Chapter Text
When Vox zips through a crack in the wards to Alastor’s rooms and is immediately overwhelmed with the distantly familiar scent of an omega in heat—a scent he knows based exactly on that distant, familiar memory that Alastor typically restrains—he knows he’s walked into a trap.
(Again.)
An hour later, on his knees and wilting against the side of Alastor’s bed, claws curled against the edges of his nest as he pleads to be let in, he starts to realize just how insidious the trap was.
“Just let me in,” he wheedles, leaning against the side of the mattress so hard it’s starting to cut off his breathing. Just as well, since most of his blood has given up on delivering oxygen and has been pooling in his dick for the past hour. “We don’t even have to fuck, baby, just let me take care of you! We can do it like last time. You liked my mouth, didn’t you, made the prettiest noises—”
“Why you think any of your current dialogue is winning me over,” Alastor murmurs from inside of his nest, “is beyond my understanding.”
Vox whines shamelessly, pressing his face against the side of the nest, peeking over the edge. He’s only technically not encroaching like this, though Alastor’s ear swivels to point at him as he does it.
The nest is bigger than last year, more well-made. One of his dress shirts went missing last week, and he can smell the faint traces of his cologne now. It’s in there. He knows it. It even smells properly like him; straight from his closet instead of something he's used Velvette's custom alpha pheromones on. He's not used them now, either, not when Alastor invited him and Vox knows the time of year.
“Can I come in, though?” Vox asks. “Please? I’ll be nice.”
That finally prompts Alastor to shove himself up onto an elbow, peering down at Vox. He’s been curled up in the nest for the last hour, mostly ignoring Vox except for the way his ears twitch to catch every word that trips out of Vox’s mouth. He’s practically naked, too, probably sweltering as the warm waves of his heat lap at the edges of his psyche. He probably wants Vox. Probably wet for him, remembering how nice his tongue felt last year. Dressed just in his boxers, and—
Vox practically yowls when he realizes. “Is that my shirt?!”
Alastor squints at him. Vox’s unbuttoned dress shirt slides slightly off of his otherwise bare shoulder, ruffling the short fur there. Vox wonders if he realizes that he looks like a whore designed specifically for every one of Vox’s favorite fantasies.
“It calms the heat down,” Alastor tells him. “I thought you might, too, but you’re really not being a good example of your dynamic right now.”
Vox groans, pressing his face into the mattress. “Is that why you’ve been torturing me for the last hour?! You’re just trying to get another hit of beta hormones? Just take a fucking Ativan, Alastor! You want me to get you some?!”
“Nobody is keeping you here, Vox.”
Vox grumbles in the back of his throat, voice going hollow with TV static—mostly because Alastor is right. But they both know that Vox won’t—can’t—leave. Alastor has him as hooked as if he’d reeled him in with an actual fishing line.
He’s spent so long chasing Alastor. His coattails, his legacy, the man himself. Being invited in—and it’s not even once a year, really, is it? Sure, Alastor has no interest in sex outside of his season’s affliction, but after what happened between them last year, their relationship has unquestionably changed in the interim. They don’t fight in the streets anymore; they scuffle. Alastor doesn’t twist the knife in Vox’s chest anymore; he teases, and jibes, and gets snappy when Vox gets one over him in return. They came across each other in an old, familiar bar once, and…had drinks together. Even Valentino and Velvette have noticed a change, and Vox expected them to make fun of him, but—
He thinks they might just be happy for him?
“...Are you sure you don’t want me to fuck you?” Vox asks, plaintive. He may not be a real alpha, but spending an hour cloistered away with an omega in heat is making him outright dizzy. He can’t think about the complicated, swelling bubble of feelings expanding in his chest when his dick is so fucking hard right now. Maybe Alastor will at least let him jack off. He can come in Alastor’s nest. Get his scent everywhere that way. (He wants to come on Alastor’s face—)
Alastor sighs, and the bed shakes underneath Vox as he flops back into his nest. Vox raises his face, and sees that Alastor has curled in on himself at Vox’s edge of it, cheek pressed to the large, semi-circular nesting pillow a few inches from Vox’s claws so that he can keep looking down at him. The pillow is new, too. Smells like Alastor. Vox takes deep breaths.
“...You did a good job last time,” Alastor admits, casually averting his gaze once he notices Vox looking back at him.
“I did!” Vox agrees, rocking up higher on his knees. “I can do an even better one this time, Bambi—I’m more familiar now, I know what you like!”
Alastor barks a laugh out against the bedding. “Vox, you spent one heat with me and came in your pants.”
“And you liked it,” Vox insists.
Alastor’s smile turns genuinely amused. “You’re a horrible little beetle, picturebox. Yes, I liked it. Fine.”
He doesn’t sound like he’s acquiescing to anything. He sounds, in fact, like he’s getting exactly what he wants.
Vox tries not to pant, laughing excitedly. “R–Really? Wait, no, I’m not questioning it. What—how are we going to—did you mean yes to the part where I fuck you? Or—like last time? I’m down for whatever! Hah—you were really fucked up on the subject of my dick last year.”
Alastor rolls his eyes, then leans slightly out of the nest. Pheromones waft over Vox—sweet and pleasant, all the things Alastor himself so very rarely is. It’s like sunshine on crushed grass, a strange bit of nature in the hellscape they’re all trapped in. Fuck, Vox isn’t a perfumer—he doesn’t know what flowery, pretentious top and base notes thread through Alastor’s scent. Velvette could probably say. Vox just knows it’s really fucking nice, and heady, and if he doesn’t get to crawl into Alastor’s nest at least once then he might cry.
He whimpers out loud, blatant and pleading.
There’s a satisfied gleam in Alastor’s eyes as he does so, and a mirrored satisfaction curls somewhere deep inside of Vox, too. An alpha wouldn’t be acting this way. And alpha wouldn’t be rolling over for an omega, wouldn’t be begging like this—but an alpha isn’t what Alastor wants. Vox is.
Alastor reaches out slowly, and threads his fingers between Vox’s claws. Vox’s claws are bigger, but Alastor’s are sharper—blue and red, stark together. Static crackles through the air, warm and dark.
“Let’s make a deal, then,” Alastor murmurs.
The deal is as such:
First, Alastor is sick of being cloistered in his nest and playing victim to his instincts, so Vox is going to chase Alastor through the forest like a prey animal.
(“Forest?” Vox asks, confused. Alastor rolls his eyes, and gestures to the nefariously-lit swamp behind him, which is how Vox realizes that it isn’t just a projection. This fucker has an alternate dimension in his room? Fuck!)
And second, Vox can fuck Alastor, if Alastor asks for it.
(“...You can just ask for it now,” Vox says, brows furrowing. “Or tell me not to? I am not getting my dick ripped off in the middle of it just because you can’t make up your mind, Al.”
“Then don’t try!” Alastor snaps. “I don’t know if I’ll want it. I don’t now, but if you can change that, well—”
“How about a bet?” Vox offers, a niggling little idea starting to percolate in the back of his head. Alastor laid a trap for him. Vox can lay one in return. “I bet you’ll beg me to fuck you by the end of it.”
Alastor’s ears perk up. “And what if I don’t?”
“Well, no amazing dick game for you, for one,” Vox mutters, “but I’ll get you through your heat however you like. Uhh, prizes, prizes—if I win, next year, I get to come in through the front door.” His heart flinches. “...If there’s a next year, I mean.”
“Bold assumption. Adorable back-pedaling.” Alastor grins, wicked. “If I win, I want a favor.”
Vox goggles at him, caught between the audacity and the ringing fact that Alastor did not contend the presumption that Vox would be at his next heat. “That’s so fucking vague, what the fuck? At least pretend to be even!”
“Why?” Alastor asks, leaning his chin into his palm. “I know you’ll do it anyway.”)
And that’s it. The rest is a bunch of hellish legalese, because despite Alastor’s fondness for mean tricks—this really is a vulnerability for him, and Vox doesn’t miss the significance of Alastor even opening the door to the prospect of Vox, uh, sticking his dick where he wants to stick it. He’d kind of wondered, last year, if it was a sexual preference or just something Alastor had reservations about because of the implications. This year is proving to show it’s more of the latter.
This isn’t trust—not quite. Not when the contract has this much fine print. But it’s not distrust, either.
Fuck, there are those bubbling emotions again.
They shake hands, the hotel trembles on its foundations, and Vox zaps himself back to Vee Tower while Alastor prepares. He’d get started hunting Alastor down then and there, but if he’s got a shot at fucking the deer then he needs to swap his dick out for a model that has optional knotting functionality, which he hasn’t bothered wearing nearly as much this last year. And then, because although he can do the prep himself, he can’t help himself—he flickers through the cameras and skitters to a halt in Velvette’s rooms, startling her into flinging her phone at him as she flinches halfway off her couch.
“Motherfucking cunt—”
“Hey, Velvette,” Vox says, catching her phone before it hits the ground. He steps forward, drops it back into her lap as she bares her teeth at him. “Stop doomscrolling. Can you do my claws? Silicone caps?”
She stops hissing, alpha hackles smoothing down, and slowly starts to grin instead. “Absolutely disgusting, Vee. Sure, get your ass on the floor and tell me all about it. What color?”
He gets his ass on the floor and tells her all about it.
(What Alastor doesn’t know won’t hurt Vox, after all.)
Dick swapped, emotions catharsised out through a solid session of mooning over his crush and getting fondly ribbed by Velvette, and claws newly shiny with a clear silicone coating, edges thus dulled enough that the only way he’s going to make Alastor bleed is on purpose, Vox flings himself through the city’s power grid. He rubberbands off of a passing drone Alastor still hasn’t shot down, and zips back through Alastor’s window.
And then promptly chokes on his own tongue, because Alastor is naked.
“What? Oh, you’re back.” Alastor half-turns to look at Vox as he keels over, coughing, which only serves to show off the lean, emaciated length of his body.
His legs are so long it might be illegal—which isn’t entirely unique, Valentino’s legs are even longer—but fuck, Vox has a type. They taper into cute little crimson hooves, the fur trailing up from both them and the wicked claws on his hands starting out black before fading into the short, fawn-brown fur covering the rest of his body. Fuck. It looks like he’s wearing gloves and stockings.
It’s been a year since Vox has seen him anything short of buttoned up to the throat.
(Well—no. He’d loosened his bowtie that one time at the bar, undone one button. Vox tried not to drool, mostly failed, and suspects that’s the bit Alastor got off on. He’s such a fucking cock tease for a man who intermittently hates having eyes on him at all.)
It’s like studying him anew all over again, from the way he’s a little fluffier at his chest and in a trail down between his legs, to the white spots scattered around his flanks and his shoulders, to the jagged scarring that furrows in large swathes across his body. There’s a bite mark on his thigh, huge and ugly, like a dog’s maw; some of the fawn spots along his shoulders hide pockmarked scars, like somebody used to put out cigarettes on him. The biggest one, though, is very notably no longer held together by vivid green stitching—just a healed-over scar, now, cleaved through his chest.
Fuck, he looks like he’d been cut in half.
Also: he’s hard.
Vox can’t get a better peek between his legs to see if Alastor is wet, too—but his cock is erect, the slight, omega-typical length of it bobbing up between his legs. It was sheathed when they started this whole thing last year, at least until Vox teased it out, which was an interesting bit of what Vox can only assume is deer biology because he’s not a freak who does research on the hellish traits of people he wants to fuck.
(Fun fact: The drugged spit is definitely some fucked up obscure moth thing. Fine, maybe he’s checked.)
Vox starts undoing his own tie, swallowing twice before he can clear his mouth of the saliva that pooled when he saw Alastor’s dick—and his scar. “Am I supposed to run through the swamp naked, then? Because if I try to chase you through the swamp naked, this is going to turn into like three hours of the worst game of hide-and-seek ever and then you’re going to get so bored that you leave.”
Alastor cackles. “Oh, give yourself some more credit, old pal! But no, you can stay as dressed or undressed as you like. At your discretion, of course—and risk.”
“Risk?” Vox shucks off his coat, his vest—decides to keep his dress shirt on, in case Alastor, uh. Maybe wants it. Later.
He rolls his sleeves up, baring his forearms.
The pants and shoes are staying on. He is not running through Alastor’s evil pocket dimension barefoot. He’s pretty sure he can see alligator eyeshine back there, reflecting the light of his screen.
“Don’t worry about it,” Alastor says, which is about the only thing he could have said to make Vox worry about it more, but does not elaborate further.
Vox is too excited to dwell on it. He’s fizzy with it, electricity popping at his fingertips and his antennae even as he tries not to bounce onto the balls of his feet in anticipation.
“Forgotten!” Vox declares, and laughs to himself. He wants to bite Alastor so bad that his teeth ache. “Fuck! This is gonna be so good. When do we start? Do you want me to count down?”
“When?” Alastor’s head tips to the side, his ears flopping adorably. “Why, we’ve already begun!”
“Huh—”
And Alastor is gone. His tail flicks as he goes, which is fucking adorable, but Vox is too busy swearing and following suit to admire it properly. He shoots off the solid wood of Alastor’s floorboards and into the soft grasses of the wetlands, doing his best to avoid splashing into slow-flowing water. He doesn’t know how fucking big this place is, but Alastor clearly knows it well, because he’s already gone into the trees. He’s left tracks in his wake, though, snapped branches and bent tall, yellow grasses, too rushed to avoid leaving a trail.
Vox grins, sharp and wide.
“You can run, run, run, baby,” he calls in a sing-song as he makes his way into the enormous, weeping treeline. “But you can’t fucking hide!”
The first time he catches Alastor, he has to outright tackle him into the dirt.
He kind of thinks Alastor might have let himself get caught, even—Vox catches sight of him darting between trees, and the location is perfect for a tussle, not a body of bogwater in sight. They end up rolling through long, soft grasses, tumbling over each other in a way that involves way more bruising to Vox’s kidneys than he expected given the way this kind of thing tends to look in picturesque movie scenes. One of Alastor’s elbows nearly gets him in the throat. By the end of it, he has Alastor down on his front, pinned to the ground by the back of his neck while Vox jams a knee into his knobby spine, panting.
Despite the circumstances, Alastor is unfairly hot like this. Vox would blame it on the heat addling his brain, but the truth is that he always thinks Alastor is unfairly hot. The peach fuzz on his face transitions into soft, downy fur on the rest of his body. Up close, his colors are striking—even more so in the few places that he has accents, like the fawn spots on his flanks and shoulders, or the crimson and black of his tail, which flicks up to flash its white underside. That’s a cute little fear response deer have to alert their herd to a predator. Fine, maybe Vox has been looking things up.
In reality, Alastor’s not anything more special than whatever stars Valentino features in his productions—but fuck if he isn’t special to Vox. His heart sort of aches just to look at him, which is how he knows he’s being stupid and maudlin. Alastor is right here.
Alastor, of course, is laughing his ass off wheezily.
“I hate you,” Vox tells him, also wheezing. The tall, citrine grass around them rustles with their motions, ensconcing them in a little nest. “I died in my fifties, asshole, I’m not as fit as you!”
“Oh, forgive me, then,” Alastor starts in, all melodrama. If his face wasn’t pressed into grass, he would probably have the back of a hand to his forehead. “For my crime, of course, of having died so tragically young! It happened in a bayou just like this, you know!”
“You probably had it coming,” Vox mutters, catching his breath. “Shit, this is why you took your clothes off. My pants are ruined.” And they are: the knees are irrevocably stained with dead foliage, and he can feel the weird plant juice seeping in through the thick cloth.
“A simple mistake,” Alastor tells him, teeth gleaming in the unnatural light of the swamp. “A hunter’s bad eyesight, and I was taken for something I was not.”
Vox blinks. “Wait, really?”
“Of course, I was only out there at all because I was disposing of a body,” Alastor adds breezily. “I hope that fellow had a great deal of fun dealing with the two corpses suddenly on his hands!”
Vox laughs, trying not to get hysterical in his giddiness. “Oh, fuck off.”
That’s all he really has to say to that. He might have more, truthfully—it feels a little bit like Alastor has casually handed him a revelation—but then Alastor’s tail flicks, brushing softly over the front of Vox’s pants, and he’s distracted by an idea.
“Fuck the pants, too,” Vox mutters, and takes a hand from where he’s shoving Alastor’s shoulder down to unbutton himself.
He’s already half-hard again; has been since he realized he was catching up to Alastor’s tail. He can do that on command, of course, if he absolutely needs to, but this is genuine: the thrill and adrenaline of chasing Alastor down, and even more so of pinning Alastor underneath him. The heady scent of omega in heat filling the air doesn’t help, mixing together with crushed grass. The air smells sun-warmed, even though they’re ostensibly indoors and the only light is ambient and unnatural, born from Alastor’s dark magics.
“C’mon, omega,” Vox taunts, taking his knee off of Alastor’s spine and prodding him upward. The neck, he keeps pinned, forcing Alastor to bare himself in a pornographic arch. “Present.”
Alastor huffs under his breath, mumbling something uncomplimentary as he presses his hands into the grass to try to keep it out of his mouth, cheek smooshed against the ground—but he presents, sending Vox’s pulse thudding violently through his veins. Fuck, his blood might be pooling in its entirety in his dick. Forget oxygen from his lungs, he’s about to not have enough to get to his brain.
“Good boy,” Vox says reverently, earning himself an ineffective snap of teeth into the air. He pays the threat no mind, instead rubbing a hand up Alastor’s flank and eventually his ass, admiring the way his tail flags up at this angle and reveals the tight furl of his asshole, and his slick, pretty pussy.
Vox laughs to himself. Alastor is wet already. Of course he is—he’s in heat. He was probably wet when they were having this discussion in the first place. But it’s different to see it like this, inches from Vox’s cock, accompanied by that familiar scent of sweet omega (as much as the thought of ‘Alastor’ and ‘sweet’ in the same sentence is still a riot at best, even like this), and the way Alastor is starting to pant softly into the grass for reasons utterly unrelated to their little chase earlier.
(Or maybe related. Who knows! He’s not going to kink shame. Unless it gets him off.)
Vox’s teeth dig into his lower lip. “Fuck, baby, you’re so wet for me.”
Alastor’s growl rumbles into the ground. “I’m wet for me, Vox, it’s the season. Is this what I’m to expect from a man who only ever fucks alphas?”
Vox laughs, low, and squeezes the back of Alastor’s neck. It’s not much—not harsh—but it’s right over Alastor’s scent glands, and the pressure makes the bundled tension in his shoulders and back go limp. He makes a noise.
“Was that a little whimper?” Vox asks, delighted. “Are you submitting for me, omega?”
“Fuck you,” Alastor manages, and his tone is nothing short of a whine.
Vox strokes his thumb slowly over one of the vulnerable glands, the exact place a claiming bite would go if they still lived in a bygone era. “What’s that? Weren’t you just saying something about me not knowing my way around an omega’s body?”
This time Alastor does whimper, his tail twitching as his back arches that little bit further. His claws dig furrows into the soil, and he doesn’t reply, too embarrassed.
“That’s what I thought,” Vox says softly, pleased. Then he does what he’s been wanting to do ever since he saw that cute little fuck-me tail waving around underneath him: he grabs Alastor’s hip to hitch him even higher, and grinds himself forward against Alastor’s ass.
It’s soft. Vox groans as he does it, pressing his cock against the junction of Alastor’s ass and tail. He’s fully stiff now, even aching a little bit, and the soft, fluffy fur of Alastor’s tail cradles him as he grinds down against it.
Alastor yips, startled. “What—that’s not—”
“Shhhhut up,” Vox complains, eyelids fluttering. Shit, it’s like fucking a down feather pillowcase. His cock leaks from the tip, and the synthetic lubricant smears into Alastor’s fur. “I have wanted to do this—f-for so long!”
“You’re—depraved,” Alastor says, breath hitching halfway through the words. Vox just grinds forward harder, pinning Alastor’s tail fully down between his cock and Alastor’s own skin, and moans.
“Ridiculous pervert,” Alastor gasps. Vox is doing his best not to actually lean his weight onto Alastor’s neck, but every time he thrusts, he can’t help but squeeze a little, repeating that taunting little threat from earlier. It’s making Alastor tremble against him, hands scrabbling in the dirt as he tries to arch harder and—Vox presumes—angle Vox’s cock a touch lower to where he actually wants it. “Degenerate.”
“Keep talking dirty to me, baby,” Vox says with a breathy laugh.
“This is why I never—ah—showed you—ff-fuck—”
“Is it sensitive?” Vox asks gleefully, slowing his thrusts slightly as he realizes Alastor is getting twitchy under him.
Alastor squirms under his hand. His ears are flat against his skull, and he’s stopped trying to crane his head back to meet Vox’s eyes. “N-No.”
“Oh, okay.” Vox drags his hips back. “Then you won’t mind if I just…”
He slowly grinds his hips forward again, burying the head of his cock into the fluffiest part of Alastor’s tail. Most of the pressure he’s giving is against the base of Alastor’s tail, and the dragging friction as he thrusts forward results in a slow tug at the delicate appendage. He does it again, then once more, and—
Alastor whines through his gritted teeth, thin and reedy.
“Sorry, sorry,” Vox says, grinning, and stops moving entirely. “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” Alastor snaps. “Don’t—just keep going!”
“Don’t keep going?”
“Vox!”
Vox laughs, and starts fucking him again.
It’s a slow, languid fuck; he’s just getting warmed up. Alastor has no idea what he’s in for today, and to be fair, Vox doesn’t rightly know exactly how everything will go, either—but he sure knows what he plans to do, and if he has his way, then this is just the start of things. Alastor has a long road ahead of him.
But that doesn’t mean Vox can’t have some fun!
“Just like that, baby,” he tells Alastor, tipping his head back and letting his eyes slide shut for a moment as he enjoys the unique, feather-soft sensations against his dick.
“I’m not—doing anything,” Alastor gasps, tail flicking uselessly underneath Vox.
“Aren’t you?” Vox laughs again. “You keep twitching and flicking that cute little thing, like you’re trying to help me along. You telling me that’s not on purpose?”
He can see Alastor’s flush from here, trailing down the back of his neck. “That isn’t—”
“On purpose?” Vox interrupts to repeat. He tugs Alastor even closer, and really shoves his cock up against his tail, hand leaving Alastor’s hip to cup the back of the fluffy fur and press it more firmly against himself. “So you’re just naturally a slut?”
“I am not!” Alastor’s tone is affronted. It’s a funny contrast to the way that Vox has gotten his tail absolutely filthy, some of the softness fading into slickness as he smears fluids into it.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Vox says, breath starting to stutter. As soft and plush and just plain nice as the sensation on his cock is, it’s not as much stimulation as he usually likes. But the head space that it’s put him in—just the fact alone that he’s fucking Alastor’s tail—now that is threatening to send him over the edge already, forcing him to slow down just to drag this porn fantasy of an experience out a little longer. “Guess you don’t need me to fuck your pussy, then, right?”
Alastor says nothing, tail fighting to squirm in Vox’s grip as the man it belongs to screws his eyes shut and shudders against the grass.
“Right?” Vox prompts again, tugging on Alastor’s tail to force an answer.
Alastor gasps, strangling a little vocalization in his throat. “R-Right!”
“Mm,” Vox hums. He drops Alastor’s tail, letting his cock pin it down against Alastor’s ass again, and dips his hand around and down between Alastor’s thighs. He doesn’t touch Alastor’s cunt, nor his cock. He just trails a finger up his inner thigh, grinning as he feels the slickness trailing down it. “Definitely not.”
Alastor’s thighs are tense under his hand, tenser still as his finger trails closer and closer to the crux of them. Vox doesn’t follow through—he takes his hand away, instead, and wraps it back around Alastor’s tail, smearing Alastor’s own want through the mess Vox has made of him.
Then he grips himself harder, tail still in hand, and finally starts thrusting hard enough to make himself come.
It doesn’t take long at all; his fist is a hot, slick, fluffy mess, and Vox finds himself dropping Alastor’s neck in order to brace a hand against the dirt, curling over Alastor’s body and pressing his forehead against Alastor’s back as he groans and comes. He rides out his orgasm against Alastor’s body, hips twitching forward until they finally slow, and then stop, Vox panting against the downy fur between Alastor’s shoulder blades.
Alastor is panting, too, utterly still beneath him aside from the way he’s trembling from ear to hooftip.
Vox presses a self-indulgent kiss against a gaunt vertebra, and pushes himself up. When he draws away from Alastor, releasing his tail, it’s with a disgusting squelch. His mindless fucking in the middle of his climax smeared cum into Alastor’s fur, and the remnants of it are starting to ooze down, collecting in the little divot above Alastor’s ass.
Vox laughs quietly to himself and wipes his dick clean on the fur of Alastor’s thigh before tucking himself back into his grass-stained slacks.
“Well, you look fucked stupid,” Vox comments.
The words startle Alastor, who finally realizes there is nothing keeping him in place anymore except his own self. He twitches, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, and looks back at Vox.
“That’s—is that…”
Vox blinks at him innocently, admiring the way Alastor’s tail curls back down, cupping protectively over his ass. The tip of it brushes against his pussy, and a little bead of slick gets onto it, stretching into a thin strand when his tail twitches back. He’s even wetter than he was before—as he should be, after getting fucked silly and soaked with cum, even if Vox didn’t really fuck him. His small cock is hard between his legs, too, fully unsheathed and jutting from the apex of his cunt, leaving little gleaming wet marks on his belly where it touches against him.
“...Is that it?” Alastor asks. He looks a little shellshocked. His ears aren’t pinned, exactly, but they’re at odd angles, swiveling like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on. Vox wonders what it feels like for him, to have cum smeared into his skin but be left wanting. Omegas in heat get needy about things like that—they need a knot, need a partner’s cum, need to be fucked. Whatever biological imperative will get them the most pregnant, Vox figures. Thank fuck he doesn’t have to deal with that shit.
Vox grins, laughing lowly. “That? Baby, that was just the start. But this?” He brings his hand back, and then smacks Alastor between the legs, right over that wet, leaking pussy—Alastor yelps, jolting away from Vox and scrambling to his feet, wobbly-legged and messy.
“That slutty pussy of yours, I’m not going to fuck,” Vox says, rising to his feet. “As promised! I’m a man of my word! At least, not until you beg for it.”
Alastor, finally facing him, is wide-eyed, his smile uncertain. It’s a pretty hilarious expression. Vox can only imagine what Alastor was expecting—the last time Vox serviced him during his heat, after all, it was all about what Al wanted. Some tongue action, some fingering, a promise not to stick his dick where Al doesn’t want it. He’s still not going to do that unless Al really wants it, but this time Alastor asked to be hunted—so Vox is going to hunt him, and treat him like the prey he is when he gets caught.
No more soft touches from Vox. No more slow and sweet for Alastor. Vox has finally got the omega in his claws, and he’s going to capitalize.
“You should run again,” Vox suggests, taking a threatening step forward. He reaches out, lets his claws drag against a nearby tree trunk.
Alastor stumbles a step away into the shade of the trees, breath hitching as his thighs move against each other, slippery and wet. The poor deer is baffled, not expecting to get used and abused and left unsatisfied. He throws a glance over his shoulder, red meeting red as his eyes gleam in the dark—
He runs.
Vox gives chase.