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When Vox finally, finally gets the opportunity to start making presentations to the Sins directly, it’s a fucking dream come true. A real wet dream of avarice and opulence and he can picture himself diving into a pile of gold like Scrooge McDuck (Vox knows about these things… what he hasn’t learned from years of being the internet, Velvette has carefully schooled him in). The idea of making so much fucking bank is heady and he hauls Val out of his studios to fuck for the rest of the afternoon so that he doesn’t buzz himself into a fucking coma just thinking about the piles of money waiting for him.
Uh.
Them. All the Vees are gonna be richer than God very soon, if all goes according to plan.
Which it doesn’t, of course.
Because it’s Hell and he’s Vox. Vox in Hell is usually fucked over by one of several things:
- Sheer fucking bad luck (like that time Valentino’s blind ass tripped over an especially important cable in the studio and somehow managed to bring down half the servers in the tower),
- Alastor (enough said about that),
- His Hellish form (electro-shark boy, for as fucking rad as that sounds, has its drawbacks),
- Fucking incompetence (with precious few exceptions, he is always surrounded by idiots no matter how hard he tries to perfect the hiring process… they always look so good on paper, but fuck HR for not vetting them properly), and
- Alastor (okay… just mentioning him once does seem like an understatement as to how much the bastard likes to fuck Vox over).
But that doesn’t mean that things didn’t start out rosy enough because they sure fucking did. He got a meeting with Mammon first (fucking Mammon, fuck yeah, take that fucking Alastor, fuck you) and when Mammon agreed that selling VoxTek Fizzbots was the way into the future, Vox sat in a cold bath for an hour afterwards to keep from overheating and melting down the entire city.
So, when Mammon invites himself over to Vee Tower, ostensibly to celebrate the mountains of cold, hard cash they’re about to start racking in, Vox welcomes him with open arms and every Hellish and Earthly delicacy he can scrounge together on such short notice. He even sends the fucking R&D nerds out into the city to hunt shit down, this is an all hands on deck kind of situation (who the fuck cares that Vel is pissed off because they are in the middle designing a new patch for one of her apps, she’ll be diving into the gold pile with him, so she needs to get some fucking perspective, fuck).
“So, you like champagne?” Vox asks while pouring Mammon a glass anyways. Val is already in the penthouse (to nap or some shit, like Val needs to nap after spending the entire day screaming at his whores instead of doing actual work) and has draped himself like a fucking slut across the chaise lounge. Crossing and uncrossing his legs like Sharon Stone and Vox is doing his level best to ignore him. “It’s the very best from Earth – even comes from the Champagne region of France, so it can actually be called champagne.”
Vox took a single class in winemaking years ago (to kill time and because the vintner offered it for free if Vox just flashed their label for two seconds during Vox-2-Nite) and he fucking knows some shit about wine.
Mammon listens to him explain champagne and the longer he speaks, the more he has to pull up webpages in the background because he quickly realizes that he might not have known as much as he thought he did (but, that’s okay, it’s some dork shit anyways, who’d wanna keep this stuff in their heads – it’s not like it’s sharks or anything interesting). He almost gets through it in one piece until he starts explaining the process of removing the ice plug. That’s when Val (fucking stupid whore bitch) lets out a snort of laughter and Vox’s screen turns bright red when he realizes what fucking words have just come out of his mouth.
“Ah… ha. That sounds dirty, but it’s really not,” he says, fighting down the flush of humiliated embarrassment to have brought up the topic of fucking ice plugs with a Sin. Mammon doesn’t look bothered, though. He looks intrigued - which should’ve been the first red flag, but Vox is too steeped in embarrassment to notice.
“All the best things are dirty,” Val offers, and Vox casually flips him off behind his back. Mammon frowns.
“All the best things are money,” the Sin counters. Vox will off Val then himself if the silly whore tries to say something clever – thankfully, Val does not take the opportunity to demonstrate why the other Vees have him listed as “That Tall Himbo 🍆” in their phones. He only inclines his head with a smirk.
“Hey, we respect all kinks around here. Right, Voxy?”
“Ha! Right!” He sends a text to Val telling him to fuck off. Hopefully, he’ll look and – good. Val rolls his eyes and slips his phone into the magical pockets that somehow appear when he needs to stash his phone but aren’t visible at any other time (his fucking dick, however, is almost always visible in outline in those fucking disco pants, the hot fucking mess). He does, however, take a moment to slap Vox’s ass (so much harder than is strictly necessary to prove his point, the dumb fuck) and leers down at the smaller demon.
“Don’t be too good, baby,” he purrs and fucking slinks from the room in a haze of purple smoke and primo Mary Jane. Vox takes a deep breath, hoping for a contact high, and returns his gaze to Mammon.
“Can I get you something to eat?” he asks. “We’ve got chefs on-call twenty-four hours a day. Only the best, too. One of them baked cakes for fucking Marie Antoinette.”
“Is that a euphemism?”
Vox blinks, unsure how it would be a euphemism and shakes his head after a moment of consideration. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Good.” Mammon reaches out suddenly and grabs Vox around the shoulders, dragging him in close. “I like you, Box.”
“Vox.” He swallows and finds himself rather… engulfed in the Sin’s embrace. “It’s, uh, it’s Vox.”
“That’s right, ya dickhead!” Vox is momentarily proud that he knows his own name. Then he waits patiently for Mammon to let him go. It takes an entirely too long for this to happen and his heart skips an anxious beat when Mammon holds him at arm’s length. And stares. “Crikey. I do like you. Fucking shocking – Sinners are usually nasty little shit stains.”
Vox smiles weakly and is abruptly aware of how fucking big Mammon is. And not big like Val. Because, shoot, Vox won’t deny he’s got a bit of thing for size differences It’s nothing to be ashamed of if he likes being held down and fucked properly by someone three feet taller and a whole lot more muscular than he is (shit, fuck, he’s getting hard, fuck). Big like if Mammon fucked him, Vox would probably be stuck in traction for weeks afterwards.
“Thanks,” he says. “You’re pretty keen, too.”
Fucking… what? What did he just say? Mammon’s eyes narrow a little before he evidently decides to let Vox’s verbal diarrhea slide (ugh… no pun intended). He slaps Vox hard on the shoulder and throws back the last of his champagne and commands Vox to show him the aquarium. He informs Vox that he’s got connections if Vox is ever interested in swimming in a real ocean and that is almost enough to make forget who he’s dealing with. So, Vox does and pretends not to notice Mammon’s massive fucking paw on him the entire damn time.
Only after the Sin leaves does Vox sit heavily at the head of the dining room table (like the fucking head of the household that he is struggling to remind himself that he is) and stay there until Val returns with a shit-eating grin and Velvette in tow. She manages to get a picture or two before he remembers that he can move again and laughs like a fucking witch when he tries to banish them from his presence (his castle, it’s still his fucking castle).
“Is Val right?” she demands. “Is Mammon in love with you?”
“Fuck you,” Vox snarls in return, trying to shove past them only for Val to grab him around the waist and hoist him into the air to keep him from escaping. Vox lets out a manly yelp and flails pointlessly until he’s set down in Val’s lap like the moth is fucking Horny Santa or some shit (to be clear, Val is fucking Santa in this analogy… he is not fucking Santa… not that he hasn’t done that before in some really distasteful pornos, but Vox isn’t really into that so he’s not going to think about that when he’s in Val’s lap). Val kisses his screen and gives him a squeeze.
It’s humiliating.
But Vox likes the attention, so he lets Val snuggle him for a minute before the bastard tries to cop a feel and he disappears into the electrical grid to reappear on the other side of the room. He crosses his arms over his chest and tries hard to look unruffled.
“Mammon is not in love with me, Vel. Don’t be stupid.” Her eyebrows meet the ceiling, and Vox carefully avoids her stare. “He loves my big, beautiful, money-making brain.”
He refuses to think of what it would mean if Mammon was in love with him. Or worse, if Mammon wanted to fuck him. Because that was way worse. Worse even than if Alastor wanted to fuck him (why didn’t Alastor want to fuck him?).
Heh. Alastor should be so lucky.
“Your brain ain’t that big.” Velvette cackles again and Vox’s hands curl into fists. “Your head is fucking flat.”
“Fucking clever. Fucking original.” Vox spins on his heel and throws his middle finger into the air as he storms off. “You’re both fucking comedians!”
In fairness, Val does try to make him laugh later when they fuck but Vox isn’t interested in laughing. He tells a few crass jokes that Vox usually laughs at because they’re so fucking dumb, but not tonight. He’d really rather stew in his angst over the potential of having a Sin being in love with him, but it’s hard to focus on Mammon when Val does that thing with his dick that makes Vox scream.
He swings Vox up and around so that Vox is sitting squarely in Val’s lap. Again… there’s something going on with that tonight, he’s sure, but he’s not going to be the one to bring it up (it’s probably some dumb shit Angel Dust told Val about and now he's reaping the benefits). He’s relentless and, hey, it does eventually become a good distraction. He won’t give Val the satisfaction of saying that, of course, but he does kiss him until Vox is dizzy with it.
By the time they’re done, Vox is boneless and laying on top of Val panting. His screen is fuzzing out to gray now and then, but he does force himself to adjust his head enough to look Val in the eye.
“He’s not in love with me,” Vox gasps and Val pats his head condescendingly.
“Don’t worry, papi,” Val says. “I’m sure it’s only a crush.”
“On my big, beautiful, money-making brain?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Vox frowns, sensing Val’s cunty reply before he says it like Vox has a cunty bitch Spidey Sense. “There’s no way he’s interested in your flat little ass.”
Vox punches him hard, electrocutes him a little for good measure, and retreats to his own bed to try and sleep. He’s got a board meeting in the morning that he’d prefer not to be sloppy with fatigue for when his Executive Vice-Whatever’s explain how they fucked up this month - though he might pop a few pills beforehand and sit through it in a drug-induced daze.
The board meeting is fine if dull (Vox decides against the pills in favor of doing lines of coke with Val afterwards). Bree-Something-Or-Other reports having lost precisely three hundred thousand dollars on the most recent app development (“Sinners just don’t want to know when their grandparents are fucking, sir!”). But, it was Val’s idea, so Vox makes a note to only dock her next twelve paychecks (it’s an arbitrary number but it seems reasonable) and not give her to Val to execute the next time he’s having Big Feelings ™.
And it stays dull until the very end when Mammon attempts to sneak into the back of the room and Vox nearly chokes on his tongue. He gracefully covers his shock by gulping down water from the glass in front of him, almost drowning himself, and slumping back in his chair while his employees can’t seem to make up their minds about who to stare at in slack-jawed horror. When he recovers, he points to the door and warns them that the last one to leave is getting twenty thousand volts to the brain stem. This results in an epic, if hasty, slap fight between two men who used to trade stock on Wall Street. It's beautiful but Vox is a bit anxious to really appreciate it.
“Aw, it’s over?” Mammon asks, looking disappointed. “I was hoping to see you in action.”
Is… that a euphemism?
“I don’t really do much in these things,” he says. “They’re here to impress me, not the other way around.”
“Maybe next time?” Mammon is hopeful, Vox thinks. He supposes he can make a concession to Mammon’s desire (oh god) to see him in action.
“Sure.” Vox watches as Mammon approaches him and takes a seat next to him. Without warning, he spins Vox’s chair so that he’s fully facing the Sin and Vox flings his hand up onto the table without thinking. He can feel his eyes widening and his heart starts to race when Mammon fucking eyeballs him.
Eyeballs.
Vox hasn’t been eyeballed since he was a young man. It’s unsettling AF. No cap.
“Look, you’re a fucking cutie,” Mammon tells him, leaning in close. Vox goes very still, except for his claws which instinctively gouge massive grooves into the boardroom table. “For a Sinner, obviously. Fucking weird as fuck with the head, but weird is okay. I can make money with weird – kinky weirdos always pay top dollar when you put something on the market that caters to their weird kinks.”
“Thanks,” Vox says on autopilot. “I made it myself.”
“What the fuck?”
“My head,” he amends, clearing his throat. “I, uh, built it. And installed it.”
“Oh.” Mammon eyes him. “Is that some nerd shit or something?”
Vox hesitates then shakes his head. He’s fairly certain it is some nerd shit but he’s getting the impression that nerd shit (even in this objectively cool context) is not something that Mammon is interested in. Even if the nerds spend as much (if not more) than the horndogs. And, not for nothing, market research has shown that the Venn Diagram of nerd and horndog is really more of a single circle anyways.
“No, sir. No nerd shit.”
“Good. Nobody likes smart people anyways.” He reaches over and flicks Vox’s antenna. “Cute and stupid is where the money’s at, mate.”
Mate? Mate?!
“Of course, sir. I can be stupid.” Vox inwardly cringes as his mouth stretches into what he hopes is a dopey (and not just demented) grin. Mammon once again stares before patting him hard on the top of the head and getting to his feet.
“Well, good.” The Sin leans in once more, forcing Vox to press himself against the back of his chair. Has his mouth gone dry? Shit. He activates the lubricating system and feels saliva flow back into his mouth. “But not too stupid. Too stupid and we’ll lose money.” Mammon’s eyes light up menacingly. “And you’re not cute enough to lose money over.”
“Ha.” Vox, for once, is glad that he’s a weird-looking motherfucker. “Nothing I hate more than losing money.” (And Alastor. Fuck Alastor.)
Vox stays another ten minutes after Mammon leaves his boardroom with his screen buried in his hands. This was getting weird. Fucking weird. Fortunately, Vox has removed his own head and replaced it with a new model on more than one occasion, so he is personally acquainted with weird. Of course, swapping out body parts is somehow nowhere near as intimidating as having an ancient creature from the dawn of humanity have the hots for him, but Vox is nothing if not adaptable.
He spends the evening working on the presentation that Carmilla agreed to let him give the following day at the Overlord meeting in between rounds of vigorous fucking with Val. Thankfully, Val isn’t feeling quite as athletic as he was the night before, but he’s got some kind of bug up his ass and seems to be under the impression that the only way to get it out is with Vox’s dick. Vox is, of course, happy to oblige.
“Heard a rumor,” Val states serenely, and Vox squints up at the ceiling.
“Not now.” He’s doing some of his best work and Val isn’t even paying attention.
“Did Mammon really come to a board meeting?”
He sounds entirely too calm and Vox gives up because he knows Val is just going to keep fucking talking until he gets what he wants. Why in the fuck Vox keeps falling for mouthy bitches who like to torture him is a question for Freud himself, though he assumes the only answer he’d get in return would involve some hitherto unknown Oedipal Complex lurking deep in his psyche and Vox isn’t about that – he’s got a perfectly normal relationship with his mother, thanks. Vox falls backwards onto the mattress and sighs.
“Yeah, he sure fucking did.”
“Hmm.” Val looks contemplative. That scares Vox a little. “We should exploit this, baby.”
“No.”
“Do you not want to fuck Daddy Mam?”
“Fuck you.” Vox sighs. “I don’t think I do.”
“Then you probably shouldn’t flirt with him.”
“I haven’t been flirting with him.”
“I know you think haven’t but that weird salesman thing you do confuses people.” Val shrugs. “I think people think you’re just badly flirting with them.”
“If I’m flirting with someone, they’re going to fucking know it.” Val looks away and Vox sits up. “Val. They fucking know it. Right? Val?”
They eventually go back to their previous activity, though Vox has to focus now because he’s so wrapped up in the dawning acceptance that Mammon does have a crush on him and it isn’t just his idiot partners teasing him. He still gets the job done (Vox ain’t no bitch with performance problems, fuck that noise), but it does take longer than usual, and he isn’t as keen on cuddling with Val afterwards. In fact, he isn’t keen at all.
The word keen now leaves a sour taste on the back of his tongue.
When he strolls into Carmilla’s boardroom the next day (two boardrooms in as many days is one too many boardrooms; he prefers Vooming into meetings – he can watch and control everything with the added benefit of not being physically there in case folks decide to get rowdy and try to stage a hostile takeover or some shit like they think they’re in fucking Wall Street, dramatic bitches), Alastor is waiting for him with a smile.
Well, maybe he isn’t waiting for Vox so much as he happened to arrive before Vox did, but that’s just semantics. He’d prefer to think that the Radio Demon is just so fucking eager to see him that he comes to the Overlord meeting early just for the hope of the chance of seeing Vox for an extra thirty seconds. Vox sneers at him in greeting and sits down heavily across from the stinky fucker, making sure to assert his dominance with a calculated manspread. Even if it is under the table. Vox knows that Alastor can tell by the set of the Media Overlord’s shoulders that he’s making accommodations for BDE (and, of course, his actual big dick).
“You’re looking well, Vox,” Alastor says pleasantly. Vox shifts in his chair, realizing he can’t see the Radio Demon’s hands. He hopes that the bitch isn’t planning to disembowel him – that’s just gum up his whole afternoon.
“And you’re looking ugly.” Strong start. “Uglier. Than usual. Your hair isn’t even shiny today.”
Alastor bats his eyes. “You’ve noticed the shine of my hair?”
“Fuck you, of course I haven’t.” Vox scoffs. “It’s just a fucking saying. Which you don’t know because you’re too busy drowning your brain cells in fucking moonshine and Cab Calloway to keep up with. Old-timey shit like that, you know? Your hair isn’t even shiny today is fucking trending right now. I’m fucking saying shit that’s trendy.”
He is beyond grateful when Carmilla calls the meeting to order before he can continue. Before Alastor can say some smartass comment to undermine him, Vox leaps to his feet and launches into his prepared spiel.
“Get ready to have your minds blown with the fantastic new VoxTek product, which I am prepared to offer to you, my fine Overlord peers, at a two percent discount! That’s right, a whole two–”
“Hey-o! There’s my boy!” A booming voice echoes through the boardroom and Vox feels the blood (and other robotic fluids) drain from his face. He turns slowly, eyes widening with horror, as Mammon bounds into the room with a fucking beaming smile splashed across his terrible face. Could a man die from humiliation? The way Alastor’s grin suddenly sharpens indicates that yes, that is a possibility. “There’s Hell’s sexiest Sinner!”
Alastor’s grin is growing meaner by the second and Vox wants to melt through the floor below, but he thinks that maybe Mammon will just follow him anyways, melted or not.
“Mammon!” he says with an edge of hysteria in his voice. Rosie and Carmilla exchange a glance. “How – uh, why… this is an Overlord meeting. For Overlords.” Vox looks around to mostly unsympathetic stares. Only Zeezi momentarily appears to be on his side, though she changes her mind easily enough and raises her phone to start filming. For posterity, he’s sure.
“Yeah, obviously, mate.” Mammon sits down beside Alastor and grins widely. Alastor takes a moment to study the Sin beside him (the absolute fucker) and turns slowly back to Vox, his eyes blazing with cruel delight. “Just wanted to see one of your pitches to the masses in person. It’s really fucking hot.”
Alastor barks out a laugh that he quickly turns into a cough before Mammon can catch on but Vox only stares. “You’re… going to stay?”
“Duh, ya silly bitch.” Mammon waves his hand impatiently. “Off you go.”
“Yes, please, Vox,” Alastor all but purrs. Vox wants to crush his stupid head between his fingers and punt that deer across a lake of bubbling lava. “We’re all so eager to hear about your latest endeavor.”
Vox tries. He really fucking does but it’s really hard not to look like a complete asshole any time he stammers when Mammon flashes him a thumbs up or waves his hands along encouragingly. Vox assumes it’s encouraging, but it could also be the Sin telling him to move it along, he’s got other important people to terrorize – which seems entirely plausible. Alastor is drooling black blood down his chin and those fucking radio dials are all but spinning in his eyes by the time Vox is done explaining the latest security options that the nerds in R&D have come up with. He half-hopes the Radio Demon will choke on his own fucking spit and die, but Vox knows Alastor isn’t decent enough to do him that solid.
By the time he’s done and sinks into his seat (alone on the unspoken Vee side of the table because Val cancelled at the last minute and Vel is too much of a bitch to change her precious schedule to make sure he doesn’t have to spend entire meeting alone, sensing Alastor’s rancid breath wafting across the table at him without the moral support to get him through), Vox feels weak and nauseous in a way he never has after giving a presentation.
Is this love?
It’s not.
Vox knows that and spends some time after the meeting, as the rest of the Overlords begin to file out, pretending to organize a stack of blank papers in front of him. They’re not all blank – the top sheets have text and interesting tables and charts on them, but since his assistant had melted down in a full nervous breakdown when he demanded a full report ten meetings before the meeting, he had to make do somehow (neurotic loser was going on Vox’s list of employees to throw in Val’s way the next time he was on the warpath). He stands quickly as Mammon approaches.
He isn’t interested in being pressed back in his chair again. Well, maybe… he’ll ask Val about that later.
“That was good,” Mammon practically purrs, and Vox feels sparks fly off the end of his antennae (get it together). He can do this. He fucking bagged the biggest baddie in the Seven Rings – if he can handle Val’s shit (most of the time), he can do this. Vox smooths his hand down his lapel and offers Mammon a smoldering smirk.
“It was good, wasn’t it?” He leans in a little, getting in Mammon’s space this time. Being the fucking dominant one, fuck yeah. “I make making money looking fucking sexy.”
Mammon nods and gets right back in his space and Vox fights every instinct in his pathetic Sinner body to lurch away. He’s certain if he had a tail, it’d be tucked right up between his legs when the Sin claps his hands on Vox’s shoulders. But he’s not scared, even though Mammon is like at least twice his height – he just has a healthy sense of caution and self-preservation, all right? Nothing more than–
“I should have you teach all my people how to do what you do. Fucking genius, you are.” Wow. Wow, okay. Had Mammon clocked his praise kink? No. There was no way – unless… fucking Val. If fucking Valentino had somehow told Mammon that he liked to be called a good boy in very specific sexual circumstances, he would murder the skyscraper motherfucker. Not permanently but if Val wanted to know what it felt like to have one hundred thousand volts straight up the ass, well, then Vox could oblige. “Hey!”
Vox jerks out of his thoughts and finds himself tucked up under Mammon’s arm as the Sin strolls with him across Carmine’s boardroom. Oh. Oh, fuck. They were strolling. Where should he put his hands?
“Where the fuck do you keep going?” Mammon asks, giving him a flick in the center of his screen. Vox stares up at him with an open mouth for two seconds too long before he jerks himself out of Mammon’s grip.
“I have to piss!” he blurts out, and hurries out of the boardroom, trying really hard not to picture the look of combined confusion and disgust on the Sin’s face. He can fix it tomorrow (send Mammon some money or some shit), but right now he needs to get the fuck out of here.
He manages to escape into the elevator before Mammon can properly paw at him and presses himself against the wall before he realizes that Alastor is just fucking standing there. Grinning like a fucking ghoul. Vox eases himself off the wall and casually straightens his tie.
“Why the fuck are you hanging back?” he asks. “Finally ready to beg for deez nuts?”
Alastor doesn’t look offended. That’s not good. Vox doesn’t sweat in the strictest sense of the term, but a bead of condensation still makes its way down his spine to pool in the small of his back. The fucker cocks his head.
“Why, Vox, how unchivalrous! I wouldn’t dream of getting in the middle of what appears to be true love.”
Shit. Alastor noticed? Fuck. Fucky fuck. Fucking fucker fuckface. Fuck him.
“Jealous it’s not you?” Vox wiggles his eyebrows and leers. If nothing else, the overt sexuality of the conversation should sour Alastor’s taunting. Frigid bitch has a low threshold.
“To not have found my soulmate?” There’s a distinctly Australian accent on the last word. Alastor leans forward and Vox’s leer drops. “Oh, Vox. I am truly happy for you. Do you think you’ll give it all up, though, when Mammon finally makes an honest man out of you?”
“It’s not like that,” Vox insists, unsure why he’s being honest. With Alastor, of all demons. And it’s also… not not like that. He thinks. “We’re not even fucking yet.”
“Of course not, dear.” Alastor traces his finger over Vox’s lapel, and the Media Overlord slaps his hand away. “I expect he’ll want you to be able to wear white to the wedding. What a disappointment he’s in for!”
“Go dry hump a gramophone!” Vox shouts and flips Alastor off furiously.
Alastor waves at him agreeably and Vox storms out of the elevator, pointedly ignoring the staff member who tries to escort him out of the building like he’s some n00b who doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going. He flips them off, on principle, and zaps himself into the electrical field the moment he steps outside.
Vox retreats into his man cave for the next seventy-two hours and when Val comes to hunt him down, he’s stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers, pacing back and forth while he tries to think of some way to get out of this. Because fuck trying to fix it – he’s had a minute to think now and he’s not actually sure he can do this, Scrooge McDuck fantasy or not.
Naturally, Val is, once again, an evil bitch and just smiles and smokes instead of fucking helping him brainstorm (that’s exactly what his brain feels like right now – a fucking storm). Finally, he spins on his heel and jabs a finger in the fucker’s direction.
“Help me, you fetid sack of jizz or I will melt down every single dildo in a fifty-mile radius!” He cackles loudly, distinctly unhinged and probably not helping his case (hey, he is just trying to do his best right now). “Let’s see you go fuck yourself then, huh?”
Val smirks. “I told you not to flirt just to get in good with Daddy Mam if you didn’t want him to actually fuck you.” Vox twitches. “But did you listen to me? No, you did not. You just swung those little hips and flat ass around without hearing a word otherwise, and now your mouth has written a check that your ass can’t cash.”
“Fuck you!” Vox shrieks and resumes pacing. “I’m not letting that goofy-ass Spider-Clown fuck me, Sin or not.”
“What do you think he sounds like when he comes?” Val wonders and Vox gives up. He slumps to the ground beside the nearest server, covering his face. Val, of course, ignores all social cues and continues. “Do you think he makes bicycle horn honks? Mierda, like one of those little clown horns they like to honk. Beep beep, Voxy.”
Vox wishes he had the ability to cry and instead settles for letting out an electronic warbling as a substitute. Val ignores this, too.
“Do you think he smells like popcorn or cotton candy?” Vox continues to die inside. “Or hot dogs? Oh, Voxy, I bet he smells like hot dogs and honks like a bicycle horn when he comes. That’s such a specific kink, baby, I’m so proud of you for branching out.”
Vox does not have the energy to electrocute Val, but he does put it on his calendar for next week.
“Is there Double Hell?” he asks dully. “Because that’s where you belong, Val.”
Val squats down in front of him and pats his head in the most patronizing manner that Vox is sure he knows how. “Aw, papi. Want to know what I really think?”
“You’re thinking about his dick or something else terrible, aren’t you?” Vox sniffs and looks away.
“I… I’m not not thinking about his dick.” He hates Val, he decides. More than usual. “Look, Voxy, I think the only way out is through.”
“What,” Vox breathes in horror, “the fuck does that mean?”
“It means… Vox, I think you gotta let Mammon fuck you.” Val raises his hands defensively when Vox sends a bolt of electricity straight to the bastard’s heart. “Nah, stop it, baby. Killing me is only gonna mean you’ll have to wait for me to regenerate to hear the rest of my plan.”
“To be clear: the plan is to let Mammon fuck me.” He narrows his eyes. “Or, what? To seduce Mammon into fucking me?”
“You sure aren’t gonna be topping.” Vox buries his face back in his hands.
“This is your fault.”
“No!” Val’s voice is high and indignant. “I warned you, Voxy. I told you to hide that slutty little waist.”
“You said you liked my slutty waist!” Vox shrieks behind his hands.
“I do, papi! I do!” Val tuts. “Ugh. He’s gonna stretch you all out.”
Vox zaps himself away into atoms, knowing for certain that he’s going to lose what’s left of his mind if he continues this conversation with Val.
Later the next day, when Vox finally emerges from solitude, he finds Velvette and Valentino in deep, worrying conversation. He creeps ever closer until Velvette whips her head around (so reminiscent of the Radio Bitch that Vox nearly pops an instinctual stiffy) and stares at him. Vox folds his hands in front of him. Playing it so cool, so cool he’s too cool for fucking school.
“We’ve decided that you got yourself into this mess and you have to get yourself back out of it.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Vox demands. “He’s obviously in love with me! And we’re making so much money!”
Velvette scoffs. “Which is why you gotta take one for the team, ya mook.”
“I… I’ve never fucked a clown before,” he admits, trying to pretend like that’s the reason he’s feeling a certain way about this.
“He’s more like a sentient sack of money,” Vel argues. “But don’t worry. We’ll help you. Ride or die, Vox.”
Vox smiles a little. “Ride or die, Vel.”
He sits down, feeling a little better with Velvette involved. He’s certain that with just Val’s advice, he stands the very real risk of double-death.
“Maybe he isn’t totally into clowns,” Val says thoughtfully. Vox looks up. “Maybe, maybe, he’s got some other kink that we should exploit.”
Vox thinks about that for a moment and frowns, dawning realization crashing over him as he plays back the latest round of bullshit he remembers Mammon blathering on about. “No.”
“Oh, you thought of something, didn’t you?”
Velvette gasps, hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, shit!”
“Shut your fucking mouth, Vel!” Vox hisses. “Don’t fucking say it!”
“He was talking about adding more cowboys and horses to his circus,” she offers to the group traitorously. “What if he likes… gets off on all that Western Americana bullshit?”
“He’s Australian.”
“Same thing, right?” Vox asks, ignoring the angry cat sounds that escape both Val and Vel. “Oh, fuck off. How the fuck would I know about this shit?”
“I…” Vel looks down at her tablet and begins to nod slowly. “I could dress you up.”
“I’m not dressing up,” Vox declares. “No fucking way. I don’t care if your fucking face caught on fire and was melting in front of me and the only way to put it out was to throw on a pair of assless chaps.”
Val looks him over and hums. Vox’s hands ball into fists. “How have I never seen you in assless chaps before, baby? All the roleplay we do and not once have you put on assless chaps for me.”
“I don’t do assless chaps.”
“Everyone does assless chaps.” Val frowns. “I feel like I’ve failed you, Voxy. You’d look so fucking good in assless chaps and I’ve never put you in them before? What kind of director am I? Babydoll, can you like conjure up a pair of assless chaps for us right now?”
“Stop saying assless chaps,” Vel snarls, “or I’ll sew both of your mouths shut.”
Vox flashes “TRY IT” across his screen and retreats to the couch to flips through trashy reality shows while a growing sense of impending doom blossoms in his gut. Occasionally, he glances over to where Vel is hunched over her tablet with a hot pink stylus clutched in her claws. She shows the tablet to Val, and they look over together. Vox shrinks back a little when Val winks and runs his tongue over his teeth.
Eventually, Vel shoos him to his bedroom to try on a series of new outfits. Vox carefully selects a tight pair of black pants to wear under the assless chaps and slides the abominations up his legs and fastens them with a stylized “V” belt buckle. It’s garish and awful and he feels like he’s starring in one of Val’s pornos. The knowledge that Val will likely tear him right back out of it does not help.
When Vox finally steps out of the bedroom in his new outfit, Valentino gasps and presses his fingers to his chest in astonishment.
“Ay dios mío, that is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen,” he breathes and Vox blue-screens.
He is in no way surprised that when he comes to, his head is in Val’s lap. Entirely too close to Val’s dick and since he’s not planning on giving Val a blowie right now, Vox struggles upright with a groan.
“Get off.”
“Once you’re done having a tizzy spell, Val is going to help you get ready.”
“For what?”
“We texted Mammon from your phone.” Vox lurches toward Vel and she darts away with the ease of someone who hasn’t just had their brain forcibly reset. “He’ll be here in an hour. You have a whole hour to get your shit together and not fuck us all.”
“Not right now anyways,” Val offers helpfully.
Vox cradles his head in his hands. “So, no pressure. Cool.”
He watches as Vel and Val swish around the penthouse, Kitty in tow, tidying and decorating until they achieve the truly unsettling vibe of “circus cowboy harem.” Vox doesn’t take blood pressure medicine, but he should probably start. Val winks at him occasionally and Vox returns the gesture with a selection of his own.
When there’s finally a knock at the door followed by “where’s my favorite rectangular-headed guy?”, Vox stands warily and straightens the bolo tie around his neck. Val’s hands are on his shoulders and Vox glances down as Vel snakes an arm around her waist.
“If you really don’t want to do this, we’ll give him some line to make him fuck off,” Velvette whispers and Vox feels a small, burning warmth where his heart is. Was. Eh. “Seriously, Vee.”
“We’ll tell him you’re shitting yourself and he does not want to be a part of that.”
That… was less helpful but Val’s heart was probably in the right place. He gives them a squeeze (three Vees in a group hug, how awful is that?) and then pushes them away.
“I’ve been fucked before,” he tells them bravely. “I can do this.”
Maybe he can’t. Because by the time the other Vees scatter like roaches and Vox is alone with Mammon, his mouth goes dry again. Instead of panicking, he calmly listens to Mammon talk about himself (the fucker talks so much about himself without actually saying anything that he makes Alastor look shy and soft-spoken, holy fuck) and lets Mammon lead him around his apartment with a sharp-clawed hand on his shoulder.
Eventually, Vox pulls away and loosens his tie. Mammon raises an eyebrow.
“What are you doing?” the Sin asks, more curious than anything else.
It’s now or never. Vox will never be able to work up the courage to do this again if he pulls the plug now (at least it’s not an ice plug, hahaha, oh god, kill him). He takes a couple of deep breaths and secures his sluttiest smile on his screen, sliding the tie from around his neck and tossing it away. It lands on one of the candles that Val lit and starts a small fire, but Kitty helpfully puts it out before Mammon is any wiser.
“Let me show you what you’ll be working with.” Vox sways his hips a little, feeling ridiculous and overconfident (a heady mixture that surely can’t end in tragedy). “I’ll… dance for you.”
“What?” Mammon demands sharply. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Vox closes his eyes and cues up the sexiest music he can think of in the moment. All other cowboy-adjacent songs have fled his brain, and they are left listening to “Cotton-Eye Joe” as the last remaining shreds of Vox’s dignity burst into flames like his tie.
“Just trying to do something nice for you, baby,” he grinds out and begins to sway his hips, stiffly and off-beat. He slips his fingers around one of the buttons on his shirt and pops it open. “I wanna make it special.”
“Make what special?”
“This.” Vox does a sad lasso motion over his head and spins around in a circle. In his head, Velvette is screaming obscenities at him while Valentino roars with laughter. The heels of his boots tap on the ground, rhythmless for all he really is trying to keep on beat. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth but eventually he manages to choke out the next sentence. “Saddle up, c-cowboy.”
What has his afterlife come to?
A sudden loud noise snaps Vox’s eyes open, and he stares up at the massive Sin as his stomach drops straight out his ass. Metaphorically, right now, but there’s always the chance that may happen once Mammon is finished with him (fuck his life). Mammon’s eyes shift around uneasily and he clears his throat.
“I wasn’t looking to fuck you, fucking mook.” Vox blinks, thumb still over the next button. “I just wanted to spend time with you.”
“You said alone,” he says. He’s so fucking confused that he might have a stroke. “You said you wanted to get me alone.”
Mammon throws his hands into the air. “Well, of course I did! I want exclusivity, over everything. Including you. Ya dickhead.”
“So… you can fuck me?”
“No!” Mammon roars this time and Vox stumbles back a step, eyes so wide he’s worried he might break the frame of his screen. “I’m a fucking sack of money, mate, that turns into a fucking giant spider monster. And some other stuff we don’t fucking talk about, but we don’t talk about it, so we ain’t even talking about it. How the fuck am I supposed to fuck you?”
“I…” Vox is simultaneously hot and cold. He does not like it. “I… guess, I mean I thought–”
“Fucking Sinners, so fucking obsessed with fucking!” Mammon snarls. “There are more important things in the world than fucking, Vox! Like money – and making money. Then giving that money to me!”
“I…” Vox looks around like he’s somehow forgotten that they’re in his penthouse (he might have… his brain feels like it’s trickling out the side of his head). “I thought…”
“Besides,” Mammon looks him over, “this whole fucking situation is a mess. Why would I want to fuck whatever this is, even if I had a dick to fuck with?”
“We…” Vox considers rapidly. He is losing control of this situation that he admittedly never had much control over in the first place. “Wanna just do hand stuff?”
Mammon stares. “Hand stuff.”
“I’m a cowboy.” He says this weakly and without conviction. Everything is unravelling and he’s wearing assless chaps. “I have boots.”
“It’s not very cash money.” Vox nods. It is not very cash money, that’s true. “Look, Box. Maybe we should keep this a little more casual. Not that you aren’t great and good at the money thing, but I don’t think I want to deal with whatever Petri dish of mental illnesses you’re clearly incubating.”
“I even wore the hat.”
Mammon slaps him on the shoulder, mostly friendly. Vox hopes. “No hard feelings, mate. You’re just a little much for me.”
Vox waits until Mammon leaves, muttering to himself about the impossibility of working with Sinners, before he pulls out his phone. He fumbles with it for a few seconds (his hands are not shaking, no they sure aren’t) and manages to send a text message to Val.
Me [8:39:33 pm]: fucking nailed it
That Tall Himbo 🍆[8:40:22 pm]: cool. fuck about it?
Fuck, yeah. Vox earned it.
Me [8:41:00 pm]: you assume you’re topping
That Tall Himbo 🍆[8:41:13 pm]: 🫦🔥 🍆💦💤
Me [8:41:30 pm]: fine