Velvette wakes up like she does every day: not very refreshed, tucked into bed, in an expensive hotel on someone else’s dime, with at least three hundred unread notifications. She reaches for her buzzing phone blindly. Despite how easily her doll body bounces back from most things, she can’t seem to kick killer hangovers after a long weekend of partying, and the endless list of names to like her latest selfie blur into squiggles in the dim light through the curtains. Rubbing her eyes with her free hand, she drags herself out of bed.
The second she steps into her slippers, a high-pitched voice calls through the door: “Room service!”
“That better be fucking coffee!” Velvette screams back.
She stumbles over clothes, strewn about in her scramble for an outfit the night before, on her way to the door. If the maids skip her room again this afternoon, she’s going to lose her fucking mind. Do they know who she is? One word to the owner and their replacements will be scraping their remains off the walls.
When she opens the door, the only item on the tray is a cappuccino in a heart-patterned mug. “Almond milk?” she snaps.
“Yes, ma'am,” the attendant assures.
Velvette snatches the coffee and slams the door shut once more. The steam condenses on the cold, smooth vinyl of her face as she lifts it to her lips with the expectation of perfection; Valentino wouldn't tolerate anything less. She never gave him her coffee order, but she assumes it's in the file Vox has on her. He's definitely the one who ordered her room service. For an overlord who swears his schedule is too busy for a lunch date, Vox has an uncanny habit of watching her through her phone camera like his own personal soap opera.
“Thank you, darling,” she says, lifting her phone and posing for it, cappuccino held against her cheek and sheer babydoll nightie leaving little to imagination.
Two notifications pop up simultaneously. First, a wire transfer from Vox, which Velvette cannot wait to spend on bottomless brunch. Second, a text from the television demon, reading Anything for you. Take a couple selfies for Val, he'll love it.
Luckily for Vox, the coffee's good. Three blonde ristretto shots, almond milk as promised, extra-extra hot, and with enough artificial sweetener to make her teeth squeak. Otherwise, she wouldn't bother taking instructions from him. She lets him take charge plenty, more than her previous mutually beneficial arrangements, though Velvette still prefers to have him whining for a scrap of her attention over making demands.
But he's being good, and she's feeling nice, so she opens her front camera to capture a couple salacious selfies for Valentino.
Now there’s an overlord she won’t indulge. It doesn’t matter how many dicks he has or how deep they could rail her, Velvette will be double-dead before she fucks him any way besides bent over a table, crying for her strap. Enough of her models are addicted to his toxin for her to know better.
Taking pictures for him is easy though, playfully lapping at her coffee or lifting the hem of her nightgown. All he needs is a pixel of indecent intent to pounce on. She sends them off with a few taps of her thumb as she resumes slurping her cappuccino. Almost as quickly as Vox, Val replies with a series of inappropriate emojis and an invitation to visit his set later that afternoon. Her boys are so easy.
Not taking a cab cross the city thx, she texts back.
Princesa, please, he answers. She can practically hear his growl. I’ll send the car.
Maybe too easy, but Velvette doesn’t mind. At this rate, she’ll have Vee industries in her back pocket by the next extermination day.
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Back in Valentino’s day, when a piece of technology wasn’t working, smacking it was both a reasonable and often successful response. Box set televisions, like Vox’s original head, were borderline indestructible and could stand up to at least a few stiletto heeled stomps before the screen shattered. They used to build things to last. Part of it, Val thinks, must be the profit margins on an intentionally fragile product that their brainless customers will replace repeatedly, but that wouldn’t explain Vox’s new head.
To his credit, Val did raise his concerns the second Vox stepped onto his set with that thin, plastic-backed LED screen. It’s a radiant display, much crisper than before with brighter colors and sharper teeth, but the slightest pressure of Val’s thumb sends the pixels scattering and Vox’s face shivering. It’s not real glass anymore. Not like it used to be. Nonetheless, it feels more fragile than Vox’s old countenance, and Val warned him the second he noticed. He’s hardly to blame for breaking it when Vox is the one who assured him it was as strong as ever.
Some things don’t change. Old televisions shattered in a plume of microscopic shards and flammable gas, new ones scatter electricity and blocks of broken RGB, but Vox still bleeds black through the damage when it breaks.
And Val didn’t mean to hurt him- this time, anyway. He’s always been rough with Vox, for both of their benefits, but he tries not to fuck up Vox’s head without prior discussion, if only to avoid a city-wide blackout and a lecture from Velvette. It was a genuine accident this time. He says so aloud, despite knowing no one would believe him if they heard.
All he did was slam Vox’s face into the table. He’s done it at least five times this week, mostly because it pisses Vox off. He expected Vox to immediately sit up, a minor crack distorting his scowl, and chew Val out for being an asshole, not go deadly still with his screen flattened to the table. After a few seconds, Val poked him, nudging his head enough to leave a smear of oily blood in its wake.
Val told him this new screen was bullshit. He fucking told him. When Val pulls him up, Vox’s screen is dark save for the bounce of the fluorescent lights against the cracks. The entire lower third of it is mashed inward, broken so completely it appears grey rather than black, with thick cracks reaching all the way to the crooked plastic frame. Dead or unconscious, Vox is definitely down for the count as he bleeds into Val’s trembling hands.
On a rational level, Val knows he didn’t permanently kill Vox. He couldn’t have without angelic weaponry, but he can’t come up with any other explanation. If something was wrong with Vox’s system, the tower would have gone dark, but everything is illuminated save for Vox’s face. For once, Val doesn’t want to fuck him. He just wants to see him.
Val stands and scoops Vox up, uncharacteristically careful not to jostle him as he carries Vox toward his office. If he wakes up, he’d hate for anyone besides Val to have seen him like this, and any spare parts Vox has would definitely be in there. Val’s no mechanic, no doctor, but he’ll try for Vox. They only have each other, after all.
Restraining a demon with as many limbs as Valentino is a feat, but after decades together, Vox has it down to science. Each of Val’s wrists is completely immobilized by coils of Vox’s cables, his thighs are pinned under Vox’s knees, and his face is mashed into the pillow from Vox’s grip on the back of his neck. He can struggle all he likes; he’s not getting free, and his desperate attempts to escape only provide more friction against Vox’s clothed dick.
“Fucking asshole,” Val complains into the bedding as he makes another attempt to pull his arms free. “You haven’t put out in weeks, and now-”
Vox shuts him up with a smack to the ass that makes his own hand sting. He sneers, “That’s rich coming from you.”
How dare he complain as if he hasn’t spent days so far up Angel Dust’s ass that Vox considered building a probe to find out if he stores coke in there or something. It’s not fair. He gives Valentino everything. Fucking everything! Vox has wracked his brain trying to determine what that gangly slut has that he doesn’t, but has yet to come up with a single satisfactory answer for why Val keeps dragging a junkie into a dressing room bed instead of returning to theirs.
“With how busy you’ve been, I almost forgot you were married to me, not your cotton-candy whore.”
Val laughs until Vox digs his claws into the sides of his throat and taints the air with the copper tang of his blood. Vox’s filters are fine-tuned to protect him from noxious fumes like pollution or Val’s toxins, but no amount of programming overrides the thrill of smelling freshly spilled blood. As much as he wants to taste it, he needs to make this last.
“Jealous?” Val pants.
“Sick of your shit,” Vox corrects. “You promised, you said no more public performances, no more fucking around, I-” He reins himself in. The more upset, the more vulnerable he sounds, the less likely he is to get Val back under control. “I just think you've gotten confused, is all.”
Under him, Val bucks his hips, trying to throw Vox off with the might of a scruffed kitten. “Confused? You’re fucking confused.” His struggles only chafe the tight binding of Vox’s cables. “I told you that I wouldn’t star in any more films-” his long tongue lolls out of his mouth as he inhales like it’s the last breath he’ll ever take, “-which I haven’t. And you should be grateful, Voxxy.”
“Should I?” Vox bites.
He grabs the central cord down Val’s back and yanks him upright, his torso forced into such a tight arch by the bondage that he trembles to hold the position even with Vox’s support. The funny thing is that Vox has seen this porn: Val trussed up, writhing and helpless, to receive his punishment from an overlord whose face never came on screen. It’s a classic vintage Valentino, and one of Vox’s personal favorites.
When he reaches around Val’s waist, Vox doesn’t have to grope around for his cock. The excitable appendage seeks him out first and winds itself between his fingers, already sticky with precum like Vox knew it would be. Nothing gets Val going like a fight. And, despite his many irritating protests, he always has the most spectacular orgasms when he loses.
“This,” Vox growls, tightening his hand around Val’s dick, “belongs to me. Not the cameras, not your sluts, not you. Me.”
Val chuckles even as he blurts precum over Vox’s fingers from the possessive spiel. “Very funny, baby. But this cock is under contract; half my bitches signed their souls over for a standing appointment.”
On some level Vox knows that–he’s read all of Val’s contracts–but the reminder glitches his systems badly enough for his screen to blank as electricity sparks from his claws, drawing another glob of fluid from Val. It really is no wonder he wound up doing porn with his afterlife. He’s made for it.
“Good for them,” Vox sneers, a cheering sound effect bolstering his words, “but you’re mine.”
Another condescending laugh bubbles from Val’s throat until Vox shoves him back down in the blankets and kicks his legs apart once more. While Val will fuck anything that moves, he’s tetchier about who gets to rail him. He’ll swear up and down that it’s because no one compares to the skill of his own prehensile genitalia’s reach, but Vox knows the truth has more to do with how sensitive the pink pussy tucked between Val’s balls and asshole is. Since becoming an overlord, there’s no one he trusts to destroy him like that. Even Vox typically gets relegated to the backdoor.
“Or did you forget?”
“Fuck off.”
Val continues struggling as Vox trails his hand down to press against his dripping pussy. The first press of his thumb into the slit spills slick down to Vox’s wrist and makes Val shudder, his arms flexing against the cables restraining him as if he’ll suddenly be able to break free now, when every attempt so far has been endearing at best.
“This is mine too,” Vox carries on conversationally. He doesn’t have the caps that would protect Val’s delicate insides from his claws, but he doubts Val is going to complain, especially when Vox doesn’t plan on much prep. He simply pets Val’s pussy, smearing his juices from his hole to the base of his cock and back again. “No one else’s. Right, Val?”
“I’ll kill you,” Val sing-songs.
But his voice wavers, shivering worse than he’ll be after Vox fucks some sense back into him, and the threat dies in the air between them. If Val was serious, he would’ve killed Vox the first time he tied Val down to prove a point. Or the fifth.
“Good luck with that.”
Vox lets go of Val completely to pull his own dick out and stroke himself a couple of times to coat it with Val’s slick. The aphrodisiacs in it don’t affect his mechanical body like it would most sinners, but the warmth leftover from Val’s body is a potent enough drug to make up the difference when Vox shuffles forward to press the head of his cock against Val’s hole.
Val groans like the sound was forced out of him and shudders. It’s a pitiful showing for a demon that used to make his living off taking the biggest cocks in Hell, but then again, he doesn’t let anyone fuck him like this anymore. No one but Vox.
“That’s more like it,” he purrs. He can’t move as fast as he’s used to, Val’s too tight around him, but that’s probably for the best. If Vox was able to fuck Val at the pace his instincts demand, then this would be over before the real fun starts. “Want to know how I can tell it’s mine?”
Before Val can answer, Vox spanks him, which in turn has Val cursing into the pillows and dribbling more precum as he tightens around Vox’s dick. He thrusts the rest of the way in until his hips press into the backs of Val’s thighs.
“Because I fit perfectly.”
“Has nothing to do with you,” Val whines. “It’s my fucking pussy, of course it’s perfect.”
It’s not that Val’s ass isn’t great, but it doesn’t mold around Vox like a sleeve designed to the contours of his body, and it’s never this wet no matter how much lube Vox uses. More importantly, it doesn’t make Val melt like this. He can play feisty all he wants, and it won’t change the puddle forming beneath him, or how easily Vox can feel Val clenching around him.
“Right.” Vox withdraws halfway just to bottom out again in a single rough thrust, punching a wet moan from Val in the process. “That’s why you save it for me, then?”
If Val planned on replying, his words disappear behind another moan when Vox takes hold of his bindings and uses them to pull Val back onto his cock. The cables help, but Val is too heavy to really use like a fleshlight when he’s gone dead-weight from being fucked in a way he so seldom indulges.
“Don’t tell me you let Angel Dust fuck you like this.”
“Nnnn,” Val gurgles, probably meaning to say no but unable to manage it when Vox is fucking him with computed efficiency.
A buzzer sound snarls through Vox’s speakers. “Not really an answer, but great effort!” He smacks Val’s ass again and adds, “Good thing I don’t keep you around for your brains.”
Val keens, seizing up around Vox like a vice as he comes, splattering the sheets with an obscene amount of jizz. He’s always a firehose but milking an orgasm out of him seems to make it worse, to the point that the bed becomes too slippery for Val to hold himself up on his knees and he collapses prone atop the mattress. Vox follows him without allowing a second’s reprieve.
“There you go,” he coos, worming a hand under Val to curl around his oversensitive cock. It spills another wave of cum despite Val’s sobbing. “See? Mine.”
And with Val’s nonexistent refractory period, Vox intends to prove this particular point as many times as it takes.
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