i saw the original cover from @purple-mountain-manatee this morning and it wouldn't leave my head so. i went fully into it,, the original shitpost came from @martini-garnish
changed a few of the words (so it would flow a bit better and fit the "bug in a jar terrarium" bit) so i'm setting the lyrics under the read more
You think high school biology is gonna make me cry
That I'm bawlin' 'bout the grass that could've been?
Look around ya, Al! I've been thriving this whole time
I've got a leaf, I've got a wreath, and all I'm gonna do is diiiiig! [laugh]
You're in my jar with my twig in my dirt where I dig
And worse, you're at my mercy, forced to watch my gravel roll
You've been sealed up, your moss fried, your substrate has run dry
At last your ass is trapped, I'd laugh at how you're now so small
Don't you forget, you're on my twig
You can try to squirm and struggle but you'll still be on a sprig
Don't you forget—
You're so obsessed with me! I knew you'd need me here to be
Your unwilling specimen while you study entomology
You're huffing dirt if you think I won't leave this jar a ruler
I'm just like you except I'm hotter and my twig is cooler!
So I'll keep your bug ass alive to-
To prove you're not a loser?
Do you ever shut up?
Don't you forgeeeeet (Oh, here he goes)
You're someone's peeeeet! (Aw, how sad)
You're still being fed scraps from a lawn—!
So cute you think I care! [laugh]
Now I'm the master, and you're my bottomest bug
No more Al the high and mighty now you're trapped in a jug
Though the fruits have gone to rot you know the twig must grow on
By the time I've climbed the glass you'll wish that you had stayed gone
Will never understand the urge to gatekeep a fictional character. I see someone else draw a ship OC with the character I paired mine with and I’m like “we should have our OCs lez out together actually”
Ngl, this might be an unpopular opinion, but I think Vox is more starved to BE the best than to be famous or acknowledged as the best. He wants to KNOW that he has the skills and brains and competence and resourcefulness and that he IS better than everyone else and the recognition he gets is just a confirmation seal that he is, not the main goal. Ultimately, the public's recognition doesn't mean much to him. It's why he doesn't use his hypnosis when he could, it's why he strives so hard to prove himself to Alastor, it's why Alastor’s comments that Vox's success was due to Valentino, Velvette, Angel and Carmilla and not because he EARNED it affected him so much. He doesn't want the fame and success if he KNOWS he doesn't deserve them. And he doesn't know how to stop because the success isn't what he's chasing; it's assuring himself that he's good enough. Alastor called him out on exactly that. He didn't call him vain or greedy or insatiable. He called him broken because Vox will never think he's good enough, and therefore he will never stop.
Vincent and Reader have experienced the highs of stardom together for around a year, including all the blood that came with it. What better time to pop the question on national television?
Notes:
This one took FOREVERRRRR I am so sorry. It's also going to be long as shit when all three parts are said and done, though, for what that's worth. Hope the wait was worth it!
Vox lives for recognition, especially when it comes from you. The right words make him shiver and glitch in ways no tech could replicate.
You telling him, “You’re so good at this,” or “I love the way you take control,” makes him stutter through static, leaning into you, letting his usually arrogant mask falter.
“So fucking smart,” you whisper, and his screens flicker bright, his pulse skipping fast. He can’t hide the flush creeping up his neck before blooming into a bright cyan blush across his screen.
Praising him mid-stroke? Forget it. Every “good boy” or “look at you, taking it so well” has him trembling, squirming, desperate for more attention, more of your praise.
He gets cocky first, but the praise shatters that. “You like it when I—hah—notice you?” he pants, trying to regain control, only to falter again when you murmur, “So perfect. Don’t stop.”
Vox’s favourite is when you combine teasing with praise: “You’re such a show-off… and I love every second of it.” Makes him glitch, laugh, and groan all at once.
He craves acknowledgment of his place in your world. Words like “Mine” or “Only mine” make him melt into your hands, trembling and eager to be claimed and praised simultaneously.
Even after he’s overstimulated, praise keeps him coming back for more. A simple, breathy, “Look at you… so worked up, so perfect,” makes him pulse and twitch, desperate to hear it again.
Oohhh boy...Well... It's gotta be said, thanks to this, I think about Vincent jerking off in his office during commercial breaks way too often... Had to draw something about it... DM me for uncensored
Have an early 1930’s Alastor fashion catalog page! 📻
More outfit descriptions under the cut.
More vintage Hazbin catalog pages: Fem!Alastor, Fem!Vox, Rosie, Niffty, Angel Dust, Sir Pentious, Vaggie, Valentino, Charlie
———
A. You’re never fully dressed without our finest wool worsted silk suit, handcrafted by our master tailors. With its six-button vest, high shoulder jacket, cuffed slacks and neat stripes, you’ll cut a tidy and intimidating figure!
B. This fleece lined Sinnerskin shirt is the perfect outerwear for less formal, messy work! The central zipper makes for speedy fastening and won’t rust no matter how much blood you get on it!
C. Keep warm on the rare colder days in Hell in this wool shaker stitch sweater coat with large shawl collar. It’s widening effect in the shoulders and narrow waist emulate the flattering effect of a well tailored jacket. Why pick between style and comfort?
D. You’ll like this Melton coat which features an all around belt with metal buckle and peak lapels for added gravitas. Just what young men are looking for!
E. This double breasted sports jacket features a stylish new diamond weave design, perfect for the snappy young man! Make your wardrobe stretch further in extreme good taste! (Almost as tasty as sinner flesh!)
F. Active men love this sleeveless pullover sweater with sporty “U” neck. Made from wool worsted yarn, its roomy armholes allow for an increased range of movement - perfect for cutting down those who dare cross you! Can be worn under a jacket for added warmth.
With all the headcanons I was shitting out on my blog...it was inevitable that I write a short smutty snack. Enjoy domming Vox using his antennas.
Vox had sworn up and down that he wasn't sensitive there, his voice dripping with that cocky confidence as he lounged back against the pillows, screen glowing with smug pixels.
"They're just hardware, doll. Antennas. Purely for the aesthetic," he lied through his razor-sharp grin, the digital edges of his mouth twitching like he was already fighting a glitch at the thought of your fingers inching closer. But you knew better. His body betrayed him every time, the subtle static hum in the air thickening with unspoken need.
You swung a leg over his hips, straddling him, your thighs clamping down on either side of his slim frame. The heat of your pussy pressed against the rigid line of his pants, already soaking through your own thin panties as you leaned in, breath hot against his screen. Your nails slowly, agonizingly, dragged lightly up the sleek length of one antenna, tracing the sensitive wiring from base to tip with feather-light scratches that made the metal thrum under your touch.
His whole screen spasmed violently, bursts of chaotic static exploding across his face like corrupted fireworks, blood-red and cyan blue pixels fracturing in wild patterns. A choked gasp ripped from his speakers, his body arching off the bed in a rigid bow, hips jerking up to grind his hardening cock against your core. The audio feedback stuttered out in a garbled mess: half a guttural moan, half a digitized whine that echoed through the room, looping faintly before cutting off.
"F-fuck—wait—wait a goddamn second—" he stammered, his voice glitching mid-syllable, synthetic edges cracking like overclocked circuits. His clawed hands fisted the sheets as cyan blue pixels flared at the corners of his screen, warning lights of overload. But you didn't stop. Another slow, torturous stroke up the thin, hypersensitive base of the antenna, your thumb circling the joint where it met the top of his head, and his entire frame trembled, thighs quivering beneath you as if electricity were surging straight to his core.
You hadn't even grazed his cock yet, that thick, throbbing length straining against his slacks, untouched and already leaking pre-cum in sticky beads that soaked through the fabric, leaving a dark wet spot against your belly when you shifted forward.
Leaning down, you twisted gently at the tip of the antenna, rolling it between your fingers like you were tuning a dial to his breaking point. His voice shattered—literally—splitting into dual audio tracks, one layer a desperate plea, the other a warped echo of static-laced pleasure. "I—nghh—s-stop, I can't—fuck, doll, you're killing me—"
He was lying through every glitched pixel. So fucking lying. His hips bucked wildly now, uncontrolled thrusts that smeared his dripping cock against your skin, the slick pre-cum trailing hot and messy across your stomach. You could feel the pulse of it through his pants, the shaft twitching with every scrape of your nails, begging for friction it wasn't getting.
Grinning wickedly, you captured both antennas in your hands, gripping them like lewd handles, tilting his head back to expose the vulnerable glow of his screen. He melted under the pull, a full-body shudder ripping through him, his thighs tensing as his cock wept more pre-cum, the fabric barrier doing nothing to hide the obscene throb. "Oh god, yes—shit, just like that," he gasped, the words tumbling out in a frantic loop, his screen flickering to a flushed cyan hue, overheating from the inside out, vents whirring audibly as his systems strained.
"Please," he glitched, the syllable repeating in a desperate echo—"Please, please—don't you dare fucking stop, doll. Touch me—make me break—"
His pleas dissolved into a raw, broken moan as the overstimulation hit its peak.
Untouched, his cock erupted in his pants, hot ropes of cum pulsing out in thick spurts that soaked through the material, drenching your skin in sticky warmth. His body convulsed beneath you, screen fracturing into a kaleidoscope of colours, audio warping into a symphony of moans and whines that filled the room.
Embarrassed heat radiated from him even as he begged, hips grinding sloppily against you, chasing the aftershocks while his antennae twitched in your grasp...sensitive, spent...
... and utterly yours.
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If you enjoy my writing and want optional early access or behind-the-scenes extras, I have Ko-Fi—everything will still be posted here for free.
Mr. & Mrs. Blue Sky (A Stormwatch Valentine's Day Preview)
Felt bad that I'm not going to finish the next Stormwatch instalment for tomorrow, but what I can do is give you a sneak peek into Vincent's proposal, Reader hijacking it, and Vincent getting so worked up about it he fucks her in an aquarium broom closet <3 enjoy!
cws: exhibitionism, semi-public sex, forced sex that reader consents to
"Come here, this room. There's something I want you to see."
Vincent opened a door you'd hardly noticed, as it blended in with the rest of the aquarium's black wall, but it had a cutout of a jellyfish on it. He motioned you inside, and naturally, you followed.
It was only a small, circular room, but half of the wall was pure glass, revealing a glowing blue aquarium filled to the gills with bobbing, floating jellyfish. You stared up to the high wall in awe, the blue light reflecting in your wondrous eyes.
"I feel like I've been here quite a few times…" you noted, gently pressing your fingertips to the cool glass. "How have I never seen this room be—?"
You turned to look at Vincent where you expected his eye level to be, but instead had to gaze downward, where he had gotten down on one knee, fumbling for something in his pocket.
Oh, fuck.
The classic symbol of marriage proposal, practically every American knew it. It wasn't that you didn't want him to propose — quite the opposite, it was what you had wanted most — something just seemed… off. Where were the flashing cameras? The hordes of people clamouring with questions?
Goddammit, you were even starting to think like him now. That was embarrassing. But there was no time to hesitate, if you were going to say what you wanted to say, you had to do it fast.
"Darling…" Vincent began, looking at you with hopeful eyes, "we've been together for some time now, a little over a year. And yet, never before in my life have I felt so understood. I know nobody else will make me feel this way, not the way you do. So—!"
"Wait."
Your finger pressed to his lips as his whole body seemed to deflate, his face looking similar to that of a kicked puppy. You bit your lip in guilt, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "I have a thought. But just so you don't get the wrong idea… yes, I'd love to marry you."
With that, the balloon that was Vincent's body inflated again, rising to pull you into a tight, possessive hug. "Oh, thank you, Sweetheart, I promise you won't regret this, I—!"
"Wait, wait!" you giggled again, putting a hand to his cheek. "It's just… you were saying that nobody's understood you as well as I do. Well, here's my chance to prove it."
One of your perfectly manicured hands crept down to his back pocket, hovering over the ring box. "I don't want to see the ring, not yet. I'd rather you leave it a surprise… for when you propose on the Valentine's Day special of our show."
Vincent pulled away slightly to meet your gaze, scanning your face for any hint of foolery. "My god, Baby, I… you would do that? Publicize our special moment like that?"
You couldn't help but smirk knowingly. "Well, my book sales are starting to dip… I think this would give it another big push. You know, Maryland's talk show sweethearts getting to showcase their love on the small screen? Everyone will want to read up on how we came to be. It's the perfect ratings trap, truly."
Genuine, heartfelt tears pooled in Vincent's eyes. God… you really were perfect for him. Not only were you thinking of him and his desires, but you had also managed to word it in such a way that your own greed and hunger for more had slipped through. He was enamoured.
His lips pressed to yours hungrily, strong hands on either side of your face to hold you in position as he practically began to consume you. Even before he began to speak again, you could already tell his mind was racing with a million thoughts. "You want everyone watching to know? To see my pretty ring placed on your finger on live television, a reminder that you belong to me? You want me to claim you on the goddamn world stage?"
"You've already claimed me in every other way, I'm surprised you didn't think this up yourself!" you chuckled, wrapping your own arms around him. "We'll get them to broadcast the whole wedding ceremony, too. The damsel and her shining knight, together at last… ratings will skyrocket, Vincent."
A pang of guilt caught in your chest… you were tempting him. You knew you were. In some dark, twisted way, you wanted to say just the right words to turn him into that squirming, inconsolable creature from when you caught him masturbating in the bathroom that night. You missed the ache when your vagina would clench around nothing in the brief moments he wasn't rutting into you. The feeling of his cock trying to impale you through the throat in sheer desperation to get as deep into you as possible. You needed his neediness, as awful as it felt to admit, and you knew all the talk of sales, ratings and tune-ins was just what would do him in.
"You're fucking perfect…" Vincent murmured, his voice choked as he wrapped one arm around you, using the other to reach down and grip your ass. "Nobody else would care like this, nobody but you… by the time we're done, nobody will even remember those disappearances, just the brave girl who rose from the ashes. My girl, my wicked fucking girl…"
And, in the instant you closed your eyes to kiss him again, you'd been whisked off somewhere that smelled vaguely of dirty mop water and lemon.
"Vincent, wha—?" you began to say before you were cut off by his lips crashing into yours, and his hands groping your tits.
"It's the janitor's closet. I've watched his schedule for a long time now, he shouldn't be in for another hour and nobody comes in this room as is. I need you, Darling. Need you now." His voice came hot and heavy, though you could barely make him out in the pitch black room, only able to feel his hands and hot breath. His left reached down to lift your skirt, invading your panties like the Visigoths entering Rome as two fingers circled your clit.
"Fuck, you're so wet already… you'll really just take it from me anywhere, huh? Our dressing room was one thing, but this… this is getting ridiculous."
"You're the one who pulled me in here, lest we forget," you huffed hotly, pretending to reject him. Of course, that only got him even more riled up, pushing your face into the door before he began to grind against your ass. Just as expected, you could already feel the prominent tent of his cock protruding against you, ready and willing.
"Oh, but I still know this is what you wanted, Sweetheart…" He was up against your ear, then, his voice reduced to a whispering grumble. "Saying all those things that would get me excited, knowing what that fucking does to me… God you're evil. Maybe that pretty mouth oughta stop writing cheques her ass won't cash."
"No, I… I will…" you insisted, gulping down the growing lump in your throat. You could practically hear the grin stretch across Vincent's face as he pulled your panties down, lifting your skirt. You heard his knees hit the concrete floor as his pants rustled, presumably to pull his cock out as his tongue and nose got to work on your pussy.
Oh, how desperately you wanted to moan, cry out his name that you knew he loved hearing so goddamn much, but you had to stop yourself, covering your own mouth with your hand. He worked achingly slow, his face pressed so far into your folds that you were practically fucking yourself on the prominent cartilage of his nose as the tip of his tongue flicked back and forth on your clit, hardly making contact.
"O-Oh… Oh my god…" you could barely get out, your own voice breathy and meek. You thought you could almost come right then and there from the sheer lewdness of it all, forced to drip all over the floor of the janitor's closet and find some way to clean up your own mess. Though, he stopped before you could finish, standing up to kiss you from behind.
"You taste so fucking good…" he purred between kisses, "it's only fair you get a taste… we're sharing everything now, aren't we?"
Sharing everything… the thought rang around in your head for a while, pounding off the sides of your skull as his tongue intertwined with yours. And yes, you did notice the difference in taste. It was then that you felt two eager fingers sneak down and push their way inside of you, though his other hand was more than happy to clap over your mouth.
"Need you quiet, Sweetheart," Vincent reminded, though he was asking a shockingly large task with how quick his fingers were moving. "I think you've done quite enough talking for now. Maybe a little too much. You know how much pain being like this puts me in, and you're fucking contributing… sadistic bitch…"
Slick coursed down your legs with each word, mainly because you knew he was right. Well within his right to take it out on you. You whined when his fingers slowly pulled out, though they were quickly replaced by his cock burrowing into you in their place, causing you to moan loudly into his hand.
"W-Wait—!" you began to say around his hand, but that only made it clasp down harder.
"N-No, can't wait anymore, Baby, you know that," Vincent groaned, that familiar whine returning to his voice. His thrusts started slow, yet hard. "Been too long without being inside of you, I can't fucking take it… gotta come, need to come…"
Your eyes rolled back in your head a little with each thrust, burying himself so deep you could swear he was going to start pushing into your stomach. wet plaps echoed through the tiny room, giving you away to anyone who decided to stop by the all but forgotten room of the aquarium.
"I am going to wreck this goddamn pussy…" The statement came almost as a whine, then, like he was trying to reassure himself more than you. "I can't take it, can't take the waiting… can't take what you do to me… you really are going to be the perfect Mrs. Whittman, you're as fucking insufferable as I am…"
"Mhm! Mhm!" You could only moan hopelessly against his hand, nodding with intense vigour as the tip of his cock rammed into your g-spot time and time again.
"Is this what you wanted?" Vincent asked again, balls slapping against your clit with each thrust. "Taking every inch of my cock among this filth like the dirty fucking girl you are… You remember our first time, don't you? How I had to be gentle? What ever happened to her, hmm?"
"V-Vincent, fuck, please…" you murmured, pulling his hand away slightly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, just—!"
"It's too fucking late for 'sorry', I'm in too deep now…" His other hand was carving tiny red crescents into your thigh from how hard he was squeezing. "You're going to take my cock until I'm fucking satisfied. Teasing me with ratings, numbers, viewership… knowing I'll get worked up until I'm sick just to have me do this…. oh, fuck you, fuuuuuuck you…"
The arm gripping you then wrapped around your lower abdomen, lifting your feet off the air and letting them dangle as he tried to force himself impossibly deeper, so deep you could feel his pubic hair brush against your ass. "C-Coming… coming, Vincent, coming…"
"I know, Babygirl, I know. Do it. Come for me."
He didn't have to tell you twice; your legs squeezed meekly together, and with only a pathetic little cry, you felt yourself make a mess all over his crotch as he buried himself to the hilt, his cock giving a few twitches as he came into his condom. You assumed that would be where it ended, leaving you both in the blissful afterglow to take in each other's presence… until he resumed bucking against you.
"Hey! What are you—?!" You couldn't even get the question out before his large hand squeezed your cheeks, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he picked up speed. You didn't even know how that was physically possible.
"I said you were taking me until I'm satisfied. I'm not done."
And there it was, what you had been searching for. That feral, clingy beast of a man to show you just how badly he needed you, your two bodies mingled as one. Your minds, your names, your everything… they would be bound for eternity, and you simply couldn't be happier.
"Well, maybe I'm… not satisfied… either," you panted through ragged breath, the words coming out a little awkwardly from your squished cheeks. Vincent began to nip at your ear before his teeth pulled back, and you both heard it; the sound of a wheeled mop bucket rolling down the hall.
"…It would seem the janitor changed his schedule."
I’ve seen people express confusion and frustration over human Vox’s hair so I made this little study focusing on Vincent and 1950’s hair. It’s a bit of a rush job but I hope people find it helpful! In regard to where his parting is, they just cartoon it to be on whatever side is facing the audience.
I’ll put the text under the cut. Also here’s my obligatory “I’m not a professional historian”; some photos may not be from the 1950’s and this is all based on my observations and opinions. So take this study with a grain of salt.
Studies of human Vox’s hair. His general shape is square but his hair is actually very swoopy
Side partings, short sides and waves were the general trends of 1950’s men’s hairstyling. Actors and rebels could be more dramatic with their styling than the typical professional. I think these three (Gregory Peck, Errol Flynn and Laurence Olivier) have the most Vincent-like hair.
Hair studies of young weatherman Vincent. To me, young Vincent looks like he has more volume in his hair, like a pompadour or greaser haircut. The pompadour was popular with the young, the rebellious and the working class. Businessmen kept them short, but longer ones were favoured by performers and the young (like Vincent..?).
Let’s look at trend setting Elvis Presley. See how his hair is slicked back at the sides, has a soft side parting and is swept up over the head into a soft, voluminous pompadour.
Hair studies of older Vincent. With older, bedraggled Vincent, let’s keep looking at Elvis and the pompadour. I think the style is closer to the short sides and waves of Errol Flynn, but this is a good example of how these product-heavy 1950’s hairstyles fall apart. Note the hair being slicked back on the sides, the side part (on the far side of Elvis’ head) and the stiff, product heavy strands falling in front of his face.
Got the faintest whiff that Amir might be coming to a Canadian con and knew I had to draw something to get signed as a print on that off chance. Inspired by a picture of Jonathan Davis from the CD booklet in See You On The Other Side (ALL PROPS/SFX, TUMBLR)
𝐂𝐖: Dry-humping, Tongue kissing, Electro-shocking, Age Gap, Friends to Lovers (Sorta, kinda), GN! Reader, Touch-Starved! Vox, Vox cums in his pants, Vox has abandonment issues, This is a combination of angst, fluff, and smut
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: The deal you decide to make with Vox — a few kisses in exchange for seeing him in his CRT-TV head — it’s unprofessional. As a hired-gun, your duty is to look after the infamous Media Overlord. But there you sit on his lap, your palms sliding up the sides of his neck, making him all sorts of flustered. You can’t help it, his associates had practically forced you into becoming a social pariah alongside Vox, thus spurring you to entertain him.
What the two of you were doing, it very much violated the professional boundaries listed in your contract in big, bold letters: NO RELATIONS. However, you couldn’t just break a deal, and the man underneath you was utterly lonely, touch-starved, large, clawed-hands gripping your waist, round eyes pleadingly staring into yours.
You couldn’t blame him, not even as he shed his cool facade and devolved into something soft and pathetic, your palms wandering up his chest.
After the whole war-on-heaven fiasco, there was nobody else to keep him company.
His associates completely shut him out, but they still cared enough to approach you, a known hired-gun, to make sure he remained safe and unscathed.
Vox had made a lot of enemies in his ambitious pursuit to ascend to Godliness. And though several months had passed since he threatened to wipe out all of Hell with an angelic-fueled nuclear weapon over an unreciprocated crush, most had yet to forgive or forget his actions, his low approval rating serving as a testament of that.
While your hatred for him had mostly dissipated, you had yet to forgive him. The laser beam had cut clean through your apartment complex, which was a big deal. Being homeless in Hell was not easy. Pentagram City was already densely populated, and finding a new place to call home without getting into a turf war was virtually impossible.
It’s safe to say that the last thing you expected was to get saved by the Vees. In fact, it was strange being summoned by them at all. They were fully capable of taking care of their own dirty business, but they’d told you if you agreed to protect Vox, you’d gain a fixed salary and a ritzy new condo in the downtown area of the Entertainment district.
You couldn’t find it in you to decline them, just like you couldn’t find it in you to decline Vox, especially not when he had rushed to put on his old CRT-TV head for you. It was old, outdated, and yet something about it made him more visually appealing, your palms sliding up the sides of his neck, making him all sorts of flustered.
“Come onnn, I went through the hassle of putting this old piece of crap on for you,” Vox huffed, screen slightly flickering, sparks of electricity bursting from his antennas. “It shouldn’t be such a fucking challenge to give me a kiss.”
“Are you sure?” You hummed, the corners of your lips tugging upwards in a grin, flashing your canines to him. “Last I checked, you’re the most hated man in Pentagram City.”
“Oh, please, I’m painfully aware of that,” Vox grumbled, his grip on your waist tightening. “Val already takes the time out of his day to remind me that I’m a failure. I mean, he literally only swings by to flip me off with all four hands.”
You still disliked him, but with how you got paid to spend every waking moment with him, he became the closest thing you could have to a friend in Hell. It was totally unexpected. You always strived to exercise a certain level of professionalism, refusing to allow your sentiments to motivate your behavior, despite the violent nature of your job.
However, it was boring, having to spend 10 hours a day looking after a full grown man. The Vees had accidentally forced you into becoming a social pariah alongside Vox, thus spurring you both to quell your respective bouts of loneliness with each other, talking, drinking, playing board games, and watching shows and movies together.
Oh, and as of tonight, kissing, too, because you’d also grown a bit touch-starved, making a deal with him that involved you giving him a few kisses in exchange for him putting on his old box-head.
Not that you had scrambled to find an excuse to kiss him. No, not at all. In fact, he was the one who broached you with the offer after you passively expressed your curiosity.
Vox had a futon in his room, a flat screen TV positioned right across from it; but as you straddled his lap, you obscured his view. He didn’t give a damn, though. The two of you had lost the plot of the movie at least half an hour ago, and right now, the only thing he could focus on was you, your lips, and how nice it felt to hold you.
“Aw, poor baby,” You crooned, leaning in, his eyes widening in a mixture of annoyance and anticipation. “You had it all, but you flew too close to the sun and got burnt, how tragic!”
The tip of your nose bumped where his would be, static pricking you, lips hovering just above his.
Large, clawed-hands slid down your waist, finding the swell of your ass, squeezing as your hot breath fogged up his screen.
The cold, sharp ends of his fingertips threatened to puncture the skin there, desperate, needy.
“Draw blood and I’ll charge you a 20% damage fee,” You warned him, even though the thought of him doing just that admittedly made your pulse quicken. “You got that?”
Vox would have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of your threat, but as you refused to close the tiny gap in between you, waiting, anticipating his response, he found himself groaning a ‘Yes.’ It was embarrassing, being told what to do, however, he wanted to kiss you. He wanted to kiss you so bad, craving the intimacy he’d long been denied.
“Good boy,” You sweetly whispered, one hand cradling the dull edge of his box-head, the other sliding up to caress his crooked antenna.
If you hadn’t immediately descended on his mouth, lips finally capturing his own in a kiss, he would have lashed out at you. He was a grown man. He had died in his mid-40s and had spent 70 years in Hell thus far. But his body betrayed him, electric currents rippling through his arms, his hands, and lightly shocking you.
He mentally cursed himself, the static emanating from his screen growing stronger, flustered and embarrassed.
“You ass!” You gasped against his lips.
Your body surged forward, crotch accidentally bumping his, pulling a pleasured groan from him.
“Don’t fucking say that, then,” Vox hissed.
The fabric of his pajamas wasn’t thick, cock stirring to life, but he didn’t chase after the sensation, no matter how much he yearned for it.
He had to go through the hassle of switching his flat screen-TV head for his CRT one, and the process was neither quick nor effortless. But he managed it, and he had no intention of wasting this opportunity you’d granted him, despite his high libido. After he lost Alastor, Heaven, and then Valentino, well, he finally realized patience was key.
As much as he hated playing the long game, he knew by rutting into you, he would ruin the only good thing he had going for him.
So, he kept his hips still and forced himself to apologize to you.
“I’m sorry,” Vox spoke into the kiss, the words unfamiliar on his tongue. “I didn’t mean to do that, alright? It just sort of… happened. Yeah. Sorry.”
You acknowledged his words with a hum, both of your hands sliding down.
He slightly bristled at the lack of thanks, but as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and parted your lips, the sentiment instantly vanished.
Something warm and wet brushed the seam of his lips. Your tongue. Vox’s screen glowed a bright, fuzzy cyan, and his box-head emitted soft pops and crackles, his mouth immediately falling open to grant you entry. The tent in his pajamas consequently grew, erection slotting perfectly against your crotch, but he still made no move.
Not even as you further pressed your face into his to deepen the kiss, nose pushing back, wrapping your tongue around his.
The sound of lips smacking and saliva being exchanged resonated throughout his room, including your sighs and mewls and his grunts and groans, concocting a sinful symphony. The indistinct chatter from the movie you’d long abandoned continued to play in the background, too, but Vox had no intention of shutting the TV off.
In fact, he pulled a hand away from you, only to blindly feel around for the remote.
His palm frantically patted the cushions, searching aimlessly as saliva cascaded down his screen.
His fingers curled around something solid, his heart lurching in his chest, victorious, relieved.
Vox couldn’t bear to hear the sounds. Feeling the heat of your clothed crotch move against his erection with every movement of your lips and tongue was torture enough, cooling fans whirring, a familiar pressure coiling in his gut. Months of no intimacy had him twitching and jolting against you like some inexperienced teenager.
It was mortifying, reacting to a bit of rutting and tongue-kissing in such a sensitive manner.
That’s why as Vox went to raise the volume, he smashed the button with his thumb, quickly drowning out the sinful symphony of your kisses.
And at the perfect time, too, because you suddenly decided to fall sideways and take him with you.
The remote clattered to the ground, his back meeting the futon, forcing him underneath you. You remained fully-seated on Vox’s lap, crotch shifting against his, mouths still glued together. He didn’t think a few kisses would evolve into a full-blown makeout session, his palms landing on your thighs, but he refused to utter a single syllable in protest.
And so did you, lost in the feeling of him, enjoying how it felt to kiss him even though a small voice in your head screamed at you to stop.
However, the faint buzzing of his antennas, the soft pops and crackles of his screen, and the whirring of his cooling fans drowned it out.
It made it easier for you to be unprofessional, to be sucked into the profoundly delicious experience of making out with the infamous Media overlord.
He had a TV for a head, for Satan’s sake. You should have felt annoyed by the combination of all those things, or at least a bit inconvenienced. However, you could only feel waves of arousal ripple through your body, your hands sliding underneath Vox’s t-shirt as you sucked his tongue into your mouth, palms smoothing over hot, navy-blue skin.
The muscles in his abdomen flexed, your fingertips grazing the vents adorning his ribs, a sensitive area for him. The cooling fans in his head worked harder, faster, his body growing uncomfortably hot. If he allowed himself to reach an abnormal temperature, he would short-circuit, but he couldn’t find the willpower to push you off.
Months worth of using a meager hand to pleasure himself had taken a toll on him, drowning in your lips, your wandering hands.
“Mmff… mmff… fuck,” Vox gasped.
Sharp claws clutched at your thighs, and though they didn’t pierce you, it still stung.
“Shit, ow, ow!” You pulled back with a yelp.
He wasn’t even aware of what he was doing anymore, a string of saliva falling down his chin, his eyes falling shut as the coil in his gut snapped.
You stared down at him, eyes wild, lips swollen, chest heaving, the rhythmic throbbing of his cock against you snapping you back to reality. The crotch area of your pants was damp with his pleasure, — but Vox? Oh, Vox was an absolute mess, his screen glitching and buffering, the expression of raw bliss on his face barely visible.
It took him a while to recover, and throughout the entire affair, you just sat back on his lap.
You didn’t know what to do, admittedly.
It wasn’t supposed to get this far. The kiss. The strange dynamic you had going with Vox.
Developing any sort of personal connection with a client was both foolish and reckless. Satan knows how long the Vees would need you to look after Vox, and in your line of work, a mere conflict of interest could compromise your performance. Your reputation. You had to draw the line between duty and self-interest. You had to, and you didn’t.
“You idiot, what have you done?” You cursed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose, annoyed. “You screwed up everything.”
Those words were meant for yourself, of course. Any advances made by the clientele didn’t matter. It was completely up to you to nip them in the bud early on, or stop dealing with them altogether. There was no room for feelings or carnality in your profession. Apparently, though, Vox thought it was for him, jolting up to a sitting position.
His claws retracted, and a string of glitchy apologies proceeded to tumble haphazardly from his lips, sounding sincere, unlike earlier.
Vox couldn’t help himself. As pathetic as it made him look, the thought of losing the only person that tolerated him enough to kiss him, to touch him, to entertain him at all kickstarted him into a panicked frenzy. He couldn’t bear the thought of being alone. Not again. He knew it would take more time for Velvette and Valentino to trust him.
And, devastatingly of all, to forgive him for his actions, his large hands encapsulating yours, pulling a surprised gasp from you.
“Shit, I’m so sorry, I sw-swear, I didn’t mean it,” Vox stammered out, his chest heaving, screen flushed cyan. “Please, don’t le-leave, I’m fucking tired of being alone. Ah-ha-ha, I’m go-going crazy!”
You stared at him, slowly pulling your hands out of his, exacerbating his panic.
“Excuse me?” You asked, confused.
Instead of taking them back, though, he reached up to claw at the dull edges of his box-head.
“I’ll keep th-this piece of crap on. I’ll do anything you want, okay?” Vox continued, especially as your brows furrowed together. “Just do-don’t leave. Don’t leave. I can’t go another day —”
You smacked a hand over his mouth, making him flinch. You didn’t mean to be so rough, but you were caught off-guard by his little tirade.
Vox wasn’t the type to beg, or at least you never knew he was. As you leaned in and shushed him, features contorting into one of sympathy, you couldn’t recall an occasion where he had voiced his feelings out loud like now. Feelings that didn’t involve being angry or upset with being forced out of his own company by his associates.
“Before I tell you anything, are you done?” You asked him, hand still clamped over his mouth, eyes expectantly regarding him.
He blinked, brows scrunching together.
“I… yes,” Vox slowly said. “I hope you know you can’t silence me with your hand, though. I have a TV for a head, so you need a —”
You rolled your eyes, but at least he had calmed down, pulling your hand away.
“I know, I know. You have a mute button. I saw it play out live, you dolt. Everybody did,” You drawled. “But I’m asking, is it safe for me to speak?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” Vox mumbled.
“I don’t plan on leaving. The pay is too good, but that tone? Hmm, maybe I just might —”
“No! I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, okay?”
“Good. Okay. I’ll stay, then.”
“Okay… okay. That’s fucking relieving.”
“I still dislike you, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve never made a grown man cum in his pants and then beg me not to leave them. It’s flattering.”
“Hey! I wasn’t begging, I was just expressing —”
“You were most definitely begging.”
“No I was not! I don’t fucking beg!”
“When you say the word ‘please’ more than once, it definitely constitutes begging.”
“Okay, and if it does, who cares?” Vox huffed.
“Hey, certainly not me,” You raised your hands in front of you in a gesture of surrender. “In fact, I’m content with forgetting this ever happened.”
He dropped his hands from his head, palms falling flat against the futon.
“Good choice,” Vox cleared his throat, trying to appear cool. “Otherwise, I probably would have hypnotized you into doing so.”
You gave his chest a light, backhanded slap.
“Oh, if you ever use your hypnosis on me and I somehow find out,” You hissed. “I’ll tell all of Hell you go to sleep cuddling shark plushies.”
You proceeded to go back and forth with each other, bickering; and as irritating as it was, it admittedly helped ease the tension of the intimate moment that had just unfolded between the two of you. A small part of you didn’t want to brush it off, or to excuse it as a momentary lapse in judgement, but you knew it was best to simply forget.
For now, you could accept that your relationship with Vox was the closest thing you could have to a friend in Hell, even if it wasn’t professional of you.
“I still have access to angelic weapons, you know,” Vox threatened you, sparks of electricity bursting from his box-head. “So don’t you da—are —”
You snorted, reaching up and flicking his crooked antenna out of place, cutting off his reception.
“Ohhh, I’m so scared,” You giggled, especially as he cursed you out, scrambling to fix his antenna back into place. “I kill people for a living, doofus.”
Forcing yourself to recognize that you had violated your own contract by accepting you were friends with the infamous Media overlord was infinitely better than realizing that maybe, just maybe, you had developed something beyond that. Not love, or any sort of affection that would send your heart aflutter, but a certain level of fondness.
“This is the last time I make a deal with you, the last time! I fucking hate this stupid piece of crap. It’s so heavy and bulky and old.”
“Maybe, but I think it looks better on you than the flat-screen. The one you’re wearing now is, like, the closest you can have to an actual head.”
His clawed-hands came to a complete halt, complaints dying on his tongue.
A snowy, black-and-white screen stared at you.
You had to suck the inside of your cheeks in between your molars to take him seriously.
“You actually like how it looks on me?” Vox slowly asked, clearly caught off-guard. “Weren’t you born in the early 2000s?”
“Yeah, but Vintage is back in style,” You released your cheeks to say, reaching out to caress the edge of his screen with a singular finger.
Vox didn’t offer you anything of substance after that. He merely shrugged his shoulders with an ‘Okay,’ clawed-hands moving once more. It took him a bit to fix his antenna back into place, about a minute or two, give or take. But when his reception returned, face popping up, he made sure to shoot you the nastiest glare he could possibly muster.
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