1-16

Pride Ring

Corset sat in the seedy bar, eyes scanning the teeming throng of miserable Souls as they milled about. He sipped his drink, a bellini or Hell's closest approximation thereof, and smirked. It wouldn't be long now, a matter of time, really, before his plan was in motion and upon its success so too would he take his rightful place near the pinnacle of Creation. He just had to find them, his own key, his agent for the Princess' absurd little passion project. His ascension and success were inevitable, true, but he still needed to be cautious, choosey. This agent needed very specific traits and in the right proportions. They needed to be intelligent enough to improvise, but not so much as to realize their value. They needed to be tough, resilient, but not so much as to be too famous or well-renowned to be caught dead at the Hotel. These traits could be found in abundance in Hell, naturally but the cincher, the true ingredient for his ideal agent, was far less so: insecurity.

His agent needed to be crafty, resourceful, resilient, but with these traits restrained by an all-consuming, self-sabotaging insecurity and a slavish need for approval; the ideal rube for a master manipulator such as Corset. The perfect mix of tough and stubborn, enough so to not immediately fold in the presence of demons such as Alastor, but pathetic and buffoonish enough to believably apply for Charlotte's little scheme. A tall order, but hardly hen's teeth, especially now that he had his Master's resources at his disposal.

The grinning incubus was shaken from his rumination by a thunderous explosion that rattled the club. He looked around for the source, eyes landing on the massive flat screen TV hanging above the bar, the speakers thudding as explosions flared on the screen. Corset scoffed and rolled his eyes; everything in Hell was a competition, even sound systems in dingy clubs, apparently. He took notice of what was actually happening and his eyes lit up. On it was a live news broadcast, Channel 666 naturally, covering the most recent territorial dust-up between two minor demons-of-note. The news drones hovered around the tight, shapely figure of none other than Cherri Bomb, the unwitting destructive deliverer of his first serving of providence. Not for a second did Corset consider her a candidate for his scheme. Seven no! Rather, it was her 'dance partner' that drew the incubus' interest.

"How many times do I have to teach you this lesson, Old Man?" Cherri crowed, surrounded by the remains of her opponent's latest death-bot. "This turf's mine, or did you forget the last time I explained that to you?"

"Ssssilence ssslattern!" A tall, well-dressed naga-demon hissed, his hood flaring out from under his top-hat, many eyes blazing as he flexed his talons; Sir Pentious, another minor figure in that part of Hell. "As much as I'm loathe to give you the sssatisfaction, you're the reassson I'm here!"

"You asking me out on a date, Danger-Noodle?" Cherri scoffed from across the rubble strewn street, admiring the destruction. "If so… shit, I'm kinda impressed!"

Sir Pentious' many eyes went wide, a palpably pathetic hopeful glint in them. "Wh-what? Really?! D-do you mean it?"

"Yeah, nevermind," sneered Cherri, visibly icked out. "You ruined it."

"Oh," Sir Pentious deflated, rallying quickly and snarling. "And no! I've no desire to canoodle with a cycloptic ssslut like you! I merely wanted to test out my newest weapon sssystems, and who better to stress tessst my mechanical abominationsss than a brute like you!?"

"Is that so?" Cherri snorted, chuckling. "I'm flattered!"

"Ssso you like to be flattered, eh?" Sir Pentious hissed, a wide toothy grin on his ophidian face. "Let'sss see how you like getting flattened!"

"Hey, I've heard of worse ways to spend an afternoon!" Cherri Bomb cackled, crossing her arms across her bountiful chest, hissing red bomblets manifesting between her fingers. "Let's dance, Penny!"

Sir Pentious pressed a button on his lapel, the feed cut over to his hovering airship base, a quartet of smoke trails arcing downwards from its superstructure. The feed cut back to Pentious, now flanked by four ovoid battle-mechs, each one piloted by his absurd little egg-like minions. The battle-mechs held out their arms, cutting saws unfolding and roaring to life as three-fingered shearing claws snapped and gnashed. From their bodies, extending on articulated metal struts, came all manner of weapons ranging from ray-guns to flamethrowers to missile pods.

"Egg Bois! Time to ssshow this monocular muppet and all of Hell what it means to cross Sssir Pentious!" The snake-demon roared, striking a dramatic pose. "Sssmoke this foo'!"

A round of derisive groans rose from the patrons of the club as they rolled their eyes and turned back to their drinks. Corset smirked and picked up his own beverage, steadying it while the club's admittedly impressive sound system shook the entire building as the melee raged on the screen. Anyone who'd been in Hell for more than a month already knew the outcome of this particular scrap. The blustering oaf would send wave after wave of gizmos and minions into the walking meatgrinder that was Cherri Bomb, only for them to fail explosively, whereupon he would unveil some manner of 'secret weapon' he'd been saving for himself... and get subsequently trounced and sent packing, usually aflame and screaming. Despite Sir Pentious being the punchline to every joke cracked in Hell, as his proven track record of failure and cringe-inducing attempts to be 'cool' and 'hip' would support, there were few who would deny his tenacity and…

Ah?

Ah…

"Perfect…" Corset crooned, turning back to the TV. "Oh, that's perfect!"

Predictably, Cherri had made short work of the mechs, prompting Pentious to don some manner of clunky raygun-gothic styled power armor, firing death-ray blasts and missile barrages at the much tougher, more agile Cherri. She leapt into the air, avoiding a death ray, only to be beset on all sides by a sextet of micro-missiles. The missiles flew on predictable flight-paths, making them a pittance to swat and kick away, blasting holes out of the surrounding buildings. With a grin and a perfectly timed ax-kick, Cherri sent the last missile spiraling down towards Pentious. The power-armored demon snarled in surprise and leapt back, rocket motors roaring to life as he evaded his own detonating ordinance. He hung in the air, bobbing about sluggishly as his rockets barely kept his bulky power-armor aloft. He blasted away with beam cannons at the nimble demoness as she darted about on the ground, hurling bomblets that, surprisingly, went wide each time.

"Did you get some dussst in your eye, ssslattern?" Sir Pentious cackled as another bomblet streaked over his shoulder. "Are you even trying to hit me?"

"Nope!" Cherri said, stomping down on a manhole cover, flipping the heavy 2-inch thick steel plate into the air like a tiddly-wink, snatching it out of the air.

"What do you mean 'nope'? What have you…?" Sir Pentious said, looking around at his surroundings, the feed cutting as various news-drones zeroed on the half-dozen trigger-bombs scattered all about the warzone, detonators blinking. "…Oh. Uh-oh."

"Hey Shit-Twizzler!" Cherri called out, hurling the 300lb manhole cover like a super-sonic Frisbee. "Catch!"

Sir Pentious grunted as the steel disc slammed into his midsection, sending him hurtling backwards and into the nearest trigger-bomb. It detonated with a resounding flash of heat and light, sending the armored-demon tumbling through the air, trailing smoke, fire, and bits of armor, slamming into the opposite building… and into another bomb. This process repeated three more times, Sir Pentious bouncing back and forth between buildings, propelled by great cracks of fire and blastwaves, shearing ever more of his absurd armor from his increasingly battered, smoldering body. He finally landed on an upturned oil tanker, his armor a sparking tatters of metal and circuitry.

On the tanker was, of course, the final bomb.

With a terrific thudding explosion, the tanker detonated, coating the street from side to side in burning green prometheum. Sir Pentious' screaming, blazing form arched through the air, trailing smoke and fire.

'He'll do just perfectly!' Corset gleefully thought to himself. 'After a stylish public pummeling like this, it'll be a trifle to convince that bumbling buffoon to be my inside demon! Now all I have to do is track him down and–hold on.' Corset squinted as he looked up at the screen, where Cherri Bomb stood, holding a disinterred streetlight in her powerful talons like a baseball bat; behind her was a very familiar looking club. 'Oh for the love of–this place doesn't have a good sound system! Those two morons are literally outside right now!'

Sir Pentious streaked through the air towards the one-eyed bombshell like a flaming soft-pitch. With a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a laugh, Cherri swung the street lamp, clobbering the snake demon out of the air, sending him careening towards the club, smashing into its side. Corset grabbed his drink and dove out of the way as the naga-demon came crashing through the wall, obliterating the table the incubus had been sitting in not a second ago. Sir Pentious tumbled across the dance floor, skidding to a stop in a crumpled, smoldering heap, groaning feebly as he tried to rise.

'Huh,' Corset thought to himself, downing his drink in a single draught. 'He's much tougher than he looks. All the better!'

"Ah, shit! Foul ball!" A ferocious female voice called out from behind him, he turned to see Cherri Bomb standing in the newly-installed window of the club as she waved the streetlight back and forth. "I really gotta work on my follow-through."

"Hrgrghll…" Sir Pentious gurgled.

"Hey, Edgelord!" Cherri bellowed. "Peel your ass outta that dive-bar and get back out here! This ain't over until I hit a home-run!"

"Y-you'll have to do b-better than that, ssstrumpet!" Sir Pentious sputtered as he shakily rose on his coils. "And really? Bassseball? For an Australian, that'sss just not cricket!"

"Maybe you'd prefer I play football with your head instead?" Cherri snarled as she marched into the club.

'Right then, that's my cue,' Corset thought to himself, stepping between them. 'Best to recruit him now while he's still in this area code.' "Oh, excuse me? Miss Bomb? Might I say that was a wonderful fight just now!"

"One side, ringscraper!" Cherri growled, stomping towards them. "I'll autograph your assless chaps after I'm done with the soon-to-be fleshlight here."

"An autograph? Gracious no!" Corset chuckled, oily. "I was thinking more of a… kiss."

Before Cherri could react, Corset placed his fingertips to his lips and drew out a swirl of pink, shimmering energy, forming it into a pair of lips and blowing them at the incensed Sinner. The ephemeral lips danced through the air and into her snarling face, dispersing in a small glittering cloud. Cherri Bomb recoiled, waving away the cloud, outrage and confusion clear on her face before it went slack, her x-pupiled eye rolling up in her socket. Corset snickered and reached out, giving a light shove, causing the destructive cyclops to topple over backwards, unconscious.

Sir Pentious cautiously slithered up to Corset, who was polishing his talons on his lapel, looking exceedingly pleased with himself. "How… how did you do that?"

"Please! I'm an incubus, my blood-type is rohypnol!" Corset scoffed, beckoning the stunned Sinner to follow him. "Now, I suggest you follow me. She won't be out for long, and I think we'd rather that she not stick her nonexistent nose into our business."

"Huh? Business?" Sir Pentious said, perplexment giving way to indignance. "And what businessss do I have with you, exactly?"

"Oh, just a little errand. A trifle, really," said Corset, arching an eyebrow at the Sinner. "But one with a hefty reward~"

"Reward?" Sir Pentious inquired, interested now, as he followed after him. "What kind of reward?"

"My friend…" Corset chuckled loathsomely, grinning. "How about everything your vile little heart desires?"

[X]

Lust Ring, Asmodai Tower

The air in the office space was electric.

Literally.

Hairs stood on end and clothes clung and crackled as the air took on the low but noticeable odor of burning wires, of ozone. Staff tiptoed about as they went about their business, occasionally jolting when a careless touch or brush would surprise them with a sudden and unpleasant zap of static. Even as they diligently continued with their duties, their eyes would never stray far from the source of the energy crackling in the air, the huge ornate crenelated door at the far end of the workfloor, the office of their Lord, their liege, the Ruler of Lust and Deadly Sin, King Asmodeus.

The assorted office workers collectively jumped as the elevator dinged, the doors opening to reveal a tall, skinny, bespectacled baphomet, in his arms several rolled up blueprints. The nebbish goatman stepped into the office, flinching as the ionized air rolled over him, his chartreuse fur crackling and standing on end with static. He looked around at the startled workers, confusion clear in his horizontally-pupiled eyes.

"Mango!" Whisper-shouted King Ozzie's secretary, a shapely succubus by the name of Stiletto. "Jeez! You almost gave us all a heart attack!"

"I can see that," Mango said as we walked into the charged room. "What's going on up here?"

"It's King Ozzie," said one of the office workers, an imp named Tellie, as he typed on his laptop with a pair of pencils to spare his fingers intermittent shocks. "He's in something of a mood today."

"A… mood?" Mango said, trying and failing to smooth out his electrified fur. "What kind of mood? A bad mood?"

"A 'bad mood' he says!" Laughed Stiletto, misting him with a spray bottle, causing his fur to settle. "Try 'apoplectic'."

Mango swallowed nervously. Ozzie? Mad? Among the Seven, Ozzie was renowned as being one of the more affable and gracious, save for perhaps Queen Bee. What could possibly be agitating His Lord into such Satan-esque displays of power? He then remembered the blueprints in his arms, his heart sinking. True, the project had hit a few snags here and there, with disagreements between the director and co-director leading to some minor delays, but nothing to get too 'apoplectic' about! In fact that was par for the course, and Ozzie understood that. So why the anger?

"So, what's that you got there?" Stiletto said, pointing to the blue prints, eyes widening. "Are those the final drafts for the Royale 55 Project?"

"Er, yes? Yes, they are." Mango cleared his throat and began to unroll one. "I brought them up here for His Majesty to review and, upon approval, we can get to work on the proto–"

"Great! Great news!" Stiletto interrupted, dragging him over to the office door. "Ozzie's been pacing around in there all day, stewing over something. We-I mean–He really needs something to take his mind off of whatever's gotten him into such a tizzy!"

She reached out for the door, stopping when Tellie called out. "Pump the breaks, Stil. Get the intern to do it."

"What? Why?" Inquired Mango.

Tellie whistled and snapped his fingers. "Ayo Intern! We got a job for you!"

A scantily clad, somewhat indignant incubus walked over. "I have a name."

"And a job," said Tellie, rolling his eyes, pointing at the blueprints. "Deliver those to King Ozzie, will you?"

The intern sighed and took the blueprints from the baphomet and reached out for the door. "Pardon me, Your Majesty, but we just got some–HRRRRRKKK!"

The instant the door creaked open, the intern vanished in a flash of light and smoke as a thrumming electric crackle split the air, the stench of ozone trebled in the office along with a nauseating waft of burned meat. The intern's charred body stood for a moment, hand still grasping the door handle, wisps of smoke and steam trailed from dozens of different parts of his body, blue and red arcs of energy snapping and crackling as they danced over his skin. The carbonized hand clutching the handle crumbled into dust and the stiff smoldering corpse keeled over backwards with a dry, crunching 'thud', landing at the feet of a horrified Mango and Stiletto.

"Should have knocked first. He's in a mood, remember?" Tellie sniffed, disinterestedly returning to his work. "Anyway, that's what interns are for, right? In you go, Mango."

Mango turned to Stiletto, who was still staring at the flash-fried rookie. "Y-yeah."

He reached down and took the curiously pristine blueprints from the lad's crumbling, charred fingers and stepped through the crack in the door and into His Majesty's office. "Er… Y-Your Majesty?"

Stooped over his desk was King Asmodeus, 15 feet tall and literally glowing with power, his enormous form outlined with a lightning-white corona of fury. One of the phantasmal faces in his fiery blue mane turned about, seeing the trembling peon.

"Hm? Oh, come in Mango," Ozzie said, not looking up from the paperwork on his desk, his usually jovial voice now flat, disinterested. One could mistake it for bored were it not for the rage literally burning the air around him. "What's that smell?"

"Th-the intern, uh, he–"

Mango shut his mouth when Ozzie spun about, glowing eyes darting over to the open door, the scorchmark on the carpet outside. "Oh for the love of–! Ugh! Sorry! Sorry! Really, my bad. I'm just a little, uh, stressed."

"Stressed, Your Majesty?" Mango inquired, glancing down at the blueprints in his arms. "About th-the Royale 55?"

Ozzie blinked in confusion before turning back to his desk. "Hm? Oh, uh, yeah sure. That's what it is. Are those the blueprints, then?"

"Yes, Y-Your Majesty! We have–" Mango stammer, stepping forward to offer them to his Lord, only to find himself standing atop Asmodeus' desk, the blueprints spread out at his feet as the Demon King pored over them. "Uh… Well, we have three models that seem the most promising. Pending your approval, we can whip up a prototype in no time flat!"

"Took you long enough," Ozzie grumbled, under his breath, his jagged crescent mouth curling into a smirk as he looked over the schematics. "Outstanding… I have no Hellish idea how you lot managed to get a life-sized cast of Orobas' schlong, but here we are!"

"It wasn't easy. So many interns…" Mango said, buoyed by the apparent positive shift in his King's mood. "But anyway! I'd like to go over some of the primary features of each model."

"Wait." Ozzie's enormous taloned finger set down on the desk, stabbing into the blueprint and the desk with a 'thwock', his eyes narrowing. "The vibrator motors."

"Er, yes?" Mango said, cocking his head to the side. "They're D-R117s, they–"

"I know what they are!" Ozzie snapped. "My suggestion was the D-R225s!"

"O-oh? Well, uh, you see, Director Snoss felt that the 225s would add to production costs as well as being more difficult to scale for smaller models."

"So he went with stuffing ten fucking 117s in there!?" Ozzie snarled, pinching the bridge of his beak.

Mango swallowed despite his dry throat and nodded. "H-he felt that this way we could simply add or subtract motors for larger or smaller models."

"We're talking over 10lbs of silicon for the life-sized model! Ten 117s aren't going to be enough for the 'Rip and Tear' setting! Only the 225s can do that without burning out!" Ozzie growled, slamming a fist the size of a beachball down on the desk, almost knocking Mango off his hooves as his mighty aura burned the air anew. "Snoss is as clumsy with a fake cock as he is with a real one!"

Mango yelped as the Demon King summoned a orbuculum in a flash of hellfire. The crystal shimmered as the image of the designer's workshop appeared within. Director Snoss, a robustly-built Incubus, turned around, at his side was a shapely baphomet by the name of Selma, Snoss' longsuffering co-director.

"Ah, Your Majesty," Snoss said, looking exceedingly pleased with himself. "I trust that Mango has delivered the–"

Snoss vanished in a flash of light and smoke, in his place now stood a humanoid statue of salt, its crude features twisted into an agonized scream of pain and horror, smoke trailing from its rictus mouth and dark, empty eyesockets.

"Yii!" Selma squealed in shock and terror. "What the f–?!"

"Replace the 117s from the schematics with 225s, place the gel-pump for the flare feature in the tip for larger models and mid-shaft for smaller ones to prevent binding in the intake and outtake channels, and revise the silicon for the barbs, ZY-1105 or something soft like that," said Ozzie, not taking his eyes off the horrified baphomet as he rolled up the blueprints and handed them to Mango. "This is your project now, Director Selma."

"Uh–" Selma managed to say before the orbuculum vanished in a flare of hellfire.

"Now," said Ozzie, turning back to a petrified Mango. "Any word on the new formula for the automatic precum-feature? Standard cum-lube is too viscous for the electric pumps."

"T-testing is underway," Mango replied, his mind having switched to autopilot. "Two batches seem promising."

"Mhm, keep me apprised."

With a wave of his hand the baphomet was standing in the middle of the office, blueprints in his shaking hands.

"Uh..." Stiletto said, looking up from the charred intern on the floor, now covered with a blanket as an imp janitor scraped melted shoe-rubber and char from the marble floor. "Did it go well?"

"He's still alive, ain't he?" Tellie scoffed, shuffling his papers. "I'd call that a win."

Mango opened his mouth to answer when the elevator doors whooshed open, causing them all to jump. With a burst of confetti and a bombastic tune, articulated mechanical limbs rushed into the room, followed shortly by the spinning and gyring form of Fizzarolli, Hell-famous jester and their Liege's favorite pet.

"WAZZUP WORKER BEES! FIZZI'S IN DA HOU–" Fizzarolli began, stopping when he sniffed the air, his snout curling as he waved away the air in front of his face. "Phew! Smells like beef'n'battery barbecue in here! Did one of you dipshits' laptops explode or something?"

"Or something," muttered Mango, clutching the blueprints.

"Oh, hey! Those for the Royale-55?" Fizz said, snatching one of the prints and unrolling it, looking it over and sucking his teeth. "Tsk tsk! Are those D-R117s? With a toy this size, that dog won't hunt!"

The staff sighed in relief. Normally, the grating clown was a cause of groans and consternation among the overworked staff, but in this particular instance the garish imp's presence was not unlike a Godsend.

"Not quite, Mr. Fizzarolli," said Stiletto, jabbing a thumb at the still-smoking body on the ground, faint wisps of smoke trailing out from under the cover. "His Majesty's in something of an Old Testament mood today."

"Yeah," said Tellie, nodding at the office door. "Think you could jump in there and lighten the mood? I'm getting sick of typing with pencils."

"Old Testament? Uh-oh..." Fizzarolli said, his croon uncharacteristically subdued, before heading for the door. "I'll see what I can do to calm the raging cock."

With that, the cyborg jester slid by the traumatized baphomet, slipping the print back under his arm and delivering a reassuring smack to his rump before streaking into their King's office. Almost instantly, the sticky, greasy ionized air calmed, receded, before vanishing entirely. The officerworkers sighed, relieved, before setting about their usual work.

Mango shuffled off towards the elevator, stepping inside and pressing the button for the designing floor.

'So...' Mango thought to himself as he played over the events in his mind. 'Does this make me the co-designer now? That means I'll get a raise, right?'

(X)

Fizzarolli stepped into Ozzie's office, eyes drawn to his enormous lover sitting behind his desk, leaning his head on his hand as he glared at nothing in the middle distance. Ozzie glanced over at him, his face literally lighting up with a smile, his fiery mane flaring with joy.

"Fizzy~!" Asmodeus trilled, getting to his feet and stomping over. "I thought you were doing a show today!"

"Eh, the chump cut the show short," Fizzarolli grumbled, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. "Something about his wife finding out about his boyfriend. Whatever, it was a lame venue anyhow, Mammon being a chintzy bastard as usual."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Monkey," said Ozzie, offering his hand, allowing Fizz to slither up his extended arm and plod down on his shoulder. "I'm just glad you're here. I've been in such a tizzy recently!"

"Yeah..." Fizzarolli said, clearing his throat. "I noticed. What'd that poor douche do for you to fry him like that?"

"Hm? Oh, that." Ozzie sighed and shook his head. "That was an accident. Must have grabbed the handle without knocking first or something."

"Pssh!" Fizz scoffed. "We gotta put bells on these guys or something."

"We tried that once, remember?" Ozzie said, wryly. "There's only so many times I can hear that 'y'know, like, Nyah' meme before I want to outlaw catboys!"

"Ugh, catboys!" Fizzarolli groaned. "That's so 2015 Tumblr!"

Ozzie chuckled and sighed, scratching his beloved imp under the chin with an enormous talon. "You always know how to make me smile, Fizzy~"

"S'what I do!" Fizzarolli said, proudly. "But still, what's got you going all 'Satan' today? Is it that whole 'Key' thing?"

"What do you think?" Ozzie moaned, rubbing his temples. "This whole thing has been an unmitigated disaster! First the Key gets lost in Hell, then it turns up at Charlotte's, then I lose the Rocks! If this shit goes any further south, we're gonna set up shop in the Ninth Circle! And to top it all off, the only one with any idea of how to get that little prick back in my clutches is Corset of all demons!"

"Yeah, okay, fair enough," said Fizz, shrugging. "I can see why you'd be a bit antsy. But hey! Show some faith in that skinny cenobite wannabe! I mean, sure, he's a snobby creep who can't smile without face-hooks and a leather whip, but if there's one thing you can rely on him to do is save his own ass, no matter what!"

"You really think so?"

"Hey, worst case Ontario, he fails and the Key's still safe," Fizarolli said, scritching Ozzie's mane. "And who knows? Maybe that blonde bimbo is right and she can redeem him or whatever?" Ozzie glanced over at Fizzarolli, his expression incredulous. "Look, I know this whole thing is fucky, but if she can get him outta Hell, the only place he can go is Earth on account of that whole 'Hell Monkey' pact, right? Brat gets outta Hell, away from Lucy, and you can just grab him later, or even try to open the Gates from Up There again, yeah? I mean, you got how many Succubi under your payroll? All of them, if I recall correctly."

Asmodeus thought on this for a moment. Perhaps Fizzarolli had a point? Naturally, the notion of redemption was absurd, but that also raised a few pointed questions. If the Princess knew what the boy was, which she no doubt did, why had she not alerted her father? Well, probably because Lucifer would either kill the brat, or worse, keep him as a 'toy'. So, she was obviously sheltering him, protecting him from Hell and her father. But why keep him here at all? She was certainly connected enough to portal a Human back to Earth, so why hadn't she? Either she wanted to keep him for herself or... she couldn'tget him back to Earth! Did the lad have a few sins to his name, sins that were keeping him in Hell? Who could say? This whole situation was unprecedented, after all.

"A fair point, Fizzy-Frog," said Ozzie, tapping his beak in contemplation. "So, my plan hinges on one of two outcomes. 1: Corset is able to get a pawn in the Hotel to draw the boy out, or 2: redemption is not only possible, but Princess Charlotte of all demons can do it? Ah, well, you know how I like to keep my options open... either way, the Key will be mine, the Gates will open, and Heaven will fall." He signed, sitting down on his desk throne and sagging in relief.

"Ain't no one stopping us this time!" Fizzarolli cackled.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Fizzarolli," Ozzie smiled, all three of his faces grinning ear to ear. "I mean that."

"Well… I got off work early." Fizzarolli wiggled his eyebrows. "You know what they say when daddy comes home early unannounced."

Ozzie let out a deep hearty chuckle, biting his lip. "Oh dear. It seems I'm going to be in quite the pickle~" he stood up and sauntered over his desk.

He can handle being a bottom this time around.

"And boy I am gonna pound it into ya~" Fizzarolli flickered with his snake tongue making the towering Embodiment of Lust shiver. "Making a mess in your office? Someone oughta teach ya a lesson~"

Oh yes. A cyborg imp becoming more dominant and assertive?

He should send an apology letter to Stolas. He knew all too well how that rush of taboo feels.

(X)

The phone buzzed on the table as calls and prompts and texts all jostled with one another. Usually the sound of her phone blowing up was music to her ears, the attention and renown it implied a salve for her ego. But now, the incessant buzzing and the notion of giving herself over to a legion of lustful humans made her stomach churn. To be fair, there wasn't much that didn't make her stomach churn ever since that fateful run-in with her smirking piss-haired muppet of a brother.

Panty groaned and rolled out of bed, her joints aching and head pounding as her newly-human immune system tried to burn away whatever bevvy of bugs she'd picked up from her less-cautious clients. She stumbled over to her bathroom, stepping around wadded up tissues, used condoms and their wrappers. The condition of her apartment had only worsened since that day, as her cleaning lady took one look at her and called the CDC, who promptly welded her door shut.

Pussies.

She looked at herself in the mirror, grimacing at what she saw. Her formerly perfect features were gone. Full and youthful cheeks were now sunken and haggard. Bright blue eyes practically glowed in deep dark sockets. Her previously flawless skin was now somehow both pale and flushed with fever, ashen and dry despite the near-constant flop sweat.

And the blemishes…

Panty had never had to consider her diet before, indulging her love of spicy, greasy, salty foods at least as often as her bottomless lust. Pimples, blackheads, and weeping ulcers dotted her face, and the less said about her nethers, the better. Toxins and disease was literally extruding from every pore, all the foulness she had partaken in as an immutable Angel was now bearing down on her frail, vulnerable human body without mercy or respite. If this kept up, she could…

"See you soon, Stocking…" Panty croaked, smiling at her diseased reflection with yellow and black teeth.

She rushed over to the toilet and was sick again. A 'plink' echoed through the bathroom as something small and hard hit porcelain. Panty looked down into the ruddy filth of the toilet bowl, seeing nothing, before reluctantly exploring her mouth with her tongue. Where her left incisor had been was now a tender gap, her mouth filling with the foul taste of pus. Panty collapsed to the foul linoleum floor, curling up as she sobbed quietly to herself.

She couldn't take it anymore.

She couldn't go out this way.

As the final remnants of her stubborn pride and indomitable will stained the sides of the toilet bowl, she stumbled through her apartment to her nightstand, coughing all the while.

Panty reached for her phone…

…And Boxer's card.

Big thanks to Wr1teAn0n for writing this up. But yeah, Panty is going thru it and has given in. Pentious is about to be used ss a patsy(what else is new) and Ozzie isn't having a good time.

I'll be working on this next. More brief and Loona interactions to come, and Corset and Boxer's plans are in motion…

Hope you all enjoyed. Hope we put out a better product than season2 or helluva boss as a whole(last few episodes have been very decent tho not gonna lie).