Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Aw, why the long face?"

Vox cackled at Alastor's visible discomfort as he summoned his cables to retrieve the clothes he'd carelessly discarded in his celebratory fuck session with Valentino. He made a point to position himself so that his cock attachment was front and center in Alastor's line of sight. Just in case he hadn't seen enough of it throughout the whole ordeal, he supposed.

Alastor growled, his ears falling flat against his head as he looked away, repulsed. The man in front of him was nothing like the one he called his...the one he knew before. Vincent.

He felt his gag get tugged down before Vox blew a cloud of pink smoke directly into his face. He held his breath, not wanting to inhale whatever it was, but it was no use. Near instantaneously, a foreign heat pooled in his stomach, overtaking the disgust that twisted in him moments before.

Alastor began to sweat. His ears pressed even flatter against his head as he felt himself harden until his bulge pressed against his pants. He couldn't stop himself from flinching at the contact with the fabric, trying fruitlessly to shift to a more comfortable position. He'd never been so sensitive before.

Feeling a tug at his cables, Vox turned his attention away from redressing to glance back at Alastor, who was still squirming in his seat. He barked a laugh in disbelief.

"Holy shit, is that all it takes to get you going?" He laughed again with a cruelty that struck a nerve in Alastor. "I had a whole bottle of love potion set aside for you. I was even considering sharing and letting Val get a taste of you, if you needed it right from the source, but your whore-ass got all hot and bothered from a single puff of smoke!"

Feedback emanated from the room's speakers as Alastor stared daggers into Vox, but he said nothing, too focused on trying to retain control of himself. It felt as though his thoughts were melting into goo. Vox was right, he shouldn't be so susceptible to something like this. What was happening to him?

"What, no comeback? Is that all it takes to tame your bratty facade? We'll have to work on your foreplay," Vox tutted. "Anyway, I wasn't planning on doing this so soon, but I'd never keep a lady waiting."

More of Vox's wires surged forth, wrapping around the arms of Alastor's chair and yanking him forward until the blinding blue light of the media overlord's screen filled his vision. He tried to turn away, but Vox had him held in place. He settled for squeezing his eyes shut, which did little to dampen the glow that enveloped him.

He felt Vox's claw brush over his face, sweeping his sweat-soaked bangs off of his forehead. The manner in which he then proceeded to cup Alastor's jaw in his hand was uncharacteristically gentle, though the sharpness of his claws threatened to pierce his cheeks, nonetheless.

"You look so beautiful like this," Vox crooned, "All worked up and flustered. I'd kill to get a shot of you--for my personal collection, of course--but I suppose I'll just have to find another way to make this last."

Without warning, a surge of electricity coursed through Al's system, momentarily disorienting him. For that moment, the fog clouding his mind cleared. His eyes flew wide open with a gasp as he felt Vox press his knee into his groin. He hated how good it felt, how desperately he wanted more, but there was still a part of him that knew he shouldn't give in.

He held Vox's gaze in a silent challenge, the TV's hypnotic eye spiraling wildly. Vox's chest was heaving as much as Alastor's as he remained perched over the radio demon.

"You know you're just torturing yourself by trying to resist," Vox seethed. "I'm giving you an easy out, Al. I could leave you to your own devices, watch as you slowly crack under the building pressure of need until you're begging for me to fuck you, but I'm trying to be nice."

The hand around Alastor's jaw tightened. It was a wonder that his teeth didn't shatter with how tightly they were clenched, his lips pulled back in an expression that was more of a snarl than a smile. Tears of frustration begun to blur his vision. His resolve was slipping.

Finally, he caved. He felt bile rise up his throat as his body started to move against his own volition. It was as if he'd been locked outside of himself, cursed to watch from above as he surrendered himself to desires that were not his own, to Vox.

The worst part was that he couldn't feel the persuasion of Vox's hypnosis. This was all him, even if the love drug was to blame.

Every noise seemed to be drowned out by static. He wasn't sure whether he was broadcasting it or it was in his head. He wasn't sure that it mattered, anymore.

"That's what I thought," Vox said smugly, cutting through the static that filled his ears. "Good boy. You really did throw away the last of your dignity for that bimbo princess," he chuckled. "Not that I'm complaining. Who's weak now, Alastor?"

Alastor barely registered Vox's words. He was so close. So close to this feeling being over with, so close to being back in control.

His jaw parted as he sensed his incoming climax. He paid no mind to the pain of Vox's claws digging into his cheeks from the sudden movement, the tickle of his blood welling up at the puncture sites, the moan that escaped his lips. Nothing mattered right now other than getting over the edge. Oh, fuck, he--

In that moment, Vox pulled away completely, releasing Alastor's jaw from his grip and, most devastatingly, his knee from his dick. It was too late. Alastor desperately tried to thrust into nothing as he came with little satisfaction, tears mixing with the streaks of blood and sweat streaming down his face.

He slumped down in his chair, exhausted and all too aware of the spreading wetness in his pants, the dampness of sweat all over him. Still, the drug-induced lust wasn't satisfied. His breathing was getting dangerously close to hyperventilation, so he snapped his jaw shut, catching a chunk of his lower lip in the process.

Vox watched with an expression somewhere between hunger and awe, obviously pleased with the show in front of him. "Fuck, you're perfect," he breathed.

Alastor growled, staring back at the media overlord with slitted eyes. "You're sick," he spat, drops of blood from his lip spraying onto Vox's shoes and the surrounding floor. He refused to acknowledge the visceral sense of need still bubbling in him, even as he felt himself start to harden again already. What the hell was in that Valentino's smoke?

Vox closed the space between them once more, seemingly unbothered by the mess as he kneeled down to Alastor's eye level. "That was all you, baby," Vox assured gleefully, delicately rubbing the pad of his thumb to wipe away the tears on Alastor's cheek. The touch felt like acid. "I'm just glad I could be here to help."

Again, Vox brushed his thumb across Alastor's cheek, this time passing over his busted lip and leaving a smear of blood across his chin. He then proceeded to bring his thumb up to his screen, popping the claw into his mouth, casually.

"Mmph," he moaned. "You know, your habit of eating people used to weird me out a bit, but I think I'm starting to see the appeal." He smiled a warmthless broadcaster smile, his cyan shark teeth tinted with crimson. "Now then, it's looking like you could use a bit more of my help."

Chapter Text

Alastor let his head lull forward until his chin was pressed against his chest, going slack so that the only thing keeping him upright was the band of cables wrapped around his waist. In his periphery, he noted the bulge in his pants had returned, a sign that his biology was betraying him yet again.

He shifted his attention to the strings of bloodied drool that hung from where a chunk of his lip was still missing, the viscous liquid wobbling from his efforts to steady his breathing. His flesh was knitting itself back together, but it was taking much longer than usual. In the meantime, the saliva collected in a puddle on his dress shirt, darkening a patch just above where the gash in his chest was once more beginning to bleed through.

Vox was leant back against his desk, pouring another celebratory glass of whiskey, which he held up in Alastor's direction. "You sure you don't want one, Al? It'll take the edge off." Despite everything that had just transpired, everything he had just done, the media overlord seemed unphased, laying on the charm as if they were still chummy with each other.

After a few beats of dead air, when he had finally taken the hint that Alastor wasn't going to play into his act, Vox sighed and downed the glass in one go. "Well, you can't say I didn't try to let you keep some sliver of autonomy, but I guess I'll have to be the one to call the shots," he said, winking.

"C'mere," Vox motioned Alastor closer. More wires surged toward him, looping around the base of his chair to reel him into Vox's proximity. "What say you take a swig, for old time's sake?"

Vox squeezed Alastor's cheeks between his clawed hand, forcing his jaw open and tilting his chair until he was practically lying flat on his back. The media overlord poured the bottle directly into Alastor's mouth, not relenting until it was overflowing down his chin. He struggled against Vox's hold, more out of pure instinct than conscious choice, but the TV demon's grip was firm.

Vox rolled his eyes, tutting at Alastor's squirming, as though he were a picky child and not someone being waterboarded with booze. "It's just whiskey, Al. If you wanted a different label, you should've spoken up sooner, but this shit goes down smooth, promise. Trust me."

Vox wasn't lying; he barely felt a burn as the alcohol travelled down his throat, aside from the couple drops that went down the wrong pipe. He let out a few sputtering coughs, slightly convulsing in the process.

Satisfied with Alastor's compliance, Vox released his grip, letting him sit up to continue his coughing fit and giving him a few slaps on the back for good measure.

A wave of warmth not unlike that of the sense of need he still possessed flowed through him and settled into a calm buzz. He wasn't sure how many shots-worth of whiskey he'd just had, but it was enough to make everything feel fuzzy.

The media overlord clicked his tongue, examining the state of Alastor’s attire. "You've got to be getting rather stuffy in that shirt, hm?" He used the back of his hand to raise Alastor's chin, exposing his neck.

Two cyan claws snaked behind the buttons of his shirt collar, the tips briefly pressing into the skin that framed his larynx. A small part of him longed for Vox to just tear his throat open. At least then he'd have some peace as he reformed. Instead, the media overlord merely sliced the top-most button off with his thumb before slowly raking his index claw down the front of his shirt.

Pain seared through his body as the side of Vox’s hand brushed over his angelic wound with just enough force for it to recommence its bleeding. At the same time, the touch sent a shiver down his spine that went straight to his dick.

“Fuck, desperation’s a good look on you,” Vox admired.

The wires around his waist retreated as Vox's claw freed the final button. As exposed as he felt, as vulnerable of a position he was in, Alastor had to admit that the cool air felt nice against his blood- and sweat-matted fur.

"Feels better, right?” He paused, thinking. “Though, I suppose I shouldn’t be too courteous. I wouldn’t want you forgetting why you’re here."

Without warning, Vox rose to his feet, hoisting Alastor up by his wrists before shoving him down to the floor, hard. Alastor swore he felt something in his knees crack. At the very least, he anticipated that he'd have some nasty bruises by the time Vox was done with him.

“You’re here to be my bitch.”

More wires emerged from the media overlord's back, binding Alastor's hooves together. They snaked up his body, latching onto his wrists and yanking down mercilessly to secure them alongside his ankles, forcing his shoulders open. The sudden stretch proved to be too much for the scar tissue that wrapped his chest, reopening tears that intensified the stream of blood trickling down his body.

A bright 'clink' of metal against metal drew Alastor's attention away from his injuries. Vox was seated in his desk chair directly in front of him, tossing his belt to the side and undoing the clasps and zipper of his slacks.

"I've waited so fucking long for this. You’ve always been such a goddamned tease." Vox bared a smile so wide that it clipped off of his screen as he reached under the band of his boxers to free his cock, which practically sprung out on its own.

Its color was flush with the TV demon's skin tone, save for the circuitry-like pattern along the length of the shaft that pulsed a cyan glow and the head, which also glowed (because of course it did). Beads of precum were already forming atop its slit, taking on the neon bluish-green hue of the tip's surface. Its shape and size at least appeared to be much more comparable to that of standard genitalia than whichever one he'd seen Vox use with Valentino earlier. Still, he had no desire to interact with any of Vox's interchangeable parts, despite the twitch that the sight brought to his own.

He had little time to dwell on that upsetting sensation as Vox's clawed hand shot forward, snatching a fistful of his hair. He let out an involuntary bleat as the media overlord undoubtedly yanked more than a few follicles out of his scalp, forcing him forward until his nose was mere inches from his dripping cock.

"If you try anything stupid, I'll tear you open and fry you to a crisp." Sparks danced across the media overlord's claws, making Alastor's scalp tingle. "I wanted to start you off with something more beginner-friendly, knowing you're a bit of a prude, but if you try to make me into your personal chew toy, not only will you receive the shock of your afterlife, but I'll have no choice but to choose something a bit harder to swallow. I’ve gotta give the guy some credit, Valentino has contributed some very…inspired additions to my collection, heh. Now open up."

Alastor's thoughts were swimming as he neared delirium from the mixture of pain, pleasure, and revolt he was feeling, all a hazy blur, thanks to the whiskey. He knew he had no real choice–-Vox would get what he wanted, one way or another, and maybe giving in wouldn’t be so bad, after all. So, he complied, forcing his jaw open despite the disgust he felt in doing so.

"That's it,” Vox praised. “Seems you're learning your place." His voice was thick with condescension, the last word strained by the effort of thrusting his cock through Alastor's open maw.

Knowing what was coming wasn't enough to stop Alastor from gagging as the tip slammed into the back of his throat, nor to keep his eyes from tearing up from the burning friction the act created. His gaze unfocused as he willed himself to detach from what he had permitted Vox to do to him.

"Nuh-uh…. Eyes…on me…, Bambi," Vox panted between thrusts, giving his ears a painful jerk.

Alastor obediently looked up at Vox, blinking a few times to clear teardrops from his lashes. Even still, Vox's face appeared to him as little more than ill-defined blobs of bright colors, which he was grateful for.

"F-fuck…. Heh…. Good boy."

Time seemed to slow down as he became increasingly aware of his inability to breathe beyond shallow inhales through his nose that he managed to take in between Vox's thrusts. Each push and pull of his body tore open his angelic wound a little more, and dark spots started to take over his blurred vision.

Just as he feared he might pass out, a shooting pain in his dick snapped him back into consciousness, making him flinch. He squirmed, trying to get free of the pressure pinning it to the floor, but that only served to reverberate the sensation throughout his body. Through the tears that were now freely streaming down his face, Alastor made out the cyan sole of Vox’s shoe planted directly on his groin, just as it stomped down, harder.

“I s-said-zxzczzcx–”

Vox’s words were cut off as he came with a glitchy moan, his face briefly replaced with a screen of colored bars. A spurt of warm, salty fluid flooded Alastor's mouth and into his throat, triggering a renewed wave of nausea within him. Vox's pace slowed as he rode out his orgasm, plunging his spend deeper and deeper into Alastor, until finally he stilled.

Vox's grip on his ears had loosened significantly, post-climax, meaning Alastor could try to pull away, could try to spear his antlers through Vox's currently-offline digital face, but he didn't. What was the point? He couldn't get out of their deal. Not yet, anyway. If this was what Vox was willing to do to him on a whim, what else must he be capable of, given reason to retaliate?

Several beats of nothingness went by as Alastor deliberated and Vox rebooted. The whir of the man’s vents was all he could hear aside from the rushing of blood in his ears, which provided little distraction from the mouthful of cum he didn’t know what to do with.

It all seemed to melt away at once–-the smoke, the booze, the shock–-and he retched. The burn of bile raked its way up his already-raw throat, bringing with it the metallic taste of blood, which mixed with the saltiness of Vox’s fluids.

Not wanting to fully throw up in his mouth--nor, inevitably, all over himself--Alastor made the terrible decision of forcing himself to swallow. This, in itself, was enough to make him heave all over again, which meant he had to repeat the process numerous times before he felt confident that the contents of his stomach were going to stay put.

At some point during that process, Vox had finished rebooting. He ran his claws through Alastor’s hair gently, then pressed his palm against his forehead, pushing him back so that the no-longer-glowing cock was finally out of his mouth. A thick, pink-tinted string of fluids stretched across the newly-made space before snapping to dribble down his chin.

"Mmm. I didn’t even have to ask,” Vox mused. “I must taste that good, huh?” The media overlord withdrew his hand from Alastor’s hair to swipe his thumb across his jaw, momentarily admiring the substance before wiping it off on the inside of Alastor’s lip. By his expression and hum of amusement, Vox seemed to very much enjoy the sight.

Vox leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes at Alastor in a challenge. “How about you finish cleaning me up, then?"

Alastor stiffened, his lips curling back in a snarl, before remembering their deal. He shifted himself forward, unclenching his jaw so that he could take Vox in his mouth once again. He pursed his lips around the shaft for leverage, using his tongue to lap up the remaining slick.

Once he was done, he sat back on his haunches, avoiding Vox’s gaze and praying to whatever entity would listen that his face wasn’t flushed.

"Shit, who knew the radio demon was so proficient with his tongue? I'll have to remember that next time my heels need polished."

With that, Vox rose from his chair, tucking his cock back in his pants before doing them up and brushing himself off, like that would absolve him.

"Well then, I have a few more orders of business to get to before we turn in for the night, babe," he quipped, snapping his fingers so that the cables released Alastor from his kneeling position and lifted him back into his chair.

“I'll send Kitty up with a change of clothes. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable. And of course, I'll be watching." He nodded to one of the cameras that adorned his bedroom walls before zapping himself through the electrical grid, leaving Alastor alone, at last.

Chapter Text

The mechanical whirring of Vox’s sliding office doors disturbed Alastor from his train of thought. He blinked several times in an attempt to moisten his eyes, realizing that he had been staring unseeingly at Vox’s original TV head, which the media overlord showcased on his front wall.

Alastor turned to look at the culprit of the disturbance. Unsurprisingly, it was Vox, who, just as unsurprisingly, looked to be fuming. Alastor mentally prepared himself to be subjected to another verbose and expletive-filled rant about whatever had gotten the self-proclaimed leader of the Vees pissy this time.

The overlord stomped past him without any acknowledgement of his presence, fists balled at his sides and cyan sparks discharging wildly from his antennae. He threw himself down onto his desk chair with a huff of irritation.

“Fucking Carmine,” he hissed, slamming a fist onto his desktop. The mini firework of sparks that went off upon impact was almost comical, and Alastor might have laughed, had the accompanying bang not caused his ears to twitch.

“That bitch thinks she’s above the rest of us, thinks she’s exempt from Heaven’s wrath. The weapons overlord! What a fucking joke!” Vox threw his hands up dramatically, rolling his eyes as he leaned back to cross his legs atop his desk.

“Hmm,” Alastor mused. “Seems I’m not the only one who can see through your flashy light show. You haven’t even given her a reason to play along with your silly god complex.”

Vox’s screen flickered, a near-imperceptable expression of hurt flashing across it before one of increasing indignation replaced it. Nonetheless, it was enough to confirm that the seed had been planted, no matter what the short-term repercussions would entail.

“Ex-fucking-scuse me?!” Vox shot up out of his chair, glaring at Alastor with an intensity that made him bristle.

Alastor couldn’t help but fan the flames. “What? Did I strike a nerve?”

The TV demon regained his composure, clearing his throat before giving his best attempt at conveying apathy. “Not pissing me off should be the only reason either of you need. I’ll get you both to fall in line, starting with showing you the consequences of being a back-talking brat.”

Suddenly, Vox’s screen was directly beside him, its brightness momentarily leaving him in a daze as the afterimage clung to his vision. Alastor flinched again, attempting to turn away, but Vox caught his jaw in his hand, forcing him to look directly into the red and black spirals of his hypnotic gaze. So much for composure. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Still insisting on making things harder for yourself?” Vox’s voice was low and venomous as he leaned in, too close. “Have it your way, then.” The media overlord stood back up, clasping his hands behind his back. “It’ll just make your eventual submission that much sweeter.”

Vox strode back to his office chair, perching on the edge of it as he dug through various drawers of his desk, muttering to himself, all the while.

“Dammit,” Vox cursed as he slammed the final drawer shut.

He sighed, walking back toward Alastor. “Looks like we will be doing this the hard way, since it seems I’m all out of Love Potion.” He shrugged apologetically before his expression shifted to something more sinister.

Alastor willed himself not to shrink under the scrutiny of his gaze, but even still, his ears were pinned back against his head. A warning growl crept up his throat, popping with static.

Vox sighed, admiringly. “It’s so cute that you think you’re capable of doing anything that will intimidate me,” he chuckled. “You’re my prisoner, remember? We both know you can’t do shit.”

The TV demon hummed smugly as he traced the upper vertebrae of Alastor’s spine through his clothing. He rested his hands on Alastor’s shoulders in that infuriating, possessive way of his, making him tense.

“How are you liking the shirt? Got a great feel to it, right? I’ve got Velvette working on some custom-tailored pieces for you, but. . .” Vox walked around to Alastor’s front, an expression of pure hunger plastered on his screen. “. . .there’s just something about seeing you swimming in my clothes, ugh! It really highlights just how small you actually are. Just a pansy hiding behind your big, bad radio-demon facade. Heh.”

The restraints around Alastor’s waist tightened, accentuating the skeletal frame that Hell had cursed him with and compressing the air from his lungs. Before he could recover, the cables unwound from the chair and flung him into the side wall of Vox’s office, giving him whiplash. He slid down the wall, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath.

Vox casually made his way over to where Alastor sat in a heap, kneeling down so that he was at eye level with him.

“Good thing you’re resilient, though. Wouldn’t want to break my new toy so soon.” Vox shot a hand out and wrapped it around Alastor’s throat, making his wheezes even more labored.

Realizing his arms were no longer bound behind him, he clawed desperately at Vox’s wrist, trying to pull it away. His claws sliced through Vox’s sleeve and into his forearm, clearing the dermis and thin, spongy layer of fat below, like butter, momentarily exposing the biomechanical makeup underneath.

“GAH!!” Vox yelped, glancing down at the gashes in his forearm that were quickly pooling with blood. “You fucking—”

Pain reverberated through Alastor’s body as Vox sent a powerful electric current through his spine. The rest of his senses felt muted as his nervous system struggled to process the shock it was experiencing.

When it finally ended, his whole body felt too heavy, his muscles shaking with overexertion. His fur prickled with remnants of static electricity, and he faintly registered the smell of burnt hair wafting through his sinuses.

His arms were limply draped over Vox’s, the shock having secured his claws in place—that place being deep in the other overlord’s flesh. With a huff of annoyance, Vox plucked them out as if they were mere thorns, ignoring the streams of blood that raced toward his elbow.

Alastor’s arms hung uselessly at his sides until cables encircled themselves around each of his wrists, forcing them above his head. As he felt himself being pulled upward, the grip around his neck ceased. He alternated between taking sharp, gasping breaths and succumbing to uncontrollable fits of coughs, both of which induced searing pain through his damaged airway.

Now dangling by his wrists, his whole body trembled. Tears rolled down his cheeks. The room spun. He hurt all over.

Everything was too much, until it wasn’t. That’s when Alastor passed out.

—

At least, that’s what he surmised, for when the dark spots in his vision finally receded, he was lying on Vox’s desk. The glass was cool underneath his bare fur. . . (How gracious of Vox to take the initiative to disrobe him while he was unconscious. . .) Alastor felt himself flush in what he decided was more fury than shame.

He felt like a cadaver about to be autopsied—or merely chopped into more-manageably-sized bits. Perhaps this was worse than that, actually, since he was still (mostly) conscious, and he knew Vox’s fascination with his body was of a much more perverted nature.

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake. I was starting to worry you’d miss the main event.”

The media overlord stepped into view, stopping only when the front of his thighs pressed against the desk’s side. He’d already ditched his tailcoat and bowtie, haphazardly rolling up his sleeves (or sleeve, rather) to just above his elbows.

Alastor’s attempt to maintain some fraction of his dignity was proven futile when he realized his wrists were still restrained, this time to the corners of the desk nearest to his head. Additional cables wrapped around his chest, preventing him from sitting up. Their placement directly on top of his angelic wound was clearly meant to be an additional inhibiting factor. Alastor found that the range of motion of his legs was also limited, but he managed to bend them enough to at least partially cover his groin.

For the first time in a very long while, Alastor felt a spark of envy toward Vox as he eyed the TV demon’s bloodied forearm, which appeared to have nearly healed already. No matter. Soon he’d have his full powers back and—

“No need to be shy, baby.” Vox’s teasing interrupted his thought process as he pushed against his knee, forcing Alastor’s legs apart. “Don’t you know just how fucking perfect you are?” The overlord caressed Alastor’s calf with a claw, making the fur of the surrounding flesh prickle.

Once free of Vox’s touch, Alastor immediately clammed up again, this time more out of instinct than modesty. At this, Vox rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“I guess someone—” the TV demon leaned over him, planting his hands on the desk, one on either side of Alastor’s waist, “—needs a little more encouragement, hmm?”

Vox slid a hand under his waist, the movement briefly tickling the sensitive fur at the base of his tail, which was tucked underneath him, pressed against his ass. He reflexively arched his spine upward, trying to flee from the contact, as he let out an involuntary whimper.

This made Vox pause, seemingly caught off guard by the terrible sound that made Alastor wish to tear out his vocal cords on the spot. The TV demon bit his lip, attempting to fend off a laugh. Evidently, he was unsuccessful, for in seconds, he was doubled over in a full-on cackle.

Alastor felt his face heat up, hoping Vox would be too distracted to notice the undoubtable flush of his cheeks. Fuck. Why was this so embarrassing?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Vox said, before bursting into a fit of laughter, once more. “It’s just—” He wiped a digital tear from his eyes. “That’s never going to get old! Holy shit!” He took a few steadying breaths. “Okay, okay. I’m done, I swear.”

A bright clink sounded as the claws of the media overlord’s thumb and middle finger met, his hand now wrapped entirely around Alastor’s waist.

“I hate having to hurt you like this,” Vox sighed, furrowing his brows in a practiced display of remorse. “But you really leave me no choice, y’know? You’re just so fucking stubborn.”

Alastor was given no more time to dwell on his humiliation, as a continuous stream of electricity suddenly reverberated through every cell of his being. The various cables tying him down grew hot with power, doubtlessly searing lines into his skin as his body convulsed against them. All he could do was wait until it was over.

Again, Alastor was unsure of the amount of time that had elapsed before he was granted reprieve from the debilitating shock. The weakness of his muscles made even the simple act of lifting his head feel like a monumental task, much of his energy devoted to the painful act of breathing.

“There you go, Bambi.” Vox carefully slid his hand out from under Alastor—avoiding his tail—and brushed several stray strands of static-singed hair back into place. “Nice and relaxed.”

The media overlord’s gaze slid down his body, stopping on his flaccid dick, which he flicked half-heartedly with a single claw, looking unimpressed. “Maybe a little too relaxed, but I’m sure we can fix that.”

Vox climbed onto the desk on all fours so that he was straddling Alastor’s thighs. He pressed his thumb against Alastor’s lower lip, teasing his jaw open before dipping his screen down to force his tongue in.

The light from Vox’s monitor was blinding at this proximity. The TV demon tasted vaguely of metal and static, the surfaces of his face and tongue emitting soft pricks of electricity that made Alastor’s mouth tingle.

Vox seemed intent on using his tongue to explore every crevice of his mouth and throat that it could reach, which was a lot. On multiple occasions, it flitted across Alastor’s uvula, causing him to gag as his body contemplated full-on retching at the contact.

His only reprieve was when Vox briefly withdrew his tongue to instead sink his teeth into his lips, breaking skin and introducing the more familiar metallic taste of blood to his palate. The TV demon moaned against his mouth as he sucked on the puncture wounds, milking Alastor’s lips of blood.

As this continued, Vox blindly ran a hand across his upper body, pressing the pads of his fingers into the softer bits of him and tracing every rib and crevice he could find with a delicate brush of his claws. He paid little mind to the cables that still wrapped Alastor’s wounded chest, merely pushing them out of his way to gain access.

Vox rubbed his thumb over one nipple, then the other, causing them to harden before returning to the first to clamp it painfully between the tips of his claws. Alastor took a sharp inhale through his nose, tears welling in his eyes once more, which prompted an amused hum from the media overlord.

Then, the hand moved on, trailing downward and dipping into the valley created by his jutting pelvic bone. Feedback screeched from several of the office’s speakers as Vox pressed his palm against Alastor’s dick, static sputtering as the tips of Vox’s claws grazed his perineum. Alastor couldn’t help the strangled noise that got trapped in his throat. Vox shook with soundless mirth at the muted cry, his audio crackling faintly as the static intensified around them.

A tingly buzz at his groin gradually entered Alastor’s awareness. Instead of the violent, full-body shock he received previously, this time, the zap was localized to where Vox’s claws touched. Moreover, this shock was not nearly as intense. In fact, it almost felt. . . good, which made Alastor wish instead for the all-encompassing agony he’d felt before.

Alastor’s stomach dropped as his dick began to throb. Despite the complete absence of pleasure that any of Vox’s violations induced in him, the prickles of stimulation at his perineum were enough to cause him to harden. It was one thing to have to endure Vox’s perverted fantasies, but having his physiology react in such a way made him experience another level of betrayal, altogether.

Noticing such responsiveness, the media overlord pulled away from Alastor’s lips, repositioning his hand to accommodate his rising member while still sending that blasted current through to the sensitive stretch of skin underneath.

Vox flashed Alastor a crimson-coated smirk. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he preened. Upon seeing his undoubtedly-horrified look in his eyes, Vox clicked his tongue. “You can drop the act, Al. I can tell you’re enjoying this,” he nodded to Alastor’s incriminating crotch, “so why not just let yourself enjoy it?”

Vox waited with a hungry grin, running his tongue across the front of his teeth to clean the blood from their surface. His gaze flickered between Alastor’s strained smile and his erection, which was growing increasingly unbearable. His hips squirmed of their own volition, his body desperate for friction, despite the nausea the idea induced in him.

Much to his simultaneous anguish and relief, Vox pulled away. The TV demon leaned back to rest on his haunches, directing Alastor’s legs so that they draped over his own before undoing his slacks and reaching under his waistband to free his own cock, which was just as hard as Alastor’s.

Vox grabbed either side of Alastor’s ass, pulling him in closer so that his pelvis was tilted upward and their shafts touched. His hands caressed his outer thighs, giving his fur a quick ruffle before planting one on Alastor’s sternum and bringing the other up to his screen.

Somehow, watching Vox produce gobs of spit into his palm was what managed to make Alastor wrinkle his nose in disgust. The media overlord smeared the excess of saliva along their shafts, running a thumb over both heads to mix it with the accumulating pre.

A terrible squelch accompanied every pump Vox gave. The pressure felt heavenly against his aching dick. Alastor bit down on his lower lip, which was now swollen and tender, desperate to prevent any unwanted vocalizations from escaping him. Vox, on the other hand, did not hold back from making his ecstasy known to anyone in hearing range.

The weight of Vox’s hand on his chest grew more obstructive as Alastor’s breaths quickened, the promise of release getting closer by the second. As he neared the precipice, Vox’s arm stilled, and the weight on his lungs lifted. Alastor choked down a cry of frustration.

“I know, baby,” Vox cooed apologetically, a little breathless, himself. “I’ll let you get there, but I want to hear more of that pretty little voice of yours.” The media overlord snaked his free hand under Alastor’s hips and clenched it around his tail.

“Hnngh—” Alastor’s eyes went wide at the contact, a surprised grunt escaping him before he could stop it.

“That’s it. Good boy.” It was a wonder how Vox didn’t choke on the amount of condescension in his voice.

Vox began pumping again, quickly ramping up the pace to what it was before. All the while, he held on to Alastor’s tail, sending pinpricks of static through it on an unpredictable interval.

The concurrent signals of pain and pleasure spliced his cries with his moans. He’d given up trying to fight them back, too overstimulated to care, too close to the promise of relief that was once again rising in him.

Alastor bucked his hips upward, desperate to get himself over the edge, until Vox’s left eye started to spiral wildly, trapping his gaze. “You will not cum until I do.”

The command seemed to transmit straight into his brain and spread through his body like a shiver. The need he felt didn’t waver. It was like the pressure in the pit of his stomach was frozen in time, torturously just out of reach of release.

Alastor flailed as a sob wracked his body. “Just. . . Get it over with. . . Please.” His voice came out small and filterless.

How powerless he felt at that moment, how pathetic. He squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to swallow the lump in his throat as tears ran down the sides of his face.

Vox buffered momentarily at the plea, his display surely cycling through a myriad of error screens. After a beat, his ministrations resumed like nothing had happened, though a wave of static prickled through the air.

“Did you just fucking. . . beg?!” Vox’s voice sounded tinny, as if coming through his old CRT head, before his speakers recalibrated. “Fuck, Alastor. . . I lo—”

Alastor’s back arched involuntarily as a cascade of pleasure erupted from within him. For those few, fleeting seconds, everything was okay. He let himself bask in the afterglow, savoring the brief reprieve of silence while Vox’s systems rebooted.

The illusion broke when Alastor felt something swipe a line along the fur of his lower stomach. It was Vox’s tongue.

The TV demon met his gaze with a mischievous smirk as he lapped up a tongue-full of their combined fluids. Strings of cum dripped from his tongue as he curled it back into his mouth, making a show of it. A few drops caught the bottom of his screen.

Now that it had been brought to his attention, Alastor was hyperaware of the puddle of drying semen soaking into his fur. Had he had an ounce of energy left, he surely would have vomited, right then and there, but as it was, he just watched on in disgust.

“What do you think, baby? Still got shit to say after that?”

Alastor said nothing. He knew responding would just dig his grave even deeper.

“That’s what I thought.” Vox climbed off of the desk and tucked himself back into his pants. “Consider this opportunity for solitude and reflection my first act of mercy, as your new god,” he chuckled. “Not that you particularly deserve it, but I’ve got a rally to put on. Toodles!”

With that, Vox disappeared through the sliding office doors, and Alastor succumbed to his exhaustion.