Let's start a show

Happy Birthday (04/01/2024) to Angel Dust, who is without a doubt my Hazbin Hotel’s favorite character. I wanted to do a different kind of fic for his birthday, but what better gift than his freedom?

Alternate title: Gladiator, like the song that inspired this

Warnings: Not beta readed (yet), non graphic character’s death, Implied non graphic intimacy, Valentino should be his own warning, canon typical violence, implied/Referenced abuse, Implied/Referenced drug use

English is not my first language, and altough I can read it and somewhat write it, I cannot write-write it and for the life of me, has to use differents tools to translate it, including what it’s suppoused to be like 1930′s jargon, but not sure if I did that right so, sorry in advance

Let’s start a show

I know your addiction’s attention, let’s start a show

Is it everything and more than you were hoping for?

Smash your competition, baby

Victory’s your only payment

Gladiator, gladiator

Jann-Gladiator

Angel Dust is tired.

Tired of the sickly fame, of the alcohol that numbs his senses and the drugs that cloud his judgment, stripping away his will; tired of the long hours locked in a recording room giving his best trying to get the best takes only to not see a single penny for his hard work in the end; tired of the whistles he receives on the street when he’s allowed to go out, of the demons who believe they have the right to take what isn’t theirs as if he had no opinion on the matter. He’s tired of Valentino, of his sweet words that turn into daggers against his broken heart with every shout, of the caresses that start to feel like blades against his skin, tired of the punches and insults. He knows he’s in hell for multiple sins, but goddamnit, things didn’t have to be that way just because someone who thinks they’re above him can make decisions for him.

How stupid he had been to ignore his instinct.

He was so stupid to accept the deal Valentino offered him, believing his empty promises of fame, of making him a star and filling him with luxuries. He should have suspected that the words of love whispered in his ear were nothing more than an elaborate trap, a sick irony where the moth traps the spider entangling it in its own web and not the other way around, playing with his desires to be known and his longing to have someone by his side in the nights who would return his affection with the same intensity; his infatuation had clung to him like a blindfold, and wrapped in the euphoria that Valentino’s presence produced, which he now knows is nothing more than a product of the pheromones exuded by the demon acting as an aphrodisiac, it had been so easy to ignore everything that was wrong with his way of speaking, with the cadence of his voice. It was easier to confuse the greed in his gaze with true love, to throw away the years it took him to earn the respect of the people he worked with from bar to bar, to turn a deaf ear to the warnings.

Of course, at first, it hadn’t been so bad. He had greatly enjoyed the doors opened to him by his rapid rise to stardom as the first porn star of hell, the party invitations that kept coming to his hands. The attention and cameras, the compliments and fan letters; the jewels, the clothes, the drinks and the drugs; almost rivaling the Overlords for their extensive connections with other demons, but never at the same level. Never at the same level as the master disguised as a lover, who hid the collar behind extravagant necklaces whose weight made him ignore how slowly the chain tightened around his neck until the fame went to his head. He had become arrogant, believing the story he told himself that he could stop whenever he wanted, and he had paid dearly for it.

“It’s your fault, angelcakes, you know Papi[1] doesn’t like it when you answer him like that″ his words echoed every time he smiled for the camera and the glint of the gold tooth, which he wears as a “gift” from Valentino, caught his attention. How many times had he not used those words against him? How many times had he tried to drown them out with more alcohol than his body could handle until the memories became blurry?

He doesn’t know exactly, what he does know is that there have been enough times for him to have started to believe them.

He had started whispering them to himself every time the caresses in his hair turned into pulls to remind him of his place, which in turn turned into pinches and slaps, his privileges on set removed to the point of lasting months without a door in his dressing room, forced to change in front of the lustful gaze of anyone who passed by. He lived in a constant conflict where part of his mind reminded him that it was no one’s fault but his own, and the other part struggled to remind him that nothing that was happening was what he expected when he signed his contract; but the more he resisted the abuse, the higher the level of aggression increased, his hours in the studio lengthened or, worse, he was forced to serve as payment in his boss’s deals.

Thank God[2] he wasn’t so stupid as to commit his entire soul to the studio, what was interpreted as an act of rebellion at the time was actually a glimpse of his instinct for self-preservation combined with years of bargaining agreements and contracts with his father’s men. The only thing he truly appreciates having learned from the man is that and how to shoot a gun.

But his father is dead-dead, pierced by a heavenly spear as Arackniss told him after practically kidnapping him for a meeting where he gave him the stupidest idea anyone has ever given him.

"Fuhgeddaboudit, Tony. The TV head ain’t got the juice to lay a finger on ya, see? An’ if ya take care o’ Valentino..." his brother’s words echoed in his head over and over for weeks before he made his decision.

It was risky, stupid even, but Angel is desperate for a way out and by God he’s going to find it with his own hands, even if he finds his second death in the attempt.

“Oh?” Valentino’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts, making him look up at the man, whose attention is focused on the beautifully decorated room. “Is all of this for me, angelcake?”

His words are filled with a sweetness that leaves a bitter taste in his tongue, honey replaced by molasses[3] over the years settling heavily over the rest of his body and flooding his lungs with terror. Nevertheless, Angel is an actor and, above all, has danced to the tune of keeping his boss calm and happy, so it’s not hard for him to slip into the mask of compliance he’s grown accustomed to wearing around his boss, forming a coquettish smile on his lips. This time the mask isn’t there to hide his panic but to be used as bait, an offering of false submission with which to hide his true intentions.

He rises from the stool at his vanity, making sure the robe he’s wearing, a beautiful shade of purple that enhances the pink in his fur, falls in the right places. He rests his lower hands, which are barely covered by the faux fur edges of the robe, delicately against his hips, the upper ones adjusting the fluff on his chest to expose it more. He must suppress a shiver when Valentino’s eyes roam over him from head to toe, his smile becoming even more sinister if possible as he extends his arms to receive Angel between them, his wings sliding back as if he’s dropping a cape and the spider demon can only mentally pray that the hands roaming his body possessively don’t encounter what’s hidden under the robe fabric.

“Sure thing, Signore[4] Valentino,” he sing-songs softly, flexing his voice to sound like a purr as he switches to Italian while gently sliding his fingers along the fluffy edge of the top of his wings. “I’ve been neglecting you quite a bit lately” he whispers, parting his legs slightly to let one of his own rest in the space between them, and he knows he’s captured his attention completely when his hands, all four of them, press tightly against his body, his claws digging slightly through the fabric against his fur.

“Oh, angelcake, you know how to keep daddy happy, don’t you?” Without warning, the moth throws him onto the bed, swiftly climbing on top of him and pinning his upper arms against the headboard with one hand, the others sliding over his body as if truly wanting to caress him and not just restraining the urge to tear the delicate fabric from his body before deciding that he like the contrast of his favorite color with the skin of his favorite toy, enchanted with the ownership stamp this represents in his mind.

A little bit more, thinks Angel, emitting a small laugh wrapped in a low moan, shifting his body at the right angle to make it seem like he’s enjoying the ‘caresses’ and that the way his fur bristles is from pleasure and not disgust. Would Valentino really care if he realized the reactions he’s getting are not positive? Something tells him no, nothing had stopped him before from forcing his person onto him, but he must keep up the charade for as long as possible until the opportune moment arrives.

The plan is extremely simple and at the same time fucking complicated. He just had to make sure Valentino let his guard down enough so he couldn’t react in time when he plunged the hidden dagger into his chest.

"Dis will make sure dat he never shows his mug again,” his brother had assured, putting a dagger forged with angelic steel in his hands. Where the hell had he gotten it from? He has no idea whatsoever, and, like so many times in his human life when his brother put a weapon in his hand to take care of family business, he didn’t dare to question its origin.

Keeping it hidden during the weeks that followed their meeting, while he decided whether to do it or not, was the hardest part due to the little, if any, privacy he had while forced to live under the same roof as his target. Devising a way to distract Valentino was, of course, the simplest thing: what better time than having him beneath him in the middle of sex? As accustomed as he is to moan and say the right words without the motivation to do so, it’s fucking and ridiculously simple to guide the moth to his demise.

Finally, after a decade and a half under the thumb of the man, Angel can feel every ounce of power that was taken from him returning. Just a little more, he repeats to himself when, just as he expected, Valentino turns them around to leave him on top of him and to let him ride him, what the moth might think is a display of his dominance over the spider, but for Angel is simply the opening he needs. This time he is the predator who has deployed the bait and is ready to attack.

In another life, another time, another world, another universe, Angel Dust would never dare to challenge the chains that imprison him; probably Valentino’s abuse wouldn’t even have started so quickly, giving the spider demon time to acclimate to his oppressive life, or worse, he would be so sunk in the prolonged ecstasy of drugs that time would become a blur in his memory. Maybe the Angel of that other life, time, world, universe, wouldn’t bother to listen to his brother’s words or wouldn’t even care about his fate, or he might have forgotten that, before he was Angel Dust, he was Anthony. Maybe he would slowly lose the desire to continue living, ignoring that everything started because he enjoyed his vices and not because they had become an obligation he couldn’t say no to. And maybe he would succumb to abuse, blaming himself for his bad decisions and for what others decided for him.

In another life, another moment, another time, another world, another universe, years would pass before someone taught him that he was much more than his name or his masks or his job. But this is not that life, nor that time, nor that world, nor that universe. No, in this one, Angel Dust, although he has spent years buried in his vices, still maintains the cool head that led him to survive so many years under his father’s thumb, has the strength to use his body as a weapon and not just as a simple tool. In the heat of the mechanical movements of his body, his lower hands slide over the chest beneath him while the upper ones do so under the robe, which he’s thankful hasn’t been torn off, until they find the hiding place of the dagger.

While Valentino tightens his hands on his thighs and hips leaving scratches that will possibly remain marked for a good while there, murmuring obscene words in a mix of english and spanish that indicates how close he is to climaxing, Angel raises the dagger above his head, taking a deep breath. A few seconds more, he thinks, feeling the tension against his thighs, just a bit more, he tells himself emitting choked and exaggeratedly long moans, unable to hear them over the accelerated beats of his heart due to the adrenaline rush. He desperately needs the moth to open his eyes; a part deep inside him rejoices at the possibility of seeing the sparkle in his eyes disappear as he dies by his hands.

Finally, as if he had heard his internal monologue and grunting slightly from the effort, Valentino opens his eyes and his unfocused gaze rises to Angel Dust’s hands, who gives him a sweet smile, which slowly spreads to expose his sharp teeth, the lights behind him illuminating his face like the halo of a avenging angel while one by one the marks, similar to freckles, under his eyes open revealing six small eyes that shine with a deeper shade of fuchsia than his main ones. Before he can react, the spider drops his hands forcefully, plunging the dagger into his exposed chest.

He raises his hands, lowering them again, over and over again while a laughter bubbles in his chest until it fills the room drowning out the moth’s grunts. He doesn’t stop even when he notices the moment the struggle leaves the other’s body, his laughter transforming into a sob that shakes his whole body.

He doesn’t stop until his hands tremble from the strength of his crying, making the dagger slip from between his fingers and his fists collide with Valentino’s chest, the blood staining them as it bubbles and slides onto the bed running down to his legs. He takes a breath and it gets stuck in his throat before he can finish filling his chest, making him choke a bit with another sob trying to escape his body when he feels the weight of his chains, which he had already become accustomed to, disappear. He can practically hear a click around his neck and soon breathing becomes much easier even though he can’t stop crying.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed there, leaning against his ex-boss’s bloody chest, trying to calm his racing heart while fighting the fatigue that wants to nestle between his bones once the adrenaline starts to decrease. However, he forces himself to straighten up and get off the bed, disgusted more by having lasted so long mounted on the moth’s lap than by the blood itself. Breathing slowly, he walks to his vanity, running his upper hands through his hair to push it away from his face while the lower ones search for the phone he had hidden in one of the drawers.

“Come on, come on, rispondi[5],” he whispers once he finds the device, dialing the number his brother had made him memorize. ” Non è il momento per…[6]"

“So, I guess this call means you’re still kickin’, huh, Tony?” Angel will never admit out loud the relief that floods him upon hearing his brother’s stupidly humorous tone on the other end of the line.

" E ’fatto[7],” he says in a sigh, casting a glance at Valentino’s body. “I finished with the maledetto figlio di puttana[8].”

For a moment, the other end of the line falls completely silent, which stretches out for so long that Angel moves away from the device, checking that the line hasn’t dropped; hell not quite adapted to the technology brought from the world of the living. He’s about to hang up and call back when finally a small laugh is heard from the other end of the line followed by a litany in Italian that he’s sure his mother would smack them both for if she were there to witness it, Niss for saying it out loud and him for hearing it.

“I’m glad you got the gumption to do it, Tony, ’cause I got even juicier news for ya,” his brother’s laughter decreases little by little, but Angel can still perceive a certain joy in his tone even though he can’t imagine what news could be better than Valentino’s death. “Forget about the television head, looks like he butted heads with that other bigwig, that other Overlord, the radio nut, what’s his name?”

He frowns trying to process what Arackniss is telling him. Was Vox out of the game? And which other Overlord was he talking about?

“Well, names ain’t the point here, what counts is the boob tube will be outta commission for a stretch, and with Valentino outta the picture, he can’t lay a finger on ya″

Angel can’t believe his luck, even though he was sure of his plan, he hadn’t overlooked the possibility of facing Vox’s wrath for ending his business partner, his partner? his lover? He’s not very clear on the relationship the two Overlords had, all he knows is that they were both in the process of consolidating their power. However, with Valentino dead and Vox unable to claim his territory or protect his own, Angel has a feeling he would face a bigger problem if someone didn’t take charge of the studio soon.

He swallows hard at the thought of the other demons who had started working for Valentino after him, the souls he had under contract that are now left unprotected without a powerful Overlord to take care of them, in his own way. He curses himself quietly, not for not taking that into consideration, but for what he’s about to do.

“Still stickin’ to your offer?“″ he asks, extracting his third pair of hands from within his body to carry the phone as he moves around the room looking for his clothes.

“Which one? The protection I offered ya?” his brother sounds confused for a second before clearing his throat. “You bet, ain’t no big shot, but as long as I got a say, you’re in the clear.”

“I had somethin’ else in mind.” he says, dressing as fast as he can without dropping the phone or bothering to clean the blood from his body. “”Thought maybe you could spare me a couple of your fellas, for a spell, and someone to take care of Valentino’s leftovers.”

He passes the phone from one side of his face to the other, returning to the bed to retrieve the dagger, cleaning it as best he can against the sheets when he finds it before carefully storing it inside his chest fluff, making sure the edges won’t harm him.

“Tony...” Arackniss sounds reserved, but not as if he’s about to refuse or withdraw the offer, which is a relief because Angel doesn’t know what he’ll do if his brother refuses to help. “‘Tony, what’s rattlin’ around in that noggin of yours?”

Angel isn’t really thinking, not in detail at least, not with enough care to consider the pros and cons of what he’s about to say. He stops in front of the full-length mirror next to the door, breathing heavily from how fast he’s been moving, surprised by his reflection. While he still looks tired, some color seems to have returned to his expression, his secondary eyes still open shining with a power he didn’t know he had, the blood staining his hair and chest giving him a sharp look. Dangerous.

“Tony?”

“Somebody’s gotta step up and fill Valentino’s shoes before the whole town catches wind of the vacancy,” he whispers, forcing himself to close his secondary eyes and look away from the mirror. “Somebody’s gotta hold down the fort afore Vox swoops in.”

Before others can claim it, is what he doesn’t say. Before someone can claim him.

“We’ll be over in twenty flat.” his brother responds after a few seconds of silence.

We’ll be is what he said. Not that he’ll send some men to protect him, but that he’ll be there to do it, to give him support while he claims more power than was taken from him.

Angel... no, Anthony smiles, tossing the device onto the bed before leaving the room with his head held high.

He was tired, very, very tired of his job, of his fame, of the abuse. But now he’s going to change the course of his life, he’s going to challenge whatever destiny had prepared for him when he woke up in hell, and above all, he’s not going to make the same mistakes a second time.

Hell has no idea what awaits it.