Chapter Text
You’re finishing your dinner when the alarm on your phone goes off, reminding you to get ready for work.
You reach over and turn off the alarm, shovelling the last forkful of pasta into your mouth and dropping your plate by the sink as you head for your bedroom. On most nights, you would have to put yourself together based on which clients you were seeing that evening, but today you’re dancing at Ozzy’s, which means your outfit will be waiting backstage.
You still change out of your lazy day t-shirt and into one of your corsets for the trip: whenever you’re travelling in Lust, it’s best to look the part in case someone recognizes you on the way. Hooking the eyelets one by one, you enjoy the feeling of the corset hugging your ribs: familiar and grounding, getting ready for the job.
Once the corset is fully hooked together, you stretch your arms above your head and flex your wings to check the fit. It’s laced to perfection, and your black pants are fine for the trip. They won’t show much once your boots are on, anyways. You give the mirror in your bedroom a wink and a flick of your tail, before you head to the bathroom to do your makeup.
Your background isn’t entirely unique for a Hellborn, but it’s rare enough to make you exotic in most of the Rings. Half-succubus, half-imp: most people guess that you’re a smaller succubus, but your full set of fangs and longer tail are the best clue that your heritage is more complicated than that. Here in Lust, it’s typical to see a fair number of crosses between those particular Hellborn races, as well as others, but the further from Lust you wander, the less common it seems to be.
You started your career as a dancer at Ozzy’s, and your stage makeup hasn’t changed since those days: it takes no mental effort to follow the steps in the mirror. Foundation, eyeshadow, and the dark sweeping curves of eyeliner. An extra line under each eye, for a little flare, and sparkles on your cheeks to catch the lights of the stage. Black lipstick, a smudge of red where your lips meet, blended out to a smooth gradient.
You fix your hair, add a little glitter to your horns and your collarbones. Nothing wrong with highlighting your best assets.
Washing off your hands, you double-check your work in the mirror. You look good. It’s definitely your stage persona staring back at you, hard angles and sharp fangs.
Satisfied, you head into the hallway and step into your boots, zipping them up your calves and halfway up the thigh where they end. They’re one of your go-to work shoes, and they fit you like a glove. Once you’re properly dressed, you head out the door.
Lust doesn’t have a transit system, so you had to get an apartment only a few blocks from your work. When you first started at Ozzy’s your contract included an apartment above the club, but you’ve worked hard to get a little more independence in your employment. You’re currently still working directly for Asmodeus, with most of your clients negotiated through his systems, but eventually you hope to be mostly freelance, making your own decisions about how your contracts will be phrased.
Still, for only having four years of experience under your belt, this is a good start. Your apartment is cozy, your pay is good, and Asmodeus’s contracts don’t leave much to be desired: he’s thorough and efficient, always makes sure that his workers stay safe in the field. You’re in good hands, but you have bigger dreams.
Your walk to work is bathed in the neon lights of the Lust ring’s biggest city. You’ve always loved this place: it symbolized freedom from the first time you visited, in a giggling pack with your friends, cutting class and sneaking down from the Pride ring.
Your parents hated the Lust Ring, and you were forbidden from visiting when you lived under their roof. But it’s where you feel alive, and you love the shifting crowds, the leather straps on the passing strangers, the sounds of pleasure filtering from the open windows.
“Hey bitch!”
You turn to see one of the other dancers waving and catching up with you: Frivol, an Invidis demon with multicoloured fins on either side of his head.
“Hey bitch yourself!” You’ve known Frivol for over a year, and the two of you have always gotten along well. You slow your walking pace to let him catch up, which isn’t hard: he’s quite a bit taller than you are. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know. Busy as fuck, sore all over, and loving life. How about you?”
“I’m good. Asmodeus is keeping me pretty busy as well, I’m heading up to Pride next week to do some video work.”
“I heard you got loaned out to a sinner’s studio! I don’t envy you at all, working with sinners is the worst.”
“To each their own, I love sinners. They’re adorable.” Growing up in the Pride Ring, you spent a lot of time in Pentagram City. Sinners were dangerous, and unpredictable, and you loved that about them. Their culture moved to a different beat than the hell-born traditions and you were fascinated by it. “I’m super excited.”
“Ugh, you’re so weird. Thank Lucifer we have people like you, to do the weird shit.”
“Aren’t you into watersports in your free time?” You raise an eyebrow at Frivol, both of you turning down the alley to the stagedoor.
“Everyone’s into watersports these days! Sinners are just filthy.”
“Once again, to each their own.” You and Frivol share a grin as you knock on the door.
One of the managers checks you out from the slot, then opens the door and lets you both inside. “You’re going to cause rumours, arriving together,” she says, giving both of you a once-over.
“We live in the same direction,” you say, rolling your eyes. You’ve never really cared about the gossip scene at Ozzy’s. Everyone is always hooking up with everyone else, it’s not really ‘hot tea’ if everyone has slept together already.
“And I’m not their type,” Frivol says, with a grin.
“Mmm. True.” You pinch him on the bum, just to be annoying, and he yelps. “You’re terrible at handling a bit of pain.”
“You’re the worst,” Frivol says, rubbing his ass where you pinched him.
You blow him a kiss and head off to the dressing room on your side of the club. The dancers are divided by warm and cool tones: your cerise skin puts you firmly on the side of the warm dancers, while most of the Invidis demons are somewhere in the blue-green family.
“Hi Joli, hi Drew, hi Glimmer, hi Detoxx, hi Ricky!” You weave between the other dancers at their mirrors, smiling and waving as they greet you in return. Ozzy’s is a close-knit group, and staying friendly with your coworkers has always been one of your strengths. Asmodeus doesn’t like people who cause tension.
Your station is set up for you: an electric blue bodysuit for tonight, with glowing lines that highlight the cut-outs in the suit. You unzip your boots and wiggle out of your jeans, then set about unhooking your corset as well. You take a second to let your skin enjoy the experience of not being compressed into tight clothing, and then you set about cramming yourself into the bodysuit for the performance.
The suit covers about half of your skin, from neck to ankles. Your ass is on full display, with a charming heart-shaped cut out that frames your tail at the top. Your thighs and shoulders are exposed, and two more cut out panels wrap around your sides, leaving your ribs open to the air. There are matching boots that actually lace up, so you hop up onto the makeup counter and set about getting them fully tied.
This is an outfit you’ve only worn a couple of times before: Ozzy’s reuses costumes, but on a long cycle that guarantees anyone but the most regular customers wouldn’t catch the repeats.
You start your warm-ups exercises, stretching out your body and testing the limits of the outfit. As per usual, the costume doesn’t do much to impede your motion: the designers are good at their job, and they want their dancers’ flexibility on full display.
“Are you excited for the Pride trip next week?”
It’s Glimmer who’s made her way next to you, bending over and matching your stretch. She’s booked for the same gig as you are, but working in a different part of the studio. Glimmer’s business is more traditional than yours: she sells mostly vanilla sex, with lots of focus on her dirty talking. She’ll do numbers on camera for sure.
“I always love working in Pride,” you answer honestly. “How about you?”
“I’m excited to meet Valentino,” she says. “He’s got our market cornered up there.”
“He’s good at what he does.” You’ve seen plenty of Valentino’s work: he doesn’t make too much content in your business niche, but the sheer volume of his production history is impressive. “It should be a clean job.”
“Speak for yourself, I plan to get messy as fuck.” Glimmer grins, shifting her stretch into something more provocative. You laugh, because that’s what she wants. Glimmer is harmless but competitive, and you have no need to play into her confrontational streak.
“Well, I hope we both have fun.” You continue your stretches, twisting to break Glimmer’s eye contact. “In our own ways.”
“I plan to.”
Glimmer retreats, leaving the smell of perfume behind her.
God, she’s exhausting.
You focus on your prep, moving on to some light warmup. Lunges and jumping-jacks, as you watch the other dancers going through their own routines. Some of them are saving their outfits for last, warming up nude, and others are already dressed like you are. One or two are still doing their makeup, clearly not fussed about stretching.
Asmodeus’s arrival is announced by a bright flash of light, and all of the dancers immediately stand up straight, yourself included.
The first thing you hear is Fizzarolli’s laughter, as the clown demon cartwheels down the line of dancers and lands with a little flourish at the end closest to the stage entrance. He’s truly made for performances, although whether Lust performances, you aren’t entirely sure.
Still, the audiences seem to eat him up, so the boss clearly knows best.
Speaking of whom…
Asmodeus makes his way down the line, greeting the night’s dancers by name. You watch them light up under his attention, fawning and nervous. It’s shameful, in a way, to see from the outside how obvious all of your devotion is. There isn’t a worker in Lust who wouldn’t crumble at the slightest word from Asmodeus.
“Good evening! Ready for the show?” Asmodeus reaches you and takes your hand, smiling with that crooked mouth of light. It hurts your neck to look up at him when he stands this close to you, and you can feel the heat coming off his body. He’s a presence that demands to be felt in every way.
“Always!” you reply, grinning. “Thank you, sir.”
“Meet me in my office afterwards. I want to talk about next week with you.” His tone is friendly, but Asmodeus never has to ask for anything. He just tells you what he expects.
“Of course.” You bring your tail up to brush against the back of Asmodeus’s hand, a bit too familiar, but that’s the way Asmodeus prefers his workers. Sure enough, his smile widens.
“Break a leg,” he tells you, and moves on to the next dancer.
You lean subtly against the counter, feeling your heart beat in your chest. Whether it’s fear or excitement, you can never tell around Asmodeus. He’s just too big for your mind to handle: too important for his touch to feel like anything other than burning, no matter how gently he touches you.
You pull yourself together slowly, and by the time Asmodeus is stepping through the door to the stage, your legs are steady under you again. You can hear his voice rolling through the club, welcoming the crowd. Your cue is close at hand, and you join the flood of dancers to the sides of the stage, waiting in the wings.
This is your job, and you’re good at it.
The music starts, and you let it carry you forwards.