You kneel on the worn floorboards of the radio tower, the air thick with ozone and the faint crackle of distant broadcasts. Alastor stands above you, his grin sharp as a blade, red eyes glowing with that familiar predatory hunger. His clawed hand tilts your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Such a willing little listener," he purrs, voice layered with static. "But remember, darling, I control the frequency here."
He doesn't ask. He never does. His other hand threads into your hair, gripping tight enough to send sparks down your spine. You feel the shift in power like a current through your veins. He pulls you forward until your cheek presses against the front of his trousers, the hard line of him unmistakable beneath the fabric. "Open," he commands, and you obey, fingers working his belt with trembling precision.
His cock springs free, thick and flushed dark, the head already glistening. Alastor watches you with unblinking intensity as you lean in, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of precum. The flavor is sharp, almost electric. He hisses through his teeth, antlers scraping the low ceiling as he pushes deeper into your mouth. "That's it. Take what I give you." His hips roll in controlled thrusts, fucking your throat in slow, deliberate strokes that make your eyes water and your core clench.
You gag once, twice, but he doesn't relent. One hand stays fisted in your hair while the other reaches down, claws tracing the column of your throat, feeling himself bulge there. "Look at you, so eager to choke on the Radio Demon." The words drip with dark amusement, yet the grip tightens, holding you still as he grinds against your tongue.
When he pulls back, saliva strings from your lips to his shaft. He hauls you up and spins you around, bending you over the broadcast console. Your palms slap against the dials; static hisses from the speakers like applause. Alastor yanks your clothes aside with impatient claws, fabric tearing. Cool air hits your exposed skin before his hand lands hard on your ass, the sting blooming into heat. "Count," he orders.
One. Two. Three. Each slap lands with measured force, turning your flesh hot and sensitive. By ten your thighs are slick, arousal dripping down them. Alastor chuckles, low and dangerous. "Already soaked for me. Pathetic and perfect."
He doesn't prep you gently. Two fingers push inside without warning, curling against that spot that makes your vision blur.
You cry out, pushing back, but he pins your hips. "Stay still. This is mine to give." He works you open with ruthless efficiency, scissoring, stretching, until you're panting and begging under your breath. Only then does he replace his fingers with the blunt head of his cock.
The first thrust is brutal, burying him to the hilt in one stroke. You choke on a moan as he fills you completely, the stretch burning sweet and deep. Alastor groans, static flaring louder. "Tight little thing. Made for this." He sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, the wet slap of skin echoing off the tower walls. Each drive hits your deepest point, forcing broken sounds from your throat.
His hand wraps around your neck from behind, not squeezing hard enough to cut air but enough to remind you who holds the power. "You don't come until I say." The command vibrates through you. He fucks you harder, the console creaking under your weight. One clawed hand reaches around to circle your clit in tight, cruel strokes that keep you hovering on the edge.
Minutes stretch. Sweat slicks your skin. Alastor's breathing grows ragged, antlers branching wider in the low light. He leans over you, teeth grazing your shoulder. "Beg," he whispers, voice dropping into pure radio static.
"Please," you gasp. "Alastor, please let me—"
He slams in deep and stills, grinding against your cervix. "Come." The word cracks like a whip. Your orgasm crashes through you, walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. He follows with a guttural snarl, flooding you with hot pulses that seem to buzz with residual energy.
He doesn't pull out immediately. Instead he stays buried, letting you feel every twitch, every drop. His hand strokes your spine almost tenderly. "Good pet," he murmurs. When he finally withdraws, he turns you to face him again, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead before the grin returns. "Same time tomorrow. Don't be late for the next broadcast."
The tower hums around you both, the air still charged. You lean into his chest, spent and marked, already craving the next signal.
