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“Ahh, I forget how quaint your little apartment is!”
Vox’s teeth set a little as he grins, playing a jovial laugh over his speakers. “So you always say, Al!”
Alastor really does always say it. Vox can’t tell if he’s just so wasted by the time they make it back to Vox’s place after their occasional nights of carousing that he forgets he’s said it a million times already, or if he just enjoys being an asshole. Vox’s money is on the latter. Alastor always has a little gleam in his eye as the words spill, just a touch slurred, over his tongue. He watches Vox as he says it, like he’s waiting for a reaction.
Vox doesn’t give him one. Or he does, but not the one Alastor is goading him into.
(Or maybe Alastor is being sincere and it’s the one he wants after all. Why bother tying Vox into knots when he’s so good at doing it all by himself?)
“This way, buddy,” he says, putting a hand on Alastor’s lower back. His jacket has long been shed after he worked up a sweat dancing, now draped over Vox’s arm as he guides Alastor to his couch. It’s an older piece, but sturdy, and he’s got a cover on it that’s easy to throw in the wash. It matches the rest of his apartment, to be honest: bare wood floors, oppressive yet thin walls, neighbors both upstairs and down that make their presence known even now as footsteps creak overhead and voices murmur faintly in the indeterminate distance. Someone got shot last week, and the bullet splintered a hole clean through the wall in the hallway on the way to his mail cubby. Vox lives cheap, and it shows.
He’s got a beautiful new television set in front of the couch, though, all gleaming, polished wood. Alastor won’t appreciate it. That’s fine. Vox can appreciate the way his pinky grazes against the top of Alastor’s lazily flicking tail, and Alastor can appreciate the cigarette that Vox lights for him with a zap of his finger, smoking curling slowly toward the ceiling.
“Good boy,” Alastor murmurs through the cancer stick he’s slipped between his lips, eyes hazy through the smoke. The spark flashes in the reflection of his eyes, and Vox’s heart stutters in his chest along with it, a little pitter-patter like he’s shocked himself back to life.
“I, uh, thanks.” Vox swallows, folding Alastor’s coat over the back of a nearby chair. He settles on the couch by Alastor’s side, leaning onto his own knees to get a little closer to Al. And then, because he’s not exactly sober himself: “I like it when you say that.”
Alastor’s eyebrows rise, and he pulls the cigarette from his lips, blowing smoke into the air. He holds it daintily between his middle and forefingers, like a lady. “Have I said it before?”
Vox blinks, grinning up at Alastor blearily as he leans his arm over the back of the couch and lets his heavy head rest on it. “Sure. Plenty of times. Once it was, uh…’good job, sweetheart.’”
“Huh.” Alastor takes another pull, the ember glowing brightly in the dim light of Vox’s apartment. Shitty lightbulbs in the overhead, ugh. The cig’s golden light mixes oddly with the blue reflection of Vox’s screen, leaving Alastor’s face strangely two-toned. When he next speaks, smoke curls from his mouth. “I don’t remember that.”
It takes Vox a second to register the words, but when he does—
The pit of his stomach clenches, and cold sobriety drags its gelid claws down his spine as panic spikes through him. Fuck!
“That, uh—haha—you’re drunk, Al!” Vox stutters, and grabs for Alastor’s shoulder.
“Hey, there—” Alastor starts, uncharacteristic as he nearly fumbles his cigarette thanks to Vox’s sudden manhandling. He doesn’t get much further in his complaint, though, because Vox ducks his head to meet Alastor’s eyes, and—
He lets his bigger eye pulse. Hypnotic spirals twisting through it, writhing in on themselves endlessly until Alastor’s tense brow softens—softens—relaxes.
“You’re drunk, Al,” Vox repeats softly. “Too much booze. You misremembered.”
“I…” Alastor’s lashes flutter. The cigarette is dipping down, his hand going lax, and Vox catches it before it can burn a hole in his couch. He stubs it out on the ashtray on his coffee table. “I must be remembering wrong…”
“Yeah, exactly,” Vox soothes. His hands are shaking with adrenaline as he straightens himself and Alastor back up, dusting off Alastor’s shoulders. “And you're tired, aren’t you? That’s fine, Al, you can spend the night on my couch. I’m nice like that.”
“...How generous…”
“It’s unfortunate,” Vox tells him, “but you’re really drunk, so you won’t remember any of this.”
Alastor’s brows furrow. He sways.
“And you’ll have a good, long sleep,” Vox says, slowly lowering Alastor to lay down flat on his back. “Sleep until I tell you to wake up, Al. Okay?”
“Alright…”
Alastor’s eyes drift shut.
Just like that, he’s asleep.
Vox heaves out a shuddering sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. Fuck. That was close. Was that a stupid reason to panic? He’d been planning on putting Alastor to sleep anyways—just not so soon. He’d wanted to share that cigarette. Put his lips where Alastor’s had been. Breathe the same smoke.
Whatever. There will be other cigarettes. And Alastor is even prettier asleep than he is awake, his hair loose on the couch cushions around him; his face soft and without tension, a small smile still curling at the edges of his lips; his ears at ease and relaxed, temptingly soft.
Vox bites his lips, pressing his knees together. Fuck. He’s starting to get a little hot about it.
It’s not just the sight of Alastor asleep, of course. Vox may have trained himself like one of that Pavlov fellow’s dogs at this stage, to be honest. He always does it the same way, after all: they get drinks; he goads Alastor into a few too many; they make it back to Vox’s place to chat a bit, maybe share a cig; he puts Alastor to sleep.
And then Vox’s favorite part of the night begins.
He leans down and presses his mouth to Alastor’s.
Alastor’s lips are slack. He tastes like whiskey and tobacco smoke—the flavors of the night—and it’s a different kind of good to sharing the cigarette itself. That would have been mutual; this is deeper, more satisfying, in a very literal way as Vox presses his tongue inside and traces it over the backs of Alastor’s teeth. The last time he bummed a smoke from Al, this was all he could think of.
He wraps a hand around Alastor’s neck, just loose enough to be gentle, and rubs a thumb over his Adam’s apple. The power is heady. Vox could do anything. (He could try. He doubts his influence would hold through a real attempt at harm. He wonders if Alastor would consider Vox’s actual proclivities to be worse still.)
He blindly unbuttons Alastor’s shirt as they kiss. He usually likes to watch the slow reveal of Alastor’s downy brown fur—the extra fluff at his chest, his soft, dark nipples—but he finds his eyes sliding shut instead. Vox moans as he presses his tongue deeper into Alastor’s mouth, writhing it down the depth of Alastor’s slack throat. Apparently the man doesn’t have much of a gag reflex; something Vox should have guessed ahead of time, considering how many sinners he’s seen Al eat whole.
He finally parts when Alastor’s chest starts to tremble from the lack of air, and skates his fingertips over Alastor’s heaving ribcage. His chest is a gentle curve, soft and fluffy, and Vox rubs his thumbs in slow circles over Alastor’s nipples until they start stiffening. They’re pretty when they’re soft—but downright tempting when bullied into little peaks under his fingertips. The malleable flesh squishes satisfyingly between his fingers, and Alastor sighs underneath him as he relaxes.
Then it’s time for Alastor’s shoes, and then his pants. Vox leaves the shirt on, letting it fall loosely around Alastor’s shoulders like a pool of crimson stained purple in the blue light of his screen, and instead tugs Alastor’s slacks off and slowly unclips his sock garters. He’s got cute little hooves under there, dainty fucking things that surprised Vox to see considering how neatly they fit into Alastor’s heeled boots. There are inserts in there, he realized the first time he took them off, that offer the illusion of regular feet. It’s weirdly gratifying to know that it’s something Alastor might actually be self-conscious about.
Well. One thing. Vox is sure he’s a lot more self-conscious about the other big discovery, which has Vox’s mouth flooding with saliva as he lays eyes on it yet again.
“Fuck…” Vox swallows, determined not to actually drool. He can’t stop from staring, though, because it’s his favorite thing: that Alastor has a cunt.
It’s cute and plush and hidden behind a thin layer of Alastor’s underwear. Vox reaches out, pressing his thumb against Alastor’s pelvis. He pulls the fabric tighter against Al’s pussy in a way that makes it dig a little bit into the soft skin, highlighting the seam of his cunt and the little bump of his clit. It’s the slightest bit stiff, now, a matching little nub to the nipples on his chest. Vox wants to bite it. Instead, he rubs the fabric back and forth, a gentle drag over Alastor’s most sensitive place, until Alastor’s breaths start turning into sighs and a tiny dollop of dampness blooms at the apex of his thighs.
Vox is already so fucking horny, he figures Alastor should probably join him, too.
It doesn’t take long until Alastor’s hips start shifting slightly, a murmur dying in the back of his throat. He presses forward, making Vox grin, screen fizzy with delight. He looks cute and impotent, his antlers still tiny and adorable atop his head. They really turn into monstrous things when Alastor gets angry—sexy as hell, don’t get Vox wrong, but not a way he’s ever wanted Alastor to impale him.
“What are you doing?” he asks Alastor, slowing the gentle tugging of his thumb. Alastor’s hips slow, his brows furrowing just slightly. “Moving your hips like that, getting wet—you’re going to make me think you’re a bit of a slut for me, Al!”
It’s a hilarious thought. Vox is pretty sure Alastor doesn’t fuck—like, at all. At least not anywhere Vox can see, and believe him, Vox is looking. The thought that Alastor would solicit him for this in wakefulness is as fantastical as it is arousing.
But Alastor isn’t awake now, and this is Vox’s time to get what he wants.
“Want me to touch you, then?” Vox asks the air, tracing a clawtip over the damp seam of Alastor’s lips. It doesn’t earn him much, until he drags it lightly over Alastor’s clit, and Alastor huffs, hips twitching up. “Haha! Sounds like a yes!”
He hooks the tips of his claws over the edges of Alastor’s underwear, first dragging it down his belly just to watch the sensitive skin jerk and ruffling all the fur, and then pulls it the rest of the way down.
He’s going to be honest: it really shocked him at first, the realization that Alastor was like him. He never, in a million fucking years, would have guessed—but then again, how many people would guess about Vox himself now, with his boxy television for a head and this body that he’s had modified to his preferences? Maybe Alastor’s done the same thing, and had longer to settle into it.
Vox doesn’t fully buy it, to be honest. Alastor doesn’t strike him as the kind of guy to care so much about his masculinity—not like Vox. And he still has antlers on his head that Vox knows are fully natural—or unnatural, in the sense of demonic magics—as well as scattered white speckles over his ass and his shoulders that Vox thinks are fawn spots. His demonic form makes no sense; too many parts all smushed together into one. Maybe this is just another one of those things. For all he knows, Alastor had a cock as a human.
Or maybe Vox is insecure and reading too much into it. He’s never going to find out, because he’s never going to let Alastor know that he does this. Not when just the sight of Alastor splayed out on his couch, vulnerable and practically naked, makes heat pool so suddenly and acutely in his pelvis that it nearly fucking hurts.
He spends much less time getting his own clothes off. Where he folded Alastor’s carefully, setting them aside for later on a chair so that Alastor doesn’t so much find a suspicious wrinkle, Vox barely remembers which direction he flings his own pants, nevermind if his shoes have ended up on the same side of the room or not. Nevertheless, the result is the same; he’s naked, and free to let his tongue loll out, panting, as he crawls over Alastor’s unconscious body.
“Here we go…” Vox says, breathy, as he straddles Alastor’s thigh. His right knee bumps up against the back of the couch, his left pressing into the cushions between Alastor’s legs. It’s warmer there, and the contrast makes him shiver just because it’s Alastor’s body heat that makes the difference.
Then he lowers himself down and presses his damp pussy against Alastor’s thigh.
“Ohh…”
Vox’s virtual lashes flutter. Alastor’s fur is so soft against him. It’s plush, gentle against his cunt, cupping it in a warm, soft pillow of fluff. And then he twitches his hips, grinding forward—
“AH!” Vox’s voice cracks. He doesn’t have to worry about being quiet; noise won’t wake Alastor up at this point, not unless the noise is Vox’s command to wake, and he doesn’t give a shit about his neighbors. Not when his cunt slides over Alastor’s plush thigh, fur tickling over his clit, Vox’s wetness spreading lewdly over the previously fluffy fur. It’s like grinding down on a pillow, except even softer. He scoots back and does it again, then again, getting into a rhythm that has him panting, head tipped back as he tries not to drool.
“Oh, fuck, Alastor.” Vox’s words trail into the empty air. He shifts his weight, lifting his hands from where he’s braced against the couch cushions to put them on Alastor’s flat tits instead. He kneads them like a cat—Alastor really doesn’t have much to play with, to be honest. Not like Vox did before he chopped his off. But it’s enough to squish between his fingertips, enough to admire how soft and sensitive his chest is. It’s fluffier above his tits, tan fur fading into brown nipples that Vox cups in his palms.
Sparks are flickering up his spine. Alastor’s thigh is getting damp with Vox’s wetness, the grind growing more slick, and it makes Vox whimper. He feels hot now that he’s finally got contact on his cunt—oversensitive. Alastor’s fur teases at his opening, making him squirm and grind down harder, suddenly desperate. He angles his hips forward, pressing his clit against Alastor, and moans out loud as the sudden stimulation makes his hips jump. It’s like being pleasured by the softest feather, but firmer, better.
He lets go of Alastor’s tits and lets himself fall forward, winding his arms around Alastor so as to better hold him, better grind against him. The angle puts him at the perfect spot to suck one of Alastor’s tits into his mouth, and that finally drags a quiet noise out of Alastor himself.
Vox grins around his mouthful, suckling hard enough to stretch Alastor’s nipple, pulling it deep into his mouth. He pinches it between his teeth gently, laves his tongue over where he has it trapped, and a thin little sigh trails out of Alastor’s mouth.
His nipples are sensitive, Vox has learned. It’s a shame that Vox’s aren’t, because the way Alastor reacts when Vox plays with his tits makes him jealous. He just looks like he’s having so much fun—and it’s a good way to get him wet and ready for all kinds of other fun stuff. Vox reaches behind, using a spare hand to drag Alastor’s leg a little higher, propping it up at a slight angle so that he can keep grinding down onto it, and then bites Alastor’s nipple.
Not too hard! Too much pain, and Vox loses his control over his victims. He’s been getting better at that, but not good enough yet. Maybe one day he’ll be able to really make Alastor cry during one of these nights. Fuck, the thought makes him throb, arousal burning sharply between his thighs.
But he can still bite hard enough to make Alastor whimper out loud, hips twitching up slightly into Vox. Vox whines shamelessly at the thought that Alastor is fucking him back, and he suddenly thinks about that quote that had started this whole thing, his misremembered compliment. ‘Sweetheart.’
Alastor had been right, after all. He’d never said it himself.
Vox feels his face flushing, fizzing over with static. He buries it in Alastor’s chest, hiding behind the fur as he bites his lip. He feels so good here, like this. Alastor is warm in his arms. Vox’s pussy is hot and wet and feels so good, hips working against Alastor’s thigh. The rest of the world, the struggles of his life, his shitty, quaint apartment with its malfunctioning water heater, the long climb to success—to being an overlord, Alastor’s equal—it all seems so far away. This is everything he wants.
Well. Except one thing.
“Oh, Vincent,” his voice crackles, low-fidelity audio. Vox closes his eyes even as they flicker into radio dials, the vocal mimicry he’s perfected giving itself away on his screen. “What a good boy, my darling. You’re doing so well for me!”
He pants against Alastor’s soft skin, and imagines Alastor is hugging him back. He could move Al’s arms around him, but he doesn’t want to let go—and he thinks his humping might knock them off, which would ruin the illusion. His hips stutter anyway, and Vox whines.
“Really?” he asks the air, reedy and pathetic.
“Really,” comes Alastor’s voice, warm. Vox imagines him petting a hand over the back of Vox’s head, twirling a finger over one of his antennae. “You’re so cute for me, picturebox. You work so hard. It must be so difficult.”
“It is,” Vox replies, thin. “It is, Al, it is, you have no idea, I’m really trying—”
“I’m proud of you,” Alastor tells him, and Vox gasps. “I’m so proud of you, darling. My sweetheart. Are you feeling good? You deserve to feel good.”
“I do,” Vox whines. “You feel so good, Al. You got me so fucking wet…teasing me all evening, putting your hands on me when we danced…”
“Good,” Alastor purrs, low and gravelly in a way that sends heat flaring through the pit of Vox’s belly. “Then keep making yourself feel good, sweetheart. My little pet deserves nothing but the best. Yes, just like that—oh, please—oh, good boy—”
Vox gasps again, Alastor’s voice falling apart as his hips stutter again, fervent—he wants to hear it again, wants to hear ‘good boy’ in Alastor’s voice forever—but his eyes fly open as heat spikes through him—
And he catches sight of their reflection, warped and dark on the living room television. Warped—but not so warped that it doesn’t paint a clear, pathetic picture. Alastor, limp on the couch with his head lolled back, an arm hanging down and knuckles brushing against the floor. Vox, wrapped around him like a horny teenager, face buried in his nonexistent tits and humping like a dog. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic.
It kills the burgeoning peak of desire in Vox, leaving behind cold embarrassment. There’s nobody here to see him, but—
He still has shame.
His hips still, though the feeling of Alastor’s hot flesh pressed between his legs makes him twitchy now that he’s not grinding himself to completion. He should—he should do something more…sexy. Something less pathetic. He met someone, recently; someone he’s been thinking of drawing a contract up to work with. The man does—well—pornography. He’s shown Vox a few videos, and Vox is ashamed to realize that until that moment it hadn’t occurred to him to market something like that so publicly. Sex sells. Sex sells good.
The videos also got him—feeling, some kind of way, which was awkward for a business meeting, especially when the guy leered at him after and Vox didn’t even mind. It was fun stuff, on the videos! Hot chicks getting fucked, and fucking each other, too. There was one thing they did, that Vox really liked…
He pushes himself up, avoiding looking at the TV. His cunt makes a wet sound as it separates from Alastor’s fur, and Vox grumbles uncomfortably as cold air flows in against him. He picks Alastor’s arm up from the floor, laying it by his head.
He really liked that spot. But it really was stupid and pathetic.
He sits back instead, shifting his left thigh under Alastor’s leg. His right, he hooks over Alastor’s hip, until he can sort of…shuffle forward, awkwardly.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “They made this look a lot easier on the TV…”
His foot lands on the arm of the couch by Alastor’s head, the whole thing complicated by how fucking limp Alastor is, but Vox is determined—and so, after a minute, he manages to get them just right, and—
And their pussies are right there, ready to press against each other.
Vox takes a deep breath, shuddery. It’s not a very comfortable position—he has to arch a lot to make up for Alastor just laying there, and it’s more of an ab workout than he prefers during sex. But he can see Alastor’s pussy like this, radiating heat barely an inch from his. Alastor is wet—Vox made Alastor wet, not through hypnosis but because he knows his body so well, likes sucking his tits so much. He’s not as wet as Vox, but Vox can fix that.
Besides, Vox can’t get him too hot and bothered. Well—bothered is okay. But just like the pain, a huge flood of endorphins through Alastor’s cute skull would flush Vox’s hypnosis right out. It’s not the sensation, but the brain chemicals, he thinks. He learned that one the hard way, thankfully very early on in his first evening with Alastor asleep—early enough that Alastor was still drunk, absolutely wasted, and Vox could put him under again quick as anything. But it was fucking scary; Vox’s life flashed before his eyes. He’s not risking it again.
So no orgasms for Alastor. It was disappointing at first, but now Vox doesn’t mind too much. He wants Alastor to want him as much as he wants Alastor. If the way to do that is to fuck him and work him up and leave him hanging and unfulfilled, well. Maybe Alastor should be a little more proactive about reaching for what he’s missing out on. Vox is right there, after all, even when Alastor is awake!
He wants to tease Alastor even awake—‘in real life,’ Vox sometimes calls it in his head—sometimes. He’s not brave enough to do it, but he daydreams about it. What it would be like, to slip a hand up Alastor’s thigh when they’re bunched up together in a restaurant booth. What it would be like to offer to give Alastor a massage or something, and pretend to “accidentally” tug on his cute, oversensitive little nipples. All the little ways he can use what he’s learned from Alastor’s vulnerable unconscious body to manipulate Alastor, make him want more, make him want Vox. To show him how good Vox can be to him. Vox is experienced now—he would make it so good for Al.
He can’t do that, though. All he can do is this.
He shifts his hips forward slightly, finally, and presses his cunt against Alastor’s.
It’s like a shock to his system—the warmth of it, before anything. Warmer than Alastor’s thigh, maybe even hotter than if somebody put their mouth on him. And soft, and wet. So wet—they’re both soaked—fine, Vox is soaked—and their pussies just slip against each other with a slick noise, clits bumping. Vox yelps at that, and forcibly stills himself before he gets overwhelmed, staring down at himself.
He’s clean-shaven down there. Alastor isn’t, but Alastor has—fluff, sort of. He has fur over most of his body and there’s a thicker thatch of it above his cunt, but it’s not wiry like normal pubic hair. Vox decided long ago that Alastor doesn’t need to shave, if he’s this soft.
Their pussy lips press together, smooshing slightly. Deep blue against soft brown. It reminds Vox a little bit of the video again, when the two chicks pressed their chests together, squishing their huge tits.
“Our pussies are kissing,” Vox whispers to himself, and promptly feels stupid. It’s a stupid thing to say. But it’s also hot, the kind of thing people spew in porn, and he doesn’t regret it. This is possibly the hottest thing he’s ever done.
He braces his arms behind himself, trying to find a good way to do this that won’t tire him out—and drags his pussy over Alastor’s. Vox is more swollen than Alastor right now, the inner lips of his cunt peeking out—and getting caught in Alastor’s core, slipping through the slick, hot flesh. Vox is almost inside of him, like this—and just the thought makes Vox moan, craning his head down to stare at their cunts helplessly.
He works his hips desperately, grinding back and forth. It’s not as much pressure as Alastor’s thigh; Alastor’s pussy has more give, more softness than the wiry, lean muscle of his leg. If he arches harder, he can catch Alastor’s clit between the lips of his own cunt, which draws a shivery sigh out of Alastor every time, and sometimes even a little twitch—and makes Vox clench as the teasing little bump skates over his empty hole. Doing it the other way around is hard, and he doesn’t have the right angle. He’s not going to be able to finish himself off like this. But he sure can fucking enjoy it, the way the sight of it makes his head spin, the way he’s getting wetter and wetter and wetter and so is Alastor, until they’re both soaked with it and panting, Alastor’s breath coming hotly into the small apartment’s air. Everything probably smells of sex in here, now. The noises their pussies make are as pornographic as the sight of them, slick and slippery and loud. Vox moans at one point, frustrated by the bad angle.
He tries something different—leaves his right leg kicked over Alastor’s hip, but scrambles to shift his left leg under himself, propping himself onto his knee. He grabs Alastor’s own thigh, pressing it back, forcing Alastor wide and open until Vox can grind down on to him—
“Finally,” Vox moans, hips rabbiting as he buries his needy, swollen clit into Alastor’s hot folds. “Oh, fuck—fuck, I’m fucking you, I’m fucking you, Al—
The lips of Alastor’s cunt are puffy and slick now, his clit stiff and pretty where it’s sticking up from its hood. It’s wet with Vox’s fluids. He’s definitely feeling it now, Vox thinks, going mad just like Vox is. He wants to stick his clit so deep inside of Al. He bets that Alastor wants him to keep going, too; but the angle just isn’t good enough.
Vox has something better anyway. He’s so horny that he feels delirious with it, and he wants to—he wants—he has something new to try. A new toy. He’ll leave the scissoring to the hot lesbians where it belongs.
He climbs off of Alastor, legs wobbly, and stumbles barefoot and naked into his bedroom. His thighs are wet with their mixed desires, and the wooden floor of his apartment is cool against the soles of his feet.
He finds his newest purchase in his bedside drawer.
It’s…new. Very new. He hasn’t been brave enough to use it with Alastor yet, having barely tried it on himself—but that was enough to know that it works, at least the basic functions of it.
It’s a dick.
More specifically, it’s a strap-on smuggled in from the Lust Ring, for which Vox paid a small fortune he probably can’t afford. It’s got a blue gradient, navy at the base and teal at the tip, though it doesn’t quite match up with his skin tone; shit’s not custom after all. It’s also pretty big; definitely on the larger side of cocks that Vox himself has ever taken.
Most importantly, it’s enchanted. When he puts it on—and this is the part that was so fucking expensive, along with the Asmodeus brand logo on the base of it—it functions just like if it was his own, real dick, in all of the important ways. He can feel; he can get hard; he can fuck. Allegedly, though he hasn’t tested it out yet, he can even jizz.
(It also came with a little vulva-shaped complimentary candy in the box, which Vox rolled his eyes and absentmindedly ate. He then regretted this, because as the packaging clearly advertised, the candy made him feel very—well—suffice to say, the dick had been thoroughly used that day, before he even had a chance to put it on.)
He pulls the straps over his hips and tightens them, pressing the base of the cock to his pussy with a hiss. It feels strange, especially when he’s this horny and oversensitive—but it still works, the straps melting into simple stripes flush against where they’d rested on his skin, and the dick merging with his cunt. It’s a weird sensation, even more so when he learns that apparently his arousal transfers, as evidenced by the way that he immediately gets hard so fucking fast that he gets dizzy and has to catch himself on the side of his fucking bed.
“Ow,” Vox whimpers, reaching down to press a soothing palm over his new cock—and promptly hisses, the rough handling of sensitive pseudo-flesh just as sensitive as if he’d palmed his clit. “Ah—aaah, fuck, fuck, oh god…”
It’s real. It’s really, really real. Fuck his savings account. Fucking Alastor with this thing is going to be so good.
(And it’ll be hot—not like the hot chicks fucking each other, but like the hot chick getting fucked, by a huge dude with a huge cock. Vox can’t wait to see Alastor’s cunt stretched out over his dick.)
When he makes it back to the living room, he realizes with a pang of amusement that he left Alastor sprawled out ridiculously. His arms are limp on the couch by his head. His legs are akimbo, one knee bent and tipped open against the back of the couch, the other drooping straight off the side and to the floor, heel dragging. His pussy is wet, though, and—Vox bites his lip as he approaches, climbing back onto the couch—still leaking. There’s a trail of slick running down from his pussy, dampening his tail where it lays limply underneath his ass.
Alastor himself is frowning slightly. His lips are curled up slightly in that eternal smile, but also pressed together tightly—there’s tension in his face, and a bright flush high on his cheeks. His head has tipped to the side, cheek mushed against the arm of the couch, and his ears are half-mast and at odd angles. He looks frustrated.
“I’ll make you feel better,” Vox mutters to Alastor, and immediately bullies his way between Alastor’s legs. He grabs a couch pillow as he goes—one that he hugs a lot on evenings like this, using to hide his lap as he squeezes his thighs together and thinks about his plans for the evening as Alastor laughs lightly about Vox drunkenly stepping on his toes earlier in the night. He would have done the same tonight if he hadn’t jumped the gun. Instead, he stuffs the pillow under Alastor’s ass, propping him up enough to make it a more convenient angle from which to…well. Get Vox’s new dick wet.
The cock—his cock—is already beading with precum, and Vox leans over Alastor to watch as he presses the tip of it against Alastor’s wet cunt. It’s even headier than making their pussies kiss—this way, Vox’s cock is parting Alastor’s folds. This way, Vox is penetrating Alastor.
Alastor makes a little pained noise, and Vox freezes, teeth gritting.
“Fuck,” he swears under his breath, bracing his arm against the back of the couch. “I forgot you’re such a sensitive little shit.”
Truth be told, he doesn’t—he’s a little—okay, it’s mean to say, but he doesn’t really care that much if Alastor gets a little sore if Vox fucks him. Alastor’s been like this from the start. When Vox fingers him, he starts cringing at two fingers, might even whine in an unsexy way (well, unsexy to Alastor; Vox still thinks it’s sexy) at three. This cock is definitely closer to three fingers.
But Vox is a nice guy, so Vox takes it slowly. If he were better at using his hypnosis, he’d fuck Alastor and enjoy watching him get teary-eyed, but if Alastor wakes up like this, he’s going to rip off first Vox’s brand new dick and then his head, and Vox paid way too much money for this dick.
(And maybe he feels, sometimes, a little bit like Alastor deserves for it to hurt some. Maybe he wants Alastor to hurt the way that Vox hurts, that sharp, prickling sensation behind his breastbone whenever Alastor looks at him and smiles and it’s not the right smile—not the way Vox smiles at Alastor.)
It’s kind of heady to do it this way, though. A slow way to truly appreciate Vox’s first experience fucking into a cunt. Alastor’s pussy engulfs him, maddening, like a warm, velvet glove tailor-made just for Vox. It makes him pant, hunched over Alastor’s limp body—and then whine when Alastor’s pussy flutters around him, Alastor eking out another pained noise while Vox’s eyes roll into the back of his head.
“Ohhhfuck,” Vox manages, hips twitching, and then—he’s in. Fully in.
He stays there like that, shivering as his fingertips buzz and his breath trembles in his chest. Alastor is trembling underneath him, too, and those velvet walls are a hug around Vox’s sensitive new cock—a warm hug in more ways than one, hot with blood and like coming home all mixed together. When he looks down, his cock is splitting Alastor open, the swollen flesh stretched around the thick girth.
Vox pulls out a little, shivering violently at the sensation of so much slick flesh sliding around him. It’s like—it’s like a soft ache. He feels so hard in a way he never has before, from the inside-out, the enchanted dick a solid mass of throbbing want between his legs. And Alastor is so soft around him, his flesh yielding to Vox’s invasion even as he squeezes helplessly, reflexively, onto Vox. It’s a relief and an arousal all in one, beating out in the rhythm of Vox’s increasingly frantic pulse.
He pushes back in, a little faster. This time, the noise Alastor makes is a breathy, quiet little moan. Less pained; more wanting.
Heat flushes through Vox, trickling from the crown of his skull and all the way down to his toes, which flex and dig into the cushions of the couch. Alastor wants him.
He gives Alastor what he wants.
In the process, he basically loses his mind a little bit.
The experience is euphoria. His whole world narrows down to the slick, hot grip Alastor’s pussy has over his cock; the rhythmic thrusting of his hips, which feel possessed by forces outside of his control; the airy, desperate little sounds that his cock—his cock—punches out of Alastor’s throat.
There’s resistance with every thrust, like Alastor is trying to prevent him from fucking in, and then again as Alastor squeezes and tries to stop Vox’s cock from dragging out. Vox is clumsy at first, accidentally pulling all the way out more than once. Alastor’s pussy clenches wetly over the tip of him as he goes, dragging a shivery moan out of Vox, and then visibly gapes for a moment afterwards. Alastor shifts sleepily as his back arches, his thighs spreading wider apart. His nipples are stiff peaks, begging for Vox’s touch, and his clit is stiffer still, so swollen that the hood is fully pulled back.
When Vox pushes his cock back in, he misses, and his tip bumps up against the needy little nub; slides over it. Alastor’s resulting cry is sharp, nearly pained, and Vox is possessed by the thought that he could bruise Alastor’s clit with his cock if he bullied it more.
But Alastor’s pussy feels too good to leave all lonely like that, so Vox abandons his clit and presses back inside.
Alastor is so wet that he squishes around Vox, begging Vox in deeper. His arms are limp by the side of his head, but his claws are curling and uncurling slowly, like he’s grasping for more. Vox reaches down to hitch Alastor’s leg over his hip, and realizes the change in angle lets him go even deeper—
He drops down again, burying his face in Alastor’s chest. Fuck the stupid reflection on the stupid TV. He wants to fuck Alastor, he wants to feel good—
He wraps his mouth around one of Alastor’s nipples again—the one he hadn’t abused last time—and pinches the other one between two claws, tugging meanly. This close to Alastor, he can’t fuck him as roughly as he’d started, but it satisfies the ache inside of him to turn his fucking into a slow, deep grind, bumping Alastor’s legs up to hook around his hips. It’s like Alastor is holding him closer—except Alastor is busy gasping, pitchy, and clenching tighter onto Vox’s cock, then tighter, and tighter—
Vox realizes belatedly that this new angle has him grinding his pelvis against Alastor’s clit, an incessant overstimulation that is rocketing Alastor straight towards orgasm.
Vox groans—and forces himself still, wrapping his arms tightly around Alastor’s waist to hold him down. His hips tremble. His cock aches, throbbing with his pulse. He suckles on Alastor’s tit to calm himself down, whimpering.
Alastor whimpers, too. His hips are trying to twitch up into Vox’s, except Vox is holding him down too well. His clit is still pressed against Vox’s pelvis like this, but the lack of motion leaves him helpless to the ebbing pleasure. Vox feels the way the waves of his pleasure fail to crest, the way they lap maddeningly at the edges, and eventually retreat. When Vox swirls his tongue over Alastor’s trapped nipple, they swell again, just for a moment, and then subside more slowly. Alastor’s pussy throbs with it just like Vox’s cock is, clenching frantically against the unmoving girth. The persistent squeeze is almost enough to make Vox come, but he’s apparently dedicated to edging the both of them today and manages to hold back.
Vox lets Alastor’s nipple drop out of his mouth, dragging a wet streak across the side of his screen, and watches Alastor’s face. His hair is sticky with sweat, plastered to his forehead. His smile is wobbly, his face flushed, his ears flat against his skull. His brows are angled down, like he’s pleading—he looks upset. Vox is ravenous for it. He watches Alastor not come even as his own impending orgasm shivers through him like a torrent over a wildfire, and feels like he’s going insane.
“I could make you feel so good,” Vox whispers to him, heart aching, “if you would just love me back. I’d give you anything you wanted, if you begged me properly.”
Al stays silent.
Eventually, it all subsides. Vox groans, just to vent the energy. Then he unwraps his arms from around Alastor, and pushes himself back to all fours.
His cock pulls partially out of Alastor as he goes, making both of them whine. When he re-angles himself, he makes sure he’s not bumping against Alastor’s clit anymore—and then, sick of delayed gratification, he braces himself against the couch and fucks back into Alastor.
“Fuck,” Vox cries out, claws digging into the fabric of his own couch. Alastor yelps, too, overstimulated and probably aching—from the stretch, from the denial. “Ohhh, fuck, you’re so good—so hot, baby, fuck, Alastor, is it good, tell me I’m good—”
He loses himself. He loses track of Alastor, his pain, his pleasure, everything except the way his noises are winding tighter the coil in the pit of Vox’s belly, the swelling wave in his gut, the hard, throbbing ache of his swollen cock—
“Al,” Vox begs, “Al, Al, please, Alastor—I’m so close—” He scrambles for his voice changer, words half-warping into Alastor’s trans-atlantic tones. “Vincent—”
He buries himself as deep inside of Alastor as he can when he comes.
His orgasm is like a revelation. He’s never felt like this before—it starts in his hips, building in his pelvis, the root of his dick, unstoppable, like a tidal wave coming to shore. Then he throbs, pulses—and something spurts out of him, once, then twice, and then more and more, and he realizes he’s coming into Alastor, fucking his cum right into Alastor’s pretty, tight, needy pussy—
Vox groans loudly, hips hitching deeper. He grinds shallowly through his orgasm, trying to get his cum as deep as possible into Alastor, and enjoys the way that it makes Alastor squirm and shiver beneath him. He wonders if Alastor can feel it: hot and wet, splurting inside of him. A piece of Vox, part of him forever. If Alastor came inside Vox, it would make Vox come on the spot.
He stays like that a while—until it starts feeling like too much. Then he pulls out, sitting back on his heels and watching the creampie ooze out of Alastor’s sloppy cunt. Alastor is a mess. His fur is ruffled, sticking up at odd angles from their mixed fluids. His pussy is swollen and flushed. Vox’s cum is a stark white against it, a thick, round globule slowly leaking out and pooling in the lower vee of Alastor’s vulva.
Vox swallows, shifting onto his front until he can get his face closer to Alastor’s pussy, one arm hitched under and wrapped around Alastor’s leg as he leans the side of his head against his inner thigh. The other arm free to reach out and slowly—softly—pet the pad of a finger over Alastor’s clit.
Alastor twitches. His thighs try to spread again, and he gasps into the empty air. And his cunt—his cunt clenches down, squeezing out more cum, until it’s dribbling out of him.
Vox leans in and licks it out of him. He can’t get too close with the shape of his own head, but his tongue is long and prehensile, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Oh…”
It’s the closest thing to a real vocalization that Alastor has given so far, and even having come, it makes Vox’s pelvic muscles go tight. The cock he’s wearing is limited in its abilities—the packaging warned that it takes time to regenerate the jizz, so as a safety measure, he won’t actually be able to get hard again too soon. But he doesn’t have to fuck Alastor again to enjoy fucking with him, Vox reasons, and he really enjoys fucking with him.
“Sometimes, I really hate you,” Vox tells Alastor, teasing gently at his clit with a finger. He circles around it, tempting Alastor until his hips start trying to chase the sensation, and then swipes his fingerpad across it, once, quick as anything. Alastor twitches violently, and squeezes down hard enough to dribble more cum.
Vox laps it up again. “It’s just the way you make me want you,” he tells Alastor, breath puffing out against his pussy. “That’s all.”
It doesn’t taste like much of anything; he’s pretty sure it’s not real cum. Even if they were still alive, it probably wouldn’t get anyone pregnant. But it’s still Vox’s cum, now, and—fuck, the thought of Alastor in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant, a loose sundress over his slightly rounded belly—
He pinches Alastor’s clit between two fingers and rubs his thumb over it slowly. Alastor huffs desperately, and leaks. It’s not even just Vox’s cum anymore—it’s Alastor’s own slick want, too. Vox keeps at it like that—teasing his clit for a few moments, licking up the cum that Alastor squeezes out. After a while, he doesn’t even need to keep rubbing Al’s clit directly. He just needs to trace little circles around it, a promise he doesn’t intend to deliver on, and lap meanly at Alastor’s desperate, fluttering opening. If he dips the tip of his tongue inside, it rips a particularly throaty cry from Alastor—but he doesn’t do that too much. He doesn’t want to lick all the cum out of him. Just the parts that would leak if he didn’t. He wants to leave some inside, forever. That promise of bare feet and a swelling belly.
By the time he’s satisfied, there’s no white oozing out of Alastor at all. Vox keeps at it for a little while longer anyway, enjoying the way that Alastor’s hips try to twist and chase the sweet torment of his tongue until Vox has to pin him down with a forearm across his belly. Alastor is just so pretty when he’s horny and wanting—for him, for Vox. For Vox’s cock. Nobody else has ever gotten him like this, of that Vox is certain. So he takes his time, torturing his favorite person, until the hour is late enough that he himself becomes tired in his fading drunkenness.
When he sleeps, he does so on the couch with Alastor. Fuck his back in the morning; he doesn’t want to sleep alone, and Alastor’s claws have buried deep into the fabric. Removing them is a tomorrow problem. Vox can do it before he lets Alastor wake up.
He parts from Alastor regretfully, placing one last kiss over his twitchy little clit, and goes to clean himself up. He’ll clean Alastor up later, too, but he’s too drunk and tired to do it now. When he comes back, he finds that Alastor has curled up on his side on the couch, one hand’s claws still trapped in the cushion by his face and the other squeezed down between his curled-up thighs, though he doesn’t seem to be managing to stimulate himself in any real way.
Vox laughs as he slides in between Alastor and the back of the couch. “Greedy little thing,” he tells Alastor, carefully drawing his hand away from his pussy. “I’ve got something better for you, baby.”
He lifts Alastor’s leg, shifting it to the side—and uses his hand to carefully feed his flaccid cock back into Alastor’s pussy. Alastor sighs with it, shivery, and Vox moans his contentment as he’s once again engulfed by warm, slick velvet.
He wraps his arms around Alastor’s waist, pulling him closer against Vox’s front, and tucks his flat face in against the back of Alastor’s neck.
“Like this,” he murmurs. He grins, and maneuvers Alastor’s limp hand to where the deer had actually wanted it—palm and fingers loosely, clumsily pressed against his wet pussy, glancing against his clit. He squeezes two of Alastor’s fingers around his clit, enjoying the way it makes Alastor flutter around him—but when he lets go, they fall apart, too sleepy and uncoordinated to replicate the motion. Alastor shifts and the tip of his clit drags slickly against his palm—but that’s it, especially when Vox tightens his arms and settles in.
Vox imagines it will be enough to tease him whenever he shifts in his sleep, to remind him of Vox inside of him. He imagines Alastor needs Vox’s cock in him to sleep, like a child needs a pacifier.
(Like Vox needs Alastor.)
“There you go, baby,” Vox says. “A guarantee for sweet dreams. Trust me.”
That is how he falls asleep: Alastor in his arms, his warm pussy cradling Vox’s limp cock. His hot, deep breaths thick with arousal, but soothing for Vox, boneless with sated pleasure.
Alastor has been asleep the whole evening. Vox finally drifts off, too.
When Vox wakes up the next morning, it’s to red, hellish daylight filtering through the single one of his apartment windows that gets any light (as opposed to the two that face the brick wall of an alleyway) and to warm, sucking pressure on his cock.
He groans, rocking his hips up into Alastor’s cunt. Shit, he still can’t believe he has a cock now. The slide is wet—and the body underneath him sighs, trembling against him.
“Fuck,” Vox mumbles, blinking blearily awake. “What a way to wake up.” Alastor is still cradled in his arms, hands curled together where one is still stuck claws-first in the couch cushion, and his breath is coming hot as he pants against the couch. He’s damp with sweat, shivering with it.
“Your dreams sure were sweet,” Vox says slowly, petting a hand down Alastor’s belly, skipping over his clit to where he’s clenching down on Vox’s cock again. Vox certainly slept well, cradled in the sweet warmth of Alastor’s pussy, and now he’s hard again, and nearly ready to blow at that.
He grunts as he rolls his hips forward, grabbing Alastor by the hips to hold him steady. Molten heat rolls over his dick—fuck, that sensation is new all over again in the morning—and engulfs him, squeezing torturously down at the base and dragging all the way to the tip.
Vox fucks Alastor again. He has a raging hangover and his mouth tastes like booze and nicotine, but coffee and painkillers and frankly waking the rest of the way up can wait until he has the best wake-up orgasm he’s ever had. It doesn’t take long—just long enough that Alastor starts making little noises against him again, quiet gasps of ah!—ah!—ah! as Vox’s hips slap against his ass. His tail twitches, intermittently flicking through the air and crushed against Vox’s thrusting hips.
When Vox comes again, he barely manages to pull out in time, spending all over Alastor’s thighs. He groans with it, kissing the back of Alastor’s neck. Salt on his tongue, hair tickling against his screen.
“Fuuuuck,” he mumbles, dropping his head limply against Alastor’s skinny shoulderblades. “You’re so good to me, baby. Except now I have to clean this up.”
He cleans it up.
He makes coffee first, and also takes his cock off to wash it in the sink (grimacing at the uncanny sensation of detachment), because he’s not going to finagle another shower right now and all the associated head protection that he needs for it. Then he gets a warm washcloth and thoroughly cleans Alastor with a level of paranoia brought on by his own sense of self-preservation.
It helps that the process doubles as a gratuitous groping session, Alastor’s face flushing as Vox drags the rough cloth in circles over his nipples, then makes sure to thoroughly scrub down his thighs—and more gently, his soaking cunt. Alastor is so wet from Vox’s cum and his own fluids that it nearly looks like he’s pissed himself before Vox takes care of it.
Then Vox dresses Alastor as best as he can. This part is less finicky. Alastor will wake up thinking he’s spent the night on Vox’s couch—it’s no surprise if his clothes are creased. If anything, having slept naked, they won’t be creased enough, but Vox doubts that will cross Alastor’s mind.
There is one last, wicked thing that he wants to do, though, to repay the way Alastor gave him such a lovely wakeup call. He hasn’t been able to make Alastor come since that first night, since the cresting rush of endorphins will rip him out of Vox’s hypnotic control, but…
Well, he’s about to wake Alastor up anyway, isn’t he?
Vox finishes buttoning up Alastor’s slacks, looking down at Alastor appraisingly. His face is clean and his clothes are all done up, though his hair is a touch sweat-damp and his jacket hangs folded over the chair where Vox left it last night. The latter is of no concern and the former can’t be helped. He’s as put-together as Vox will be able to get him, and so Vox kneels at the side of the couch and presses his hand between Alastor’s legs again, cupping his pussy and rubbing his thumb firmly over the little bump where Alastor’s needy clit sits.
Alastor turns his head, huffing roughly into the couch as his hips press into the touch. Unlike before, Vox doesn’t tease—he just rubs, mean little circles with his thumb and the firm pressure of his fingertips back and forth against Alastor’s entrance, stimulating him through the layers of clothes until even that muffled pressure is enough to have Alastor’s ears twitching, his breath coming faster. He’s fucked Alastor ten ways ‘till Sunday between last night and this one, and when a little vocalized noise finally creaks out of Alastor’s throat, he’s sure his friend is seconds from coming.
He stops, easing his hand back—and then takes Alastor’s own, finally unsticking his claws from the couch cushion. He leverages it gently and somewhat awkwardly down Alastor’s own pants, hampered by the close fit of the clothes. Thankfully Alastor is a skinny bastard, and Vox manages to shove his hand pretty much the rest of the way into his underwear, sliding thin, elegant fingers through the newly gathering wetness of his cunt until Alastor is practically fingerfucking himself. He doesn’t quite manage to get Alastor’s fingers into his pussy, but he presses them deeply against it, makes sure his clit is squished flat against his palm so that Alastor can just rub and bring himself to orgasm.
“There,” Vox mutters to himself. “Now you can’t blame me when it’s your own hand down your pants, and it’ll take you, like, two seconds flat to get yourself off, huh?” And Vox is about two minutes flat from learning what it’s like to meet Alastor’s eyes from across his kitchen table when the man is still burning from the shame of rubbing himself to a scalding orgasm on poor, unsuspecting Vox’s couch. How drunk must Alastor have been last night, to bring himself to such a state!
Vox snickers, and gets up to leave the room. Then he pauses, looking back, and takes the blanket he’d forgotten entirely about the previous night off the back of the couch, tucking it around Alastor’s shoulders. It’s his movie-watching blanket and smells faintly of his usual cologne. He wants Alastor to come with Vox’s scent on his nose and burned into his olfactory memory.
(He wants Alastor to think of Vox every time he comes.)
Then he finally scuttles out of the room, with one last, quick yelp behind him: “Wake up, Al!”
He ducks into his bedroom, peering out from a crack in the door. It’s at an odd angle—he can see Alastor’s face, and Al could probably crane his head and see Vox, too, but it wouldn’t be a natural or instinctive motion, and Vox thinks he could duck away before it happened. So he’s pretty free to watch Alastor’s pretty eyes flutter open—
And the way his whole body jolts, startled, as heat rushes to his face. His hips twitch forward and his shoulder jerks under the blanket, wrist caught in his pants—and just as Vox thinks he’s about to watch Alastor fuck himself on his own fingers for at least a few blisteringly hot seconds, Alastor manages to yank his hand the rest of the way out of his pants.
He promptly bites down on a startled yelp, eyes going wide and ears pinning, the sudden grind of his palm apparently enough of a shock to throw him over to where Vox has been trying to get him this whole time—
But he’s too startled—too embarrassed, too confused?—to follow through.
“Wh—” Vox nearly gives himself away, glaring through the door—but Alastor is preoccupied, grabbing roughly onto the arm of Vox’s poor, abused couch as he gasps wetly, his whole body trembling wildly for one, long moment. The blanket slides off, baring him as he curls in on himself. His eyes squeeze shut, teeth joining his claws as he bites onto the couch and his hips shiver in place, Alastor keeping himself painfully still.
It only lasts a few seconds. Alastor pants into the couch, a humiliated, blotchy flush trickling over his cheeks. A pathetic little noise warbles out of his throat before he strangles it down.
Vox gapes. “Fucking hell, Al,” he whispers to himself. “I was trying to be nice.”
Well, that just goes to show. Alastor really does need Vox if he stands a chance of getting that pussy railed in any satisfying way. Fuck! Of all the things, Vox didn’t expect Alastor to freak out and fuck up his own orgasm. God, he can’t imagine what that must feel like. He’s edged himself before, but he’s never ruined it—at least, not on purpose. Not at all, since he was a kid and trying not to get caught with his hand down in his pants in his parent’s house.
Fuck, Alastor made a pretty face when it was happening, though. Frantic and humiliated and vaguely pained.
…Maybe Vox can make it happen again, some time. Not every time. Alastor would definitely get suspicious.
But maybe some of the time.
Vox draws a deep breath, feeling as shaky as Alastor looks, and straightens his sweater vest. He takes a few steps back into his bedroom and affects a loud, blatant yawn that he can see over the edge of the couch cushion makes Alastor’s ears prick up and freeze. Then, pausing for a moment:
“Al?” he calls from the vicinity of his bed. “You up yet?”
And so reality sets in again.