Chapter Text
If you’ve got something to lose, you can always lose it at The Stardust.
Thousands of guests and players visit the Gambling Demon’s hotel and casino every day. Around Extermination Day, that number easily becomes ten thousand. Sinners come to spend their money and valuables the week before their potential last day of existence and the week right after it, when whoever’s left still feels lucky from surviving the slaughter. They feed his slot machines, toast big wins or drown bad losses at the bars and in the lounge, and hand the house practically every game at dozens of tables across the gaming floor and in private rooms.
Three days after the latest extermination this still holds true, the casino floor full of every make and model of sinner from loan sharks to cyclopes, ambiguous reptiles to insects. If you can name it, they’re playing his games, staying in his rooms, and sucking down his overpriced booze. The house sees a net gain every night thanks to the Gambling Demon’s favorite vices.
He walks his gaming floors most days, when there’s no other business to attend to, someone catches his head of security’s attention, or one of his people mentions a suspicious winning streak. Players trying to con the house out of tens of thousands with sloppy sleight of hand or obvious informants usually get a surprise invitation directly to Husker’s table. His reputation is such that fewer people try to cheat him at all anymore, after enough of those “caught” lost everything to him personally. The message became clear: cheat the Gambling Demon and you’ll literally lose your soul. One such soul is now his prize floor manager.
Husk won an aye aye sinner named Dottie years ago after catching her both counting cards and stacking her hand with nimble alien fingers and a deck in her coat. He’d been out on the floor at the time, watching players with his usual unreadable expression, when a faint tug of good luck drew his attention and he stopped to observe a game of Seven Card Stud. She’d been very good, and he didn’t blame his dealer for missing the switch that won the hand. Her huge orange eyes and adorable nose gave nothing away. With a nod to one of his security guards nearby, he’d turned to head up to a private room for the game in which he’d won her soul.
She was more than happy with what he’d decided she could do under him: spot would-be cheaters and escort them out with security’s “insistence” if they didn’t seem right for a bet with the Gambling Demon. She became casino floor manager not long after that. She’s his only owned soul with real security and financial access to the casino, and after 15 years, he’d easily consider her his Right Hand if asked.
Today Dottie makes a bee line for the bar where Husk sits nursing a glass of whiskey, wings tucked neatly up against his back. He watches her approach and waits for her to speak once she’s close enough, her expression terminally melancholy with the shape of her face and eyes. It’s the most interesting natural poker face he’s ever seen. After he’d won her soul, it dropped to reveal an excitable weirdo with a skill for sleight of hand and a thin understanding of what had just happened to her. Really, if he’d been most any other overlord or it had been merely five years earlier, he would’ve laughed in her face when explaining how Hell works and what it means to make deals with other demons. As it was, she was goddamned lucky as a relative newbie to fiery eternity that she’d stumbled on the casino a week after arrival.
Dottie comes up to his side, hands clasped behind her back as she tips forward. “We might be having an incident in one of the private rooms, sir,” she says lightly, but she knows better than to dance around the truth with him. Sipping his drink, he raises one feathered eyebrow expectantly. “It’s Valentino, sir,” she elaborates quieter, her distaste clear. If he weren’t out on the floor, he’d roll his eyes, instead settling for a grunt of knowing disapproval as he slides off his seat.
Dottie is quick on her feet, getting ahead to lead him to the elevator bank. “I’ve got security inside, but one of the guests requested your assistance rather than make a scene.”
Husk hums, whiskey in hand as he saunters after her into his private elevator. “Which guest?” he asks when the doors open on the third floor, where most of the private game rooms are.
“Well,” the aye aye hesitantly begins, turning the corner to a corridor with two burly reptilian security guards, Bastille and Harvey, standing by a door. He can hear raised voices from inside already. “I say ‘guest,’ but she never plays.”
“Velvette, then,” he guesses. She nods, stepping up to the door. Inside, he can hear Valentino scream about rules and which game they’re really playing. Husker cracks his neck and stretches his wings for a moment before tucking them in again. “I’ll handle this. Thank you, Dottie. Boys.” Dismissed, the guards duck away in unison, following Dottie back down the hall. Husk opens the door once they’re out of sight.
Valentino stands at a green-felted card table, his seat knocked over, surrounded by shark mobsters, each of whom have more chips than him and look just as irritated as Husk immediately becomes. The two other poker tables in the room are already abandoned, luckily for Valentino, so this spectacle is relatively contained regardless of how aggressive Husker might need to get tonight. But there won’t be too much damage control if things stay civil enough.
On the table along with the winning pot are a dozen empty glasses, Tino on his feet now with three hands grasping the edges like he’s ready to flip it while the other clutches an extended cigarette holder.
What a fucking tool.
Behind Valentino on a long leather couch lounges the ever-fashionable Velvette, leaning against one cushioned arm and fiddling on her phone with dull eyes, clearly bored to double-death by her business partner’s display. Husk isn’t surprised she’d personally asked him in. She and Vox understand how publicity works and this scene slipping outside of this room could affect the Vees’ “perfect” reputation. Valentino, on the other hand, is a dramatic bitch and a sore loser who can’t keep his emotional outbursts in check long enough not to cause some sort of trouble for everyone in the nearest vicinity. So Husk steps in to nip this in the bud, unwilling to waste any more time.
“—unless you fishy bitches get your shit together and play the game right! ” Valentino shouts, spitting traces of his foul pheromonal saliva. Husk almost sneers in disgust as he lets the door loudly shut behind himself to announce his presence. Velvette, to her credit, only smiles the tiniest bit, otherwise continuing to scroll while Valentino’s head snaps toward him. The Porn Demon’s demeanor shifts, quelled by Husker’s presence.
“Ahh!” Valentino sighs, smooth and light. Tino can have his little show but the sharks all look at Husker now, too. Good. “Husker, my dear friend!” he croons, lacing his fingers with both sets of hands and smiling affably. “So glad you’re here! You should get a load of these nasty cheaters and their fucking bullshit,” he hisses, glowering at them with glowing red eyes.
“That so?” Husker asks evenly. He looks lazily between the sharks, who exchange cautious glances. “You fellas makin’ trouble in my establishment?” he asks with a Chershire grin and a glint in his eye, just enough gravity in his tone that the room is well aware he’s not really joking.
“Not at all, Mr. Gamblin’ Ovalord,” one of them speaks up, a hammerhead sitting on the other side of Tino with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a slimy grin. “We was just finishin’ the game.”
“By swapping cards!” the pimp accuses, grabbing the table again.
Husk growls, extra gravel in his baritone. Even Valentino shuts up for a moment. “I suggest we call this game quits then,” he says carefully, free hand in his pocket as he finishes off his whiskey with the other, setting the glass on the craps table as he passes further into the room. Velvette starts to sit up.
“Not without my winnings!” Valentino growls, eyeing the pot in the center, a mountain of chips that dwarfs what’s left of his.
Husk’s expression darkens ever so slightly, the smallest dip in his eyebrows, the sharp cinch of his pupils into narrow slits. Valentino closes his mouth, sour and impatient, but waits for Husker to speak before complaining again.
“If I see you motherfuckers again, I’ll throw you out myself,” Husker tells the sharks. It takes approximately seven seconds for them all to abandon the table and flee the room, leaving just three overlords and—
What the fuck?
There’s someone Husk hadn’t noticed on the other end of the couch Velvette now gets up from, eyes still on her phone. They lie slumped, turned away on their side, legs tucked up to their chest and face buried into what seem to be four pink-banded arms. The little rise and fall of their back and spotted shoulders mean they’re not a corpse, but how the fuck did they sleep through Tino’s temper tantrum? Husk manages to keep the poker face up, but looks a moment too long at the unidentified mass of delicate white and baby pink fur not to hear about it. Valentino grins.
“You should see him when he’s awake,” he says enticingly, apparently appeased enough by the others being chased out that he slides into pimp mode immediately. “My star? You’d like him, Husker.”
Velvette sighs and both men look at her. “Can we get out of here already?” she demands, more like a whiny teen than she’d ever admit. “Pick up your whore and let’s go,” she insists, heading for the door and waving a hand at Valentino as he scoffs.
Husker steps aside and returns her satisfied nod before turning his attention back to Valentino. He bends over the sleeping sinner, cigarette held up to his lips as he takes a deep inhale and blows out red smoke. It billows over him until he suddenly jolts, waking with a short coughing fit and a soft groan. Husker’s ears both angle toward him. Valentino cradles his jaw in one hand, showing Husker three pink hearts trailing up the back of his neck, the largest at the base of his skull.
“Sorry, Val,” the dazed sinner drawls, sleep still pulling on his voice. “Musta had too much ta drink wit’ the pills.” He moves to sit up when Valentino drops his face, hugging himself and kneeling with his back to the room. The only clothing Husker sees are his thigh high boots.
Valentino is still distracted by his naked… “star?” Whore? So he doesn’t seem to notice or care that Husk’s face is suddenly an open book of shock as potential explanations for the nudity hit him. He only schools his expression again when the nearly naked man moves to stand, snapping him out of a temporary stupor from blind rage.
“Did you— pimp him out in my casino?” Husker growls in the back of his throat, the animalistic sound layered in the distant whispers of desperate losers at the ends of their ropes. The room darkens as traces of his power bleed from his body in faint golden ripples, a fury he hasn’t felt in ages bubbling deep in his gut, ears out flat and tail whipping side to side. The black sclera of his eyes begin glowing into clouds of blood red around the luminescent amber of his irises as a heated, oppressive aura grips the room.
The whore sucks in a breath, freezing up instantly with only one foot on the floor, and finally Valentino’s pleased smile drops as he focuses on Husker. Velvette stands silently by the door, attention lifted from her phone at last as she watches with thinly-veiled curiosity.
“Of course not!” Valentino answers casually, folding his arms up lazily as he holds his cigarette holder closer once more. “It was just a little private show for me,” he explains with a cruel pink grin, taking another drag. He lets the smoke out of the corner of his mouth with a smirk, aiming for the man staying perfectly still on the couch. Husk would bet he stopped breathing if he didn’t flinch and suppress a cough half a second later, clutching tighter around himself. “Besides, you can hardly stop this gorgeous slut from entertaining handsome men.”
Husk’s energy doesn’t wane, a snarl on his lips. “You don’t do that shit in my house, Valentino,” he reminds him darkly. The naked sinner shudders, and Husk’s ear twitches at the sound of a whimper. Valentino scowls at him, putting his hands on his hips and waist, cigarette smoke still curling into wispy hearts.
“Jesus. Y’know, a brothel would do so well here,” Valentino jokes, clearly conceding as he offers another smile. “Angel Dust?” he purrs.
The name rings a bell, and Husk assumes this is the arm candy his staff had mentioned a few times. He didn’t know Angel Dust was also a whore, though he should’ve guessed, knowing Valentino. He didn’t bring extras to the few overlord meetings he’s attended, and Husker has only greeted Tino in person at his casino a couple of times; either Angel Dust hadn’t been there or he’d been out of sight.
“Yes, Val?” Angel Dust answers roughly, voice small. Husk’s ear flicks.
“Put some clothes on, you’re making our dear Gambling Overlord’s beautiful casino seem trashy,” Valentino scolds, turning his chin up and popping a hip with a bored sigh.
Husker growls again, long and low, still baring his teeth, but the sound folds back into one voice as he gathers his power again, wearing a scowl instead. The lights in the room brighten slowly and a weight lifts from the air itself as he tucks his paws into his pockets. The moment the room doesn’t feel like a pressure cooker, Angel Dust looks around frantically for any sign of his clothes.
Husk can’t look away as Angel Dust does his best not to turn around, snatching up what turns out to be a clingy black minidress from the floor near the end of the couch. He steps into it and threads his four arms carefully through the sleeves, breath quiet but ragged. He gathers up long white gloves, shoving them into a small matching purse. Valentino doesn’t even look at him, rolling his eyes and moving to lean a hip against the table.
“Consider tonight on your tab, Tino,” Husker says sternly, flashing the man a meaningful glare when he opens his mouth to protest. “Get your whiny ass outta my house. Come back when you’re ready to play against a real opponent,” he challenges, angling his head and eyeing him balefully as the moth pimp straightens up, scoffing indignantly.
“But I want my winnings!” he whines — straight up whines — and Husk shoots him a narrowed glare so cold it shrivels up Valentino’s apparently brass balls.
“Good night, Valentino,” Husker reiterates, leaving no room for argument. He steps further into the room and then turns aside, clearly indicating where Valentino needs to go by looking at Velvette near the door. Her face lies somewhere between annoyance and relief, but she crosses her arms over her chest with the same impatience, waiting for him to move as instructed. Angel Dust is dressed and on his feet by the time Valentino grabs him, frowning bitterly and yanking him along as he stalks toward the door, earning a wince that makes Husk’s ears swivel forward.
Husk notes the fluffy, messy hair and just how long Angel Dust’s legs really are. He notes that he’s a spider-type sinner, and wonders if his other arms ever manifested or if he can retract them. He notes the rip under the upper arm of his dress, the way Angel Dust favors one leg. The way he avoids the Gambling Overlord’s gaze by messing with his hair and turning his face away the moment he has to move in Husker’s direction, dragged to the door. But it’s too late.
Husk sees the thick purple bruise under his right eye.
His poker face is back in place well before the renewed surge of rage singes his lungs on his next inhale, and it remains intact as he walks a few paces behind the other overlords and their unfortunate companion, Velvette eagerly leading the way. Husker nods to the next pair of security guards they pass, and the Hellhound and batlike sinner continue the escort in his place. He stands at the end of the corridor, watching them go, Valentino bitching about how boring the rest of the night will be now and Angel Dust stumbling along behind him, somehow keeping his face angled away from Husk’s gaze until they’re gone. Moments later, Dottie appears at his side.
“Everything alright, sir?” she asks evenly.
“That piece ‘a shit will be back,” Husk grinds out, still working through the last traces of burning anger at the very idea that Valentino was pimping in his casino. He’s not running a damned cathouse — fuck you — and he’s certainly not running one with unwilling participants. Husker is an overlord who occasionally deals in thousands of souls at a time, but even he has his limits, and if Valentino weren’t an overlord, he would’ve torn him apart then and there.
Husker’s house, Husker’s rules, and the first rule of the house is, “Don’t mess with the Gambling Demon,” which includes cheating and bringing in outside business like sex work; it best translates to, “fuck around and find out.” Rule two is, “Do your job and you can live your life,” which mostly applies to his owned souls. Rule three is, “No weapons on the casino floor,” security being the exemption. Player, guest, and employee alike know nobody fucks with the rules of the house and just gets away with it.
That Valentino did whatever the Hell he did tonight pisses him off enough to consider rule one broken. The entitled prick needs to be taken down a peg anyway, and his empowered ego will be his downfall because Husk knows he won’t be able to resist a personal invitation for long. He won’t even have to bring it up again. He gives the pimp a month tops before he shows up at the Stardust and demands his game.
Husk spends the rest of the night in his office, drinking half a bottle of Infernal Reserve and imagining what color Angel Dust’s eyes are.
—
—
—
He confirms Angel Dust is Valentino’s top pornstar from one of his souls, a drowning victim with hellishly solid arms of flowing water. Javier said his death was a tragic water skiing accident, but, “At least I had fun!” Today, Husker makes a plate of breakfast from the buffet, a little gesture of morale he engages every couple of weeks. People like to see an overlord doing ordinary things, even if he’s doing it in an immaculate black pinstripe three-piece suit with gold lapels, cuffs, and matching bow tie. Javier replaces an empty tray of eggs with a fresh one, and Husk asks without really thinking about it.
“D’you know who ‘Angel Dust’ is?”
Javier’s arms become ordinary water for a moment, the empty buffet tray and its lid clattering to the floor, Husk’s ears flinching. “Aw, shit,” Javier mutters guiltily, arms resolidifying as he gathers up the lid and looks miserably at little pieces of scrambled eggs.
“Hey,” Husker interrupts simply. He doesn’t raise his voice or even change his tone but Javier looks at him with a grimace. “Relax for a sec.”
Javier nods, clearing his throat. “Yessir. Uh. I-I’m not sure I heard you right?”
“Angel Dust.”
“Oh, so you… you did say— okay. Sure, uh, he’s. Y’know. In…,” the man says awkwardly, stalling and looking anywhere but at his overlord.
“Javier.”
“Porn.”
“Hm.” So he wasn’t misremembering. If Angel Dust is as well-known as Javier’s awkward fidgeting implies, it makes sense he’d also get pimped out individually. Husk wasn’t wrong to assume Valentino was trying to sneak in a whore for a personal payday in the Gambling Demon’s casino.
A clearly non-consenting whore, but that’s only sort-of the point when they’re literally in Hell. That slimy creep will start fucking with his capital if he starts pimping on site, invading Husker’s turf and soaking up lowlifes’ money with his distasteful, unrelated business. Husk is a greedy drunken cheat, but he’s not in Hell for lust or violence, and he refuses to let Valentino’s combined domain of horrors intrude on his paradise of gluttony and greed. It has nothing to do with the way Angel Dust looked when Valentino dragged him out of that private room. Mostly.
“He’s the best there is,” Javier starts, and Husk regrets green-lighting further conversation. “He’s basically the prince of porn. He’s done everything, all the good stuff! Well, and the fucked up stuff. I hear he’s expensive, but he’ll sleep with almost anyone for the right price— I mean, except women, he charges extra for women, everyone knows that—.”
“Alright, Javi, cool it,” Husker sighs. “Get back to work.”
Thrilled to be dismissed, Javier nods and darts away to find a broom while Husk picks up a piece of bacon and meanders back toward his private elevator. He’ll eat breakfast in his office this morning. He’s got important things to look into.
—
Husk does not like Angel Dust’s work.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters in disbelief, scowling at the video onscreen with his ears pinned back.
Husk has been flipping through preview videos of Valentino’s star actor, trying to get a sense of what makes someone the “prince of porn” in the first place. The answer must be that Angel Dust is fucking beautiful, and it probably helps that Javier wasn’t kidding when he said the guy’s done everything. He watches two sinners with comically oversized cocks jacking off over Angel Dust’s prone body, the tied-up spider twisting helplessly with exaggerated moans on tangled sheets as one of them shoves fingers into his mouth. In his aimless clicking he’d discovered Angel Dust does indeed have another set of retractable limbs, but he only sees all six arms when he’s restrained one way or another too, like in this video.
Out of morbid curiosity, Husk sorts all of Angel Dust’s available previews by fetish category with a pull down menu to choose from, and since Husk has no idea where to start after so long being more or less celibate, he’s grateful for the auto-fill. Porn wasn’t so accessible or bountiful when he was alive, and when he managed to engage in kink himself, it wasn’t for very long with anyone in particular. He’s not sure what half the terminology listed even means, let alone if he actually wants to risk finding out.
He picks a basic one he recognizes, “deepthroat,” and stares at the sheer number of results with thumbnails of Angel Dust. He supposes decades of work might look like this. He tries another tag, “bareback,” and clicks one open purely on accident. Stupid fucking cat form and its stupid fucking claws—!
“Ohh, yeeeahhh!” the nasally moan blurts through the speakers. Husk never bumps it above 25, but still smacks the volume down despite being alone, rattling the monitor and clamping his jaw shut, embarrassed. What an obviously fucking fake sound, do people really like that? Despite himself, heat floods his face and neck as he actually looks at the screen.
Angel Dust faces the camera, head and upper shoulders pressed into the mattress as his hips are slammed hard back into the actor behind him. His eyes are an enchanting, vibrant magenta with mismatched sclera of yellow and black; Husk had mindlessly stared at them for a full minute on his first search of the pornstar, a promotion for his latest film, and now they catch his attention because they look glassy and distant.
“Harder—! Oh, fuck,” Angel Dust pleads, “fuck me harder, Daddy, ahhnn—!” Husk’s eyebrows skyrocket as Angel Dust’s hair is grabbed and he’s suddenly lifted upright to reveal his completely naked front—
Pupils narrowed to sharp slits, Husker bats the monitor aside before he can register seeing his crotch, knocking it clean off its arm and disconnecting it with a short burst of crunches and clicks. A soft electrical pop rounds out the damage once it’s on the floor and Husk stares at it with wide eyes, panting heavily. What the fuck?
“What the fuck!” he mutters indignantly to himself, looking down at his shaking paws, heart racing. Shit. Now he has to get the goddamn computer fixed. He has his phone for plenty of things, but he’s a lot faster on a typewriter keyboard, what with the claws; retracting them only gets him so far.
Why the hell did he do that? What the fuck is wrong with him? Angel Dust’s phony moan echoes in his brain and Husk feels twisting heat in his chest and belly again.
What the fuck.
—
—
—
In the next two weeks, a few inconvenient things happen.
Husker’s lounge act finally quits after a few months of barely working together with the current stage manager, an ornery old bitch who Husk doesn’t particularly like either. He’d really been lucky to keep Tiffania on as long as he had, considering she’s Hellborn with prospects in other rings. The stage manager chased her off, and seeing as her position isn’t filled by soul contract, he simply fires her and starts the grueling process of job interviews. He’ll need a new act too of course. While the house band is good, it’s not quite enough of a draw, and he’d rather have a stage manager ready to go first if he can help it.
On top of job interviews and scouting for talent in Pride, Husk gets three calls from Valentino eagerly trying to arrange a private game. He’s so desperate to play that he offers Husker a 100/200 limit poker. It’s nothing to sneeze at exactly, but Christ, if he really wants to, Husk could probably con this moron into giving him his studio. Oh.
Oh, now… that’s a good idea.
What he’d do with a fucking porn studio, Husk has no immediate idea, but it would disrupt this creep’s power in the most “legitimate” way and Valentino deserves anything Husker could dish out. He might have to deal with the other Vees and the inevitable Tino Tantrum when it happens, but holy Hell would it be satisfying to watch him beg for it all back! But anyone can be replaced, even the primary producer of Pride’s porn, if his business partners get pissed off enough. Hell, maybe Angel Dust could run Porn Studio.
On Valentino’s fourth call, Husker suggests a game of something like Texas Hold ‘Em or Five Card Draw. He tells him he won’t even need to bother with the exchange counter, Husker’s private rooms exchange cash for chips at the table to expedite big spenders playing with more than the average schmo downstairs. Valentino is all too happy to accept, ego easily flattered.
Husk watches the front entrance security feed displayed on the tablet in his hand as Valentino arrives dripping in smug satisfaction, neck ruffle extra fluffed as he steps out of his limousine. His heart-shaped glasses glint as he grins at the valet opening his door, stepping forward and folding his top arms, lower fists set on his hips.
In his wake comes Angel Dust, lithely stepping out in a ruched cocktail dress that barely reaches mid-thigh, the same shade of purple as Valentino’s shirt. His thigh-high boots seem to be a staple accessory, even making regular appearances in his work, and Husk doesn’t need to know feminine fashion to know he pulls them off with anything he wears. There’s a subtle dusting of lavender over his eyelids, and the classic winged embellishment of his eyeliner makes his voluminous mascara even more effective, lashes long and luscious. His lips are subtler, glossed in a delicate, shimmery pink that complements his fur.
Husker hasn’t paid this much attention to someone else’s appearance in years. Angel Dust looks fucking beautiful.
Christ. Thank fuck he’s spent those aforementioned years perfecting the ability to keep his internal dialogue strictly internal or he might’ve said that aloud. What the fuck is happening to him? He’s the fucking Gambling Demon and he’s going to crush an obnoxious little moth with his very own paws tonight. That there will be absolutely stunning company is just icing on the pound Valentino into the dirt cake.
Husk turns off the tablet screen, passing the device to Dottie and nodding. They’ll be here soon. He doesn’t have to spy on them the entire way.
There’s a rhythmic knocking on the door a minute later and his best usher, Hecate, steps inside with Valentino and Angel Dust himself. They look just as put-together in person, clearly coordinated to Tino’s tastes considering the color and plunge of Angel Dust’s designer dress. It reveals the line of baby pink fur that shapes into the heart over his chest, barely covered by strapless breast cups. Valentino’s lower left hand stays planted on Angel Dust’s ass even as he comes toward the table, red eyes sharp and grin proud.
All of The Stardust’s private rooms are paneled in dark oak and deep red wallpaper, the furniture rich walnut cushioned in warm brown and black leather with smatterings of brushed brass accents. Here, a small attended bar sits along one side of the wall opposite the dealer of the only table. A panoramic landscape with the twilit chartreuse skyline of Greed stretches across the wallpaper just above the shelves of booze and mixers. This room reminds Husker that he’s here because he’s good at what he does: showing others what it means to lose. He’ll humble the Porn Overlord after just a few hands, when Valentino puts himself in a hole he can’t just flip a table or make a scene about.
He sits at the opposite end of an oblong, green-felted wooden card table, edges curved. On one side stands the dealer in a red vest and black bow tie, waiting with professional stoicism as Valentino takes his seat across from Husk. Angel Dust hovers at his shoulder despite the presence of other seats, and Husk expects the actor to avoid his eye again; to his pleasant surprise, they meet his when Angel Dust deigns to look up.
Magenta blinks back at him before the spider’s sinful mouth curls in a raunchy grin, his gold tooth catching the light. Angel Dust leans slowly into Valentino’s chair, draping off the back and setting his chin on his forearm as his dress rides up ever so slightly, a carefully crafted slit up the side showing more of his pretty white fur as he pops a hip.
Husker’s expression remains unchanged from stern boredom, but the difference between Angel Dust two weeks ago and now is stark. The pornstar not only looks directly at him this time, but the panicked, embarrassed man who’d woken to a surprise third overlord in the same room now watches him almost unrelentingly, chewing one corner of his lip with a mischievous smirk.
Husk isn’t stupid. The fact that Valentino sees him making eyes and does nothing to stop it tells him Angel Dust was either instructed or invited to do exactly that. Husk assumes the moth pimp thinks he can be distracted by a pretty face like other sinners. He might be having a strange crisis of personal taste, but he can see the rehearsal in every little move, see from a mile away that Angel Dust wears a sultry glamor, a phony bravado. He knows the look from a lifetime around people working the same industry, even if they were never in front of cameras themselves.
How else would he have gotten to be the Gambling Demon if he couldn’t read people well? He’s a man of many masks himself, he just doesn’t need them all these days with his immaculate poker face. It will serve him well tonight if Valentino thinks he can use Angel Dust to tempt him into a mistake.
“Valentino,” Husker greets with a nod before doing the same toward his colleague’s companion. “Angel Dust.”
Both of them pause, but Angel Dust looks taken aback whereas Valentino looks irately over his shoulder at him. The anxious sidelong glance Angel Dust casts back at his boss is impossible to miss even if Tino quickly looks back at their host. “Husker,” Valentino replies, putting himself back on track, sly and smooth as he grins anew. “Excited to be back. You gonna let me show you how I win your little games when they’re played fair?”
Husk could laugh at the sheer arrogance of overlords, himself included. Valentino might win a few games when he comes to play, but he overwhelmingly loses by comparison, fairly or otherwise, and considering the last time he was here? Husk smirks, finally ditching the poker face. Angel Dust’s gaze narrows but his pretty smile falls back in place and he watches the dealer, Miko, idly shuffle the deck. Angel Dust leans against Valentino’s seat and lets his unoccupied arms drape over the line of his own body, a casual reminder of his shape. In case Husk had somehow missed it.
Valentino himself folds his hands together on the table, still grinning. Husk waves to the barkeep at the small bar in the back, and the horned sinner nods obediently, getting to mixing.
“What’ll ya have?” Husker asks while lifting his own drink to his lips to finish.
“Long Island Iced Tea,” Valentino responds, because he’s an idiot.
“It’s on the way, Tino. We know what you like,” Husker says evenly. “I was talkin’ to Angel Dust,” he amends, golden eyes locked on hot pink again. Valentino takes a beat to think about this interaction while Angel Dust gestures to himself with a white-gloved hand over his prominent chest fluff.
“Who, me?” he says playfully, Brooklyn accent light. “Well I’ll take a Sex On the Beach, if’n you’d be so kind.”
“Safir?” Husk hums, and the bartender obliges, already done with Valentino’s cocktail. Angel Dust watches Husk as he leans back in his seat, holding his glass out to be refilled with another three fingers as the bartender comes by with the whiskey bottle and a tray of their guests’ respective drinks.
Valentino barely waits for his to be set down before picking up the narrow straw and jabbing at the ice like it wasn’t already mixed for him. He eyes Husker the whole time, and maybe if Husk weren’t a fucking overlord himself it would be some kind of intimidation tactic. But Valentino is on his turf, about to be more out of his depth with every drink he sucks down like the greedy pig he is.
Angel Dust accepts his tumbler with a coy, “Thanks, sugar,” before plucking up the novelty cocktail sword with a heart for a hilt. Eyes on Husk, he opens his mouth and sets the cherry skewered on the end between his teeth, slowly pulling the little sword away and curling his tongue around the fruit. He wears a pleased smile as Husker watches the cherry vanish into his mouth—
Before Husker looks back to Valentino like it was the most boring display he’s ever seen. Angel Dust takes this brush-off with a delicate shrug, gripping his glass a little tighter as he reaches to pull the now tied cherry stem from the end of his tongue. Whether the Gambling Overlord watches or not, everyone knows the show must go on.
(Husk watches.)
Valentino is so busy drinking his cocktail that he misses the flirtation entirely, which is for the best when Husk is going to wipe the floor with him anyway, so it’s best to keep his mood up until it must come down. Not to mention he doesn’t want Angel Dust getting any ideas; he’s not buying a single thing he’s selling, act or body.
“So I think we should play for the big time,” Valentino insists in a convincingly conversational way, flapping a hand out as he crosses his leg over one knee, leaning back comfortably. “I brought 50 grand. You know— walking around money,” he jokes with a disarming chuckle.
The dangerous thing about Valentino is his charm. It falls on deaf ears when it comes to Husk, but when Tino puts on the persona of the charismatic, sexy porn producer with great taste in a good time, sinners eat it up. He notoriously made his debut as an overlord by charming his first few dozen souls, something Husk supposes is appropriate for a pimp from the 70’s. Husk is only immune because he knows a skeevy motherfucker when he meets one and he won’t put up with it.
That, and after seeing Angel Dust’s work, it’s clear Valentino’s particular abuse of power is one of the few things left that legitimately piss off Husker.
He beat men to shit back in life when he caught them groping or drugging someone at bars or during performances. He might’ve become a numb alcoholic over time, but it’s the one thing that always brings him back to life for a few blindingly rage-filled moments. His worst sins may be gluttony and greed, but fuck if he couldn’t put Satan’s wrath to shame in the right situation.
“What’s your game?” the gambler asks, already knowing the answer. Husker’s always good at letting people think they have any advantage, and typically picking the game makes opponents feel more in control, but over the phone he’d dropped the name of a game the moth knows.
“Texas Hold ‘Em. Of course.”
Valentino reaches into his shirt and pulls out a pack of his foul patented cigarettes. Husk sees Angel Dust’s pupils dilate as he looks at the little carton and is immediately dubious, lifting a paw to stop his “colleague.” Valentino frowns, but Husk holds up a claw for patience and turns slightly in his seat.
Safir swoops around and opens a personal humidor before him, Husker pulling a matte black cigar cutter from his jacket. He opens the polished wooden box and extracts a mid-sized, meduro-wrapped torpedo cigar, made with tobacco retrieved from the living world and cultivated on Wrath.
It’s the closest Hell gets to a good Cuban stogie, and Husk holds it under his nose for a moment, enjoying the spicy wooden blend; this one carries top notes of oak, followed closely by espresso and cinnamon. The horned bartender steps quickly over to Valentino, who looks immensely pleased with the offering, wiggling his fingers as he picks one. Safir holds out another cigar cutter, and the overlord waits for him to cut the end.
Didn’t even try to appreciate the aroma. And Valentino thinks he’s classy.
Husk feels Angel Dust’s eyes on him as he cuts the end of his own, nodding for Safir when the barkeep glances back to him. The pornstar’s eyebrows shoot up when Safir then turns to him with the box, even meeting his eyes when Angel Dust looks at him suspiciously. Husker pulls a sleek golden flip lighter from his other jacket pocket, etched with an Ace of Hearts and inlaid with a ruby heart, as he watches Angel Dust sideways, a lazy smirk on his lips. That’s right. You too, arm candy, he conveys with a slow tip of his head.
Angel Dust then focuses on the cigars and gingerly picks one. Something in Husk’s withered old heart awakens for just a moment when the actor holds it beneath his nose and takes a few seconds to breathe in the tobacco’s aroma, eyes drifting closed. He assumes Angel Dust knows more about this kind of thing than his boss, if only because he’s no doubt been around the kind of sinners who can afford to sit around boasting good business and single-handedly keeping Cuban smugglers afloat back in the living world. He remembers someone mentioning America eventually dropped the trade embargo and wonders if the same kinds of guys were ever capable of reaching Heaven.
It’s a different poison than Valentino’s sick pheromone-packed cigarettes, but one that keeps all of them from breathing that nasty red shit, including his staff. He might gamble his souls but until that happens he takes care of his own and extends common courtesy to most others. There’s a better way to maintain loyalty with your souls than all of Valentino’s once rumored, now obvious torment. Angel Dust’s little smile as he holds his cigar out for the bartender to clip gives Husk a pleasant swell of triumph. Valentino begins lighting his own cigar with a flip lighter, ignoring his employee and fellow overlord alike as he rushes lighting the end.
Amateur. It won’t burn evenly if he screws around like that.
Angel Dust glances up when Safir offers to help with his cigar, but flicks his attention to Husk and how he slowly starts toasting his own with his custom lighter. Husker looks over at him with his head still angled downward, golden eyes lit with amusement as he places the cigar between his lips, habitually guarding the end and casting himself in soft amber. Once it’s ready, he finally lights it properly, taking a few puffs. Angel Dust looks between Husker’s smoldering eyes and the stick lighter in the barkeep’s hand, a spark of wickedness in his eyes.
He doesn’t keep Husk’s curiosity waiting, ducking around Safir, Valentino’s attention drawn back to him as he coughs up smoke from inhaling it into his lungs like the classless fuckhead he is. But Angel Dust approaches Husk with alarming grace, practically gliding on his long legs before perching on the edge of the table. He tucks just his feet underneath, knees only inches from the overlord’s as he sets his clutch down beside him.
Husker watches neutrally, taking gentle pulls from his cigar and holding the smoke in his mouth, the rounded flavor complemented by the faint perfume of Angel Dust’s chest fluff when he leans forward. Husk wisely blows his smoke just over the pretty spider’s shoulder, perfectly timing the next pull on his stogie as Angel Dust sips his drink and silently holds the cigar out with an almost innocent smile.
“I’m used to cigarettes, y’know?” he prompts charmingly. “Seems trickier.”
Husk stares up at Angel Dust poised coyly before him, so close to making physical contact without a single move from Husk. To Angel Dust’s credit he stares right back at the Gambling Demon with hooded eyes of such a saturated pink that they linger behind Husk’s eyelids when he blinks. But Angel Dust is performing for the room, not just him, so he’s willing to indulge the act while Valentino’s watching.
Husker plucks Angel Dust’s cigar from his elegant fingers and holds it between his own, perfectly comfortable where he leans forward as he gets it started for him. Valentino sits deadly silent on the other side of the table, a satisfied smirk in place as he observes what he assumes is an incoming advantage. Too bad Husk doesn’t go for folks who can’t consent, which is probably the nicest way to put Angel Dust’s situation.
There’s no way this kid isn’t under contract. Not after what Husk saw on that website and in the backroom two weeks ago. But he leans forward, drawing from his cigar as Angel Dust puts his between his lips, bending even closer as Husk sits up, igniting the end once more with the actor’s first careful pull. Angel Dust slowly leans back up, bedroom eyes on Husk from his sharp angle atop the table.
Unlike Valentino, Angel Dust doesn’t breathe the smoke, only tasting it in small, slow pulls, blowing gently upward to show Husk his elegant neck, the black choker making it look even thinner than it already is. He smirks, taking a drink of his cocktail as Husker continues to enjoy his own cigar, leaning back easily in his chair as the pornstar slides off the card table, picking up his purse and swinging his hips on his way back to a darkly grinning Valentino.
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” Valentino purrs delightedly, though the little falter in Angel Dust’s smirk doesn’t go unnoticed by either overlord. Valentino snatches the slighter man’s waist and hauls him into his lap abruptly, and Angel Dust does his best not to spill his drink or drop his cigar as he grips his purse tightly in one of his lower hands, remaining free one catching his weight on his boss’s shoulder. “He’s worth every penny, you know.”
Husk’s expression shows none of his disgust when Angel Dust’s smile remains alarmingly frozen, instead offering an ambiguous grunt. “I’m sure he is.” With a quick nod to Miko, the dealer waiting for instruction, he adds, “50 thou’ for the house, too.”
Valentino grins, pulling out several bundles of cash from his shirt and tossing them onto the table. The dealer swipes them up, putting them somewhere under the table and starting to make large, matching piles of chips, pushing equal piles toward Valentino and Husk. Miko reaches under the table again and pulls out a smooth, round golden token: the button.
“Texas Hold ‘Em, 100/200 blind,” she announces professionally, sliding the button to Valentino on her left. “Small blind to Mr. Valentino.”
The first game is quick and clean enough, Valentino shamelessly pawing at Angel Dust’s body the entire time, lower hands wandering and squeezing possessively. Valentino wins twelve thousand and finishes off his first drink to start another. Angel Dust sits quietly in his boss’s lap, mostly unresponsive to his touch, watching the game and downing his own drink.
“As much as I love seeing the house lose, Husker darling,” Valentino coos, scooping his winnings toward his pile, “I was thinking we play for something more interesting.”
“What else is on the table tonight then, Tino?” Husk asks lightly.
“Souls, of course,” he muses.
Husker hums, thoughtfully tilting his head side to side. Angel Dust accepts a fresh cocktail from Safir and takes a long drink. “Is that all? Why not join my bimonthly overlords’ game?”
Valentino scoffs, rolling his solid red eyes. “Well what else is there? More money? Boring!”
“Assets,” Husker supplies with another lazy smile, taking a puff.
“You want my studio?” Valentino growls, suddenly on the defensive.
Not a complete idiot, then. Husk expected to have to dance around that for a few minutes. He chuckles, shrugging and sipping his refreshed whiskey. Angel Dust slowly lowers his emptied glass, looking between the overlords with careful curiosity, eyebrows raising.
“Didn’t you come here to weasel me out of my casino?” Husker challenges, angling his head to pierce Valentino with his golden gaze. “Tino,” he implores, sitting forward and setting his glass on the table, practically laughing. “Please.”
Angel Dust stiffens, spine zipping up straight as Valentino digs vicious claw tips into his side, glowering half-blindly at the winged sinner across from them. Angel Dust stays stock still, eyes wider and jaw taut.
“Oh, is that how it is?” Valentino demands petulantly, taking a mouthful of cigar smoke and blowing it out through his nose in that fucking pheromonal crimson, drumming fingers on the empty glass of ice sweating in one hand. Fuck, he forgot this creep is powerful enough to turn any inhaled smoke to his advantage, his pheromonal cigarettes must be backup. Or they’re for Angel Dust, which he doesn’t like either. The bartender is somehow right there, replacing Valentino’s drink with another in one swift motion and doing the same for Angel Dust before seemingly vanishing again. Momentarily appeased, Valentino growls and takes a long drink.
Way too easy. Valentino really needs the other Vees to round out his reasoning when he’s angry; Husk barely has to say a thing before he gets up in arms. He’s pleased with the results, but Angel Dust barely hides the beginnings of a grimace, mismatched eyes cast to the sparkling yellow threaded in the dark gray carpet below as he focuses on enjoying his cigar.
“Ain’t it?” Husker says. Pushing a clawed hand through his carefully styled hair, he hums with amusement. “You know me, Tino,” he teases with a wicked grin, pupils wide for the ripe smell of a cocksure sucker, a shift in the tide of luck. “I love a good bet.” Valentino bares his teeth in a snarling grin, ego effectively poked. Husker no longer cares if he starts a war with the Vees if it means winning against this smarmy prick.
“Fine,” Valentino snaps, and Angel Dust adjusts how he holds onto him, quietly dropping his clutch to the floor to better keep himself steady the more animated his boss gets. “My studio for your casino,” Valentino offers, taking a drink.
Husker smiles effortlessly, a charmer himself when he makes the effort. Valentino seems pleased with himself for suggesting it, as if Husk could lose against an impatient, impulsive jackass like him.
“That’s more like it, huh?” Husk encourages, sitting up more in his seat. He holds his cigar between his teeth as he props his elbows and laces his claws together, leaning forward on the table. He knows he has him when Tino’s grin shifts from tight and annoyed to smug again. “Two outta three in Texas Hold ‘Em should do it. You beat me twice, you win; I beat you twice, I win.”
People love the “best out of three” bets. They relax more when they think they’ve got the leeway of a win that he’ll simply hand them. When they think they can win the second time, they realize their mistake.
Angel Dust’s face reads somewhere between morbid curiosity and doubt. Clearly he knows his boss is terrible at poker, but Husk figures when he owns Valentino’s studio, Angel Dust won’t be so dubious. Husker doesn’t boast kindness per se, but he boasts civility for loyalty; he doesn’t have to rely on violence to keep his people in line in the first place. Husk loves a fight, he won’t lie, but neither does he seek them out. He simply finishes what’s started.
And Valentino started it.
Angel Dust’s thoughtful frown shifts to worry, and he leans to Valentino’s ear for a moment, speaking so softly Husk can only catch a few words — sure, Vox, upset. The Porn Demon frowns and grabs Angel Dust’s jaw without warning.
A flare of indignation makes Husk’s ears twitch, but he reveals nothing else as he silently watches the whore jolt. Angel Dust only grabs hold of Valentino’s closest hand with one of his own for balance, another curled in the pimp’s shirt while his left hands hold his drink and cigar. The fear painting Angel Dust’s face lasts only a split second before he suddenly looks like Valentino just pumped him full of red smoke, moaning softly and biting his lip as Valentino sharpens his glare.
“I don’t remember asking for your opinion, Angelcakes.”
Angel Dust’s chest rises and falls quickly as he hurriedly murmurs, “Sorry, Daddy. I can keep my mouth shut.”
“Good,” Valentino purrs, releasing him and grinning widely, returning his attention to the unmoving demon across from him. “So sorry Husker, baby,” he says apologetically, stroking up and down Angel Dust’s lower left arm, drink clutched in his lap. “Where were we?”
“Best two outta three,” Husker repeats gravely, humor gone and irises glowing.
“Deal,” the Porn Overlord agrees darkly, suddenly on his feet. Angel Dust falls off his lap but quickly catches himself before taking a dive toward the floor. The flash of irritation and disbelief, the way he shoots Valentino a glare and then looks down at his nearly-empty drink before tossing the rest of it back… satisfies Husker. It’s only one more momentary slip of the mask, but Husk liked it and Valentino deserves a lot more than a glare.
Husk chuckles, allowing casual arrogance to replace the short-lived shadow in his tone. He rises and steps around to meet Valentino halfway, a hand out to shake. The thrill of the gamble never ceases to put fire in his belly, even when it’s rigged in his favor.
The room pulses in a ripple of soft golden light flowing with card suit symbols and strange red after-images of hearts as his hand meets Valentino’s, a smoky billow of faded red dissipating in coiled hearts from the pimp’s arm. Valentino’s eyes glow in vibrant cerise as Husk’s eyes flash gold, the sclera blood red as light wraps around them both, encircling their joined hands for merely a second. Card suits pop like fireworks from their handshake, accompanied by the faint dings and chimes of a jackpot win, the room humming with the sound, overwhelming the ghosts of excited moans and camera shutters on its edges. It’s clear that Husker’s power is dominant here, his magic overtly overwhelming Valentino’s. A gamble won against the likes of Valentino, and Husk’s excitement would rattle the whole building and drown out the other overlord’s poisonous, moaning smoke.
He lets others chalk up this particular surge of his power when he places and wins bets to Hell agreeing with the Gambling Demon’s triumphs. Reality is probably much closer to whatever magical equivalent of a dopamine and adrenaline rush is to a powerful sinner of gluttonous greed, but it’s damned good for a show. He used to be a magician and knows mystery only builds his reputation.
The thin tendrils of gold shimmering with clubs and spades and diamonds pull back into Husk’s body, and the room is once again bathed in warm ambient light, the deal sealed. He doesn’t look at Angel Dust until Valentino turns back to take his seat again with a manic grin.
Caught staring, Angel Dust droops his eyelids and smiles seductively, looking almost winded as he fans himself with a free hand. He leans on the high back of Valentino’s chair again, sipping the last of his latest Sex On the Beach before lowering the glass to replace it with the cigar. When Husker’s back in his own seat he takes the time to get comfortable again, lifting his tumbler toward his two “guests.” Angel looks amused, winking at Safir when the bartender subtly switches his glass of ice for a new drink. Valentino seems happy to raise his own when Husk smiles gregariously back at him.
“Best of luck,” Husker says. Valentino chuckles knowingly and downs half his cocktail while Angel Dust eyes him sideways before taking a sip.
“Naturally!” Valentino laughs, practically slamming his glass down with a loud sigh. He reaches for his whore without looking, grabbing his hip to yank him close. Angel Dust obeys, chuckling playfully and setting his free lower hand around Valentino’s waist, the top right soothingly stroking through his natural neck ruffle. It does seem to loosen the moth’s shoulders. The dealer shuffles one more time before finally doling out their respective hands and setting up the next game.
Time to make Valentino regret fucking around in his casino whether it’s by losing money, harassing other guests, or whatever the fuck he does when he brings Angel Dust, who had clients probably every time he’s come to the casino. Now that Husk has reviewed security footage, Valentino’s visits clearly revealed how often he brings the pornstar along, but Angel Dust isn’t always in the same room for long and usually gets lost on the security feed within a few minutes. After watching him glance up to the cameras more than once, Husk suspects he figured out blindspots to pick up johns — johns probably willing to fork over some cash for a room if they aren’t already staying here. But Angel Dust always exits the casino with Valentino, slightly more disheveled but smiling just as cockily as when he came in.
Yeah, that stops after tonight.
The game begins as Valentino’s cigar slowly puts itself out on the ashtray in his corner of the table. Angel Dust remains draped against his chest, legs off to one side as he sets his somehow already emptied glass on the table. He keeps his own cigar going however, even as he thoughtfully observes the progressing game. His hands never stop moving, stroking underneath Valentino’s shirt, rubbing his side, or playing with his ruffle. Tactile, smiling lazily. Drunk. It all seems to quell Valentino’s malicious energy, and he plays more like a regular drunk than an arrogant one.
Not that Husk is complaining. Whether or not it’s intentional, Angel Dust is also giving away all of Tino’s tells. Husker doesn’t need to learn them off the cuff, somewhat familiar with his playing style and half-baked poker face, but now Husk can tell Angel Dust knows how to play. If he didn’t know better, he’d even go so far as to say he’s…
Christ, is Valentino so bad that the pornstar wants him to lose his studio to the Gambling Demon? He couldn’t possibly know what someone like Husk would really want with it. Surely Angel Dust couldn’t believe that his afterlife wouldn’t fundamentally change if Husk wins this bet? Then again.
He saw the black eye. He watches the way Valentino carelessly manhandles him, right in front of anybody he cares to give a free show. Maybe Husk winning will feel like a win for Angel Dust, too. He throws back his remaining whiskey and picks up his cards. So be it.