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well this is torturous electricity between both of us
and this is dangerous
‘cause I want you so much, but I hate your guts
I want you so much
but I hate your guts.
After Val leaves him, sticky and frustrated, Vox finally lets his mind drift.
He’s been on edge all day, snapping without any real reason at anyone and everyone. He’d woken up in an inexplicable prickly mood, static thrumming through his veins in that particular way that he always knew meant somebody would be getting fired, without fail, before he’d finished his first cup of coffee and done a line in his ensuite bathroom.
The day had gone exactly as he had predicted. Ethan had borne the brunt of his anger from 9 to 5, then Velvette during his 6 to 9 when she’d tried to distract him with re-runs of Scissor-Sisters, eventually snapping and dumping the sticky remains of the popcorn bucket over his head when he’d begun subconsciously mocking the god-awful dialogue, muttering the canned lines under his breath. That show hadn’t been one of his better ones, he could freely admit to himself, but he’d given it the green light for far too many seasons because the revolving door of various girls in it were hot and it was the kind of softcore porn that the lesbians seemed to like. Which meant ratings.
He’s seen them all before. He’s produced them all. It’s all dull, recycled bullshit, clanging around in his head like a pair of shoes in the wash, banging against his temples and giving him the mother of all migraines.
Val had taken notice—eventually, after he’d finally finished with that whore of his for the night—of Vox’s incessant foul mood and had snuck up on him whilst he was wiping out the buttery remnants from his ports, grabbing his hips and slamming his pelvis into the bathroom counter, sending the cloth he had been holding flying somewhere onto the tiled floor.
“Val, what the fuck—”
“Babydoll told me someone was pent up today…” Val whispers into his ear, long tongue unfurling and curling around the base of Vox’s unbent antennae. Vox shudders and grabs onto the counter to steady himself, and Val seizes his opportunity, pushing him further into the porcelain, grinding Vox’s hipbones against the edge. “You were being so mean, baby, so I told her I’d deal with your tight ass. Maybe I can loosen it up for you and get you to relax, hmm?”
Distantly, Vox can hear the sound of his door slamming shut as Velvette makes her escape.
“Val—” Vox starts, pushing back against him to try and create some space between their groins. Val merely licks up the length of his antennae in response and he glitches, hands momentarily slipping from where he’s gripping onto the counter. One pair of hands grab his wrists and hold him stable, while another pair deftly appear right at his fly, undoing the top button and flicking down the zipper in a well practised movement.
“Val,” Vox tries again, head lolling back against Val’s chest. Hells, he hates how good Val is at this. “Val, not right now, please…”
“Shh,” Val whispers. Slim fingers disappear into Vox’s slacks and tease up the length of him, half hard already. Vox hisses and pushes back again, futile. Val laughs cruelly, and now Vox can feel how hard Val is, cock pressed up against the crack of his ass. “You know, you were a real bitch today, Voxxy. Nobody likes a bitch. But you know I find it hot when you get all whiny and shit. Let me fuck it out of you, hmm, cariño?”
Vox closes his eyes and gives in, letting Val fondle down his pants, hand closing around his length on the downstroke, twisting at just the right angle, fingertips dancing through the cloth to tease the head—
He groans, sound reverberating low, low in his subwoofers, and Val laughs breathily, hiking up one slim thigh to gently rub it against the outside of Vox’s right knee.
“Relax, papi,” comes the murmur next to his peripheral audio port. “I’ll take care of you.”
It had been pointless in the end. Despite Val's remarkably skilled hands and mouth, Vox had remained half hard for the better part of an hour, Val getting increasingly more and more irate and prickly as none of his usual tricks seemed to do anything except increasingly wrinkle up the sheets to one side of Vox’s king sized bed, pillows kicked off onto the bedroom floor. Eventually, the narrow cup of his patience ran dry and he flipped Vox onto his stomach, pushing him into the mattress, whining into his ear.
“What is wrong with you today, hm? I wanted to get my shit rocked today, Voxxy, babe, and this is how you repay me? You’re always so thirsty for it; what happened? Maybe Vel was right and you’re having trouble in your old age—”
Vox directs an electric current down his spine and Val flies backwards off of him, cursing and shaking out his hands from the static.
“Ay, fucking puta de madre, what the hell was that for—”
“Get out, Val,” Vox spits. His dick is starting to feel sore, he’s uncomfortably sweaty and prickly cold, and he doesn’t want to do this anymore. “I’m not in the mood tonight, clearly.”
“Yeah, clearly, fuck,” Val retorts. He pulls his wings around his shoulders to cover himself and gives Vox’s exposed ass a swift kick to the buttock. Before Vox can shock him again, he’s flounced off, slamming the door behind him.
Vox curls his hands into his sheets and screams into the fabric. He’s so fucking pissed off, he’s furious and he doesn’t know why.
A notification beeps from the datapad lying on his bedside table. Vox shoots a cable out to grab it and flings it against his bathroom door. The datapad thuds once against the metal and clatters onto the floor.
A few moments pass. Then Vox slowly pushes himself onto his knees and gathers up the abandoned sheets, unfurling them and wrapping the soft material around his torso. He rolls over onto his back, closing his eyes and letting the feel of the silk rest against his chest as he breathes. Up, down. In, out. He lets himself begin to close his open programs, visualizing enveloping the sticky ball of fury deep within his chest in the pleasant hum of static, forcing it up and out of his vents. He exhales.
It’s nice. He doesn’t usually do this. What Velvette calls “hashtag self care” and gets trending on Voxtagram and VoxTube, videos of sinners with pastes covering their faces and endless drawers of VoxTek branded skincare and makeup products, all produced by Vel. The videos she’d shown him once seemed to involve a lot of putting a bunch of shit on the body and then just… laying there breathing. Apparently it was good for stress. Vox had never quite understood it, because laying there doing nothing seemed like a waste of time to him, and he didn’t want to put some smelly organic pastes onto his screen anyway. If he needed to relax and take care of himself, he’d check his ratings. Or plow Valentino’s ass into the mattress.
Okay, yeah, okay. Maybe that last one wasn’t foolproof, if today was any indication.
But… if he really admitted it to himself, he kind of likes the fuzzy robes Vel sometimes brings down to his floor and forces him to try on. Back—back when he was alive, he’d always known that it was important to look snappy on camera, but she’s the one who’s really good with fabrics, nattering on in his ear when she’s three sheets to the wind, prattling on about things like warp and weft and other things that he doesn’t give a shit about. Vox’s knowledge of fabrics stops at knowing that there are suit jackets and there are suit jackets, and he leaves the tailoring to other people who know how to make him look good in front of the cameras, cinched in all the right places to have the mindless masses drooling and gagging for him when he does his live shows. Yeah, he likes a good suit. He likes the way they make him look hot. Which he is. He’s fucking sexy. He’s the sexiest motherfucker in hell, he saw the results of that poll—didn’t even have to create that one himself, he’s pretty sure Katie had a hand in that—
Remember the time you and Alastor went to the tailor? his brain supplies, and his thoughts grind to a startling halt.
Wait, what? Why did he think of that all of a sudden?
When you got down here, you tried out sweater vests, continues his unhelpful and clearly broken motherboard, but Alastor laughed and took you to the tailor instead. Bought you your first suit because you didn’t have anything to your name, back then. Then you had that turtleneck you thought made you look like hot shit. Then Valentino ripped it off you one day and it was unsalvageable. You cried like a bitch about it. But you still have that first suit, don’t you? In that walk-in closet nobody else is allowed to go into.
Vox blinks. The internal voice, which has to be a glitch in his operating system he should make a note to fix tomorrow morning, is starting to sound more tinny, higher pitched than his normal internal processor narration.
It’s starting to sound a bit like—
He shuts that thought down immediately. Then he tosses the thought file into the recycle bin. Then clears it. Then he double checks to make sure the trash can is empty.
He breathes again. Pulls up his to-do list. He should really go check his datapad, see who’s messaged him—
Why does Alastor’s suit ride up his ass so much? Asks the internal voice, and Vox swears.
“Oh my God, what the fuck is going on?” he hisses into the empty air of his bedroom. But now he’s thinking about it, the way the Red Scare’s suit rides up, bafflingly, at the back, right where his flat, triangle ass is, almost like it’s making space for his stupid non-existent tail.
He feels his cock twitch.
Processor fluid runs cold through his veins.
Oh. Oh hell no.
No, he’s not thinking about that—about... about Alastor’s flat fucking ass, not after he’s just spent a goddamn hour being fondled by his boyfr—partner—and remained pathetically half mast the entire time. Val has a gorgeous ass. Vox has plowed it enough times. Alastor has… he has nothing! Nothing whatsoever. Nothing to grab onto when he’s pushing inside, claws parting the cheeks so he can stare down at his cock disappearing into—
“Fuck!” Vox shouts. He shoves the sheets down his legs and kicks them off the bed. His fans switch on, whirring overly loud in the silence.
He lays there, pulse throbbing just under his skin, legs spread awkwardly as he looks down at his very present, very erect dick.
Vox blows out a long, deep breath. Shifts his thighs slightly to get a better position on the bed.
Fuck it, he thinks. He reaches down to grab himself. Glitches, when the cold metal of his palm makes contact with his too-hot skin.
Jesus, why is he so hard suddenly? Where the hell was this erection earlier?
He bites his lip. Swallows down the rush of guilt as Val’s image pops into his head.
He gives himself a tentative stroke, grip light. He stares down at himself, chest rising and falling in irregular motions. He can feel his heart pounding.
He closes his eyes. Replaces the gunmetal and azure of his hand with vermilion and sable. Shudders.
“F-fuck…” he breathes out, static and hoarse. His breath hitches, unoccupied hand reaching behind himself to grab a fistful of his pillow as he leans back, planting the soles of his feet onto the mattress and letting his hips lift up. He starts stroking faster. Tighter.
He inhales, exhales, tries to push the side of his face into the pillow and opens his mouth in a silent scream when he remembers he has a fucking flatscreen for a head and lifts his head off the fabric instead just to slam it back down in frustration. He hears the soft sshhik of his claws slice through the fabric of the pillow as he clutches onto it, knocking the side of his head into his bicep to try and quell the sudden dizzying lack of oxygen to his brain.
“Come on, you fucker,” he hisses between his teeth, pitching his voice higher, flattening the frequency, adding a more nasal timbre. “You like that don’t you, you whore.”
He blinks. No, wait. That’s not right. He wouldn’t say that, would he? Maybe…
“Pathetic,” he tries again, and his cock jumps in his hand. Ah. Yeah. “Pathetic little video box. Still craving my attention, after all.”
Vox twists his hand on the downstroke, thighs tense. He can feel himself start to drool as he continues talking, shifting the pitch slightly as he settles into the right cadence, the vocal register.
“You can’t even get off with that disgusting insect of a boyfriend, can you? Even with his… particular grotesque set of talents, you stayed soft and small. Unable to pleasure a-anyone. What kind of man are you?”
He’s getting closer, he can feel it. He pushes down the shame. He’s been so irritable all day. This doesn’t mean anything. He just needs to get off.
Yeah, sure, he thinks. He continues talking out loud.
“Flashy, vapid, vain picture box. Nothing but hot air and bluster. Disappointing your own paramour, powerless to keep anyone’s attention for longer than a minute, bombarding people with that insipid swill you call entertainment.”
Vox releases the pillow from his death grip and brings his hand down to his inner thigh, clawing at the delicate skin there. He hisses at the sudden burst of pain as the flesh parts underneath his sharp claws, blood welling to the surface in a hot rush, trickling down past his rapidly moving other hand, pooling down near his perineum and sticking to his bedsheets.
He stops moving. His heart is thundering in his chest. The sensation of cool liquid near the cleft of his ass is… oddly arousing. Feeling wet down there. Kind of like…
Vox doesn’t usually bottom. Doesn’t like the feeling of anything touching him there, although Val’s tried many times to slip his fingers inside when he thinks Vox is otherwise distracted.
His erection flags slightly at the thought of Val. No, no, he was finally getting there—
You’d do it for me though, wouldn’t you? Alastor’s voice inside his head. If I wanted you beneath me, you’d roll over and present yourself, wouldn’t you?
“Yes…” Vox whispers. It comes out in his own voice.
You’d be my little bitch, wouldn’t you?
“Yes…” Vox closes his eyes and forces the words out.
Alastor scoffs.
You’d make a pretty woman. A cock is wasted on you.
A cable shoots out to grab the handle of Vox’s nightstand, yanking open the drawer so quickly it rips out from the slide, sending the entire contents flying. The end of his cable wraps around the half empty bottle of Voktek branded, blueberry flavoured lube and flicks the cap off, depositing a generous amount onto Vox’s bloodied inner thighs and flinging away the bottle.
He hisses at the frigid temperature of the lubricant hitting his skin, claws swiping through the gel to gather up enough to rub against his rim, pushing his fingers inside desperately. He begins jerking himself off again frantically, underarms prickling with fresh sweat, fans kicking into overdrive as his body desperately tries to keep his processors from overheating.
“Look at you,” the voice comes out of his speakers, unbidden, “so desperate for it. Disgusting.”
Vox can feel tears well at the corners of his eyes. He growls angrily, voice cracking on an aborted half yell as he plunges his fingers harder, deeper inside himself, claws raking against the inside of his walls as he draws blood, the sensation getting stickier, the sharp metallic smell emanating around the room.
An error message pops up at the corner of his screen, warning him that he’s currently bleeding internally. Vox tosses the error message into the trash can.
“Incredible, that you would reduce yourself to this pitiful state. No self-preservation at all! How fascinating,” Vox spits, mouth broadening into an unnaturally manic grin as he continues to mimic the voice that plagues him every single day of his godforsaken afterlife.
His heels kick into the mattress, hips lifting higher off the bed as he works himself over, trying to find that particular spot that will cease this misery quicker. His cock feels wet with precum, dripping messily from the head. God, he’s so pathetic.
“You’re so pathetic,” Alastor hisses into the night air, almost drowned out by the sound of his fans whirring at full speed. “F-filthyyy.”
He chokes on the last word, glitching momentarily. He can feel the heat lick through him, wave swelling, rising higher and higher as he brings himself closer to the edge. He’s so close, he’s so close, he’s almost there, finally—
“I loathe you,” Alastor hisses from Vox’s lips. “Fucking garbage. Worthless cunt.” Voice slipping, gagging on the stream of drool dripping down his chin, he pushes so deep inside himself he shrieks in pain.
“I hate you,” he gasps. “I hate you, I hate you, I h-h-hate you!”
Hmm? Smirks Alastor inside his head. And exactly who is it you hate, darling?
“Vox,” Alastor spits out. “I despise you, Vincent.”
Vox screams, electricity shrieking down his body, scorching the sheets and frying his internal wiring. He can feel his body shutting down, error messages wailing at him, flashing red, red, red as he comes.
Before his systems shut down, Vox swears he hears laughter over the airwaves.
The tower goes black.