Chapter Text
Alastor was looking at him like he'd gone fucking insane.
Maybe he had.
There wasn't really any other explanation as for why he was frozen, awkwardly leaning forward with Alastor's skinny thigh hot under his hand, their faces still far too close despite the fact that Alastor had jerked back so suddenly his head had hit the wall. Vox could still hear the thump echoing in his mind, because there was certainly nothing else filling the silence despite the fact that the two of them could usually never stop talking.
Alastor’s eyes were comically wide, a strained smile stretching thinly across his face, ears flattened—literally a deer in headlights, and maybe if the cause had been anything other than Vox's own stupidity it might have been funny. There was the disconcerting fritz and crackle of static tuning into an unpleasant screech as Alastor opened his mouth as if to speak and then promptly closed it again, gaze darting to the side.
That was fucking rich; he was never lost for words! Except for now, apparently—Vox had finally rendered the Radio Demon speechless and couldn't even enjoy it because the silence was only making things worse.
No, there was an explanation—it was the alcohol, it had to be. His head was swimming from it, the taste of good whiskey turning sour in his mouth as his stomach lurched. Alastor reeked of it too, and that was probably why he'd been so goddamn touchy-feely all evening; hanging all over Vox on the way home, draping himself against Vox's back as he'd rummaged in the sideboard for glasses; Alastor had been in such a good mood, all his attention on Vox and only Vox—
When he stood abruptly and shoved himself back from the table there was a startlingly loud crash as his chair toppled back and hit the kitchen tile. "I—" Vox started, voice too loud, too desperate, and then stopped because Alastor had begun giggling nervously, shoulders shaking as he brought a hand up to his mouth. Vox couldn't even be offended that he was fucking laughing because the disturbing expression on Alastor's face was one he'd never seen before, and he'd put it there.
"No," Alastor said between gasps, and there was something vaguely hysterical there, his voice rising with each word. "No, I don't think so, Vox!"
"Yeah, I—" Fuck, fuck, he hadn't been thinking, he hadn't even meant it (even if he was still thinking about Alastor's mouth, his lips wet and glistening from the whiskey Vox had wanted to lean in and lick off himself—shit, he was wasted.) "I, uh—" I was joking? I slipped? I was drunk, lonely and horny and you're kind of pretty like a woman in the half-light of the room?
Except none of those things were really true—well, except for the drunk part. Alastor was conspicuously avoiding his gaze, one hand still clutching his tumbler of whiskey so tightly it looked on the verge of cracking.
"I think I'm gonna throw up," Vox continued loudly, the bile rising acidic and relentless in his throat. He turned without waiting to see the inevitable judgmental disdain on Alastor's face, probably already reevaluating everything about him, maybe even rethinking their entire friendship— "I need some air, I—I'll see you soon, okay?"
It wasn't until he'd reached the door, one hand tightly gripping the cold metal of the handle that Alastor's voice called after him, oddly high and thin. "Vox? Where are you going?" He wasn't laughing any more.
But Vox couldn't look back, couldn't bring himself to answer—only pretended not to hear, shoulders hunching as he shoved open the door.
And like a coward, he fled.
Vox would have gone home, except they'd been in his fucking apartment. Besides which, his head was still buzzing with the heat of Alastor's touches on his waist at the bar; the way he'd looked at Vox with those half-lidded, come hither bedroom eyes he did so well, the soft, fond curve of his genuine smile, all bleeding into slow motion replays of the moment Vox had apparently lost his goddamn mind, because what the fuck had he been thinking—no, no, he just needed to—to take his mind of it. Do something, anything, anyone else, preferably with some soft curves and plush tits involved.
He wasn't sure what time it was or how long he'd been walking, but then it didn't really matter; the streets in the city were never empty, especially this close to the outskirts of the entertainment district. The sky was as dark as it ever got in Hell—he was used to the eternal gloom by now, everything cast in an unnerving deep red. At least his sense of smell was worse in this body; though it fucking sucked at times, he was glad for it out here where even the muted impression of the potent stench making its way through his vents was enough to turn his stomach.
Vox's eyes flicked down in disdain as he stepped over a junkie lying in the gutter, and when a hooker called out to him from the other side of the road they hardly merited more than a cursory glance; fucking cheap whores off the street was a surefire way to end up with a shitload of venereal diseases, and Vox had no intention of making that mistake again. No, he'd already made enough humiliating decisions tonight.
Besides, he had money now. Good money. He might still be clawing his way up the cutthroat ladder of influence in Hell, but he was getting there. It was a couple of decades ago that he'd vowed to drag this shithole into the future kicking and screaming, and now they couldn't get enough of it. His station was thriving, and he had plans, plans that Alastor—
Fuck. A sudden stream of vomit had him ducking aside as a drunk lurched towards him, and Vox cursed and shoved them away with an instinctive bolt of electricity through the chest. It was always a rush, the thrill of it making his own heart race with a pleasurable staticky tingle up his spine. The scream and subsequent meaty sizzle went some way to alleviating his frustration, at least, as did the satisfying thump as the sinner hit the ground.
He adjusted his cuffs as he stepped over the body with a dazzling smile, hyper aware of countless sets of eyes that had all simultaneously turned his way. Good. If anyone had been in doubt as to who he was before, a little reminder not to fuck with him never went astray.
The neon signs nestled amongst rundown buildings and the muffled, thumping beat of music ahead were a welcome sight—both because Vox was starting to feel entirely too sober, and because this was an area of town he knew Alastor held no interest in and would never enter. Not that Alastor would even be out looking for him. Prick.
It was pure chance, really. Chance, frustration, and plain desperation for another drink that had him heading inside the dark lacquered doors of the first decent-looking club he came to, waved inside by bouncers that actually had some fucking sense—whether because they'd just seen him kill a guy like it was nothing or because they actually recognised him, it didn't really matter. Breezing past the long lines of hellborn and lowlife sinners at least lifted his mood a fraction—some eyes curious, others resentful; all pathetic. Good, let them look.
Even so, the darkness inside was a relief, punctuated only by the flickering coloured lights that pulsed in time with the kind of electronic, up-beat music that Alastor always wrinkled his cute, snobby nose at. Well, it wasn't as though Vox could hope to anonymously blend into the crowds even if he'd wanted to; while he might not be the only demon with a TV for a head these days, he'd made fucking sure he was the only one of any influence and repute.
He liked the notoriety, anyway.
Still, this was hardly his usual scene either, and he was nowhere near blackout drunk enough to consider humiliating himself on the dance floor—but there was only one way to fix that.
Vox was leaning against the bar, tapping his foot against the unpleasantly sticky floor and waiting for his drink—he'd only ordered a bottle of tequila, how fucking hard could it be?—when a distractingly tall presence sidled up beside him. It was the scent that hit him first: alluring dark cherry with a twist of spice shadowed by something that made his chest constrict with an odd flutter, faint traces of bittersweet almond on the back of his tongue.
"Here all alone?"
Vox glanced up at the silken drawl—deep and smooth with an accent he couldn't quite place. And Jesus fucking Christ this guy was tall—and it was a guy leaning casually against the bar beside him, there was no doubt about that. The makeup and slutty clothes might have given Vox pause, but despite his willowy figure and androgynous face, that liberally exposed chest below pale silken fluff was all muscle. A whore, then, but unfortunately not the kind he'd been hoping to lose himself in.
He gave a stiff smile and drummed his claws against the bar. "Original."
The fuck was this guy, anyway? Some kind of bug by the looks of it, eyes huge and shining with amusement as his gaze seemed to crawl judgmentally all over Vox from head to toe. It made his skin prickle with an unpleasant kind of tension that lingered in his gut, though it was hardly as though he gave a shit what some whore thought of him.
"It's a classic for a reason," the guy said, utterly unconcerned, "besides, it was a genuine question." His smile widened. Even propping his cheek on one hand as he leant against the bar he still towered over Vox, and that was when the other arms registered, one seemingly acquiring an unlit cigarette out of nowhere and holding it up expectantly between them. "Got a light?" The dark makeup around his eyes was slightly smudged, like purpling bruises under the dim light of the club.
Vox gave him a measured stare for a moment before snorting softly and lazily lifting a hand to flick a spark at the end of the cigarette, igniting it instantly. "Not interested," he said flatly, but didn't miss the brief and gratifying widening of the bug's eyes as smoke slowly began to curl up between them.
There was a contemplative pause as he studied the glowing tip, gaze flicking up to Vox's face before continuing as though the words 'not interested' weren't even in his vocabulary. "You can call me Val," he said easily, bringing the cigarette to his lips to inhale with evident pleasure. The way his eyes briefly fluttered closed was almost obscene, as was the shape of his glistening lips as he opened his mouth to allow thick, pink smoke to slowly drift free. The scent of cherries intensified as it surrounded them both—an asshole move, really, and something in Vox begrudgingly admired his confidence. Val looked at him through slitted eyes, expression now relaxed and curiously amused. "You're looking for a distraction, no?"
"And what makes you say that?" Vox smiled, the same dazzling, blandly neutral smile he'd perfected for his programs that projected nothing but unbothered self-assurance. "I'm afraid you're wasting your time."
Val only hummed thoughtfully, shifting his stance and taking another drag of his cigarette as his hip jutted out, drawing Vox's gaze down to the pale expanse of his exposed thigh beneath fishnet tights and that too-short skirt. Vox swallowed, readjusting his jacket as he dragged his eyes back up and forced a dismissive sneer.
"You want to forget something." Val was looking at him almost expectantly, like he was waiting for a specific response as the silky pink smoke settled around them as if to block out the rest of the bar. A pretty—but shitty—trick, in Vox's opinion, though it was more pleasant than the inevitable pervasive smell of sweat and vomit he might find elsewhere in the club. The rest of the patrons at the bar seemed to be giving them a wider berth despite lingering stares—though whether that was because they were afraid of Vox or this hooker had a reputation, it was hard to say.
Vox gazed at him sourly; maybe that line worked on others but it sure as shit wouldn't work on him. "We're in a club in Hell, Val, who the fuck here doesn't?"
For a moment Val didn't respond, the sultry look he'd been wearing vanishing as he blinked and began laughing breathlessly against one hand, almost choking on his own smoke. He had long fluffy antennae patterned with ridiculous hearts that shook distractingly as he hunched over, and if Vox had been any drunker he might have absently reached out to see if they were as soft as they looked. Alas, he'd been getting increasingly and depressingly sober as the night went on, and instead turned deliberately away, claws drumming against the bartop. At long fucking last the bartender reappeared and deposited his tequila and a glass in front of him, the latter of which Vox promptly ignored in favour of snatching up the bottle, waving it smugly at Val. "And this will do just the trick."
Val beamed, leaning forward to loop one of his many arms through Vox's. "Luckily for you, I can get us a booth," he purred, and before Vox could reply was already tugging him across the floor through the crowds. What the fuck was this guy's deal? The only explanation for his insistence was that he knew who Vox was and was hoping to get something out of him—maybe he had dreams of being a movie star or something, because Val probably could have blown two guys for cash in the time he was wasting here.
Still, sitting down in a more private corner to get smashed sounded like exactly what he needed, so Vox allowed himself to be pulled away from the dance floor and overly loud music to a quieter area with enclosed booths and—ah, maybe that was his plan. The shadowy half-visible figures of couples pawing at each other or moving rhythmically behind draped gauze curtains were hard to ignore.
"Look," Vox said, ignoring the uncomfortable warmth that went straight to his dick as two of Val's hands settled either side of his ass to push him gently through translucent curtains into an apparently reserved booth—Jesus fuck he needed to get laid—"I'll be blunt. I don't know what it is you want from me, but I'm not gonna fuck you." He threw himself down onto the plush sofa and ripped the cap off the bottle, taking a deep, blissful gulp. The burn was immediate, coursing down his throat and settling like a cleansing fire in his stomach. He closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the wall as he felt Val settle in beside him, the sheer presence of him impossible to ignore. Why did he have to be so fucking tall? "I'm not gonna put you on TV, either, so go find another lonely sucker."
He kind of hated that the solid warmth of Val next to him felt nice, chest tightening with a nauseous self loathing that he'd actually reached such depths. Alastor would always lean against him on the couch when he'd had too much to drink, too, singing softly under his breath until he fell asleep and Vox could draw him down carefully into his lap. Fuck, fuck he didn't want to think about that obtuse asshole—
"Put me on TV? You mean you don't want me to sit on your face, baby? I think you'd enjoy it," Val sounded faintly bemused even as he couldn't seem to help resorting to vulgarity, and Vox opened his eyes to squint at him in bleary disgust. He took another pull from the tequila, trying not to think about whatever Val might have going on under that skirt as his face flushed. Because it was probably a dick. Definitely a dick, in fact.
"I mean, it's my fucking job," he said slowly, "or do you live under a rock?"
A flicker of irritation passed across Val's face then, and oh, that was satisfying to see; something genuine instead of the bullshit come-ons that were nothing but an act. Val was in for a reality check if he thought he could beat Vox at his own game.
But then it was gone, Val's expression smoothing once more into something vapid and sweet, his smile teasing as he raised an eyebrow. "I'm so sorry, Papi, should I know who you are?"
The booth was now nothing but a haze of grey smoke from Val's long ignored cigarette—no trace of pink remained, and the scent had become less pleasant as it burned down to the butt unsmoked, earthy like regular tobacco with no trace of cherry. Vox eyed him with reluctant interest. While he himself was hardly infamous—not quite an overlord yet, but he'd be there within the year, he was sure—most sinners at least had a vague idea of who he was, once prompted. His influence was becoming increasingly hard to avoid these days, and even if someone couldn't place his face, his name usually rang a bell.
"Vox," he said smoothly, smile tightening as Val's face displayed nothing but casual indifference, "you don't own a TV?"
Val shrugged, giving him an enigmatic smile before reaching out to steal the bottle from Vox's grip and taking a long drink himself. The fucking presumption! Vox was more outraged by the loss of the liquor itself than what it had cost, but found the protests lodged in his chest as he watched the long, elegant line of Val's throat bob as he swallowed with practiced expertise.
When Val pulled off the bottle at last his eyes were bright, too-long tongue swiping over the wetness of his lips with a sharp grin. "Nope," he said, leaning in and bringing up a different hand to drag a thumb over the surface of Vox's cheek. "This one's kind of interesting, though."
Vox scowled and jerked back as Val giggled and flopped back against the couch so they were shoulder to shoulder as he passed the bottle back. "What's your fucking deal? You work here?"
Val exhaled and his smile dimmed slightly, reaching out one arm to grind his cigarette into the ashtray on the small table. "You could say that," he murmured, and immediately procured another cigarette that he rolled mindlessly between two fingers. "You're funny," he said, slouching down against Vox's shoulder until he could look up at him. He looked faintly ridiculous like that, as if it could somehow disguise how much bigger than Vox he was; as if he thought it might make Vox more inclined to reconsider. But then he held up the new cigarette expectantly between them and Vox rolled his eyes, lighting it with a wave of his hand. "Useful trick." Val was eyeing him thoughtfully again as Vox took another swig of tequila. It was finally hitting him now, at least, mind relaxing and some of the tension at last seeping from his shoulders. One of Val's antennae was brushing against the back of his neck, a shivery tickle ghosting down his spine. "Sure I can't do anything for you?"
The bottle was half empty now, and Vox set it clumsily on the table as he looked down at the man sprawled out on the couch beside him, cheek pressed against his shoulder as he looked up at Vox with an inviting smile. How the fuck was this the way his night had ended up? Sharing tequila and a private booth with a male hooker when the last thing he wanted was—
"You're not my type," he said bluntly, a slight slur to his words as he brought a hand up to push Val away, but instead somehow ended up petting the antenna that was swaying against the side of his screen. It was soft, he confirmed, fingers rubbing over the silken strands, but froze in his movements as Val let out a bizarre squeak. "Shit, sorry," he choked out instinctively, and retracted his hand as though scalded, reaching instead for the safety of the tequila bottle.
Val took a long drag of his cigarette before responding, wreathing them in the now familiar bittersweet spice of pink smoke as he shrugged.
"And you're not mine, but that doesn't mean we can't have a good time together, right?"
Fucking ouch, but there was something to be said for his honestly, Vox supposed. He snorted and plucked Val's cigarette purposefully from his fingers; fair was fair. Type or not, the way Val's eyes lingered on his mouth as he inhaled was an undeniable ego-boost, the warmth in his lungs and comforting bitter flush of smoke on his tongue a heady, almost too-pleasurable thing. Fuck, he hadn't considered they might be drugged. His head was swimming a little as Val sat up, leaning in and parting his lips as though—as though to—
"Share?" Val murmured and Vox exhaled in surprise, jerking back only to find there was nowhere to go as Val closed the distance to—it wasn't a kiss, yet it might as well have been—the light brush of Val's mouth against his own as he inhaled the smoke with undisguised relish.
Vox's mouth was dry as Val slid back down again, blowing the shared smoke back up at him in now faint pink, teasing puffs.
"I'm not a fag," he said abruptly, nausea twisting up his stomach as it felt as though his heart might beat out of his chest, the ghost sensation of Val's lips against him a prickle of hot static that refused to fade.
The pause that followed that statement was unbearably long, Val's glittering eyes boring into him like a silent accusation. Oh, you're one of those. "Didn't say you were," Val offered at last, "but that's also not really relevant, you know?" The soft lilt of his accent was maddeningly soothing, and Vox fumbled for the bottle again to take another drink. He hated this, because now he found his gaze lingering on the firm swell of Val's chest that wasn't even a real set of tits—not soft, like he'd always loved burying his face in—and the long line of his slender legs, even though they were skinnier and more muscular than the type of women he always preferred, and this was exactly what he didn't want to fucking think about—
"Well, you know what they say," Val continued blithely, seemingly oblivious to the way Vox couldn't stop himself from looking, vision shifting in and out of focus and fuck, his screen was probably blurring and fritzing embarrassingly, "—mouths are genderless when they're around your cock."
Vox paused, glancing back up to stare at him in confused disgust. "Who the fuck says that?" His dick didn't seem to disagree though, and Vox crossed his legs in irritation as he scrubbed his hands over his screen and let out a strangled noise of frustration.
Val shrugged, but the twist of his smug smile was irritatingly infectious as he stole the bottle of tequila once more. "Me?"
He could fucking have it, honestly, because Vox was beginning to think if he had any more he'd be sobbing into Val's unnervingly masculine yet ample chest by the end of the night.
"Look," Vox said, and let his head fall back against the wall with a sharp thunk that momentarily jolted his vision back into full, clear focus. "I just had a really shitty fucking evening, okay?" He found himself choking on the words, but there was something cathartic in it too. Val just watched him silently, head tilting slightly as he waited. "My friend, he—I—" But he couldn't, no matter how much alcohol he'd consumed there was no way he was spilling his guts to some random stranger who'd probably blackmail him quite literally to all hell and back—
"Oh," Val said easily, "you want to talk? Vent all you want, Voxy."
Maybe Val really thought he was stupid. Another dumb mark, easily exploitable—perhaps that had even been his plan all along, the backup for if he couldn't persuade Vox into buying his body. "Here? To you?" He barked out a sharp laugh and glanced around, countless indistinct figures moving and talking beyond the thin gauze curtains that separated them from the masses, upbeat music still pounding in the background.
"Hardly," Val said with an unimpressed look, "if you want to do this, we do it properly—no deal, no dice. People come here for the best, provided they can pay for it."
Vox wasn't entirely sure he believed that. Sure, the club was nice, but hardly seemed that exclusive. "Money's not an issue," he said shortly, "what I want is—is—" he paused, frowning as Val gazed back at him expectantly. His chest felt tight, and all he could think of was the way Alastor had looked at him, as if Vox's actions had been utterly incomprehensible. As if he had been. Maybe he was right; Vox sure as shit couldn't pin down what the fuck he'd been thinking. But Val—well, Val must have met all kinds of people, fucked all kinds of people; surely nothing Vox could say or do would phase him—"I want total confidentiality. Anything that's said or done between us remains between us. No exceptions."
This was—this could work. Vox was good with words, good with wording; even Alastor had praised his watertight contracts, and Vox was so very good at getting what he wanted from people, often more than they realised they'd be giving.
"Hmm," Val narrowed his eyes, leaning back against the couch to eye Vox thoughtfully as he took a slow, languorous drag of his cigarette. "That’s no dice."
The way his stomach dropped was disconcerting even to Vox; the response wasn't exactly surprising—if blackmail had been Val's goal, then it was only natural he'd refuse. "So much for the best," he said with a short laugh, and began getting up only to find one of Val's hands wrapped around his wrist, hot and insistent as it tugged him back down.
"You think I arrived here yesterday? Anything is such a vague and dangerous word, don't you agree? I would have thought you'd understand that, Vox." The use of his name would have felt purposeful, like a specific barb except for the fact that Val was so clearly ignorant of his reputation. "You strangle me, attack me, try to kill me—or worse—and I can't say one single little thing? I don't think so, baby."
The tension in Vox's shoulders eased, and he relaxed into Val's hand and folded his arms. "That's fair. I have a better clause, then. You can't touch me. I can't touch you. Any knowledge that passes between us stays between us."
The moment he finished speaking he could tell Val was disgruntled, his brow furrowing as his mouth twisted unhappily. "You think I didn't notice your little electricity stunt was hands off? Besides which, that all just sounds inconvenient for the both of us.” Val’s gaze was crawling over his body, lingering on his face. “You realise how unrealistic that is? I wouldn't even be able to—" he leant against Vox's side again, solid and warm, and slid his hand up from Vox's arm along with another to dig his thumbs into the back of his shoulders. The burst of sweet relief from the impromptu massage was so unexpected Vox barely managed to stifle a groan, and Val looked irritatingly smug.
"Unnecessary," Vox said, but rolled his shoulders into the ruthless probing of Val's fingers anyway. "But, fine, maybe a bit extreme." It was hard to think clearly with all the alcohol still in his system, but this shit was second nature to him—he was confident of that at least. "How about this, then: no contact or action taken with the intent to cause harm. From either of us." Vox hesitated, pulling away from the pleasant heat of that firm grip as he remembered Val's mouth brushing against his own. The thought of it made him feel nauseous, as did the fact that with half a bottle of tequila inside of him he was suddenly no longer sure what he'd do if Val kept pushing. Mouths are genderless when they're around your cock. "And no—no sexual contact, either," he said shortly, impulsively, but it was just a safeguard, after all. All Val needed to do was listen and be a uselessly expensive sounding board that he would never need to see or think about outside of this club. One that was distant. Uninvolved. Impartial. Well, to a point.
Val made a face at that, but shrugged. "Boring, but your choice. I think you might regret that second part though." He sat up to grind the remnants of his cigarette into the ashtray decisively, suddenly all business. "This a one time thing?"
"Yes," Vox said, and then hesitated. "No. Maybe? Are you amenable to adjusting the duration of the deal depending on how things go tonight?"
Val actually looked pleased at that. "Sure," he said easily, and stood up to offer Vox a hand. "I never disappoint." The challenge audible in his voice almost made Vox wish that he would.
The coloured lights visible behind Val through the curtains seemed to shimmer and blur, haloing his dim silhouette where he stood looking down at Vox. Those were wings draped down his back, Vox realised distantly, though Val was perhaps the furthest thing from an angel he'd ever met. They were both down here for a reason, after all. "The terms as stated, then?"
Val's smile gleamed in the darkness. "Fine with me. And for you, a thousand an hour." He said it as though he was doing Vox a favour; giving him a good deal.
Jesus fucking Christ. Vox was doing well for himself, but wasn't sure how often his wallet could take this abuse. Something about Val's manner, though, told him it was neither a joke nor an amount he was unused to getting. Who was this guy?
"Fine," he agreed with an easy smile, reaching out a hand only to draw back at the last second before their skin made contact. "Where?"
Val seemed to produce a key out of nowhere, twirling it lazily around one finger where it glinted in the dim light before vanishing it back beyond Vox's reach. "I have a room upstairs," he murmured, "privacy guaranteed."
It could be a trap; Vox wasn't naive. It was hardly unheard of for whores to lure lonely suckers off away from the crowds to a worse fate, but that was admittedly unlikely to be the case at an established club like this. Still—"And no one else enters the room," he added, only for Val to huff a soft, surprised laugh.
"Someone's paranoid," Val said with amusement, giving an easy shrug and clinking the keys invitingly again. "Don't worry, it'll just be you and me, Papi." He wiggled his fingers, so close to Vox's own. Vox wasn't in the habit of sealing deals with only a handshake—no matter how well you thought you'd hammered out the details verbally, it was inevitably always too vague, too easy to overlook a loophole. There was also something a little too intimate about it, old fashioned in a way that didn't mesh well with the way Vox tended to do business these days. No, handshakes were Alastor's thing, a way to quickly tempt impulsive demons at the end of their rope into a contract they didn't fully understand the scope of.
Val tilted his head curiously, waiting. Fuck it, he'd draft a real contract later—assuming this didn't turn out to be a monumental waste of both his time and money.
It was just one night, after all, and there was nothing impulsive or desperate in the way Val was looking at him. He was literally just going to get paid to listen to Vox bitch and moan—he'd be an idiot to blow that chance. The terms they'd gone over were clear enough—fuck it. It would be fine.
Vox took his hand.
"Deal."
Art by Jade!