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The moth leans in to kiss Vox, and I see Vox’s shoulders shudder with his poorly-restrained anticipation. They’re both sitting on the edge of the bed, facing each other, bodies almost a foot apart, as if they were repressed teenagers fearing eternal damnation for their lustful urges.
It’s a strange way to get this whole thing started.
I know what Vox is trying to accomplish here—apart from, obviously, fulfilling a sexual fantasy—he means to show me how serious these games he plays with his moth are. My sweet little picture box, always seeking approval, always seeking to impress me. I’ve tried to explain it doesn’t matter; I’m content to let him have whatever softness and frivolity he needs apart from me, because what we have is different. One does not impact the other.
He can have his romantic fantasies, as long as I get my pound of flesh.
But here we are, giving him an opportunity to show me whatever it is he hopes to show me, because what else can I do but indulge him? I’m trying to learn to be comfortable with this weakness, this disconcerting compulsion to please him. It unsettles me, but I can’t deny it. The beauty of his joy is second only to the beauty of his pain.
They are on each other now, groping and gasping, Vox letting out choked little moans as the moth seeks out his sensitive bits—his nipples, the curve of his lower back, that spot on his thigh I’m so fond of cutting into. His cock is already desperate and leaking, jutting up and twitching with every gasp the moth wrings from him.
And that’s another absurdity of this whole thing—they both started fully naked, in part to avoid damaging their clothes, and in part to “get right to the action.” It highlights the farce of this. Everyone in this room knows none of this is real. There are rules. There will be no external restraints. Vox prohibits any damage to his screen. The moth demands that, if I decide to become involved, I do not break any bones, or cut so deep he can see muscle tissue or organs (as if I would want to share something as intimate as my picture box’s vital organs with him). We are all pretending Vox has no powers—no electricity, no hypnotism, not even the use of any of his cables and cords. It’s a game of make-believe, like children play, and Vox has his little words he can use to end it whenever it’s too much for him.
I don’t understand how, with all this structure, all these restraints, Vox can get anything out of this arrangement. Then again, I never understood the “magic” of television, either—perhaps other people simply have an ability to suspend their disbelief that I lack.
“I want you against the wall,” the moth says. His voice is deep and hushed, and Vox reacts to it beautifully, eyes widening, a little gasp escaping his lips. He stands, and allows the moth to put him where he wants him.
They’re still not doing much, though—some kissing, a little grinding. I was expecting more enthusiasm, more initiative. It’s getting a little dull, to be honest.
This is a better view of the moth’s absurdly lanky form than I had last time I observed these games. That time, he’d been in some ridiculous leather getup, striking Vox with a variety of implements that pinked and bruised his flesh beautifully, but did no real damage. This time I can see his entire shape, and every detail of his musculature.
If I had to kill him, I think a kidney shot would be my opening move. His height puts them in easy reach, and he’s so slim—there’s no protective padding. That would be likely to make him double up in pain, bringing his wings closer to my reach. I don’t know much about moth anatomy, so I don’t know if those are a vulnerable point. I should do some research—find out where he has the most nerve endings.
Ah, now there’s something more interesting going on. Vox has started to push back, just a bit. His hands shove against the moth’s chest—not very hard, but enough to move him—and the moth fights back, crushing Vox to the wall with the weight of his body. Vox pushes again, harder this time, and the moth gives him a cruel little chuckle.
“Aw, baby, don’t be like that—I can see how bad you want this.” Vox shakes his head and pushes a little harder, and the moth grabs hold of his wrists, slamming them against the wall over his head. Another of his hands slides down to stroke Vox’s eager cock, and Vox thrashes against it. “Look how hard you are.”
“Can’t help it,” he gasps.
“Sure you can, baby,” the moth murmurs in his ear. “I’m gonna give you exactly what you want.”
“Fuck you—I want to leave!” Vox jerks a leg up, and his knee lands squarely between the moth’s spindly legs, and I hear a short, forceful grunt of pain.
Things are finally getting entertaining.
The moth recovers in an instant, and his face twists with rage. He spins Vox around to face the wall and presses him there with his bulk. “Think that’s gonna stop me, bitch? Go ahead and struggle—it’s hotter when you do.”
And oh, does Vox struggle. There is power in that body, even without the use of his demonic abilities, and he twists and thrashes, snarling like a rabid dog. But the moth is larger and has more limbs at his disposal, and he gains the upper hand every time Vox makes a move against him.
One of Vox’s flailing escape attempts results in a corner of his head striking the moth in the face, splitting his lip. It was obviously an accident—I see his face soften immediately, and they both hesitate for an instant, then the moth wipes away the bit of blood and sneers. “Oh, you’re gonna pay for that, pretty boy.”
And just like that, they’re back to it, both ignoring the crack in the facade. I don’t understand it—they both just acknowledged, to themselves and to each other, that none of this is real, but now they’re just continuing the play like nothing happened, both just as obscenely hard as they were before.
There’s so much I still don’t understand about my fanciful little picture box. I can cut him open and learn his body from the inside out, but there are still so many mysteries in his mind.
The moth lets out a noise of frustration; Vox is twisting uselessly in his arms. “Enough of this shit. Get on the bed so I can use that tight little ass.” He spins Vox effortlessly and flings him down on the bed, face down. Vox immediately starts scrambling away, but he doesn’t get anywhere—the moth practically leaps on him, pinning his legs with his substantial weight and dragging a jug of lubricant from beneath the bed with one of the hands not pressing Vox’s chest into the bed.
“No—fuck—please!” Vox’s voice is strained and desperate, and he’s beginning to sound winded from all the struggling. “Let me go!”
“Don’t worry, baby, I’m not gonna go in dry.” The moth’s tone is teasing and cruel; for a flickering, terrifying moment, I feel a pang of…attraction.
It doesn’t last. This is just a game.
The moth continues teasing. “That wouldn’t be any fun for me, either. But you’ve got a little choice to make here: if you settle down and let me use you like a good little slut, I can go nice and slow and make it easier for you. I could even make it good for you, baby,” he purrs, pouring a thin stream of lubricant between Vox’s cheeks. “Get you all warmed up for me.”
“Fuck you,” Vox bites out, his voice muffled by the bedding he’s been crushed into.
“Or,” says the moth, chuckling, “you can keep being a brat about it, and I’ll just take what I want from you. I bet you’re nice and tight. A hot, wet little cock sleeve, just for me. It’s your choice, baby.”
It’s a false choice. The moth knows as well as I do that Vox is stubborn, and endures pain beautifully. There is no possible reality in which he’d go from fighting this fiercely to compliance. But it’s part of the game, I think. It helps him get into the role.
I was never a method actor, myself. Just a master of mimicry.
“Eat shit and fucking die!” Vox twists again, and for a brief instant he breaks free of the moth’s grip—a combination of explosive force, and his attacker being distracted by his task. He gets a grip on the mattress and manages to drag himself forward a few inches before the moth has him again, this time twisting his arms behind his back, hitching them high. “Ow, fuck! No—stop!”
The moth slicks them both up efficiently, then begins dragging the head of his cock down the cleft of Vox’s ass. He is nice and tight, I know—I’ve indulged in that precious, secret cavern before, when the mood takes me…or when he begs me for it. I can’t say no to my darling picture box, not when he screams and cries for me so prettily.
But the moth’s cock is much larger than mine—almost unbelievably large, so much so there are rampant rumors that it’s surgically enhanced—and I can see all the muscles in Vox’s lower back and thighs quivering with anticipatory fear. This is going to hurt him. Not in any lasting way—not the way he hurts for me—but there will be shock and fire and brief flashes of agony.
For the first time during all this, I feel my breath catch slightly. He is so lovely when he hurts.
The moth presses the head of his cock against Vox’s tense, unwilling hole. Vox whimpers. “Please, don’t. No—fuck—no—o—o—!” His head jerks off the bed as I hear one of his delightful little malfunctions, his voice stuttering uncontrollably as the moth breaches him. I’m a little disappointed I can’t see his face from here—I do love those moments where he slips away for an instant.
“Fuck yeah, baby, you are tight,” the moth says, breathless. “This hole was made to be fucked. I don’t know why you kept trying to keep it from me.”
“Stop,” Vox gasps. “Hurts.” His voice is wavering.
The moth doesn’t stop talking as he works his cock slowly into Vox’s body, each thrust a little deeper, pouring more and more lubricant over them to ease the way. He praises Vox for his compliance, and chastises him for his resistance, and tells him in lurid detail how he loves that tight embrace on his cock.
Vox is sobbing now—not crying, exactly, just a quick, choking burst of sound at the end of every stroke as the moth fucks into him in earnest now. I recognize the laxity of a body pushed to the limit—prey accepting the predator has won. The fight is over.
The moth turns him over, folds his legs up to his chest, and pistons his hips relentlessly. Vox puts up a token struggle, kicking his legs here and there, but the moth has him so completely under control he doesn’t even need to use his arms to hold him down anymore.
Tears are flowing freely from Vox’s eyes as he whispers, “No…stop…it hurts.” The moth’s smile has a sinister warmth I know very well.
“Oh, poor little slut,” the moth says. “I could have made this so good for you. I still could, if you tell me what you want.”
“Just stop.” Vox’s chest shudders.
“Oh no, not that, baby. Anything but that. You feel too good for me to stop.” The moth shudders and jerks. “You give my cock a squeeze every time you sob, you know that? Why would you do that if you didn’t love this?”
Vox chokes softly on another sob. I’m possessed by a sudden, crazed urge to lick the tears from his face, feel the static electricity clinging to his screen beneath my tongue.
“I hate this—I want you to stop.”
“Just tell me what you like, baby. I’m gonna keep fucking you no matter what.”
The sound of my own voice surprises me. “Put your hand on his throat. He likes that.”
The way Vox responds to my words, it’s like I’ve just found his on switch. He turns to look at me, and despite the tears streaming from his eyes, I can see a flash of fierce joy that I’ve joined his little game.
Idiot picture box. I think I really do love him.
“Alastor! Help me, please!”
This desperation in him is unfamiliar and intoxicating. He has begged me for pleasure countless times. Only once has he ever begged me to end his suffering. I want more.
“Oh, I’m not here to help, darling.”
The moth laughs, joyful and cruel. “That’s right, baby—nobody here to save you.” To me, he says, “He likes to be choked out a little, huh? You wanna show me how he likes it? He’s making me feel so good, I want to return the favor.”
Hmm. That wasn’t my plan, but I suppose I don’t mind.
I rise from my chair and circle the bed lazily. I know how much Vox enjoys anticipation, and the moth has eased up for a moment, letting him catch his breath and collect himself. They are both panting and shining with sweat, and I can see how someone might find this beautiful.
I sit on the edge of the bed, and Vox reaches for me, but the moth grabs hold of his wrists again. “Help me,” Vox chokes out again, and I let my smile widen as I wrap my hand around his pretty throat.
The moth begins fucking into him again as I find the pulse points with my fingers, my claws just barely pressing into his skin. Vox’s breath quickens; I can see a thick, pearly drop gather on the tip of his cock. “This is what he likes,” I say, staring straight into his blown-wide eyes. “Claws an inch from his jugular. He likes it when I squeeze—just like this—and slow the blood to his brain.”
“Keep him awake, though,” the moth says, and I’m not sure if it’s part of the game or not. I don’t like him telling me my limits. “If he’s out, he won’t be squeezing my cock like this. He keeps doing this, I’m gonna come my fucking brains out.”
“Very well.” I can’t keep a trace of static out of my voice, and I take a breath to pull myself back under control. This is for Vox. This is his fantasy. “He enjoys the tease, anyway. The danger of it, as the darkness threatens to overtake his vision, and the euphoric rush when it all comes back.”
“No, please,” Vox whispers, but there is desire hidden in his voice.
I play him like an instrument while the moth takes his pleasure. I watch his eyes roll back again and again, feel the racing blood beneath my fingers, alternate with pressing the heel of my hand into his windpipe to hear the drag of his breath get louder.
This is stirring something in me. A want—a need?—a craving gnawing at my chest.
The rules were clear: if I chose to be a part of this, I would be a full participant. I could help direct the play if I desired. I hadn’t thought anything of it; I hadn’t expected desire.
Vox. He always disrupts my plans. I hate the way he makes me want.
But now the urge is here, and it must be satisfied. “Hold his arms over his head for me,” I tell the moth. “I’ll show you something else he likes.”
“Glad to help.” The moth shudders as he obeys. “Oh, I think he’s excited—he just squeezed me so fuckin’ tight.”
Ha! This, at least, is one part of Vox I know better. “No, not at all. He does that when he’s afraid.”
“Please, no! Alastor—no—not—” He’s babbling now, and for an instant I forget the game; it’s just for a fraction of a second, but a memory flashes back to me of the way he cried and begged when I peeled the moth’s name from his body. It was the only time I’ve ever granted him mercy.
But he has his words. He can end this if he needs to. And I am determined that his moth is not the only one who takes their pleasure from him tonight.
Vox’s protests have gone nonsensical—parts of words and stuttering sound—as I trace my claws up the soft, exposed sides of his chest, his underarm, the curve of his tricep. I find the spot I’m looking for: a sweet, tender patch on his inner arm, and I slice him with my claw. Blood wells to the surface, and he screams.
Oh, what songs he sings for me!
“Fuck, that’s good,” the moth groans, wonder in his voice. “Do that again.”
“No, no—stop, Alastor! It hurts! It—please—aah!” His voice turns into a solid tone—a sweeping sinusoidal wave, displayed for an instant on his screen—as I cut into him again, just below the armpit. The softest parts of him are the most intense, the most flavorful. The pain comes on quickly and builds fast. They’re what I go for when I want him overwhelmed and falling to pieces, not when I want a long, leisurely exploration of his agony.
I lick away his blood from my fingers as he tells me again and again to stop.
Another unwanted thought comes in. This is coming too easily for him. He usually submits to this treatment for me; I’ve never seen him fight like this, and he did it so readily.
Am I seeing his true feelings, brought out by this ludicrous game?
That’s not possible.
His cock is still hard and dripping. He still has his words.
I drag my claw slowly to the next spot—one of the very softest, the small deposit of fat just above the inner elbow. He is shrieking now, frantic, malfunctioning and stuttering with the depth of his fear. I part his flesh; it opens as beautifully as his lips do on those occasions I grace him with a kiss.
“Al, please, stop, stop!” He is crying now, great heaving sobs that shake his entire body. Tears and blood are soaking the pillow. “You’re hurting me! You’re hurting me!”
Has he forgotten his words?
I don’t—
The sandpaper rasp of static is roaring in my ears. He doesn’t enjoy submitting to me. I’m seeing the truth in pain. This is what he is really thinking, when he offers me his suffering.
Why does he do it? What is wrong with him?
I don’t like this.
Shadows are clouding my eyes. I want to burst from my skin, rend and tear. I want to rage like a rabid beast and tear Hell apart.
I open my mouth. I choke on a feeling I don’t want to name. “End scene,” I bite out, snapping my head to the side. “It’s—scene.”
“Oh, shit, okay.” The moth’s voice has flipped like a switch. No more tease, no more cruelty. Instead, there’s…fear? “One sec—let me just—”
I gaze at my picture box, and he is curled in on himself, still shaking with sobs. I reach out and touch the side of his screen. Amazingly, he doesn’t flinch from me.
There’s a blanket being draped over my shoulders. Why? I’m not cold. The moth is behind me.
“Hey, what do you need right now?” The moth’s hands are on me, rubbing my upper arms through the blanket like he’s trying to warm me. Idiot. What is that going to help? “Shit, we should have fuckin’ talked about this—I just didn’t think—” He makes a disgusted noise. At least he’s responding appropriately.
Vox is shuddering—he looks like he’s the one who’s cold. The moth skims a hand down his back, still continuing his strange not-massage of my arms. “Voxy, babe—are you here?” Valentino’s tone is bizarrely gentle. I never knew he could sound like this.
“Here. Good.” Vox’s voice is a rasping croak, between shuddering breaths just shy of sobs. “Just…need…”
“Yeah, I got you. Alastor, can you lie down here? Scoot a little. Get right up next to Vox. Okay, good.” His hands are guiding me to follow his instructions, and it’s easier just to comply. The blanket is tugged over the both of us. “There we go. I’ll be right back.”
His weight leaves the bed, and Vox’s shaking form wriggles next to me. He’s warm—too warm—why the fuck is there a blanket here? It’s…kind of nice, though. Thick. Down. Got some weight to it.
Vox’s arm creeps around my waist, and I realize my body is stiff as a board. I don’t understand why he’s clinging to me. Placating me? Putting the illusion back in place? I don’t know what part of us is the game anymore.
“Hold me,” he murmurs into my chest. I swallow. I can’t say no to my sweet, idiotic, self-destructive picture box.
I put my arm around him and pull him a little closer, and he sighs and snuffles against my chest. The corner of his ridiculous rectangular head jabs into my armpit. I ignore it.
The moth returns. “I’ve got your robe when you’re ready for it, babe. And here.” He places two water bottles next to my head. I’m…not going to deal with that yet.
“Tell me if this isn’t okay,” Valentino says, “or just push back or whatever. I’ll move.” Then he’s at my back, lying on his side and pressed up against me. He hasn’t climbed under the blanket with us—that thick layer of fabric and feathers between us is terribly welcome. Two of his arms curl around us; I can feel the steady motions as he strokes Vox’s back.
This is strange.
I don’t…I don’t dislike it.
Valentino speaks again. The rumble of his chest against my back is oddly grounding. “Do you want to talk about what went wrong?”
“No.”
“Okay. Just relax, then.”
Relax. What an idiotic thing to say.
Vox is relaxing, though—his body is unfurling bit by bit, as he makes small contented sounds under Valentino’s touch. Good. I like that better.
It’s too hot under this fucking blanket, though. I’m the only one wearing clothes here, and the heat is cloying, the bodies against me are crowding, the sound of the moth’s breath next to my ear is aggravating.
“I have to—” I start wrestling with the blanket, pushing the arms off me. Valentino immediately moves back, just as he said he would, but the bedding and Vox’s clinging body are inescapable.
Then I remember we’re not playing a game, and I can just turn to shadow.
There’s a noise of surprise, and a noise of disappointment, but I don’t go far. Just to the foot of the bed. I rematerialize sitting up, my leg pressed against Vox’s, because I know that sound. Touch is one of the ways he communicates. I used to find it irritating, but I’ve learned to translate it a bit, and it isn’t so bothersome anymore.
Valentino scoots close to Vox, then hands me one of the water bottles. “Drink something,” he says, tangling his limbs up with Vox’s the way I know he likes. “And have a snack if you want.” He points, and I see…a few packets of junk food. Peanut butter crackers, some hellboar rinds, those disgusting shark gummies Vox likes.
“Eugh.”
Valentino chuckles. “I thought so. I ordered something for you—it’ll be here in a minute. We’ll be better prepared next time.”
Next time? Is he insane? This was a disaster.
“You don’t need to include me in…this,” I tell him, waving at…everything. “I won’t get in your way.”
“You’re not in the way,” Vox says. His voice is thick; he almost sounds drunk. “This shit happens sometimes. Gets a little too intense. Dealing with that is part of it.”
“You misunderstand me.” But I don’t know exactly how to explain that it wasn’t this that…
Upset me?
I don’t like this.
“Then explain,” he says.
“I can’t. Or…I won’t. Not…” Not with the moth here. This isn’t his concern. I don’t particularly want to talk to Vox about it, either, but I know he won’t let it drop. He’s explained these games to me enough times that I know he sees talking about it as an essential part of them. “I…need to ruminate on it. We can talk another time.”
“That’s fine,” he says, wriggling his toes underneath me. He’s always so desperate for contact. It is, I have to admit, a tiny bit adorable.
I drift for a while, thinking of nothing; time passes. Vox sits up, pulls on his robe, and avails himself of the water and the snacks, then drapes himself over my back, kissing my shoulders, my ears, my cheeks. I growl my annoyance, but I allow it.
There’s a soft knock at the door, and the moth answers it, returning with a small plate of diced meat, raw and bloody. He hands it to me, and I blink at him. He rolls his eyes and gives me a “go on” gesture, then flops back on the bed.
I realize I am actually a little hungry, and the meat is very fresh, but my fingers hover over the plate. It feels like a trap; there are no favors in Hell, only contracts and betrayals. If he makes a habit of treating me like this, he will expect reciprocation.
Vox sits in front of me, plucks a piece of meat from the plate, and pops it in my mouth before I can object. The juices drench my tongue; my body informs me it was craving this, and I acquiesce, allowing Vox to feed me little morsels from the plate until they are gone. I bite at his fingers as he does, occasionally drawing blood, and oh, that is the perfect seasoning. He puffs out a breathy laugh and kisses me, as Valentino scrolls on his phone and mutters, “Weirdos.”
Next time, he said.
I don’t know if there will be a next time. But…I have to admit, I almost enjoy this part. I see how a person could get used to it. It’s like a soothing fog settling back in over the bayou, after a storm blew it all away, making everything too bright and exposed. It’s relief.
I’m shocked at how not awkward it is, being here with the two of them right now. This might be the most comfortable the three of us have ever been together, and I’m not sure I like it. Or…I think I do like it. I don’t like that I like it. I shouldn’t like it.
I put it out of mind for now. I’m tired—bone-weary, even though I did almost nothing here—and I know Vox will drag it out of me later. He can be tiresome that way. I think I’m beginning to learn I don’t mind that.
“Thanks for giving this a shot,” Vox murmurs, winding his arms and legs around me again like a touch-drunk octopus. “I love you.”
I know what he wants to hear. I’m getting more used to saying it, but Valentino’s presence here makes it feel strange again.
I drop my voice low, a whisper only Vox can hear. “I love you, darling.”