Chapter Text
Even under the neon lights, the dress shimmers like the night sky. Not the city one, where streetlamps dull the stars out of sight, leaving nothing but pitch black and the occasional, lonely white speck above.
No, the dress that clings to Angel Dust’s body and flares out from his waist glows like a country night. Glimmers of white spread over the partially black cloth, smoky grey stretches over long patches of the fabric in places meant for other’s arms to rest against him and so very reminiscent of the galactic arm that circled the Earth at night.
Tonight, Angel swears he catches sight of gazes less full of lust and more of longing. The lurking memories of nights spent lying on damp grass, of looking up at the stars unaware that one day they would never be seen again.
It made him want to cry when Melissa first presented it to him to wear. He’d forgotten what the stars looked like. Couldn’t remember any other sky except the burnt red weighing down on all of Hell.
It’s the girl’s first year down here. Her seamstress skills good enough to catch Valentino’s eye and her memory of skies fresh enough that her clinging clothes catch the afternoon blues and orange-pink-purple layers of sunsets not yet faded from memory.
The clients are addicted to the new costume designs. Sometimes they even stretch out the time despite the extra cost of every minute just to admire the clothes before they get to the goods.
Valentino loves the extra money. His temper slips less frequently, if at all, leaving a spider with only the soreness brought from nightly services rather than any unpaid provocation.
Angel sings, washing away internal distractions under the focus needed for lyrical seduction. The music pulsates as his splash of night shifts with each sensual motion. Each wink and blown kiss a calculation. A quick decision on whether the potential client would fall for a quirk of a smirk or a seductive slow upturn of a smile.
There are more than enough eyes on Angel tonight to overfill his quota before his shift ends. Enough that he can actually be choosy tonight.
The bulky guy with butterfly wings has more than a few gold trinkets dangling from his four wrists, but his gaze keeps shifting to Candy with the evening blue dress more so than on Angel.
With the client’s obvious preference for a specific set of equipment, it’d be rude to steal that particular one away from a coworker more suited for butterfly’s interests.
Yet, the slimy, literal slug in the expensive suit is…Well, that’s plan B. Nope, definitely a plan D. Or F. That sludge would take hours to wash out of his chest fluff.
Well, there’s—
A human.
The club’s sickly-sweet smoke stings the back of Angel’s throat in a hitch of breath.
Seated in the back, a short body topped with hair as naturally blonde as Angel’s own back in the days of the living. A nose sculpted into the right shape, eyes so painfully blue. A piece of sky reflected in those irises.
With a blink, the illusion melts away as blue vanishes. Vivid sinner red stares at Angel’s frozen form.
Not a human. Just one of those rare sinners with mostly human features and a height short enough to make others do a double take on whether or not some freak accident actually landed an unaltered human form to Hell this time.
Just a sinner with features devoid of expression, an inhumanly intense stare ensnared by the night Angel wears.
The spider sinner smiles nice and slow, an invitation to a guy who’ll spend extra time running his fingers over the fabric of stars. That gaze only moves to Angel’s face once he’s sauntered close enough to be heard.
“Haven’t seen you around here before.”
Angel slips into the open, curved seat, his purr met with silence and a curious little frown on the small sinner’s face. It’s just the two of them back here. The semi-circles of seating immediately around them empty.
There are two types of dealmakers, Angel’s learned over the decades. The flashy overlords, with territories divided into highly visible blocks, their very faces infamous visages of terror.
Then there’s the quiet ones. The invisible dealmakers who contract a sinner here and there without a care in gathering turf to lord over. Just power to make their stay in Hell smoother.
Their aura still gives the quiet ones away if you know how to look, to make note of that too big bubble of space other sinners instinctively give them as they pass through.
Or as they sit all alone at the most shaded table in this joint.
Angel maintains the lazy smile he’s settled on as the guy surveys him in return with those vivid red eyes. The out-of-sight hint of power drags shivers along Angel’s back like it would for any average sinner, but he’s a professional. The overlord regulars pay for him to avoid someone cowering, to get a night of feeling special in a different way than usual. This quiet dealmaker’s likely no different.
Obviously, this guy’s new to places like this if Angel’s composure throws him off.
“I haven’t been here before,” the dealmaker finally admits, his voice echoing strangely. Not across the room or anything attention-getting like that, but it’s like listening to two voices speak just slightly out of sync with one another.
“Although, this place is rather new.” The small sinner’s gaze breaks away, a long look around a club that Valentino only established four years prior. Right after the moth overlord and his boyfriend fried out the unfortunate demon who used to own this turf.
There’s small possibility that this dealmaker knew the overlord who used to be here. Sitting in back like this, surprised to be noticed, the blue Angel knows he caught a glimpse of must have been a different mood than the red hunger drawn out by the starry dress. Might have been his murder eyes.
The invisible dealmaker likely walked in without the intent to bed anyone tonight.
Well, Angel can work with that. Convince this sinner to be his next customer instead of an electrified burnt streak on the streets.
“New building,” Angel allows, drawing the dealmaker’s gaze back to him, “but experienced staff if you catch my drift.” Angel leans forward, the stars twinkle with the motion, ensnaring the attention of red.
Here, kitty, kitty.
“Hmm,” a charcoal grey hand on the table twitches, the breach of personal space causing the dealmaker to stifle an instinct. Most of the time, that restraint would be an obstacle, but since the instinct is probably swat-away-incoming-threat, Angel’s counting the stillness as a win when he breathes in the sinner’s ear.
“You know, it’s a little crowded in here.” Ordinarily, an offer for drinks is first, yet with the lack of a single glass on the table, best not to remind the dealmaker of why he’s avoiding the altering effects of alcohol in the first place,” “mind following me to someplace quieter?”
The too silent hesitation sends another shiver, regenerating if this guy decides to destroy instead is going to be a pain.
“Why not,” echoes softly in Angel’s ear.
The dealmaker’s fever-warm against the upper arm Angel’s slung around his thin shoulder and the lower arm resting lightly against his lower back. A temperature contrast to the icy-white porcelain appearance of the short sinner’s skin.
As his heels click against the floor, Angel guides them down the hall to the private rooms tucked into the back of the building. There were closer places, but guy’s with this level of power tend to prefer discreet, to reduce the chance of enemies catching them unaware in a moment of intimacy.
Plus, the muffled music should help keep the dealmaker forgetful on why he was here in the first place if the starry fabric loses its appeal.
Not that the interest in the dress seems to be fading anytime soon. The entire silent walk here, the dealmaker’s been staring, hungry eyes tracing the starry shimmers. The shape of the body against him of secondary interest.
The room of the night lacks most of the toys of the others, just the pretty pink heart of a loveseat. And overhead lights as dim as candlelight.
The dealmaker halts, Angel’s right arms yanking against a fucking boulder.
“Hey, what giv—” the spider bites down on the snap. The scowl on the dealmaker’s face snatches his words away. And that look ain’t even for him, the luminous red glare fixes upon the inadequacy of the room.
“No, not like this.”
Charcoal fingers swipe at the dress, tearing through the black and white pattern—
The fabric doesn’t rip, the dress whole as Angel scrambles away unharmed, even though the too-strong claws sunk in. He saw them sink in.
A black sphere of sparkling stars swirls above the dealmaker’s hands. The sclera of his eyes red and the irises now golden as the dealmaker raises his cupped hands, the sphere pulsating apart.
Black expands, flows up in a river of night. The stars spread along the ceiling, the smoky trail of a galactic arm stretching in an arc over them.
With a wave of clawed hands, red and blue blossom into being. Nebulae swirl into existence on the ceiling of a night club in Hell.
“Holy shit!” Blood pulses within Angel’s ears as he gapes, the sight too real. Not a trick of the right fabric mingled with a drop of magic. The ceiling’s gone, the chill of whatever looms over them seeps through his skin.
The laugh comes high and breathless over the rustle of wings. Angel snaps his gaze back fast enough to catch a flicker of wings vanish from view. The entity beside him grins as sharp as glass shards while his eyes return to red irises on off-white sclera. His nose slopes like a serpent’s, the human shape gone.
“Much better, don’t you agree? That ceiling was quite mundane.” The not-sinner eyes the bed, an off-handed gesture replacing the loveseat with a majestic mahogany frame and covers a deep, dark red.
“There,” says the entity, his layered voice echoing through to the bone, “all done.”
Silence reigns in the wake of that glass shard grin. Pearly fangs sharpen enough to bite clean through souls.
“Well, your Majesty,” somehow Angel’s shock slips under a haze, apparently the dissociation learned on the job works wonders for handling the impossible, “if I’d known royalty was going to be requesting my services, I’d set up something nicer.”
An overlord can’t just fucking peel back reality to pretty up a room. And while a few have wings, none have four adorned with the too white feathers of an angel. So, ergo, the mother-fricking-king of Hell.
Which. Holy Shit. Give a guy a second to process that.
“Nicer than this?” it sounds like sincere curiosity. The predatory glint in vivid red definitely doesn’t look like anything nice.
“Nah, but I wouldn’t have started with such an eyesore.” A smirk, unafraid, a match to the shift of mood away from silently enraptured with starry clothing. Holy Hell, wait just a minute, the fallen angel was staring at those stars.
Huh, guess even the Devil’s misses the sky down here.
The soles of boots click as the King strides past, turning as he sits upon the covers, his gaze a shard of consideration.
“Nearly everything down here is an eyesore.” The out-of-sync echo pairs with a smile just as cold, “I doubt any sinner could have prepared something adequate.”
“Hey,” most sinners would have a higher sense of self-preservation than to object, but most also don’t have the professionally honed instinct for when a guy wants a bite in a response, “you can’t tell me you didn’t like this.” Angel gestures at the handiwork wrapped around his body.
“Hmm. I did say nearly everything.” the King lounges back, his eyes half-lidded as Angel picks up on the cue to saunter over. Any freakout buried deep, only to be unearthed after-hours.
The spider slips between the Devil’s knees, the feverish warmth seeping into his upper arms as he settles them onto thin shoulders. Having the Devil stare up at him with intrigue sends worse chills through him than the gaping depths of the space above.
If he messes up, Angel doubts the consequences will be a pissed-off client and a couple hours of reformation. Smote by the Devil himself, well, at least he’d have the consolation of being the flashiest double-death of the century.
Angel shifts his knee forward, pressing…
An immovable hand stops the spider’s lean in, the shock from the too flat sensation against his knee vanishing under a flare of fear.
“No, not that. I don’t require those services, Anthony.”
There are eyes. On the walls. Under the stars. Eyes big enough to swallow his head, eyes small enough to choke the breath in his throat if it wasn’t already trapped. Even though he can’t tear his main pair away from the porcelain white face smiling softly at him, the row of six spider eyes disguised as freckles along his cheeks stare back at all those eyes opening up along the walls.
The name rattles around in his empty skull. the grip of a small hand pulls one of his lower arms up, something that radiates cold set into his palm.
Angel doesn’t—can’t—look down to see what it is, but he doesn’t have to. His numb arm is pulled up into view for him, the grip of his left hand tightens on instinct over the handle of the weapon.
It’s almost too long to be a knife. The blade slightly curves while intricate runes curl around the leather handle.
The cold oozes off the metal, sinking deep into the palm that steadily grasps the handle with far too much practice. A hint of ozone creeps into Angel’s nose, the nip of holy energy stings.
“I actually need your assistance with something more in line with your other set of skills.” Neither of them is breathing, one because it doesn’t have to and the other because he can’t.
“You see, I want you to execute an angel,” the wrong kind of hunger burns in those red eyes, “his inadequacy has cost me nearly all of my children, all of my sons, and I much rather put a stop to it.”
The smile’s emptier than the distance between the stars coldly shining above them as Lucifer manipulates Angel’s numb arm until the blade nestles against his porcelain pale neck, tucked neatly under his chin.
In the stillness under the night sky, Lucifer continues, “I know, it’d be foolish to expect someone like you to work for free. And you sinners do love your trades,” the hollow echo continues mercilessly, “How about this one? The death of an angel for the resurrection of a mortal?”
The fallen angel glances up, stars reflect off of blue eyes that resurface with a blink.
“It would be nice to see the real sky again.”
The knife moves. A flash of silver thrown, left embedded into the wall. A sinner scrambling back, heaving breathes tightening his chest.
The impulse saves him.
Living darkness rips right through where Angel Dust was leaning, blocking Lucifer from sight. A tall woman, dark horns curved and cruel, straightens, her gaze seeking the spider frozen in fear.
“Lilith…”
The wrath in her eyes shatters into sorrow before she turns towards the whisper.
The King and Queen vanish in a flare of her purple fire, leaving behind a scorched floor and sheets set aflame while the stars above shine untouched.