Voltaire opened his door when he heard Allen come down the hall.
"Bonjoor mon ami." he sensually whispered, his lips flapping like butterflies on pale butts. "Are you are for some… lessons?" he asked of his pupil, thrusting his hips at Allen so sugestiveievieeively.
Allen’s eyes widened and he started to go “AAAAAuuuu- but Voltaire-san, it is not proper desu!” Allen watched in horor as Voltaire did more pelvic thrusts in his zebra print britches, the garish yellow linerie underneath.
Just then Cassanova appeared. “No Voltaire!” he proclaimed as his hands rubbed all over the man’s chest. “You will not be getting your portion tonight.”
Then Voltaire scremed in agony and ran away into his room to cry. Allen was safe.
Then Cassanova and Allen were the best bros of the best bros ever.