Chapter Text
All of the pizza in Hell tastes like shit.
You’d think after several centuries that surely someone would die who knows how to make a good, classic, New York pie, but no. Apparently even that is too much to ask for in a place like this. It’s part of the deal, Angel supposes: fire and brimstone, dick-faced overlords with too much money and power, and not a single good pizza joint in the entire Pride Ring.
Eternal damnation fucking blows.
Angel laments this, turning over in his bed to scroll through Sinstagram while he chews on a piece of glorified cardboard that calls itself “the best pizza in Hell”. He’s wearing his favorite hot-pink feathered robe, enjoying the rare opportunity he has to be comfortably alone while Val is out for the night. The pizza may be stale and the inner parts of his thighs may still sting from today’s earlier shoot, but Val isn’t here to make everything worse, which Angel takes as a win.
As far as demon deals go, Angel considers himself lucky. Sure, Val has a temper. And sure, Angel’s pretty positive that the guy’s hellborn since there’s no way a human soul would think of some of the fucked up shit that he’s had Angel do on camera. But really — it could be worse. He could be on Vox’s leash.
If he has to spend eternity in Hell, Angel would much rather spend it with his soul tethered to someone who buys him pizza and lets him live like a spoiled princess during his off hours over living out on the street trying to fend for himself. He tried that shit during his first couple of years here and it was not it. The way Angel sees it, if assholes are going to be tripping over themselves to try and fuck him, he should at least be getting something good out of it, ya know?
Not that Val counts as good, per se, but. It’s Hell. Angel takes what he can get. The sex is alright most of the time, and when it isn’t, Angel’s worked hard on perfecting the right coping mechanisms to let his brain go elsewhere while his body stays put to do its job. It could be worse, and it’s that sentiment that keeps him from complaining.
Besides, Val fucking hates it when Angel complains.
Angel’s room is in the penthouse of V Tower and the panoramic windows give him a full view of Pentagram City. Angel leans backwards where he’s halfway hanging off of his bed to get an upside down view of the acid rain as it starts to fall from the blood-red sky above. This high up, it almost feels like V Tower is looking down on the rest of the ring with an air of superiority that makes Angel’s stomach twist in satisfaction.
He may not be able to climb Hell’s hierarchical ladder himself, but he can easily allow himself to be the eye-candy on the arm of someone who can. This view may not be his, but he gets to cash in on the rewards that come along with the hard work of the Vees without any real consequences (at least not ones he can’t handle) so it still feels like the city belongs to him. During his 80 years in The Pit, Angel has learned a thing or two about the sinners who live here.
Namely, he’s learned that regardless of status or stature, everyone — everyone, is on someone’s leash. Literally. Metaphorically. Magical soul-binding contractually. It’s all just a matter of how you use the links on the chain around your neck to keep yourself breathing that determines whether you end up caught in an acid rain storm or watching those who are from the comfort of a bright neon tower built with the blood, sweat and tears of countless sinners.
Angel Dust prefers the latter.
So when he hears Val’s rage like an alarm bell screeching in warning as he stomps down the hall towards Angel’s room, Angel prepares himself. Val’s been out all night doing who knows what, but now he’s home and from the sound of it, he’s pissed. He’s probably drunk and looking for somewhere to put all of his anger and Angel doesn’t need to be a genius to guess exactly who Valentino is planning to take his anger out on.
He sits up and throws his pizza crust into the half-empty box before stashing it under his bed. He has music playing softly from the little heart-shaped speaker he keeps by his bed which he quickly silences before snatching the box of breath mints from his vanity and shoving three into his mouth.
“Shit,” Angel says around a mouthful of mints. His bed isn’t made and he won’t have time to do it, so he just picks up one of his throw blankets and drapes it over the place where he had been lounging only moments ago. He debates whether or not he has time to do a bump of his cocaine before Val gets here but decides against it. If his drugs are visible when Valentino enters Angel’s room, he’ll take them for himself. And drugs are fucking expensive, so Angel is not risking that happening to him again.
Angel doesn’t even flinch when his bedroom door slams open. It rattles the mirror on his vanity and sends a few of his perfume bottles to the floor, but otherwise there is very little damage done to Angel’s things. Little victories.
Right away, Angel can tell that Val is drunk.
Angel can smell the liquor on him from where he’s standing. He looms in Angel’s doorway and sways, squinting at Angel like he’s seeing him for the first time. Red venom drips from the corners of his mouth and he glares, fist clenched at his side, like he’s trying to figure out if he wants to fight Angel or fuck him.
Angel doesn’t know which of those options he’d prefer.
“H-hey, Val,” Angel says, and he curses internally at the shake in his voice. Valentino can smell fear, and if he knows that Angel is dreading whatever is about to happen, he’ll make sure it’s ten times worse than it should be. “Crazy night?”
Valentino says nothing. He barely moves at all. His beady eyes scan the expanse of Angel’s room with mild interest but he makes no indication that he even heard Angel speak. Rage rolls off of his body in waves and his breathing is coming in hot, heavy heaves that make Angel wonder if he took the stairs rather than the elevator to get here. It’s this detail, the heavy breathing, that makes Angel realize that maybe he gravely misread Valentino’s mood. He’s seen Val get angry plenty of times. He’s felt the concrete blow of Valentino’s pissed-off fist against his body on more instances than he can count. He can tell when Valentino is in a mood because someone pissed him off.
But this?
This isn’t anger.
It’s panic.
Something — someone, has managed to shake Valentino from his usual asshole guise, making him look weak and pathetic. It’s the first time that Angel’s ever seen an overlord look so defeated, and it stuns him into silence.
He doesn’t know what to say in a situation like this. He knows what to expect from Val when he’s angry. He has no idea what to expect from Val when he’s — whatever the fuck is happening right now.
“Pack your shit,” Val says suddenly, like he just remembered how to speak.
Angel stares at him.
“What?”
Val grits his teeth. “You fucking heard me. Pack your shit. You’re moving out.”
Now it’s Angel’s turn to panic.
“Move out?” Angel asks, laughing a little bit because this has to be a joke, right? “And go where, exactly? It’s part of our deal that as long as I’m doin’ what I gotta do, you let me stay here if I got nowhere else to go.”
Which, he doesn’t. Val knows that. So why the fuck he’s suddenly decided that Angel doesn’t get to be his prisoner anymore is beyond him.
Chances are, this is just some fucked up mind game. Val is probably doing this because he gets off on watching Angel beg and struggle. It’s role play, and he wants Angel to act like he’s being kicked out. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Luckily, Angel is a fantastic actor.
If it’s a show that Val wants, Angel can gladly provide one.
“Aw, come on boss, don’t kick me out onto the streets,” Angel says, batting his eyelashes. He crosses the room carefully, swinging his hips and brushing a hand through his hair as he goes. “Isn’t there some way I could pay you rent?”
He’s using his bad-actor voice, but that usually does the trick for Val. He loves it when Angel degrades himself like this; when he lowers himself below his capabilities. Val’s a very theatrical guy and sometimes he needs a little role play to get himself going.
“I don’t have any money,” Angel teases, coming closer. He presses into Valentino’s space and tries not to breathe in the disgusting smell of shame and alcohol that’s cascading off of his boss in billowing clouds of red smoke. “But I can pay you with my body.”
He reaches out a hand to caress Val’s jawline the way his master likes, but Val’s hand stops him by grabbing his wrist. He squeezes so tightly that Angel winces and goes to pull away on instinct which just makes Val wrench him closer with more force.
“Cut the shit, Angel Dust,” Val spits, glaring daggers into Angel’s face. “I’m not in the mood. Just pack quickly so we can get this over with.”
Angel’s heart sinks. Fuck. He’s serious.
“W-what are you talkin’ about, Val?” Angel asks, eyes going wide as he struggles to break free of Val’s grasp. “Get what over with? What’s goin ’on?”
Val lets go of Angel by flinging him forward with all of his strength, sending Angel to his knees by his bed. He makes a furious noise and Angel turns to see him bury his face in his hands before he turns and punches a hole in the wall with a shout.
“I bet your fucking contract in a game of poker,” Val explains. He doesn’t look at Angel.
“You what?” Angel asks, feeling paralyzed.
Can… Can overlords fucking do that? Is Angel’s soul really so expendable that it can be tossed onto a table with a pile of poker chips and gambled away like it’s nothing?
“I – fuck!” Valentino’s voice warbles and distorts as his body struggles to maintain his demon form. His eyes flash red and he punches the same hole again and again, yelling with rage. “That fucker hustled me! I wouldn’t have bet my star fucking actor if I knew—”
“Val,” Angel interrupts, getting to his feet. His knees scream in painful protest but he ignores them. “Val, what’re you sayin? You bet my soul? To — to fuckin’ who?”
“To that fucking pendejo, Husker,” Val growls, glaring at the hole that is now emitting red smoke.
Angel gapes at him.
“Husker,” Angel repeats, because there’s no way he heard that right. “The Gambling Demon? The overlord who owns the most famous fucking casino in Hell? That Husker? You bet my soul to The Gambling Demon in a game of poker and thought you could win?”
Val grits his teeth and turns his attention towards Angel again. Angel swallows and starts to back away on instinct, but then he remembers their current circumstances and stands his ground.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to like that?” Val hisses, eyes flashing again.
“Well I thought I was talkin’ to my master, but apparently I belong to The Gambling Demon now,” Angel spits right back.
He can feel himself starting to lose it. He didn’t know that this was an option. He didn’t fucking know that his contract could be transferred to another demon. He knew what he was getting into when he signed with Val. He knew what the terms of their contract were and what he was agreeing to.
Val may be a fucking monster, but he’s a monster that Angel knows. He’s a monster that Angel understands. Angel isn’t stupid; he made the choice to sign with Valentino because he was the only overlord that made sense for Angel’s lifestyle — for what Angel wanted out of Hell.
But now you’re tellin’ him that his soul is owed to some random fucking jackass who swindled Val in a game of cards? How can that be fair? How can that be something that’s just allowed to happen?
“No,” Angel says, feeling dizzy. “No, no, Val — that can’t — there’s gotta be some way—”
Val holds Angel’s eyes for a moment and Angel’s chest feels tight because there’s something there that he hasn’t ever seen before. Empathy? Does Val feel fucking guilty about doing this? Since when does a power-hungry overlord regret anything?
Unless it isn’t empathy.
Angel glares at him. Val doesn’t feel guilty. The only regret he has is that he won’t get to play with his favorite toy any more.
“My contract is to you,” Angel says through gritted teeth. “I didn’t make no agreement with The Gambling Demon. You can’t just fucking bet my contract, that’s not how this works.”
Val laughs, a sharp, awful sound. “You’ve been here how long and you still don’t understand shit about how Hell ‘works’, do you Angie?”
Angel opens his mouth to argue, but then Val is there, holding Angel’s cheeks between tight fingers. He reeks of booze and vomit. Angel does not resist the urge to pull away; he thrashes hard in Val’s grasp and reaches out to pull Val’s hand off of him but another comes up and grabs Angel by the throat.
“You’re right that normally contracts are ever-binding. When you signed your name and gave yourself over to me, you were supposed to be mine forever,” Val explains, talking low and close. “Those contracts are non-transferable. Unless you’re doing business with The Gambling Demon. That’s how he operates. He deals in souls.”
Angel had heard that, somewhere, at some point in time. He knew that The Gambling Demon was known for the collection of sinners he had gathered to staff his hotel. Angel knew that for many new souls, a simple night of fun at the casino could easily end with a contract to an overlord. New, stupid souls were The Gambling Demon’s bread and butter.
Angel didn’t know that he could collect old souls too by gambling with other overlords. Now that it’s happened to him though, it seems so obvious. Angel feels so stupid.
“Let go of me,” Angel chokes out, clawing at Val’s arm. “I’m not yours anymore. You don’t get to hurt me.”
Val growls and bares his teeth, but drops Angel because he knows that Angel’s right. He doesn’t think that The Gambling Demon would respond very well to his new toy being damaged upon arrival.
Not that Angel (or anyone for that matter) can do shit about the ways Angel is broken on the inside.
Angel is miserable as he packs his things. V Tower was its own type of Hell more often than not, but it was home. It was the first real home that Angel had since he arrived in Hell, and saying goodbye is making him weirdly sentimental. Some guy he dated twenty years ago told him about some psychological phenomenon that some Swedish asshole coined about prisoners falling for their captors in the 70’s. Angel can’t remember the name of it (and doesn’t fucking care) but he thinks that maybe there was some truth to theory in practice.
He doesn’t love Val.
Every extermination, while Angel hid in V Tower’s safe room with the rest of the V’s and their favorite souls, Angel would silently wish that the exorcists would find them. He would picture it — Val begging for his life as the unforgiving swish of the exorcist’s blade severed his awful head from his body.
He doesn’t love Val, but he does love what his contract with Val allowed him to have. He loves the fame and fortune. He loves the lights and the cameras and all of the delicious action. He loves the drugs and the sex — not the sex with Val, but the sex that comes with having your face on every billboard in Hell.
He loves the power that Val’s contract gave him.
And now that’s all going to change and Angel hates everything about it.
The car ride to the casino is awkward and uncomfortable. Angel sits in the limousine beside Valentino and feels nothing, which in and of itself is a strange sensation. The magic of his contract always compelled him towards wanting to be nearby Valentino, but now that their connection has been severed, Angel wants nothing to do with him. That strange pull in his chest like an invisible tether is not gone but redirected. He feels himself being pulled towards the casino like a fish on a hook, doomed to his fate of coming face-to-face with the one who caught him.
When they pull up to the front, Angel scrambles to get out of the car. Angel’s been here before, but now that this will be his home, he’s seeing the whole place in a new light. Everything from the golden railings on the marble steps to the unmistakable touches of French architecture on the massive building feels like ten types of Too Much. There are people bustling from the open doors in cocktail dresses and finely-tailored suits, but they pay him no mind as they go about their evening of gluttonous spending and gambling.
“Hello Mr. Angel Dust,” someone, an imp, says to Angel once he’s fully stepped out. “Master Husker has been waiting for you. We’ll take your things to your room for you.”
Angel sighs. He knows that he fucked up when he was alive. He knows that he did things and — and fucking said things that he can’t ever take back. He’s been being punished for it for 80 years and he’s never once complained because he knows deep down that he deserves it.
But this? Being gambled away to some fucking freak like he’s some kind of cheap whore? This is a new level of torture.
“Okay,” Angel says, defeated. “Let’s get this over with.”
Angel takes a step towards the door but he’s stopped before he can move an inch by the familiar curl of a vicious hand around his arm. It sends a chill up his spine and stops him in his tracks and he turns, eyes wild with all of the fury he’s been stockpiling for years, to glare at the face of the demon he used to belong to.
“What do you want?” Angel snaps. He pulls his arm but Valentino tightens his grip.
“You’re not even going to say goodbye?” Val asks, and if Angel didn’t know any better he would think that it’s real sadness lacing Val’s vowels rather than the venom disguising itself as such.
Angel doesn’t need time to even consider Val’s sentiment. He wrenches his arm free and stands up straight. There are so many things Angel wants to say, but none of them feel like they’re enough to fully express the hatred that resides deep in his belly when he looks at Valentino. He could punch him. He could shout at him. He could finally fight back.
But he knows it wouldn’t be enough.
So instead, Angel scoffs. He runs a hand through the hair on the top of his head and rolls his eyes and then he spits at Valentino’s shoes.
“Fuck you, Val,” Angel says, before he turns and marches into the casino.
He doesn’t look back.