino for good.

—What do you gain from that?

—Personal reasons, business, more than anything. That stupid spider is a distraction for Valentino, therefore, a hindrance to my plans and the Vee's future.

 —Are you jealous of Angel?!

—HUSK!— Vox tries to remain calm.—Take care of your own business, it's a simple task, we all win, you make that idiot fall in love with you, keep him away from Valentino, you can even sleep with Angel for free! You'll get your soul back, and best of all, we'll screw Alastor.

—You have got to be kidding, Vox. How do you intend to beat Alastor?

—I have my methods, I know Alastor better than ANYONE in hell. Do your part and let me take care of mine— the Overlord extends his hand, intending to seal the deal.

—Who guarantees that I'll get my soul back? How do I know I won't go back to the Vee's?

—Believe me, I'm not interested in your old soul. I just need someone close to Angel Dust, and who better than you? I heard Angel talking about you, with the one-eyed bitch.

—You hacked his cell phone? You're sick!

—I only control my assets— The Overlord explains irritably —Trust me, Husker— Husk looks at Vox suspiciously. He knows him from his glory days, and Sir Pentius and Angel confirm that he's a son of a bitch.

However...

—I thought you had guts, Husker. Say "hi" to Alastor, for me— Vox says sarcastically.

His hunger for freedom is greater; this will be the biggest gamble of his entire damn existence.

—We have a deal— both demons shake their claws. Husk can feel the soft, light static emanating from Vox's body tickling the palm of his hand and running down his arm.

Upon returning to the hotel, Husk locks himself in his room. He must now plan how he will complete his part of the job, but a strange feeling haunts his stomach and mind.

Chapter Text

"What's the matter, Amorcito? You seem jittery. How about a little 'angel dust' to perk you up, my sweet Angel Dust?" The Overlord dangled a small baggie of white powder in front of the spider's face, swaying it like a taunt.

Angel dropped his gaze. He didn't want to piss off Valentino, but he'd made a promise to the princess—and damn it, he'd give it his all to keep his word and stay clean. Besides, he was buzzing with energy already; he didn't need to "stimulate" himself right now.

"Well, well, Angie. That's some real devotion you're showing for someone who's done jack shit for you. Tell me—who pulled you out of that rat hole you were hiding in? Who gave you EVERYTHING you've ever wanted?"

"Val, I..." Angel's eyes hit the floor again.

"Don't forget who actually gives a damn about you. Who really loves you, baby doll." Valentino slammed the door on his way out, the bang echoing like a gunshot.

Angel mulled over his boss's words. Maybe the moth had a point. The curtain parted, stage lights blasting his face like a spotlight interrogation. Whores and monsters, hellspawn from the Abyss, damned souls and ring-crossers—they'd all come to see him, cheering and worshipping like he was their god. Is this what being loved feels like?

Any other sinner would've shrunk under the weight, overwhelmed by the roar. But not Anthony. Back in life, he'd always dreamed of being the center of the universe. His old man's rejection, his brother's cold shoulder—it all shoved him toward the crave for adoration, no matter the cost. A scrap of attention would've been enough back then, and that's how Angel Dust, the porn star supernova, was born: made for the spotlight, built to be worshipped, loved, recognized. Built to be happy.

Brushing off the doubt, Angel owned his entrance—belt out a tune, grind through a sultry dance, flash those flirty smirks.

Smirks... As the spider strutted, he scanned the crowd on the sly, hunting for his friends. Despite everything—despite the pimp's poison—Angel wanted to believe in them. Val always spat that they weren't real friends, just users riding his coattails. The princess was just pimping her "redemption" PR stunt on Hell's biggest slut.

The venom dripping from the Overlord's lips replayed in his head: You're not their friend, Angie. You're a 'project.' An 'experiment.'

But... Charlie and the crew? They were different. The princess always preached that everyone deserved love and respect, no exceptions.

Angel took a deep breath, locking into his routine. But when he glanced front-row, toward the VIPs—nothing. Not one of his so-called "friends" had shown. The dancer swallowed the bitter lump in his throat and kicked off the show anyway. There has to be a reason for the hold-up. Yeah, just a delay. That's all.

Half an hour in, he'd lost track of the songs. He was damn near stripped bare, and it was time for Val's new pole routine.

Cherri wasn't there either. He could buy the hotel prudes bailing, but Cherri?

The spider was a mess—confused? Sad? Pissed? Disappointed? Worst of all, Val was right. The bastard was always right. Tears stung his eyes, and though he fought like hell to hold them back, they spilled over. Fuck. His vision blurred from the pent-up sobs, his makeup already streaking—way too early for the mascara-and-liner rivers.

With his lower set of arms, he gripped the pole tight. The upper ones wiped his face, slicked back his fluff, and plastered on a cocky, triumphant grin. Nothing and no one matters...

This is his big night.

But if something could go wrong, you bet your ass it'd go catastrophically wrong. No matter how much your crowd loves you, karma's a bitch, life's a raw deal, and this is Hell. The tragedy hit like clockwork.

Angel noticed that the bar's cameras were focused on him, all at once, those damn Vox cameras, surely that DEPRAVED was watching him.

The next move needed focus, raw strength—a solid grip on the pole. But as the performer swung back for the hold, Angel felt a jolt of electricity zap through him. Not fatal, maybe, but sharp enough to throw him off-balance. His hands slipped, and he tumbled from a nasty height.

The music cut dead. The audience went pin-drop silent. His lanky frame smashed into the cold stage tiles. If he'd been human and topside, he'd be a goner. The fall snapped his neck on impact and popped his shoulder clean out of socket.

When his eyes fluttered open and the world stopped spinning, he realized a raging Valentino was dragging him back to some dressing room. Everything spilling from the moth's mouth was white noise—just a high-pitched ring in Angel's ears.

The pimp hurled him onto the couch, lit up one of his smokes, and puffed like a chimney. Valentino always chain-smoked like a maniac when he was stressed.

Slowly, the ringing in Angel's ears faded. Valentino ripped into him. He'd humiliated him, in front of the whole damn city!!!. One simple job, and he'd blown it. If the crowd started booing, he'd end him.

Valentino kept cursing in Spanish, his thick Latino accent rolling off like thunder. After the tirade, the big demon stalked to the door—but not before chucking a baggie of PCP at Angel and barking an order to snort it up and finish the show.

"No!" Angel yelled, right as the moth turned to leave.

"What the fuck did you just say?" Valentino whirled back.

"It wasn't my fault, something happened, I, I felt a shock, something electrocuted me. 

"What! Don't talk nonsense, stop looking for excuses"

"These are not excuses, I'm hurt, Val. I can't move my arm."

"Do you want to make me look like an idiot? Are you making fun of me? You did it on purpose to make me look ridiculous!"

"Angie, looks like that fall rattled your empty little head. Listen up—" Valentino clamped his cheeks hard, forcing eye contact. "—You're gonna snort that whole fucking bag, march your ass back out there, and finish the show. Got it? I don't give a shit if your arm's busted—use another one! What the hell are six goddamn arms for? You're not embarrassing me, and you're sure as shit not costing me money."

"Three minutes, slut" Valentino planted a mocking kiss on Angel's forehead and stormed out.

The spider stared at the baggie. The dumbass princess had let him down—so why the fuck should he keep his promise to stay clean? He lifted his head, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, gritted through the pain to pop his shoulder back in, and flashed a grin. The show must go on...

Angel was inches from the stage when—BOOM—an explosion rocked the club.

"Cherri!" The spider bolted, chasing his bestie's voice. He didn't give a damn that she'd shown late—what mattered was she'd shown. Cherri would never ditch him.

They locked eyes and crashed into a fierce, bone-crushing hug. Angel pulled back to hustle her to the VIP section, but as he spun to lead the way, he froze. Alastor? No—worse. One of the Radio Demon's shadows, slinking in the corner.

"Angel?" Cherri called. "Hey, sexy~ you okay? You look like you just spotted Satan himself." She cracked up.

Angel scrubbed his face and shook his head. Hallucinating from the head bonk. Has to be.

"You got any pills? Need to clear my head," the spider muttered.

"Hell yeah, babe! Was starting to think you'd forgotten how to party."

"Can you believe your dipshit boss hired hellhounds as bouncers? Hellhounds!" The pink bomb laughed, incredulous. "Those mangy mutts wouldn't let me in something about me being blacklisted. Told 'em to fuck off and blew the damn door sky-high."

"Barri~ What a delight to see you here," Valentino purred, all fake charm.

"Cherri, I'm Cherri! Anyway, whatever.

The feeling is not mutual, Val," the cyclops shot back, dripping sarcasm.

"Hey, Cher—didn't you come to watch me perform? You're gonna love Val's new choreo." Angel jumped in, playing buffer to dodge a full-on Overlord smackdown.

"Whatever you say, hot stuff."

"Shame you showed up so late, Perry."

"It's Cherri.!"

"Whatever. Angel's shift is over for tonight.." Valentino snaked an arm around Angel's waist, stroking his cheek like he owned him.

"Val?" The spider blinked, thrown by the sudden pivot.

"Don't sweat it, Angel Cakes. Daddy's got it handled."

"GREAT! Then Angie's got the night off—let's blow this joint!" Cherri grabbed for him, trying to yank him free from the moth's claws.

But Valentino had other ideas.

"Aw, sorry, Genny. Angie's had a little mishap—I'm taking him home."

"But Val, I'm fine, I..." Angel should be thrilled to clock out early, but dread clawed at him. Back at the tower? Val would make him pay.

"Shhh, shhh, baby. I'll drop you at that filthy hotel instead."

"Oh really?"

"Anything for you, cariño." The moth's smile was all teeth and no warmth.

"Whore, Winged cockroach," Cherri muttered once she was alone.

Angel pressed his forehead to the limo's tinted window, his breath fogging the glass in hazy puffs. One of Valentino's arms looped possessively around his tiny waist.

"Told you, baby. Those assholes aren't your friends—they're ashamed of you."

"There has to be an explanation," Angel whispered.

"They wouldn't know art if it bit 'em in the ass."

The limo pulled up to the hotel. Valentino made one last grabby play.

"We could still head back to the tower. I don't get why you slum it in this dump. But call me if you need rescuing—I'll be there in a flash."

"Thanks, Val. I'll be good." Angel pecked his cheek and slid out.

Pushing through the hotel doors, Angel beelined for the bar. His pale mug wore a chill mask—like nothing could touch him—but inside? Rage. Hurt. A cocktail of both.

"Oh, Angel! You're back early," Charlie beamed, all sunshine and surprise.

"Yeah, Val was over the moon with my set tonight. Grand opening killed it, so he cut me loose for the rest of the night." Lie, straight-faced.

"Oh! Was that tonight? Shit! Angel, listen, I—we..."

"Forget it, kid. I need a drink." Angel blew past her, dodging the apology.

"Oh dear, the bar's closed, I'm afraid. Husk stepped out—again," Alastor chimed in, spotting the spider's trajectory to the booze.

"What?" Angel couldn't hide the shock. Husk never left. The grumpy old cat practically lived glued to that stool.

"Yes, our dear friend seems to have developed some... nocturnal urges lately. Something terribly important, no doubt." Alastor's grin was all teeth, as fake and forced as Angel's on-screen O-faces.

"Thought you didn't let him off the leash," Angel shot back, eyebrow arched.

"Ha! What do you take me for, a tyrant?"

Angel grimaced at the Radio Demon's bullshit and headed for the stairs. Halfway up, a thought hit.

"Hey, Bambi—didja like my dance?"

"Excuseme?!"

"Thanks for coming to the show."

"I didn't..."

"Eh, well, your shadows sure are naughty. Keep 'em on a tighter leash. If you want a private show, just say the word."

Angel bolted to his room, leaving the Wendigo stranded in the lobby with an eye twitch.

"Merely safeguarding the princess's interests," Alastor muttered.

Door slammed, Angel face-planted onto his bed.

Husk bailed for "something important." Charlie straight-up forgot. Alastor played dumb. Valentino was right—they didn't give a shit. He meant nothing to them. No one.

Sobbing into his pillow, bitter and broken, Angel finally crashed out.

Husk slunk back at the crack of dawn, the lobby dead quiet—small mercy. He hustled to his room, dumped a suitcase on the floor, and shuffled to his cramped desk. Emptied his pockets, counted the cash Vox had fronted him. For the Angel mission. He sighed, bone-tired, and dragged the suitcase over. Popped it open: junk. Total crap—cheesy high-school-sweetheart trinkets. Vox had zero game with women. Though... hell, Angel wasn't exactly a "girl," but he sure as shit wouldn't dig this sappy garbage. Then again, maybe the TV prick knew him better—lived with the guy, after all...

What the fuck? Why was he overthinking this shit? The cat demon chucked it all back in the bag, chugged from his bottle, and hit the sack. Work to do tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Vox stared intently at his screens, his eyes flickering with static. Valentino had ditched the club early—score one for his plan to screw over Angel. He smirked, expecting his lover to come crawling back to the tower any minute now, sans that damn spider slut. But then, a glance at the GPS tracking the moth demon’s limo showed it veering toward that prissy princess’s hotel.

The lights in the entire tower flickered, buzzing with his irritation. That mangy cat better do his damn job, and fast.

Ever since Husk met Angel Dust, all he’d seen—day in, day out, for months—was a shallow, bratty, dumbass spider. Every night, Angel stumbled back to the hotel at some ungodly hour, if he even showed up at all, drunk or high as a kite, bitching about his boss or whining about his gig. Then, like clockwork, the next day he’d scamper back to that Valentino creep after some half-assed apology text.

Husk figured it’d be an easy gig to charm the promiscuous spider. Annoying, sure, but easy. Except the very idea made his stomach churn. Angel never missed a chance to flirt, tossing out crude innuendos and double entendres like confetti. It was exhausting.

But Husk was about to learn that asking out Hell’s hottest star wasn’t as terrifying as folding a bad hand in poker. Taking the time to know Angel Dust—no, to know Anthony—might just be a bet worth making, even if Hell charged interest. His invites started casual, growled from behind the bar:

—Yo, Legs, wanna get outta this shithole for a bit?

Angel was busy crowing about his win over that Tiffany Tiffucker chick for the lead in Voxflix’s new series. Truth be told, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the role, but seeing that conniving bitch’s face twist in rage? Pure gold. He was so wrapped up in his rant that he didn’t clock the weight behind Husk’s words.

—Mmm, kitty, I knew you’d show those claws eventually. Just don’t scratch too hard, ‘kay? Miau—Angel purred, draping himself across the bar like a pin-up model.

Husk promptly shoved him off, scrubbing the counter like it’d been defiled.

—Honestly, I don’t know why I bother —Husk growled, tossing the rag aside, irritation radiating off him.

Angel’s smirk faltered, stung by the brush-off.

Husk was halfway to ditching the bar when his phone buzzed with a message from Vox: “Send proof of every date. Pics, receipts, everything you spend.”

Husk was this close to telling Vox to shove it. This was a waste of time—conquering Angel? Impossible. The spider only thought with his dick, no strings attached.

—Husk, my friend! —Alastor’s voice crackled, his grin sharp as he materialized. —Good to see you so… unoccupied. We need to chat.

His eyes narrowed, sizing Husk up.

—Not now, I’m busy. Got a… meeting with Angel. Business stuff —Husk muttered, coughing awkwardly. He doubled back, hauled Angel to his feet, and dragged him out.

Alastor watched them go, silent, his smile tight. He knew his lackey was up to something, and he’d sniff it out.

The two sinners trudged through Hell’s crowded streets, the noise and stench overwhelming. Husk led them to the Forgotten Pier, a crumbling dock on the edge of the Styx, where lost souls bobbed like empty bottles and the wind carried distant wails.

—Need air that doesn’t reek of burning souls —Husk muttered, clutching a bottle of cheap rum.

Angel glanced at the murky river, his voice cutting through the silence.

—You’re always bitchin’ about me, so why’d you ask me out?

—It was this or spend my day with that asshole Alastor —Husk shot back without thinking.

Angel’s face fell, a flicker of hurt crossing his features. Great, Husk thought. Why else would anyone hang with me, right? Just to dodge their own shit or get laid. Husk caught his mistake and scrambled to fix it.

—It ain’t a date, alright? I just… felt bad I couldn’t make your club show. Had a thing. So, since you blew cash on that ticket, I figured I’d make it up to ya —he said, avoiding Angel’s eyes.

—How’d you know I paid for the tickets?

—C’mon, you think your boss handed ‘em out for free? Especially for us? Did he?

—Apology accepted, Whiskers —Angel chuckled, softening. —Thanks.

They sat on the pier’s edge, feet dangling over the bubbling black water. Angel started yapping, all excited about his work drama—stuff Husk dismissed as petty showbiz crap. He was half-tempted to pull out his deck of cards and make Angel shut up with a game.

Then, out of nowhere, silence. Angel went quiet. Husk glanced over, and the spider’s eyes were glassy, like he was holding back tears.

—Hey, kid, you good?

—Thanks —Angel mumbled, voice cracking. —Y’know, Val always passes out when I try talkin’ to him. Or he straight-up tells me to shut it—says whores don’t talk, they just open their mouths for blowjobs.

Husk’s throat tightened, a wave of guilt hitting him hard. He felt like a piece of shit. Without thinking, he slung an arm around Angel’s shoulder and offered him the rum bottle.

—Ain’t that a bartender’s job? Listening —he said with a small grin.

—Tell me somethin’ about you, Husk —Angel said, his tone softer.

—Nah, you don’t wanna hear my shit. I’d rather hear more about you. Your family—where they at? You never talk about ‘em in Charlie’s little trust exercises. It’s always Valentino.

—Well, yeah, Val’s my whole world, I guess —Angel shrugged, his voice tinged with sadness. He stared at the waves like they held memories. He mentioned his sister, Molly, the golden child, lost to him for decades. He hoped she was in Heaven with their mom. —Y’know, Whiskers, before this neon circus of lies, I had a family. My old man, Henroin, was a mobster in New York. That’s where I’m from—well, me, not my folks. They’re Italian. Pops was cold as ice, always was, even when we were alive. Kept us afloat, taught us plenty, but… I shoulda listened more. My brother, Arackniss, he was the tough one, the family pride. Me? The clown. The queer, addict, good-for-nothin’ son.

Husk listened, silent, his usual gruffness fading. This wasn’t in the plan. Angel was too open, too vulnerable for his own good, and it stirred something in Husk he didn’t expect.

Angel paused, lighting a cigarette with a shaky claw.

—I miss ‘em, fuck. Arackniss hates what I’ve become. Pops? I’m dead to him. They never got my thing with Val, but what else was I supposed to do? Val reached out, took me in, no judgment. He gets me. Saved me. Gave me everything—cash, fame, drugs. Love —he whispered, barely audible.

Hours passed as they talked. The red sky of Pentagram City darkened, and acid rain began to fall. Husk snapped open his red umbrella, shielding the lanky spider.

—Alright, Long Legs, time to head back. Don’t wanna ruin that pretty fur—you’re vain as hell, and I know how long you take primping.

Angel blushed, nodding. His heels sank into the rotting wood, so Husk offered his arm, steady and firm, to help him navigate the pier. Angel leaned on him, and they headed back to the city.

—Thanks, Husky. This was… nice. I’ll remember it —Angel said softly.

—How ‘bout we do this again tomorrow? —Husk offered, surprising himself.

Angel’s eyes lit up.

—Only if you promise not to purr too loud, kitty —Angel teased. —Y’know, there’s this spot I wanna hit up. They got Italian food.

—Deal —Husk said, extending his hand.

—No more deals, please —Angel pouted, and Husk let out a rare laugh.

Back at the hotel, Angel took a long shower, then scooped up Fat Nuggets and flopped onto his bed. He rambled to the piglet about his day, and when Nuggets dozed off, Angel kissed his tiny head and drifted off himself. A huge smile spread across his face, one that didn’t fade all night. For once, he felt good—talking, really talking, without being interrupted or used.

Chapter Text

In Hell, where alliances are as fragile as glass and love is a dangerous luxury, Vox, the tech mogul, kept scheming to reclaim control over Valentino and pry Angel Dust from his side. But plans in Hell rarely go as expected, and love, clumsy and complicated, has a way of clawing through the cracks.

Love.

Love is a bet that leaves you in debt even if you win. If you wager your heart, you’re guaranteed to lose.

Sprawled across a massive heart-shaped bed, alone in the intimacy of a room drowning in crimson shadows, stark against the icy blue of his presence, Valentino lounged on Vox’s chest, welcomed by the demon’s spread legs. Blue claws grazed the broad, toned chest of the moth demon. It had been so long since they truly savored each other—not just the sex, which they always had, but the quiet aftermath, the mutual company. Why couldn’t it always be like this? Why did Val have to be so capricious, so selfish? Wasn’t Vox enough for him?

Vox chose Valentino over Alastor, his companion of so many years. Couldn’t Valentino do the same and ditch Angel? Was exclusivity too much to ask? Sure, Vox knew Valentino wasn’t monogamous, that their “relationship” was open. But Val didn’t like to share, and no, it wasn’t that Vox feared Valentino’s reaction if he started something new—he just wasn’t in the mood to meet new people or deal with the spoiled Overlord’s whining. Besides, Val was everything he needed; no strangers had to crash his personal life.

It made him feel powerless, belittled. The great media mogul despised that feeling.

And it’s not like Valentino screwed anything that moved. No, Valentino exclusively fucked Vox and Angel Dust. That was the problem—Angel Dust, that brazen, arrogant whore.

Vox could handle Valentino screwing all of Hell—one-night stands, insignificant bitches. But Angel? Angel was different to Val. Angel was his Amorcito, his Papito, his most prized possession, his most valued property, body and soul. Vox couldn’t stand that Valentino loved someone else. Because, yes, Valentino loved Angel Dust, in his twisted, sick way, but he loved him. Worse, Angel loved Valentino back.

No matter how much Vox manipulated Valentino, the sex Overlord always had his damn sugar-dusted cupcake in his mind and heart. After every fight, came lavish gifts and passionate reconciliations, and Angel, that cheap slut, always, always forgave him and crawled back. Even now, living in that damn hotel, Vox thought Angel’s absence would make Valentino forget him. But no, Valentino grew more obsessed, and that junkie whore kept coming back, begging for doses of “love” and sex.

Utterly repulsive. But Vox would fix it, root and stem. He’d break Valentino’s heart. He’d end Angel’s love for Valentino once and for all.

As Vox stewed in his thoughts, Val muttered curses in his sleep—slurred insults, then that cursed name, “Angel.” Vox felt sick, itching to snap Valentino’s neck, gouge out his eyes so he’d never see that promiscuous spider again. The media mogul took a deep breath and smiled.

“Stay calm, Val,” Vox purred, gently stroking the demon’s antennae with possessive love. “I’ll fix everything, and that whore won’t come between us again.”

Husk started getting close to Angel with small gestures. First, free drinks at the hotel bar, listening to his stories with a patience that surprised even himself. Angel, used to Valentino’s possessive intensity, found Husk’s calm refreshing.

One night, Husk invited him for a walk through Hell’s streets, far from the Vees’ chaotic district. They ended up in a dive bar, laughing over pool.

Husk, in his gravelly voice, said, “Y’know, Angel, you don’t gotta shine for everyone to see ya. You’re enough as is.”

Angel, disarmed by the sincerity, felt a warmth he hadn’t known in ages.

The dates kept coming. Husk took Angel to an abandoned theater for old movies, they shared cigarettes on the hotel roof under a blood-red sky, and even tried cooking together in the hotel kitchen (disastrous for Niffty’s OCD). Slowly, Angel saw Husk differently—not with fleeting lust, but genuine affection, though guilt gnawed at him, his heart torn between Valentino’s fiery pull and Husk’s soothing calm.

Each “date” wove their bond tighter, layer by layer. Angel, ever the drama queen, accepted with a wink and a “Only if ya promise not to fall for me, Whiskers!” But in those walks, amid laughter and silence, the masks fell. Angel spilled about his broken family and Valentino’s venom, while Husk, grudgingly, unearthed his past as a fallen Overlord. Whispered confessions, not in the noisy bar, but in Hell’s forgotten corners, where love grows in the gloom.

On one of their usual dates, after hours of talking, singing, and dancing, they sat to catch their breath, the air whipping their coatless bodies. Husk draped a wing over Angel’s shoulders, a heavy but warm gesture. Angel laughed, but it was hollow, and he nestled closer. Husk said nothing of his own abyss that night—not yet—but the embrace lasted until Hell’s sun rose, staining the river blood-red. Back at the hotel, Angel kissed his furry cheek.

“Thanks for listenin’ without judgin’, kitty. You’re better than any high.”

The next week, at the Shadow Park, Husk surprised him with an impromptu picnic in that wild corner where twisted trees whispered curses and carnivorous flowers nipped at their ankles. Husk had packed smoked-meat sandwiches and a bottle of whiskey—nothing fancy, made with calloused claws, but with “care.”

“I ain’t the romantic type, but if you’re gonna bet it all, least have somethin’ in your stomach,” he grunted, spreading a tattered blanket under a demonic willow.

Angel flopped back, arms splayed like a starfish, the red sky filtering through the leaves. Valentino came up like a summoned demon:

“That son of a bitch… he’s got me tied with contracts that suck worse than a starving vamp. First, it was just him, but then that prick Vox and that insufferable Velvette showed up, and I had to work for them too. That’s the Vees—some kinda hive-mind, three-headed dragon, and Val’s the dumb head. At first, it was glamour: parties, gifts, promises of stardom. Now? It’s all pink smoke chains, love potions, and 16-hour shoots. He forces me to film scenes that break me inside, and every ‘I love you, Amorcito’ is a lie with fangs that tear with every kiss. My family knew—they were in on it—but no one lifted a finger. Hell, once they found out about me and Val, they cut all ties with him and Vox. Didn’t wanna get tangled with me, the family shame, in life or death.”

Genuine tears streaked his fur, and Angel wiped them angrily.

“Sometimes I think about my nephews—Arackniss’s kids. I died before I met ‘em; his wedding was the last I heard of him—and I wonder if I could ever be the uncle they deserve, not this… puppet.”

Husk chewed his sandwich in silence, but his yellow eyes burned with quiet rage.

“Valentino’s a parasite. And you… you ain’t his toy. You’re more than that.”

To distract him, Husk pulled out a deck of cards and showed him an old trick: making the trees’ shadows dance like players at a table. Angel laughed for real then, and in a rush, pulled Husk into a kiss, salty with tears. Husk kissed back quietly. Was he drunk? No, he’d just met a tormented soul like his own, even more vulnerable.

That afternoon, as they packed the blanket, Husk muttered about himself for the first time:

“Y’know, I lost my soul in a real dumb way. Didn’t want love or fame, just ego—wanted to brag I’d beaten that ‘terrifying’ radio demon. I ran whole casinos, hundreds of souls at my feet. Didn’t need nothin’ else. In life and death, I played people like cards, thought I was the slickest bastard. Never saw that damn deer’s traps, his fucking shadows. Never trust his shadows. Now? Alastor’s got me chained here, a contract that binds me past the end of time. Power don’t save ya from bein’ an idiot.”

Angel’s eyes shone. He didn’t say it, but in his battered heart, he felt this “idiot,” as Husk called himself, was saving him, bit by bit, from losing faith.

One evening, at the ruins of an old circus on the city’s edge, where rusted carousels spun on ghostly winds and giant cobwebs hung like forgotten curtains, Husk invited Angel for Hell’s sunset.

“Even in this eternity, there’s always a new day, a new shot, I guess,” he said with a half-smile, offering a hand to help Angel climb a crumbling tent.

They walked through the debris, Angel balancing on an imaginary tightrope while spilling more about his family.

“Arackniss and I were tight as kids. Played at bein’ mob bosses, but I was always the one covered in mud and laughs. Now he sees me as a disgrace. And Valentino… God, Husk, I don’t know. He uses me like I’m disposable, but he never lets go. He always comes back. It’s so confusing, so infuriating. I wanna be free, but I’m scared. I hate him, but I can’t imagine life without him. It’s been so many years.”

He stopped at a shattered mirror, touching his fractured reflection. Husk stood behind him, wings wrapping him like a shield.

“The ones you love failed ya, but that don’t define you. I know that better than anyone.”

On another park stroll, Husk brought an extra blanket and crumbs for the mutant ducks. They sat on their favorite bench, Hell’s sun setting like an open wound. Angel, lighter now, summed up his chaos:

“Valentino’s my chain, my family’s my ghost, but tellin’ you… it makes me feel less alone.”

Husk nodded, pouring rum into makeshift cups, understanding how vital Valentino was to Angel, who’d clung to the first scrap of “love” he found. It wasn’t about escaping Alastor anymore. Husk had found a real, sincere purpose. With every date, his goal wasn’t to help Vox reclaim his stupid lover—it was to save Angel Dust from the Vees.

Under Hell’s fake stars, they kissed again, slow, like time didn’t matter. Their dates didn’t erase the past—debts, contracts, family echoes—but they made it shared. Husk and Angel, two tangled souls, strolling toward a future that, for the first time, felt like a safe bet. The Hazbin Hotel doesn’t promise miracles or magical redemption, but it sure makes Hell a little less miserable.

In the bustling chaos of the hotel, where sinners chased redemption amid nervous laughs and demonic explosions, Husk and Angel Dust were like two puzzle pieces no one expected to fit. Husk, the grumpy winged cat behind the bar, spent his nights pouring bitter drinks and muttering curses about eternal debts and lost souls. And Angel Dust, the porn star spider in impossible heels, armed with raunchy jokes as potent as the gangster guns he hid God-knows-where, that pink-and-white whirlwind who stormed the bar nightly, demanding a “whiskey with a splash of drama”—yeah, those two had somehow become almost one, and the others were starting to notice.

It all kicked off one hellish stormy night. It had been a shitty day for everyone. Alastor had hounded Husk all day, questioning every move, every choice, a full-on interrogation about his sudden closeness to a certain perverse Overlord’s favorite spider.

“Curiosity killed the cat, Husk, my friend. Just watch your cards before your next play.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Husk snapped, irritated.

“Seems you didn’t learn your lesson, Husker. You lost your soul once. Ready to lose your heart too?”

“The kid’s just a friend, quit twistin’ everything,” the winged cat growled.

“Quite the peculiar friendship. I see everything, don’t forget. Playing against the Vees won’t do you any good. And by the way, playing for them won’t make you a winner either,” Alastor said, his tone dark, wreathed in neon-green mist. He suspected his lackey and wouldn’t hesitate to make it clear. With that warning, he vanished, leaving the bartender alone.

“Just friends,” Angel murmured, descending the stairs and crossing the lobby. He’d overheard.

“Hey, kid!” Husk called with enthusiasm, spotting the spider. “Angel!” he pressed, but Angel ignored him, slamming the door as he left.

“What the hell,” Husk muttered, puzzled, but brushed it off. Probably just another morning soured by Angel’s boss.

By nightfall, as acid rain lashed the hotel’s windows, Angel slumped onto a barstool, fur soaked head to toe, makeup streaked, pretending he wasn’t fleeing another fight with Valentino.

“Yo, furry bartender, gimme somethin’ that burns harder than my pride,” he quipped, flashing that flirty smile—his armor.

Husk glanced up from his deck of cards, mildly annoyed, and poured a double.

“Here. And don’t call me furry,” he shot back, not getting the spider’s sudden shift in attitude.

Instead of playing their usual power game, Husk slid a dry towel toward Angel. A small gesture, but it made Angel smile. Without a word, the spider left, not looking back, leaving Husk alone.

A couple of days later, Angel burst into the bar with a steaming black coffee—no sweet shots for Husk—and dragged him to a forgotten park outside Pentagram City.

“C’mon, grumpy cat! Not everything in Hell’s smoke and sulfur, and I don’t bite… much.” Husk felt relieved as Angel bounced back to his old self.

At the park, Angel tossed crumbs to deformed ducks, mimicking goofy voices to make them “dance.” They sat on a bench draped in poison ivy, and Angel rested his head on Husk’s shoulder—not a hollow flirt, but like he needed that rough warmth. Husk didn’t pull away. Instead, he lit a cigarette for them both, exhaling smoke in poker-card shapes.

“You’re a walkin’ disaster, y’know,” Husk muttered.

Angel laughed. “And you’re the only one who don’t try to fix me.”

Under that eternal red sky, Husk felt a pang in his heart.

Angel, who lived for glitz and show, convinced Husk for a trip to a tiny diner in the gluttony district: a dump with wobbly tables and a menu of fried souls no one questioned.

“Try this—it’s like your soul: crispy outside, bitter inside,” Angel teased.

Husk, who preferred a lone drink’s simplicity, surprised himself with a raspy, genuine laugh when Angel spilled sauce on his fur, calling himself an artist and Husk his “modern art.” They shared plates, stories, and comfortable silences. Angel talked of his love for silky fabrics and stages where he could be himself, no masks. Husk admitted his soft spot for old cards and quiet nights with good whiskey, confessing that the park’s stray cats reminded him of his old life.

“I like things that don’t ask for nothin’ in return,” Husk said one night, locking eyes with Angel.

For once, Angel didn’t wink back; he just squeezed Husk’s hand under the table, his many arms entwined like an unbreakable knot—or so he thought.

Usually, Angel came back raging about Valentino, cursing his cruelty. But tonight, he strutted in, glowing with bliss, clutching a massive bouquet of flowers from the living world—an obscene luxury only an Overlord could afford, and we all know which one.

Charlie gushed over the stunning gift, and Angel could only brag about how lucky he was. Valentino had apologized for the rough nights he’d put him through last week.

When Angel hit the bar, he quickly regretted it.

“So a few bucks are enough to make ya forget your pride and dignity,” Husk snapped, tossing his rag onto the counter. He was pissed, jealous, damn jealous. All their shared moments, their confessions, their real affection—none of it seemed to mean a thing to Angel.

Before Husk could turn away, a crash of shattering glass echoed. Angel had smashed the lavish bouquet onto the floor. The room froze in stunned silence.

“Don’t you dare judge me! Don’t I deserve an apology? Don’t I get to enjoy a damn gift?” Angel shouted.

“Well, then let me congratulate ya on your stellar choice in partners and your knack for dodgin’ problems. Not even 24 hours ago, you were dyin’ to ditch that bastard boss of yours, and now you’re singin’ his praises just ‘cause he threw some flowers at ya after beatin’ you down,” Husk shot back, dripping with sarcasm.

Angel bolted, tears streaming.

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Vaggie snapped, furious. “Apologize to Angel! He didn’t do anything wrong! Why do you always gotta be so cold and cruel?”

“Goddamn it!” Husk spat, storming off after the spider.

Chapter Text

When Husk reaches Angel’s room, he pauses at the door, staring at the photos decorating it—sweet memories of the two of them, of the hotel crew, moments that now feel like a punch to the gut. The winged cat feels a lump in his throat, his chest tightening.

As if his swirling mess of jealous, sad, angry, and ashamed thoughts weren’t enough, his phone starts buzzing. It’s Vox.

“What the hell are you doing? We have a damn deal!” the electric demon shouts, his voice crackling through the speaker.

“Now’s not a good time, Vox,” Husk mutters, trying to hang up so he can talk to Angel Dust and fix this mess.

Loud, mocking laughter erupts from the other end. “Oh, not a good time?” Vox sneers. “Listen up, you mangy cat,” the Overlord warns, his tone sharp. “I’m paying you to make that cheap whore fall for you and ditch Valentino, not for you to fall for him, you idiot!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Husk replies, struggling to keep his cool as he steps away from Angel’s door, searching for a corner to hide in.

“They just got back together! Valentino and Angel!” Vox roars, his screen glitching as the lights around him flicker wildly...

“You know what, asshole?” Husk snaps, his patience gone. “Go to hell. We’re done.”

“Done?” Vox’s laugh is manic, unhinged. “Oh, looks like all that booze has finally rotted your brain.” His screen flashes, showing images of Husk shaking hands with him, followed by a clip of their deal being sealed. “Get Angel Dust away from Valentino. It’d be a shame if Alastor found out about your betrayal.” The TV demon’s grin widens. “Oh, wait—what if Angel finds out you’ve been using him this whole time? Do your job, Husker.” Vox hangs up with a smug chuckle.

“Son of a bitch,” Husk curses under his breath.

It was supposed to be an easy game. Husk had all the cards to win. But falling for Angel was like a slow poker match—one card at a time, no rush. A walk in the park turned into two, then three. Small talk evolved into late-night confessions. Little gifts, meaningless to anyone else, became treasured relics of immeasurable sentimental value.

The infernal feline returns to the hallway and knocks on Angel’s door. He doesn’t have words to define their relationship right now—confused, stressed, and haunted by feelings he hasn’t had in decades. He always looked out for himself, but now his heart is breaking over his own stupid, selfish choices. Husk knows he has to protect this fragile love blooming among Hell’s poisonous vines.

He knocks again, but there’s no answer. Only the soft snores of Angel’s pet pig, Fat Nuggets, and the sound of the tiny creature scratching at the swollen wooden door, whimpering.

Husk forces the lock and steps inside.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. Angel is sprawled on the floor, a mess. “Idiot,” Husk mutters, anger and disappointment lacing his voice.

Near Angel are syringes, bags of what’s clearly drugs, a shattered bottle against the wall, and a soaked carpet.

“You’re still hiding drugs? I thought you wanted to get clean, to see your sister again,” Husk reproaches.

“And what the fuck do you care, asshole?” Angel slurs, barely lucid.

“What’s your damn problem?!” Husk steps in, carefully kicking aside debris to avoid stepping on it. He kneels beside Angel, hoisting him up and dragging him to the bathroom to run a bath. Angel’s makeup is smeared, his face a wreck. Husk never imagined his words would hit Angel this hard.

“Get away! Don’t touch me!” Angel slaps Husk’s hand away as he tries to undress him for the bath.

“Hey, Angel, stop it!”

“If you wanna see me naked, you gotta pay,” Angel sobs. “Or what, you want a free fuck? Is that why you lied this whole time?” he screams, rage and pain spilling out.

“What? No!” Husk stammers, thrown off.

“Angel, what the hell—”

“All this time, it was a lie. The kisses, the talks,” Angel cries. Husk’s face pales, his stomach churning. Did that bastard Vox already spill everything to Angel?

“Just friends,” Angel snarls, slapping Husk across the face. “I heard you talking to Alastor.” In that moment, Husk understands. It’s his fault. That’s why Angel ran back to his pimp.

“Listen, Legs—Angel, no, none of this is a game. I’m sorry, I just—” Husk takes a deep breath and kisses him. It’s not a movie-star kiss; it’s clumsy, tasting of whiskey, lipstick, and blood, but it’s real. “I don’t know how the hell this happened,” Husk growls against Angel’s neck. “I’m just trying to protect you. You know Alastor. I don’t want him getting involved—he could hurt you.”

“Why’d you insult me when you saw me come back?” Angel accuses, sinking into the water, still fully clothed, the drugs in his system clouding his mind.

“I… I don’t know. The thought of that bastard boss of yours made me lose it.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m sorry, really. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. You deserve to enjoy any good moment you get, and you deserve apologies from those who hurt you—we hurt you,” he corrects himself.

In that eternal Hellish night, they reaffirm their feelings. Angel confesses his fear of eternal loneliness, tears in his eyes that aren’t from laughter. “Little by little, Whiskers,” he whispers with a faint smile. “Like all the good shit in this hellhole.”

“Never stop smiling,” Husk says, brushing Angel’s cheek. That smile outshines even Hell’s neon lights.

As Husk and Angel talk in the bathroom, a shadow slips away from the bedroom door, having heard enough.

Now, at the hotel bar, Husk pours drinks with a little less bitterness, and Angel sits on his stool with a touch more warmth. Their relationship isn’t some infernal fairy tale; it’s a tapestry of stolen moments—walks, dinners filled with laughter, touches that say “I’m here” without words. They fell in love not with a bang, but with the steady drip of the everyday: two broken souls finding refuge in each other, a sanctuary neither expected. In the Hazbin Hotel, where redemption feels like a cruel joke, their love is the winning bet no one saw coming.

After that night, as Husk and Angel grow closer, Alastor catches the scent of the scheme. He doesn’t like Vox playing with his pawns, especially not Husk, his “pet.” He’ll make sure to set things straight and restore order.

The Radio Demon's Offer

Under the flickering light of a neon sign, Alastor waits, a predator stalking his prey. The Radio Demon leans against a wall, his eternal grin in place, his microphone cane in hand.

Angel Dust appears in the distance, his shift at Valentino’s studio finally over. He’s smoking one of the Overlord’s branded cigarettes, looking exhausted. As he nears the Radio Demon’s spot, Alastor steps into his path.

Angel sighs, blowing smoke in Alastor’s face. “I ain’t in the mood, Smiles. Long night, and I just wanna crash.”

Alastor twirls his cane, his voice sing-song and dripping with menace. “Oh, my dear Angel! Just passing through, admiring the… charming ambiance of our friend Valentino’s territory.” His smile tightens. “Though, I must say, the air here reeks of exploitation and cheap cologne. Don’t you ever tire of this circus?”

Angel narrows his eyes, crossing his arms. “What do you want, Al? You didn’t come out here for a stroll.”

“Angel,” Alastor purrs, “don’t you ever wish… to be free?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Angel retorts, smirking. “I’m free as a bird. Look at me—I got everything I need and more than any bastard could dream of. Not everyone gets to strut through Hell like they own the place.”

“Oh, wretched souls dodging their reality,” Alastor says, his tone mocking. “I’ve always admired your acting talent, dear. I’m offering you a deal: freedom from that pathetic pimp’s contract in exchange for… let’s say, a small favor in the future. Nothing your skills can’t handle!”

“If you wanna fuck, just say it,” Angel snaps, irritated.

“Oh, come now, Angel! I’m a gentleman!” Alastor taps his cane on the ground, and the shadows around him seem to pulse.

“A ‘small favor’? You think I was born yesterday?” Angel scoffs, staring at the ground. “Look, Alastor, I ain’t gonna lie—Val screws me over sometimes, but… when he’s not being a total prick, he makes me feel like I’m worth somethin’. I don’t expect you to get it. You don’t have a heart, do ya?”

Alastor lets out a low, static-laced laugh, his eyes flashing with disdain. “A heart? Oh, how quaint! No, my dear, my heart is reserved for… grander things.” His tone turns venomous, though still laced with humor. “But let me tell you about Valentino. That parasite doesn’t know loyalty. He grovels for power, licking the boots of anyone useful.” His smile widens, but his eyes burn. “Trust me, I know what it’s like to be betrayed by someone like him.”

“You don’t know Val,” Angel mutters, looking down. “Val’s an asshole, but… in his twisted way, he needs me.”

Alastor’s laugh crackles through the alley. “Love? Ha! Dear, that’s not love. And what about Husker?” The question catches Angel off guard, making him look away. “Your little fling with that winged cockroach is just a chain with sequins. I won’t let you drag my most valuable piece into your mess. Don’t forget—Valentino doesn’t need you, no matter what your pathetic, attention-starved heart wants to believe. He just needs your soul to feed his bloated ego.” His voice darkens, but he keeps the jovial tone. “That slimy worm isn’t worth the dust you walk on.” He steps closer, his smile sharp. “Let me help you. Let me free you.”

“Free me? What, so I can trade one master for another? No thanks, Al. I know how Overlord deals work. I’d just end up your lapdog instead of Val’s. At least with Val, I know what I’m getting.” Angel pauses, narrowing his eyes. “What’s your real beef with Val?”

Alastor leans in, his grin razor-sharp. “Let’s just say I have… an old score to settle with certain associates of his.” He straightens, resuming his theatrical air. “But let’s focus on you, Angel. A soul like yours shouldn’t be chained to an insect like Valentino. Think of the possibilities!” He extends a hand, green light flickering at his fingertips. “One handshake, and I’ll free you from his claws. What do you say, Anthony?”

Angel stares at Alastor’s hand, hesitating. His expression softens for a moment, but he shakes his head. “Nah, Al. I’m not swapping one contract for another. Val’s a mess, but… I dunno, maybe I can change him. Someday.”

Alastor’s smile doesn’t falter, but his tone grows colder. “How noble. But love doesn’t redeem monsters, Angel. It just makes them more dangerous.” He steps closer, his eyes glowing. “Last chance, dear. Free yourself, or you’ll stay Valentino’s puppet until he breaks you.”

Before Angel can respond, Husk emerges from the shadows, clutching a bottle and looking pissed. “Angel, why the hell aren’t you answering my texts? And what are you doing here with this psycho? Let’s go, now. Charlie’s worried, and I’m not in the mood for more of your drama.”

Angel sighs, glancing at Husk. “Everything’s fine, jealous kitty.” He looks at Alastor one last time. “Sorry, Smiles. No deal.”

Husk grabs Angel’s arm and pulls him away, leaving Alastor alone in the alley. The Radio Demon’s smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes burn with suppressed fury as the shadows around him writhe.

“What a pity, Angel. You could’ve been useful,” Alastor murmurs, his voice dripping with venom. His grin sharpens, and his tone drops to a sibilant whisper. “No matter. I’ll find a way to destroy Vox. I’ll make him feel the same pain he dealt me that day.” He chuckles softly, a chilling sound. “Even if I have to tear apart every innocent he loves… and every soul around him. The show’s just getting started!” The alley’s lights flicker, and Alastor vanishes into the shadows, leaving only the echo of his static-laced laugh.

Chapter Text

In the throbbing underbelly of Pentagram City, where the air crackles with demonic static and neon lights flicker like jealous eyes, Alastor and Vox were two opposing signals in an ethereal storm: one analog and eternal, the other digital and ravenous.

Alastor, the Radio Demon, with his perpetual grin and cane in hand, always twirling in a macabre dance, was an echo of a glorious past—a soul-hunter from Louisiana’s swamps, master of radio waves that whispered bloody secrets. Vox, the Overlord of the screen, with his hypnotic TV head and pristine suits, embodied the gleaming future: a media mogul who devoured minds with endless commercials and pixelated promises.

Their “relationship” was a clash of frequencies, a duel of eras that, against all odds, morphed into a mutual obsession. Not storybook love, but something sharper: a push-and-pull of hatred, admiration, and sparks no one else could ignite.

It all began in the last century, mid-1950s, when Hell was still a blank canvas for ambitious sinners. To Alastor, Vox was just a prototype television: a smoking box spewing fake news and cheap hypnosis.

Their first encounter was in an underground club in Pentagram, a smoky den of swing where lost souls gambled their eternity for a drink.

Alastor, center stage with a vintage microphone, spun tales of his hunts with that crackling voice that made demonic fur stand on end.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the underworld, welcome to the hour of horror!” he boasted, his shadow dancing a bloody foxtrot.

Across the room, Vox peddled his “visual revolution” on a makeshift screen flickering with ads for what would one day become “VoxTek”—a dream that demanded ambition and grit.

“The future, right in your face!” His CRT eyes gleamed with hunger, but when Alastor spotted him, his grin widened like a crack in reality. “Oh, look at this! A charlatan with lightbulbs for brains. Do you think your blinking boxes can rival the magic of the voice, my dear… walking television?”

Vox didn’t flinch; his screen flared with furious static, projecting a montage of Alastor as an obsolete circus clown.

“Radio’s for dead grandpas, Alastor! People want action, not your syphilitic fairy tales. I’m the new god of this pit!”

The club erupted into chaos: a fool daring to challenge the feared Overlord-devourer; demons laughing, glasses flying, and an impromptu duel where Alastor summoned shadow tentacles to “adjust” Vox’s antenna, while Vox countered with electric shocks that singed the Radio Demon’s suit.

That night, as Alastor brushed off the soot with a distorted hum, Vox felt the first tingle: not just rage, but fascination. This grinning bastard was the only one immune to his hypnotic lights.

...

Their “encounters” became frequent, like unavoidable static. Their first “unintentional date” was in a crumbling theater, where Alastor broadcast his nightly show from an improvised stage, drawing a crowd of sinners with promises of “eternal entertainment.”

Vox barged in with prototype spy cameras—a sabotage of good taste. The audience watched, riveted.

“The king of static versus the dinosaur of the airwaves,” Vox announced from his podium.

Alastor, far from enraged, laughed with genuine delight, his microphone amplifying the echo like thunder.

“What audacity, my friend! Come, join the dance. Show me how your little circuit heart flickers!”

What followed was glorious chaos. Alastor dragged Vox onto the stage for an impromptu duet, singing jazzy verses about “electric loves” while Vox, stunned, retaliated with video loops that distorted his own voice. It was the one damn flaw the TV Demon admitted to: his impulsive emotions always scrambled his monitor.

The crowd roared, souls buying tickets to “eternal hatred” on the spot.

Exhausted and singed, they ended up backstage, sharing a stolen cigar.

“You’re a headache with the volume cranked,” Vox growled.

Alastor tilted his head, red eyes glinting.

“And you, my dear friend, are the spark my show needed.”

“Obsolete,” Vox sneered.

“But… intriguing. And you can’t deny it, or why do you keep following me?” Alastor crowed, invading the TV Demon’s personal space.

The move overheated Vox, his screen glitching and shutting down. Alastor was enthralled; he’d never felt genuine interest in anyone or anything, but this new “rival” with ally-like aspirations had him utterly captivated.

They parted with promises of vengeance, but Vox couldn’t sleep that night; Alastor’s laughter echoed in his circuits like a virus. Slowly, their rivalry took on a more addictive hue.

It wasn’t postcard romance; it was a cold war with stolen kisses in the static and whispered promises of betrayal. Something “sad and complicated.” Where one friend, dreaming of being a lover, always craved more, insatiable for attention, no matter if it shattered the other’s heart.

Vox's ambition begins to surpass Alastor's limits. What the deer offers is no longer enough. And to make matters worse, the arrival of a "new star" in hell becomes the straw that breaks the camel's back.

Alastor always hated insects, especially cockroaches with wings. Yes, that prostitute was a moth, but to the radio demon, he would never stop being a cockroach.

The whore arrived with promises of eternal pleasure and business outside the circle of pride Vox proposed to Alastor to form an alliance with Valentino, under the pretext of having influence over his boss, the lord of lust, Asmodeus. Alastor immediately refused, feeling used and insulted. Without giving Vox the chance to even retract his stupid proposal, Alastor left. He had already given Vox too much now he would defend his pride and dignity.

He would kill Valentino. 

The air in Pentagram City crackles with static and the echo of distorted laughter. The streets of the tech district, lit by flickering neons and shattered screens, are the stage for a brutal showdown.

At its center, two demonic titans collide: Vox, the Media Overlord, his screen blazing red-hot with sparks flying from his cables, against Alastor, the Radio Demon, his static silhouette and razor-sharp grin slicing the air like a blade.

The ground trembles with each impact. Alastor, cloaked in twisting shadows and dark tentacles sprouting from his demonic form, unleashes a torrent of radio waves that shatter nearby buildings. His laughter booms, amplified, as his cane glows with neon fire.

“Oh, Vox, my dear! Did you think your electronic trinkets could best me?” he taunts, dodging a bolt of energy Vox fires from his screen.

Vox, circuits burning, snarls as his body crackles with electric discharge. He manipulates the broken screens around him, turning them into weapons that fire blinding light blasts.

“Shut it, fossil! I’m the future, and you’re just a fading relic!” he retorts, lunging at Alastor with cables that whip like serpents.

The battle is a whirlwind of chaos. Alastor summons shadow creatures that tear at Vox’s cables, while Vox hacks the environment, making neon signs explode in cascades of sparks. The electric demon draws power from any source, no matter how small the bulb.

Lesser demons flee in panic, unable to withstand the pressure of two Overlords unleashing their might. For a moment, they seem evenly matched: Alastor with his cunning and arcane magic, Vox with his tech and ferocity.

But then, Vox makes a mistake. He tries to overload the field with an electromagnetic blast, but Alastor, always one step ahead, plays his trump card.

“Here we are, two destined souls. I gave you everything, dear—more than I could, more than I wanted to give, all for you. But it was never enough, was it? You always want more.”

Vox freezes for a split second, stunned.

“I don’t share my possessions, darling,” Alastor declares.

Seizing Vox’s hesitation, the Radio Demon redirects the attack with a flick of his cane. His shadows coil around Vox, pinning him down. Vox’s screen flickers with static, his energy fading.

“Pathetic!” Alastor laughs, his voice warped like a broken broadcast. “Is this all you’ve got, Vox? What a disappointment!”

Vox, gasping, struggles to break free, but the shadows tighten. He’s on the brink of defeat, his pride in tatters.

Then, a deafening roar shakes the battlefield. A colossal figure emerges from a cloud of shimmering pink smoke, laced with a sickly-sweet, narcotic scent. It’s Valentino, in his full demonic form.

Valentino is a terrifying and magnificent sight: his elongated, elegant body wrapped in a swirling vortex of pink smoke that moves like living serpents. His massive, membranous wings unfurl, cloaking the sky in iridescent darkness. His eyes glow with venomous red, and his smile is as seductive as it is lethal. In his hands, he wields blazing chains that crackle with infernal power.

“Get away from my Voxxy, you bastard!” he roars, charging at Alastor.

The battle shifts tempo. Valentino is an unstoppable force, his chains slicing through Alastor’s shadows like paper. His pink smoke floods the field, blinding and disorienting the Radio Demon. Alastor, caught off guard but unyielding, summons a whirlwind of static and black fire, clashing with Valentino in a ferocity that shakes Hell itself.

Their collision is a spectacle of raw power; Valentino’s wings beat with hurricane force, shattering structures, while Alastor counters with tentacles that try to ensnare the Overlord of vice. In a brutal move, Valentino traps Alastor with a chain and hurls him into a collapsed building.

But the Radio Demon, refusing to bow to the vulgar creature who stole Vox, fights on, crimson blood dripping from his grin. They battle to near exhaustion, the fight turning lopsided—two against one, Valentino and Vox united.

“Always selling yourself to the highest bidder, aren’t you, cheap whore?” Alastor spits. “If your precious Voxxy lost all his power right now, would you still fight for him?”

Alastor is battered and weary, teetering on defeat.

Enraged by the insult, Valentino looms over him, wings spread like a vengeful god, ready to deliver the final blow.

“This ends now, Papi!” he hisses, raising a smoke-wreathed claw.

But a voice stops him.

“Val, STOP!” Vox yells, staggering to his feet, his screen still glitching.

Valentino halts, confused. Alastor, panting, watches with a mix of surprise and disdain. His grin widens, bitter.

“What’s this, Vox?” he mocks, struggling to stand. “Sentimentalism? You let your toy live because you can’t bear to lose it? Ha! That’s why you’ll never rule Hell! You’re weak, a slave to your emotions.”

Vox clenches his fists, his screen a storm of static. He loves and hates Alastor with equal intensity. In his mind, they could have been unstoppable, ruling Hell together—as partners, as lovers. But Alastor knows Vox too well. Years together taught him: Vox always wants more—more power, more control, more of Alastor, more of Valentino, more of everything. Alastor knows Vox would betray him, just as he betrays everyone who gets too close.

With a cunning glint in his eyes, as the Overlords revert to their regular forms, Alastor turns to Valentino.

“Watch yourself, moth,” he says with a low chuckle. “Your dear Vox will stab you in the back the moment you’re no longer useful. It’s his nature—he’s doing it to me, and he’ll do it to you.”

Valentino snarls, but before he can respond, Alastor summons a final surge of shadows and vanishes in a burst of static, escaping on the edge of death.

Vox curses, furious, but doesn’t pursue. Not this time. Never again.

The Eternal Intermission

In his flight, Alastor, weakened and near collapse, finds refuge in a dark corner of Hell.

Seven years are nothing in Hell’s eternity, but for Alastor, the Radio Demon, they were an eternal intermission: a cut in the broadcast, a silence louder than any show. It wasn’t a cowardly retreat—never! Alastor didn’t flee; he orchestrated. A frenzy of bloody jazz was about to begin.

An ancient bond, forged in the swamps of his mortal life and strengthened by demonic deals, dragged him to the edge of the abyss.

“Until next time, dear listeners! The show must go on… in private,” his crackling voice whispered over the airwaves, then fell silent.

Hell held its breath; Vox, in his rising tower, cursed until he overloaded.

Alastor didn’t fall into the Pit of Souls or get consumed by a vengeful angel. No, his fate was more exquisite: a vortex of shadows, a liminal realm between Hell’s circles and the echoes of broken pacts. Picture it as a web of forgotten frequencies: tunnels of black sulfur where discarded souls drifted like ghosts of dead signals, and time’s laws bent like scratched vinyl.

There, an ancient, terrifying presence finds him: an entity of unimaginable power. It offers a deal: limitless power to survive and crush his enemies, in exchange for his freedom. Every soul Alastor claims henceforth will belong to this entity.

Alastor, grin intact, accepts without hesitation.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he whispers to the void, eyes gleaming with manic glee. “The Radio Demon always finds a way out.”

Why would a higher being seek a deal with a vile sinner? Well, Alastor, the famed Radio Demon, devourer of Overlords, cruel and cunning, is a prize. His soul could bring order to Hell while serving its master’s ends.

Meanwhile, in the V Tower, Valentino is livid. He paces, pink smoke still seeping from him as his demonic form fades.

“I could’ve killed him, Vox! We could’ve ended him!” he shouts.

Vox, slumped on his throne of screens, pride wounded but ambition unscathed, waves him off.

“Let it go, Val. Alastor doesn’t matter. The future does. We’ll expand our territory, take control. I’ll prove him wrong. I, Vox, the lord of media, will rule Hell!”

Valentino glares, still fuming, but says nothing. Alastor’s words echo in his mind: “He’ll stab you in the back.” For now, he holds his tongue, but the seed of doubt is planted.

Somewhere in Hell, Alastor, now bound to a greater power but with his cunning intact, plots his next move. The battle is over, but the war between these titans is just beginning. Alastor became both hunter and prey.

“What a delight! A forced intermission to polish the script,” he told himself in those first weeks, his grin a beacon in the dark.

But the vortex wasn’t a stage; it was a living labyrinth, with ethereal tentacled guardians and echoes of his past victims haunting him with distorted reproaches. He isn’t afraid to escape—he’s simply waiting for the perfect moment, watching from the shadows.

Vox—cruel irony—worshipped broken screens like relics.

“The TV Demon lights the way!” his followers chanted, projecting hypnotic ad loops.

Alastor, hidden in the shadows, felt an unusual pang: envy, perhaps, or nostalgia