Chapter Text
Vox is a cuck.
Well, not really. Sort of. Ish. Insofar as a certain percentage of online comments are concerned. Interfering with the more vocal (and deranged) members of the keyboard army is not good for any brand, but Vox is always watching. Vox and Velvette both, and the legion of computers and drones dedicated to tracking trends. If a high-rolling overlord has something negative to say about a new product, Vox sees it. If a hellborn brat drops a glowing endorsement for clout, Vox sees it. If it becomes a meme in the Pride ring that Vox gets off on watching Valentino fuck anybody but him . . .
“Don’t give them the time of day,” Velvette says without looking up from her phone. “You know better than that, Vox. You’re supposed to be the brains of this operation, right?”
He glowers at her. Valentino is too dense for her digs but Vox knows exactly how full of herself she is. Backbone of the Vees, my ass. Last time I checked, social media needs technology to run on. Your screens are all mine. But he holds his virtual tongue.
“Think of the brand. Don’t worry your flat head over it.” She winks at him across the lounge. “It’ll pass and they’ll be on to something else. Or you could always post a sex tape. That would make bank. Actually, maybe that’s not a bad idea. How many desperate fuckers would sell their soul just so they can wank to you elbow-deep in pimp?”
Vox stands up. “Love our little talks, Vel, but shockingly I have better shit to do.”
“Just saying.” Velvette poses for a selfie on the plush sofa. “Untapped market, babes.”
Vox zaps away, rides a circuit down to his underground chamber. Monitors, wires, cool filtered air and his throne await. What they say isn’t entirely false: sometimes it can be lonely at the top, even when the top brings you close to the frozen core of hell. He has no shortage of fans, adoring viewers, loyal employees, professional ass-kissers, people who would spread themselves wide open for him at the slightest hint of desire on his end. But do any of them know him?
He has plenty of secrets, but the intimate kind are the ones that really bother him. Like: he might be the only demon in hell—outside of the crazy powerful royals—immune to Valentino’s biological charms. Vox’s vents can chug all the pheromone-laced smoke they want and all he feels is a tickle in his mechanical lungs. As for the saliva Velvette so cleverly converted into her patented love potion, Vox has no way to drink it. He doubts it would work intravenously either; his blood is more like coolant and lubrication than actual vital fluid. He doesn’t have a heart fuelling a brain like the vast majority of demons. He’s built different.
For example: he has no holes for Valentino to lick, finger, or penetrate with his vast assortment of phallic tools. For further example: he has no dick to be sucked or fucked, either. His body is ironically, laughably, damnedly pure.
At first he thought it was just a misunderstanding. He thought he just wasn’t pressing the right buttons—figuratively speaking, contrary to popular belief he doesn’t actually have buttons—but no amount of experimentation has borne fruit. He doesn’t have a secret slit or a hook-up for some dildo attachment. He has no evolution. He can be quite something when trying to do harm, but there’s no transformation available to him that will let him have sex.
So, yes, fuck you, Vox is a cuck.
He has multiple cameras in Angel Dust’s room for exactly this purpose. Valentino is in there right now, talking about the latest shoot judging by the explicit gestures he’s making with all four hands. Angel doesn’t look happy to see him, but he never does. Vox doesn’t get involved with the pimp’s business any more than he has to. To the victors go the spoils and Angel, just like all the other whores, read the contract they signed. This is Hell, not a holiday time share.
All of this is Vox’s justification for leaning closer to the screen, hoping Valentino is there for more than just conversation. Come on, you know you want to. Just take him. Vox knows better than anyone that Valentino is a cup that can never be filled. No matter how much he gets, he always hungers for more. Vox has the same affliction of just a different flavor; it takes one to know one, and it often takes one to love one, too.
But Vox starves for attention. Eyes on me. Valentino can supply that and then some (he gets incredibly clingy when he’s drunk on tequila) but Vox cannot return the favor for the pimp’s insatiable appetite. He wants sex, needs it, and Vox has never cared about monogamy, and Valentino has never criticized him for his body, so it should all be fine, and yet . . .
Onscreen, Valentino leans down over Angel and lets a heart of smoke ooze from between his teeth. Angel’s mouth moves and Vox increases the volume with a twitch of a claw.
You look so sexy, Angel baby. Can Daddy have a taste?
Yes, Val.
Oh, give me a little more than that. Playing hard to get? Always a tease. Tell me what you need, baby.
I—
Valentino kisses him, hard, and when they part Vox can see pink drool wetting both their lips. He imagines it sweet, like strawberry syrup, and muskier than summer blossoms rotting under the sun. Everything about him whispers fertility, virality, sensuality. He is the very definition of lascivious.
Angel is already woozy with Valentino’s special sauce.
I . . . I want your cock, Daddy.
Valentino’s gold tooth glints in a grin.
Vox slumps back in his chair, first squeezing his thighs together and then parting them to slip a hand between. There’s nothing there. He wants to be hard, longs to be leaking, yearns to prove to Valentino how much he wants him. After a life of putting layers between himself and the real world, he wants nothing more than to tear them down, but he cannot. He’s trapped behind these screens.
Valentino is on him now, pinning him facedown to the bed. Everything is soft fluff and smooth lavender limbs. Valentino’s wings are pulled back so his ass is hidden and no camera has a clear view of his cock, but Vox has no issue using his imagination. Valentino must have an engagement tonight; he breeds Angel hard and fast with little investment in the spider’s pleasure. It’s an animal pose they’re in, one that excites Vox internally if not externally. He imagines his guts rearranged by Valentino’s plunging cock. He pictures himself in the pimp’s place, Angel’s downy fluff clinging to him from the static of their ceaseless friction. He closes his eyes and pretends it’s Valentino’s voice filling his lair with those high, wailing moans as Vox fucks heart-shaped electrical burns onto his skin.
“I want you,” Vox whispers, aching. He rolls his hips on his chair, grinding down into the seat. There’s nothing there. “I want you so bad . . .”
Valentino’s wings spread and shudder; he rears up, crushing Angel to him, and sinks his teeth into the spider’s neck. Vox can see them both spasm with the force of his orgasm, six intense pulses of cum leaving Angel’s belly visibly swollen even when he pulls out and globs of it splatter to the floor right in front of the camera under the bed.
Hot air heaves from Vox’s vents, burning against his shirt and waistcoat. He can’t even remember what true satisfaction feels like. Beating Alastor? By the skin of his teeth. Climbing sales, sky-high ratings? A shared victory across the Vees. Nothing compares to that, the thing he can’t have.
The online assholes would have a field day. Vox is a permanently blue-balled cuckold loser who watches Val fuck his whores because he’s basically a metal Ken doll with a TV face. Oh, and he doesn’t even vibrate. TFW the Robo Fizz five models ago has more functionality than the CEO of VoxTek. LMFAO!
Valentino lets Angel Dust drop to the mattress, sore and spent, so he can wrap his wings back into his coat again. He adjusts his hat, lights a cigarette, enjoys the view of his well-used whore a moment. Then, before he turns to go, he blows a kiss to one of the hidden cameras.
Vox stills in his chair, awestruck.
Valentino walks out, through the halls of their tower, and out to his limousine. He’s on his phone but Vox’s remains silent. All he spared him was the smoke-tinted kiss. Did he mean it as mockery? Or was it an actual, genuine dedication? For you, Voxxy.
Electricity arcs from Vox’s hand and he ruts into it with abandon. He’s not even watching the screens now, just replaying new and old memories of Valentino at his sexiest. Those thighs in fishnets. Those hips swaying as he dances. Those hands tracing the perfect shapes of his body. The piercings at his nipples, the delicate strength of his wings, and of course that ever-so-skilled tongue and the dangerous drool it drips.
Vox wants to own him. Vox wants to serve him. Vox wants to burrow into his skin and lose himself forever in those entrancing cerise eyes.
He stands up, feverish, and straddles an arm of his chair instead, chasing sensation. He is the worst kind of addict, one who can never find his fix no matter how hard he tries. His body knows the motions of pleasure; he’s beyond aroused by Valentino and even lets himself be turned on by the humiliation of this, one of Hell’s most powerful Overlords humping his own throne like a bitch in heat. What might Valentino say, if he saw this?
Aww, baby, do you have an itch you can’t scratch?
Look how horny you are. Why didn’t you say something?
Come here, Voxxy. Bend over for me, baby, let me help you.
Daddy will make you feel all better.
Vents huff and puff, whirring louder than his computers, but still he tries. He’s close, he has to be, isn’t he? Valentino is hot, and imagining his voice is hot, and pretending the hand probing insistently at his ass belongs to Valentino is hot, and everything is so fucking hot—
Vox’s face flickers away. Oh, for fuck’s sake!
WARNING! SYSTEM OVERHEATING! WARNING!
The next thing he knows, he’s jolting awake from a soft reset and subsystem reboot. He remains paralyzed for the first few minutes while his body restricts movement in order to cool him down faster. Once his arms can lift, he unbuttons his clothing to allow more air to reach his vents. He ignores his pissy reflection in one of the blank monitors.
That’s it.
Vox calls his assistant, who looks horrified to have his boss’s face on his phone. “Hello, Mr. Vox, uh—oh, are you alright, sir? You look a little—”
“Cancel tomorrow’s appointments,” Vox cuts in. “And allocate all available Vogitech resources to the VR project. I want it top priority and I’ll be leading it personally. Effective immediately. I’m wiring in right now.”
“O-oh! Yes, right away. They’ll be so honored to be able to work alongside you, sir.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Vox says dryly, and hangs up.
He’s frustrated and felt sorry for himself long enough. It’s time to take matters into his own hands. He jerks as the cables plug into their ports on the back of his head, the only part of him that can accept something from the outside world. Too bad Val couldn’t fuck those . . .
First things first. His technicolor teeth clear in his signature grin as he gets down to work. One fucking headache at a time.