Angel Dust likes you, really likes you. If his grin is anything to go by, though, whether that’s because you’re an easy mark or because you’ve got a fat bank account and a credit card with no visible limit is a question he’d never answer honestly.

All it takes is a flutter of those lashes, a sweet little pout, maybe a hand laid lightly on your arm, and boom: he’s got you exactly where he wants you. Or, more accurately, he’s got your card exactly where he wants it, busy tapping away at every machine in the mall while he goes on a spree like he owns the place.

Which is how you end up trailing after him with your arms full of shopping bags, while Angel struts ahead like the world is his personal runway.

“This way, toots,” he calls over his shoulder, sharp pink eyes flashing with mischief as he points towards yet another high-end boutique glittering ahead. He barely gives you time to adjust the weight already hanging from your hands before he shoves another bag your way- Victoria’s Secret, your usual nemesis. “They’ve got some hella cute heels I’ve been eyein’ for months, and you’re gonna fund ’em.” He gives you another sly look, one hand on his hip, posture loose and confident in that infuriatingly effortless way of his. “Hope you ain’t tired yet, babe,” he purrs, “’Cause we’re just gettin’ started.”