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Easy Cash

By Laz Briar

A luxurious building looms over you, an assault of ornate scarlet and regal lights promising one thing to all who enter: redemption. Because yes, in the darkest bowels of Hell, even demons seek penance. At least, that's the idea. Crowning its frame in bright, vivid pink neon are two words: Hazbin Hotel. This is your new hiding place. But it may indeed become your new home.

Because you've got plans for this city.

And by what profane miracle did you end up at its doorstep? Well, a little "angel" lead you down the road of promise. Angel Dust, specifically. A foul mouthed, elegantly dressed spider demon who just so happened to coax you out of your pants with some of the best sex you've had in the afterlife. Well, really, it was probably the only sex. But fuck, it was good. Good enough that you don't mind you're down on your luck again in the bills department, good enough that said bills are going straight into Angel Dust's improvised fluff "cleavage."

Besides, you won't be short changed for too long. You're a master thief. Well, you were, when you were alive. But the skill stuck, even if your soul is now a shredded partition of its former glory. You knocked over a gang's hideout easily enough, how hard could the rest of Hell be? It was littered with all sorts of shady dives and greasy stops, prime targets for quick dosh. It'd get you by, until you planned bigger scores and greater heists. All the eyes of the underworld would know your deeds soon enough. . .

"See, what I tell ya'. Fancy digs, right?"

Your attention is pulled again by the effeminate Angel Dust. He's got you by the arm, kinky boots clicking along as he leads you to the entrance.

"Fancy isn't really good for hiding," you say. You're trying to kill the heat, after all. The Gadzooks Gang are no doubt hounding the streets to find you.

"Ey, don't worry about it. It's exclusive, remember? Real tight joint, ain't nobody gonna' bother you here. And if they do, we'll give em' the ol one-two-fuck-you," says Angel Dust, his free hand patting your shoulder.

"If I keep paying you, that is," you say. You're admittedly keener on the spider than you'd like, but you know he's not doing this out of some altruistic need. It's money. It's always money. Not that you blame him.

He chuckles. "Like I said, it don't hurt." He continues leading you in, pushing the doors wide open as you enter.

"We'll square the deets of my 'payment' in a bit, sugar daddy. But first, ya' gonna' have to make nice with everyone else."

Everyone else? Oh, right. It's a hotel. So you assume it's filled to the brim with an entourage of unsightly horrors and demonic fiends. But as you pass the door, senses overwhelmed with a pleasant, ritzy interior, you're surprised. Not by legions of unfamiliar faces, but by. . . emptiness. There's not really a crowd to speak of. In fact, there's no one to speak of.

"Huh," you say. You're kind of disappointed.

Angel Dust leaves you, waltzing forward, arms gesturing wide. "Ahhh, home again. Good place yeah?"

Despite its barren floor, you're given a moment to take in your surroundings. And yes, it is quite luxurious. Reminds you of something - a memory from your previous life you can't quite grasp. It's ornate and grandiose with fancy artwork adorning its walls, accompanied by furnishings of the most beautiful craft. It's odd, somewhat out of place. The rest of Hell, or what you've seen, has been an orgasm of neon and futuristic city pillars. This hotel looks like it came from a different timeline.

"Doesn't exactly scream subtle," you add. "Where is everyone?"

"Remember when I said it's all exclusive-like, toots?" said Angel Dust. "Well you're looking at him. Primo-number-one. As in, guest one. And ya' just might be guest two."

You're surprised. It's a hotel, but with one patron? What kind of shambling operation was this?

"You're the only one here?" you say.

He laughs. "Of course not, smart guy. Just the most important resident. You'll have to-"

Before he finished his sentence, a tumble of sounds caught your attention. Footsteps. Apprehensive, you kept your hand close to pocket, only realizing - shit, you didn't have a weapon. Add that to the list of things needed for a heist. . .

A silhouette appeared in the hotel foyer. You were expected a monstrous thing, another nefarious abomination fit with multiple claws or some means to separate your head from your torso. But as with the hotel, you were surprised.

"Angel Dust?" she said. Yes, she, and her voice was pleasant. For the standards of the underworld, anyway.

Angel Dust rolled his eyes, waving. "Ah great, here comes this bundle o' peaches."

"It's you! Where have you been!?"

A petite, grey skinned, long haired demonette appeared at hotel side, one with characteristics alarmingly human. In fact, without her pale complexion, she could've easily passed herself off as a living mortal. One piercing eye scanned over Angel Dust with vicious scrutiny, the other hidden by white bangs - and an eyepatch.

"Hey, hey, easy," Angel Dust said, raising up his hands. "Was just out for a little town stroll, ya' know, turnin' tricks, dat sort of thing. Back off the leash, would ya'?"

This newcomer marched up to him, glaring. She prodded his fluffy chest, fangs bared.

"You were gone for twelve fucking hours!" she said, fist clenched. "Shit, we half expected to see you blowing up another side of town on the television!"

Angel Dust smirked. "Naw, it ain't like that. Course' that's not a half-bad idea."

"Don't get funny with me!" said the demonotte.

"Why not? You oughta' lighten up and laugh sometimes, pull the stick out of your snatch."

She hissed. "You fucking. . ."

"Easy, sister, I'm just busting your. . . uh, gash. I was a good boy, I promise. Well. . ."

Now, finally, Angel Dust's eyes return to you. "Mostly."

As his gaze goes to you, so does the newcomer. You feel uneasy, a quake of anxiety gripping your chest. The girl might've looked small, but her furious demeanor was unsettling. You were beginning to wonder if you'd walked into a trap.

When she spies you, her expression shifted, eyes going wide.

"Wha. . . Angel, who is this? Who did you bring?"

Uh oh.

"I swear if it's one of your fucking gang buddies I'll strangle you with your own arms," she says, rubbing her temples.

You consider saying something, but Angel Dust starts for you.

"He's a buddy, all right. But not a palooka. In fact, he's rippin' em off! Hah! He hit the Gadzooks, ya' hear about that? What an ace, this one, stickin' it to those fuckfaces."

This didn't appear to placate the girl at all.

"And you helped him, didn't you?" she said, tone accusing.

Angel Dust laughed. "Oh, I helped him, all right. Helped him right out of his pants."

Ugh. You groaned internally. Not only did Angel Dust just blow your cover to someone you didn't know, but he was putting you in danger. God dammit! That's what you get for going balls deep in an effeminate spider boy.

The girl appeared to mutter something in a different language. Swears. Probably swears.

"Don't be so judgy, he's a good boy. He's just lookin' for a place to stay and you know, get all redeemed and whatnot. Ain't that what you're here for?"

She glanced between you and Angel Dust.

"I don't believe you."

"Aww come onnnn, look at em'!" Angel Dust said, gesturing in your direction. "You'd like em' if you got to know em' as intimately as me."

She shivered, crossing her arms. "You just said he robbed someone."

Angel Dust cleared his throat, rubbing his hair fluff. "Yeah but it was all uh, noble like. He was stealin' for the poor or something, like uh, takin' from the bad guy to give to the _not_bad guy."

You blinked. He was lying for you. Even though it was a terrible lie - everyone in Hell was bad. Angel Dust, in the meantime, waved to you, gesturing for you to come over.

"Come on, come on, give em' a chance. Anon, say hello to Vaggie, our local hotel bitch!"

She growled, striking him in the arm. You grimaced, looking back to the door. You could always run. . . but where the hell would you go? More Hell? Ah, damn. It was this or nothing. Stepping forward, you adjusted your tie, attempting to put on a pleasant persona.

"Ah, hello," you said in as calm a tone as possible. "Yes, uh, sorry for the trouble. I'm Anon, and uh, your friend here got me out of a pinch. And I'm looking for a place to stay."

Angel Dust rubbed his arm, sticking his tongue out at Vaggie.

"I hope it's not too much trouble," you continue, extending a hand.

Vaggie gives you a steady, uncertain look. Her eyes trace over you from head to foot, crossing arms. You can't tell if she doesn't trust you, or Angel Dust.

Eventually, though, her hand extends, taking yours. "Hmm."

Angel Dust beams. "See? I wasn't lyin', stand up guy."

You note her grip is firm, in a threatening way. Uncertainty of guests? Wonderful, just what you need when you want to beat the heat.

"Robbing for the poor, is it?" she says, giving you a most doubtful look. You glance to Angel Dust, who nods feverishly, tossing a thumbs up.

"Yes, it's uh. A pet project. I believe. . ."

You trail off, trying to find the words. Play it cool. First impressions were important. This could be a solid dive to hold for a long while and plan, if you played your cards right.

"I believe in giving second chances and redemption. Even in Hell. Sometimes, you have to knock over a few gangs to get there."

You say the latter part with a bit more malign than intended. However, your words seem effective, at least to a degree. Vaggie's expression softens.

"Redemption, huh?"

Unseen to her, Angel Dust smirks like he's pulled the greatest con since this side of rolling Fort Knox. You hide your amusement. However, as Vaggie seems to at least _accept_your presence, another pair of footsteps is heard, rounding the foyer. They're delicate, holding a dancer's grace.

"Oh, is he back finally?"

It's another feminine voice, but far softer than Vaggie's. It's almost angelic, bearing a kindness. You're not even sure it's real, until the figure it's attached to appears. She, like Vaggie, is another lady, but with a far more pleasant demeanor. Her flesh is snowy in complexion, white as death, bequeathed with a marvelous smile and wide eyes. Long, blonde hair flows to her waist like a river of gold and a formal, red suit accents her frame.

"Oh, Charlie, uh. . ." Vaggie looks back as the newcomer approaches. The girl sees Angel Dust, and then you.

"Uh! Oh! A guest?" she says, hands clasped together, hopeful.

Angel Dust gestures to her. "Aaand here's our little screaming ball of sunshine."

'Charlie,' as it were, adjusts her suit, maintaining her smile. "Phew."

"I was getting worried. You're not usually gone that long," she says, wagging a finger at Angel Dust.

"Lucky we didn't find him dead," added Vaggie. Charlie nudged her friend, tossing a disapproving look. Now, however, her gaze comes to you.

"And you brought. . . a friend?"

Angel Slides next to you, arm around your shoulder. "Oh sure, a real Robin Hood. Swell fella', just lookin' for a hideout. I mean uh, a safe digs, yeah."

You nod. Vaggie scoffed.

"He robbed a gang."

Angel Dust grumbled. "Eyy, it was for the people, or somethin'. You're always goin' on about that, right? Helpin' the little schmuck out. Anon wants to be a goody two shoes, get redeemed. Or whatever."

For Charlie, once the word 'redeemed' slipped past Angel Dust, she was hooked. She positively exploded with a gleeful smile, and for a moment, you thought she was about to sing. Something about her was familiar too. You'd seen the face before, somewhere. But where?

"Really?" she said, giving you an optimistic look.

You nod again, smiling. "Yes."

A lie. A dark, blood covered lie. No part of you had any intention of abandoning your path. But they didn't need to know that. Nobody did.

"I'm so thrilled!" continued Charlie. "This is amazing! Oh, I know the hotel would start catching on. Angel, great work! This was so kind of you, really!"

Angel Dust shrugs. "Whadn't nothin'."

Charlie's hand extends. "Anon, was it? Marvelous to meet you!"

You take it and shake. Her grip is soft and pleasant. Alarmingly so. This might've been the first demon in Hell you encountered which didn't want to outright cleave you in half.

"I'm Charlie, Charlie Magne," she added.

You blink. Magne. _Magne._Where did you. . .

Oh, Christ among the dead. Charlotte Magne. The Princess of Hell. Lucifer's daughter.

You hide your shock, terror, and awe. At least, you hope you do.

"It's wonderful to meet you," you say, throat almost catching.

A hundred questions run through your mind. Why was the daughter of Hell here, in a hotel, trying to help the damned? Wasn't that contradictory to the point of Satan's domain? Just as well, what happened to those who displeased her? Charming and lovely as she appeared, you could sense the dread power lurking within her, the seed of the underworld yet to sprout.

Angel Dust had lured you to the Lion's den. Dammit. Your profession just got a lot harder.

"The pleasure is _mine,"_she says, bubbling over with excitement. "Welcome! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!"

Her arms spread in wide, theatrical gesture. Angel Dust hides a snicker.

-*-

Your new company proceeded to introduce you to the various corridors and accessories of the hotel. It was indeed spacious, fit with everything a forlorn soul in the depths of Hell might need for comfort. There was an exquisite showroom accompanied by elaborate bar, a massive dining hall, places for swimming, card games, and much more. Of course, numerous rooms littered its various floors, no doubt expecting a wide host of guests from every corner of Pentagram City.

For now, they were quite vacant.

As Charlie lead you along, you eventually came to what would be your quarters. It was generous in size, an elaborate space with rich carpet, fineries, statues, and paintings.

"It's incredible," you say. And you mean it. This was far better than anything you expected. Of course, another thought creeps into your head.

"What uh. . . does it cost?"

This perplexes Charlie. She tilts her head, hands together. "What? Oh, well, nothing. You're our guest, a broken soul looking for redemption. This is a place of healing, not debt."

She smiles. You're taken aback - this was coming from the daughter of the Devil, after all.

"Really now?" you say, in disbelief. She nods.

"Of course, Anon. I want to rehabilitate my people, not exploit them."

Ah, what a precious thing, and a sweet notion. It's a shame you have utterly no desire to better yourself.

"Please, make yourself at home here. We're at your service."

You thank her, but not for the reasons she believes. As Charlie concludes her introductions, she allows you time to settle in.

"You should join us for dinner. I know it's sudden, but we want our guests to feel welcome!"

Charlie makes certain you're comfortable, and you most assuredly are. You don't have much luggage to speak of, at any rate. At least, not yet. In the meantime, she indicates supper is ready in a few hours, giving you more than enough time to adjust.

When she leaves, you're left to your devices. You rub your head - the slight scuff you suffered before having healed over, and you don't need to worry about any errant gang members creeping up to give you an unwelcome greeting. You shuffle with your inner pockets, pulling free several wads of ill-gotten bills, setting them on a dresser table.

Hmm. It's hardly a king's ransom. Far less than what you previously had. But it was something, and a reminder to be better. You could've planned a more efficient escape, checked the streets, covered your tracks. Not to mention, the lack of a committed crew mangled your capabilities. If you wanted to knock over bigger marks, you were going to need help.

You take some time to clean yourself, bathing off the muck of the day. Conveniently, there's an array of form fitting suits for you, like the hotel itself sensed your need. Too bad it didn't come with rows of guns and explosive devices.

You're not left alone for long, though. As you finish drying off, a knock raps at your door. Before you have a chance to oblige it, it swings open. A bedazzling figure sweeps in, glass in hand, wearing a mischievous sneer. Angel Dust.

"Ey, there he is, my favorite sugar daddy," says the spider, sauntering in and kicking the door shut. "You ran off and I was gettin' lonely."

Somehow, you doubted that.

"It's polite to wait for the door to open, you know," you say. He takes a sip of his drink, and you get the sneaking suspicion it's alcohol.

"Do I look polite to you?" he says, looking around. His gaze gives you once over, and he tosses a purr. "Nice suit."

"Thanks," you say. You go to your dresser, grabbing one of your stacks of dosh. Admittedly, it's more generous than what you had in mind, but something about this elegant arachnid puts you in a tizzy.

"This," you continue, holding up the healthy stack of demonic denars, "Is for you."

Angel Dust's expression flashes with enthuse, like a kid in a drug store. His cheeks notably flush, and one of his prim, gloved hands comes to retrieve the payment.

"Oh baby," he says, visibly salivating. His extra digits flip through the bills, each fold sending him into a monetary induced orgasm.

"This is a pretty fat wad, pockets. You tryin' to sweep me off my feet?"

You play it cool. "I did owe you."

Angel Dust finishes his drink, setting it aside, rolling the bills together like an expensive cigar.

"Owed, with a generous tip. Dis' some kind of metaphor for your dick?"

You chuckle. "Maybe. But, I am here, thanks to you. And you didn't have to lie for me."

He waves his hand. "Feh, if I had said you was a criminal I'd never hear the end of the bitching."

You assumed he meant Vaggie. "Still. Consider it my thanks," you say.

"Hope you plan on thankin' me a lot more."

Angel Dust - again - shuffled the rolled dollars into his improvised cleavage, giving it a snug home.

"Maybe. . ." you say, looking at your remaining loot. You go to the dresser, tapping the furniture, musing.

"Only possible if I can keep doing what I do best."

Angel Dust proceeds to waltz over to your bed, sitting on its edge. He leans into it, propped up by his extra arms, giving you an intrigued gaze.

"What you do best has me interested, pockets."

You glance back at him. "That so?"

"I'm into violent guys," he says, "Well, when they pay me."

"Violent? That's a bit of an assumption, isn't it?"

He laughs. "Oh toots, come on, nobody rips off a gang around these parts all squeaky clean. Something tells me you ain't exactly soft on the trigger finger."

You were only acting coy, of course. Certainly, you were a thief, but your line of work was rather. . . aggressive. Demons in the depths of Pentagram City weren't the bargaining sort, either. If a few of them had to die, it was just an occupational hazard.

Angel Dust seems to read your mind. "I'm not wroooong," he says in sing-song tone. Ah, well, not like you could hide your intentions from him. Only a while ago you two were all hot-and-bothered. This whore spider was the closest thing to a friend you had right now - sad as that was.

"No, I suppose you're not."

"Adda boy."

You turn to him. "Why does that matter?"

He gave a playful shrug. "Maybe I like ya' that way. Maybe I like gettin' easy money. It's pretty boring around here, ya' know. Having to go clean ain't so simple, I can't even blow up a few building blocks without getting screeched at for it."

Ah, yes. Per your introduction, Charlie explained the Hotel was more than just a home for the forlorn. It was for redemption, an impromptu rehab clinic. Why one would try to save the souls of Hell's denizens perplexed you, but it wasn't your concern. Robbing the vaults of the underworld? More your speed. But it meant that Angel Dust wasn't here for show. Despite his forwardness and dripping sexual aggression, he was trying to better himself. Or, so it appeared. But it meant his previous antics - whatever it entailed - were things of the past.

"But you? Farthest thing from borin', babe." He tosses a finger-gun at you. "Let's keep it that way."

You tilt your head. "You sound like you're trying to help me."

Angel Dust put a hand over his lips, snickering. "Did I say that?"

He stood, kinky boots clicking against the floor. "Ya' wanna' see something?"

You're not sure if you should oblige him. What, was he about to flash you? Then again, what's the worst that could happen? Aside from anything and everything, that is. You were in Hell.

"All right," you say.

Angel Dust gestures with a finger for you to follow, so you do. You both leave your quarters and down the luxurious hallway, the myriad of fearsome paintings staring you down, as if in judgment. After a brief stroll, you reach another door, this one quite tall in comparison to yours. You realize its Angel's room. You hesitate. Oh god, he wasn't about to lure you into some labyrinth sex dungeon, was he?

He presses the frame open, entering. The gentle scent of attractive perfumes washes over you, and despite all common sense and good judgment, you follow.

Sex dungeon it was not. Instead, you're encompassed by a luxurious room fitting for someone as gauche_as Angel Dust, accompanied by pink. Lots of pink. Pink pillows, curtains, fineries, even bedding. There's an elaborate dresser table with an immaculate mirror, surrounded by an entourage of makeup and ritzy aromas. Fat, bulky dressers are bloated with a delectable inventory of dresses, suits, and lingerie. There's a record player in the corner and a table for drinks, lined with glasses, whiskey, scotch, bourbon, vodka, and Satan knew what else. One table on the foot of his _massive bed holds a gold tray, where you spy an empty baggy with sprinkles of white scattered along it.

None of these things are the object of his interest, however. He prances over to one more dresser, a massive black oak furnishing with a menacing lock in front of it. You're a little distracted by his collection of demon stuffed unicorns populating his bed.

"You packin' heat these days, handsome?" says Angel Dust, unlocking the fixture without looking at you.

At first, you think he's making some kind of innuendo. Then you realize it's a genuine question. And no, no you are not. You had a couple of improvised explosives specially made for the Gadzooks, but nothing beyond that.

"Well. . ." you start. He doesn't let you finish.

"Didn't think so."

There's a loud, mechanical click and the doors to the furnishing swing open. Inside is not an entourage of drugs. It's not a bedazzling peacock suit or elaborate dress.

It's weapons.

You almost don't believe it. In fact, you can't believe it, not until Angel Dust brings out one of them, spinning around with an All-American classic cradled in his arms.

"Dis' is one of my babies. Say hello, schnookums," he says, propping it up.

A regal, black steel Thompson submachinegun rests in his grasp, bequeathed with a fifty round drum magazine and engraved wooden stock. Inefficient, weighty, and a weapon ideal for a spider like this. An iconic chopper of the criminal era, something right out of the forties.

You're admittedly entranced. You step close, getting an eyeful. Behind Angel Dust, you can see there are more. Along with a family of similar submachine guns, you also spy several hand explosives, machetes, knives, knuckles, axes, and bats.

Angel Dust kisses the barrel tip, a lot like he kisses other things.

"Mwah."

He gives you a knowing glance, aware of your envy. "Wanna' hold it?"

Oh, he's a spider whore after your heart. You don't say no, so he presses it into your hands. All at once, a feeling surges back into you. You drown in memory. The sound of groaning safe doors, the scent of burning cash. The rattling of gunfire and distant screams, the screech of oncoming sirens. Holding this weapon felt so. . . right.

"It's very impressive," you say.

"Only the best. I'd roll every bum in Pentagram City with that chopper. Set a whole building on fire one time, heh."

He starts to laugh. "Oh, you shoulda' seen it, fuckfaces fallin' out the window! 'Ahh, help, my skin is melting! Ahh!'"

His chuckles continue, pantomiming a panicking demon.

"This one guy ran into the street and got smeared by a car! Ah, it was the best. . ."

You try not to picture it. "Good. . . memories I take it?"

He dawns a fond expression. "Yeah, good times. But now I'm squeaky clean and all that shit."

You aim down the iron sights while he speaks, getting a feel for the weapon's weight.

"Not you though," continues Angel Dust. "You're a very bad person, ain't ya?"

You look at him. "Don't sell yourself short."

Here he embraces you from behind, one of his arms caressing the barrel of the weapon, his voice purring in your ear.

"Oh, I'd show you a fun time, toots. But I'm tryin' the straight and honest. Means no more shoot n' loot, you get me? But you. . ."

You feel his hands squeeze your shoulders. "I get the sneakin' suspicion you ain't interested in an honest life. So, whose to say I can't pass you along some of my ah, tools?"

You blink. "You want to give me your weapons?"

A finger comes to your lips, and he faces you. "Shhh. I never said give you weapons. But I mean, if it just so happens I 'lose' one of my babies and it just so happens you use em', it's nobody's fault, right?"

Again, you suspect he's not suggesting this out of some altruistic desire. In the same vein, you do need weapons. And help. Even if said help is from a fanciful ex-criminal looking to go "clean." However, you're Anon: Master Thief. You have visions of grandeur, of elaborate heists and head-spinning schemes the likes of which would stun all of the underworld! Angel Dust didn't fit into said schema. Angel Dust was someone you barely knew. How could you really trust him?

"You want me to steal for you," you say, waving a hand. "Why should I?"

He catches your hand. He comes round to face you, and his eyes bear a come-hither, sultry intent. Your digits he raises to his lips, and he wraps them around the end of your index, granting it a small, suggestive suckle.

You shiver. "Ah, right."

"Just cause' I'm tryin' to be a good boy don't mean you have to be," says Angel Dust. "Maybe I'm trying to vicariously live through ya, pockets."

You nod, while in the meantime, handing back the Thompson. Angel grants a smirk and returns it to its resting place, while you take a moment to admire him again. Lithe he is, but curvy too, in all the right ways. Strange how plump his backside is, how adequate the curve to his hips are. Strange, but appreciated.

"Maybe you should convince me," you say. The thing is, you're already convinced. But he turns, and his smirk evolves to a mischievous grin, gold tooth glinting. He understands.

He returns to you, a pair of hands resting on your shoulders. The extra pair sneak low, coming to your waist, and a familiar sensation falls over your loins. A caressing squeeze, a delicate grasp - fingers coddling your hidden crotch.

"Interested in my compellin' argument, huh?"

He glances down, fingers fiddling with the button of your suit pants. He presses himself close, nibbling your neck.

"Or do you just like seein' me on my knees, sugar daddy?"

A rush of adrenalin and heat consumes you. "Maybe it's both," you say.

He grants a dark giggle, kissing you on the cheeks and lips. "I thought so."

It doesn't take long before Angel Dust fishes you free, pulling down the regal fabric as your shaft struggles against undergarments.

"I could use an appetizer before the main course," says the spider, sliding to knees in practiced fashion while glancing up at you. You shudder - his all too familiar servile gaze makes you dizzy. It was hard to appreciate before, what with the escaping death and all. Now though, the same resurgence of lust and heat drives through you like an inferno, fed by the continued attentions of the addictive Angel Dust.

As before, he slides down your undergarments, and your cock springs free, outright smacking your counterpart on the face.

"Ow," he muses, feigning agitation. "Someone's excited."

"Maybe a little," you manage to say.

With all care and coaxing want, Angel Dust grips your length with his spare hands, a dual pair sliding along its inches, squeezing with the perfect amount of pressure.

"Ain't nothin' little about you, sugar daddy," he shoots back, grinning up at you. Fuck. His words are a wonderful poison. Exaggerated, you're certain, a sweet-talking venom meant to feed your ego. But it works.

Here, he takes your crown and grants it a little bess, a familiar kiss. His warm, wet lips wrap around the tip, smothering against the end as it begins to dribble with saliva and pre.

"Mwah," he says again, chuckling. Like before, you shudder. Different now, though, are smears of glaze, indicators of his actions.

You groan as he continues to assault your shaft with kisses, strolling along its sides as his mouth applies firm, sloppy suckles. He looks up at you while he acts, an indicator of his servitude, his cheeks flushing as he procures a moan each time maw contacts your malehood.

"Fuck," you hiss, because really, what else can you say? Your mind is boiling and it's consumed by one thought: more.

"Mmhm," mumbles Angel Dust, knowing. He lets his tongue slip out, lapping along your flesh, tedious strokes going from base to tip. Here, he releases your length and lets shaft slap against his visage, resting there like an impromptu table, while his tongue wriggles against your testes, only to return to your crown. You're glistening, like a piece of marinated meat, a course Angel Dust is only too happy to partake of.

Your head arches, and your hand comes to his hair tuft, gripping. It's all you can do to hold on, because if you don't you feel like you'll disappear. Angel Dust, in the meantime, has no intention of slowing down. You feel your orbs vanish in his hot, moist mouth, testes worshipped by his skilled tongue. His lips suckle each stone with precise, voracious smacks, engulfing them as they're caressed by his pink rug.

He pops you free, taking a breath, forcing your crown into his cheeks. He smacks your flank against him, a lewd applause echoing from their impact, giggling as he does.

"Feh, forget dinner, I'll take more of dis," he says, rolling your end against his visage, as if basting himself with your scent.

You don't mind being his dinner. Just so, he embraces your length with his mouth, wrapping lips around the first inches of your malehood while his hands grip your hips for support. You groan again, hot lust dripping out of you as his caressing, wet hold accepts your root, mumbling as he does.

His eyes water while he looks up at you, choking on your flank. His throat bulges, filled to the brim with your mast, though he has no intention of releasing you. While locked, his tongue coats you in another assault of licks, slithering against your prick as saliva dribbles down his maw. God, it's good, and it takes every ounce of willpower you have to not outright fuck his throat into oblivion.

"Mrrggmf. . ."

An utterance of gagged noises escapes him as he slowly pulls free. He coughs, trails of saliva sticking between him and your crown, though this doesn't deter him.

With renewed vigor, he engulfs your flank once again, this time with furious gusto. His head wobbles and bounces along your inches, an orchestra of groans escaping you each time he swings his features along your hot pike. Christ among the dead, how did he do it? You had fucked him already a few hours ago and now it was like the first time all over again.

As he continued to service your flesh, there's a knock at his door. You freeze, but Angel Dust doesn't stop.

"Hmmf?"

"Angel Dust?" a voice says. It's Charlie. "Supper is ready."

He continues to service your length, despite the near intrusion. However, he releases you briefly, licking his lips.

"Yeah? Gimme' a sec, would ya?"

"Could you tell Anon if you see them? They weren't in their room," she continued, maintaining a pleasant tone.

He rubs your inches against his lips, grinning. "Yeah? Don't worry, I'll find em'."

Charlie thanks him as Angel Dust massages your glistening flesh with hand.

"Guess we oughta' move on to the main course, eh?" he says, glancing at his elaborate bed. Time is of the essence, so you agree.

"I just got into this suit," you say as you get the rest of your attire off. Angel Dust laughs, taking you by the wrists and pulling you into the cozy embrace of his pink blankets.

"Borrow one of mine," he says, stripping down. He sets aside the rolled bills from before, and here, you're able to appreciate his form. This is the first time you've seen him entirely bare, and it's quite alluring.

He maintains a lithe yet hourglass frame, his chest puffed with an exaggerated fluff. Despite his disposition as a demonic spider, there's a soft veil of fur encompassing him that's like silk. When you touch him, it beckons for your flesh with tantalizing pleasantness, and again, you want more. The pale white interspersed with pink freckles dazzles you, like a drug. Well, his name is Angel Dust.

He pulls you close, and your slippery, seething pike prods at his pucker, desperate for entry. He gives a girlish grunt as you press into him, his legs wrapping around you, daring you to continue. So you do.

His multiple limbs cling as you hilt yourself into his tight hole, a perfect grip locking you down as you start a burst of rhythmic, hungry thrusts. Each stroke of your hips forces a delicate moan from Angel Dust, ushering you to continue. Every slam of your frame emits a loud, audacious clap from the contact of flesh, a perverse applause in this theater of a thief and a whore.

He strokes your hair, nibbling your neck, moaning your name.

"A-anon!" he squeals. Didn't take much to quiet all the mob-talk. That's right, you think, say my name you little spider slut.

Words you never thought would ever enter your head.

You can feel his own shaft harden against your waist, twitching uncontrollably as it writhes from heat. Dewdrops of pre-dribble from his own inches, pressing you on. The fact that he's aroused is getting you more aroused, if that were even possible.

Said arousal urges you into a driving, hungry beast. You shift, taking his ankles and forcing them to his neck, causing him to yelp in surprised - but approving - fashion. Now the little fiend is free for you to abuse, and you promptly do so, slamming yourself into his ring with unforgiving haste. His eyes roll back, neck craned, a sputtering mess of quick breaths escaping him, presex and saliva pouring from your coupling.

Oh, sweet angels of death, you're boiling. You can't hold yourself back anymore. You were already aroused beyond reckoning when he toyed with your cock, but observing him as a mewling mass of groaning boy - all because of you - sends you over the edge.

"FUCK!"

Because what else is there to do, but fuck? You press into him, body quivering as it explodes with a river of issue, white sticky seed drowning his pucker as you buckle and force him to hold. He's got no quips for you, just a melody of whiny moans as he gazes down, watching you spill yourself into him, down to the last drop.

"Nnmmmm. . ." he mumbles, hand coming to shaft to stroke himself. Of course, thief you are, you aren't that greedy. You help, your practiced palm caressing his slippery length, helping him reach peak until an explosive of seed spurts from his tip, messing both himself and you. You don't care though.

Panting, you release your vicegrip from his ankles, though your root remains embedded in his earth. He strokes your head, glancing down at the mess of your coupling.

"Forget the fuckin' chopper," he says, "Just take that thing out, eh?" A point to your crotch.

You manage a chuckle, pulling out, though it's hard. A river of you spills from his ring, something you hope will continue for a long, long time.

He shifts, lying on his side, the curve of his rump exposed to you. "Round two?" he says.

You muster a chuckle. "We're supposed to be getting dinner," you say.

He shrugs. "Consider me the main course, sugar daddy."

-*-

Somehow, you manage another series of quick romps before making it downstairs to the massive dining hall, where your caretakers provide a luxurious meal, home cooked. Angel Dust joins you, but maintains his chatty, mouthy self, like nothing happened. Sure, he sends you a knowing glance here and there, tossing in a lewd joke when he can, but no one's suspicious.

No one even knows what you have planned. Because in your quarters, under the bed, you've hid a few things. Explosives and guns and everything you need to make your mark in this city, this refuge of the damned.

-*-

There's a liquor store on a street corner every demon in Pentagram City knows and loves. It's got the best brew, it gets the best guests. A real who's-who of scum and villainy. Not to mention, the traffic of cash flowing in and out of that building is ludicrous, even for such a "small time" operation. Sure, it's no grand casino or bank vault, but if you stacked all the bills together, you'd make a hill.

One day in the slimy veins of the city, there's an explosion. A vomit of smoke and flesh stains the air, where coins splatter about like glistening rainfall. It's followed by gunshots, screams, and more explosions. Most of the denizens are thrown into a panic. Most don't know what the hell is going on, save their favorite booze dive just got rolled.

Few remember seeing much, if anything. But one old codger thinks he vaguely recalls a shadow. A silhouette in a long suit, rifle in one arm, massive bag in the other, strapped to his shoulder.

A downpour of burnt bills falls over him, his shoes stained by crimson. He vanishes into the dark as quickly as he came, and before anyone knew what happened, he's gone. One thing is certain though: the liquor store got nailed, stripped of its wealth.

That shadow was you. Because you're Anon: Master Thief.

And you've got plans for this city.