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Blood In My face

Bulbous eyes watched with fascinated enthuse as the diagonal screen flashed from image to image as Cannibal Carl and the Meat Muppets worked in unison, prepping a five-course meal of sautéed organs. It was a hit with many denizens in Pentagram City, and always got a few laughs from the seedy lowlives haunting The Gallow. Even hardened mobsters couldn't help but smirk when Carl skillfully wrapped massaged entrails around a literal rump roast, waving to the crowd as he gave his dish a final seasoning. The muppets would cheer, wave to the audience, and then it was time for the Six One Six news.

Too bad they weren't alive to see it.

Sarakk reclined in relative comfort, sucking down the hot spice of an alcoholic drink while munching on a fresh snack, incisors cutting through the demon-meat like butter. This Cannibal Carl fella' really got him in the mood! Appetite wise, at least. And hey, these television things were nifty too! Even though the one hanging in the corner was all mussed with sticky, black blood. Well, everything was, really.

The Gallow was his eighth stop in the never-ending quest for the sodding Arm of the Saint. You'd think for such grand importance, the limb would be easier to locate. But every time he came careening through a wall, window, or door, asking about this astonishing artifact, he was met with "who the fuck are you" and "get out" and "oh god please help don't eat me." The nerve of these lower demons! Guess they forgot about the standing of the Nephilim. Well, The Gallow was no different, another darkly lit bar stained with the stench of filthy tobacco, bad booze, and foul-mouthed vagrants. No answers, no leads. Good for a pit stop though, he was starving. A few dozen thousand years would do that to a locust.

He stood, throwing his empty bottle of booze as it crashed against the wall with a violent shatter. He grabbed an arm, nibbled through its bone, savoring the flavor of marrow, a repulsive chorus of sloppy, chewing sounds dribbling from his cutters.

He watched the screen, fascinated. "Remember!" said Carl. "Two eyes, never one! And always separate the dark and the light meat! Stay hungry!"

Sarakk grinned - in the way a flesh-devouring locust could, at least. "Thanks!" he chittered, cold voice chopping through the deadened ambiance like a knife. "Will do, Carl!"

He stood, leaping over the bar, landing foot deep in the mushy chest of one of the demons. It didn't groan - they were all dead, most of them an entirely unrecognizable mess of disconnected limbs and torn forms. Pah, mortal souls, so woefully fragile. When they weren't totally useless in answering his very accurate question of "where's the arm," they were falling apart like desert papyrus in the rain. If this is all the big guy had to contend with, well, was Abaddon even sure he needed the Apple?

He marched through the floor, kicking aside frames, searching for a more delectable prize. One caught his attention, a nice thick bicep which he happily yanked from its carcass, stuffing it into his gob. If only the Saint's Arm was so easy. . .

As he did, antennae wiggled. The wind shifted. Noise of the outside caught his attention as did a ray of pink light. Someone opened the door. No, wait, more than one. Silhouettes draped in cigars and suits stepped through. Sarakk continued chewing, watching them enter with slight interest.

"What a mess," one said. There were three. Two big ones, and a small one commanding the trident. Short, collected, had something wrapped around his head?

"Thought it was that shitstain from Sinai. . ." the other mumbled.

"No." This voice was light, but colder. Muffled, sounded like he wasn't forming the words right, as if his jaw was slack. "Dead anyway, though."

The three approached, eyeing Sarakk with their. . . well, many eyes. Beady, ugly red things jammed into bodies of black hair. Multiple arms, multiple weapons. They had one of those weird metal things, 'guns.' Sarakk thought those were nifty, if not cowardly. True demons got in nice and close, but, hey, if you could find something pissing metal and fire, why not use it?

"Any last words, cockroach?" a big one said. He raised his arms, pointing one of his 'guns.'

"Wrrfs thff armf," Sarakk responded, throat still dragging down the hunk of flesh.

"What?" the other big one said.

"Oh fucking kill him, already," snapped the smallest.

Sarakk blinked as a spray of hot lead burst into him. Normally, he'd do something acrobatic like wiz around in the air or duck behind a table. But rather he remained stationary, wincing as the fragments of metal collided into his carapace, and promptly bounced off. Ow!

Didn't take long for the three to stop, gawking as the bullets rolled to the floor, useless. Sarakk gulped, hacking up a ring as he gnawed the rest of the limb, spreading his own as if in welcome.

"I said, 'where's the arm?'" he repeated, antennae flagged.

One of the big ones hesitated. "Uh. . . boss?"

Oh, more dullards? Well, maybe Sarakk was lobbing his inquiry all wrong. He was asking about the arm, maybe he should start with the daughter instead? He stalked forward, cracking the floor as he moved. They flinched, raising their weapons again.

Sarakk held out a hand. "Okay, stop, stop, no more of that, thanks."

He picked at his cutting incisors. "M'looking for, uh. . . what was it?" He snapped his fingers.

"The. . . harness hotel? Hawkins hotel? Happenstance hotel."

Silence for a moment. Then, one chanced a response. "The. . . Happy. . . Hotel?"

"YEAH!" Sarakk buzzed, excited. "That's the one. I need to have a bedside talk with the uh, daughter of Lucy, is it? I just need to ask her something, that's all. Figure that's a good place to see it. You friendly fiends have an inkling on that?"

Sarakk leaned, looking over them. Big his foes were, but he loomed over them, easy. His body cracked and hissed like a machine, promising nothing but a swift death. The trio looked between each other, nervous. Finally, though, the smallest stepped forward. He was also covered in fine black hairy fluff, though he wore a bandage around him, nursing a broken mouth. His small, red orbs peered up, a look Sarakk recognized: delicious, pure, unfiltered hate.

"I know," he said.

Sarakk perked. "Oh? Well that's fantastic. Could you tell me now? Or. . . do you prefer I pull it out of you, bit by bit? Everyone's really into dying a painful death today. . ."

One of the guards looked at his commander, uncertain. "Boss?"

The small one ignored them, rubbing his cheek, remembering. "If I take you there. . . I want you to kill someone for me."

Sarakk tilted his head to an unnatural angle. "Well it's really not necessary." You're all going to die anyway, he mused.

The arachnid continued. "You've been tearing these streets apart. One of my boys said they saw you take a fucking shell to the head like it was nothing."

Sarakk's mandibles clicked. Okay? This was irritating. Was the little one after option two? Did demons in hell have a pain fetish?

"Betting the Devil's bitch won't fare much better. Or the fucking queen."

"Eherm, methinks we're on different pages, friendo."

A hand raised. "Arackniss."

"I didn't ask."

Arackniss sneered - before wincing, remembering his cracked maw. "Come with us. We'll get you there."

Oh. Well all he had to do was say so! Mighty generous of these ragged spiders - and all it took was butchering handfuls of local citizens. They seemed to have recognition issues. Time was you saw a Nephilim and nodded your head in respect! Kids these days.

Sarakk spread his arms, jubilant. "Awh, well gosh! How can I repay you? Oh, oh I know, I won't disembowel you! Promise."

There was an anxious quiet, as Arakniss turned, leaving with his guard who looked the locust over with seeded concern. Sarakk followed, sticky pools of black blood seeping out of the entrance. He was directed to one of the fancy metal machines - 'cars,' getting in with his newfound not-meal. It was cramped.

"The Hotel," Arackniss hissed to his driver.

Sarakk was looking forward to a pleasant conversation with Hell's princess.

-*-

"Sounds like a real prick."

You're staring at the wall, lost in your own words. Before, you wanted to believe it was a bad dream, some kind of strange fantasy brought on by a bad trip or too much drink. But much like your confession, it's real now, there's no going back.

"Abaddon's out," you had said. "That's all I got. I don't know where he comes from. Don't know what or why he is but, it's enough that even chuckles is on edge. Somewhere, out where we can't see, he's waiting, and like every sociopath with an ego he's plotting to kill us for the fuck of it."

Angel wasn't impressed. "Feel like I'm havin' a case of déjà vu here."

"This is serious."

"It's always serious , pockets."

It's the last thing in the world you wanted to tell him. You did this. Sure, maybe Sarin - somehow - was the one who really got the Annihilator out of his prison but, none of it would've happened if you hadn't gotten your dick so wound up in grand, majestical heists. Christ among the dead. Why this, why now?

The city's fate was in your hands. Who fucking cares. Angel's life was in your hands. That was important.

"Rage incarnate. The doom of creation," you say flatly.

But it's not this what really eats at you. No, it's the risk. You utterly and completely distrust Alastor - and the safety of your arrival and return, to Satan's fucking Vault, relied on him. Then, you had to get Eden's Apple, a cryptic, godly artifact which might in fact turn you into a sludgy paste. Assuming it doesn't, you have to use it correctly. This implies you even get past whatever Lucifer uses to protect his precious treasure.

You don't give a shit what happens to you. But if you fail, then. . .

"Ya' really fucked the pooch on this one, eh?"

Angel taps at his gold tooth with a pick, extra arms reclining on couch. "I mean, sodomized the bitch. Gave it a prolapse."

You look at him. He balls one hand, stroking it in the air. "Fisted it so hard ya' gave its grandchildren a prostate exam!"

You cut in, tone harsh. "Angel."

Is he not taking this seriously? Does he not understand what's at stake? Does he not realize how much you mean to him?

His black sclera eye rolls to you. "Whaaaaat?" He flicks the pick away, shrugging.

Before you say something, he continues. "What? What? I'm supposed to be scared?" His arms cross.

"Babe, must be a broken record in this shack, cause' I feel like I've heard this over n'over. Another reality destroyin' coglione I'm s'posed to drop dicks over? Don't' care. Eeevery swingin' dick gets a little saucy with power and they decide to go apeshit. So. What."

You blink. "It's not. . ."

He looks at you. "Not about that? I know. I know you don't care about him either. What you're scared of, and what I'm terrified of is. . . the same thing."

Your heart is cold again, and he sighs. You had to tell him what was necessary. The thief's greatest lie: 'one last job.' It's a prayer, and all thieves are slaves to it. Because there is always another job, always. Unfortunately, this one might cost you everything.

His tone shifts, low and sober. A hand comes to your leg. "Shit, what can I say babe? It won't change anything. I gotta' watch you do something stupid, again_."_

His words hit you harder than any poison or gun ever could. "And hope you don't die, again."

You weaken. "Angel, I'm sor-"

His other free hand comes to your lips. "Atutut. No. Shhhhh. Shh. I'm not mad. Scared titless, but not mad."

Silence forms between you. His eyes dance around, thinking. "But, I figure. . ."

He looks at the floor, pensive. "I figure, if ya' do fuck up, well. I'll be dead. And I'd prefer a six-foot sleep than be alive and you're not. . . you know. Around."

Hand falls from you lips. Your chest fights with a whirlwind of sensations. Fear, warmth, anxiety, concern, terror. . . love.

"But if ya don't burn the circus tent down, then, you'll be back anyway, eh?" he says, features pulled with a weak smile.

He looks at you again. "Or, I could fuckin' come with ya and fix this fuckshit mess myself."

You give a bitter laugh. You can't help it. The one goddamn time he offers to come with you for a score, and you don't want him to. You will not let it happen. You haven't the slightest idea what to expect. Alastor, for a lark, could throw you and Hox into a hellish void for all you know. Lucifer might show up and sentence you to a whole new realm of agony. If anything happened to Angel, you'd never forgive yourself, and you'd rather be dead. You'd prefer to cease existing entirely.

"That's too dangerous," you say. Angel cackles.

"I think playin' the knight in shinin' armor at this stage is a bit late, smart guy. Bitch, do you know who I am? Ain't some damsel."

He grins, pressing hand into his fluffy "tits," rubbing digits on pinstripe suit with smug pride. In a way, you want to say no - about knowing him. Because, up until last night, you've been with a version of Angel. Intimate, close, and honest - certainly. But once you decide your feelings are mutual in the most intense sense, you become something else entirely. He's not just Angel Dust, he's your Angel Dust, much like you belong to him.

It's for this reason you're happy to play the idiotic "knight" persona.

"Coulda' fooled me," you say, attempting humor. "Princess."

"Only in the sheets."

"Now that's a lie if I ever heard one."

He flips you off. "Yeah? Well this princess here gave ya' your guns. And the knife. And if I do recall. . ."

His finger comes to his chin, tapping it, like he's mulling it over. "My knife shanked a bitch, savin' ya. I got them goons off your dick so ya' could swing it around at the casino. And I still had time to roll Pinchy's fuck boys."

It was true. Put Angel in armor, he was the one looking out for you at this point.

You look at your prosthetic, flexing it. "Even if I wanted you to come, Angel-"

His grin widens. "You always want me to cum."

Goddammit.

". . .you couldn't help it, could you?"

He crosses his legs, giving a prideful head toss. "Ey, remember, I used to do standup."

A deep breath. You continue. "Angel. Even if I wanted you with me, three's a crowd. Can't imagine how we're flying under the radar as is. One more tagalong and I imagine we're fucked."

Angel offers a long shrug. "So?"

"I'm not taking that risk. Hox knows what he's in for."

The spider scoffs. "No offense to red rocket, but what the hell's he got I don't?"

You pause, considering your next thoughts carefully. Very, very carefully. The your partnership with Hox is, well. Painful. There's a brutal reality to it, made clearer with Angel.

You stare at the demonic arachnid. "Hox. . . is. . ."

Go on. Say it.

You can't. You want to, but you can't. Expendable. He's expendable.

You say something else. "Hox has experience with this, he might know something. The less factors there are, the easier this is." You hope.

Angel feigns a frown. "Startin' to get the feeling you don't want me around."

You blink. "What?"

He nudges you. "I'm kidding. Sheesh. Don't lose your 'illuminatin' sense of humor."

You nod lightly, relieved. You don't want him to feel forced out, but you're not chancing anything. You focus on Angel's hand, the one on your leg, swimming in the sensation.

"I know I've fucked up in pretty big ways, Angel. But this one?"

He looks at you. "This one I have to do right. I'm not in it for myself or anything else. I'm doing it because. . ."

You clench his fingers with your own. "If something happened, I'd, well. How'd you put it? I'd rather not exist at all."

He shakes his head, rubbing his temple. His form shifts, and he swings himself onto you, resting in your lap. Extra hands play with your suit tie, his forehead pressed against yours.

"You might be the dumbest motherfucker I've ever known," he says.

Somehow, this pulls a chuckle from you. "Yeah? Bad news, you're stuck with me."

Soft arms slide around you now. His proximity is warm, perfume intoxicating. Arousing, even. He chitters with a quiet laugh.

"I love you, you stupid sonofabitch."

It's like a bomb goes off in your chest. Energy screams into your flesh, every nerve ripped to life and smothered in a sensation you can only describe as pure, unfiltered joy. You grab his waist, pulling him close.

"Say that again," you say, voice hoarse and hot, pleading. Everything is starting to fade away, again. The underworld stops.

He smirks. "No." He presses forward, gentle lips colliding with your own. You breathe, you drink. You let his tongue dance with yours, caress him, let palms explore again, seeking refuge in sensitive fluff. A part of you twitches. You feel his haunches press against you. Ah, fuck, you need him. You need him so much it hurts. You want to show him he means the world to you.

Extra hands slide to your belt, unfastening, and. . .

"Uh."

Angel breaks your kiss with an annoyed grumble. He keeps you close, like he's shielding you from the interloper.

"Hey, fuck off," says Angel. "Kinda' fuckin busy."

You managed to see the silhouette through Angel's soft chest fluff. It's Vaggie, wearing an expression of expectancy.

"I was going to say dinner is ready," she says. "But looks like you two are already eating out."

Angel growls. "That ain't what we're doin! You should know what it is by now since you're munchin' carpet!"

Vaggie crosses arms, teeth clenched. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

She taps her foot, familiar expression of frustration pulling at her features. "Come eat." She turned, sable hair swinging with her. Before she left the room, she paused.

"Please don't do that on the carpet, the stains are a problem."

Vaggie's interruption has defused the ignition switch, and your balls are feeling a healthy shade of blue. The smell of Angel's sweet perfume isn't helping. When the click of her footsteps was no longer audible, Angel rubbed your arms, gaze returning to you.

"Lost my appetite," he says, frowning. "Too much to ask to fuck ya' boyfriend in peace!?"

"I'm sure what they made is very nice," you say, squeezing his thighs. You keep it cool, but 'boyfriend' rattles around in your head and feels. . . incredible. You've completely forgotten about everything else.

He sticks his tongue out. "Pleh."

Black sclera eye wanders to the window, looking out to the vista of Pentagram City. "Hey. . . you uh, wanna' get out of here?"

You blink, following his stare. "And go where?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. Grab a bite. Nothin' says good eatin' like a sleazy diner in a shitty part of town." Good eating here meaning 'let's get the fuck out of Dodge.'

"We have food here," you smirk. "They probably worked very hard on it." You've already made up your mind.

He huffs. "Lot of things are very hard right now, babe."

"We'll get in trouble."

His gaze snaps to you. You grin now. So does he.

Before the grandfather on the wall has time to beat out another minute, you're in hat and coat, prettiest motherfucker at your side.

-*-

Pentagram City is a blitz of styles and oddities, likely because it's inhabited by damned souls from every other pocket of time since Hell began. Go down to the South Side and it's like ancient Rome. West Side? A spree of familiar neon, an orgy of contemporary stylings mixed in with a little 50's Americana. Even demons had nostalgia, it seemed.

This translated to a seedy eatery at the corner of some hellish street, a dismal rain painting the cracked asphalt, forcing steam to hiss from the roads. Probably because it was acid rain. Still, it made for a pleasant chorus, a timid background ambiance. Hornets of water smacked the stained windows as you and Angel fingered through an. . . unimpressive menu of things you weren't even sure were safe to eat.

Entrail Enchiladas, one said. Bowel Burgers served with a side of Fried Fingers. Chopped Lamb? At least the choice of alcohol was untainted. And drugs. Apparently if you wanted a selection of drugs, that was up for grabs too.

"I mighta' overestimated the quality of this grub," Angel said, slapping the menu on table.

You rub your chin. "Who even eats this?"

"I'unno. Ferals?"

You put the sheet down, pushing it aside.

"Ferals?"

Angel fishes with his purse, pulling out a small mirror, clicking it open. "Yeah, ya' know. Loonies, deadheads." He studies his lips and mascara.

He glances at you after you don't respond. "Ferals. Mooks who get wasted so many times they come back all. . ."

He wiggles a hand. "Angry."

You can see it in your head. "Mindless, you mean?"

His snaps his finger. "That's the word."

So, dying over and over means leaving a piece of yourself behind until there's nothing left but a violent, raging husk. No memories, no understanding of what you are. Mercy then for one of the angels to put something like that out of its misery. Was Abaddon feral?

Ugh, no. You shudder at the thought, and you didn't come here with Angel Dust to postulate over hypotheticals.

A figure appears at your side, a succubus with scarlet hair and pale skin. "Evening," she said in a curt, uninterested tone.

"Get your order, sir?" she says to you, chewing gum. You glance between her and the dismal offerings.

"Uhhh, whatever drink you have that isn't shit."

She quirked a brow. "So, Miller?"

". . . if that's the best you have."

"Tap?"

Oh Devil below, no. You shudder to think about what quality their tap is. "Bottle."

The waitress looks to Angel. "And you, miss?"

Angel snaps his mirror shut, trying not to crack with laughter. "Same. And uhhh, gimme a buzzer. Couple o' tabs and some Molly. No hash, though, on a 'diet.'" A cute lie.

Alcohol and drugs? Old habits came back hard, didn't they? But you didn't care. You wanted Angel happy. Yeah - it was the same story, and the same conversation the two of you would probably have with Charlie: "You're violating rehab." But, around the corner, there was an apparent apocalypse level entity just waiting to turn Pentagram City into red mulch. So, fuck it.

The waitress doesn't even write it down. "We do serve food here," she says, looking between you both.

You have doubts. "Alright, alright. Hash browns. Can you do hash browns?"

Now she scribbles something. "Hash-Slinging Slash Browns."

She vanishes, returning with your drinks soon after, while sounds of what you hope are potatoes sizzle in the background. In the meantime, you crack the side of your drink on table edge, foam seeping from its tip. This catches Angel off guard.

"Ooo," he coos, intrigued. "Never seen ya' do that before."

You shrug. "You learn a few things hanging around mobsters."

A proud smile stretches his face, nudging his bottle to you. "Do mine."

So you do. Cap to table edge, and you give the glass neck a harsh tap. It pops open, gurgling with foam. It's messy, but it works.

Angel licks the end of his, perhaps a bit too suggestively. "Mobsters, huh?"

You blink. Yeah, mobsters. Huh, interesting, you can actually remember that now. In fact, as you focus, you realize everything is starting to come back. Who you were, how you died. What you did. Everything.

. . . everything.

"Yeah, uh, yeah." You trail off, fascinated but alarmed at your newfound retrieval. Angel is too.

"Well ain't that a peach. Ya' know, just realized pockets, I don't know diddly shit about ya."

You look at him. He takes a long draft of his Miller, halving it, releasing it with a loud, satisfied gasp, wiping his lips.

"I mean, I know ya' like stealin, and you're kinda shit at it, and ya got that biiiiig Bad Dragon dick, but still. . ."

The waitress returned, setting a plate of sizzled something on the table, while tossing a bag to Angel, filled with a few colorful pills and tablets. The moment of distraction lets you focus.

"I guess it's coming back now," you admit. "I'm not sure why."

You feel it returning. All of it. The noise, the people. The family.

Angel cracks his fingers, taking the bag and stuffing it in his purse. "Welllll, now things are getting intererstin. I admit, I liked the ol' dark and mysterious angle, but now that we're tied at the wrist, buddy ro, consider my curiosity roused."

"What do you mean?"

He drinks the rest of his Miller like it's water (it basically is). "Well, shit, pockets, I'd like to know more about my boyfriend if that ain't too fuckin' much to ask."

Oh. You nod. "Oh. Well, of course."

He snaps a pair of fingers. "Tell ya' what. Back and forth. I tell you a thing, you tell me a thing. Sound fair?"

You prod at your potatoes with fork, and you swear something blinks back at you. Drinks will work.

"You're on."

Angel looks positively tickled. "Fuck yeah!" He slams the table a few times, hollering for the waitress.

"Hey, strawberry shortcake, set us up!"

Across the bar, the waitress shoots him an annoyed glance, but returns with a couple more bottles of liquid courage.

As you crack them open again, Angel wears a mischievous grin, like he's about to dive into something tasty. And maybe he is.

It starts slow, little tidbits revealed one by one. "I call dibs," says Angel.

"First time I gave a blowie. Fuckin' hot. Wish I could do it allll over again. Learned pretty quick to watch the teeth. Took that fucker all the way, baby. Gagged though, kinda' hard to not do that. But once ya' take it, rest ain't so bad. Breathin through ya' nose though, gotta' remember, cause the ol pipes are a little preoccupied."

He winks, knocking a swig back with a prideful sneer. You figure this was when he was alive - hard to imagine a "virgin" Angel Dust in the underworld. But you don't ask. Something about his lips touching another man's cock bothers you.

You ignore the thought, taking a drink. "All right. Not bad. Hmm. First thing I ever stole. . ."

Angel Dust tilts his head, interested.

"Pack of cigs off a nun. Pall Malls? God they were shit. Traded them to a bum for a beer. Also shit."

Your arachnid entourage snickers. "That's kinda light, pockets."

"I was twelve."

He rolls his eyes. "All right, all right, I'll give it to ya'." He gestures at you. "Your turn."

You blink. More memories flood in - it's like they've been ripped out of their mental grave. You weren't sure why this was happening now? Was it an emotional trigger? You'll figure it out later.

"Hmm. Well. I was in corrections at fifteen, then off to the slammer two years later."

"Oh?"

You nod, sipping the booze. "Yeah. . . yeah. Robbed a convenience store with a dropout."

Shit. That's right. It was crystal clear now. "We knew the owner. Real piece of shit. Slept around on his wife, charged his customers more when he got the chance. So, we just did our public duty. Two grand split between us. Gun wasn't even loaded."

Angel looks impressed, tapping his palms with light applause. "Heeey! Not bad for ya' first score! Popped your cherry with another man. Was it good for ya' both?" He winks.

You give a weak smile. "It was. Then we got busted. Five years upstate, no parole, no juvy."

Could've been worse, but you started hanging around hardened criminals. It changed everything. You drink again.

Your spidery entourage clicks his tongue. "Ya' got caught? Psh, amateur," he chides, teasing.

You cross your arms. "Uh huh. I believe it's your turn."

He's tickled but doesn't persist. Rather, he taps his chin, thoughtful. "Let's see. . ."

It's this way for a while. You trade little morsels about yourselves. Angel goes on about the first time he tried on makeup, his favorite brands, why he prefers 'all day' lipstick and glaze, where to hit a guy with an icepick, the first time he crossdressed, and so on. It's charming. You get the impression he doesn't tell people this, at least not in casual back-and-forths. In fact, he's probably only talked about it with Cherri after a few dozen bottles or so. Now he's sharing himself with you, and your heart blossoms with warmth, forcing an eager, genuine smile on your face.

On his fourth Miller, his cheeks are a little flush, rain picking up against the diner window.

"So. . ." he says, eyeing the empty bottom of a bottle. "Ya' remember your first kill?"

Your smile falters with an anxious chuckle. "Hah, what?"

Angel shakes the glass, hoping to get a few more drops. When none appears, he sighs, setting it aside.

"Ya' know! Itchin' the trigger finger. Nobody forgets. I sure don't! Down here, actually! Blew a canoe right into a fella's head when I was goin' all Machine Gun Kelly. Big irons kick like a motherfucker! They were scrapin' him off the wall for days."

He wheezes with laughter, enjoying the recollection of bloodshed. But you? Unfriendly images seep back in, viscous and filthy. About the day. The quiet drive, the stench of cheap tobacco, the accent of your boss. It was cold, bitter. You see his face.

You tap the table. "Uh, hard to say."

Angel makes eyes at you. "Awwww come on! Teeelll me, I wanna' know! Tell your Angie! Was it a shootout in the streets? Drive by? Smoke a guy from across the way?"

He seems enthused over it, like it's worth celebrating. You slowly shake your head.

"No, heh, no, um."

You take a long, long draft, finishing your drink. Something bitter forms in your stomach, and you stare at the table. Angel waits, expectant. Do you lie? No, of course not. But it's like a pit in your guts.

A deep breath.

"My, uh, captain pulled me aside one day. Said we had a 'pest' problem and it was time I showed the family I was loyal."

Angel rests cheek on hand. "Captain?"

"Mob captain. Helped one of his trigger boys in lockup. Guess they appreciated that, so I ended up working for him when I was out. Anyway. . ."

The vista of what you did swims up to you. The car, the short, overweight, angry man at your side, his irritated voice, the pale white building doubling as a butcher shop.

"We. . . pulled to the back, to the freezer. Few of the other boys were there too. Then, this guy, I think he was one of their mules, they'd strapped him down, in a chair."

You shift, uncomfortable. You attempt to keep yourself steady. "He'd apparently been lifting product and selling it on the side, just enough to skim the top. Dunno' how they found out, but when they did, they snapped his legs and hit him so hard I couldn't even recognize his face."

You rub your head. "Boss brings me in, looks at me. Points to the 'pest.' Puts a gun in my hand, and says. . ."

Your eyes come to Angel now. "This is what we do to thieves."

"He told me to kill the mule, right there." A sick fear rumbles in your chest. Why was this bothering you? You'd done worse since then. But something about his eyes. . .

"If I didn't, they'd fuck me up, so. Shoved the gun in his mouth, looked him in his face, and. . ."

You made a wide gesture, implying death. Angel was silent, eyes wide.

A frayed chuckle escapes you. "I remember. . . I remember the blood, it got into my mouth. And there were pieces of him, on my face. I thought I would be sick. Then, everyone just nodded. Boss left, they took me to the cutting room, and we ran him through. Turned him into limbs, like it was nothing. Huh."

You stare out into the dark streets, wet asphalt glistening with pink light. "I wonder if he's down here."

You gulp down the rest of the alcohol, hoping the liquid might obliterate this recollection.

"We turned him into meat," you mutter. Once more, your gaze goes to Angel. His sweet, kind face settles onto you, like his eyes are deep cleansing pools promising you forgiveness and comfort.

"Fuck. I belong down here."

He takes your hand with his own, giving a wry smile. "Makes two of us."

Realization hits you. "I've never told anyone that."

Angel presses another palm into his impromptu cleavage. "And ya' shared it with me? Aww, how romantic."

It's hard fighting back a laugh. God, Angel Dust, god. Even in presence of criminal acts and callous brutality, he still managed to find the good. He looked beyond it and saw nothing but you. He cares only that you're sharing a secret, not the deed itself.

The feeling of pain and sickness leaves you. "You are, without a doubt, the best fucking thing that's ever happened to me."

He seems amused. "And I'm a whore! How sad is that!?"

Maybe it's the alcohol, or your desire to forget. Maybe it's this part of town. Or maybe you yearn for Angel Dust in a way you can't quite explain, a hunger overtaking you that's desperate to show him he's the only thing in this universe mattering to you. You want everything for him - to be happy, to feel happy, to feel good. Maybe it's that.

And you're horny.

"I could fuck this whore right on the table."

His pinkish cheeks turn a bright shade of red. "O-oh? Huahaha, wow, pockets! Look at you. Went from havin' a gab about going all Saw Two on some schlub to. . . well."

He grants a dark sneer. "I'll take care of ya'."

But you don't just want that. You don't want to use Angel Dust like he's a cock sock. You want to give it back, all of it. And you will.

You squeeze his hand, looking around. "Dine and dash?" you say.

He snickers. "Technically ya' didn't even eat, so."

Good enough for you.

-*-

Almost every corner of Pentagram City - that you know of - hosts a seedy dive for seedier demons to dwell for the night. Cheap hotels for a quick romp. Or maybe somewhere to get wasted, or hide. But they're plentiful, and much like your double date, you and Angel find yourself a corner of the underworld to stay. No one knows where either of you are, and that's perfect. It feels like, for the first time, it's just you and him, and nothing else matters.

You find it impossible to describe the ache consuming you. The intangible, emotional weight binding you to Angel is more potent than any substance you've taken, more thrilling than any heist. Your flesh demands his proximity, your fetid soul voracious for his presence. He is his name. Addictive in all the best ways, and you never want to be sober again.

You find somewhere that's suitable. A motel only serving one purpose: to give you both some privacy. A window grants view of the city, but who fucking cares? You're in the room, interior washed with dull ambient light, and you hold him close, grip tight around his slender waist, minding the clamp of your prosthetic.

You breathe. Perfume consumes you. It's sweet, aromatic, therapeutic. It presses you on, nudging your hips to touch his, bestial root stirring to life.

Guttural mumblings leave you, honest and raw. They're from the deepest recesses of you.

"Fuck, fuck, Angel. I need you so badly, it hurts."

He's got his arms around you, and his lips pressed to yours. You can taste his words.

"Don't like it when you hurt," he says, tone hot and wanting. You kiss back, a monstrous appetite for his soft, welcoming lips driving you on. You stare into his eyes - they're wellsprings of comfort. They're portals of lust, they promise everything a man desires. But for you? They're heaven. A window into the vulnerable Angel Dust, the real Angel Dust.

You hiss, and you keep him embraced in a vice grip. Your forehead presses to his.

"Angel. . ." Hoarse, real, honest. If ever once in your miserable existence you were truthful, it was now.

"I want to be everything to you. I want to be yours." You say this through a sequence of kisses, caressing his back.

All measure of reservation and control have abandoned you. These are not things you'd say openly, if ever, kept close and buried. The mobsters taught you - if you expose your chest, you'll get stabbed. But you can't help it. You're lost in this storm called "you and Angel Dust." If you drown, you will not swim back up. Hold the knife, Angel Dust, hold it.

He nips at your neck. "Then be you," he says.

You needed nothing else.

Clothing is a distraction you will no longer tolerate. You pull away your suit, hand sneaking underneath Angel's rump, snagging his lace and stripping it down. He returns in favor, extra hands gripping your waist, belt, and buttons, pulling them away with practiced grace. Before long, your flesh and his silk fluff embrace the other, tickled by proximity. Your engorged flesh slips underneath his waist, dribbling, and it's hard to the point of pain. You don't think you've ever been this aroused in your entire existence, living and not.

Angel notices. "Nnholy shit, babe, high noon already?"

He yanks you into him, spinning to shove you upon the bed. You want to protest this, you want him to feel appreciated too, but Angel has plans.

"Angel. . ."

He grins. "Shhh. Can't shove this six-shooter up m'holster like that, pockets. You'd tear me in half."

He winks, sweet, soft lips racing to your length, licking the tip and embracing it in his maw. They wrap around your inches, puckered on the crown, applying therapeutic kisses. But this time, they're different. Slower, heated. Attentive. They're not like before - where he used his mouth aligned with his profession. His motions are for you now. His tongue slipping to your testes, your length, your tip, they're all done to get you off specifically.

His cheek bulges, eyes locked to yours, voice caught with mumbles as he tosses his head on your root in slow, slick strikes. Each one pulls a long, wanting groan from you, and you clench the sheets. You're goin' on a trip. Angel, wonderful Angel.

He takes your length in hand, massaging it with careful strokes, cupping your stones and squeezing them carefully, until your spear shimmers with a sticky coat of presex and saliva. Once more, he grants the end a longing, loving bess.

"Mwah."

You pet through his silky hair tuft, prompting the spider to shift. He rises, curvaceous form crawling over you, and you can see him prepare to sink on your voracious length. No.

Angel has given you far more than any reasonable person would. Since the beginning, he's lied for you, protected you, listened to you. Your friend. . . now lover. For once, you want to return the favor. With delicate force, you take his shoulders and swing him to back, where you lie over him. He yelps, intrigued, eyes wide with curiosity.

You press your lips to his. "Let me," you say. Let me, god, just let me be good to you.

His hands slip around your shoulder, your neck, stroking your head.

His mouth parts to hit you with a clever quip, but you don't listen. You press yourself into him, twitching cock parting his pucker and filling his tight hole, spreading him, a snug fit. He mewls in response, a quivering moan escaping him as he holds you tight. You grunt too, nose into neck, supporting yourself with prosthetic. Your other palm, though, that finds his hand, and you hold it, clench it, let your fingers dance with his.

The back and forth starts with a gentle momentum like it always does. But it's thirsty, wanting. The hunger you have for Angel is indescribably endless. Every motion you take, every careful thrust of your hips is done with the spider in mind. It feels incredible, as it usually does, but in the back or your conscious, the driving factor is thus: this is for him. No one but him.

How the hell did you end up here? How is it you came to find yourself tangled in the embrace of the spider? This damaged, yet complete person?

The motions are smooth, precise. Each impact of thighs to his prompts a timid buck, forcing the bed to whine. The dizzying ambiance of Pentagram City is barely audible above your grunts and his cooing gasps, as though you both have shut it away. With every dive and rise of your member, his pink ring coaxes you with a caressing, choking grip, filling you - and him - with increasing waves of hot bliss.

You surge into him not long after, but it's only the beginning. As your seed pours into his rectal ring, you take the opportunity to explore the rest of this sweet spider. Your lips collide with his neck, shoulders, between his chest fluff, his stomach (now a mess from his own peak). You taste him, letting digits dive and roam every inch that exists of cream, pink-spotted body.

"Nnuh?" Angel's face is flush with red and sweat, and he watches you sink to his loins, where you sample him. Can't imagine many demons go here, if ever. Based on his reaction, you're safe on that bet.

You don't care. You taste his issue, you kiss his hard member, go so far as to take it in your mouth. Now you're not quite a professional here, but you do recall some things: watch the teeth. So you do. You kiss him, much like he's done a thousand times, nurse him, suckle the root, in servile appreciation.

"H-heh, p-pockets. . ."

Quiet gasps and approving groans form a chorus between you, and it's a heavenly thing to hear your Angel beside himself.

You stroke him, curious. "Can see why you like doing this," you say. Not your specialty, but you're more than happy to do it for the spider.

"Mff," he mumbles. He caresses your head, lifting it. "Come back."

You blink back to him. You do, without hesitation. Once more, you're tangled in an embrace, and the night is warm and fuzzy. You sit with him, his supple, generous rear sinking on your cock as he bounces softly, your bodies pressed together. It's rare that either of you are more than a few inches apart, and it will remain this way.

You ache, you ache, and you need more. So you do more.

Positions exchange, peak reached every time. Watching Angel's member spring to life with a jet of seed only encourages you on. You thrust into him from behind, pushing him to all fours. He tosses himself on your flag, a cowboy on your saddle. You push his ankle to neck, punishing his hole with pumping, throbbing thrusts. Then you soften, letting him back on top, stroking him gently and sweetly.

Time vaporizes. You lose track of all minutes. Maybe hours. The only thing you recall is total and complete exhaustion, bursting with one more river of seed into his already drenched hole. And then you both collapse, utterly obliterated, gripping each other, weak in the other's embrace.

"Fucking Christ babe," Angel rasps, heavy breaths coating his words. "T-the hell was in those drinks?"

You force a chuckle. "Really shit booze."

He rests on you, head under chin, eyes drifting from closed to open.

"Ufff," he murmurs. "Think that was breakfast, lunch, and dinner. . ."

You kiss his tuft. "You all right?"

"Fuckin' amazin."

You sigh, a sense of comfort washing over you. Safety, hope. Happiness. You clasp him with your prosthetic.

"This feel okay?"

He shrugs. "Don't bother me. Really should get a dildo for that thing."

The thought. . . is intriguing. "I'll consider it."

He chuckles, but it's faint. He's drifting, not that you blame him.

His breath finds a quiet rhythm, eyelids shut. "Angel?" The spider doesn't respond, asleep.

". . .I love you."

There's a drooling grumble in response, but you're not sure he heard you. That's fine.

When you close your eyes, you forget everything for a little while longer. The memories, the family, the people. What's ahead. But it will not last for long. Even in the warmth of this temporary bedroom, even with the most precious thing in your hold, even with the returned love of your boyfriend, there's an unsteady chill in the air.

Your gaze drifts to the window. Somewhere, in all that chaos, Abaddon is waiting. You have to make it right. You have to fix this.

But you're not afraid anymore.