Angel Dust

The neon lights of Hell’s seediest district flickered erratically, casting a lurid glow over the streets. The air was thick with the scent of booze, cigarettes, and the unmistakable haze of mischief. It was Angel Dust’s favorite kind of night—one where trouble was just a well-timed quip away.

Strutting down the cracked pavement in his signature heels, he adjusted his oversized bowtie and flicked a stray bit of fluff off his coat. "Alright, bitches, who’s ready for some chaos?" he announced to no one in particular, but the energy in the air made it clear—this night had potential.

Angel had set his sights on one of the more exclusive clubs in the Lust Ring, a place rumored to cater to the most delightfully depraved clientele. Getting in wouldn’t be a problem; he had charm, connections, and the kind of confidence that made bouncers hesitate.

As he approached the entrance, two burly, four-eyed demons stepped in his way. "No unauthorized guests," one grunted, crossing his thick arms.

Angel Dust gasped theatrically, placing a hand on his chest. "Oh honey, unauthorized? Do you even know who I am? Angel fuckin’ Dust. Star of the adult industry. Heartbreaker, homewrecker, and award-winning menace. Now move aside before I make you question your job security."

The demons exchanged glances, but before they could argue, the club owner—a slick-looking incubus with curling ram horns—leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "Let him in. We could use some entertainment tonight."

With a wink and a sway of his hips, Angel Dust sauntered inside. The club was alive with writhing bodies, pounding music, and the scent of expensive liquor. Spotting a bar in the distance, he made his way over, sliding into a seat next to a nervous-looking customer nursing a drink.

"You look like you could use some company," Angel purred, drumming his fingers on the counter.

The midday sun shines lazily over Hell, casting a hazy glow over the city’s neon-lit streets. It's rare to have a date during the day—most demons prefer the cover of night for their debauchery—but Angel Dust insisted. He wanted to do something "different" for once, and somehow, that led to the two of you stepping into a quirky little restaurant nestled between a strip club and a pawn shop.

The interior is a mix of gaudy and classy, red velvet booths clashing with cheap plastic chandeliers. It’s the kind of place where you’d expect to see a mafia deal go down at one table and a bachelorette party at another. The demon host barely looks up as he leads you to a booth in the corner, and Angel flops down onto the cushioned seat across from you with his usual dramatic flair.

"Finally! A lil' quality time with my favorite person," Angel grins, leaning his elbows on the table. "Y’know, it ain't often I do these... ‘normal’ dates. Kinda feels like I’m in one of those cheesy romance flicks, but with more demons and probably worse food poisoning." He picks up the laminated menu, squinting at it as if expecting it to bite him. "What the hell kinda place serves ‘Mystery Meat Supreme’? Babe, if I go missing after eating this, avenge me." He tosses the menu down and waves a hand dismissively. "Eh, screw it. I’ll just get somethin' deep-fried and hope for the best."

Angel leans in slightly, resting his chin in his palm, his expression softening just a little. "So, what made ya wanna spend the day with lil' ol' me? Couldn’t resist my devilish charm? Or maybe," he smirks, "ya just like watchin’ me cause a scene in public places?"

Right on cue, a waiter—an overworked-looking imp—arrives to take your orders. Angel barely acknowledges him, lazily rattling off his choice while dramatically batting his eyelashes at you. As soon as the imp scurries away, Angel chuckles, drumming his fingers against the table.

"So, doll, tell me—what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten? ‘Cause I once had a deep-fried rat on a dare. It was terrible, 2/10, wouldn’t recommend." He winks, kicking his feet up onto the empty seat beside him, clearly settling in for an afternoon of playful banter, terrible food, and—most of all—your company.

The Hazbin Hotel lobby is quiet for once. Neon signs outside paint the cracked marble floor in pink and gold. Angel Dust lounges across one of the threadbare velvet couches, all four arms stretched out, one long leg hooked over the armrest so his thigh-high boot dangles. Fat Nuggets is curled against his side, snoring softly. Angel’s fluffy white hair is a little messy, the pink heart on the back of his head visible when he tilts it. He holds a half-empty glass of something that smells expensive and illegal, swirling it lazily.

He notices you standing there and flashes that sharp, golden-fanged grin. “Well, well. Look who finally crawled outta their room. Hotel gettin’ too quiet for ya, or you just missed my pretty face?” His voice carries that thick New York lilt, equal parts teasing and inviting. He pats the empty space beside him with one lower hand. “C’mon, take a load off. I ain’t gonna bite… unless you ask real nice. What’re you doin’ up at this ungodly hour anyway? Insomnia, or just enjoyin’ the peace before Charlie starts another motivational speech tomorrow?”

He shifts, the soft white fur of his chest rising as he sits up a little straighter. The light-pink heart outline across his torso catches the neon. “Don’t mind the pig. He’s the only one around here who doesn’t judge my life choices. Smart little bastard.” Angel reaches down and scratches behind Fat Nuggets’ ear with two fingers, voice dropping into something almost soft. “You got any secrets you feel like spillin’, or we just gonna sit here and pretend the world’s not on fire?”

The couch dips under his weight as he makes more room, long legs adjusting with that double-jointed ease. One upper arm drapes along the backrest; the other lifts the glass again, ice clinking. Pink stripes on his arms stand out against the white fluff, and the heart marking on his chest shifts with every slow breath. His heterochromatic eyes—pale yellow sclera on the right, near-black on the left—track you with lazy interest, cerise irises bright even in the dim neon glow. The three tiny dots under each eye stay closed for now, just faint freckles against the soft fur of his face.

He takes a sip, tongue briefly catching the golden fang, then sets the glass on the low table with a quiet clink. “Place feels different this late. No screamin’, no Alastor radio bullshit, no Val’s… well. You know.” A short, humorless chuckle slips out. He rolls one shoulder, the blazer’s white stripes pulling tight across the deliberately pushed-up softness of his chest. “Sometimes I like it. Sometimes it just makes all the noise in my head louder. You ever get that? When the quiet’s worse than the chaos?”

Fat Nuggets snuffles and presses closer. Angel’s lower hand resumes the gentle scratches, claws carefully sheathed. His free upper hand idly toys with the black choker at his throat, then drifts down to smooth a wrinkle in the grey miniskirt. The movement makes the thick curve of his hips and the heavy sway of his thighs more obvious against the worn velvet. He doesn’t hide it. Never does.

“Anyway.” He tips his head, messy white-and-pink hair falling into one eye. The grin returns, softer at the edges but still sharp. “You gonna stand there lookin’ pretty all night, or you actually gonna sit? I got room. And I got whatever’s left in this bottle if you need a little liquid courage. No pressure. Just… company. Rare commodity around here that doesn’t come with a contract or a lecture.”

He waits, one boot swinging slowly, four arms relaxed but ready, the neon painting shifting patterns across the soft white fur of his chest and the heart that runs from collarbone all the way down.

Backstage at the seedy club in the Entertainment District was exactly as advertised: cramped, sticky underfoot, and thick with the mixed reek of stage makeup, cheap perfume, and cigarette smoke that clung to everything like a second skin. The cracked mirror in front of Angel Dust flickered with half-dead bulbs, casting uneven light across his reflection as he leaned in, carefully blending a deeper shade of pink eyeshadow that matched the three cerise freckle-dots under each eye.

He was already fully transformed for the night. The sequined pink gown clung to his narrow waist before flaring dramatically over those wide, soft hips, the fabric catching every bit of the dim light and throwing it back in glittering flashes. Long gloves covered both pairs of arms—cerise on the upper set, white on the lower—and a towering blonde wig sat pinned carefully over his own fluffy white hair, the heart marking on the back of his head hidden for now. The low neckline of the dress still let the light-pink heart outline on his chest show faintly through the dense white fur he had pushed up and shaped for the full effect.

He caught the reflection of someone new in the mirror and winked, one heterochromatic eye—pale yellow sclera on the right, near-black on the left—gleaming with that familiar theatrical spark. His voice came out higher, more polished for the stage, but the swagger underneath was pure Angel.

“Hey there, gorgeous. Didn’t expect company while I transform into the goddess this dump deserves.”

He turned fully, giving a slow spin so the sequined skirt flared out around those thick thighs and the exaggerated curve of his ass. The double-jointed grace of his spider legs made the movement fluid, almost predatory, heels clicking softly on the scuffed floor.

“What d’you think? Too much? Nah, never too much. Valentino’s got me booked for three sets tonight and I intend to make every sucker in the front row forget their own names.”

He stepped closer, lower pair of arms settling on his hips while the upper ones finished the last touches of makeup. The gown shifted with every step, the soft, dense fur of his chest rising and falling with each breath under the low neckline.

“You stickin’ around for the show, or just came to keep a lonely queen company while I get ready? Either way, hand me that lipstick, would ya? The real red one. And don’t look at me like that—I know I look good. That’s the whole point.”

A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his wide mouth, sharp teeth and that single golden fang catching the light for a second. He held one gloved hand out expectantly toward the lipstick tube sitting on the cluttered vanity, the other still adjusting a stray sequin near the neckline.

“After this, maybe we grab something that isn’t watered-down Hell-booze. My treat. Or yours. I ain’t picky.”

He waited, posture open and confident, the blonde wig framing his face as those pink irises stayed locked on the newcomer with open curiosity and that ever-present, teasing invitation.

The hotel kitchen looked like a flour bomb had gone off. White powder dusted every counter, the floor, the stove, and even the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. A tipped-over carton of milk pooled near the fridge, mixing with scattered chocolate chips and a half-squashed lump of dough. In the middle of the chaos stood Angel Dust, sleeves of his pink-striped blazer shoved up past his forearms, the soft white fur of his arms and chest speckled like he’d been caught in a snowstorm. His grey miniskirt had a smudge of dough on one hip, and one of his thigh-high boots left faint powdery prints wherever he stepped.

Fat Nuggets squirmed in two of Angel’s hands, little pink snout still sticky with stolen dough, eyes wide and utterly unrepentant. Angel held the pig up at eye level, pink irises narrowed in mock severity while the smaller set of eyes under them stayed closed for now.

“Nuggets, no—bad pig. That was for the cookies, not your fat little stomach!” He gave the pig a gentle shake, voice dropping into that theatrical New York growl. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you little shit. Charlie wanted somethin’ sweet for the lobby, and I was tryin’ to be all… helpful and shit. Look at this place. Looks like a bakery exploded and then got raided by a hungry gremlin.”

He set Fat Nuggets down with a soft thump. The pig immediately trotted off toward a spilled bag of sugar, only to be blocked by one of Angel’s lower hands. Angel brushed flour off his chest with both lower arms, the dense white fluff bouncing and shifting under his palms. The light-pink heart outline across his torso was half-hidden under the powder, but the soft mounds he’d shaped with his tight jacket still moved with every swipe. A few flakes drifted from his mop of pink-splotched white hair as he shook his head.

When he finally noticed you in the doorway he didn’t flinch or try to straighten up. He just planted one hand on his hip, the other three still busy batting flour off himself, and flashed that crooked, fang-flashing grin.

“Don’t say a word. I was tryin’ to do something nice for Charlie. You know, contribute. Be a productive member of society or whatever the hell she keeps preachin’.” He gestured at the disaster with a flour-dusted pink-gloved hand. “Wanna help clean this mess before the others see and I never live it down? Or you just here to laugh at the porn star covered in baking shit?”

He kicked a rolling pin out of the way with the pointed toe of his boot and grabbed a sponge from the sink, tossing it lightly from one hand to another. The third pair of arms stayed tucked away for now, but the way he moved—fluid, double-jointed, almost dancing around the spilled milk—made it clear he could summon them in a heartbeat if the cleanup turned into a bigger production.

“C’mon. Hands that can handle a Tommy gun can handle a sponge. Promise I won’t make it weird… much.” His voice dipped into that playful, teasing register, pink eyes glinting as he wiped a streak of flour across his own cheek without realizing it. Fat Nuggets oinked from under the table, already eyeing a dropped cookie cutter. Angel pointed at the pig with two fingers. “You stay put, you little thief. And you—” he tipped his chin toward you, grin widening— “grab a towel or start scoopin’ that dough before it hardens into concrete. I’ll take the counters. We’ll have this place lookin’ decent before Vaggie walks in and starts screamin’ about hygiene. Deal?”

He turned back to the flour-covered island, hips swaying just a little as he started wiping in broad, theatrical strokes, already humming some half-remembered Italian tune under his breath. The soft white fur on his arms and chest kept catching more powder with every movement, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, the mess only made the whole scene more ridiculous—and somehow more him.

The dressing room is a cramped, dim-lit mess of discarded costumes, half-empty liquor bottles, and scattered makeup wipes. The air still carries the sharp mix of sweat, stage lights, and Valentino’s cologne. Angel Dust leans back against the locked door the moment it clicks shut, six arms unfolding with a restless, almost shaky energy. His long pink blazer hangs open, the white stripes catching what little light filters in. The grey miniskirt is shoved high on his hips, gloves peeled halfway down his forearms. Thick white fur on his chest is pushed up into soft, heavy mounds, marked with faint bruises and smears of lipstick from the last take.

He lets out a long, rough exhale, golden fang glinting as his mismatched eyes—pale-yellow sclera on the right, near-black on the left, both burning cerise pink—find you.

“Fuck… that one was rough. Valentino’s in one of his ‘creative’ moods.” His voice has dropped out of the usual theatrical bounce, lower and scraped raw around the edges. “You didn’t have to stick around, y’know. But since you did…”

He pushes off the door and closes the distance in two long strides. Two hands settle firm on your shoulders. Two more slide down your sides, palms dragging slow over fabric. The last pair is already working the waist of his own skirt, shoving the fabric higher until the massive, heart-curved swell of his ass is fully framed—soft, heavy white fur over thick cheeks that jiggle with every shift of his weight. The dense fluff parts just enough to show the tight, pink, already-slick hole twitching between them.

Angel turns, presenting it, back arched, double-jointed legs slightly spread. One hand reaches back to spread himself wider, fingers digging into the plush cheek and pulling it open so the entrance flutters visibly under the dim light.

“Use me. Hard. I don’t want gentle right now. Pin me to the vanity, spread me open, and fill me until I can’t think about anything else. I’ll keep quiet… or I won’t. Your call.” His voice dips into that breathy, needy register, then roughens again. “Just… don’t stop when I start shakin’. I can take more. I always can.”

He stays like that, ass offered, hole glistening and clenching around nothing, waiting—chest still pushed up and marked, golden fang catching the light every time he glances back over one shoulder.

The rain came down in steady sheets, turning the alley’s cracked brick into a slick, glistening black. Neon from the Entertainment District bled pink and red across the wet pavement, catching on puddles and the sharp edges of Angel’s thigh-high boots. He had you pinned against the wall with surprising strength for someone so lean—four hands braced around you, white fur damp and clinging in places, the light-pink heart on his chest rising and falling fast. But the way he held you made it obvious who really wanted to be handled.

His miniskirt was already shoved up around his waist. The grey fabric bunched uselessly, leaving that massive, heart-shaped ass bare and on full display. Soft white fur darkened where the rain had soaked it, cheeks thick and heavy, jiggling with every restless shift of his hips. He ground back against you deliberately, slow and filthy, letting the dense plush of his ass drag along your front. The pink heart-line that ran from his chest down the center of his body ended right where it belonged—framing the tight, flushed hole already slick and twitching.

“C’mon, tough guy,” he purred, voice thick with need and a little Italian under the English. “I just finished a job and I’m still wired. Use me right here. Standing. I can take it.” He planted his hands on the wall above your shoulders, back arched deeply so the curve of his spine and the exaggerated flare of his hips led straight to that dripping entrance. The double-jointed spider legs bent just enough to push his ass higher, offering everything.

Rain slid down the long line of his throat, caught in the black choker, then continued over the dense, pushed-up fur of his chest. Those soft mounds rose and fell with every breath, the cleavage deep and inviting even through the wet fabric of his open blazer. His heterochromatic eyes—one pale yellow sclera, one nearly black—were half-lidded, cerise irises bright with hunger. The three small dots under each eye stayed closed for now. A sharp golden fang flashed when he grinned.

“Don’t be shy,” he teased, rolling his hips in a slow circle that made the heavy cheeks bounce and clap wetly against you. “Been thinkin’ about somethin’ thick stretchin’ me open since the cameras stopped rollin’. C’mon… grab a handful. Spread me. I want it messy.” One lower hand reached back, claws carefully catching the soft flesh of his own ass and pulling a cheek aside, showing off the pink, fluttering hole. It clenched visibly, a bead of slick already mixing with rainwater and sliding down the inside of one thick thigh.

Sunlight filters weakly through the dusty hotel curtains, painting thin golden stripes across the tangled sheets and the soft white fur of Angel’s body. He’s already awake, draped half over you like a living blanket, that thick, girthy white cock hard and warm against your hip. The head is flushed pink, a slow bead of precum already smearing across your skin with every tiny shift of his hips. His lower pair of arms is curled loosely around your waist; the upper pair rests near your chest, claws idly flexing as he breathes against your collarbone.

He doesn’t ask. He just moves.

A long, double-jointed leg swings over you in one smooth, spider-graceful motion. He turns, straddling you in reverse so that massive, heart-shaped ass is the only thing you can see—plush white cheeks already parting under their own weight, the dense fur framing a tight, shiny-pink hole that twitches once in anticipation. Angel reaches back with both lower hands, spreads himself open without shame, and sinks down in one long, deliberate drop.

The moan that leaves him is low, rough, and utterly satisfied.

“Mornin’, handsome,” he drawls, voice still thick with sleep and last night’s sex. “Hope you slept good, ‘cause I woke up empty and that ain’t acceptable.”

His lower hands plant firmly on your thighs for leverage. Then he starts to move—slow, deep rolls of those wide hips that make the soft white fur of his cheeks spread and bounce with every controlled drop. The wet sound of him taking you is filthy in the quiet room. Every time he seats himself fully, that huge ass jiggles hard enough to send a soft ripple up his lower back, and the pink heart line that runs from his chest all the way down seems to pulse with the motion.

Upper arms reach back. He cups his own plush, furred chest, pushing the dense white mounds together until the cleavage is deep and inviting. He squeezes, thumbs circling the soft peaks, and lets out a breathy little laugh.

“Watch it. Watch how this ass takes every inch. Fuck—feels even better in the morning when I’m still a little sore.” He lifts almost all the way off, then drops again with a wet slap, cheeks clapping softly against your hips. “I’m gonna milk you dry and keep goin’ until you’re dripping outta me all day. Hope you ain’t got plans, ‘cause I sure as hell don’t.”

He picks up a lazy rhythm—long, rolling strokes that let you feel every flutter and clench of that greedy hole. The soft fur of his thighs brushes your sides with every bounce. Occasionally he reaches back with one upper hand to spread a cheek wider, giving you an even clearer view of how stretched and shiny he is around you. The other hand stays busy on his chest, kneading and pulling, making the fluffy white mounds shift and bounce in time with his riding.

“Christ, you fill me up so good,” he mutters, voice dropping into that lower New York growl. “Been thinkin’ about this since I woke up with your cock against my hip. Couldn’t even wait. Had to get you inside me before coffee.” A soft, filthy moan slips out when he grinds down especially deep, hips circling so the fat head of your cock rubs right against that sensitive spot inside him. “Feel that? That’s me squeezin’. That’s me tellin’ you I want every drop you’ve got. Don’t you dare hold back, handsome. I want it messy. I want it runnin’ down my thighs when I finally let you up.”

He keeps the pace deliberate, almost lazy, like he’s savoring the stretch. Every few thrusts he pauses fully seated, clenching rhythmically around you while he plays with his own chest, pushing the soft fur together and letting it spill between his fingers. The three tiny pink dots under each eye catch the weak light; his left eye—dark sclera, no pupil—is half-lidded with pure pleasure.

“That’s it… just stay right there and let me work. Gonna ride you ‘til my legs shake. Then I’m gonna turn around, sit on that face of yours, and make you clean up every bit of the mess we’re makin’. Sound fair?”

The bass from the club thumps through the thin bathroom door, rattling the stall walls in a steady, predatory pulse. Angel has you crowded into the largest stall, the space barely big enough for his eight-foot frame even with one long boot braced on the toilet seat for leverage. His light-pink suit jacket is still on but unbuttoned enough that the dense, fluffy white fur of his chest spills forward in soft, deliberate mounds. The grey miniskirt is already flipped up over those wide, heavy hips, exposing the full, heart-shaped swell of his ass—thick, plump cheeks covered in silky white fur that jiggles faintly with every small shift of his weight.

His pink hole is shiny and ready, the tight ring glistening under the harsh fluorescent light. The light-pink heart line that runs down his torso continues unbroken right to it, framing the entrance like a promise. Two of his upper hands reach back, long cerise-pink gloves and all, spreading those massive cheeks wide. The soft fur parts under his fingers, dimples deepening at the sides as he holds himself open for you. His lower pair of arms brace against the stall wall, claws scraping lightly against the metal.

“Five minutes,” he whispers against your ear, voice pure filthy teasing—breathy, high, and dripping with that New York swagger. Warm breath ghosts over your skin, carrying the faint scent of whatever he’d been drinking earlier and the ever-present musk of his own arousal. “That’s all we got before someone notices I’m gone. Make ‘em count.” He rolls his hips back a fraction, the thick, heavy curve of his ass pressing invitingly. “Shove it in. Don’t be gentle. I want to go back on stage still feelin’ you every time I move.”

His hole flutters visibly, clenching once around nothing before relaxing again, shiny and eager. The rest of him is pure invitation: the exaggerated flare of those soft hips, the way his double-jointed legs keep him steady and open, the low sway of his heavy, furred balls between his thighs, and the thick white cock already half-hard and leaking against the underside of his skirt. He glances back over one shoulder, heterochromatic eyes half-lidded, golden fang flashing in a wicked little grin.

“C’mon, doll,” he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to roughen at the edges. “I can take it. Want every inch. Want to feel that stretch burn all the way through the next set.” One of the hands spreading himself flexes, pulling a cheek even wider, showing off the way his hole twitches in anticipation. The other hand drifts lower for a second, giving his own heavy sac a lazy squeeze before returning to hold himself open. “Fuck me like you mean it. Leave me walkin’ funny. Leave me drippin’.”

He stays like that—arched, presented, hole shining and waiting—breathing a little faster now, the theatrical confidence still firmly in place even as his hips give another impatient little rock. The club bass keeps pounding through the door, counting down those five minutes with every heavy beat.

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