Top Posts Tagged with #voxter

Summary: Baxter repairs Vox after Valentino decapitates him. Vox realizes how many enemies he's made. (Part Two of Two)

Tags: Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Medical Kink, Medical Experimentation, Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Force Feminization, Lactation Kink, Vaginal Fingering, PIV Sex, Graphic Description, Drugging, Drugged Sex, Anal Play, Speculum, Objectification, Dehumanization, Dacryphilia, Blood, Humiliation, Begging

WC: 10203 | AO3 | Voxtek: Trust Us With Your Hardware!

Per his internal clock, it’s closer to twenty-eight hours than twenty-two when Vox wakes up: six days since he lost everything.

Now that Vox has a working receiver again, the flood of information pouring into his system makes it impossible to process anything about his physical sensations or environment for several long minutes. He absorbs the newscasts of Val and Vel’s damage control, processes the new trends as fashion turns away from his crisp images, integrates the details of a changing power structure in Hell now that redemption seems possible, and fully understands the weight of Baxter’s betrayal.

He flicks through the security cameras like a man possessed. He needs to see his Vees. They’re both in the tower, thankfully, but not together; Val is splayed across the director’s chair in one of the studios while barking orders at a cameraman, while Velvette is up in Vox’s main office to make use of his dozens of monitors. A stab of fondness seizes Vox’s heart, seeing them keep the company running despite his failures. With the dust now settled, he realizes he might be just as lucky to have them as they are to sit under the umbrella of his influence, particularly once his ratings recover.

Vox pins the camera feeds of both Val and Velvette to the corner of his attention as he feebly props himself up on his elbows. He can’t feel the tug of the many stitches he remembers getting, and when he lifts his right hand in front of his face, someone has taken the time to scrub it clean of blood and cut the thread from the incision, leaving a raw turquoise indent as the only remnant of his operation.

He opens all the cameras in the main lab to study himself through, rather than craning his still achy neck to see how the new body fits against his head. As he recalls from his perusal of the files, the proxy Baxter chose is imperfect; he’s a little too short, too narrow, and there are bursts of bright LEDs where the circuits tangled themselves during development. His chest, however, is wide and full, with a weight at his pecs he presumes to come from the transplanted ribs and whatever upgrade was apparently in development. Between his legs, Vox has been fitted with the pussy attachment again, but he can’t find it in himself to be shocked. Given how much of Val’s input was taken into consideration, Vox figures it a blessing to have a reasonably humanoid body at all.

A quick check of the rest of the hardware lab cameras finds Baxter holed up in his office, still bound to the main room by Velvette’s chains, but seemingly accepting of their weight around his ankles as he dissects a cockroach at his work table. Without calibration, Vox won’t risk trying to travel through the electricity in the tower, but he has no trouble projecting his voice through the speakers of Baxter’s computer.

“Having fun?” Vox asks.

Startled, Baxter drops his tweezers and looks up frantically, eyes darting around his room in search of whichever lens Vox watches him through, “Oh, uh, Mister Vox?”

“Put down the bugs,” Vox says with what he considers to be a tremendous amount of patience, “and come calibrate me so I can get back to running my company.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

Baxter stays at his work bench for the exact amount of time it takes him to slap a heavy glass specimen jar over the roach to keep it from escaping in his absence. Vox doesn’t bother watching his entire progression. He has so much data to sort through still. In a separate tab, he starts noting the briefs he’ll need his assistant to prepare for his first few days back to work. For the first time since Val ripped his screen off his body, Vox can think and process, and every inch of his circuitry buzzes with the urge to get back to work after days in stasis.

The techs make their way into the room while Vox waits for Baxter, setting Vox up for calibrative maintenance in the same efficient manner as always. He’s plugged in for diagnostics, positioned and supported to protect his body from any glitches, and angled with his face pointed to the mural on the ceiling.

By the time Baxter arrives, Vox has busied himself adjusting all the neglected cameras pointing down at him. Their angles are lazy, their focus smeared, and the limited field of vision from his eyes feels claustrophobic now that Vox has the presence of mind to miss his omnipotence. Nonetheless, the sudden onslaught of data strains his computer banks enough for the water in Vee Tower to stutter as it redirects to the cooling tanks beneath Vox’s office.

He starts rewriting its algorithm to improve efficiency, but he barely makes it through the base assessment before Baxter enters the main lab, any shock or irritation schooled off his face after his fright in his office.

“Send for Mister Valentino,” Baxter orders one of the techs on his way past them, “he wishes to assist with calibration.”

Vox attempts to send a cable to interrupt their typing, but his attempt flops to the ground a few feet off base. He doesn’t acknowledge the failure. “No need to involve Val. I’d rather handle this quickly, so I can get to work-”

“That's not your call, Mister Vox,” Baxter interrupts, far too casual for Vox’s liking.

“I'm sorry, not my call?”

“You’re not the CEO of Voxtek anymore,” reminds Baxter, voice firm even as his hands wring behind his back. “I answer to Mister Valentino before you, and he wants to provide his assistance. If you take issue with that,” he shrugs, “you should discuss it with him.”

“I don't care what Val said. You're MY team,” Vox snaps back. “When I say jump, you ask how fucking high, got that?”

Baxter blinks owlishly. “You can believe that if it makes you feel better, sir.”

In the background of Vox's awareness, Valentino's assistant interrupts the shoot to inform him that Vox's hardware team requested his presence. Frustrated, Vox lets his head slam back into the techs’ hands.

“You're going to regret this,” Vox says, tracking Val's progression through the halls as Baxter steps up to the observation table. “All of it. Once I'm in charge again, you're really going to wish you hadn't indulged whatever fucking fantasy-”

“The only fantasy was yours, and it was a colossal failure,” Baxter informs him. Vitriol would be easier to argue against than his cold, clinical tone. “You haven't been yourself in weeks. Instead of throwing a tantrum, I suggest you allow myself and Mister Valentino to complete your maintenance before he puts all my hard work to waste.”

When Vox doesn't immediately respond, Baxter pins him with the weight of a glare.

“Any other complaints, sir?”

He manages to make the title sound like an insult, but Vox mutters a negative nonetheless. Evidently, it doesn't matter what he says. With Val already on the way, chattering orders at his harem of assistants and whores, Vox figures he should be grateful it's just Val who will see him like this, and not the entire pride ring.

It would certainly make great television: Hell's public enemy number one, after being humiliated and decapitated, now further debased by a remodel straight out of one of Val's wet dreams. If Vox were anyone but himself, he'd already have a live broadcast with eight camera angles and a tell-all confession from each of the lab rats. Katie Killjoy could commentate. And Vox would make it pay-per-view with a merch launch Velvette would threaten to kill him over.

As is, Vox doesn't consider himself camera ready, though he's been in the game long enough to know that doesn't mean he isn't fit for consumption.

When Val at last arrives at the lab, blessedly sans entourage, he whistles at Vox on his way toward him. “Shit, you look way better without the staples.”

Vox's hand reflexively presses to his chest, too hard for the still tender incision and its parallel pattern of scars, as he remembers the punch of the staple gun into his body.

“Gee, thanks,” he says dryly. “Let's get this over with.”

“You know, you could stand to be a little more grateful,” Val sneers. “I could've handed you over to that crazy exorcist bitch, but I picked your sorry iPad ass up and brought you home.” He shakes his head, then takes a slow drag of his cigarette. “Your pity party is over, babe.” On the exhale, he blows the smoke directly into Vox's face. “Everyone's pretty sick of it.”

Vox coughs as the tainted red smoke puffs through his gills. They're still fresh and sensitive, while the muscles of his diaphragm are weak and sore, leaving his systems to stutter as they search for the best way to expel Val's smoke. However meager the dose, it burns through his heart and mind.

“Put out the fucking cigarette, Val.”

Val slaps him upside the head, whip-quick and just as harsh.

“Hey!”

“Don't,” he heaves, slowly bending to look Vox in the eyes, “tell me what to do. Listen to the words I'm saying, Vox: you're really, incredibly, fucking lucky that Velvette and I love you.”

A technicolor flash glitches across Vox's screen. He can't tell whether the strike or the confession caused it, but it knocks the breath from his lungs as his claws dig into the table either way.

“And I'd appreciate it if you could, like, pull your head out of your ass for a while,” Val continues. He takes another long, deliberate drag off his cigarette. “It's the least you can do.”

Vox's voice stutters around his words as he tells Val to “Fuck off,” prompting Baxter's attention.

“Let me check his screen,” Baxter interrupts. “Did you break it?”

“I barely touched him,” Val says, but still steps out of the way for Baxter to cup Vox's face in his hands and tilt it from side to side for a thorough inspection.

As Baxter explores, pressing his fingertips into the side of Vox's head where Val made contact, he steels the grip of his other hand to prevent Vox from flinching away. “Be that as it may, he's fragile right now.” The assessment moves down to the joint of Vox's head and neck, where the seam of his decapitation is still fresh and sensitive. Another reflexive jerk shudders through his body at the pressure, though the secondhand dose of Val's smoke turns the spike of pain into a warm sensation in Vox's gut. “We've had this discussion thrice already, Mister Valentino.”

“Uh-huh, be careful, got it,” Val drawls. “How long until he's…” With one of his lower hands, he gestures vaguely at Vox, “...you know, normal again?”

“That depends on your definition,” answers Baxter. He ensures one of the techs takes over supporting Vox's head before he pulls away to check the diagnostic output on his tablet. “The incisions should be completely healed in a few days, but you'll have to talk to the software team about any personality defects.”

Vox scoffs. “I don't have personality defects-”

“I'm used to those,” Val interrupts, like he hadn't heard Vox speak. “They didn't change anything though, right?”

“I wouldn't know,” says Baxter. “My scope is limited to hardware, which I would like to calibrate now so that my shift might end this century.” He pauses, eyes going wide as if suddenly remembering he's speaking to someone with as little tolerance for backtalk as Valentino. “That is, if you're ready, sir.”

Behind his kitschy glasses, Val's eyes narrow. “I don't care for your tone,” he warns in a honey-smooth voice, “but go ahead.”

Vox hasn't needed a full calibration since his last head upgrade. His sensory processing gets regular tune-ups, especially after the incident in which the chip needed replacing due to how hard Val shattered his screen, but Vox tends not to mess with his musculoskeletal system unless something breaks- and even then, he only adjusts the replaced part, not his entire body. A full calibration can take days to be done properly and he seldom has the time.

“Begin with single dosage of PainKiller,” Baxter instructs the techs. “The analgesic might not be useful anymore, but the paralytic is still semi-effective, and I want to prevent any behavior that could cause Mister Vox to damage himself.”

“Is that a regular concern?” Val checks.

Once the syringe is prepared and. Vox's arm is tourniqueted, Baxter is the one to bring the needle to skin. “Maintenance can be uncomfortable,” he explains as he lines it up to the vein, “as you've seen, and Mister Vox has a propensity for involuntary reactions, which may disrupt my work.” He presses the plunger, eyes darting between his work and Vox's face. “With such delicate machinery in hand, it would be easy for a misstep to cause damage.”

The single dose isn't enough to send Vox drifting away from the conversation, but it does make it harder to support his own posture on the table. As a complication of the proxy's low tolerance, he feels it more in his body than his head. Still, it's harder to concentrate now, and Vox pins a handful of the lab cameras to his visual feed in hopes he won't miss anything important.

“Now what?” asks Val.

“Calibration. We turn up his strength and sensitivity together; the PainKiller affects both, but at a low dosage, the effects are minimal. We use his vital and diagnostic output to monitor reflex action as we adjust.”

The techs nudge open Vox's fists to put padding between his claws and his palms.

“The attachments, the separated machinery, operate differently,” Baxter explains. “We'll get to those next.”

Val takes up his prior post against the lab computer console, content to watch from just beyond Vox’s reach as he stubs out the butt of his cigarette beneath his heel. Rather than bothering to complain, Vox marks the contamination in the system so the sterile cleaners know to give it extra attention after the fact. He knows how to pick his battles; he had simply forgotten to do so for the past several weeks.

“How are you feeling, Mister Vox?” Baxter asks.

“Exhausted. Heavy.”

As he puts in the passkeys to access Vox’s muscle calibration, the display of Vox’s diagnostic output automatically displays itself across the monitors of the lab. His vital output scrolls alongside the digital model noting which parts are still sensitive, still healing. Thankfully none flash with active warnings.

“You can rest soon,” promises Baxter, turning the strength and sensitivity up to the tenth setting of twenty.

Vox feels it immediately like a bump of cocaine, rocking forward in the techs’ grip with his sudden ability to support himself, and has to consciously relax his tensed muscles. Yes, the strength is familiar, but still not entirely his own, while his sensory processing is torn between hypersensitivity at every point of contact and utter indifference to the feedback necessary to control his movements. Somehow, this makes bile rise up the back of Vox’s throat as his screen frantically cycles through bars of technicolor interference.

“Oh-kay, take a breath, sir.” Baxter presses down on Vox’s sternum, directly over his healing incision, until Vox’s back hits the frigid metal table once more. “Tell me how it feels,” he prompts when Vox doesn’t break into an immediate demand.

Putting together the words to explain feels impossible. “I- it’s- it’s-” His speakers buzz around each stutter. “Sensitive. Hurts.”

Baxter looks up at the monitor at the same time a tech verbally confirms his vitals are stable for now.

“What hurts?” he asks.

Vox tugs against the hands on him, successfully freeing one arm only to lack the coordination to grab Baxter’s coat. He also manages to turn his head enough to see Val with his primary visual input. Of course, he knows Val won’t help him now, but it makes the panic less visceral to know Vox isn’t alone.

“Not sure,” he admits. “But something. Something’s wrong.”

“Your heart is fine. Your lungs are fine. Your incisions are fine. Everything looks perfect on the readings, Mister Vox. I can’t fix what isn’t broken.”

Abruptly, Val approaches Vox’s side to wipe a smudge of oily tears off his face. “He’s overwhelmed,” he informs them both, “duh. He hasn’t had a body for like a week, it’s gotta be a lot, right?”

Vox turns his screen into Val’s hand as much as he’s able, trying to concentrate on the conversation around him when he wants to disappear into the circuits to escape the weight of all the techs touching him.

“Very possible. The anxiolytic component of the PainKiller is typically stronger, or at least it was before he built such a tolerance to it. I would give him more if it didn't affect calibration.”

“What about my smoke? Or my spit?” Val offers.

“Same problem,” Baxter says, ratcheting down Vox’s sensitivity. “We need a baseline.”

This is better. Vox can still feel Val, the techs, and Baxter, but the pinpoints of connection no longer sting like they’re burning through his skin, and he draws in what feels like the first deep breath after days underwater.

Val traces the seam of Vox’s screen casing, skipping over the joint of his neck to curl around the back of it. “I can distract him, if it would make things easier, or whatever.”

“Without your toxin?” Baxter asks cautiously.

“Scout’s honor,” Val says. Vox is pretty sure he was never a scout of any kind. “His tits need to be calibrated too, right?”

“I imagine that would be more overwhelming than the musculoskeletal-”

Val shakes his head. “You said it’s a separate thing. I do this with my bitches all the time: give them something nice to concentrate on so they don’t complain about the rest. And yeah, yeah, usually that’s drugs, but hey! You and Vox both called me creative, so I’m sure we can work something out.”

For a long moment, Baxter considers this, switching between Vox's controls and vitals on his tablet like the answer is hiding between the two. It might be.

“What do you suggest?” He eventually asks.

Val smiles, wide and sharp, with aphrodisiac saliva gathering at the corners of his lips. “What set did you wind up going with?”

“I installed Chest Beta Four,” Baxter says, “with a twenty percent increase in sensitivity and a one-fifty percent increase in production, per the last demonstration of the options. I think you'll be pleased with the results, sir.”

At that, Vox cranes his neck to look down at his chest. He gets a sinking feeling in his stomach about what exactly they expect him to produce, but his protest gets stuck on his tongue as he watches Val give him an appraising once-over.

“Perfect,” Val trills. “Then I'll suck his tiddies while you do whatever the fuck it is you guys do down here.

Baxter doesn't bother with the illusion of an argument. “I suppose it would be efficient; we can evaluate his strength, as Mister Vox always has difficulty remaining still during calibration, and assess sensitivity through his reaction to stimulation beyond the attachments.”

Immediately, Val's wings flare out behind him, knocking over one tech and sending a second diving out of the way, so Vox can admire the silky slip barely covering his body as Val climbs on top of him.

“Val-” Vox starts.

“Don't worry, baby,” Val coos, wiping another tear off Vox's screen, “I'm gonna make you feel so good, you'll love this.”

Faintly, Vox can feel Val's thighs bracketing his, but his sensitivity is too low for him to register how warm they are, let alone the fine texture of his downy fur. Vox automatically reaches for Val's waist but his body is so weak he can hardly lift his arms.

“Baxter,” he complains, “too low.”

Val leans down slowly, bracing his hands against Vox's pecs to squeeze them as he does, pushing bruises the firm silicate of what Vox had assumed–hoped–to be muscle. Unlike the rest of his body, they're calibrated near perfectly. He can actually feel Val's touch here. It must be the sudden surge of input that Vox can properly understand and process that has him fighting to press up into Val's hands.

“Heart up twenty-five but stable,” a tech informs Baxter.

“Slut,” Val chirps affectionately, kneading at Vox's chest. After his initial exploration, he's unusually methodical, starting along the seams of Vox's new chest and working his way toward the ports that serve as Vox's nipples. “Shit, these are nice.” Then Val pauses to squint at Vox's chest. “Send the specs to plastics, the implants we've been using are total ass. I want tits like these on that fish girl we signed last week-”

It's unusual to hear Val actually acknowledge departments outside his own, doubly so when he has Vox laid out naked in front of him.

“-and Vel, holy shit, you've been holding out on her! She'd fucking kill for boobs like this, you know, minus the whole milk thing.”

Those words hang in the air long enough for Vox to repeat them back in hopes he misunderstood. “Milk thing…?”

Per usual, no one acknowledges him.

“Missus Velvette has her own R&D team,” Baxter explains, turning up Vox's strength enough for him to twitch under Val. “As for the cosmetic surgeons, I fear they would find this method to be cost-ineffective. His chest was created through the replication of his own tissue; a worthwhile effort for a subject such as Mister Vox, but impractical for sinners without his status.”

Val hums, pinching Vox's nipples between his fingers meanly and staying in place despite Vox instinctively bucking off the table from the sudden spike of pleasure bordering on pain. “You let me worry about the price,” he instructs. When he releases Vox's nipples, the relief sends a glitch through his entire body.

“Fuck, Val,” Vox groans. He isn't sure whether he's reacting to Val's attention or idiocy, but it doesn't matter either way as Val starts his long massage over again. “What the fuck?”

Then Baxter adjusts his sensitivity once more, making Val's weight over Vox feel more real, more detailed, but still well below his usual preference. This also allows him to notice that under Val, he's too hot, his fans and the extra vents connected to his gills unable to keep up with the warmth that always seems to radiate off Valentino like a malfunctioning space heater. Worse still, he has no leverage by which to escape it.

“Overheating!” he snaps. His internal check tells him it's only by a few degrees, but his system is temperamental at best, and Vox is nowhere near his best right now. “Get off me, get the fuck off me, too warm-”

“You're within your parameters, sir,” Baxter interrupts, “and the shock of an upgrade always gives you a mild fever.”

“You heard him, he's too warm.” In a show of rare sympathy, Val clicks his tongue. “Make it colder in here.”

One of the techs scrambles to do so, causing the ventilation to sputter into a higher gear, but it will take several long minutes to cool the room. Vox doesn't know if it will be fast enough. He can't escape Val's heat anymore than his hands,

He repeats himself: “Overheating, Baxter.”

“Draw up four of antipyretic,” Baxter decides. “Manually lower his heart by fifteen as well.”

Vox flinches at the bite of the needle, finding himself grateful for Baxter's steadiness.

“How do you feel otherwise, Mister Vox?”

Comparing the camera feeds to the physical sensations Vox can process, he knows his sensitivity is still off. He should be able to define each point of contact, not just those closest to his heart, alongside all the minor details that allow him to make sense of Val's attention. His coordination is a mess as a result, which in turn makes it impossible to tell whether his strength is set correctly.

“Wrong,” he says slowly. “Still too low, I'm missing details.”

“And your strength?” Baxter prompts.

Vox tries to pull away from the techs, but their grip is too strong for him to break- without the PainKiller to keep him docile, he should be able to escape them with ease.

“Too low. Can we hurry this along?”

Val chooses that moment to pinch Vox's nipples again, unable to hide his toothy grin at the way Vox arches into his hands in an instinctive effort to relieve the strain. “Look at that,” he purrs, rolling the sensitive skin between his fingertips, “Daddy's first milk.”

It's barely a few drops, thin and watery, but sticky enough to stretch between Vox's chest and Val's hand when he lets go of him to taste the fluid expression. A stuttering whimper crackles out of Vox's speakers at the sight. Of course this was what Val wanted. He should have known.

Baxter is equally distracted, wide eyes on Val's efforts to lick his hand clean. “How is it, Mister Valentino?”

“Salty.” After a thoughtful hum, Val seizes one of Vox's pecs in a grip so tight as to be punishing, forcing another dribble of milk out of Vox for him to swallow straight from the source. “A little sweet, maybe, but mostly salty. Tastes like his jizz.”

“The chemical structure is similar,” explains Baxter, “since his system is already coded to produce it in high quantities.”

“Efficient,” Vox says sarcastically.

Val shimmies further down Vox's body, pinning his calves in place, so that when he bends at the waist his mouth is centimeters from Vox's chest. Like this, Vox can feel his breath against the sensitized skin of the attachment.

“Were you breastfed?” he questions. Val could be asking either of them, but doesn't wait for a response before barreling ahead. “Probably not. You're so small. It's crazy dense in calories,” he draws out each syllable like he's paid by the minute, “‘cause of all the fat in it. And I'm not saying to make it fatty! I plan to suck him dry every day, and I don't wanna fuck up my figure. But it should be like, creamy? And sweet- you know? More like what comes out of his pussy.”

Vox tries to drop his head into the table, annoyed, but one of the techs cushions the blow with the fragile bones in the back of their hand. “What the fuck, Val,” he complains.

Even to his own ears, it sounds resigned rather than angry.

Before Baxter can respond, Val takes one of Vox's nipples into his mouth and sucks hard, the points of his teeth just barely digging into the thin skin around it. Vox chokes on a rapid cycle of glitches. He's always been tetchy about his ports, the same way he is about his maintenance panel, and has jumped into the nearest camera every time Val got too exploratory. It might have felt like this: intimate and pejorative in equal parts, somehow more invasive than Val's participation in his upgrade, and utterly overwhelming to Vox's frazzled programming. Through the camera of Baxter's tablet, he can see Val's throat bob as he swallows.

“I'll develop a new formula,” Baxter assures.

Slowly, Val pulls away from Vox's chest, licking him when another pearl of milk beads up on his nipple. “How much is he gonna make?”

Vox processes the overly tight grip of Val's lower set of hands on his waist, down to the pinpricks of his nails and the silicate splitting beneath them.

“As much as two liters a day if he's well fed and hydrated, provided you ensure frequent expression.”

“Mmm, not gonna be a problem,” Val hums, shifting so he can reach Vox's other nipple. “I won't be able to help myself. Since you don't work anymore, I'll just keep you around like my own personal milk tap.” He glances up at one of Vox's cameras as he licks his lips. “Fuck, I don't even wanna film it. This is mine.”

When he closes his mouth around Vox's teat again, Vox actually succeeds in freeing his left arm, but he doesn't manage to shove Val off him. Instead, his palm curls over the back of Val's head. Not pulling him away. Not pushing him into place. Simply touching him, as though his downy coating of fur is a novel texture he has to catalogue if he intends to survive his calibration. Vox knows he can't escape, so he may as well steady himself by any means necessary.

“Strength seems appropriate,” Baxter notes dryly, “and sensitivity appears to be well set, too.”

“I'm done?” Vox whines.

Baxter shakes his head. “We have to complete the calibration. Mister Valentino should be nearly finished with your chest attachment, then we can move onto the genital attachment.”

Val mumbles something into Vox's chest.

“What was that, sir?” Baxter asks.

Reluctantly, Val releases Vox's nipple to speak, a string of blueish milk connecting his tongue to Vox's skin until he wipes his mouth with the back of a hand. “Come touch him, too.”

“Uh, I-”

“His cunt is mine,” Val clarifies, “but I wanna make sure his new body won't break if I decide to fill both his holes. You can have his ass.”

“I don't…”

Vox squeals with feedback as a glitch worms through his limbs. “What the fuck did you say?”

“Baxter can have your ass,” Val says, as calm and casual as he did the first time. “He's literally tiny, his dick's not gonna hurt you. What's your problem?”

Two of the techs tug Vox's hand off of Val as Baxter shakes his head. “Mister Valentino-”

“You're hard,” Val interrupts. “Your coat might hide it from him, but I can smell it on you. So, I'm telling you, come fucking touch him. Think of it like a bonus for fixing him up.” He pauses for Baxter to speak, then mocks him after several unsettling seconds of silence. “And you say, ‘Thank you, Valentino,’ because I'm letting you touch my Vox at all.”

Vox examines Baxter from five different angles, looking for anything to give away what Val assumes--because Vox has never trusted his assertions of excitement--but unable to make a distinction one way or another under Baxter's thick clothing. He doesn't bother telling Val that his maintenance isn't like that. It's clinical. Medical. Necessary. Just because Val likes to see Vox writhe on the observation table doesn't mean that Baxter is a pervert of the same order.

After another long minute of consideration, Baxter sighs in defeat. “I will assist in stress-testing Mister Vox, but not for my own benefit.” He hands off his tablet and pulls on a fresh set of gloves. “He needs to be repositioned. I recommend-”

Val doesn't wait for Baxter's suggestion. Immediately, he shifts his weight onto his knees and manhandles Vox like he weighs nothing, shoving him up the table and pushing his thighs up until his knees press into his chest. It's like this that Vox realizes the side Val abandoned is heavier, still full of milk that leaks from the weight of his legs as Val traps them in place with his own.

“You can't do this,” Vox whines. “I'm not- I don't-”

“He can have two of PainKiller,” cuts Baxter as he takes his place behind Val. “Attachment calibration is less precise, and I fear that he may need the paralytic to avoid damaging himself so soon after an upgrade.”

A tech draws it into a syringe for Baxter. He injects it into Vox's thigh, but it takes effect as quickly as ever, dulling the concern that pulses behind Vox's eye like a migraine in the making, as the tension falls out of his muscles like a puppet with its strings cut. His body is more sensitive to the drug, he recalls. His mind is still sharp enough to shake his head, though the techs don't allow him to move much.

One of Val's hands trails from Vox's hips to his lower stomach on an obvious path to his pussy. “I can't believe you let your fucking doctor test drive your dicks before me,” Val tells him, squinting at Vox through his tinted lenses. “Kinda shitty of both of you, no?”

“Mister Vox has always insisted on perfection before you see him.”

Baxter's hands are colder than Val's when they nudge Vox's legs further apart.

“I assist in that capacity only,” he continues. He reaches Vox's cunt before Val, dancing over it just long enough to wet his fingers. “It is my responsibility to ensure his attachments can withstand your attention, and I find it far more efficient to do so before you experience any upgrades.”

He hesitates, one palm splayed on Vox's thigh, the other hand raised and waiting. Val has no such qualms, plunging two fingers into Vox's pussy without a care for the sudden stretch of the virginal silicon. Thankfully, Vox doesn't tear, but he does make an embarrassing squeak as he squirms underneath Val.

“Careful with the new attachment,, sir,” Baxter reminds.

Val huffs under his breath. “He's fine, he's dripping anyway. Must like his new tits- don't you, baby?”

“No,” Vox starts, but can't come up with the rest of his sentence with Val lazily petting the walls of his cunt.

“Liar.”

Val doesn't push Vox to soak further, likely uninterested in his thoughts, instead electing to press his thumb up against Vox's clit so each slow thrust of his fingers gives Vox an ecstatic zing of pure pleasure like it's a raw nerve exposed for Val's entertainment.

Again, Vox throws his head back with a glitch. Two techs cushion the blow with their forearms to protect their hands, but it makes their fingertips graze his shoulders. His jump away from them impaled him on a couple more inches of Val's hand. As Val laughs, Vox stutters on a glitch that makes his muscles lock up for what must only be two or three seconds. It feels like an eternity to be completely immobile as Val bullies a third finger into his clenching pussy.

“Not gonna prep him?” Val asks Baxter, reaching back with one of his lower arms to tug on Baxter’s coat. “Mean, but I guess since you're so little-”

“I intend to use an instrument,” Baxter cuts in. “We test the limits on the proxies- I know Mister Vox's new body is designed to be forgiving of penetration. However, his new attachment has not been tested yet, therefore I don't know how much it, or his systems, can take without damage.” He spreads Vox's labia to better watch Val finger him. “A gradual approach during phallic penetration seems most appropriate.”

Just hidden in a blind spot between cameras, one of the assistants hands an instrument to Baxter. Vox can’t make out what they’re using from this angle either, trapped as Baxter is between Vox’s thighs and Val’s wings. He decides in the back of his mind that perhaps it’s better not to know. They won’t break him, at least not on purpose, and Baxter is here to repair any damages Val may cause in his carelessness; there’s no point exhausting himself with fruitless protests now.

“This pussy’s new?” Val asks.

Baxter presses the blunt end of a frigid metal object against Vox’s ass, not thrusting it into him yet, but letting him feel the weight of it as he shivers in Val and the techs’ unforgiving hold. “Yes. I made it deeper, per your request, sir. I also reduced its sensitivity by twelve percent and increased its expansion by twenty percent to prevent bruising like Mister Vox experienced with the prior iteration.” He releases Vox’s leg to curl a hand around Val’s wrist, removing it from his coat with a simple direction to “Finish expressing his milk, Mister Valentino. Otherwise, his breasts will be uneven.”

Val doesn’t go back to his greedy suckling, instead alternating between mean pinches of his nipple and deep massages of his chest, Within moments, more of the thin milk escapes him, splashing down his stomach and creating a processing loop between pain and relief that have his antenna sparkling with ambient electricity. His sensory processing is a mess. It all melts together, though he still notices Val squeezing two more fingers into Vox’s cunt and scissoring them to stretch him open. Vox is too full, too fast, unable to verbalize a complaint and too restrained to close his legs or scoot away from the overwhelming intrusion. Someone, maybe Val, maybe a tech, wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes. He can’t concentrate on one camera long enough to get a clear picture anymore.

“How does he feel, Mister Valentino?” Baxter asks.

“Not as tight as the last one,” Val answers, twisting his fingers in a way that makes Vox shudder. “Wetter, though, and hotter, like a good little cocksleeve.” With one of his many hands, Val at last frees his cock from the meagre lingerie barely shielding it to begin with. “I need to fuck him, like, an hour ago.”

His cock writhes against Vox's stomach, smearing the milk into Vox's skin as it drools precum, before finding its way down to his cunt. Val barely has time to move his hands out of the way before his dick buries itself several inches deep at once. The sudden fullness makes Vox choke on his tongue. He's taken all of Val before, but not in this body, not with this pussy, and the cold realization that there's still more to go makes his chest heave with rapid, rabbity breaths.

“Heart up forty and climbing, respiration 30,” a tech interjects, “temp up two.”

Baxter grabs Val's hip to nudge him backward, making him shuffle back on his knees to withdraw a couple precious inches from Vox. “Lower his heart rate by sixty and monitor respiration,” Baxter advises the tech. “That was too fast for its first use, sir. Vox is… in distress.”

He sets the tool in his hand down to test the tight seam where Val's cock disappears into Vox's pussy. When he forces a slim fingertip in alongside Val, flashes of technicolor cycle between a string of errors on Vox's display.

“He's still aroused, and you have not approached his maximum diameter. I presume the depth overwhelmed his system.”

Val leans down to lick the tears off Vox's screen.

“This is why I calibrate his attachments ahead of time,” Baxter continues sharply, “to prevent errors. Did you break it, or is he intact?”

Val chuckles so close to Vox's face that he can feel the breath against his screen. “What, you gave him a hymen?” He shifts his weight, making his cock twitch inside of Vox. “Everything feels great, he's not bleeding or anything- I'd notice.”

“I would prefer to examine the attachment myself-”

“After I'm done,” Val interrupts. “He's always a little bitch about taking it. You can repair him when I'm finished, can't you?”

Baxter makes an irritated sound in the back of his throat. “I've been working for days straight, sir. I need rest, time off.”

“Not my fucking problem. I'll calm him down, but I'm not stopping,” snaps Val.

He hooks two fingers into Vox's mouth, knuckles scraping against his sharp teeth to leave them bloody, and drags the pads of his fingertips over his tongue. With Vox's mouth forced open, it's easy for Val to spit into it. Thick, sweet, aphrodisiac toxin coats Vox's throat as he reflexively swallows.

Unlike the PainKiller, it creeps into Vox's system slowly. His new body must be more susceptible to this, too. Vox feels warm from the inside out, comforting and itchy, like a tight sweater kept for too many winter, and with each shuddered breath he takes, he feels the weight of Val's cock inside of him like a tempting tease. If he could speak, he might try to pull together a complaint, but the words don't come, even when Val releases his mouth. Within seconds, those dextrous fingers are back Vox's clit, sandwiching it between them for extra friction as he plays with it.

“Take a deep breath, babe,” murmurs. “Need you to relax for me.” He caresses Vox's casing as he sits up. “You want to be a good boy, don't you?”

It must be the toxin in Vox's veins making him nod.

“Focus on me then, mmkay? You're gonna fucking love this. I promise.”

His voice, his hands, are enough of an anchor for Vox to cling to as Val rolls his hips to ease more of his dick back into Vox's pussy. Warnings and errors still glitch across Vox's screen but he doesn't collapse into panic again, as though his body has finally accepted what his mind already knows. This is happening. He can fight it, or he can enjoy it, but he can't stop it, and the path of least resistance hurts far less.

Val is, at least, as gentle as he's capable of. Vox knows how easily Val can shred a sinner beneath him, has broadcast and sold countless videos of the concept, which makes the mercy of Val's slow fucking all the more poignant. He's careful, never abandoning Vox's clit as he buries himself deeper with every thrust. Even his cock seems to get the memo: its usual voracious squirreling has been replaced with a steady undulation that presses against every sensitive spot Vox didn't expect to have.

“Like you were fucking made for me,” Val mutters in the middle of a long stream of praises, “just perfect, Vox, fuck.”

His upper set of hands drop to Vox's stomach, bracketing the bulge that appears on every push inward as if it's the first time he's seen such a thing. The pressure makes him feel even bigger inside Vox. It's usually far more of a struggle to make Val fit, but true to Baxter's word, the newer pussy was designed with Val's monstrous proportions in mind. Rather than straining the attachment, Val simply squishes all the soft innards on the other side of Vox's walls, which are somehow much more forgiving than the delicate machinery of his cunt.

He still shudders when Baxter nudges his ass with the blunt metal instrument again, but between the PainKiller and Val's toxin, he doesn't achieve any true protest- not that either would hear it.

“Bring his heart up twenty,” Baxter orders. “Are you still with us, Mister Vox?”

The overhead speakers spit out scrambled, meaningless binary.

“That's a yes,” Val says for Vox, “he's just super fucked up right now.”

Baxter hums in consideration. “His tolerance will even out over time. As long as his vitals stay within range, we can proceed; I'm going to insert the speculum.”

In the back of Vox's mind, the word sparkles like he should remember something about it. He clings to the notion as Baxter applies steady, even pressure while Val pins him in place. Vox had thought he was beyond full with Val's cock, but the inch and a half of stretch to accommodate Baxter's speculum sends him over the edge of fine tuned processing.

The sharp, high definition picture he'd been so relieved to experience is gone.

There's only Val and Baxter, both filling him past the point of coherent thought, both concerned only with finding his limits, and neither incensed by the frantic jitter of his limbs.

“Shh, baby,” Val soothes, rubbing his palm against the bulge in Vox's belly like he's massaging his own cock through the walls of Vox's stomach. “Almost there. You can take a couple more inches.”

Between the fingers on his clit and the dick in his cunt, Vox could almost miss the subtle ratcheting click of Baxter opening the speculum. It's not by much- just enough for Vox to feel it. When he whines and struggles to pull away, Val shushes him again and pushes down harder on his abdomen to hold him in place.

Each time Val fucks into him, Baxter cranks the speculum a bit wider. It can't be by much, but the unyielding stretch as Val thrusts like he's trying to mold Vox's pussy to the exact size and shape of his dick has Vox’s system struggling to integrate the sensation. His ass doesn't feel full like his cunt. No, he feels empty, despite the burn of Baxter's calm ministrations.

When Val's hips actually meet Vox's, skin pressing to skin, he thinks he could cry out of sheer relief that he won't be expected to take any more. A full-body glitch has his muscles seizing around Val's cock, which in turn makes Val curse and grind into him, but he's taken it all.

“Excellent work, Vox,” Baxter praises behind him. “Give him a moment, if you would, Mister Valentino. Let his system calibrate.”

Vox is fairly certain they don't need to stop for the process to occur, but decides to be grateful for the reprieve nonetheless. Once Val stops circling his clit and Baxter stops adjusting his speculum, he can almost catch his breath. He opens his mouth to say as much but nothing comes out.

“Damn, he's out of it,” Val purrs, giving one of Vox's pecs a vicious squeeze. “He can still feel everything though?”

“And hear, and see,” answers Baxter.

He twists the speculum, changing the pressure points against Vox's rim and making him moan pathetically.

“You can resume,” he permits, like they're discussing a TV program rather than Vox beneath them. “He's at three point five inches now; typically you enforce a diameter of four point eight, but I hesitate to expect as much from him with his vaginal receptacle full.”

Despite his lack of pupils, Val makes it clear he's rolling his eyes. “His pussy's not full. I'd know.”

“Mister Valentino-”

“Trust me;” Val pulls out enough to hook two fingers against Vox's walls and tug, showing Baxter the space he creates next to his dick despite Vox's high whine of feedback, “he'll be a lot tighter when he's completely stuffed.”

He doesn’t move his hand when he resumes fucking Vox, holding him open that much more, as if he’s one of Val’s new whores proving themselves capable of taking whatever the scene demands. In the smattering of cameras that comprise his vision, Vox thinks he kind of looks like one, too. He’s coated in fluids, both his and Val’s, putting up a token but ineffective struggle against the total restraint of his lab techs, and entirely at the mercy of his own doctor and partner.

Between the debauched image he provides, Val’s assault on his clit, and the speculum eking wider by the second, Vox realizes he’s going to get off on this. He’s going to cum. And somehow, that makes every infinitesimal humiliation crest over the PainKiller’s hazy chemical apathy, and he blubbers nonsensical pleas through his speakers as his head slams back into the techs’ arms. Several cables sling themselves over Val as well, too tight to really restrain him but still an undeniable weight draped around them to keep Valentino pressed on top of him.

He distantly processes that Val's talking. Vox can’t make out the words–and doubts they’re directed at him anyway–but the velveteen tone only reinforces the feedback loop of warmth between his heart, his pussy, and his ass. Seconds later, Baxter withdraws his speculum, and the pure relief sends Vox over the edge.

The force of his orgasm, white hot like fire in his veins, drags a soft reboot of his system, and when Vox comes to again in a few moments, he notes he’s blown a couple of the overhead lights again.

Val is still fucking him.

Baxter is next to him, taking advantage of Vox’s limp body to measure his chest with one of Velvette’s tapes, as if the bastard didn’t design it himself.

And Vox is half-conscious, caught in thousands of sparkling nerve endings unsure whether he’s in pain or ecstasy, “Too much,” he whines. He doubts they can understand him through the static. “Please, Val, can’t-”

“You can, and you will,” Val purrs, pulling Vox down to meet every thrust. “Always so pathetic, Papi, fuck. You've had worse and you know it.”

Baxter nods in agreement. “This is part of the calibration, sir. You've done well so far. The hard part is over.”

The techs tilt Vox's head back for Baxter to inspect the scar where his screen casing meets his neck. The wound is closed, if undersensitive and itchy under the caress of Baxter's fresh gloves, but Vox can't flinch away from the unwelcome sensation.

“Fuck, do that again,” says Val, head lolling to the side. “Makes him get really tight.”

Baxter doesn't seem to care for Val's command. “The incision site is still sensitive, and it will be for a few days, Mister Valentino,” he says firmly. He palpates Vox's ribs with a ginger touch, though it's still not enough to keep Vox from wincing at the ache, nor Val from thrusting hard enough to make Vox scoot up the table at the sound. “Vox will need rest. As incredible as sinner regeneration is, I must remind you, I did rebuild his body with my own two hands this week, and healing takes time.”

“I'm being careful,” Val defends. All four of his hands are on Vox now, holding him well within reach of Val's frantic cock. “You should see us on a Friday night.”

“I'm very familiar with the aftermath, thank you,” Baxter mutters to himself, too low for Val to catch but audible to Vox's system.

For the first time in Vox's memory, Baxter swipes the oily tears off his screen with a soft microfiber cloth. He usually leaves menial tasks to the techs and faux affection to Val.

“You're taking Mister Valentino very well despite your injuries,” he assures as he cleans Vox's face. “You're almost finished. One more orgasm, and an inspection, then you can rest.” He blinks slowly. “We both can. Be good, Vox, so this can be over.”

Vox really does want it to be over. He's exhausted, overwrought, and sore in ways he can't begin to process, all while Val keeps him trapped in a loop of all-consuming pleasure like he's programming Vox for it.

Perhaps he is.

Maybe that's what Vox is meant for, now that he's ruined everything: to be a perfect toy for Val. The perfect body for him to hold down. The perfect milk for him to drink. The perfect cunt for him to fill. The little robots from Lust won't hold a candle to such perfection. Vox wouldn't be proud of it. But he wouldn't be alone, either.

“How close are you, Mister Valentino?” asks Baxter.

Val squeezes Vox's thigh, digging in his nails hard enough to puncture the new silicate skin, and Vox doesn't register the pain. Just the possession of the hold. “A few minutes, maybe. I'll make him cum again.”

Then he leans in to kiss Vox. And Vox knows, of course he knows, that it's to feed him more toxin, but he still eagerly nips at Val's face and sucks on his tongue when it forces its way past his teeth. His antennas spark with excess energy each time he swallows. Val's affectionate tap against the metal doesn't help. Every sensation filters through Vox's system like a warm mouth around the dick he doesn't have anymore, leaving him a shivering, desperate mess beneath Valentino.

“You heard him,” Val mumbles against Vox's screen, “One more, Voxxy, you can cum one more time.”

“Can't,” Vox sobs. He doesn't actually know if he can or not, but the word sticks to his speakers. “Val, I can't, I don't…”

Val pulls back to tut at Vox. “You'll give me five more, fucking fifty more, if I want you to. But I'm just asking you to come on my cock one more time. Your doctor said you have to.” He abandons Vox's clit and unfurls his long tongue to let drool pool in the palm of his hand. “You want me to make it quick?”

With Val, there's always a catch, but Vox can't make himself care.

“Yes,” he whimpers. “Wanna be done.”

Val smiles at him, the points of his teeth fitting together like shark jaws. Under the fluorescent lab lighting, following the scent of Vox's blood in the water, Vox realizes Val is beautiful in the same way his sharks are. Dangerous. But manageably so.

“You have to do something for me though. A little deal? Since you love making those.”

He punctuates his words with another hard thrust that makes Vox's back arch off the table.

“Please, Val,” Vox snivels, digging his claws into the padding on his hands as his cables slip against Val's back. “Wanna fix it, wanna go upstairs. I- I don't-” his screen flickers as his processor scrambles through his memories of the last several days, “don't like this, don't wanna be here-”

Val's hips stutter. Vox's heart mimics the off-rhythm.

“Wanna be with you, and Vel, and- I can't…”

Val shushes him, his grin softening around the edges. “I know, baby, I know,” he soothes. “You gotta do one more thing for me, ‘kay?”

Honestly, Vox doesn't know what else he can do. He's failed at everything he's ever done.

“Just have to beg,” Val says, soft and warm like velvet. “Can you beg like a good boy, Papi?”

Without any pride left to lose, Vox doesn't hesitate. “Please, please, I-” he glitches, errors flashing over his screen and through his processors as he disobeys the hard-coded urge to preserve his image above all else. He has no face to save with Val. “I wanna cum for you, wanna be good, please, Val, I want it, want you-”

Val shakes his head.

“Very pretty,” he sing-songs, “but not what I need to hear.”

He lets his spit soaked hand rest just above Vox's pussy, millimeters from touching him, so close that Vox registers the ambient heat of his fingers.

“Try again.”

Vox swallows and lets the ache run down his throat. “I- I said please, I begged,” he pleads, “Val, please, please, c'mon, please!”

One of the techs says something about his heart, which Baxter meets with a dismissive tone Vox can't pluck any words out of.

“No,” Val chides. “I need to hear you beg for my forgiveness. And you have to fucking mean it.”

Feedback screeches between Vox's speakers and the ones overhead, but he begs anyway because he misses Val, misses Velvette, misses life outside the lab.

“I'm s-sorry,” he stutters. When Val's fingers drop to his clit again, slow and teasing with his circles around it, Vox chokes on a sound between a sob and a moan. “‘M sorry, Val. Please, please forgive me, ‘m sorry.”

Once the dam breaks, Vox can't seem to stop saying it. Each time Val bottoms out inside him, forcing the air from Vox's lungs, the apologies cling to his breath, as if his system has rewritten his voice to say only what Val asks.

“I'm sorry,” Vox cries. “I'll be better, I'll be good!” Static interference charges every gasp between his words as Val fucks him so hard he must be leaving bruises. “Please forgive me, ‘m sorry, so fucking sorry, Val, please!”

As he repeats himself, likely beyond coherency, Val rewards each plea and tear with more vigor behind his motions. He seems to have hands everywhere. On Vox's clit, on his chest, on his stomach, on his thigh. And always drooling, adding more saliva to the mess on Vox's torso. He's all consuming, all demanding, all and more, to the point Vox hates himself for jeopardizing what they have.

“Please, please, Val, Valentino, my love, my Val, ‘m sorry!”

Another light shatters in the ceiling, but the glass raining from the bulb looks like glitter in the security cameras.

“Didn't mean it, didn't mean to hurt you and Vel, please, ‘m really fucking sorry…”

“Almost,” Val teases, though his voice is thick in a way that makes Vox's stomach churn. “You have to make it up to me, d'you promise?”

Vox nods twice before the techs stabilize his head with a sharp chastising from Baxter. “I promise, I'll fix it, gonna fix everything, Val, promise! Please!”

Val hikes Vox's lower body off the table entirely, folding him to get that last quarter inch deeper as he shifts from maddening almost-touches to direct friction against Vox's clit. If Vox thought he was overwhelmed before, he's gone now. Nothing more than a scatter of consciousness clinging to pleasure. Clinging to Val. He can't move his limbs but his cables tighten enough to make Val work for every withdrawal.

“Sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, sorry, I didn't mean it,” Vox carries on. The words scroll across his display as his face flickers in and out of visibility. “Please forgive me, need you, ‘m sorry, fucking need you! Val!”

Val finishes first, but Vox isn't far behind. He produces almost as much cum as he does spit, and within seconds of his orgasm, the extra pressure from the flood of cum and the slickness it provides prove to be too much for Vox to withstand. His voice cuts out with a high squeal. His muscles lock. His mind itself flatlines into a peaceful haze.

It's good.

For the first time in days, maybe months, everything simply feels good.

Too soon, Vox blinks and it's over, his system skittering through reboot diagnostics as the techs wipe him clean. He's empty. Wrung out. Overused. And exhausted. All he wants is to collapse into his bed in the penthouse, Val on one side and perhaps Velvette on the other, safe where he belongs.

“He's back,” Baxter announces, somewhere by Vox's hip. “How do you feel, Mister Vox?”

Vox blinks the static from his eyes. Half of the cameras in the lab have gone dark, but the few left help him reorient himself in the room. Baxter is on his left, right up against the table with a tablet in hand, while the techs form a halo around Vox's upper body, and Val lingers on his right, gaze darting between Vox's prone body and the painting on the ceiling.

“Tired,” Vox slurs.

Baxter makes note of this in his tablet. “I would assume so.” He steps onto the table to position himself between Vox's legs, easily nudging them apart. “I'm going to examine you now to ensure Mister Valentino didn't cause any damage.”

He doesn't wait for Vox's permission. As soon as a tech hands him a clean speculum, he pushes it into Vox's cunt and sets to opening it as far as the metal allows. After Vox's last couple of run ins, the sensation is familiar, and nowhere near as intense. It still burns with pinpoint pressure, but tolerably. The techs hold him just in case.

“Very nice retention,” Baxter says as Val's cum oozes out of Vox's open pussy. He inserts three gloved fingers to feel Vox's inner walls. “You're not bruised, better than last time.” Another rough palpation makes Vox flinch. “Minor tearing. It would have healed on its own by now if you weren't freshly upgraded. You won't need stitches.”

When he withdraws, Baxter studies the fluid clinging to his gloves: purple, swirled with Val's pink and Vox's blue with a couple dashes of dark blood against the pads of his fingers.

“You are dehydrated,” he adds. “Understandable in these circumstances, but necessary to address.” He cocks his head to the side, lure swinging in front of his face and adds, “I hesitate to attempt more intravenous treatment at this point. You need rest, and you won't get it with a needle in your arm.”

He removes the speculum and strips off his gloves.

“I can't do anything else for him,” Baxter says. “Give him fluids, Mister Valentino. Water and electrolytes, not liquor. No drugs with ketamine, opioids, or benzodiazepines for at least two days while his system clears.”

As he dictates instructions, the techs move onto cleaning Vox's pussy, clinical and careful with their cold disinfectant.

“He'll be fragile for a week or so,” continues Baxter, “so be careful with him, sir. Don't ruin my hard work.”

“He'll be fine,” Val assures smoothly. “He's just arm candy now, he won't be doing anything crazy.”

The second the techs are finished, Val gathers Vox up in his arms, cradling his limp body close enough for Vox to press his face into the ruff around his throat.

“I'm taking him to bed.”

Baxter visibly sags with relief. “Make sure he comes for maintenance Thursday afternoon. I expect to be back that morning for my next shift.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Val dismisses, already on his way to the elevator.

Vox allows his face to fade into a screensaver, content with the idea of time to recuperate in his own bed. According to his internal clock, it’s just past midnight now: early for Val to turn in, but not remarkably so.

Seven days after Vox's meltdown, he can finally rest.

Trust me with your prompt!

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