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It's the best kind of night, the kind where they're out on the town and all fucking on, Valentino exuding sweetness and ravenous sex, Vox a creature of dazzling charm and confidence, Velvette looking so fucking hot that her competitors would all be lining up to slit their wrists right now if it would do anything, talking a mile a minute and every word sarcastic and brilliant. Maybe they were all a little bit high on Val's smoke and some very nice alcohol Vox had ordered and just the tiniest bit of cocaine from the emergency stash Velvette always keeps in her pocket, but dope goggles could only do so much, as Val was fond of saying in more negative contexts. They were all so fucking sexy and they were going to rule Hell and they were all going home with each other.
Velvette thinks that if the bitches who used to talk shit about her in high school saw this—-and then decides that's a pretty good caption, and types one-handed while stealing a really killer cannoli from Vox's plate. thinking abt britney and ashley from high school today. can u believe anyone ever thought I wouldn't make it big? Thoughtfully, she injects a bit of interaction bait with lemme get a <3 from the bitches who loved me frm the moment i touched down before moving onto the meat of the issue, and b a whatever slum of Hell you're in now, lemme know how bottom-feeder dick tastes, cuz i'd never know!
Vox flashes his best killer smile for the camera, Val lolls his tongue out and winks over the top of his rose-colored glasses, and Velvette knocks over the wine bottle half crawling onto the table to get them all in the picture. It's fine; rolling on its side shows the date, the obvious expense, but the precious remnants glugging onto the expensive tablecloth are giving irreverent fuck-you style, and even if Vox won't admit it that's as much of their brand as perfection is.
And hey, if you really squint and tilt your head to the side, the shape kind of looks like a heart.
Velvette seats herself between the boys in the limo, engaging what she can of the judgement centers of her brain, in an attempt to keep what Vox had once referred to—in a grandpa moment—as 'hanky-panky' to a minimum. It's more about breaking Valentino of his Pavlovian conviction that limos are a place to fuck in than actual concern about eyes and ears, but it never hurt to practice restraint. Everyone knew they were fucking, but it was important to keep the details a mystery. Arguments about who topped and why and outraged (read: horny and mad about it) speculation about the exact nature of their relations got them a decent amount of engagement and attention every week.
Besides, it's nice to have this just for them. Like there's photos and videos Velvette would never post, there's moments she doesn't want scrutinized, and fucking make up a not insubstantial amount of them. She doesn't want to feel observed when she's really cutting loose (except in the context of her and Val noticing the turn of a camera and deciding to put on a show for Vox).
Unfortunately, Vox seems to take the absence of heavy petting as an opportunity to question her about the upcoming ''new season'' show she's doing. The weather is always the same, Hell never freezes over, the length of the day never varies, but the beauty of that is she can declare a new season whenever she feels the latest one is losing steam, and call it whatever she wants. Half Autumn. Lust. Season of the Witch. Hardcore. Love Potion. Get the look, get the drug. They won't be able to say no. Sales for the potion were steady, but the outfits have nearly slowed enough to replace.
Point being, she's done this a thousand times, she doesn't need solicitous interrogation about how the timeline is looking, whether she has enough materials, whether she needs some of the models that had suffered nervous breakdowns transferred back from Vox or Val's departments (she doesn't, she doubts they've marinated enough in either tech support or hard drugs to not immediately break down again). Usually her glares and snapped responses make Vox take the hint, but either her dagger eyes or his judgement is being softened by substances, because he just keeps going.
By the time they get to the tower, she's fuming and Vox has gone maddeningly pleasant in response, and Valentino is clearly finding it funny (asshole) by the grin he half tries to hide by tucking his head down in his ruff. If Velvette hadn't had to focus completely on not tottering on her platform heels all the way to and up the elevator, she'd have punched them both in the throat before they got to the penthouse.
As it is, she gives them both a glare and dodges away from Val's attempt to pet her hair when they all spill into the common area between their rooms.
Vox clicks his tongue gently (obnoxiously). "What's got you out of sorts, my dear?"
God, he was getting more Good-Morning-America by the minute. "Stop doin' your fucking voice."
Vox's speakers slur some tinny canned chuckle. "Now, something seems to have Velvette upset," he talk-show-host-voices at her, making Valentino cackle and inelegantly slump against the door he'd just locked behind them for support. "Let's go to Valentino with the weather. Valentino, thoughts on the situation?"
Velvette smacks his arm, accomplishing nothing. "It's not sexy," she says. "It's the opposite of sexy." She wobbles, and kicks out of one high heel, fighting with the other while bracing herself on the wall. These laces had seemed so much simpler a few hours ago. "Maybe I won't even fuck you at all. Stupid."
"I wouldn't be too worried," Valentino says; Valentino is the opposite of talk-show, low and purring, a backalley bedroom camshow kind of voice. "Conditions are—" he cracks up at his own stupid joke before he spits it out, " —wet."
She should never have let him slip his hand up her skirt under the table. Her other high heel clatters on the floor and she stamps her foot on the elaborate rug, flipping them both off for good measure. Vox catches her hand and, before she can haul off and slap him or anything, bends his head over it; the weird pressure of warm glass that moves, lips on her skin, the tiniest teasing prickle of static, arrests her motion. He steps closer, sliding his grip to her wrist, pins the hand he'd just kissed up against the wall. Velvette draws a shaky breath.
"I remember you promised to behave earlier," he says, his voice barely talkshow now that he's gotten what he wants; smug prick, she'd almost forgotten about that, that's why he's been trying to rile her up all the way back to the tower. "So are you going to stop giving us attitude, young lady?"
His blue glow through the darkness is like the TV screen that raised her while her mom passed out drunk in the kitchen, the first place she learned about power and cruelty and beauty before she graduated to the internet. Her childhood altar. Vox being an idiot half the time doesn't mean Velvette doesn't want to sink her teeth into that power, swallow it, get on her knees and get it inside her. But there's no fun in taking it without a fight. Fury giving way to excitement, she smirks, meeting Vox's glowing gaze head-on.
"Make me," she demands. " Daddy."
Val gives an airless giggle in the background, his wings shifting around him.
Vox isn't the best at the actual tab-a-in-slot-b shit, but when it comes after a hard spanking—with her bowed back over the couch arm with her skirt hiked up around her waist and her panties around her ankles and her ass and thighs burning deliciously from the impacts of his hand, little hair-thin burns biting into the places she's not quite flesh and he'd used shocks to get to her anyway, his hands pinning her wrists—it's good enough. She's soaking wet and hot for it and the ego trip of hearing him panting, swearing to himself, knowing how hard he'd fought not to stick it in until now, fuck— it finally pushes her past the limits of her defiance into panting, exhausted, glowing surrender.
She struggles a foot free of her panties, hooks her knee on his waist, shoves up to meet his thrusts. Looks up at him and Vox lets out a static rush of breath, like he actually breathes. He bends lower, light dimming so she can keep her eyes on him without squinting, and his voice is low and harsh and sounds so close, not the man on the TV but one in her, over her, fucking her. "You're sorry for talking back, aren't you?"
Not really, and never anywhere else, but at times like these "I am, I am," breaks from her lips like it isn't a lie. She shudders as he slams in, chest arching, fingers curling, so close, so close. "I'm sorry, Daddy, please—"
Valentino's been mostly quiet, just a simmering presence in the velvet shadows that cover most of the room, but he speaks now—his voice scraping and breathless and warm. "Give it to her, papi. She's a good girl."
"Oh, fuck," Vox hisses, hips giving an unsteady jerk. The words hook deep in the sweaty morass of Velvette's id and jerk her too, body jolting like Vox has shocked her again. She makes a noise barely recognizable to herself, a desperate little whine, and Vox releases her wrists; his voice still hoarse and near as he grips her hips instead. "Sure, you're right. She deserves it. Come on, sweetheart—"
The words the short rough thrusts that finally hit the sparking pain from the tiny wounds his fingers drag over as he pulls her to him it finally reaches enough, enough to fill her mind and push her body past the point of tension, snap it, turn her convulsive and then liquid and loose. Pleasure thudding through her in waves like bass so deep you could only feel it. Vox thrusts into her again, once more, and colors strobe across her closed eyes in tune with a stifled silence; then he bows over her and his voice and the blue light come back in a long, gasped moan. His hips push slowly, once or twice, and the human heat of him blends with the heat of an overworked machine as the slowing clenches of her cunt drain him dry.
Velvette finally opens her eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath. Slowly remembering who she was outside of fucking like this. A smile creeps onto her lips as she reaches up, running her fingers along the edge of Vox's head. Static fuzz prickles her fingers, and Vox lifts his head to look at her.
"Almost made you short-circuit there, V," she teases, her voice still soft and hoarse. "There's only so many times you can blame blackouts on some intern sticking a fork in a socket."
"I can do it until I run out of interns," Vox says, his jagged smile more genuine than the norm. He leans a little closer over her. "And I can't help how beautiful you are, my dear, or how much you test my control—"
"Gag, disliked, downvoted. You're going to give us both diabetes." She can't quite manage to suppress the smile it brings to her face, though. She kisses her fingers and taps them to his mouth; easier than angling around for a kiss in this position. "Pull out before you get stuck, idiot."
Vox does, and leans heavily on the arm of the couch; soft light spills through the room, and they both look at the windows. Valentino stands by one, tying back the curtain, letting in night-light the same color as the ember that flares on the end of his loosely held cigarette. His wings are folded back over his shoulders, his chest bare and his pants obviously loosely, recently done up over a stiff erection. Velvette is far from up to a second round immediately, but can't help but wet her lips with her tongue.
"I don't have a flashlight in my face, Vox," Val says, in response to a presumably questioning look. "And I'm going to take care of her. Sit down."
Vox hesitates. Velvette pushes his hip with her foot, sliding back further onto the couch so she isn't half-up on the arm, and says, "You heard the man. Catch your breath, V."
"Fine," Vox says, pushing himself up from the couch with the air of a man intending to prove he can walk a straight line after ten drinks. Kudos to him, he only wavers a little as he crosses to the couch opposite. "But I want you over here when you're done."
"You're bossy tonight." Val's teeth flash like the glasses that he still holds in another hand; he deposits them atop the pile of his shirt on an end table. "I like that."
Vox mutters something that sounds kind of like, "Do you?", but Val ignores him as he sweeps over to Velvette's side. Leaning over her in the smoky cigarette-cherry light, he trails his gaze up and down her body; wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he murmurs, "Open, morenita."
Velvette spreads her thighs. Val blots between them with a damp cloth, wiping up the excess that's begun to leak out of her. It's a lazy pleasure to have it done for her, to know she doesn't have to do anything more.
No pregnancy, no STDs, no overdoses, Val had said the first time she'd met him, as they looked out a window over Hell. He'd taken a drag on his cigarette, exhaled a lurid heart, smiled at her. No lung cancer. They sent us to the wrong place, mm?
She'd felt an odd, warm recognition in that moment—like he was a long-lost childhood friend, as if she'd had any of those. Guess you could call it game recognizing game. Even if she hadn't wound up with so much of it on the outside, she was a monster too, and could taste the same possibility in the sulfur-soaked air as he'd clearly been exploring for years.
Hell was only Hell if you didn't rule it.
Val interrupts her wandering thoughts by running his fingers delicately down her thighs, testing the healing burns. With the pair of hands left unoccupied by that or his cigarette, he straightens her twisted top and loosens the belt that she only now realizes has been digging into her skin. "Oh, babydoll," he cooes. "You're all messed up. He didn't hurt you too badly, did he?"
"Oh, like you weren't jerking off to it. Sadist. Ow."
"Coming off the high, huh?" Val's soft smile cracks, showing the shine of teeth. "Want another one?"
She grabs at his shoulders, silently urging him down to press their mouths together, without hesitation. Kissing Val is a thrill like... having a tiger on a leash. Skydiving. Whatever, it was fucking hot, knowing what he could do, knowing he won't do it to her. That his tongue in her mouth pairs with the delicate tension of restraint in his shoulders and the strawberry-liqueur taste in her mouth, charred by cigarette ash, will only smooth the rough edges off the world.
He kisses her throat afterward, scrapes it just slightly with his teeth, descends past her collarbone and is on the verge of disarranging the top he'd just fixed when Vox says from the other couch, "Val," his tone half warning and half annoyed. It's enough disruption to remind Velvette of what she needs right now, and she smacks Val on the shoulder.
"Get over there and bother him," she demands. "I need a minute to rest."
Val gives a yearning sigh, but rises eagerly enough. Velvette stretches her arms and drifts in the warm burn in her muscles and brain, the slick candylike taste on her tongue, listening to the handsy fumbling from the other couch gradually give way to Valentino's weekly bid to get his dick inside Vox.
"Val. We've talked about that hand placement."
"Hm?"
"Off."
"I can't touch your ass?" Val demands, in the wounded tones of a child denied a Christmas present.
"We both kn- ow what," Vox says, his voice going briefly airless and stifled, and she wonders where Val had groped him, "—you're trying to do. You'd think you get enough of that already—"
Velvette turns her head; watches one of Val's long-fingered hands slide up Vox's thigh, caressing. His voice is honeyed, wheedling, heavy. "You're making it sound so selfish. I just want to make you feel good, papi."
Vox makes a sound low in his throat, then clears it, then says, "You can emigrate back to America, the accent doesn't work on me."
"Oh no? Mi amor? Mi tigre?"
Velvette snorts, covering her face with her arm. Vox says, " Val."
"Nene?"
Through half-lowered lashes she sees Vox's hand close around the thin chain that hangs between Val's pierced nipples, turn it to gather the slack; Val gasps, and with the subtle crackle of electricity it edges into a high-pitched whine, his fingers curling against Vox's hip.
"Better." Vox's voice falls to a murmur. "Honestly, I should get you a shock collar."
It's one of those moments that puts Velvette's breath on a tightrope; both because fuck, that was hot, and because she doesn't know for a moment how it'll land. For two people who'd known each since before she came along (and that thought always twisted in her, a mean ugly little corkscrew of jealousy and toothy possessiveness with nobody to really direct it at) you'd think you could trust Vox and Val to not set each other off—but sometimes a comment or taunt went wrong, especially in the middle of sex. The subsequent violence could wind up hot, but right now she's not in the mood.
Val breathes in violence, for an obvious moment; his eyes widening, weight pulling into his shoulders, hand pressing against the couch as he rises up. But Vox's hand on the chain cuts the motion short, curls him forward instead; Vox tilts his head back to look at him, flooding Val's alien-lovely face with brightening light, and the anger melts away with a besotted sigh. He rests his forehead lightly atop Vox's screen, lips curving. "You couldn't be trusted with that, could you?" he murmurs. "How're you going to get all of your super important work done if you're watching me all the time?" He pokes a finger against Vox's screen, presumably tracing his mouth. "Waiting with your finger on the button... aching for an excuse."
"You overestimate how... distracting you can be." Vox's rough tone make his words a hilariously brazen lie; Velvette doesn't blame Valentino for smirking.
"Sure, sweetheart." Val's tongue darts out, sampling the static fizz of the glass, the hot-metallic taste (what, she's licked Vox too, she knows what it's like). "Are you gonna hurt me more, or should I make you mad first? Tell you about how I know you really want me between your—"
Vox's soft, static-hum snarl; Valentino's appreciative yip of pain. The warm taste on Velvette's tongue has spread through her body, restoring eager sensitivity to her well-used cunt. She slides a hand between her legs, touching herself lazily as she watches them.
Vox is a real fucking tease with the pain, perhaps offended by the implication he can't control his sadism, and keeps letting Valentino simmer nearly to the point of boiling over before he shocks him again. It'd probably be fine, except Velvette reaches the very satisfying conclusion that she'd really wrung him dry—his cock is showing through his pants, but it's not fully hard, and the way he moves says he isn't up to much more than the groping and grinding he keeps trying to distract Val with.
Problem being, with Val this revved up he isn't going to be satisfied with that. He's hungry; he'd definitely gotten off while watching Vox spank her, but the Overlord of Lust wouldn't be a (fan-assigned) title held by a guy who could jack off and then roll over and go to sleep. In a minute he was going to snap and pounce on Vox, or Vox was going to feel cornered and get nasty, or... well. Velvette runs her tongue over her lips, chasing the last vanishing remnants of strawberry, and slowly pushes herself off the couch. Makes her way over to thump down in the tiny space left beside Valentino's huge frame.
This is one of the things she's good at, after all; one of the things she is. The missing ingredient, the magic touch, the one capable of forging them into this unstoppable alliance. Because she's brilliant and has her finger on the pulse of the new age, because Vox is good at spin but she's good at cool, because Valentino has sex but she's hot, and because when Vox and Val get too close to ripping each other's spines out she sometimes sticks a hand in to prevent it. She runs her fingers up Val's thigh, and grins at Vox, and their attention turns to her like hot breath against her skin.
"You can keep hurting him," she says cheerfully. "But I kinda wanted to suck a dick tonight."
The crumpled false-silk of Val's wings twitches in excitement, and Vox's eyes flare with approving light. Vox shifts to the side, using the opportunity to finally strip fully of his jacket, loosen his collar and roll up his cuffs; Velvette lays her head on Val's thigh and flashes a smirk up at him. One of his unoccupied hands settles in her hair, playing with the disarranged strands.
"Babydoll," he croons. "Sure you can take it?"
Velvette rolls her eyes. "Handled it last time, didn't I?"
Val hums dubiously, possibly thinking of the few hours she'd spent crankily growling that she was fine while her sore throat mended, but Vox says, "You heard her, she can handle it." There's a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, narrowed eyes, the 'I've got an idea' look, nasty edition. "In fact..."
Velvette's cunt throbs as he wraps his fingers loosely over, nearly around, Valentino's thin throat. Val makes a shivering little noise, huge eyes flitting between Vox and Velvette's faces, feverish with anticipation.
"Hold still while she gets you off," Vox says, voice low and static-kissed. "If you forget and try to control it... I'll remind you."
"Oh," Val whines, and immediately violates the single rule by shifting against the couch, pushing his hips up. The snap of electricity stings a higher noise out of him, a yelp that turns into a breathless laugh. His hand pets at Velvette's hair; another reaches up to stroke the edges of Vox's screen. "You're both so mean."
You love it, Velvette thinks. It doesn't need saying. She slides to the floor, and it's very graceful, or at least everyone present is willing to pretend it is.
Velvette remembers jamming her hand between her thighs when Valentino practically wailed at a long lick of her tongue coinciding with Vox’s hand drifting down his chest, remembers feeling pissed that she can’t just unhinge her jaw like a broken doll’s anytime she feels like it, but everything else is kind of a blur until this moment where she slowly, groggily blinks awake. Still on the couch, naked under a considerately draped blanket; pink-lemonade morning light coming in through the thin gaps in the curtains. She feels crappy, though not as dead as she’d be if she’d tried last night while she was still alive; she knows it will fade. Was definitely worth it.
The couch opposite her is empty. Faint sounds drift from the direction of the half-open kitchen; a thump, then an offended chirp and a whining mutter in Spanish. Velvette still hablas remarkably little espanol aside from endearments and dirty talk, but from the tone and cadence she suspects it's a threat to kill the kitchen bar's whole fucking family.
Vox is doing up his tie, bent sideways to check the knot in one of the small mirrors that stud the walls. He has the air of being in a hurry, despite working two flights downstairs and being capable of traveling through electrical devices. When Velvette pushes herself up on one elbow, he picks up the sound and looks over at her; finishing with his tie, he comes to her side and bends down to kiss her. It's just a peck, a press of warm glass and static that leaves her lips tingling, and the gesture is so... A grin pulls at her mouth, and Vox frowns as he straightens. "What?"
"Have a good day at the office, honey," Velvette cooes in her girliest voice. She bats her eyelashes. "I'll have dinner on the table when you get back."
"Ha."
Huh. She'd touched a nerve. Dropping back into her normal voice, she says, "Just kidding, if my girls fucking behave and I'm free tonight, I'll fuck your brains out. Val can cook."
"On the slim chance it occurs to him, do not let Val cook."
"Get me something nice today and I'll make sure he goes nowhere near the stove."
"No blackmail before I've had my coffee," Vox says. "We agreed on that." But his shoulders have relaxed. "Now, unlike you two... creatives, I have to actually arrive at work on time."
Velvette flips him off companionably. "OK, Daddy. Get that bacon, or whatever they said in ancient times."
"...They didn't say that."
He's turning to the camera up in the nearby corner when Velvette suddenly wants to ask something; not the kind of thing they'd usually ask each other, or answer, but she's curious and she does nothing if not exactly what she wants. "Hey, Vox?"
"What?"
"Were you married?"
There's no need to qualify, back then, marriage per se doesn't exist in Hell. Holy matrimony not matching the vibe and all that. Vox is still, for a moment, then says, "Why do you ask?"
"Just wondering."
He's silent for a moment more, then shrugs, the movement almost convincingly casual. "I was."
Velvette studies his back. She could press for details, but that's not what she wants. She puts her fist under her chin. "Wasn't shit compared to this, I'm guessing."
Vox looks back; at her, and then his eyes go flat in a way she knows means he's peeking through the camera in the kitchen. Watching Valentino.
"What's he doing?" Velvette asks.
"Wings as a robe, fighting with the coffee machine, lighting up his first... second cigarette of the day." His eyes blink live again and he scoffs, closing them. "There's no point in comparing it. We have a completely different relationship, don't we?"
True, and she can also read between the lines. One million times better. Ego sufficiently stroked, she gives a lazy shrug. "Good point. Forget about it, V."
He needlessly adjusts his jacket, gives her a showman's smile that can't quite hide the real one that she knows is there, somehow, under the glass, like she's a psycho reading omens out of late-night TV.
"Already have," he says, and he's gone in a flicker of burning blue.
Velvette finds her phone, dims the screen and speed-reads her updates from the time she'd spent away, shoots off a few texts and posts. The ache in her jaw and cunt and behind her eyes and in her throat have all faded a little by the time Valentino pops up in her notifications.
babydooooooooollllll i heard u get up why aren't you coming to see me :((((
She's parched and starting to feel hungry, but she can't just waltz into the kitchen after a text like that.
make it worth my while xxx
A pause of consideration, a blip as the message comes up. coffee and u can sit on my lap, and, momentarily, or i could stick my tongue up your pussy until I can taste Voxy from last night :D
Even fucked-out as she still feels, knowing she should get her shit together so she doesn't fall asleep on her design table later, it's a tempting offer. we'll workshop that, she texts, and do you know how to cook anything? i might have to threaten V
for u i will learn babydoll
Good, she needed some genuine leverage. She'll have to think of something expensive to demand; she'd bought most of the outfits she'd had her eye on recently, and not flowers, Val always got her flowers, it was his thing... omw, she texts, and searches around for her top. She finds it, and her skirt, but her panties have vanished. Oh—lingerie, maybe. That'd make him hot under the collar, and she doesn't mind the idea herself. She'll ask Val for recommendations.
Her phone blips. If Vox was here he'd be demanding why one of them just didn't raise their voice slightly and talk to each other out loud. Val swipes the message open while pulling on her skirt.
look what i got, it says, and—oh, Val took a creepshot while she was still asleep. Curled up on her side like a child, mouth slack, eyeshadow smeared. So frighteningly vulnerable it makes her heart beat faster. A follow-up message pushes the picture up her screen. could've done anything to u
...fifty seconds of waiting and he was trying to hurry her along with dirty talk. Impatient prick. Annoyingly effective impatient prick. Coffee and a shower... in a little while. She can be a bit late for the fitting today. Make it seem like it was a test, that they'd all keep working when she wasn't there. Something like that.
sicko <3
u love me <3 <3 <3
Velvette combs her hair delicately back with her fingers and heads to the kitchen to fail at convincing him otherwise.