Money is Money, Baby (Hazbin Hotel M/M)

ACrazyWizard Feb 17th, 2019 253 Never
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  1. Money is Money, Baby
  3. By Laz Briar
  5. (Author's Note: This is a smutty piece of erotica. Specifically, a written piece of fanfiction starring the characters of YOU, Anon, and Angel Dust, from Hazbin Hotel. If you're unfamiliar with the latter, I suggest you check it out and all it's related works! If you're unfamiliar with the former, I suggest seeing a doctor! This story also contains lots of M/M sexual stuff. Lots of it. With you and a gangster spider.)
  7. In your prime, in your mortal life, you were a thief, an architect of the heist. From convenience store to bank did you plan and scheme your way through the world, moving from one massive robbery to the next. But one day, things went awry, and a reflexive bullet from a repugnant officer brought you low. Now your soul is cast to the bowels of Hell, in this place called Pentagram City. But you’ve found even in Lucifer’s domain, there’s money to be made.
  9. Sometimes, though, your desire for cash leads you to strange bedfellows. . .
  11. -*-
  13. The Gadzooks Gang might have had an upper hand in muscle when it came to smearing the streets with the guts of their enemies, but they weren’t so good at protecting their fat stacks of cash. Oh, it was just too easy! A controlled explosion, a smoke bomb, some quick confusion capitalization! Hah! Before the bastards could even blink you were already out the door, suit pockets layered with demonic denars, sack bloated with ill-gotten gains.
  15. “Gadzooks!” they cried. “We dun’ been robbed!”
  17. That’s right you twisted shits, you mused in self-fellating satisfaction, you’ve been had by the wiley wits of me, Anon!
  19. Of course, you didn’t say this. Not to them. Not directly. More like, tiny, handful, couple, few hundred yards away from one of their operating “bases.” And you didn’t say it, you just thought it. But you would, eventually, once you got your own posse together. Yeah, things would be sweet then. All of Pentagram City would shudder at the incredible guile of Anon: Master Thief! And then you’d strut right back to them (behind an entourage of armed guards) and shout: that’s right! I robbed you! Such was your art, after all.
  21. It deserved better, this city, this little pocket of Satan’s spunk. It was a mess! Some disorganized nightmare of violence, drugs, and monstrous orgies! Every other year, or so you learned, it had to cleanse itself of, well, itself, just to maintain a sense of order. Vagrants and demons and abominations from all walks of the afterlife slammed together, carving up pockets of self-indulgent cliques until they perished under the weight of their own sin. Or died. Mostly died.
  23. How does one die twice? You didn’t know. Not that you specifically cared, your interest was getting fucking rich. And luckily, Hell was all about the pursuit of one’s own desires, no matter how perverse. It was a reflection of the world’s ugliness, as one might expect, a dizzying carnival of brightly colored nightmares and substances. You fit right in. Just had to avoid the “getting your immortal soul torn to pieces” part.
  25. You had big plans for this city. A grand heist, a marvelous display of extreme wit and skill to which all the eyes of every demon and succubus would have no choice but to marvel at! Your triumph would be legendary, even in hell! You just had to get the posse together. And the supplies. And your own hideout. And money. . .
  27. Pah! A minor setback. Sure, you were rushing down the neon-soaked streets of an unfriendly underworld with no weapon and no escape and no wheelman, but things could be worse! Why, you could be getting chased by the Gadzook Gang as they threatened to strangle you by your own entrails!
  29. “We’re gonna’ strangle you with your own entrails, fucker!”
  31. Oh.
  33. The indelicate roar of an ugly vehicle caught your attention, an array of unsightly fellows just pouring out the windows with their rabid gazes, frothy pig-faces contorting with a series of swears. And hands. Hands which held meat hooks and chains and bats and oh god was that a dildo covered in razor blades.
  35. So, suppose you should’ve picked a better escape route than running down the street in a single, straight line. But live and learn, eh? There were always options for Anon: Master Thief!
  37. You bumbled into a figure as you quickened your dash, an irate demon in sleazy jacket with dismal green skin and features like a mangled serpent.
  39. “Wuzzafuck!?” it said. Oh, hey, an option!
  41. “Hey buddy,” you say wearing a panicked grin. “Wanna get rich?”
  43. It eyes you, confused. “Wuh?”
  45. Ahh, no good deed without sacrifice. In other words, you’ll have to burn some of this fresh cash to make space. You yank out a few bills, waving it in the demon’s face, who apparently gets the idea. You toss said wad into the street, of which the thing promptly jumps after. As do – to your surprise – many others.
  47. With a smug chuckle, you round a corner, coming across a little four way. A pack of dim-witted fools should give you enough ti-
  48. There’s a sound that’s like meat getting thrown into a mass grinder, accompanied by the screams and grunts of inhuman entities, intermixed with raining limbs. Oh. Well, it appears the Gadzooks giving you the hot chase decided to uh, run right the fuck through the crowd. Suppose you aren’t that surprised, but it doesn’t help when the freshly blood-painted death vehicle comes billowing down the road, ready to turn you into a hood ornament.
  50. Great! So, running wasn’t really an option. And you’re low on those. So, you fling yourself to the opposite street into yet more crowds of demons. There are plenty of other vehicles and bodies between you and the ‘zooks to give you some space until you figure out what to do.
  52. Oh, but these ass-angry low tier gangsters just won’t quit! One spotted you through the mess of silhouettes you slipped into and now the hoggish monstrosities are after you on foot. You’re not fond of getting acquainted with their equalizers so you speed it up, though you’re starting to attract a lot of attention. Various high-value bills are a-flutterin’ from your pockets and bag, much to the delight of the street denizens. Bah.
  54. “Oh shit, free money!” you hear one of them say.
  56. Free money!? What? That’s your hard-earned stolen cash! At this rate, every nobody in Pentagram City was going to leech off your nefarious deeds! You needed to end this chase, and quick.
  58. More denizens were gathering, following the trail of misbegotten wealth behind you. You swore enough times even Lucifer might blush; the more this kept up the easier it was for those damned Gadzooks to keep chase – not to mention your slow drop in stolen status! With an agonized grunt, you eyed your money sack with tearful apprehension, like it was a precious child. You still had stacks in your generous inner-coat pockets, but most of your earnings resided in the bag.
  60. But if you didn’t make a better distraction, the Gadzooks would turn you into tomorrow’s soup. Fucking FINE. Looking to the growing crowd, you bid your bag an adieu and lobbed it into the unsuspecting crowds. It crashed open and stolen bills vomit out like a swarm of butterflies, much to the protest of the Gadzooks. Naturally, the greedy scum of the city emerged from every rat-infested corner to take some for their own, only to receive the business end of a gang member’s blunt instrument as they attempt to both move them out of the way and stop demons from stealing the stolen money. It’s a complete mess of violence and disorganized chaos, completely beneath you. But it worked.
  62. With a mournful sigh, you take to another street corner, putting as much distance between you and the crowds of fund-fornicating entities. You can’t help but glance behind you every other second, certain the monstrous roar of a scarlet stained car would come screeching after you. Luckily, it doesn’t happen.
  64. What does happen is you graze the side of something and lose your balance, careening into the unforgiving sidewalk with an ugly thud.
  66. “GFFCK!”
  68. Your face slaps the side of concrete, dizzying you. Shit. But you don’t have time to whinge about the pain exploding in your face, you need to keep moving.
  70. “Hey, chucklefuck, watch it will ya’? You almost mussed my suit.”
  72. And now you’re getting chastised? Seething, you rise from the ground to confront the source of your current predicament, grimacing.
  73. You’ve seen a lot of things in Hell, but this one takes you off guard, even for demonic standards. A lithe frame adorned in pinstripe suit begotten by white fluff and frightening eyes casts you a dismissive glance, his multiple arms wiping off the regal fabric wrapped around his effeminate frame. You say he, because despite the robust, female appearance, his voice is a giveaway.
  75. You feel like you recognize him, and he’s certainly better dressed than half the schmucks around these parts. Your spike of anger recedes as you wobble, nursing your fresh injury.
  77. He smirks, chuckling in mock of the red streaming down your forehead.
  79. “Might wanna’ get that looked at, pal.”
  81. You wipe the warm wetness from your brow, looking past him. The sounds of the crowd are distant, but those Gadzooks still aren’t far off. They’re going to find you right quick if you don’t do something now. As much as you want to pelt this bystander with a flurry of insults and fists, you have to reconsider.
  83. Ignoring pretense, you decide to gamble on this demonic spider. That’s what you figure him for, what else could be bloody fucking be? You wipe some of the crimson muck from your face and try to adorn a pleasant demeanor, as pleasant as one can appear with a thin river of scarlet dripping down their dome.
  85. “Look, buddy, listen, you gotta’ hide me,” you say, frantically glancing down the street. “Got some real unpleasant chaps who want to turn me inside out. I could really use a place to hide!”
  87. Asking a demon in Hell for help is like introducing capitalism in Russia, and the dapper chap gives you a look like you’ve pissed on his snazzy boots.
  89. “You can’t be serious,” he says, running a gloved hand through hair. . . tuft. “You almost scratched my one of a kind Valentino. Get split sideways.”
  91. That’s not really what you wanted to hear. Nor did you like hearing the ever-nearing approach of Gadzooks thugs cleaving their way through an ever-thinning gathering of demons. Either this delicate bag of ice-queen fuckoff got you out of here or you were in for some serious hurt.
  93. “Besides, I don’t do the whole ‘kindness of my heart’ thing, you. . .”
  95. He trailed off. His wandering eye – a black sun seating a pink iris – strolls over one of your pockets and sees a frail bill waggle free.
  97. “Wha, hahahey now, what’s this?”
  99. He smirks, and with practiced swiftness lets a few digits roam into your inner pockets, noting the very healthy bulge of bills you carry. His expression shifts from agitated to mischievous curiosity.
  101. “I didn’t know you were packin, hot stuff,” he said, stripping a bill free, stretching it with two of his extra hands.
  102. “This changes everything.”
  104. He gives the bill a lick, like it’s a sumptuous appetizer, and it might as well be.
  106. “Ya’ know, I just remembered, I’m a bit more inclined to help out a poor pathetic soul. . . for the right price.”
  108. Dammit, you were trying to avoid a bribe. You already tossed most of your earnings! Now this? You grimace, anxiety pelting your chest.
  109. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” you say. “I got more where that came from if you get me the fuck out of here.”
  111. He gives you a grin most malicious, gold tooth catching the pink city lights. He took you by the arm, leading you down the street – away from the mob – tongue clicking. You suppose this will do, and you figure he might know a hidden path or two to put you at advantage.
  113. “Someone did something very bad, huh?” he continued, sauntering along the roadside, free arm waiving for a cab.
  115. You aren’t about to engage this salacious spider with your master plans. He couldn’t possibly comprehend the great schemes of Anon, such as exploding walls and feverishly putting cash in bags. There was no need to indulge him!
  117. “What’s it to you?” you say.
  119. He taps your chest, specifically the wads of bills you’ve stuffed within your suit.
  121. “All of that, troublemaker.”
  123. A cab pulls up soon after, a black vehicle with gauche, pink interior. Demons had no sense of style, it appeared. But you’re not after a ride, you need a hiding spot.
  125. “I didn’t need a cab!” you say.
  127. “Oh yes you do,” he shoots back. “Nobody stops for randos around these parts. Only primo-stars, like me. Now shut up and get inside, moneybags.”
  129. Getting into a small space with an unfamiliar, pompous, foul-mouthed spider seemed like an utterly terrible idea. But what other option did you have, aside from giving yourself up and beginning life anew as a meat popsicle?
  131. With a swift shove, the fellow nudges you inside the cab and joins you afterward, slamming the door. The cab driver – a massive eye surrounded by tendrils – looks back at you expectantly.
  133. “Get us on the other side of town,” says your ‘savior’ to the driver. “And keep it nice and steady like. We don’t want our new friend gettin’ in more trouble, eh?”
  135. The massive eye makes a noise and sets the vehicle in motion, putting you on a path away from violent, brutal death. For a moment, a sense of relief washes over you. Only replaced with new wellsprings of concern, because you don’t know who this is or where you’re going. You gambled, now came the payoff or bust.
  137. Perhaps literally, because the spider winds the bill he previously ‘extracted’ from you and stuffed it in his busty front. If he hadn’t spoken, you would’ve guessed him for a lady. Not that you’re complaining – the denizens of the underworld are a tapestry of disgusting horrors – someone, as put together as him, is a welcome relief. But it begs the question: who is he? A Master Thief like yourself needed to keep a low profile, and nothing about this enigmatic arachnid was low profile.
  139. He gets comfortable, crossing his legs, resting in the excessively cushioned backseat, letting eyes stroll over you again. You don’t notice at first, looking out the rear window, certain the Gadzooks will come flying out of the horizon with various means to impale you. Thus far, there’s nothing, save for the movement of bystanders on the street as the vehicle rumbles down the road. To where you don’t know.
  141. “So. . .”
  143. His voice catches your attention, his two arms crossed, two reclined on the seat, wearing an intrigued smirk.
  145. “What’s a ditz like you doing with all that cash?”
  147. You turn to him, defensive. “That’s my business.”
  149. He raises his hands. “Take it easy, you’re in good hands. Just curious, ya’know? I did save your ass, didn’t I?”
  151. You grumble. You don’t like the idea of revealing yourself, but you’re in pretty deep now.
  153. “I don’t even know you,” you say, rubbing your head again. The blood is still creeping out, mussing your face.
  155. The spider gives you a glance like you’ve slapped him with a wet fish. He licks his fingers, reaching over to clean your brow. You want to recoil, but his touch is. . . soft, so you allow it.
  157. “Jee-zus, toots. What garbage heap did you crawl out of? Even the bums recognize me.”
  159. Pah! You’re a master planner, you’ve no time for the gossip of Hell!
  161. “Just trying to find a somewhere to hide,” you say. “That doesn’t include knowing people.”
  163. “Yeah, I got that.”
  165. He retrieves a handkerchief and finishes cleaning your face.
  167. “Here you are, pockets loaded with bills and you won’t even till little ol’ me about the dirty deed?”
  169. You don’t trust him. Not yet. “You don’t exactly strike me as the empathetic type,” you say.
  171. He feigns a wounded look. “Oh nooo, you got it all wrong, toots. I’m very concerned about my fellow slimeball.”
  173. You peer at him. “Because of the money.”
  175. “It don’t hurt.”
  177. He senses your apprehension, so a hand comes creeping to your shoulder, giving a little rub.
  179. “Relax, sweetheart, I ain’t trying to rob you, and I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.” He winks.
  181. Is he. . . trying to flirt with you? You can’t tell. And if you weren’t so preoccupied with not dying, you might consider his advance. Well, at any rate, you’re short on options and shorter on friends. So, you concede.
  183. Sighing, you explain. “Fine, fine. I’m Anon. I’m trying to lay low because I robbed the Gadzooks Gang. It was my first masterfully executed heist, you see.”
  185. You start to go into detail about the effort and lengths you went to, the days it required to plan effectively, but you’re cut off when your ‘friend’ bursts out laughing.
  187. “Holeee SHIT!” he barks, coughing with guffaws. “You robbed those gag-me Gadzooks? You?”
  189. He buckles over, continuing to laugh, wiping a tear from eye. You’re not sure if this is a good thing.
  191. “Yes?”
  193. He settles down, beaming with chortles. “Oh, those dollar store, cock faced rejects been havin’ it coming for a long time! I wish I coulda’ seen the look on their dumbfuck faces.”
  195. It was angry, you remembered. Very, very angry.
  197. And you had no idea they held such a reputation. As far as you knew, the Gadzooks Gang were first on a long list of marks you planned to demolish with spectacular robberies. But apparently, it was winning you some favor. Lots of favor, as the fellow slides in closer, a lithe arm coming around your shoulder.
  199. “I’m really starting to like you, pockets.”
  201. “It’s Anon.”
  203. “Yeah? Sure you don’t want it to be sugar daddy?”
  205. You blink. Your savior snickers again.
  207. “Oh come on, ain’t nothing like a little stress relief after getting chased around, right?”
  209. You shift, uncertain. This fellow is wearing a lovely perfume and it’s a welcome break from the stench of blood and carnage clogging the veins of Pentagram City. He’s not so bad looking either. Enticing, even. His body is draped in thin veil of silk-like fur, white cream, spotted with pink freckles like a morning dessert. His come-hither eyes are full of promise, and you wager his mouth is good for more than just antagonistic quips.
  211. “I don’t even know your name,” you say.
  213. His two extra hands adjust the little black bowtie resting above his puffy ‘bust.’
  215. “Angel Dust, sweetie, at your service. Criminal extraordinaire around these parts, among things.”
  217. The extra hand makes a motion like it’s stroking something. It’s not really hard to figure what this Angel Dust means.
  219. “You’re named after a drug?” you say. You want to be surprised, but somehow, it’s so expected.
  221. Angel Dust beams. “You bet, toots, ‘cause I’m fuckin’ addictive.”
  223. You look behind you again, out the back window. There’s nothing there, save for the towering silhouettes of the inner city.  As far as things look, you’re safe, unless your frisky friend is leading you to a trap. He is a spider, after all.
  225. “Nobody’s gonna’ hurt you now, my wealthy comrade,” says Angel Dust, pushing his frame closer to yours. “Not unless you’re into that.”
  226. A head shake. You are most certainly not. Though, you suppose if Angel Dust wanted to hurt you he could’ve already. Not like the demons around these parts hid their motives, and despite how forward he was, he’d yet to do anything to cause you concern.
  228. “Where are we going?” you ask.
  230. He whirls a finger in the air, his hand massaging your shoulder still. “Nice little dive where I set up these days. It’s uh, a hotel, newly renovated.”
  232. “That sounds like it’ll attract a lot of attention,” you say. Hotels had visitors, didn’t they? Visitors meant eyes, and eyes were witnesses.
  234. “Naw, it’s all exclusive-like. I mean, I’m in it, how bad can it be?”
  236. You don’t know how a hotel can be ‘exclusive’ and nothing about Angel Dust is subtle. But it’s something. And, his continued proximity is starting to drag your thoughts to other things. Your anxiety is receding, your comfort is growing, and the continued attention of the spider are putting you in a different kind of mood. Maybe it’s the adrenalin, the post-glow of a narrow death-defying escape. Maybe it’s the way he keeps trying to eye-fuck you. Maybe it’s his hand on your crotch.
  238. You stiffen. So does another part of you.
  240. “Nn, uhh, aren’t we moving a little fast?”
  242. He’s grinning at you. “Some would say it ain’t fast enough.”
  244. You exhale. A blossom of warm tingles radiates from his touches, clever digits finding all the right ways to squeeze.
  246. “Ooh, did I find the good spot?” he teases. “I knew you was packin’ bills but looks like you’re stuffing something else in here too. . .”
  248. Surely you, Anon, Master Thief, can resist the wiles of this underworld harlot for a while longer! Why, a moment ago you were running for your life, and now this? Compose yourself! Your will is strong, befitting a grand tactician capable of robbing. . .
  250. Gah.
  252. Oh, your mind is trailing, because Angel Dust squeezes harder, waking up your root. You’ve come to Pentagram City, hungry with dreams of grandeur and wealth, but now, a different appetite is forming. You shiver, watching his silk-gloved hand work you over, fondling the dimensions of your hidden shaft.
  254. “What about him?” you grunt, gesturing to the driver.
  256. “Mm? Oh.”
  258. Angel Dust taps the seat with one of his free arms. “Ey’, specks, little privacy for me and my special friend, eh?”
  260. The eye produces a slimy, chortling sound, but apparently understands. A frame of black glass slides up, separating you from the front, enclosing you with Angel Dust. The backseat is dim now, painted only with the faint lights from the city, its raucous ambiance muffled. He pushes his features into your cheek, supplying a kiss.
  262. “Better?”
  264. You clear your throat. “I’m getting comfortable.”
  266. Again, he kisses you, closer to your ear, and his voice adorns a quiet, seductive melody. You’ve got his attention, and he certainly has yours now.
  268. “Gooood, let’s get nice and cozy, pockets. We’re gonna’ get real acquainted-like,” he says with a snicker.
  270. You watch him work, his practiced fingers unhinging button and zipper, your twitching member pulsing behind one more veil of undergarment fabric.
  272. “Hmf, don’t imagine you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart,” you say, feeling your ill-gotten money metaphorically burn.
  273. Angel Dust offers an approving purr upon seeing your stiffening shaft, nibbling your neck.
  275. “Worry about the price-tag later, pockets,” he says, continuing to pull away your tethers.
  277. You don’t want to because that was the entire bloody point of your robbery! But, his lips are so sweet and wet and soft. His voice is coaxing, calming you down, laden with promises not yet made, of a physical bliss so tauntingly close.
  279. As your briefs are pulled away, your stiff cock springs free, twitching against the cool air. Angel Dust gives a surprised gasp mingled with a dark, hungry growl.
  281. “I thought it was ‘sugar daddy’,” you toss back, your crown dribbling with arousal. You’re met with a wicked giggle.
  283. “Thaaaat’s the spirit, ‘daddy.’ You keep those hundies flowin’ and I’ll call you whatever you want.”
  285. His multiple limbs go to work, with a pair of hands wrapping around your fleshy pillar, stroking with experienced, precise rises and dives, twirling and caressing in all the right ways. His other hands grip you by the shoulders, holding you close, his mouth going from cheek, to brow, to lips, tasting you. Fuck. He is like a drug.
  287. “Mmm, ya’ got a fat fuckin’ dick there, toots,” he says, wiggling your length in hand while the other roams over your testes. “How’d you hide this howitzer?”
  289. You’re pretty sure he’s just laying on the compliments for a bonus, or something. But goddamn if you don’t appreciate it. Your head sinks into the cushion, content to let him work.
  291. “I am a thief, hiding is what I do,” you manage to say, groaning as his strokes continue, hastening in pace.
  293. Angel Dust’s digits squeeze you at the crown. “Well ya’ did a pretty shit job then, huh?”
  295. Normally, you’d give him such a verbal thrashing – or anyone – questioning the skills of you, Anon, Master Thief! But considering your cock was getting serviced by a pretty spider lad, things could be worse. You’ll chalk this one up as a win.
  297. His hands adopt a pendulous momentum, stroking you from base to tip, applying the perfect amount of pressure. Enough to throttle your length, to tease your stones, to caress your veiny prick until it glistens with pre.
  299. “Kah, too bad I can’t kill a key off this thing,” says Angel Dust, free fingers roaming through your hair.
  301. Somehow, this doesn’t surprise you. “Please don’t do drugs on my dick,” you say.
  303. His finger, once trailing through your hair, comes to your lips, where he presses his with yours. He grants an exploring kiss, injecting you with warm dizziness.
  305. “Don’t knock it til’ you’ve tried it, hot stuff,” he says, adorning you with a bess. “Lucky for you, I’m tryin’ to be a good boy.”
  306. Here, he shifts, lowering his head. In this moment, you realize why these demonic taxis are so spacious because Angel Dust has generous room to kneel. He’s looking up to you now, eyes wide and servile, full of devilish mischief, wearing his Cheshire grin, gold tooth glinting.
  308. You get the idea. “This is you trying to be good?” you manage to say while his extra hands come to rest on your knees.
  309. He kisses you again, but this time it’s on the tip of your flank. Nice, slow and long smooches come after, an assault of sloppy smacks filling the taxi with the sounds of debauchery. You shudder, groaning in explosive delight. He continues, making sure to supply kisses to every inch of you, each one a steady, lustful pause.
  311. “Baby, you have no idea,” he says with a dark chuckle, pushing your tip into his suckling maw, holding it there. He hums, his other free arms massaging your stones, pulling you further and further into a void of hot, sticky lust.
  313. “Mwwah!”
  315. One more kiss, popping you free, a timid trail of saliva bridging his mouth to your tip.
  317. “Eck, woulda’ brought the lipstick if I knew this was happening,” he says, a finger nudging your cock’s crown.
  319. You’re having a real hard time keeping up with his words. You’re hot, utterly fucking seething. Searing adrenalin is boiling your blood while you drown in absolute want. Christ among the dead, you haven’t been this aroused since you planned the Jay and Pete LLC heist when you were alive! Every touch and tease sends radiating bliss through your loins, and it’s hard not to just grab the spider and start ramming yourself into his throat.
  321. Angel Dust isn’t done with you yet. His tongue slips free, taking a long, heady stroke against the underside of your pole, tasting your sex, marinating your inches with his act. He sinks lower, going to your stones, applying extensive, steady licks against your testes, massaging the fat orbs with his mouth. Playful smacks come to them as well, your twitching shaft resting on his visage while he suckles your nuts, murmuring as he does.
  323. “Ah fuck,” you hiss. Using his face as an impromptu cock-rest wasn’t a bliss you were expecting today, but there it is.
  324. Angel Dust is tickled. “Daddy likes?”
  326. You manage a grunt of approval. Angel Dust chuckles, engulfing your stones in his mouth a moment, moaning as he drenches them with attention before releasing with a loud ‘pop.’
  328. You’re wondering how much this will cost you, and then you also start to not care. Heists what? Money who? No wonder demons couldn’t keep their wallets full because the money was going to whores like him. Not that you’re complaining, not anymore. The troubles of the Gadzooks Gang seem so far gone now, like a hazy dream.
  330. To continue this bliss-like state, Angel Dust retrieves your flank and proceeds to mush it into his cheeks, the sloppy bellend rubbing against his visage like a lewd makeup.
  332. “Oh god,” you hiss, observing as he outright smacks himself with your member like a self-inflicted punishment.
  333. “Nm? Not around these parts, sweetheart. Just me.”
  335. His wicked expression never fades and it seems the spider’s done toying with his food. His grip tightens on your knees and his maw descends on your length, embracing the hot inches into his moist oral chamber with a loud, audible slurp.
  337. You release an approving, relieved moan, partly for finally getting in that teasing spider and partly because of the heat. God, hot, so fucking hot, in the right ways. You stare in fiendish delight as his slippery, wrapping lips tighten and pull you in, a tedious fall until every inch of you is outright buried in his practiced throat. All the while he keeps his eyes to yours, submissive, rumbling your inches with gagging moans.
  339. For a moment he stays, his throat bulging from the sword it currently hilts, eyes tearing as though he’s challenging himself. Then, he breaks free, taking a swift gasp of air, coughing as his lips dribble with saliva and presex.
  341. “Oh, fuck. Hah. Forget the drugs, toots, this shit’s great,” he says, returning to your tip, rubbing it against his lips. “Daddy got that good dick.”
  343. You’re not sure if you’re sold on getting called ‘daddy’ by a rowdy-mouthed spider boy, but you suppose there are worst things. Like, not having your cock inches deep in him, whatever hole that might be.
  345. You don’t have time to postulate on the ‘morality’ of titles, because Angel Dust doesn’t leave you for long. He takes your flank back into his oral chamber again, but this time with feverish gusto. His mouth is tight and hot, searing suckling assaults your pike as he bounces his head off your needy root, a sloppy, loud ambiance accompanying his motions. Every stroke of his head sends rivers of hot tingles through your body, and you can only survive by gripping his hair tuft, mesmerized as he gulps your cock like his life depended on it.
  347. You shiver and groan, a stuttering slurry of mesmerized moans escaping you. You have to cup his head, hold onto him, because if you don’t you feel like you’re going to disappear. He’s so fucking good.
  349. Again, he released you, panting, opening his mouth. He takes your flank and smacks it against his tongue like it were a perverse baton, letting saliva and presex pour onto it.
  351. “Well don’t fucking stop!” you say, half angry, but mostly pleading.
  353. He nurses you by sliding his mouth against the sides of your cock, moist pressure creating pockets of pleasure wherever he touches.
  354. “Easy baby, or you’re gonna blow like a geyser,” he says, wiggling your tip. “But then again. . .”
  356. He props you against his mouth, showing teeth. For a brief second a strange sense of perverse – yet aroused – fear takes hold, as he taps your bellend against his sharp incisors. But it’s all show, because a second later he’s got you back in his metaphorical web, web meaning his fucking throat.
  358. And he’s fucking you with his throat. He whimpers, throwing you into his maw once again, a dribble of saliva pouring from his chin as he chokes you down, gagging himself on your pulsing member. You can’t help but pressure for more, your hand coaxing him by pushing against his neck as he suckles you, tight, wet pressure entombing your flank. You can feel his seductive tongue work you over too, licking and twisting in serpentine fashion, bringing you close. Close?
  360. Oh yes, so goddamn close. A pillar of release is bubbling, and you need to let it loose and specifically inside this fucking spider. Those are not words you ever imagined you’d think, but, here you are.
  362. He seems to catch this before you, because Angel Dust slams his head into your loins, lips close enough they’re nuzzling the threshold of your cock.
  364. “Mmmmmf!” he lets off a girlish, simpering, yet wanting moan, and your bestial root is only so happy to oblige.
  365. You surge, and an explosion of white, sticky seed jettisons from your end, flooding this ‘angel’s’ throat as you pour hot issue into his maw. He winces, eyelids snapping between closed focus and submissive stare, shivering as he steadily gulps down the gooey essence currently deluging his oral chamber.
  367. Oddly, your orgasm lasts longer than you’d expect, enough that Angel Dust pulls back – either out of need or lust – gooey white ropes splattering his grinning visage. He pulls open his mouth with fingers, your issue drenching him, his eyes rolling upward as if this has brought him to some carnal bliss.
  369. His face is aflush, white cream fur tinted rose, panting. You’re about the same, chest hammered with heartbeats, your cock drenched with sticky acts of sex.
  371. “Ah, fuck me, pockets,” says Angel Dust, touching his face. A string of cum forms between cheek and digit, causing him to chuckle. “I knew you was loaded but didn’t know you was loaded.”
  373. You’re admittedly astonished with just how much you. . . produced. But perhaps it was a “benefit” of being a demon. Technically you were, after all. Just not an abomination. You’re also concerned if that’s the right word. Concerned because your shaft hasn’t softened, and the usual post-orgasm sensitivity isn’t there.
  375. “But seriously,” continues Angel Dust. “Fuck me, pockets.”
  377. He pulls free another handkerchief, wiping his visage free of sticky white essence. Pity. You kind of liked seeing him mussed by, well, you. In the meantime, a semblance of common sense has returned to you, your mind briefly cleared. Something about being Anon and a Master Thief with goals and dreams and whatever.
  379. “Hah,” you chuckle weakly. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
  381. Angel Dust isn’t convinced. “Really? Your dick disagrees.”
  383. Yeah, the erection’s not going anywhere. And neither is Angel Dust, who takes it upon himself to sit in your lap. Lithe as he is, you can still feel the split of his rump, perky enough it cushions your inches – not like you needed much more tempting.
  385. “You wouldn’t deny poor Angie-wangie the dirty dick, now would’ ya?” he says, kissing your forehead. You embrace him for the first time, letting your greedy hands get a touch of the expensive fabric hugging his effeminate frame. His intoxicating perfume wafts over you again and it’s enough to get you wanting once more.
  387. “Only if you agree to never say that again,” you say.
  389. “I ain’t makin’ any promises,” he chides.
  391. “You can always shut me up,” he goes on, twirling a finger in your hair before lying back on the expansive cab seat. You suppose you could do a lot of things, but the invitation is clear. He’s like a bank vault ready to burst, with all the locks picked apart. All you gotta’ do is take.
  393. You position yourself more comfortably, pulling down tethers to give you a more accessible edge. Angel Dust, in the meantime, lets digits slide to hips as he pulls down a set of black, impractically thin panties. They anchor him by the ankles, like shackles, keeping him place, until you’re looming over him. You can see he’s quite hard too, his own member a little spigot of excited presex.
  394. “M’glad you and the cock came to an agreement,” he says, turning and pushing his rump into view. He’s not excessive by any means, but his rump is perky and enticing enough. Not like you’re judging him, at any rate.
  396. “So am I,” you say, taking the hint. You clasp his hips, procuring a gentle moan from him as he’s pushed into the door, spare hands on glass. Your loins, however, find their mark, and cock-tip presses against his pink ring you so desperately want to be inside.
  397. You’re not waiting any longer. You were almost cleaved in twain by a randy bunch of gangsters and now your money was going to a delicate harlot of Hell. You were getting your money’s worth!
  399. Your slippery length presses into the awaiting tunnel, forcing a whimpering, pleased moan from your counterpart. You grab his extra arms as you begin a piston stroke, a powerful rhythm of strikes, bouncing yourself into his pucker.
  400. For once, Angel Dust is out of clever things to say.
  402. “Hnnfuck! Mmbabethat’sgood!” is about all he manages, clashing with your own burning groans.
  403. You lean now, requiring proximity. His tunnel is so painfully good, so appropriately tight, coaxing and suckling you as you slam into him like a relentless battering ram. You press yourself close, chest to back, bills wiggling free from your coat pockets, letting arm roll under him as you grip him close. He seems to like that, letting devilish fingers fool with your own, fogging the window with his panting, his shaft twitching uncontrollably.
  405. “Like it?” you grunt into his. . . well, not ear, but head.
  407. “Don’t stop,” he says, tone high and pleading. “Dooon’t fucking stop!”
  409. You’ve no intention of doing so. In the meanwhile, certainly, you are Anon: Master Thief! You take and steal and pillage, that is your art. But even a thief can’t be greedy here. So, your palm leaves the embrace of Angel Dust’s fingers and slips to his cock, grabbing his inches and supply your own careful, thoughtful strokes. This causes him to shiver and buckle in wild approval, an unexpected token of generosity.
  411. You think of calling him something dirty, like spider-slut, but frankly you’ll leave the clever quips to him. You’re too busy fucking the drugs out of him, anyway.
  413. Dewdrops of presex dribble into your palm, coating Angel’s own length with his arousal. It makes it easier to please his smooth inches, as you maintain a momentum of rhythmic humps. The back of the cab explodes with the sounds of your coupling, a perverse orchestra of intertwining cries. Were it not for the loud ambiance of the city, anyone could hear you. No doubt your driver is more than aware of what’s going on.
  415. “Nff, letme, letme, I need it,” mumbles Angel Dust. At first, you’re not sure what he means. But he shifts, pushing you to back, promptly changing position.
  417. Now, you see his suited back, his head arched in ecstasy, hot and flushed as he proceeds to ride you with a series of furious hops and bounces. Each strike of hips to loins causes a clap of flesh, like a voyeur’s applause, his tight ring spread wide as it accepts you with each stroke. You’re practically nuzzling his prostate with your tip, and you grapple his hips, hoping to force a stronger hump with each of his feverish descents.
  419. Oh fucking fuck you didn’t think it was possible to get even more aroused, but you were proven so, so wrong. Your fleshy pillar spikes with blissful heat, ready for release, and you’d like nothing more than to empty your vaults and dump every drop of essence into this goddamn spider. So you do.
  421. “S-shit!”
  423. Angel Dust is the first to blow, however. His cock quivers, trembling to life as a spire of white explodes from his tip, dousing the cab ceiling in sticky seed. It splatters you too, dribbling onto your exposed legs. And somehow, the idea you’ve sent this inelegant demon to climax just makes it so much more satisfying. You hilt yourself, holding his thighs as you fuck yourself into his anal tunnel, punishing his pucker as you thrust upward.
  425. He meets your bounces, and then your next orgasm, as you shudder, a trembling, explosive peak bursting from your bellend. You deluge his hidden tunnel, drown him from the inside, hearing him wriggle and moan from your attentions as you lock him in place, holding on, forcing him to accept your demon seed.
  427. “Oh my fuck,” you manage to say. You don’t really have anything clever to add – your mind is a buzzing, hot mess of lustful stew. All you know is the back of the cap is a sloppy crime-scene of fornication.
  429. Angel Dust leans, gathering himself, taking a few breaths to collect himself. He then lies on your chest, hand caressing your face.
  430. “Sheesh, you’re a fuckin’ volcano,” he says. “Think I feel that one all the way up here. . .”
  432. He pats – where you presume – his stomach is. You’re admittedly surprised too, but perhaps this is a characteristic of the afterlife. Lots and lots of you to go around.
  434. “You’re a real steal, you know that?” you say. Angel Dust slowly pulls himself from you, a downpour of white seed flowing from his ring. He snickers.
  436. “Guess that’s my tip,” he says, retrieving his panties and pulling them back on. “And I don’t get stolen, babe, just paid.”
  437. Ah, yes, that. You mimic him, getting your suit attire back on, trying to look like you didn’t just fuck a spider harlot from hell. You proceed to shuffle in your inner pockets, feeling for your stacks of bills. You’re stopped though, Angel Dust’s hand coming over your own.
  439. “Whoa, easy, pockets. Wasn’t trying to hassle ya. Still gotta’ get you to my digs, remember?”
  440. He looks around, noting the utter mess you two made. “’Sides, you might wanna’ save it for the cleaning bill.”
  441. You chuckle. For once, you actually feel safer. For once, you feel like your plans for grand thieving conquests are once again in reach, despite the setbacks.
  443. Angel Dust, in the meantime, slides next to you, much like before, comforting you with his multiple, caressing arms. You’re not bothered by it this time.
  445. After a while, the cab finally slows, reaching its stop. Perhaps the driver recognized Angel Dust and knew where to go? Regardless, he slides open the door, stepping out, hand extended. Behind him, there’s a massive building of ornate scarlet – grandiose in spectacular fashion. It is absolutely not subtle and probably not where a thief should hide if they’re trying to avoid attention. But you see that spider’s mischievous smile and think, perhaps, it’s not so bad.
  447. “Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, Anon,” he says. You step out with him, rubbing your head.
  449. He takes you by the arm, reminding you to pay the driver. Much like Angel Dust, you’ve a feeling there’s more to this hotel than it seems.
  451. Jackpot.
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