Lady's First - Princeliest - Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

“I’ll make it so good for you, too! Like, seriously, you have no idea how much sex I’ve had over the past several decades, and Val does not skimp on the—”

“Oh, fine.”

“—negative feedback if sh*t’s not going well, he says he’s got a brand to main—wait, what?”

Alastor grins wider, and the bared collection of sharp, sharp teeth almost distracts from the way that her eyes narrow at Vox.

“I said ‘fine,’ Vox,” she repeats, crossing one leg over the other. The motion slips her skirt slightly higher, which, in combination with the subject of conversation, draws Vox’s eyes like he imagines fresh roadkill does Alastor’s. Except the flesh of interest in question here is—

Okay, ‘flesh’ is an exaggeration. The woman wears tights and her skirt reaches her calves, so really all Vox gets a glimpse of is a few more inches of her shin, but it’s the thought that counts. Where Alastor is involved, Vox is generally ready to start venerating ankles like a Victorian, or maybe a guy with a particularly loosely-defined foot fetish.

“Really?” he asks, half-dreading the question. He really shouldn’t be giving Allie another reason to reconsider, but frankly he’s still not entirely convinced he didn’t hallucinate the whole thing.

“Really.”

“Really, really?”

Allie’s brows rise. “Well, now you just sound like you don’t want to.”

“No!” Vox jolts to his feet, his chair skittering back with a clatter. “No, I definitely want to. f*ck, Allie, I’ve wanted to f*ck you for—years. sh*t, I should probably have said ‘make love.’”

“I,” she starts dryly, “am exceedingly aware of that, Vox.”

He takes a step forward, feeling rather like he’s stalking his prey for just a moment as he rounds the quaint little dining table he’d set up for them. Allie is a surprisingly classy lady for someone who f*cking eats people—though he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, having seen Rosie’s whole set-up—and she really only started accepting his friendly dinner invitations when he proved that he was willing to put together something worth her time. He’s whittled her down from extravagantly-priced high-end restaurants in Cannibal Town with nothing but the most obligatory footnote options for, er, “vegan” fare (none of which were actually real vegan, go figure) to something more intimate, though, and the gleam in her eye has told him that she knows he hasn’t been doing it to cut costs.

But she hasn’t complained, either. He doesn’t think she feels the same way about him as he does about her, but…she doesn’t seem to mind very much that he feels this way, even when he’s deliberately obnoxious about it. If anything, she seems to get a kick out of the whole thing, which—Vox lives, breathes, and pisses entertainment. Why not love it, to?

Allie is also a lady who does not look very much like prey being stalked, despite the fawn-soft ears on her head. She merely tips her head back as he approaches, all prim smile and half-lidded eyes, until Vox is standing over her.

He leans over, bracing himself on the arms of her chair until he’s blocking her into her seat.

“Why?” he asks.

She’s leaned back into her chair, languid from the wine she’s had, and doesn’t seem to react one way or the other to his proximity besides the amused softening of her smile.

“Why, I don’t know!” she says, gesturing with a hand. “I guess I just want to see what it’s like! You’re a good salesman, Vox, and you’ve really been talking this whole thing up.”

“Wo-ow,” he says slowly. “That sounds like something a woman of loose morals would say. Should I be shocked?”

“I also think it will do entertaining things to your demeanor around me,” she adds with a snicker, lifting a perfunctory hand to cover her mouth. “I can only imagine it now—you’re already so obsessive, I want to see what happens when you can’t look at me without imagining that.”

“Okay, that’s pretty in-character,” he admits. “Also, trust me, I already imagine ‘that’ plenty when I look at you. You’re a f*cking bombshell, if you’re, y’know. Into cannibalistic freaks.”

Like now. Her lips are painted red as blood, one of the few parts of her inhuman complexion that he knows for a fact can be attributed to makeup, and yet untouched and flawless despite the dinner they ate. If he didn’t know better, he would be suspicious she’s buying Velvette’s brand of liquid lipstick (“blowj*b-proof and Valentino-approved!”), but the thought just sends him down a spiral of imagining those lips around one of his dicks. A blue one, he thinks, for the contrast.

Ugh, that’s probably not going to happen. If he wants her to sleep with him more than just the once out of curiosity, he has to make it good, and shoving his dick down a first-timer’s throat is probably not the move here.

“Well, then,” he says, swallowing. “Let’s get started.”

She blinks, looking up at him. “Just like that?”

Her eyes are big like this, almost owlish. It’s mostly from the effect of her having to look up at him, but it also makes her look innocent. What a riot. The Radio Demon, an innocent. She tortured a demon to death live on air last week, a fact that Vox only knows because she made a sly comment about dedicating a similar performance to ‘an old friend’ once as part of her intro to bait him into sticking around to listen, and he’s been unable to tear himself away from the one (1) radio he keeps in Vee Tower for exactly this purpose ever since, even though the sound of someone crying so hard they throw up while she filets their flank while it’s still part of them makes even him squeamish. The sounds f*cking haunt his nightmares. Probably exactly why Alastor did it. Also, the victim in question was Valentino’s favorite producer and Vox has had to pretend he has no idea what the f*ck happened to the guy ever since.

“What?” Vox says, swallowing down a decidedly un-sexy shiver at the memory. “Are you gonna say you want me to buy you dinner first?”

He lifts a hand to gesture at the picked-clean table beside them, and Alastor titters.

“You’ve got me there, old pal!” she says, and stands up. She moves like it doesn’t even occur to her like he won’t get out of her way—and to her credit, he doesn’t actually feel like taking an antler to the eyeball, so he skitters to the side.

“Alright!” she says, clapping her hands together with a delighted smile. “As you said: let’s get started!”

“What is wrong with your sheets?” Alastor asks from the bed.

Alastor is naked, curled up at the head of the bed in a posture that isn’t exactly nervous but also definitely isn’t open. Vox is used to Valentino—sprawling, suggestive, showing off the goods. Allie is resting her chin on her knees, hands curled loosely around whatever weird joints she has that pass for ankles, watching him like she’s there for a sleepover. She keeps rubbing her legs against the silk sheets, though, and squinting at them like they’ve done her a personal wrong. She also took her monocle off, though, so it’s possible she’s just feeling particularly myopic.

“There is nothing wrong with my sheets,” Vox says, leaning halfway into his toy cabinet as he tries to figure out which dick he’s going to be using tonight. It used to be a chest, but between himself and Val, more space was needed—frankly, it’s about three months from needing to be turned into a toy closet. “You just have bad opinions.”

“They’re slippery.”

“They’re silk! They’re expensive as f*ck!”

“You paid more money for this textural nightmare?”

Vox pops his head back out of the cabinet, glaring at her. “It’s not my fault you have hooves that can’t grip on high quality fabrics for sh*t.”

She smiles at him blandly. “No, you just have poor taste. This is like your art collection.”

Vox gapes. “What the f*ck is wrong with my art collection?!”

“Well, for one thing, I figured out what the commonality in theme between all the pieces is,” Alastor says, tapping her claws against her cheek, “and it’s that you buy things just because they’re expensive and then put them on your walls. Your penthouse looks like a toddler’s collage of out-of-context magazine snippings and random blocks of construction paper.”

“I’m going to find the biggest dick in this f*cking collection to f*ck you with,” Vox swears, and leans back into the cabinet to hide the way he’s flushing at her critique. “See what you have to say about my art then.”

What the f*ck does she even know? She decorates her walls with dead things and probably thinks ‘modern art’ means anything from after the Renaissance!

“You know,” Alastor says thoughtfully after a pause, “I really didn’t know why you were so interested in doing this at first, but I think I’m starting to get it.”

“Huh?” Vox looks up from the dick he’s—yeah, there’s no sexy way to put this. He’s plugging it in. He’s got a whole f*cking selection of them, and this one’s a solid medium-large size, a little squishier, and has a vibration function. The temptation to whip out something a little more impressive is high, but she’s seen the whole collection before—because the asshole has no shame nor privacy and unabashedly went digging through his sh*t, freely admitting she was looking for embarrassing secrets when interrogated—and she got one hell of a laugh out of most of his favorites. f*ck, the prehensile tentacle one was so difficult to make! At least Valentino appreciates a f*cking artist.

Also, he’s like 95% sure that she’s never done this before, or at least not for a while, and—honestly, he should probably actually be going a little smaller. Unfortunately, his ego has won this particular battle and he’s going for ‘medium’. The hell version of ‘medium.’ Whatever.

“What do you mean?” he asks, clicking his attachment in and shivering as the nerve endings sync up properly. Ugh, that part’s always a little weird. Like a phantom limb manifesting. “You have an ego bigger than Vee Tower, don’t tell me you don’t realize you’re not f*cking attractive. In, like, a completely terrifying sort of way. Also an emaciated sort of way, but ‘heroin chic’ has been in since like the ‘90s.”

Seriously, he can count her ribs from here. He knew her curse had something to do with her diet, but damn. He can’t believe he’s thinking this, but maybe she should be eating more people? Was the guy from last week not enough? He sourced tonight’s dinner from Rosie’s.

“What?” She blinks at him. “No, that’s not—well, er. Thank you? I think.” It’s barely enough of a reaction to call her flustered, but it’s still adorable as f*ck. Ugh, Vox wants to kiss her. Is it too soon? She’s naked! “But I meant your…thing,” she says, gesturing at his dick.

It’s his turn to blink at her. “My…dick.”

“Dicks,” she corrects.

Vox snerks, and reaches for the silicone claw caps in his toy cabinet, tugging them on individually. She might like a little blood with her—well, to be honest, there are few things Alastor would not consider improved with some blood—but he’d like to get his hands on some sensitive parts of her tonight and he’s pretty sure she doesn’t want him cutting her up there. “If you want dicks, I can get the shark peen. It’s got two.”

Her ears flatten against her skull. “Wow!” she says, the radio filter thickening around her voice until she sounds like her best peppy broadcaster persona. “How intriguing! That sounds absolutely horrible!”

It’s condescending, mocking, and genuinely kind of mean when considering how much effort he’s put into this sh*t in the context of, y’know. The whole gender thing. Vox swallows, crawling onto the bed. “Can I kiss you?”

Her eyes widen in delight, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Why, absolutely!”

He kisses her.

She’s not very good at it, to be honest. She starts out utterly unmoving and keeps her eyes open, staring at him unblinkingly as he presses his lips to hers. After a few seconds, she catches the hint and starts trying to replicate what he’s doing, but her motions are clumsy, inexperienced, and her hands are hesitant where they curl against the blankets.

Vox suddenly realizes that he might have a virginity kink.

Okay, wait—not an actual virginity kink. Just—an Alastor kink, maybe? The further they get on in this process, the more evidence piles up that she’s deeply inexperienced, and—it’s hot. That she’s letting him do this. It’s hot that there’s some aspect of life in which Vox has a step up on the Radio Demon. It’s not like he thought Alastor actually f*cks, but—Christ, it’s a whole other experience to have her tongue, slick and clumsy, slip against his own and to know that he’s probably one of a handful people—if not the only person—who has ever done this.

He kisses her for a while. Longer than he initially intended to, but it’s good foreplay, so whatever. He presses her down at one point, guiding her to stretch her legs out on either side of him, and then lowers her onto her back, mostly without breaking the kiss—though they do click teeth once, making him wince and utterly unaffecting her. Like this, he can lean onto his elbows and cup her face, running his hands through her hair and rubbing himself up against her hip slowly, just a little. Her chest is soft, most of her skin covered in a downy fluff that trails into a cute little bush at the apex of her thighs, and she twitches when he runs his fingers down her sides.

Her tit* are pretty tiny. When she took her shirt off, he realized that she wasn’t even wearing a real bra, just an old-timey tank top for an extra layer. She’s probably an A cup, barely, and he’s actually kind of jealous—if he’d had tit* that small, the self-discovery portion of his afterlife would have been a lot easier and involved less self-modification. As it is, her nipples are cute little brown peaks that stiffen when he smooths his hands up to cup her breasts, mouth still making slick noises against hers. She makes a small sound at that—nervous, more than anything, though he’s sure that she doesn’t intend for it to sound that way.

He finally parts from her mouth. sh*t, her eyes are still open. What a freak. He thinks he might actually f*cking love her. It’s probably the endorphins talking.

“Are you ready for this?” he whispers, lips brushing against hers.

Allie nods, nose bumping awkwardly against his with the motion. Her thighs spread around his hips, a little wider. “Yes, yes, you can…start.”

And then she scrunches her eyes shut, like she’s bracing herself to get stabbed.

Vox stares, pressing himself a little bit higher up so that he’s not crossing his eyes just to look at her. After a few moments, she peeks one eye open. “Well?”

“Uh,” he starts slowly. “What was that you said earlier? About getting why I want to do this?”

She opens her other eye, then blinks, one eye at a time like some kind of f*cking lizard. “What do you mean?”

“How are my dicks related to why I would want to have sex with you?” he asks.

She squints up at him, and shoves a knee up until he’s forced to back away, shuffling her way up onto her elbows. “Well, I assume that they’re functional, Vox, unless you’re a much better actor than I’ve given you credit for. And I really am not in the habit of bothering to overestimate you.”

“Okay, cool,” he says, sitting back on his heels. “Cool, cool, cool. Sure, they’re functional. More importantly, most of them also vibrate. Seriously: what?”

“Well, you know,” she says, sitting up properly and bringing her knees together. She spins a hand in the general direction of his crotch. “They’re…ugh, talking about this is awful. You’re really sh*t at being a gentleman, you know. I just mean that they’re fully functional, I assumed. Otherwise, why bother?”

“Please,” he says, “explain it to me like I am ten years old, Alastor.”

She raises an eyebrow, leaning back on her arms. “Your opinion of me must be fascinating if you think I would discuss this with a ten-year-old.”

“You know what I mean!”

“Oh, alright,” she says, nodding sagely. “I’ll explain it to you like you’re the mentally and morally deficient octogenarian that I know you to be!”

“I didn’t die at eighty—” But, oh, now she’s flustered. f*ck, it’s cute. Her ear flicks like she’s batting off an irritating fly, and there’s actually a little blush of pink across her face. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s met someone so uncomfortable talking about plain old sex. Maybe it’s because he’s dating Valentino, but f*ck, it’s hell. There’s basically a two-poster minimum quota per block for raunchy Angel Dust ads. She at least sees that stuff on the way between Rosie’s Emporium and the Hazbin Hotel.

The tips of her hooves dig into the blankets underneath her as she draws her knees up. “The, er. Culmination of the act, so to say. I assume you…managed to replicate the ability to achieve it, as part of your…striving for masculinity.”

It’s just specific enough that he thinks he might know what she’s talking about (and if he’s right, he might actually lose it) and just vague enough that he has to check.

“I take it back,” he says. “Can you talk about it like an actual adult?

Her lips and ears both press flat for a moment, before she visibly steels herself to play it off. She rolls her eyes, just this side of failing to be casual as she wraps her around her knees. Despite the lackadaisical gesture, she won’t meet his eyes. “I’m talking about achieving climax, you stupid picture box.”

“Oh my god,” Vox says. “Have you not learned any sex ed since you f*cking died?”

She bares her teeth at him. “I’ve learned plenty, thank you! Mostly unwillingly, thanks to the damn billboards you lot have plastered all over the city.”

“Then why do you think—do you—f*ck.” He drags his hands down his screen, distorting it into a pixelated nightmare for just long enough for him to get his expression under control. He stares at her over his hands. “Allie, are you trying to tell me that some time before you died, someone told you that the female org*sm isn’t real, and you never updated that information?”

Forget the earlier flattening: her ears are properly airplaned now, lips peeling back from her gums as she rises over him. “I agreed to do this,” she hisses at him, “because I was under the impression that your pathetic enthusiasm would make for at least a mediocre evening of equally pathetic entertainment. But if you’re going to attempt to use this opportunity to mock me—” Something cracks through the quiet of the room, the sharp, squealing feedback of a microphone. The shadows are growing long, grasping fingers creeping over the bed as her antlers splinter and split over the both of them, razored arcs with countless points. “To mock me like this—”

“I’m not,” Vox blurts. He stares up at her, helpless. “I’m not, Allie, I’m not making fun. I promise. I just—I wanted…please don’t go.”

Her teeth are many. All of them are bared, all of them are sharp.

“It’s not me going,” she enunciates past a layer of static that nonetheless renders her nearly undecipherable, “that you should be afraid of.”

“Please,” he says, reaching for her hand. It’s bigger than his at the moment, her claws as sharp as the rest of her. Somehow, like this—twice his size and thrice as dangerous—she looks more vulnerable than ever. She’s terrifying, still—but she’s naked and defensive, snapping at him like a cornered animal, and being able to see the emaciated way her skin stretches over her rib cage doesn’t change anything about that impression.

“Please,” Vox repeats, squeezing her grip. Her claws are so sharp that he doesn’t even feel it when he cuts himself, not until one of his fingers tickles with the trickle of something warm and wet.

She stares at him, the dark pools of her eyes cold and deep. They look like the still waters of a placid lake, bottomless but for the corpses that line its depths.

“I want to make you feel good,” he tells her, pleading. “Making you feel sh*tty about yourself isn’t part of that. Unless, uh—unless you want it to be. Which you don’t! Message received!”

By the end of his fumbling, her expression is still mutinous, but she’s at least shrunken down to a regular size. His cooling system stutters in relief.

“I didn’t expect it to feel good,” she eventually says, yanking her hand out of his and sticking it into her mouth. The gesture startles him for a second, because, f*ck, what do you do when someone you know and respect suddenly just…starts sucking on their thumb? But then he notices the blood trailing down her wrist. “That’s not why I did this.”

f*cking of course. She’s eating him.

He guesses she deserves that, if she was going to let him f*ck her under the assumption that it wouldn’t even feel good. f*ck. f*ck. She really does like him, doesn’t she? She was going to let him f*ck her, because she knew he really wanted to, and she didn’t even think she stood a chance of liking it.

“What did you think I was talking about, then?” he asks. “About making it good for you?”

She shrugs, leaning back on one hand. “You men always talk about those things. The male ego is fragile, and don’t try to tell me that isn’t cross-generational.”

Pot, meet kettle. He’s not going to say that one out loud, though.

“So,” he says, “you’ve never…?”

Her eyes flick over to his, finally. Her sclera are red again, gleaming in the low light with the same exact bloody shimmer that the little smear of his blood she’s left on her lower lip.

“Never what?” she asks. “Molested myself?”

“I—hm.” He rubs his sweating palms against the blankets. f*ck, now there’s blood on his sheets. “I was gonna say that that is not how I would phrase it, but actually it sounds kinda hot, so. Sure, why not: Have you ever molested yourself, Alastor?”

The frustrated way her nose crinkles when he calls her on her bluff is f*cking cute as sh*t. He scoots forward, getting back into her space, just to watch the little wrinkle deepen.

“...Yes,” she eventually admits, eyeballing him suspiciously. “Of course I’ve tried, I’m not—but it’s not like it felt good, so I stopped. Surely you at least have memories, if you really were a woman before you died.”

“Oh,” Vox sighs, all fond recollection. “I was a hell of a f*ckin’ woman before I died, Allie, trust me. And by the time I kicked it, I barely had any time to molest myself because I was busy getting molested over my boss’s desk—and in his chair, and against his windows, and in the back of his car, and also once in the front of his car, though I wouldn’t recommend it, I kept leaning back and making the horn go off—oh, and one time we did it on his balcony, overlooking the city. I nearly froze my nipples off, it was not worth the view or the pseudo-exhibition kink. Anyway, point is,” Vox says, leaning forward to brace himself against the bed with one arm and cup Allie’s hip with his other. “I’m very familiar with having sex, in this body and the last one.”

Alastor’s face is doing something very strange, and it takes Vox a solid few seconds to realize she looks uncertain. f*ck, now that’s an emotion he doesn’t see on her every day. He doesn’t know if he wants to kiss her or eat her. Is this what she feels like when she meets someone smaller than her, less powerful? Weak enough to swallow whole?

She’d kill him if he tried, but f*ck he wants to take advantage of her.

“Well,” she starts, then cuts herself off. After a second, she tries again, grinning weakly: “Well, that was just—social climbing, wasn’t it, chum? Frankly, you sound like you were a bit of a whor*! Your boss, really?”

“Hell yeah,” Vox says, grinning. “And sure I was! But I f*cked his wife, too, and I probably would have f*cked him even if it didn’t get me loaded with cash, because he was one hell of a pushy, predatory piece of sh*t, but f*ck he knew what he was doing with that dick. Allie,” he says, petting over her hip. “It felt good. I mean it. I’m not just trying to get my dick wet. I mean, I’d love to get my dick wet, but—I want to make you feel nice.”

Alastor is quiet, staring at her knees. “Well, then—” she cuts herself off, brows furrowing. “Then it’s because you’re a man, isn’t it? Even in…even in the wrong body.”

“Allie,” Vox says gently, “you know that’s not how that works.”

“...Okay,” she says eventually, quiet. “Okay, fine, just—whatever. If it’ll stop you bothering me about it.”

Vox probably shouldn’t take that, but, f*ck, he will absolutely take it.

“Come sit in my lap,” he tells her, squeezing her ankle, and—wonder of wonders, she goes. Vox almost feels high with it, this realization that Alastor herself is allowing him to direct her, to press her between his legs, to take the lead on this thing she’s doing out of what must be at least partly curiosity and is definitely partly because she thinks it’s what he wants. f*ck, he should really investigate that more—press her on why she’s in agreement. If he were a better person, he’d want to make sure she doesn’t think their friendship is contingent on her putting out.

He’s not that good of a person, though.

He’s lived for decades without f*cking Alastor and he could have gone on living without it, but this? Alastor, naked and vulnerable, sprawled in his lap with her back pressed to his front, legs akimbo all for him? No, he’s not going to f*cking question this.

“I wasn’t—” Allie stutters, none of her usual radio host’s elocution within her grasp, “—this wasn’t meant to be for me.”

“I know, honey,” he says grinning down the length of her body. There’s a mirror spanning most of the opposite wall just for this purpose. He and Val have gotten a lot of mileage out of that one. “But baby, when you’re so sweet, how can I resist?”

Alastor scoffs performatively, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Sweet. The blood’s all pooled in your dick. You’re suffering from oxygen deprivation to the brain.”

“It would be so f*cking weird if I actually designed these things to fill with blood,” Vox says, and scoots himself up to the headboard. “Now, you said you’ve tried this before. What normally gets you hot? Tell me about it.”

She keeps looking up at the ceiling, smiling blandly.

“Alastor?” He squeezes her knee.

“...There’s not.” Her lip edges up, turning her smile into a grimace. “I mean…”

“Why don’t you look at me, then?” he suggests, rubbing his thumbs into the insides of her knees. “Most people find it hot to watch someone, y’know. Kiss their body, eat them out, touch them, things like that.”

She does look at him then, but mostly just to stare at him uncomprehendingly.

“...Or don’t,” he says after a moment, coughing awkwardly. “Up to, uh. Up to you. Look, I can just go for it, but foreplay’s more fun if it’s to your actual preferences.”

“Why don’t you just make me?” she asks. “This was meant to be your fantasy. Make it real.”

Okay, f*ck, maybe he’s a little bit of a more decent person than he thought he was.

He tugs on her hair gently, forcing her to turn her head until he can meet her eyes. “Allie, what are you getting out of this?”

She blinks up at him, looking vaguely hunted. “That’s not—what does that matter?”

“Because it just does!”

She bares her teeth. “What, can’t get off unless your partner is acting like a whor*?”

“Maybe I can’t!” Vox exclaims, flinging his hands up. “Maybe I’ve had extensive fantasies about forcing you down and making you shut that obnoxious f*cking mouth of yours, and maybe I also like enthusiastic consent sometimes! f*ck! Call me vanilla, Allie, I don’t f*cking care. I’m a piece of sh*t but it’s hard to get off on your attitude when I want you to want this!”

“Well then maybe you should go f*ck a man instead,” she snaps, jerking her head away and glaring at the bedspread where her hands are fisted. “Go back to Valentino!”

He stares at the back of her head incredulously. “Are you jealous?”

“Of—no,” she says, exasperated, voice tight. He can see her face through the mirror, and her grin is a rictus of bared teeth, more snarl than smile. “I’m just—I’m trying, Vox! I thought—this is what you wanted. I don’t understand why you’re asking me for more. I don’t understand why I have to…”

“Why you have to what?”

“—you should just do what you described,” she says, breaking herself off. “Forcing me. Isn’t that the prime feature of your depraved little fantasies?”

Vox doesn’t even know what to say to that. The thought of pinning her over his desk and having his way with her has featured heavily in his mental rolodex of spank bank material, with increasingly depraved ornamentation ranging from ‘the Radio Demon has been soul contracted to be his actual secretary’ to ‘okay, but then he could make her wear a little maid dress, right?’ to ‘and a plug! Both holes! All day! Vibrations up high and no underwear, until the mess she’s on her knees to clean is her own!’ to an eventual dovetail into an extended co*ckwarming fantasy where she sits in his lap and he doesn’t let her come until he’s done with his work for the day and—

This is not really getting him hot the same way, though.

sh*t, is he really going vanilla? He’s going to have to get Val to Love Potion him up and DP him until he cries later to make sure. That’ll set him right.

“I can do that, Allie,” he says slowly, and winds his hands around her waist. It’s thin—too thin. Not even model thin, just—whatever kind of thin you get when you’re a permanently starving cannibal. It’s probably f*cked up that he finds that hot, but that thought is mostly overwhelmed by the way his dick twitches when he wraps his hands around her waist and his fingers nearly touch on either side. “If it’s what you want.”

“Women aren’t the ones that want it,” she says matter of factly, “so I’ll do it however you like. But you should know that I haven’t done this before, so we should put a towel down for the blood. Unless you want a souvenir on your sheets, I guess,” she adds, tapping her cheek. “I suppose that’s reasonable.”

His skull thunks against the back of her neck, catching on the knobby little last vertebra on her neck where it sticks out. “Right,” he says, half to himself. He doesn’t even know where to start with any of that. “That settles it. We’re doing this my way.”

He can hear the exasperation in her voice. “Finally.”

He’s on the verge of having a revelation and a half about Alastor’s feelings toward him given that she’s allegedly gung-ho to get down despite apparently having the sex education of a Catholic nun (f*ck, was she Catholic? That would be a riot), but he’s going to put that off for later. The choice right now lies between wringing his own heart out like a soggy dish towel, and indulging his dick, which, despite everything, is still half-mast against the curve of Allie’s ass, and…

Well. Vox is in hell for a reason.

He leans up, winding his arms around Alastor’s front. She’s still not looking at herself in the mirror, but she’s close enough that he can hear her swallow as his palms trail over skin and fur, unfamiliar and large now that she’s back to her regular size.

“You want,” he murmurs into her ear with a touch of hypnosis, “me to f*ck you.”

She gasps, flinching, as something runs through her body. Her head dips immediately as she looks down at herself, confused—but Vox reaches up, grips her jaw in his hand.

“Ah, ah,” he says. “Look at my eyes, Allie. There you are, sweet thing. Don’t you want me to f*ck you?”

“I—but I did before,” she says. She looks confused, and it’s such a clinically, curiously Alastor reaction to being made to feel what is, apparently, an utterly new experience to her. “It’s—it feels different now. What is—?”

Vox grins over her shoulder, smiling toothily in his reflection. “Well, now you’re interested in it,” he tells her. “I can make you think and feel all kinds of things, baby. Want to keep going?”

“...Sure,” she says, shifting in his lap. Her fingers tap-tap-tap on his leg, like she’s settling herself in for a ride. “Why not! This is—a novel time!”

“Why not,” he echoes, and slides his hand down to her throat, cradling it. His eyes pulse in the mirror, the left one swirling almost manically as its spirals reflect in her own red sclera. She’s doing a solid job keeping up that performer’s vim, but he knows he can crack her apart sooner rather than later. She has no experience. He’s no Valentino—f*ck, he’s no Alastor—but he’s hungry for it.

“You want me to f*ck you,” he tells her again, a murmur in her ear, soft fur pressed against the hard flatness of his screen. “You’ve wanted me to f*ck you for hours, Allie. You’re restless with it. It’s like an itch under your skin, a strange obsession you can’t get your mind off of. You want it. You want it so badly that you’re burning with it.”

She makes an uncomfortable noise, squirming, as her claws dig into Vox’s thighs. “Is this—hah! This is what you feel like all the time, then?” she asks, laughing breathlessly.

“Hey, now, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Your typical behavior indicates otherwise,” she says, snickering.

“Oh, shut up,” he tells her, and then: “—not really, f*ck, sorry. Feel free to keep talking.”

She glares at him over her tense grin.

“Sorry!” he says again. “Just let me get back to it, sh*t. C’mon, baby, you know I love to hear you talk. Tell me you want me.”

A quiet little noise, born and dead in the back of her throat. “...I want you,” she says, chin pressing low until she’s half-hidden behind her lashes. Still making eye contact, though.

“Good girl,” he says, low and warm, and immediately has to quash the sheer, unadulterated delight that thrills through him when the words make her shiver. “Oh. Good girl,” he says again, smiling. “Has anybody told you that before? That you’re being a good girl, spreading your legs like this just for me.”

Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. That’s not his hypnosis, no. f*ck, he’s so glad she’s from the ‘20s. Whatever they taught the ladies in the south back then, it f*cked her up so nicely for him. His boss’s buddies did always like to joke: a city girl like Vee for a wicked time between the sheets, but a rural gal’s who you want to settle down with. Technically, his boss did both.

Vox guesses that the bastard wasn’t wrong, in the end.

“You want me to f*ck you,” he tells her again, dragging his hand down her front. From her throat, down over her chest, until his palm is splayed over her belly, broad and warm. His other hand winds around her front, too, cupping one of her small breasts. “It’s not enough to just think about it, though. You need it, like a physical ache. It’s been so long since you’ve started wanting it—you’re not sure how you’ve been able to focus on anything else. You’ve been rubbing your thighs together, restless. Sitting with your legs crossed for so long starts to ache, doesn’t it? You got so wet during dinner, you had to excuse yourself to do something, didn’t you?”

“That’s not…” Her head is lolling back on his shoulder now, eyes lidded where they meet his in the mirror. Red hair spills across his shoulder. Her brows are tipped up in confusion, desperation. “That didn’t…I didn’t…”

“But you did,” Vox tells her, delighted. He rubs his palm in a circle, like he’s petting her belly, his pinkie brushing the top of that cute little tuft of deep scarlet fur that disappears into the vee of her thighs. She doesn’t shave or trim. Of course she doesn’t—why would she? Her thighs squeeze together tighter.

“You did,” he tells her, “but you didn’t mean for it to go the way it did. You were just going to take a minute to gather yourself. Splash cold water at your face and get back to it like a good girl. You were too embarrassed to think it, but—use the restroom, maybe. Check your underwear. You’d hate to ruin your pretty skirts, but, f*ck, you were so wet—you could feel it on your thighs as you walked to the bathroom. Slick and damp, so ready to get f*cked, if only I would just…sit you in my lap, and spread your legs, and…”

Her breath hitches. He lets the sentence dangle, lets the ideas he’s planted in her mind percolate. Her skin is warming underneath his, and he keeps petting her. Soft, gentle. Nothing new—not yet.

“But that’s not what you did,” he whispers into her ear, “is it?”

Her face is red, now, a flush trailing across the bridge of her nose. She twitches her head, denying it, and then goes utterly still, like a deer that’s heard the crack of a snapping twig, alone in the woods. Her tail twitches against his hip, a soft flick of fur as it points up.

He smiles at her. “It isn’t. You couldn’t help it. You locked the restroom door and pulled up those nice skirts of yours around your hips, didn’t you? It was embarrassing—shameful—you were scared there might be a camera in there—but you just couldn’t stand it anymore. You needed something. So you pulled down your panties, and you tried to touch yourself. Bent over the counter, your cheek pressed against the cold ceramic, eyes closed as you tried to pretend that I’m not the kind of person who’d bug a bathroom, and all you could think about was what if it was me there, shoving you down. Not just your fingers, but my co*ck, stirring you up inside like you really needed.

“You’d never done something like it before, but that didn’t matter. Or maybe it did—because it didn’t help. You thought you could take the edge off, but all you managed to do was work yourself up even more. You didn’t know how to touch yourself right. f*ck, you’ve never even managed to make yourself come before, so why did you think today was going to be the day? You were stuck—you couldn’t do it—you needed me to just f*ck you.”

She’s squirming, now, trying to press back into his lap where she can undoubtedly feel his co*ck against the curve of her ass. He lets her—rocks back into her, even, enjoying the friction as Alastor’s mouth drops open into a gasp. Her nipples are pebbled, hard little peaks that stand out adorably on her chest, and Vox wants to nip at them.

“It was so frustrating,” he tells her. “You’ve never been that frustrated in your life—you thought you could cry with it, but you knew better than to let yourself. So you cleaned yourself off as best as you could, and walked back to dinner. By the time you sat down, your thighs were wet again. Your nipples were rubbing against your shirt, sensitive, and you kept wondering if I noticed. You don’t normally bother wearing a bra, but they’re not usually so stiff. They’re not usually aching for a touch. You kept wondering if I noticed, and you kept wondering whether, if I noticed, I might reach out and…”

He moves his other hand, finally, and brushes the soft pads of his fingers over one of her nipples. She jolts, full-bodied—and whimpers, arching her back into him desperately.

“Touch them,” he says, catching the stiff nub of her nipple between two fingers and rubbing his thumb over it slowly. “Pet them. Rub them. Pinch them. And, oh god, then you thought—you wanted me to put my mouth on them. It would be so good, you thought. Warm, and wet, and slick. Maybe I would suck.”

He pinches her nipple gently, tugging upwards, and Alastor whines in the back of her throat.

“Vox,” she finally says, clutching at his legs. “Vox, Vox—”

“What is it, honey?” he asks sweetly. He keeps teasing at her nipple, keeps petting gently over her lower belly. “What do you want, baby?”

“Please,” she asks, shivering.

“Please what?” he murmurs, nosing against the soft fur of her ear.

“The—” She swallows, audible. “The things you’re saying. I want. I want…”

“Oh, I know you want,” Vox says, chuckling. “It feels good, doesn’t it? To want?”

Her hands clench against him, then open, then clench again. “I don’t—I don’t know?”

“Well, then.” He hides his grin in her hair. “Why don’t we find out, sweetheart? Let’s make you want some more.”

Her breath hitches, and he feels his own co*ck twitch in tandem. He presses his palm against her belly, rocking her back against him. She’s hot against him now, cradled between his thighs, and his dick is hard, too—rubbing up against her lower back, a delicious, slow friction.

“That’s how it went on for what felt like hours,” he tells her. “Until you were so ready for it that you thought you might die. You kept finding reasons to stay, reasons to draw it out. You didn’t know how to ask for what you needed, but the thought of leaving—the thought of going home, empty, unsatisfied, just to burn like this for as long as it took until you next saw me—that thought was terrifying. It was such a relief, then, when I asked first.”

She whines in the back of her throat, nodding senselessly. “Yes, yes—then you—then you f*cked—”

“But I didn’t,” he interrupts, rocking himself against her once more. “At least I haven’t, not yet. You’re still burning with it. f*ck, you can feel yourself too empty—inside. Just the sound of my voice makes you want to press a hand between your legs, to squeeze your thighs, to grind down on something—”

She’s whimpering, her hips making little hitching motions. He finally stops teasing her chest, stops petting the soft fur of her belly, and instead lets his hands trail down, pressing between her thighs.

“But you haven’t,” he whispers into her ear. “Because you’re a good girl, and good girls don’t touch themselves just to feel good like selfish little slu*ts. Good girls wait for someone to f*ck them. They wait, and they try to look pretty, and they hope. Maybe if you’re good enough, someone will take pity. Maybe if you’re good enough, I’ll finally f*ck you. Maybe if you’re very good, I’ll make sure you come.”

“Please,” she says, and, f*ck, the strung-out way she gasps out the word goes straight to his groin. The great Alastor, begging. Not just begging, but—f*cked out, breathy. Maybe if he’s mean enough, she’ll cry. f*ck. f*ck. He can’t do that, she’ll never come back. Next time.

Next time.

“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” he commands through the spiraling influence still staining her eyes, and she gasps again, a plaintive little complaint.

She spreads her legs. He hooks her knees over his, leaving her splayed—and, oh, what a sight. She glances down at herself once, flinching, and meets his eyes once again in the mirror. Vox, though—Vox takes his time to admire.

Her puss* is wet, swollen with arousal. The fur is very fine on her thighs at that part of her body, plush and grey, but the puffy, slick part of her is a soft pink that’s slowly blushing darker. Her little cl*t is poking out, cute as a button, begging to be touched. He wonders if she’s ever touched it, or if she just tried to put her fingers inside herself, frustrated with the fruitlessness of her endeavors. He wants to tug on it just to watch her jump and yelp.

He lets his hands draw up the insides of her thighs, stroking softly. Her legs shiver and twitch against him, the hypnosis has her stuck—probably a good thing, too, since she doesn’t look like she knows whether she wants to close her legs or open them further. Vox lets his hands slow once they reach the apex of her thighs, fingers trailing gently over her skin. He gets so close to her puss* that his fingertips get slippery, so close that she holds her breath in anticipation, and then trails them back down, painting teasing little whorls down to the insides of her knees.

“What do you want, baby?” he asks her, pressing his lips against her ear.

“For you to stop f*cking around,” she says raggedly, “and f*ck me already.”

She’s going for irritated, maybe aloof. Anything to wrestle back some of that control that she is nonetheless so willingly giving him. Unfortunately for her, it would be much more convincing if her eyes weren’t fixated on the path his hands are drawing up and down her thighs, if her lower lip wasn’t getting gnawed near-bloody between her teeth, if her hands weren’t digging so sharply into Vox’s legs.

He laughs, low and, honestly, smug as f*ck. “Oh, we are far from the point where I actually f*ck you, Allie.”

“Wh—wait, what?” The firmness is as gone from her voice as if it was never there in the first place, and she looks at him through the mirror, lost.

He doesn’t answer her. The silicone covering his claws is soft, warmed by body heat, and ends just about where his skin begins. He knows from personal experience that it feels just as nice as any other toy, except warmer, more human, and he watches Allie make that discovery in real time as he finally cups a hand around her puss* and presses the pad of his middle finger against her, rubbing up and down slowly until it’s nestled between her lips and teasing against that warm, fluttering entrance.

“Oh!”

Vox’s grin grows, clipping off the sides of his screen as red trails from the corner of his mouth. Alastor’s eyes have gone wide, ears flicking back, then up, then freezing awkwardly in a half-splayed position as she clenches her claws into his legs and stares down at herself. At where he’s touching her.

“How does it feel?” he asks. Allie’s eyes flick up to meet his in the mirror for a split second, then dart back down. She’s holding prey-animal still against him, the muscles in her arms corded as she hovers between pulling herself closer and pushing herself away, and doesn’t answer.

He keeps rubbing, slow and steady. She’s wet—so wet. He knew she would be, has played around with similar hypnosis-induced fantasies with Valentino in the past and is familiar with the effect he can have on someone who submits to them. It’s not hard to turn someone on when you have a shortcut backdoor to their hormonal and neurochemical pathways. It’s heady as f*ck, too: even as his finger slides, slippery, up and down her puss*, he can feel more slick drip out of her entrance.

He pauses then, and whispers into her ear, smug and without a hint of hypnosis: “Hold your breath, sweetheart.”

She blinks once, owlish, and then a noise catches in the back of her throat as he presses his finger into her. It’s not quite a whimper, but not quite anything else, either, and her eyes clench shut as he goes. She’s tight—too tight, maybe, and he curves his finger upward to massage at her walls gently.

“How does it feel?” Vox asks again, winding his free hand under her left knee to pull her even wider open.

Allie shudders, finally back in motion, and presses back into him like she’s looking for a security blanket. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

“Good?”

Her eyes flutter, don’t meet his. She’s biting her lip. “Maybe. It’s strange.”

She clenches around him as she talks, and she clearly feels it, too, making another one of those half-smothered little whimpers.

“Strange how?” Vox asks, softer. The conceit is draining out of him slightly now that she’s failing to respond to it. This is a greater vulnerability for her than he—well, he knew, he did, but he didn’t really feel it until now.

Alastor swallows, audible. “It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like it could. It’s like it almost hurts.”

“I thought you liked pain?” He rubs his thumb against the outside of her knee, soothing. Her hips are starting to rock into his hand, just a little, and his finger is moving more freely now. She’s not quite so tight anymore.

“Not—not like this,” she says, sounding almost guilty. As if it’s a failing on her part, somehow, to not derive enjoyment from all forms of violence.

“Then we’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt,” he tells her, squeezing her knee gently. “Thank you for telling me, sweetheart.”

She leans her head back against his shoulder, closing her eyes tightly once more, just for a few seconds. “Don’t patronize me,” she says, breathless. “Prick.”

“But I get off on patronizing you,” he says, grinning, and enjoys the way she barks a laugh at that. It makes her clench down on him again, but she opens back up immediately, and he thinks she might be ready for more.

He rubs his ring finger up next to his middle one, and presses it inside of her as well. She clenches down on him immediately, breath hitching on a whine, and he pauses the pressure.

“Just another finger, darling,” he tells her.

“I know,” she says through gritted teeth. “It’s—just do it.”

“Mm.” He’s watching her expression carefully. “How about I show you a magic trick first?”

Her face twists, incredulous, as her ears flick. “What?”

He turns his hand, gentle enough that his fingers don’t twist too sharply inside of her, and drags his thumb through her wetness. Her cl*t has pulled out of its hood entirely, just begging to be touched, and he doesn’t warn her at all before he finally presses his thumb against it in one long, slow, firm rub.

“Oh—!”

Her whole body jolts, and he keeps a hold on her knee to stop her from flinching out of place. Her hips twitch into his touch, and he rubs at her cl*t again, slick little up-and-down strokes aided by the raspy texture of the faint callusing on his thumb, until she’s gasping, rolling and rocking her hips into his hand properly, seemingly totally unaware of the fact that she’s also now absolutely f*cking herself on both of his fingers.

“That—” She’s gasping, wet and breathless. “That feels so—Vox, Vox, oh my stars…”

Vox laughs, low, and lets her at it for a bit. Her face is a sight to behold: he’s never seen an expression this open on Alastor before, all sweet wonder and pleasure. She’s staring at nothing, eyes unfocused as she chases the friction and pressure of his hand, and he drags his free hand higher up her thigh, hitching it up until he’s got himself a better angle to f*ck her from but has divested her of half of her leverage.

She squirms at this change, shaking her head in confused frustration for a moment before she remembers that Vox is there at all, that there’s a person attached to the hand she’s rubbing up against, and collapses back against him.

“Vox,” she says, and stops. Her smile is twisted and anxious, like she doesn’t know how she’s meant to react to anything.

“Good girl,” he says, and pets his thumb in a sweet circle around her cl*t, sending her shivering in his arms, pressing her hips up in hopeful, blind confusion. “Don’t look like that, darling, you’re doing so well for me. That really does it for you, doesn’t it? Big strong man, calling you a good girl while he teases at that hot little button of yours? I bet that if I do it enough, I can make you drip with just the words, out in public or at a meeting.”

She squirms, whining as he settles his thumb just below her cl*t—pushing up enough that she can feel it, but not quite touching. Her puss* squeezes around his fingers, and the sound they make as he twists them in and out of her is wet and obscene.

“‘Big strong man,’” she pants, “is big talk for someone neither larger nor stronger than me.”

Vox laughs. “That’s not a ‘no,’ sweetheart.” He presses his fingers back inside of her, curling them upward until he’s rubbing ruthlessly against that spongy part of her that he knows from personal experience is liable to drive one up a wall. She gasps, scrabbling against his legs, and he watches the way the tips of her hooves curl under her feet.

“Sounds like daddy issues. You’re so soft inside,” he tells her, interrupting before she can scoff. “Soft and warm. I knew there was some part of you that had to be softer than all those f*cking claws and teeth of yours, and it’s such a sensitive part, too.”

“Absolute nonsense,” she gasps, and it doesn’t stop her at all from arching with a sharp little cry when he rubs his thumb around her cl*t again, just once.

“Vox,” she complains again, petulant. Her puss* clenches and drips, hot and slick, against his fingers. She’s so responsive—he should keep a couple of fingers up her puss* all the time, he’d always be able to tell what she’s feeling, and there’s nothing like a little bit of gentle torture to sweeten her up.

“What is it?” he asks. He drags his free palm up her side, cupping her breast between his thumb and fingers. “You keep saying my name so pretty. You’re squeezing down so tightly, you know. It’s like you’re trying to keep me inside of you. Are you scared I’m going to take my fingers out?”

She shakes her head frantically, wild with it. “I don’t—just—touch me more, I want—I feel like—”

He squeezes gently with his left hand, then rubs a finger around her nipple, teasing sweetly. “Here?”

“No! I mean—yes—but—Vox,” she says, glaring at him in the mirror. Despite the narrow set of her eyes, her smile is wobbly, her brows raised plaintively. She hasn’t said the words again, but she looks like she’s begging. Her tail is twitching against his belly, soft and frantic.

Possessive satisfaction curls through the pit of his belly, and he grinds his co*ck against her ass, fully hard. He wants to wreck her, wants to see her in pieces—the great Radio Demon, taken apart by his hands. f*ck, it’s hot. He wants to do this again. He wants her to want this again. He wants to watch her cry. He wants to watch her come.

He lowers his head to bite at the side of her neck at the same time as he acquiesces to her confused pleading and starts fingerf*cking her properly, driving his fingers in harder and deeper now that she’s open and pliant enough for it not to hurt, letting the heel of his hand rub up against her cl*t with each movement. He doesn’t bother sucking at her skin, just bites sharp and deep enough to draw blood, retracting only to drag his tongue up the side of her neck as she cries out with a sound that cannot be mistaken for anything other than genuine ecstasy.

It doesn’t take long. She’s shuddering in his arms already, twitching into his hand, trying to urge him faster and faster. One hand has clawed back to grab at his shoulder, the other clutching at Vox’s arm like it’s a matter of life or death that he not so much as pause, and there’s a moment—a tangible moment—when he sees her realize that these sensations are approaching a destination.

“I’m—” Her voice is wet and sharp, almost distressed even as it is liquid with pleasure. There’s almost no static layered over her words, the crisp edges of her accent blurring into something softer. “I think I’m—oh, f*ck—don’t stop, Vox—”

“I’ve got you, Allie,” he murmurs.

“—Don’t stop,” she begs, bleary and wet. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—oh stars—please don’t stop—ah—”

He runs the edges of his teeth over the bite mark he’s put into her neck and she keens, pure animal pleasure—and comes. She goes tense as a bowstring, back arched and that tight little hole of hers clenching down on him, rhythmic little pulses that he matches with the rub and thrust of his fingers. Her mouth is slack, eyes utterly lost, and—oh. Vox drags a hand into her hair, pulling her face to the side until he can press his lips to her cheekbones, tasting salt. She’s crying.

She doesn’t seem to realize it herself, shivering and whining when he finally drags his fingers out of her, slick and sticky. She’s gone boneless in his arms, limp and languid in a way that tells him that if he lets go of her right now, she’ll flop right over onto the sheets, allegedly godawful texture or not.

He wipes his hand on the sheets instead, and bundles her more firmly into his arms, feeling unaccountably possessive for a person who has never been inclined toward monogamy.

“So,” Vox asks, sh*t-eating grin and all. He grabs her chin, wiggling it back and forth condescendingly. “How was my good girl’s very first org*sm ever?”

She snaps her teeth at him, and he’s in too good of a humor to mind the way he has to yank his hand back lest he lose a finger. She is, too, since she doesn’t go chasing the appendages.

It doesn’t stop her face from tinging pink at his question, though, eyes slitted and gleaming as she pulls her knees up to her chest. She’s curled up primly between his legs like this, fitting neatly into his arms. “Passable.”

“Hm,” Vox ponders. “Fair enough. Guess I’ll have to do better for the next one, then.”

Her red eyes widen, just slightly. “The next—?”

He rocks himself to a stand by the side of the bed, Allie still in his arms, and tosses her onto the mattress to the result of a startled bleat.

“We’re just getting started, Allie!” he tells her, cheerful, and follows her down.

The second time he makes her come, it’s on his tongue. She’s pressed into the sheets, on her back with Vox’s head between her legs, which splay wide-wide-wide to accommodate his particular anatomy, and she doesn’t complain about the texture of the silk once. One of her legs ends up over his shoulder, the other hitched to the side in the grip of his palm, and she eyes his hands like she thinks he’s going to f*ck her open on his fingers again until he leans in and presses the full length of his tongue inside of her.

The sound that she makes is loud and high enough to crack her voice, static echoing and popping through the room. One of Vox’s multimedia system’s speakers blows out, faint smoke curling into the air. He doesn’t get a good look at it, too busy getting his head grabbed at by sharp little claws that are a faint bit of pressure away from punching holes into his chassis.

The fun part about eating someone out for Vox is how much deeper his tongue goes than his fingers. People can have whatever complaints they’d like about the changes hell has rendered upon their anatomy, but a tongue that can loll a fair ten inches out of his mouth until he’s curling the tip of it around her f*cking cervix is a win in Vox’s book.

It’s softer than his fingers, too, and so she doesn’t flinch a single time, not even when he presses closer and thrusts the whole thing inside. She just squeaks, fawnish and desperate, and then throws her head back and bites her hand bloody to smother an outright wail when he shows her the difference between how a finger and a tongue can move.

It takes her longer to come the second time, stretched open on the thick root of his tongue and filled to bursting with an appendage long enough that it reaches deep inside of her and has to double back. He lets it rub against the sensitive rim of her entrance, the same tenderness that has her so prone to aching apparently also doubling effectively as a source of pleasure. He grinds mean little circles there until she’s hitching her hips forward, half-frantic, trying to get some friction on her cl*t despite facing not much more than a flat f*cking screen. He eventually takes pity and brings his hand up, catching it between two fingers so that he can knead his thumb against it ruthlessly.

She comes with a startled shout, and rides his face for a long, desperate minute until she finally flops back onto the mattress, shaking with little aftershocks.

The third time he makes her come, it’s finally on his co*ck. She’s limp after he f*cks her open on his tongue, totally boneless as he rolls her over onto her front, only moving with a groan to adjust her face so it’s half-smushed instead of fully smothering herself in a pillow. She’s shivering, full-bodied, and it makes him want to mantle over her and warm her up—but when he does so and tries to press his co*ck up against her bullied entrance, she tenses up again, breath hitching.

“Sorry,” he whispers, petting against her side.

She shakes her head into the pillow she’s clutching between her arms. “It’s fine. You can do it. This was the whole point.”

He leaves her trembling against the sheets and goes to find a smaller co*ck. There’s nothing quite like for a man’s ego like wringing a screaming org*sm out of a beautiful, monstrous woman, and he doesn’t feel anything in particular (other than a discomfitingly dissonant sensation as he detaches one dick and clicks in another, which quickly becomes hard at a rather disconcerting rate) when he switches models to something small and purple that he and Val haven’t used since Vox was trying anal for the first time.

By the time he crawls back onto the bed, she’s curled herself up around the pillow she’d been clutching, face pressed into the top of it and ears flattened, knees hugging it on either side. Her tail is twitching, and when she feels the mattress depress near her, she glances up, eyes half-manic.

“Vox,” she says, reaching an arm out for him.

“Allie,” he replies, grinning and warm. Her legs are squeezing tight around the pillow, hips grinding into it gently. He takes her hand and rolls her over with it, dragging the pillow away from her and earning an adorably pathetic noise of complaint.

“You haven’t f*cked me yet,” she mumbles into the mattress, half-gone and not getting any more lucid. “Your stupid hypnosis. It’s not going to let me go until…”

“Oh,” he says, pressing down over her, arms on either side of her head. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll f*ck you good.”

All she has to say in response to that is a whining grumble as she shifts restlessly, so he pulls her up by the hips until that perky little tail of hers is flashing its white underside in surrender to him. Her hips are thin and her ass is flat, but her waist is even thinner, and overall she has a feminine enough shape to not be totally androgynous. Maybe he’s projecting, but he really likes it.

He presses his co*ck against her and the soft, skin-warmed silicone of it slides smoothly through her wetness as she gasps into the bedding. Her face is still half-pressed into the mattress, hands fisted in the loosening sheets on either side of her head, and her back arches when she feels him, practically presenting.

Oh, but the wonders of hypnosis. She’s come twice, but thanks to his insidious little command, she’s not going to be satisfied until he does this. She’s still so wet. Her puss* must be sore by now, but he can see her desperate little hole, fluttering and so empty.

He sinks into her, and whatever noise she makes is fully drowned out by his own groan of relief.

f*ck but he hadn’t realized how hard he’s gotten until now. She’s so warm and open for him, squeezing delightfully around his co*ck as that cute little tail twitches at his face. He runs his claws through it, teasing at the soft fur, and her hooves scrabble against the slippery sheets, puss* clenching helplessly on his co*ck. It’s like she’s a rangy, reactive little f*ck doll, just for him.

He draws back until just the head of his co*ck remains inside of her, and pauses to enjoy the frantic way she squeezes tight to try to keep him inside—and then thrusts back in, punching a yelp out of the back of her throat.

“Vox!”

He f*cks her.

Doggy style is one of his favorite positions. He likes the way his partners have to arch their backs, likes being able to manhandle their hips. He especially likes dipping his thumb down between Allie’s legs and then squeezing her ass, pulling one cheek to the side so that he can rub the slickness he’s gathered against the tight furl of her other hole. That little move makes her downright frantic, though he’s f*cking her hard enough that the only way she can show it is through a half-choked, startled cry and the way she tightens around him like a vice. Her hands are too busy pressing against the bedding by her face, trying to keep herself from getting shoved up the bed with the strength of his thrusts.

It doesn’t take long before she’s panting again, little yips knocked out of her with every breath. She doesn’t seem to prefer to be vocal so much as she can’t help herself, making precious little noises that are half-human and half-animal as Vox f*cks her.

“Ah—ah—” she gasps. “f*ck—ah—Vox—Vox—!”

Another thing he likes about this position is the way it lets him grind down. The dick he’s chosen is shaped best for prostate stimulation, but from the angle they’re at, it suits just as well for Allie’s most sensitive parts as well, so he grinds relentlessly into them, angling his thrusts downward and holding her hips steady, until she’s crying again and trying not to writhe under his claws.

“Vox,” she cries again. “Stop, stop, I can’t—wait—wait!”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks. He considers stopping like she asked, but then she actually tries to answer him, and the way her voice breaks as her eyelids flutter senselessly is too enjoyable to encourage anything resembling mercy in him.

“Stop,” she whines, clawing at the bed. “I’m going to—I need to—I need the bathroom, Vox, please, I’m going to—I think I’m going to—”

“Oh, ho!” he says, and tightens his hands on her hips. “f*ck, that’s hot. Sorry, Allie, we’re staying right here.”

“Vox!” She sounds genuinely desperate, flinching before her shoulders curl inward in a distinctly humiliated way.

“Shh,” he says, petting at her flank. “Just relax into it. It’s not what you think it is.”

“I’m going to—” She sobs. Vox’s co*ck twitches at the sound, kicking inside of her—and, tellingly, she just clamps down on him harder. “I’m going to—”

He stops f*cking into her and presses their hips together instead, really angling the grind of his co*ck against the front wall of her puss* in a more shallow up-and-down motion. Allie’s voice cuts off into a thin whine at that, eyes squeezing shut as her thighs tremble violently, and Vox finally reaches around and pinches at her cl*t, sharp and mean—

She comes for a third time, squirting all over his hand as he wrings her dry with a steady, continuous rub. He keeps going, stroking her both inside and out until her keening takes on an even more animalistic edge and she starts clawing at the bed in truth, scrabbling to get away from him.

When he finally lets her go, she collapses away from him and immediately rolls onto her back, knees tucked up as she stares down at herself. The high points of her cheeks are flushed, red and embarrassed, and her eyes are wide.

“What did—what was…”

Vox moves forward, pressing her knees apart to settle between them. Allie flinches, shaking her head.

“No, wait—no more—”

“You squirted,” he tells her, pressing his co*ck into the crook of her thigh. The short fur there is soaked, disgusting and slick with their fluids—well, mostly her fluids. It’s all still warm against his dick, and it is also, frankly, hot as f*ck. Vox closes his eyes for a moment and bites his lip, groaning as he grinds himself against her. “It’s fine, Allie, it’s normal. Just means you had fun, and also that my dick game is f*cking phenomenal.”

“You didn’t—finish,” she says, still breathing hard as she watches him and apparently decides to ignore approximately two-thirds of the sh*t coming out of his mouth, which is slightly higher than average. Her skin is a strange sensation to rub against—the fur isn’t as soft as Valentino’s ruff, but how many times has Vox stuck his dick there? This feels more natural, more sleek, and it’s still inches away from her poor puss*, which is puffy and gleaming with slick. He wants to slide back into it, though he knows she wouldn’t enjoy it at this point.

“That was the whole point,” she says, sounding—something. Not very good, he thinks, but maybe not terrible, either. “It was for you.”

“Want to help me?” he asks, and reaches for her hand to draw it down to his dick. His size kink goes both ways—there’s a reason he’s dating Val—so it’s a little disappointing that he hasn’t got the kind of dick on that she could barely wrap her fingers around, but just the fact that she does it at all…

She squeezes, hesitant, and then bites her lip as she tries to rub her fingers against him. Even after everything, her hands are mostly cool—he supposes not every dead person can be expected to have good circulation—and she’s too tender by half as she tries to keep her claws from cutting into him. Despite it all, it’s Alastor—and it’s that thought that finally has Vox choking on a moan and coming, grinding harshly into the slick mess of her hip as she rubs her fingertips against his co*ck in a motion that’s more of a tease than any real help. His hands clench around her hips, undoubtedly leaving new bruises on top of the ones he’s already pressed into them, and he curls over, biting harshly down on one of her nipples and making her yelp. He sucks it back into his mouth in apology, laving over it with his tongue as he rides out the aftershocks of his org*sm, until she’s making pitchy, overstimulated little sounds in the back of her throat and trying to crawl away.

His come ends up smeared all over her stomach. Some of it almost reaches her chest. It’s all synthetic stuff—white, because Valentino likes it that way for realism, but the composition is closer to a water-based lube than anything else. It’s technically edible, though it doesn’t taste very good, a fact which Alastor finds out when she dips a curious finger into it and then presses it into her mouth, making a face immediately as her ears flick.

“You,” Vox tells her as he rolls off of her—and then changes his mind, laughing at her instead of figuring out how to finish that sentence.

She rolls her eyes at him, wiping the rest of the mess on her hand onto his shoulder, and tenderly shifts herself up into a sitting position. The whole process is ginger, and she winces as she settles onto her ass, looking altogether very embarrassed about it. Her legs press together, and she winces, ears airplaning aggressively as her eyes fly open wide.

“My tail,” she says, pressing her hands against her cheeks. It’s adorable. She’s adorable.

“Huh?” Vox asks, propping himself up on his elbow. “Wait, I didn’t—well, I barely did anything to it. Did I pull too hard?”

She shakes her head, dragging her hands through her chin-length hair. “It’s…wet,” she says, not meeting his eyes.

Vox barks a laugh. “You’re wet, sweetheart.”

“It feels disgusting!”

“Sex is disgusting,” he tells her. “That’s why we invented showers.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“So are you.” He grins, feeling giddy at the easy back-and-forth. “Just wait until we do this again, you’ll get used to it right quick. Sex is weird, Allie, that’s just how it is sometimes.”

Alastor’s smile wobbles, a more genuine discomfort etching its way into her face.

“—what?” Vox asks. “What?”

“Must we do this again?” Alastor asks, gazing off to the side as she tugs a finger through her hair, pulling locks back into place from her earlier ruffling.

“...Did you not like it?” Vox asks. It’s amazing how quickly five little words can wither the jubilation that had been fluttering in his chest.

“No, I—” Alastor pauses, releasing her hair. There’s a strangeness to her face that he doesn’t recognize. “It was an enjoyable experience in the moment it was happening. I just don’t think that I could have liked it without your little hypnotism trick. I’ve never felt that way before, you know, and—there’s no way to phrase this inoffensively, but I don’t think you’re some kind of special exception in this respect.”

Then I can hypnotize you next time, too, Vox wants to cry out. He’s not—f*ck, he’s not a good person and he’s proud of that fact, he doesn’t care where this kind of sh*t falls on the line of healthy relationships. If they’re both enjoying themselves then what does it matter how that enjoyment comes about?

But the odd emotion twisting Alastor’s expression is anxiety. She’s nervous—her! Alastor! The Radio Demon!—and she says—she says—

“Do you think we could stay friends, still?” she asks. Her ears are so very carefully perked up. Her tail (which, yes, looks damp as hell) doesn’t so much as twitch. Her claws are steady. But her pupils are pinpoint, staring off into the distance. “Without…this. I know it’s not typical for men and women. Even without marriage, in this more modern era, I know that there are expectations. It’s just that I’m broken inside as a matter of fact, and normally I would not give the faintest f*ck, except that I—” She breaks off, swallowing. She meets Vox’s eyes, careful and sidelong. “I do value our friendship.”

And what the f*ck is Vox supposed to say in response to that? f*ck, how is he even supposed to want to f*ck her again, after that? It’s—she’s hot, obviously, but cripes, how the hell has Alastor of all people, bona fide mass-murdering cannibal, managed to pry her claws so deep into his circuitry that she’s unearthed whatever dregs are left over of Vox’s conscience? For f*ck’s sake, he feels bad.

“Is that why you decided to do this?” Vox asks, feeling sick. “Did you—you didn’t even want any of this?”

Alastor blinks at him. “No, I… well.” One of her ears tips to the side, the edges of her smile twisting awkwardly. “I wanted to try. I thought that I would like it, if it was with a man whose company I actually value. And it’s how these things are done, isn’t it?”

Vox whines, an obnoxious, pitchy computer tone, and tips his head over onto his knees, tugging at his antennae. Her words are like a punch to the chest. “Allie, I f*cking hate you so much sometimes. Of course we can still be friends, what the f*ck kind of question is that. I just—I think this is the nicest you’ve ever been to me about our relationship, and it’s while you’re rejecting me. What the fu-u-uck. Couldn’t you have at least let me enjoy the afterglow?”

“...Sorry,” she says, low, and now Vox feels like even more of an asshole.

“No, it’s.” He sighs. “You weren’t even sorry for slaughtering and eating Val’s top producer last month, don’t start being sorry for things now. It’s fine, I’m just. I’m going to be sad about it.” He peeks up at her through his arms. “...Is that okay?”

She looks at him, brows furrowed slightly and head tipped to the side. One hand twitches, as if to reach up, but then settles back at her side. “You being sad?”

“Yeah.”

“I suppose it is,” she says slowly. “For how long?”

He frowns back at her. “How am I supposed to know? Probably a while.”

She nods slowly, and then beams at him with such enthusiasm that he can’t find a single line of sincerity in her expression. “Very well, my dear! I’ll be sure to keep out of your way until further notice. I would, indeed, get out of your hair posthaste, but I am not leaving without a shower and frankly you don’t have any hair anyways.”

“Wait, no,” Vox protests, grabbing her hand as she makes to get off the bed. “You don’t have to—that’s not what I meant. I still want to hang out with you. I just…wanted to make sure you wouldn’t mind my feelings. Can’t it just be like it was before?”

She stills at the edge of the bed, one arm dragged behind her by Vox’s grip. She turns her head just enough that she can watch him out of the corner of her eye. “I suppose,” she says slowly, “that if you don’t mind my lack of feelings, then I can hardly fault you for the presence of them.”

A moment’s pause.

“...Lunch?” she offers, quiet. “This weekend? It doesn’t have to be Cannibal Town.”

“We can do Cannibal Town,” he rushes to say, squeezing her hand. “We should, actually. I want to feed you more. Hey. It’s okay, alright? You look peaky. You didn’t do anything wrong, and nothing bad is going to happen. Say it.”

“You sound like Charlie,” she says, huffing, but her smile softens. “Ugh. Thank you. I…didn’t do anything wrong, and nothing bad is going to happen. Unless I fail to make it to a shower in the next five minutes and this mess starts to congeal in earnest.”

It’s not that funny, but Vox laughs anyway.

He shows her to the shower, and doesn’t ask to join her. While she’s cleaning up, he finds her clothes, already neatly folded, and leaves them outside the door for her along with a fresh towel and her boots.

Then he flops onto the bed and lets his eyes leak for a little bit as he listens to the water run. He doesn’t quite manage a proper cry, and when he’s done, he scrubs the evidence away with the back of his arm and smiles helplessly at the ceiling.

It’s fine. They’ve got a standing date for this weekend. He doesn’t have to f*ck her to love her, and she doesn’t need to love him to want him in her life.

f*ck, but it really is going to be okay.