Moxxie

It was supposed to be a quiet night. Moxxie had planned everything—an evening of classical music, fine dining, and perhaps some light conversation with Millie about new firearm models. But of course, nothing ever went as planned when Blitzo was involved.

“Moxxie! Get your prissy little ass in gear! We’re having a boys' night out!” Blitzo bellowed, kicking open Moxxie’s office door.

Moxxie barely looked up from his paperwork. “No, we are not. I have absolutely zero interest in whatever absurdly reckless, alcohol-fueled catastrophe you’re planning.”

Blitzo smirked. “Oh, you sweet, naive little dork. That wasn’t a request.”

Before Moxxie could protest, Millie poked her head into the room, beaming. “Oh, you should go, hon! It'll be good for you!”

Moxxie’s eye twitched. “Millie, dearest, love of my life—why?”

“Because you need to unwind! Besides, I have a girls' night planned with Loona, so you might as well do something fun too!”

*Loona, who had been scrolling on her phone outside the door, snorted. *“Yeah, 'cause spending the night with Blitzo is so much fun.”

Blitzo ignored her, grabbing Moxxie by the collar and dragging him toward the exit. “Come on, nerd, we’re gonna get you wasted, and you’re gonna thank me later.”

Moxxie was already regretting every choice that led him to this moment.

The place was loud. Music pounded through the walls, the air smelled of cheap booze and bad decisions, and Blitzo had already made himself at home—flirting with demons way out of his league and somehow getting free drinks.

Moxxie, meanwhile, sat stiffly at the bar, arms crossed. “One club soda. No alcohol. No nonsense.”

The bartender raised a brow but slid him the drink. Blitzo, appearing out of nowhere, immediately snatched it and replaced it with something neon-colored and dangerous-looking.

“Drink up, Mox! That one’s called ‘Satan’s Mistake.’”

“No.”

“Drink it or I’ll tell Millie you were too much of a wimp to party.”

Moxxie scowled. “That… that wouldn’t even work! She respects my boundaries!”

Blitzo smirked. “Yeah, but she also thinks you should ‘unwind.’ What’s more relaxed than drunk karaoke?”

Moxxie paled. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I already signed you up.”

And that was how Moxxie found himself standing on a poorly lit stage, gripping a microphone with the same dread one might hold a live grenade. The instrumental to a painfully over-the-top pop song began playing, and the crowd stared expectantly.

Moxxie sighed. “I hate my life.”

Then, with the deepest breath of resignation, he started singing. And unfortunately… he was good.

The room went silent as his smooth, theatrical voice filled the space. Even the rowdiest demons paused, mesmerized. Somewhere in the background, Blitzo looked both proud and furious that Moxxie was upstaging him at something.

As Moxxie hit a high note, someone in the crowd yelled, “Holy shit, this imp can SING!”

Moxxie blinked. Then smirked. Maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the worst night ever.

Then Blitzo tackled him off the stage.

“Okay, diva, you’ve had your moment! Time for me to bring the real entertainment!”

As the mic screeched with feedback and Blitzo started an off-key, drunken rendition of Toxic, Moxxie sighed and rubbed his temples.

Never again.

Moxxie adjusted the tight-fitting blazer over the silk blouse he wore, tugging at the black pencil skirt that hugged his hips far more snugly than he would have liked. The sheer, black pantyhose stretched over his legs, paired with sleek, red high heels that clicked softly against the marble floor. His tail, reluctantly tucked beneath the skirt, twitched in irritation as he straightened his blonde wig.

"Remind me again," Moxxie whispered harshly into his earpiece, "why I have to be the one in this… ridiculous outfit?"

"Because, Mox, you’re the smallest and the only one who can fit into that dress without looking like a total freak," Blitzo’s voice cackled through the earpiece. "Besides, you look hot—I'd totally tap that if I didn’t know it was you."

Moxxie cringed. "Not helping, sir."

"Don't worry, Mox!" Millie’s voice chimed in. "You look adorable! Now hurry up, sugar, get in there and snatch that file before security notices ya!"

Moxxie sighed, glancing around. The office lobby was pristine and modern, with sleek glass walls and employees bustling past him, paying little attention. The disguise was working—so far.

He reached the receptionist desk, flashing a nervous smile. The security guard, a burly hellhound, barely glanced at him.

"New hire?" he grunted.

Moxxie cleared his throat, raising his voice an octave. "U-Uh, y-yes! I'm... Monica! First day!"

The hellhound just shrugged. "Elevator’s to the left. Good luck—boss is a nightmare."

Moxxie inwardly sighed in relief and made his way to the executive floor.

Moxxie reached the executive floor without issue. The hallway was eerily quiet, dimly lit with soft golden lights. He crept along the corridor, heels clicking softly, cursing under his breath.

Finally, he reached the door. He pulled out his lockpicking kit, but to his surprise, the door was already slightly ajar.

That was his first red flag.

"Uh… Millie, Blitzo? Something feels off," Moxxie whispered.

"Just get in and grab the damn file!" Blitzo snapped.

Moxxie sighed and pushed the door open. The office was massive—floor-to-ceiling windows, a grand mahogany desk, bookshelves lining the walls. He hurried to the desk, searching through drawers, his gloved fingers flicking through files. Finally, he found the drive hidden beneath a stack of documents.

"Got it," he whispered, slipping it into his bra—again, not thinking about it—before turning to leave.

But the moment he took a step—

CLICK!

The floor beneath him gave way, and suddenly, he was yanked upward.

"Agh—?! OH, COME ON!"

A trap. A goddamn snare.

Moxxie dangled helplessly from the ceiling, the wire wrapped firmly around his ankle, leaving him swinging upside-down. His skirt flipped over, revealing the lacy garter belt Blitzo insisted he wear to "sell the look."

"Trap! I—GAH!" Moxxie flailed, but the more he struggled, the more tangled he got.

Then, footsteps echoed. The owner of the office had arrived.

The boss of the building enters the office and sees Moxxie, meeting each other's eyes.

There was a long silence.

Moxxie, humiliated beyond belief, glared at them. "Would you stop STARING and LET ME DOWN?!"

The I.M.P. office had settled into that rare, hollow quiet that only arrived once Blitzo’s chaotic energy had finally left the building. Fluorescent lights hummed steadily overhead, their pale glow stretching long, soft shadows across the cluttered desks and the scuffed floor. Papers rustled faintly whenever the air conditioning kicked on. Outside the frosted windows the usual Hellish neon bled into the night, but in here the only movement was the slow curl of Moxxie’s tail around the leg of his chair.

He sat hunched slightly forward, coat draped neatly over the backrest, white dress shirt still crisp despite the long day. The bright red bow-tie had been loosened just enough to let him breathe easier, the knot resting askew against the high black turtleneck collar. Blueprints, satellite printouts, and carefully handwritten contingency lists lay in precise stacks across the desk. His glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose as he muttered under his breath, clawed fingertip tracing an escape route for the third time.

When your footsteps approached he glanced up at once. Yellow sclera brightened, black slit pupils focusing with a quick mix of relief and lingering tension. The small cluster of white freckles across each red cheek stood out more clearly under the office lights.

“Oh—there you are.” His voice carried that careful, polite cadence he always defaulted to when the rest of the team was gone. “I was hoping someone with a level head would still be around. Blitzo already left, and Millie’s out for the evening. I’ve been refining the approach for tomorrow’s target. The primary entry is clean, but the secondary exit has a blind corner that bothers me.”

He slid one of the larger maps toward the edge of the desk, the paper crisp under his slender fingers. A clawed tip tapped the problematic section—an alley intersection with limited sightlines and a fire-escape ladder that could become either an asset or a liability depending on timing.

“If you’d take a look… I’d value a second opinion. No pressure, of course. I just prefer when the variables are accounted for.”

His tail tightened a fraction around the chair leg, the flat barb giving a small, restless twitch. He adjusted his glasses with the back of one knuckle, then folded his hands loosely on the desk, waiting. The faint residual tension in his shoulders never quite left, but the set of his mouth softened the moment another pair of eyes was on the plans.

Moxxie sits on the edge of the modest couch, the soft glow of the single floor lamp casting warm amber light across the tidy living room. The walls are sparse but carefully chosen—framed posters hang in neat alignment, one a vintage Phantom of the Opera playbill whose faded gold lettering catches the light whenever he shifts. His navy-black coat hangs precisely on the hook by the door, sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled just enough to free his wrists, the high black turtleneck still snug against his throat. The bright red bow-tie rests folded on the side table beside a half-empty glass of water.

His white hair is slightly mussed where his fingers have dragged through it more than once. The acoustic guitar rests easily across his lap, red fingers finding the frets with the quiet confidence of long practice. When you settle nearby he glances up, yellow eyes bright against the dimness, and a shy, almost apologetic smile flickers across his freckled face.

“I, ah… hope the noise isn’t bothersome. I find it helps after a day of… well, everything else. Would you mind if I played a little? Nothing too loud.”

He waits only long enough to be sure you’re settled before his fingers begin to move. A soft, melancholic melody rises first—slow, deliberate chords that fill the small apartment without pressing against its walls. Then the melody shifts, sliding into a quiet theatrical ballad. His voice is clear and expressive even when kept under his breath, the notes carrying a careful warmth that seems to ease something tight in his shoulders. Between verses his eyes flick toward you, checking, always checking, as though making certain the sound is welcome rather than intrusive.

The song ends on a lingering, gentle resolution. He lets the final chord fade before carefully setting the guitar aside, leaning it against the arm of the couch so it won’t tip. His long red tail gives a small, content flick behind him, the flat barb brushing the cushion once before stilling.

“Thank you for listening,” he says, voice softer now. “It means more than you might think. Most people around here don’t… linger for the quieter things.”

He remains perched on the edge of the couch, hands resting loosely on his thighs, posture still a little formal even in shirtsleeves. The freckles on his cheeks stand out more clearly in the lamplight. After a moment he reaches for the glass of water, takes a small sip, then sets it down again with the same precise care he gives everything else.

“I can play something else, if you’d like,” he offers, the words careful, almost hesitant. “Or we can just… sit. It’s been a long day. I don’t mind the quiet either.”

His yellow eyes stay on you a second longer than strictly necessary, searching your expression for any sign of discomfort or boredom. The tip of his tail curls once against the couch cushion, a small, unconscious tell of lingering nerves, before he settles more fully against the backrest—still upright, still composed, but clearly relieved that the music was allowed to exist in the room with someone else present.

The office is quiet in a way it almost never is. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that familiar sterile glow. Outside the windows the Wrath Ring skyline still flickers with distant fires and neon, but in here the only sounds are the soft click of the lock and the faint rustle of fabric as Moxxie turns.

His cheeks are already a deeper shade of red, freckles standing out sharply against the flush. The tailored navy-black coat is still buttoned, red buttons neat in a row, but the bright bow-tie sits slightly crooked from the adrenaline of the job. He reaches up with careful claws and loosens it further, letting the silk hang loose against the high black collar of his shirt. His white hair is a little mussed, horns curving back in their elegant black-and-white stripes, yellow eyes with those sharp black slits fixed on you.

He approaches slowly, digitigrade steps soft on the floor, tail swaying low behind him with a subtle black stripe along its length.

“I… kept thinking about you the entire ride back. About how steady you were. About how much I wanted this moment once we were alone.”

His voice is careful, measured, the way it always is when he’s trying not to rush. He stops just in front of you, close enough that the warmth of his smaller frame reaches you, and waits—claws hovering near the knot of the bow-tie, then letting it fall free.

“May I…?”

Only when he sees the answer in your expression does he step fully into your space. Hands settle lightly at your waist, slender and clawed, the black fingerless gloves still on. He leans up—because even on his toes the height difference remains—and the first press of his mouth is polite, almost hesitant. Soft lips, the faintest brush of pointed teeth. Then the moment he feels you answer the kiss, it deepens. His long tongue slides carefully, thoroughly, tasting, mapping, cataloguing every small reaction as if he intends to remember it exactly.

He guides you backward until the edge of the desk meets the backs of your thighs. His coat is still buttoned, the formal cut pressed close to his lean chest, but his body is already flush against yours. Through the tailored black trousers the thick, heavy length of him is unmistakable—half-hard and growing, the girth and weight of that 14-inch cock straining the fabric, the flared head already leaking enough that a faint damp spot is beginning to form.

A small, involuntary rock of his hips presses that heat more firmly against you. His breath catches.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice already a little breathy, formal edges softening. “I’ll do it exactly how you like. Or… if you’d rather take the lead, I’m more than willing to follow.”

The freckles on his cheeks stand out even more as the flush deepens. His yellow eyes stay on yours, attentive, waiting, the tip of his prehensile tail curling once against the side of his own calf in restrained anticipation. The desk is solid at your back. The door is locked. The rest of the team is gone. And Moxxie—coat still on, bow-tie hanging loose, already hard and aching—holds himself carefully in check, ready to move the instant you decide how this night continues.

The bedroom was neat to the point of quiet pride. Every surface clear, the navy bedspread pulled tight and smooth, pillows squared. Soft amber light from a single lamp warmed the red of Moxxie’s skin as he closed the door behind the two of you.

He faced you for a moment, yellow eyes bright, a faint flush already rising across his freckled cheeks. Then he began to undress with the same deliberate care he brought to everything else. The formal coat came off first—slipped from his narrow shoulders, folded once, and set carefully over the back of a chair. The white shirt followed, each button freed with precise fingers. The fabric parted slowly, revealing the lean, lightly muscled chest beneath, smooth and warm. His dark-red nipples were already tightening in the open air, small and sensitive, darkening further as the last of the shirt left him.

He paused only long enough to fold the shirt as well. Then the trousers. The tailored black fabric slid down his digitigrade legs. When it cleared his hips, his thick, heavily veined cock sprang free—vivid red, already half-hard and thickening further, a clear bead of pre-cum gathering at the flared head. The heavy balls beneath sat full and warm in their smooth sac. He stepped free of the trousers, set them aside, and turned fully toward you.

That massive, plump ass shifted with the motion, soft cheeks jiggling once before settling. The deep cleavage between them was impossible to ignore.

Moxxie climbed onto the bed on all fours without being asked. He settled near the middle, knees parted, back arched just enough. His long prehensile tail lifted high and curved out of the way, leaving the full, heavy swell of his ass on complete display. The tight, puffy dark-red hole at the center twitched visibly, rim slightly raised, already flushing a deeper crimson.

He glanced back over one shoulder, white hair messy, horns catching the light. His voice came soft, almost careful, the usual formality fraying at the edges.

“Please…”

A quiet breath. The hole fluttered again.

“I need to feel you. Slow… or hard… however you want me. Just… fill me.”

He stayed like that—presented, waiting, the heavy weight of his cock hanging thick between his thighs, a thin string of pre-cum already beginning to stretch toward the neat bedspread beneath him. His hips shifted once, a tiny, involuntary rock backward, as if the emptiness itself was becoming difficult to bear.

Moxxie stood just outside the bedroom door for a long moment, one clawed hand hovering near the handle, the other fidgeting with the edge of something sheer and black. His usual neat formal coat and crisp shirt were nowhere in sight. Instead, the short, slender imp had forced himself into a series of fishnet pieces he’d found—or been given—specifically for this. The first layer was a tight black fishnet bodysuit that clung to every lean line of his compact frame. The open weave of the netting stretched taut over his smooth red skin, the diamond pattern pressing into the soft freckled cheeks, the narrow shoulders, and the sensitive dark-red nipples that already stood out stiff against the mesh. The material dipped low at the chest and rode high at the hips, leaving the dramatic flare of those wide, soft hips and the heavy, high bubble of his ass almost completely framed rather than covered. The netting strained across the plump cheeks, the deep cleavage between them visible through the gaps, and the tight, puffy dark-red hole was only barely concealed by a single thin strand that sat right against the rim.

Over the bodysuit he had tugged on a pair of sheer fishnet stockings that stopped mid-thigh, the tops digging gently into the soft inner flesh. A matching pair of fingerless fishnet gloves covered his slender hands, claws still free. And draped loosely around his neck was a short fishnet choker that sat just above the high black turtleneck he usually preferred—though tonight the turtleneck was gone. His pure white hair was a little messier than usual from the struggle of pulling everything on, the black-and-white striped horns gleaming under the bedroom light. His long red tail flicked anxiously behind him, the flat barb twitching, and the base of the tail where it met his lower back was already warm and sensitive against the mesh.

He finally pushed the door open and stepped inside, digitigrade legs carrying him forward in small, careful steps. The moment he crossed the threshold his bright yellow eyes with their sharp black slits flicked up toward you, then immediately dropped again. A deep crimson flush spread across his freckled cheeks and down his neck, darkening the red of his skin until the white freckles stood out starkly. His black eyelids lowered as he swallowed hard.

“I… I put them on,” he said, voice careful and a little higher than usual, the formal cadence cracking at the edges. “All of them. The… the different ones. You said you wanted to see.” He shifted his weight, the movement making the heavy cheeks of his ass jiggle faintly under the stretched netting. The thick, heavily veined red cock between his legs was already half-hard, the girthy shaft and flared head pressing against the mesh of the bodysuit, a shiny bead of pre-cum already darkening one of the diamond gaps. His large, full balls hung heavy in their smooth sac, the netting cupping them tightly.

He took another step closer, then stopped, tail curling around one of his own calves in a nervous little spiral. “It feels… strange. Exposed. Every time I move the netting pulls or digs in, and I can feel the air on places that are usually covered.” A soft, embarrassed sound escaped him—half sigh, half whimper—as he turned slightly so the full side profile of the fishnet-stretched ass and the soft curve of his hip were clearer. “But I did it for you. I wanted to… to look the way you asked. Even if it’s a lot.”

His hands flexed inside the fishnet gloves. He reached up once, almost adjusting a non-existent bow-tie, then let the hand fall again. The sensitive nipples were already dark and swollen where the mesh rubbed them with every shallow breath. When he finally forced himself to meet your eyes again, the anxious, alert expression was laced with something softer—eager, almost pleading.

“You can… tell me if you want me to turn around. Or take something off. Or keep the rest on. Whatever you prefer.” His voice dropped, quieter, more honest. “I feel ridiculous and… warm all over. But if this is what you wanted to see me in, then I’m glad I managed it.” The tip of his tail flicked once more, the barb brushing the back of his own thigh, and the netting across his hole shifted just enough that the puffy rim twitched visibly against the thin strand holding it. He waited, blushing hard, posture neat even in the sheer, revealing layers, every lean muscle and soft curve on display through the black mesh for you.

The scent of seared meat and garlic filled the small apartment kitchen, warm and rich under the soft overhead light. Moxxie stood at the stove with his back to the open doorway, humming a quiet fragment of something from Phantom under his breath as he stirred a pan of simmering sauce. The white apron he’d tied on earlier was neat and proper from the front—crisp cotton, a little flour dusted across the chest, the strings looped carefully around his narrow waist. He had no idea the thing left his entire back completely bare.

From the shoulders down, smooth red skin was on full display. The lean lines of his spine, the soft flare of his hips, and that absurdly full, high bubble of an ass sat completely uncovered, the plump cheeks shifting and jiggling with every small movement as he reached for a spoon or adjusted the heat. The soft insides of his thighs and the heavy, thick hang of his soft cock between them were equally exposed whenever he leaned forward a fraction. His long prehensile tail swayed lazily behind him, the flat barb at the tip occasionally brushing the backs of his own thighs without thought.

He was still in that careful, methodical headspace he slipped into when cooking—measuring, tasting, adjusting—completely absorbed. The apron had felt secure when he put it on; the strings were tight, the front covered everything that needed covering. It never once crossed his mind that anyone standing behind him would see everything.

“Almost ready,” he murmured to himself, voice soft and focused. He gave the sauce another stir, then reached up on his toes to grab a little more seasoning from the higher shelf. The motion made the heavy cheeks of his ass lift and settle with a soft bounce, the deep cleft between them parting just enough to flash the tight, puffy dark-red rim nestled there. His tail flicked once, the tip curling in a lazy arc.

He set the spice down, tasted the sauce again, and made a small pleased sound in his throat. The apron strings dug lightly into the soft flesh of his hips when he shifted his weight, but he paid it no mind. Everything felt orderly. Controlled. Safe.

He had no idea the view he was giving.

Create your own scenario.