Chapter Text
In the heart of the Lust ring, on a neon-soaked street crowded with the glossiest brothels and strip joints imaginable, was a club called Ozzie’s.
And in the middle of the club, surrounded by dozens of horny onlookers and bathed in the glow of multicolored mood lighting, was a rather phallically shaped stage.
And striding into the spotlight—with an unnaturally long gait—was a jester who just wasn’t in the mood for his usual shtick today.
Fizz grabbed the mic.
“So I’ve seen some comments online that my set “turned off” someone’s date. And to that I say….” He shifted to a simpering, nasal falsetto—”I’m soooo sorrryyyyyy?”
The audience laughed obediently.
“What do you expect when you have the personification of a ruined orgasm emceeing a show at a sex club? 'Scuse me— ‘sexual dining experience,’” he said, making air quotes with his free hand.
“Maybe it’s just that I’ve been a little frustrated lately. My vibrator broke up with me the other day.” Pause for additional laughter.
“It’s not him, it’s me, it’s for sure me. Because lately I’ve got the hots for someone else.”
This rare piece of personal information prompted scattered claps and catcalls—the crowd was hot for it tonight, too.
“This stud has it all, folks. The looks, the voice, the money money money—” Fizz rubbed his fingers together and shot the audience a jagged, conspiratorial grin. “But here’s the thing. He’s unavailable.”
“Which is un-fucking-believable! I thought if there was anywhere you’d find someone willing to fuck a demonic quadruple amputee it’d be here, but no!”
“Y’all ever heard of the 5 stages of grief? Well apparently there’s one of those for unrequited lust too.” He counted off on one hand: “Thirsty, down bad, obsessed, desperate…and then there’s a whooole ‘nother level. I’m calling it “angry horny”. And let me tell you, it fucking sucks! It sucks so damn long and hard, it makes me feel…makes me feel… “
There was a dramatic pause as Fizz gazed wistfully into middle distance, hands clutched to his chest. The very picture of an ingénue in the throes of first love, if you ignored the razor sharp teeth and his whole vibe in general. “Something I just can’t put into words…”
A soft riff of notes interrupted his reverie. The spotlight swung around to reveal a pink grand piano on a platform behind him, which Fizz reacted to with theatrical incredulity.
“Where did that come from?”
A tuxedoed pianist seated at the piano waved.
“Jeff, you scamp. You won’t tempt me into singing again. You know how many walkouts we had last time.”
The sultry rhythm of a jazz snare drifted in to join the piano. Fizz started to bounce his hip to the beat, pretending to consider his options.
“Well, one verse never killed nobody…”
He detached the mic:
| ♫ |
Used to look down my non-existent nose
At desperate motherfuckers, all of those
Whose worlds revolve around tab a, slot b
I never thought
That I’d get caught
In a thirst trap set for meeee
| ♫ |
The brass section blasted in, and Fizz sprung onto the stage platform behind him, singing:
| ♫ |
Look at you there, the answer to all my prayers
Tall, dark, debonair, and with rizz to spare
But what started as wet dreams, now a straight up nightmare
Because you still haven’t plowed me, as I’m sure you’re aware
Bye bye mein liebe herr, if you don’t put it there
Might as well just kill myself, you won’t even care
So fuck you! (Here, Fizz punted one of the stage lights for emphasis)
If you won’t fuck me then fuck you~
| ♫ |
Basking in the delighted hooting and hollering from his audience, he slung himself himself around one of the poles bracketing the stage:
| ♫ |
Red roses won’t do, my balls are too blue
Blah blah-blah-blah blah, just let me creampie you
I can’t get more desperate, and you know it too
Now I’m angry horny, no one else will do
No going back now, should’ve planned this one through
Jerked it to your pics too much to ever undo
Well fuck you! If you won’t fuck me then fuck you!
| ♫ |
The song broke for a moment, with only the jazz snare accompanying Fizz’s spoken interlude, lights dimming low.
“So what’s a little jester to do?” he asked, from where he’d draped himself demurely over the lid of the piano.
A few kind souls offered shouted suggestions. “Just tell him!” “Confess!” “Tell him you want his dick!”
Fizz leapt up from his perch with a gasp, all mock outrage and narrowed eyes: “Tell him? Are you nimrods out of your syphilis-soaked little minds?”
He strode back over to the mic stand with one hand on his hip, sneering. “You never say it first. That’s rule #1 of the hot girl manifesto. Can’t get rejected if I don’t tell!”
| ♫ |
Just let me down easy, if you’ve got no plans to please me,
Cuz I've been hard now for months and frankly? It’s getting freaky,
So fuck you,
(And as the music reached its brassy crescendo,)
If you won’t fuck me then fuck you~!
| ♫ |
The audience erupted into applause. Cue the curtain.
Several rings away, in the midst of a tedious post-inter-hellring-sales-meeting cocktail party, Ozzie’s eponymous proprietor felt a small, but distinctly erotic jolt crawl up his very long spine.
This phenomenon wasn’t uncommon. At any given time, thousands of sinners were fantasizing about him, invoking his name in the hopes of getting laid, cursing him because they couldn’t. It was kind of part of the job. And when every so often a particularly potent desire made its way through the ether, it felt quite nice indeed, like when your favorite song comes on the radio—
“You seem distracted.”
Ozzie blinked, remembering the beautiful demon prince he was supposed to be engaged in conversation with.
“Sorry, baby,” he said apologetically. “Whole week of hob-nobbing and meetings just got me fried is all.”
Sitri gave him a wry look, eyebrow cocked, swishing his wine. Ozzie had never given him less than his undivided attention before. The prince was a knockout by anyone’s standards. He had the most piercing, intelligent eyes, perfect white fangs, and his skin, which was mahogany brown, revealed a subtle pattern of leopard rosettes in the low light. The two of them usually ended up hooking up at these sorts of events. It was a convenient arrangement. No-strings, hassle-free sex–-something that Ozzie never passed up.
But somehow, he couldn’t summon up the enthusiasm to keep Sitri on the hook tonight. It had been a rough couple of days to say the very least. It was bad enough that Belphagor had lobbied, slowly, for years to consolidate the various Deadly Sin sales meetings into one week for convenience’s sake and then proceeded to not participate in anything ever again. As usual, Satan interrupted every presentation with volcanic tantrums that wreaked havoc on their schedules, and Leviathan, needlessly ambitious as usual, seemed to be locked in an endless competition with Mammon to see who could make the longest slide deck. Beezlebub was just there for the catering. And presiding over it all was Lucifer, unflappable as ever, giving little to no indication of whether he approved of any of this or not.
“Speaking of knobs,” Sitri said, jerking his chin over his shoulder. Ozzie groaned, spotting what Sitri had undoubtedly already heard–-Mammon, making his slow, dreadful, jingle-belling approach towards them through the throngs of demonic senior management and royalty. “That would be my cue to leave.”
“Don’t go,” Ozzie hissed under his breath, but it was too late, and Sitri was slinking away, leaving a void in conversation that Mammon was all too eager to fill.
“Asmodeus! Terrible what the riffraff are sayin about you these days.” Mammon, without preamble as usual, sidled up next to Ozzie with phone in hand.
Ozzie side-eyed him warily. Having already sat through what felt like 8 hours of used car salesmanship today, he wasn’t eager to suffer his brother’s presence any longer—but Mammon had a way of subjecting him to an ever increasing cavalcade of bullshit every year, and was terribly inventive about it, too.
“Oh?” said Ozzie at length, with minimal intonation.
“Did you see this post? The King of Lust’s lost his touch? It’s outrageous, brother, seditious! If I were you, I’d be sending my people to track them down. You know about IP addresses?”
Ozzie took a long, fortifying sip of his wine. He scanned the crowd in vain for his personal assistant, Yvonne, hoping she might receive his wordless signal to intervene, but she was nowhere to be found, probably holed up in a corner somewhere with an excel spreadsheet.
“I honestly don’t give a damn,” he sighed. “My clubs are popping off, lines round the block every night, why should I be worried? They’re just salty they’re not on the guest list.”
“Yeah, yeah, your precious clubs.” Mammon swapped the faux-concern for a nasty, thin smirk, still tapping away at his phone with one of his hands. “So how’s our little trade doing? Scarin away the customers I’m sure.”
The mention of Fizz made Ozzie’s shoulders stiffen slightly.
“Nah, my constituents are made of tougher stuff than that.” They were made of hornier stuff, too, but that went without saying. “Took him a second or two to get his bearings, but he found his niche in the show now.”
“Hah!” Mammon’s lip curled. “A niche that happens to be on your lap, I bet.”
“Now I know you better not be spreading rumors,” Ozzie shot back, a tad more vehemently than he would have liked. God but Mammon still knew how to get under his fur in 25 words or less. “Fizzarolli is a professional and so am I. And while he’s my employee, I won’t hear any insinuations.”
“Sure, well, that might not be true for long. His lease is up soon, or did you think I’d forget?”
Ozzie hadn’t forgotten, of course, but he’d sincerely hoped Mammon would have.
“Up to him, I get my share either way…but by now I’m sure he’s tired of the limited opportunities for advancement your Ring can provide—no offense, of course.”
“He seems plenty satisfied.”
“Brother, take it from me. Greed Imps never are.”
Apocryphal stories about why Ozzie doesn’t sleep with his employees were numerous and varied, but the truth of the matter was disappointingly pragmatic. Fucking people on payroll was messy. He was a Deadly Sin, yes, but he was also a businessman—and the first rule of business? Incorporate in Singapore. The second rule? Don’t get high on your own supply.
It had been a rough transition period once he’d decided on the rule some decades ago. Still, constantly fending off succubi hoping to be casting-couched was a price he was willing to pay for professional harmony. He didn’t miss the jealousy, cat fights, annoying tabloid features or sneaking around very much at all. Yes, everything was a power exchange in hell, but confining his liaisons to the more private upper echelons of demon society made his life a whole lot easier.
Or at least it was supposed to. Somehow his usually packed fuck-schedule had dwindled to almost nothing over the past couple of months, replaced by less carnal engagements. And not only did that lack of activity fire up the rumor mill with a vengeance, but it did a serious number on Ozzie’s general energy level as well. He seemed to always have a low-grade headache simmering in the back of his three heads these days, and transforming into one of his many alternate shapes left him way more drained than usual. Not to mention the fact that he’d started leaving parties before 2am, behavior so unsalvageable that his PR girl had threatened to quit if he continued. No, he had to participate in at least one or two orgies soon if he wanted to maintain his reputation and his health.
So he did indeed feel like a self-sabotaging trainwreck when, alone in his hotel room later that night, he found himself navigating to a particular post on his own company’s instagram account. A post prominently featuring—you guessed it—Mammon’s ex-minion.
(Ozzie had managed to glean that Fizz wasn’t allowed his own instagram account during one of the jester’s drunk post-show rambles. Mammon claimed ownership of pretty much his whole existence and thus prohibited the marketing of his own image, but Ozzie’s club was allowed to do so, even under the labyrinthine confines of their contract. Moving on.)
Ozzie had to admit that the club's graphic design intern had done a pretty good job choosing this photo. It featured Fizz onstage, mic in hand, lit gorgeously, looking over his shoulder at the audience with one of his patented razor grins and a sassy tilt to his hips. A shit ton of text fought for real estate around him (Late show added! The Sloppy Spitfuck Burlesque Troupe! With special guest Immaculate Conception!), which Ozzie ignored. No, all he cared about was that heart-shaped face, that lithe body, those big, pink-hued eyes that had him dickmatized on a daily basis.
Ozzie wasn’t proud of what he was about to do, or what he’d been doing every other night for the past few months. Fizz was off-limits on multiple levels. He belonged to Mammon—had for most of his life, from what Ozzie could gather—and if he decided not to sign with Ozzie’s for another year, he’d be shuttled back to Greed.
The thought sent a pang through areas of Ozzie that, surprisingly, didn’t include his cock for once.
Saying Fizz had found his niche in the show had been a deliberate understatement. He’d totally changed the vibe, his on-stage antics and wisecracks infusing it with a new kind of unhinged, horny energy Ozzie had never seen before. Whenever they talked, whether it was over drinks at the bar or inbetween rehearsals stageside, Ozzie was struck by how in-sync they were. Many of the improvements to the club’s programming had been based on Fizz’s ideas, which Fizz tended to pitch directly to Ozzie instead of going through his disgruntled stage director, Emerald.
And how did Fizz feel about this arrangement? Was he satisfied? Well, Ozzie hadn’t asked—he was concerned about coming off overeager, overbearing, controlling—but Fizz seemed content enough on his staff, and Ozzie planned to keep it that way. Over the past months, he’d incrementally increased the jester’s privileges, including but not limited to a bigger dressing room, a pre-paid apartment in Lust’s chic downtown neighborhood, extra days off, and a corporate black card. Whatever Fizz asked for, he more or less received immediately.
And whether Fizz was aware of it or not, he always repaid Ozzie in kind—because when they were together, desire practically exploded from the kid, holy shit.
Detecting lust was one of Ozzie’s basic abilities, of course, and he especially couldn’t help but sit up and pay attention when it was directed at him. So sue him for noticing that his new employee’s particular brand of desire had a unique, addictive flavor. That it was dense and sweet and multi-chambered, like fresh honeycomb, with a spicy little kick of anguish at the end. That it had Ozzie re-arranging his schedule around Fizzarolli’s, sometimes to catch every performance, sometimes to avoid him completely when the longing became too distracting to bear.
Ozzie sighed, exasperated at himself even as he unzipped his suit pants. There was no use marinating in guilt. The Prince of Lust knew better than anyone that desire’s path was unpredictable—sometimes downright bizarre—and impossible to rein in via logical thought or moralizing. The best he could do was indulge in the filthy fantasies Fizz inspired in him and just get it out of his system. He could always stop if he really wanted to. Later.
Besides, who was going to know that he was in his hotel suite absolutely alone, lying back in on an enormous, 4-person-sized bed, beating his dick to fully-clothed, objectively unerotic photos of an artificially enhanced circus clown?
Ozzie’s phone chose that moment to ring.
It was his personal assistant, and in his split-second, pre-nut panic, he accidentally pressed accept.
“Sitri is there with you?” asked Yvonne in her clipped, terse accent. The woman didn’t believe in greetings or apologies. “Or someone new? I can get you an NDA in the next hour.”
Still half-submerged in fantasy and compromised by hours of drinking, Ozzie struggled to catch up to the context. “Sitri?” He repeated dumbly. Oh, right. He had completely forgotten about him. “No, no, I’m…actually, it’s just me here.”
There was a long and damning pause on Yvonne’s end. “You are sick?”
“I'm not sick. Can’t a guy just chill for once?”
“A guy who is the living embodiment of sin, not usually.”
Ozzie stared down at himself with a grimace, relenting, and tucked his dick back where it belonged. He didn’t really feel like the living embodiment of sin at the moment. “Is there anything else you were needing, Yvonne, because I–”
“Yes. You have seen this email chain?” This was one of Ozzie’s favorite things about Yvonne. She had a particularly French method of inquiry, as if to say: you’d better not waste my fucking time with the wrong answer.
As for the email chain in question, Ozzie had skimmed it.
The general gist was this: As the embodiment of Lust, Ozzie was allowed to dictate which sins he endorsed and encouraged—and which were too twisted and fucked up even for him. He didn’t have the authority to purge (that was Lucifer’s job), but anyone who gave his domain a bad name was banished to the outskirts. Predictably, more than a few demons were unhappy about that. And they got uppity sometimes. Many were admirers of the way Mammon operated: unlimited expansion, no sin too big for his enterprise, no flavor of greed too diabolical. And they expressed their opinions online frequently and vehemently, on secret message boards and channels that Ozzie’s crisis team monitored.
“Yeah. You CC’d me. Repeatedly.”
“Yes, well, I think it is cause for concern. There have been specific threats.”
“It’s just political shenanigans, you know that. They do this every now and then, I send some guys to put them down, it goes away.”
Yvonne’s disapproval exerted an almost physical pressure through the phone. “Don’t you think you-know-who might be encouraging it?”
“I know for a fact that Mammon’s encouraging it, I'm not stupid. He’s probably still pissed about the whole casino thing.” Ozzie sighed. “Let’s just double security at the clubs for now. He’ll get distracted by something shiny sooner or later and this bullshit will all blow over.”
Alas, the bullshit only continued upon Ozzie’s return home.
The club during midday hours was usually a fine place to decompress, get some work done, maybe even catch a wink of sleep on the oversized loveseat up in his office. At first glance, it seemed that the only other person here this early was Rimba, Ozzie’s imposing head bartender—they did inventory on Sundays.
Ozzie gave them a wave, but was too beat to even stop for a drink and shoot the shit. He attempted to go incorporeal, sneak past the bar to his office in a plume of smoke, only to be physically blocked by one very agitated, crocodile-headed Stage Manager.
“Mr Asmodeus, excuse me, sorry, but we need to talk about Fizzarolli–”
The blue-and-purple cloud hung there ponderously for a moment, somehow conveying exasperation sans facial features—then Ozzie quickly reassembled himself. The remaining wisps of smoke escaped through his clenched fangs. “Em, can we not today? He got his warning, said he’d behave himself…”
“Well apparently that only counts when you’re around, because he’s been on another level lately!”
“Here we go,” said Rimba. Ozzie grimaced and deposited his ass on the nearest bar stool, because knowing Emerald, this wouldn’t be a brief conversation.
“Unsolicited feedback on my costumes is one thing, but now he’s bribing the band to go along with his little schemes, and, and then he says whatever random nonsense pops into his deranged head once he’s on stage! The show last night was was totally off the books–”
“I’m sure he couldn’t have done that much damage in only one week,” said Ozzie placatingly.
One of the stage lights came crashing down from the ceiling behind them.
“Ok, well, it’s not just that.” Rimba sidled up along the bar to pass Ozzie a tumbler of his usual scotch. “He kiiinda–”
“He sang a whole song about wanting to fuck you,” said Emerald in a rush.
That piece of information actually took Ozzie by surprise.
Not the fact that Fizz was attracted to him, of course—he’d been aware of that for the better part of a year, and consistently enjoyed the zippy little bump it provided him. No, the weird part was that Fizz had always been tight-lipped about anything sexual in regards to himself , specifically, always making the audience or his coworkers the targets of his explicit jokes. And not that Ozzie had checked, or anything, but according to office gossip, Fizz hadn’t hooked up with anyone on-staff, nor with any of the fans—thank Lucifer—and nobody had heard of him dating anyone outside the club, either, so if Fizz was holding out for him, then–
“About me? Did you record it?”
“No, they didn’t record it.” Yvonne had just arrived with Ozzie’s luggage, clacking in on her centipede legs. “He’s supposed to introduce the acts, not upstage them.”
“Yeah, and not to be a total narc, man, but… he always pulls some stupid shit when you’re not around,” Rimba said. They neatly sliced open a wooden carton of gin with their massive paw, making the other 3 demons in attendance start. “Like, he replaced the Dj’s tracks last weekend and we couldn’t figure out how to fix it for 5 full minutes of the most unhinged swedish polka music I’ve ever heard.”
As it often was when it came to Fizz, Ozzie was torn between concern for the overall vibe of his club and begrudging appreciation for a good prank. “Mm-hmm,” he said, clearly trying to suppress a smirk.
“It’s not funny! I don’t have time to find a new DJ,” bitched Emerald.
“Okay, okay, I hear y’all. I’ll give him a stern talking to.”
Yvonne folded all sixteen of her arms in an unnerving cascade. Every “serious conversation” Ozzie had with Fizz quickly devolved into an impromptu brainstorming session for the show—the two of them apparently couldn’t help themselves, bouncing off each other like two caffeinated theater kids. “Sure you will. You like it when he’s a little brat. This isn’t going to end well, Sir.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean? He’s my employee, same as the rest of y'all.”
The entire ensemble began protesting this at once:
“Boss, you are in denial, my man—”
“You make goo goo eyes at him every time he’s on stage—”
“Everyone knows you’ve got a hard-on the size of tour eiffel for him—”
“Would you guys chill,” Ozzie cut in, sounding exasperated now. “We have a friendly working relationship. End of conversation. I do not have a hard-on for that haunted slinky.”
He’d in fact had a hard-on for that haunted slinky since the day he first laid eyes on him.
It had all started with a protracted business negotiation—this time about the mega-casino that Mammon had been trying to build in Lust, 75/25 split, and why ever the fuck would Ozzie agree to that? He had more than enough businesses to operate, between the clubs, the factories, the record label he was angel investing in, plus the numerous other side projects he was on the board of as well. Even without his brother’s overbearing involvement, couldn’t imagine putting his name behind whatever dreadful, fluorescent wasp trap Mammon wanted to slap together. Not to mention how extremely flammable Mammon's business ventures tended to be. The bastard probably collected enough insurance on his last disaster to directly fund the neon-flashing monstrosity he was currently dragging Ozzie through.
It was an enormous theme park, plopped down in an enormous parking lot, adjacent to an enormous, smog-choked freeway; this was what most of the Greed Ring was comprised of. If Ozzie were asked to come up with a positive review for his brother’s realm, he’d say that it was unique—in that it was the only place on hell, heaven, or earth completely devoid of culture.
At least “Loo Loo Land 2” wasn’t fully open for business yet. Ozzie would have discorporated himself immediately.
“See? Everything’s up to code now.” Mammon gestured at the blatant structural chaos with all four arms as he led Ozzie past a large circus tent. “Once I show you the projections for this thing, you’ll be begging me to let you in on my next—where do you think you’re going?”
The sound of some distinctly un-theme-park music reached Ozzie’s ears; ignoring his brother, he turned around to peek into the tent.
Inside, the rows of tiered seats were empty. Peering down at the large, multi-ring structure below, Ozzie could spot a mixed group of imp performers, casually gathered in front of one of the smaller stages, from where the jazzy track was being piped through tinny speakers. An attractive female harlequin imp stood in front of a free standing velvet curtain. Her outfit could charitably be described as slutty clown chic: pom-pommed bustier, tulle miniskirt, silk opera gloves. Her fellow performers hooted and cheered as she began to dance, wiggling her hips, seductively removing one of her gloves. She peeled off the other, letting it drop to the floor—only for it to be snatched up by a curiously long, mechanical arm that shot out through a gap in the curtain when her head was turned.
Well, that was far more interesting than anything Ozzie had expected to witness today. Intrigued, he turned to smoke and ghosted down through the stands, rematerializing behind a wall closer to the stage.
It quickly became apparent that this was some kind of comedy act, not straightforward burlesque. Every time the girl tried to perform her strip tease, the arms—now clad in her long red gloves—would playfully intercept her. She tried to roll down one stocking, the arms pulled up the other. She unbuttoned her blouse, the arms covered her in a fluffy bathrobe. Her performance of confusion sent the other imps into hysterics, and even Ozzie had to admit that it was amusing.
Mammon finally caught up, looking disgruntled as he emerged from an oil-slick shadow along the ground.
“You jockin my style with this shit, Mammon?”
“Hey, I don’t approve every stupid little preschool play they decide to slap together. Unlike some people, I know how to fuckin delegate.”
Ozzie opened his mouth to offer some rejoinder. But as the girl disappeared behind the curtain in angry pursuit of those meddling arms, another demon, clad in full jester costume, immediately came sauntering out stage left. Shooting his audience a wicked grin, the jester performed a quick little parody of the girl’s burlesque. Ozzie stared. From the loose, almost liquid way he moved, it was obvious that he was in possession of robotic legs as well, even before he employed them to whirl away from her like a spinning top.
“Hold up. Who is that?”
“The girl?”
“No, him.”
All six of Ozzie’s eyes were focused intently on the performance, and his tailfeathers, which he usually held loose and slightly curled behind him, were sticking up ramrod straight. Mammon clocked this immediately. He hadn’t seen his dear brother so invested in someone else’s work since Madonna released her sex book in the 90s.
“Oh, Fizzarolli?” Mammon tsked and turned his attention back to his phone, where he was bidding on some kind of McDonalds memorabilia on eBay. “Real pain in the ass, let me tell you. Cost me a fortune to refurbish him, but he’s actually pretty popular.”
Refurbish? Ozzie had plenty of questions about whatever the fuck that meant, but he was too busy being transfixed by the jester’s performance to ask for clarification.
“I want to borrow him. Audition him at least,” Ozzie heard himself say. “I’ve been looking for a comedian to host one of my shows, shake things up a little.”
“Sure, I’ll let ya know when we’re doing our Black Friday doorbuster’s sale on idiots.”
The imp dancer was using the jester’s extended arm as a pole now, her thighs clamped around it as she twirled around and around, while he mugged to his audience and pretended to be unimpressed by whatever he’d spotted up her dress. He really had the most expressive face Ozzie had ever seen. And those eyes…
“What?” Ozzie hadn’t been listening at all.
“I said, I’ll let you know when—you know what, whatever. Take a look at the plans for that casino, and I’ll see what I can do.”
And so the two Deadly Sins made their deal.
Back in the present, it was pouring rain on the streets of Lust, bumper to bumper traffic all the way up and down the main drag. A demon leapt from his cab, shielded by a huge polka-dot umbrella as he scurried between neon-slicked puddles all the way down the block to Ozzie’s lounge.
This was a historic occurrence: Fizz was arriving to work a whole two hours early. And he had even more of a spring in his step than usual. His eye-bags had been iced, his hangover medicated, joints oiled, costume freshly dry cleaned. Why, you ask? Because that shrieking harridan of a stage manager told him to? Because he was campaigning for employee of the month? No no no. Of course not.
He was early because, apparently, daddy big dick was back in town.
Taking a deep breath, Fizz shouldered his way in through the staff entrance to the club, a now-familiar milieu waiting for him at the end of the hallway. The sound of the band practicing their pre-show set (Jeff played Fizz a special little flourish as a hello), the tinkling of glassware as Rimba and their barbacks finished setting up. The waiters prepping for dinner service, folding napkins, ironing tablecloths, carrying boxes of various aphrodisiacal ingredients into the kitchen. Some unlucky member of the cleaning staff was scraping last night’s dubious fluids off one of the walls.
After dropping his stuff off in his dressing room and double-checking his makeup, Fizz made a beeline for the bar. Rimba was one of the only people at Ozzie’s who seemed to enjoy Fizz’s shenanigans—aside for Ozzie himself, of course—and Fizz regularly took full advantage of that by wheedling free drinks out of them.
“Could I get a cough syrup special?”
“Haha, fresh out of codeine, my dude. You want the thing with the green chartreuse?”
While Rimba jiggered an alarming number of different liquors into a tall, ice filled glass, Fizz glanced around the club as casually as possible.
“He’s on the phone up in his booth,” Rimba informed him, before Fizz even had a chance to open his mouth and ask.
Fizz always tried to play it cool, he really did. But every time Ozzie showed up at the club, all the devil-may-care attitude and blase bon mots he’d practiced at home flew straight out the window, revealing his true persona—an overcaffinated, half-rabid ferret desperate for attention. Fizz bounced his knee, gnawed on the straw of his cocktail until it snapped. Pretended to scroll through the 4,000+ spam emails on his phone like it was urgent business, projecting what he hoped was a perfectly curated aura of chill. From what he’d heard, ignoring men was the best way to hook them. Can’t seem too available. That piece of advice from Cosmo was the only thing preventing him from sending Ozzie 70 texts a day.
Finally, finally, Fizz felt the tiny spines on the back of his neck stand on end; the outsize pressure of the Deadly Sin’s demonic aura preceded him. A moment later, a huge, gloved hand came down on Fizz’s shoulder and squeezed it gently in greeting, and it took all of his willpower not to shoot out of his seat like a firecracker in a street riot.
“How’s my little Fizzle doin?”
“Boss! You’re back!” he exclaimed, all false surprise, as if he hadn’t been painfully attuned to Ozzie’s every movement through the club for the past 30 minutes.
“Yeah, home sweet strip club.”
Ozzie placed both arms on the bar, and the scent of his cologne washed over Fizz—Le Labo Santal 69 or whatever the fuck he sprayed on his fur-feathers every morning. Fuckity Fuck Fuck Fuck. Fizz was stiff as a circus pole. His body felt like it was 100% jangling nerves from just that brief moment of physical contact and Ozzie’s familiar scent. Sweat broke out at the back of his neck, heat springing to his cheeks, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, hoping and praying that the paint he’d applied earlier was thick enough to conceal whatever the fuck was happening on his face. This had been going on for a year, by the way.
“Sooo..how was the Big Boy Circle-Jerk Jamboree? Didya bring back any souvenirs?”
“If a weeklong migraine counts as a souvenir, then yeah. How was Friday night’s revue?”
Safe topic—that was the night before Fizz’s one-man musical meltdown. “Hilaaaarious. Henrietta’s nipple pasties popped off and flew into some poor schmuck’s eye.”
“Pretty sure that wasn’t part of the choreo. And the new drink program?”
“10s, 10s, 10s across the board,” said Fizz, proffering the oversized cocktail in his hand and giving it a jingling shake.
“Good. And the crowd? They treatin you right, Fizzy?”
“Oh, well, ya know. Bunch of brain-dead plebes as usual, but they’ve got at least enough taste to appreciate yours truly.” He flipped one ear of his hat over his shoulder prissily; Ozzie’s resulting laughter warmed him from some deep, hidden place inside.
“Right on, right on.”
Fizz hazarded a sideways glance and spotted a look of fondness on all three of the Sin’s handsome spectral faces—a look that Fizz sometimes managed to convince himself was uniquely reserved for him. Of course, he knew it wasn’t. But damn if the way Ozzie stared at him didn’t make his skin prickle. He turned around quickly.
The dancers were beginning to trickle in, now, rolling out their mats onstage, stretching their various nubile limbs and windexing off the poles. Henrietta blew Ozzie a kiss as she sunk into a split. The two llama-headed girls helped each other rub glitter onto their respective cleavages.
“So, big O. You got a whole crew of pretty little things around and you’d rather shoot the shit with me?”
Ozzie hummed. Then he reached over, lazily, to pluck the cocktail pick out of Fizz’s drink, and drew the luxardo cherry into his mouth, letting its syrupy sweetness melt on his tongue a bit. “Maybe I don't like pretty little things. Maybe I like twisted, nasty little things.”
“Heh heh!” Fizz’s laugh came out a little stilted that time, the color rising in his face like a thermometer.
Even after months of this, Fizz still didn’t quite know how to react when their conversations wandered into flirty territory. Was it even flirting? The man was Lust personified, after all. He talked to everyone like this—it was practically his job, his obligation. It definitely didn’t mean Ozzie actually liked him. Right? Right?!
“Well, you’ve come to the right place for nasty.” Fizz attempted to take a swig of his cocktail–a little too enthusiastically, and ended up gagging on an ice cube.
Ozzie chuckled. “Fizz. Don’t tell me I still make you nervous, now.”
“No. Hell no. I just have a drinking problem.”
“Good.” Ozzie leaned in a bit, causing Fizz to draw back suspiciously, his big red eyes tracking his boss’s every move. It was hard not to feel like a bug about to be squished, completely swallowed in Ozzie’s shadow like that. But kinda in a hot way.
“Because I’d love it if you joined me for dinner. To celebrate your anniversary here, and discuss some business items. You free tomorrow night?”
Fizz raised an eyebrow. Ozzie must have known for a fact that he was free on his night off. He had no friends in the Lust ring, and his typical free time was spent googling himself or lying face down on his couch.
“Ozzie, I'm scandalized! I thought you didn’t date your employees~” he deflected.
“Not a date, I promise. Strictly business.” Ozzie retreated to a professional speaking distance, looking pleased with himself. “I’ll send a messenger with something for you to wear tomorrow.”
Fizz’s other eyebrow joined the first. “You’re sending me a costume? Am I supposed to perform at this not-date work dinner?”
“Not a costume, just a gift. I’m taking you someplace nice, so—”
“We goin to Olive Garden??”
Ozzie ignored him. “I’m taking you someplace nice, so I’m just suggesting you wear something that isn’t clown pajamas.”
“Wow. Sartorial advice from a walking featherduster in a pimp suit,” Fizz shot back, privately struggling to contain his excitement at the prospect of a whole night alone with his hot boss.
The two of them smiled at each other.
Behind the bar, Rimba watched this display of unresolved sexual tension with a faintly nauseated look on their face. They exchanged a glance with the barback and passed him a $20 for this week’s betting pool.