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"Ah—Vox! Vox! Voxxy—"
"You know, the amount of eye contact I'm getting right now seems pretty rude."
Vox blinks, slowing down his thrusts. He's ready to snap back, tell Alastor where he can stick it—but Alastor isn't even looking back at him, instead dragging his gaze into a dramatic eyeroll that eventually settles on...Valentino.
Valentino sighs, one last languorous moan petering out. He unsticks his sharp little claws from the pinpricks they're leaving in Vox's shoulders, crossing his lower set of arms as he settles back to hang from his suspended upper pair. Despite the petulant posture, he flutters his lashes as his sexy gasping transitions smoothly into a purr.
"Then stop looking back, hm?"
Alastor is gagged, a blue VoxTek frown hiding half his face, but a sickly glow shines through—the inhuman light of his smile when he does that creepy shit where he stops having a real face and talks through the radio instead. Right on time, the speaker over the bed sputters to life, sending a cold stab of shock through Vox’s guts as he realizes his tendrils of control can no longer grasp it.
"It's just surprising that you put up with it! The obsession is one thing, but being bad in bed? You struck me as someone who actually valued decent sex!"
"Hey—!" Vox starts.
It's Valentino's turn to roll his eyes. "I," he says, squeezing his thighs around Vox's hips—it pulls Vox in deeper, cutting off his words as pleasure skitters up his spine, "happen to like getting tied up and fucked silly. And any sex I am having is good sex!"
Alastor’s eyes go lidded as he tilts his head to the side. His ears are slowly starting to un-pin now that the noises have stopped, and the corners of his eyes crinkle coyly.
"Care to prove it?"
Valentino’s eyebrows go up. His primary set of arms, which had been nicely tied up over his head, start to shimmy skillfully out of what Vox had thought were half-decent bindings.
“Is the Radio Demon,” Val says slowly, “asking for a show?”
The deep-set bags under Alastor’s eyes don’t particularly speak to any spark of sexual interest. Fuck, the guy’s manspreading with the best of them and he doesn’t even have a tent in his pants (though Vox does spend a comfortable amount of time eyeing the bulge there at baseline, trying to figure out if he has anything of that approximate size in his toy closet). But Val’s always had an eye for picking up on certain types of things, and whatever he sees, it has Alastor leaning back in his rolly chair, ropes and all, and kicking one leg over the other as his low-fidelity audio filters through VoxTek speakers.
(Yeah, Vox is bitter. His tech is top of the line! Why the fuck is he making it sound this bad on purpose?)
“I’m saying,” Alastor says, finally moving his gaze back to Vox—and, fuck, it sure rolls something down Vox’s spine to see him drag his gaze down his body, and then back up. “—that I’ve seen plenty of Vox’s megalomania over the years. I am, and I cannot possibly emphasize this enough, very fucking bored with it all. Emphasis on ‘fucking.’ Could you just…”
The tip of his boot wiggles as he bounces his knee, drawing a little circle in the air the same way he might with his staff, ears tipping sideways with the rest of his head like he’s a cute woodland creature and not a fucking cannibalistic horrorshow.
“...do something more interesting?” he finishes, a cheerful suggestion accompanied by a single raised eyebrow.
“Are you seriously commentating my fucking sex life right now?” Vox demands, sitting back and finally pulling out of Valentino. Shit, now his dick’s kinda cold. Alastor finds ways to ruin everything. “This is the best day of my life! How are you such a frigid cock-up that you’re ruining sex that you’re not even part of?”
Alastor blinks. “Am I not part of this?”
“He is kind of part of this,” Val says.
“That is NOT the point of the cuck chair!” Vox shouts, throwing his hands into the air.
“Well shit,” Val says, “then I’ve definitely been doing it wrong. Oh, wait—I’m basically the overlord of porn, and you’re the old man making bank off and…enjoying my goods.” His lower arms drag down his chest, finishing the motion with a sexy little flutter over his hips that has Vox swallowing. Then Val joins Alastor in ruining it: “Anyway, that is totally the point of the cuck chair, amorcito. I’ve filmed at least six movies just like this. I think three actually had Angel Dust, and—”
“I was thinking, since I’m involved—!”
“SHUT the FUCK up!” Vox yells at Alastor, because he was going to yell it at Valentino first, but Alastor somehow managed to be even more annoying than the mention of fucking Angel Dust.
“—I could offer constructive criticism!”
“Oooh,” Val says, absolutely dripping with sarcasm—and Valentino is always great at ‘dripping’. “I can’t wait to see what the strawberry pimp has to say.”
“The what, now?”
“Don’t overthink it, baby,” Val says, sniggering.
Vox’s vision is starting to go a little bit red as he debates how big of a gasket it’s worth blowing right now, which is why he doesn’t notice it when Val’s hands finish wriggling out of Vox’s shitty bondage and start trailing over Vox’s hips, dipping behind in a rather suggestive way. Vox stiffens—not in a sexy way—and whips his head back around to Val, antennae sparking. He knows exactly what that motion means.
"God-fucking-damnit, Val, I wanted to top! Fuck that, I am in the middle of topping!"
Bottoming is always—weird, for Vox, kinda. Vincent never fucking bottoms, but Vox has loosened up enough to do it sometimes, mostly because Valentino is right: any sex Val is having tends to be very good sex, and it's been more than seven decades and two name changes since bottoming was assumed of—of Vanessa. But fuck, they usually fucking talk about it first!
But Valentino is not to be deterred.
"Relax, papi," he purrs, smoothing a hand up the side of Vox's screen like he's cupping his face. "I'll make it good for you."
"That's not what I'm concerned about—"
Then Val grabs him by the antennae, twists his hips, and flips Vox into the mattress with a loud, staticky yelp.
"He certainly whines a lot!" crackles the peanut gallery, and Vox struggles an arm out from underneath himself to flip Alastor off. “That hasn’t changed at all!”
"Oh," Val says, a smooth, low rumble that goes right to the pit of Vox's belly. "He certainly does. Want me to show you exactly how he whines?"
"Fu-uck," Vox—yes, fuck, Jesus, he whines, dropping his face back into the pillows.
His dick twitches, harder than ever. Also not cold anymore.
Fine. Apparently he's bottoming today.
It doesn’t take much to get Vox kinda into it. Firstly, because it’s been a hot minute since Val and Vox first fucked, and Val pretty much knows everything Vox already likes by now. Secondly because, uh.
Alastor is still staring at him. And he’s also kicked back in his chair and uncrossed his legs. His dick still isn’t hard, but it hardly matters when Vox’s eyes are too busy rolling back in his screen as Val does what he does best and Alastor fucking commentates.
“Ooooh,” Alastor is saying, leaning forward slightly. His ears prick up, eyes narrowing like he’s seen a particularly interesting bug. “That was a good one! Try pulling the other one.”
“I’m not pulling, pendejo,” Valentino says, and proceeds to fucking pull on Vox’s antennae. Unfortunately this has the extremely sexy effect of forcing his head back far enough that Val can stick his tongue into Vox’s mouth—and down his throat, because the only thing longer than Val’s dick is his tongue. It’s skinnier, too, which means he can drip pink venom all the way down Vox’s throat, and Vox hears his throat click wetly as it spasms over the length of muscle. His gills flare, fluttering uselessly in the air as he struggles and fails to breathe. His arms yank reflexively, but Val’s got those in a tight hold with his own lower set, and overall it’s just a really fucked up, sexy, helpless feeling—
Vox’s eyes meet Alastor’s, and his speakers whine empty static.
When Val finally separates their mouths, pink saliva running down the sides of Vox’s mouth, he’s chuckling, long and dark and low enough that Vox’s gasping can’t drown him out. He pulls Vox back by the arms, propping him up on his knees with his back to Val’s chest, and grabs his hips with his spare arms. He’s got him posed like a doll, full frontal exposed to Alastor, and where before it felt like a powerplay to fuck Valentino in front of Alastor, now it feels a lot more—vulnerable.
“Ready to ride, papi?” Val asks, as if Vox is ready to so much as uncross his eyes.
“Uh,” Vox starts, and is immediately interrupted.
“Certainly!” Alastor says through the sound system. He’s still got the cheerful cadence of a radio announcer, like he’s making recommendations on train departure times and not Vox getting fucked. Fuck, why is that hot?!
“If you say so,” Val agrees with a hum.
“Why are you listening to him—fuck!”
The tip of Val’s cock sinks into him, and Vox’s eyes squeeze shut—before he remembers that Alastor is watching, and forces them open again. He’s not going to lose the world’s stupidest, sexiest game of chicken just because he doesn’t bottom as often as Valentino.
Valentino, whose hands are warm and large on Vox’s hips, guiding him down slowly—and Vox isn’t usually a grateful guy, generally speaking, but—
“Mm, you should stop helping him out so much.”
What the fuck!
“Oh?” Val asks, and Vox feels his own face twist into a snarl as Val’s hands leave their supportive posture and instead slide down his inner thighs—sexy, sure, but not exactly helpful—“You the kind of sadistic fuck that likes watching them struggle? Man after my own heart, the Radio Demon!”
Vox is the kind of sadistic fuck that likes watching people struggle, that’s why he and Val get along so well! He’s not supposed to be the one struggling!
His thighs shiver, tension high as he works to lower himself onto Val’s objectively enormous dick without the use of his fucking arms. He should protest, he thinks. He will! He just—
Okay, maybe this is pretty hot.
He was pretty much going for a celebratory fuck with Val to top off what has so far been the best day of his un-life, right in front of Alastor’s proverbial salad mostly to rub in his old friend’s helplessness and discomfort. Alastor’s always been lame and weird about sex—the guy has no interest in it, and not even in a fun, dramatic way! He just thinks it’s boring and pointless and, as he once actually said, uncomfortably damp. So Vox isn’t under the impression that he could get Alastor to actually participate—
Except he actually kind of is. Participating.
And maybe Vox is harder than he has ever been in, oh, if he just checks his mental watch—seven decades.
And maybe he’s just a little afraid that if he opens his damn mouth about it, he’s going to—to ruin it. Ruin everything, all over again. It makes him so fucking angry, that even tied up in a stupid office chair, spirited away to the depths of Vox’s territory, having been toted around in hell’s most dramatic day-long literal parade of humiliation—Alastor’s still found a way to jerk Vox around.
The least he could do is help Val jerk Vox off, Vox decides. So if the fucking Radio Demon is going to open his damn mouth and get involved in the sex, then Vox is damn well going to capitalize on it.
“Vincent is no stranger to struggling,” Alastor says, watching the tremble of exhaustion work its way through Vox’s body. Vox’s belly flutters on a gasp, still not quite able to gulp down enough air. “He’s always been scrappy.”
“I’ll have you know,” Vox wheezes as Val’s cock finally reaches what he is pretty sure is the back of his fucking throat, “that I was very successful—”
“In life and in death, yes, yes,” Alastor says, propping his chin up on his hand, which—when the fuck did he get an arm free?! “You were such a hard…” His eyes flit down for a moment before meeting Vox’s. Vox swallows at the dedicated attention. “...worker. I truly respected that about you, you know.”
Val’s hands finally land back on Vox’s hips at that moment, and nudge him firmly down—and oh, no, now his dick is in the back of Vox’s throat, holy fuck—and Vox can barely think straight as Alastor’s words echo in his head and Val’s unholy goddamn dick manages to poke through the dopamine center of his brain, and—
One of Val’s hands circles loosely around the base of Vox’s cock. “Easy, there,” Val murmurs, and strokes his hand slowly up Vox’s dick—then back down, settling back on Vox’s hip.
Vox whines, hands flexing uselessly behind his back as he arches. His dick hurts. Val’s cock is an incessant pressure against his prostate (fake prostate, whatever, if he can build himself two dozen glowing novelty cocks then he can rewire some nerves to make an ass fucking feel nicer, okay), he didn’t get to come earlier when he was the one fucking Val, and that little tease over his dick is just enough to remind him of what he needs right now—even if it would probably be comically early for this whole thing to be over.
In retrospect, there is a certain benefit to bottoming. Vox’s all-day sadistic power trip has had him pretty fucking keyed up, and if he’s totally honest with himself, he would not have lasted that long while fucking Valentino. If it’s Val fucking him, though, well—Vox isn’t Valentino, there’s only so far he can get without someone’s hand on his dick helping along, and Val is currently using all four of them to pose Vox around like one of his models for what he assumes Val thinks is Alastor’s titillation. (Vox is not convinced the man can be titillated. He’s getting something out of this, but it might have more to do with the way Vox’s guts have turned to spaghetti, and not the fact that sex is involved.)
It’s also why bottoming always feels a bit…weird. There’s just a lot more that’s not in Vox’s direct control, and it’s a complete about-face from the rest of this day, and—
And Alastor is still watching him, even as Val tips Vox face first into the sheets and grinds his dick just right to make Vox’s eyes fritz out completely for a few seconds. When the static finally fades from his vision, Vox realizes the reason his ears are ringing is actually his own audio feedback, a garbled streak of white noise that wound into the speakers and tangled for a moment with Alastor’s broadcast.
Alastor meets his eyes, and what he does next is—is—
His signal reaches forward, and forward, and through—like he’s creeping those weird tentacles in through the orifices of Vox’s skull, winding them throughout his grey matter and giving Vox’s entire brain a long, slow squeeze—
Vox’s entire body jerks, and one of the speakers blows out with a loud spark.
“Hey!” Valentino snaps, squeezing down on Vox’s wrists hard enough that a jolt of pain brings him back to himself. He brings them out from behind Vox’s back, pinning them against the bed instead. “Participation where I can see it, asshole.”
Alastor’s brows go up. “Oh, is that the rule? My mistake.”
“Sure it was,” Valentino mutters. “Besides, you’re the radio demon, aren’t you? I’m sure you can get him off without using any of those freaky powers of yours.”
“Not,” Alastor says with his actual grinning mouth, dangling the gag off of one fingertip, “actually my goal. But I cede your point.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s pronounced ‘see,’” Val says, which confuses Alastor enough that he doesn’t even say anything as Val rolls his hips and properly fucks Vox.
“Oh, fuck—” Vox yelps. “Val—”
“Or you could fuck him,” Val offers, not even breaking rhythm as his hips find the exact perfect bouncy cadence designed to disconnect Vox’s outputs from his speakers. “Then again, you don’t look like you can…y’know. Get it up. Need me to help you out with that, baby?”
Alastor, who had leaned forward with a curiously open mouth to watch Vox bite a pillow with tears in his eyes—fuck you, Valentino, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you—actually recoils. Val chooses that moment to hitch Vox’s hips up, stopping him from grinding down onto the bed, and the resulting loss of pleasure and weird, emotional not-gut-punch—because he doesn’t care, he doesn’t fucking care—leaves Vox downright nauseated.
Val’s hand pets down Vox’s flank, then, perversely soothing, and presses Vox’s cock up against his belly, a delicious bit of friction that wriggles a thread of pleasure through the nausea. It’s not exactly better, just—fuck, why is sex with Valentino sometimes such a mindfuck—
“Or not,” Val purrs. “Don’t worry, I’ve got him well in hand, hm? Not anything that the likes of you needs to worry about handling…”
He strokes Vox slowly, lazily, completely out of rhythm with the merciless pace of his rolling hips, and Vox claws at the bedding best as he can. His whole body is shivering, cold sweat and pleasure and electricity sparking from one antenna to the other.
“V—al,” he manages to whine, muffled by the pillow and his speaker quality both.
“Do you hear that?” Valentino says, low and pleased. “He’s calling your name, Radio Demon.”
That’s not—he wasn’t—
“Maybe you should answer,” Val says with a slow squeeze of Vox’s cock that sends his thoughts scattering into the electrical wiring. “He’s awfully…hung up on you.”
Alastor’s answering laugh is enough to make Vox flinch, too strung out to even begin to guess if it’s genuine or fake or mocking or pleased or —and then it peters out into a contemplative hum, and Alastor leans back into Vox’s field of vision, grinning wide.
“Ah,” Vox hears Valentino murmur. “Now that’s what you like.”
“Old pal,” Alastor says, warm and low enough that Vox is miserably glad he’s already got tears in his eyes that he can blame on the sex. “I can honestly say that you haven’t changed a bit.”
Vox screws his eyes shut, needing to block out the world for just a minute—but Valentino pulls him back, rolling the palm of his hand over the sensitive head of Vox’s cock to collect the flavored lubricant leaking there, and turning his hand into a tight, slick tunnel to fuck Vox into as he rolls his own hips. It’s enough to make Vox yelp again, eyes flying open, and—
And then swear loudly as Val takes his hand off Vox’s dick entirely, using it instead to hike Vox’s hips back up and resume fucking him in earnest.
“Fucking—Va-a-l—” Vox’s voice fritzes out, hollow and half-gone. He’s half tempted to just electrocute Valentino and be done with it—he can always jack off while Alastor watches, he doesn’t actually need to get jerked around and blueballed like this!
“Calm down, papi,” Val says, laughing. “It’s not me you should be asking, hm? Be good, Voxxy, ask Alastor for what you want.”
“What the fu-u-uck,” Vox whines into the pillows. Valentino is evil. Fucking evil. And Alastor looks like somebody just butchered Vox into a prime rib roast and dropped him in the cannibal’s lap. Is he seriously supposed to beg Alastor for it if he wants to come?
But Valentino doesn’t budge—worse, he slows down, grinding into Vox in a way that is downright sinful, probably not quite right to get Val himself off but absolutely fucking perfect for driving Vox up a wall with the torturous drag of Valentino’s cock. Vox’s dick hurts so damn bad that he might actually cry about it.
“Fuck,” Vox says again, claws spasming into the bedding. “A-Al—”
“Hmmm?” Alastor leans forward, radio feedback vibrating through the air around them. He’s—he’s not getting off on this, not literally, but he’s definitely fucking getting off on this. Fuck Valentino finding new fucking toys. Al’s looking at Vox like Vox remembers him looking at his next meal, all hungry zeal, and it’s not any less devastatingly sexy now than it was seventy years ago. Jesus Christ, if he hums like that again, Val might not actually have to touch Vox’s dick to make him come.
“T-Tell him to make me come,” Vox gasps, scrabbling for purchase.
Alastor laughs in his face. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, throwing himself back into his chair and kicking his feet in sheer entertainment as the momentum sends him spinning. It sends the pit of Vox’s stomach spinning, too, and not in a good way. He remembers exactly the last time Alastor laughed at him like this, the way Vox tried to laugh back, the way it died in his throat—the way the pit of his stomach just dropped out, because Alastor said—Alastor said…
Alastor stops on a dime, spin and laugh both, and looks Vox in the eye.
“No,” he says, smiling.
“Fuck you!” Vox shouts, voice cracking, and then Val snickers meanly behind him and shifts, picking up his rhythm again. “I—fuck, oh, fuck—I asked, oh, god—”
“Oh, ‘Alastor’ will do just fine,” Alastor says, infinitely more smug. “No need to get blasphemous about it! I was just about to say, you could try being a little more polite! Good manners will get you everywhere!”
“Fuuuck,” Vox whines into the bedding, because it’s one of maybe five words that he can still currently remember and because this whole scenario has left him more turned on than he has ever been in his life, he’s on a hair fucking trigger right now, it would take a goddamn brush of Val’s hand, he swears to god—
“Fuck you—fuck you so hard—please—please let me come, you evil, sadistic piece of shit—”
“I think you’re the one getting fucked right now, actually!” Alastor laughs. “Hm, let me think about it,” he adds, meanderingly ponderous as Vox tries not to actually start crying into the blanket Val is fucking him through. He also thinks he might throw up that stupid fucking milkshake he used to taunt Al, like putting a gag on the guy was enough to pretend he might have actually shared a drink with Vox if he’d had the choice. He might do both.
“I suppose it is good enough,” Al chirps. “Begging is so charmingly, classically pathetic—always the same good old Vincent after all!”
“Thank you thank you thank you—” Vox sobs, tears spilling over as Val finally, finally, finally puts a hand properly on his dick, hot, slick friction in rhythmic counterpoint—
As for the rest of it, he’s not sure. He comes so hard his vision whites out.
When Vox finally gathers the scattered pieces of his brain back together, Valentino is smoking something cloyingly sweet that coils through the air. He gropes around blindly for it and is rewarded with a contemplative hum and Valentino’s mouth on his, breathing saccharine smoke into his lungs that sends his fingertips buzzing and puts a bit of energy back into his well-used body. Val’s arm is warm behind his head, propping up Vox’s casing, and his body heat radiates from Vox’s right side. The familiar sound of claws tapping on a phone screen resumes once Val leans away again.
Vox boots his screen back up.
Alastor is back in his chair, gag on and hands properly secured (if a little… sexily? Shit, Val really is better at knots than Vox, isn’t he). His ears have flattened a touch, deep bags under his eyes that are barely a memory for Vox as nicotine tingles through his veins, but as he meets Vox’s gaze, a familiar, amused glint in his eye…
I’m listening, pal.
Vox looks away first.