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Vox mills around the nightclub. The air is saturated with smoke, casting a hazy glow over everything. If you were drunk off your ass, it might be cozy, but with the light from Vox’s screen, all he can think caustically is that the owner is using it to cover the stains on the floor. It’s disgusting. If he had a nose, it would be wrinkled up in repulsions, but small mercies in Hell, he didn’t, he couldn’t smell for shit. It didn’t matter; he wasn't here for the ambiance. He wasn’t even really here to partake in vices, although the lithe bodies of the nearly naked female dancers were having an effect.
No, he was here skirting around the dingy dive bars of Hell, avoiding fucking Alastor. His screen burns, and static skirts around the edges. It’s been five years to the day that he’d rejected him, laughed in his idiotic, naive face as he stomped all over his heart without a second thought,
Well, fuck him! Vox didn’t need him! He didn’t need anyone; he’d build a shining empire up from ash and all of Hell would know his name while Alastor was a relic left in the dustbin.
The spiteful rage soothes his ego a bit, turning him away from the creeping sorrow that never quite left him about what could have been. Vox digs his claws into his palms. He’s too sober for this shit.
He saddles up to the bar and orders a whiskey, watching the bartender closely and threatening him with a zap when Vox sees him try to water down his whiskey. This month was a train wreck; he’d lost nearly a hundred souls in the latest extermination, and he’d been pulling triple duty to make sure all his plans stayed on track. Vox would be double damned if he was going to let anyone take away his one night of escape on tonight of all nights. The whiskey burns as it goes down, leaving a lingering smoky taste in his mouth as he waves a hand at the bartender to get him another.
He wasn’t planning to get sloshed tonight, but he’ll see where the night takes him. It’s why he’d picked this little rundown joint: the discretion. Vox was well aware that half of the brothels masquerading as strip clubs made their biggest margins on blackmail.
He was growing his empire; he might not have total control of the airwaves yet, and that was salt in his wound, but he was growing in power and recognition, minor setbacks aside. He was Vox the Media Overlord, and his face wasn’t exactly an easy one to forget, not when it glowed. So he would take all the anonymity he could find on nights like this.
He’s still nursing his second whiskey when the archaic speakers crackle to life. The music is unfamiliar, something modern with a steady beat from earth; he's sure it’s catchy and a far cry from the swing numbers that were popular when he was alive. Tension fills the air; patrons hold their breath as the bar goes almost completely black before a single spotlight frames the stage.
Vox’s breath catches in his throat. An exquisite creature stands on the stage. The moth sinner is tall and thin, but with clothing that extenuates their curves. Thin black bands frame up their chest and slip down, wrapping around their thighs like a tantalizing spider's web. A short, sheer black skirt is wrapped around their hips, leaving little to the imagination as they sway to the music.
The music picks up, and suddenly the sinner flares out gorgeous red wings. The dance is filthy, and the sinner begins to croon in a foreign language. The crowd goes wild as the dancer takes a sensual drag of their cigarette, blowing out a curling red smoke into the audience. The little clothing that the moth is wearing peels away as the song continues, flashes of their ass, and then nothing but a narrow thong that can barely contain a prominent bulge is on display.
It should be filthy, he should feel disgusted by the raunchy display, but instead, Vox leans closer. He can’t tear his eyes away. It’s a magnetism he can’t explain, one he hasn’t felt in- Vox cuts the thought there when the dancer brings one of their four hands to their lips, meets his eyes, and blows him a kiss.
Vox pulse jumps, his heart in his chest as a little gasp shoves his way out of his mouth. It’s only for a second before the dancer twirls away, looking elsewhere as he croons out lyrics Vox doesn’t understand. It’s all part of the performance, it has to be. If they noticed Vox, it’s probably because with his screen, he’s the only one the dancer can actually see over the shitty stage lighting.
It doesn’t make him special. But he is special. He wants to be special.
The music slows after that, and then, with one final dramatic note, the lights cut, and the bar is left in darkness. Cheers shake the walls as the crowd screams for an encore, but Vox feels his stomach drop in disappointment as the spotlight comes back on to a new dancer. The moth is gone. He forces his eyes away, his heart hammering in his chest as he chugs his remaining whiskey to stave off the disappointment.
That felt…Vox looks down and sees a faint tremor in his hands; sparks dance along them. He feels more alive than he has in decades. He has to get himself under control. He feels like a teenager again, about to cum in his pants just from seeing a bit of skin.
A sinner slides into the cracked barstool beside him. Vox turns to warn the other off when his breath catches in his throat. The moth dancer from the stage grins back at him.
“Aye, Papi, buy me a drink?”
Vox swallows and nods sharply, flicking his claws at the bartender. The bartender doesn’t take the moth’s order, just slides over a pink bubbly concoction with a nod, and goes back to polishing the glasses. Vox raises an eyebrow at that.
“What? I’m popular. A girl’s gotta have her vices,” The moth chuckles.
“You dance here often, then?”
The moth laughs at that. “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”
Static rushes over Vox’s screen, as embarrassment coils in his gut. He’s not used to being so left-footed, but something about the moth feels different. “Uh, do you like it?” Vox tries, cringing as the words leave his mouth.
The purple sinner barks out a laugh and leans closer, flicking the ball on the end of Vox’s left antenna. “You’re funny, box head, but yes, I like it. There's only a few things I like better. Want to take a guess at what they are?” The moth purrs, their long pink tongue darts out, and it’s unfairly sinful how they lick their lips while shoving their chest out. The dancer doesn’t even have breasts, but somehow Vox can’t take his eyes off how their leather straps cling and frame up the gold chain running between their nipples.
Vox's visuals go blank for a moment as his screen glitches. When he regains it, the dancer is sitting farther back on his stool, taking a long sip of his drink, his smile curved at the edges. “The names Valentino. I think you should know it. I have a feeling about you. Now, what do you say we get out of here?”
Vox knows the room's temperature hasn’t increased, but his internal fans kick on, and he opens his mouth to decline, but all that comes out is garbled static. This isn’t his first time being propositioned by a prostitute, not even his first time with a man; at least he thinks Valentino is a man despite his outfit.
Vox should say no. He has a careful process for determining who he sleeps with. He background checks them all, makes sure it’s not an assassination attempt by some upstart looking to get a cheap shot in. Logically, he knows he should say no, but Valentino hops off his stool, takes his hand, and tugs.
“C’mon, Papi, don’t be shy.”
“My tab-”
“Don’t worry about that baby. Don’t keep me waiting.” There’s an edge under the teasing, and it’s all Vox can do to follow Valentino as he weaves them through the crowds and to an exit door. Vox blinks, and they are standing alone in a grimy alley.
He turns to ask a question, but Valentino is on him. His back hits the brick wall hard. Vox instinctively sparks, years of clawing his way up through hell coming to the forefront, and he charges, ready to fry this upstart--
“Oh, Carino, do that again,” Valentino moans out, leaning down to claim his mouth. The kiss is filthy as soon as Valentino starts pressing his tongue against his glass, Vox opens up and lets him in. The moth tastes sweet and smoky, and Vox lets the moth explore for a moment before he pushes back, wrapping his tongue around the moth’s and nipping at his lip.
Valentino uses two of his hands to pin his hands over his head, and his other two hands to start ripping his dress shirt out from his pants, then snaking under to feel along his stomach, exploring, before they rise to find his chest. Vox’s heart rate picks up as Valentino runs his thumb over his nipple.
Vox whines. It’s pathetic, Valentino repeats the motion as he shoves his tongue back into Vox’s mouth.
“That’s it, baby,” he coos, “let go.”
Blood rushes south, and Vox ruts up against Valentino. If his mouth wasn’t preoccupied, he’s sure he’d be letting out a string of moans. He should be embarrassed. It is embarrassing; he’s an overlord, but right now, he feels like a rubber band about to snap. This is so hot that all he can think about is getting inside Valentino or letting Valentino get inside him.
Footsteps echo down the alley and stop when they get closer. Vox can’t see past Valentino’s lanky form, and honestly, if he has to hunt down and permanently remove a voyeur later, he’s willing to as long as Val keeps doing that thing with his tongue.
“We’re busy,” Valentino growls, not even bothering to turn around.
The click of a gun cocking is all the warning they get. Vox throws himself into the nearest wire on instinct, flashing out of the light just above the door and using the momentum to pull Val out of the way just as the place they were standing is littered with bullets.
Valentino is swearing, two of his hands reaching under his wings as he pulls out two pistols that Vox has no idea where he was keeping, considering his scant clothing. Vox has no time to ponder it as he hears a rush of more feet.
There are about fifteen of them, all spiders, all armed with tommy guns. Vox frowns; he doesn’t remember doing anything to piss off the Arachnaid Mafia. He racks his memory and still comes up blank. He shrugs; it doesn’t matter. A direct threat was enough of a reason for him to deal with this, and he hadn’t had any short-term plans to rip their territory away from them, but that would be changing now.
Vox rolls up his sleeves and coos at Valentino, “Wait here, sweetheart, this will only take a minute.” Vox turns, letting his wires free as they glow blue with electricity. “Evening, gentleman.”
“Shit,” he hears from one of the spiders, “Vox he wasn--” Vox doesn’t let him finish. One moment, he’s standing by Valentino, and the next, he’s ripping out the first shooter’s throat with his claws. He drops on them like a cyclone. An unnatural force of precision and violence. He might hate Alastor, but Vos would never forget his lessons, and if there was one thing the Radio Demon was good at, it was painting the town red.
It takes Vox less than five minutes to make chum out of them. He looks down in disdain as he wipes his claws on his blazer. His suit is absolutely ruined and so is his night. He may not have fired the first bullet, but he’d certainly just declared a turf war. How messy, still, if there was blood in the water, he planned to come out on top.
Valentino is looking at him with a goofy grin, his heart-shaped “Wow, Carino, that was quite a show.”
Vox hums the adrenaline is still burning in his veins. He leans in, pressing himself to Valentino's chest, the other's ruff feels soft to his touch. He has every intention to continue where they left off. He could at least get a little pleasure out of this before he spends his next week cleaning up this mess. Valentino gives him a quick kiss but doesn't deepen it. Instead, he pulls back with a wink. Then he blows Vox a kiss as he sashays back to the door of the club. Vox wants to reach out and grab him, flip their earlier positions and shove Valentino into the wall but It’s like his software is frozen, unable to reload. “Come back next week, box head. I’ll save a drink for you.” Valentino purrs, then disappears back into the club.
Vox is left sparking, half-hard, and alone in the alley with a bloody mess behind him. He's gritting his teeth and the fucking cock tease he just got! He's halfway to the door to rip the place apart until Valentino is back in his hands.
He comes to his sense before he tears the door off its hinges. If he does this then he won't have anywhere discrete to go next time he needs a drink. Not to mention he just started one turf war the last thing he needs is another Overlord on his ass for wrecking their club, especially an Overlord he knows nothing about.
Vox angrily shoves his shirt back into his pants re-buttoning it. Not that it will do him any good he's still tacky with blood. Vox stomps the whole way home, and narrowly avoids blowing the whole grid in his anger. It’s only when he gets home that he realizes his blazer is torn up in addition to stained, whether it was from Valentino’s claws, the bricks on the wall, or a lucky hit by a spider, he can’t say. He also realizes his wallet is missing and that makes more sense, but he isn’t sure whether to laugh or curse about that.
The next few days aren’t any better. He doesn’t sleep. Vox can’t get Valentino out of his mind. Not while he plans and executes a careful territory takeover, knocking out mafia members one by one. He keeps circling the memories like a shark. Fluctuating between rage and a desperate, hungry want. He’s analyzed it from every angle. What was Valentino’s game? Well, besides seduction, obviously. The thought of the kisses still leave his screen flickering before the fact the fucker had stolen from him pops up. Followed by a wave of lust as he realizes Valentino had the audacity to do that after he killed over a dozen sinners in front of him.
The week ends in blood and with new territory to Vox’s name and a new set of kill-on-sight orders for his soul contracts. He knows Carmilla is absolutely going to bitch him for the next year over this takeover. Vox finds that he doesn’t really care. Not when he’s shaking with energy that even a murder spree hasn't drained out of him.
His employees are avoiding him and Vox isn’t sure if he’s ready to fuck or fight, but he knows his night is going to end in one of those ways. He’s not understated this time when he marches back to the bar. He’s in his full suit, no downcast eyes or subtlety as he stomps through the cracked doors. It’s as dingy and smoke-filled as always, but the crowd is thin. It’s early for the pleasure district, but his eyes easily find the set of familiar red wings.
“You stole my wallet.” Vox growls, flashing across the club. Valentino is taken off guard, but he recovers quickly, his shoulders relaxing.
“There you are, and stole is such a harsh word. I borrowed your wallet. I had to make sure you come back, Carino.” Valentino reaches into his coat and pulls out Vox’s silver metal wallet. He flips it once, catches it, then sets it on the bar top. “Have a drink.”
“Are you going to buy me a drink with my own money?” Vox sneers.
“Of course not. Let’s talk.” Valentino reaches one of his arms around Vox, pressing him against his warm body in a half-hug. Vox’s sparks and the moth’s ruff fluffs up at the charge, but he doesn’t release him. Vox should electrocute him. Normally, he would, but there’s something about Valentino’s audacity that stays his hand.
Valentino leads him with one set of hands on his shoulders as they bypass the bar. The moth nods once to the bartender and then waltzes them through an employee-only door. The room looks marginally cleaner than the outside bar. Still, Vox’s screen crinkles as Valentino pushes him towards a plush velvet couch.
Vox can’t help but notice the stack of contracts sitting out on a desk on the other side of the room. It's a messy operation and completely careless to leave such important assets just sitting there. But then again, maybe the souls under the owner's control are still locked in. Vox’s eyes linger on Valentino to invite another overlord back here seems careless. If the proprietor finds out, he’s sure Valentino won’t be alive long.
It’s a shame, and Vox is surprised at the thought. He straightens his back. Valentino had taken his wandering attention in stride, using the time to light a cigarette as he lounged like a pleased cat in the chair across from Vox.
“Your boss is going to kill you for letting me back here if you live past this conversation with me. You'd better start talking.”
Valentino laughs, it’s deep and rough. “Kill me? Voxxy, I am the boss.”
That leaves Vox floundering first at the nickname and then at the full implication. Valentino was the owner, but he’d heard the owner was an up and coming Overlord, and Valentino was taking his clothes off on stage. An error flashes across his screen and Vox slams his hand against his boxy casing to calibrate it.
Valentino is closer when he reboots his heart-shaped glasses, glinting in the light from his screen.
“If you owned the place, why did we make out in an alley? It ruined my blazer.” Vox complains.
“Because it was hot and I don’t let just anyone into my bed, Voxxy.” Valentino sniffs.
The cute pet name has him stewing, and then a second realization hits him: he’d never told Valentino his name. Valentino had clocked him, known exactly who he was before their first conversation! That manipulative asshole!
“What do you want? If you wanted to talk business, why all the runaround?” Vox bites out, his claws flexing as he lets his electrical energy loose, burning against the cloth fabric of the couch. “You could have made an appointment.”
Valentino gives him a toothy smile, not backing down from the threat. “But that’s so boring. My motto is pleasure first, then business. Besides, I had to give you a test run myself, if you were a shitty kisser or actually had as much of a stick shoved up your ass as you look like on TV, well, I wouldn’t want to make an offer like this. Good thing you exceeded expectations.”
That doesn’t make Vox feel any better. It just puts him on edge. “Yeah, such a good thing.” He crosses his arms over his chest and weighs the pros and cons of gutting the other Overlord in his own office. It would start a turf war between them, but at least Vox wouldn’t have to sit here with the simmering humiliation of being blindsided and played.
“Oh, don’t look so sour,” Valentino laughs, “I think you’re going to like my offer.”
“You better spit it out before I make up my mind about killing you,” Vox growls out, his hypnotic eye beginning to spiral as his anger climbs.
Valentino looks nonplussed at the display and merely shrugs as he leans back and lights a cigarette.“Baby sex sells, and trust me, I am very good at sex.”
Vox screen blushes a lighter blue before quickly clearing as he spits out an acerbic, “You could be the Sin of Lust himself, Val, but you can’t sleep with everyone; that just makes you a cheap whore. Sex isn’t scalable unless you’re running brothels, and even if you are, I fail to see how that’s compatible with my brand.”
“Val, I like that! Well, Voxxy, I was thinking something a little different, a little more marketable to the masses. You like that, right?” Val coos at him, before he reaches over and pinches the corner of his screen. It’s demeaning, and Vox lets an electrical current find him. Val snaps his hand back, hissing. Vox chuckles at the way his ruff frizzes up.
“Puta,” Val growls out, his lips curling back. Then the other Overlord shakes himself once, and the dark glint in his eyes smoothes out, and his voice gets smoother. “I was thinking video pornography. You have the channels, the expertise,” Val says before gesturing to himself, “and I have the talent at my disposal. Hot pieces of ass that all of Hell will be clamoring for. So what do you say, Voxxy, want to be partners?”
Partners. The word echoes in his head. Valentino extends his hand, offering a handshake. Vox stays rooted to his seat. It’s… surprisingly rational, even if everything leading to the proposal was not. Porn wasn’t a market Vox had truly considered before, but with Hell’s depravity now, it felt like an obvious miss on his part to not go after it sooner. The numbers begin to run automatically in his head as he thinks about the ways it would allow his hydra of an empire to grow. It was a rather rosy opportunity.
His eyes roam over Valentino. Partners. He’s wanted that so desperately once with someone he’d thought he’d known so well, and it’d blown up in his face. The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. But Valentino wasn’t Alastor. Vox wasn’t sure who he was yet, beyond infuriating, ruthless, and beautiful all rolled into one package. It felt like night and day to be sitting on the other side of an offer like this.
Vox takes a deep breath. There were obvious upsides and unknown downsides, but he could spin this. After all, he could always screw Valentino over later, and fuck if the way the other man kept his contracts wasn’t an indicator that it wouldn’t be hard to do.
“On a trial basis.” Vox offers, knocking the hand away and reaching for a blank piece of paper.
There are no friends in Hell, Vincent. Alastor’s words echo. If they were doing this, Vox would ensure all the loopholes were closed. There would be no quick verbal deals. He wasn’t naive, not anymore.
Valentino chuckles and lights a cigarette. “Whatever you say, baby, but I have a feeling you won’t be able to quit me. No one ever does.”