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The fight with Val had dragged on for weeks, and Vox was long-since over it.
It had been loud at its origin, all shouts and barbs and barks, which lasted for endless days. As it descended over time, the fire gradually disintegrated into cutting remarks, weaponized silences, and exhausted, well-timed huffs.
This afternoon—rather than spend so much as one painstaking moment with Vox—Valentino recused himself to the balcony, accompanied only by his cigarette. Vox, meanwhile, paced the penthouse in the same relentless tizzy that had become habitual. His antennae flickered with static every time he rehearsed his next words. He planned to explain himself yet again, but Vox now knew very well that every sentence he conjured would only make things worse. He had never been as aware of Val’s triggers as he was now.
Truth be told, if asked, Vox could scantily describe what the original disagreement had even revolved. He had lost his shit a little bit, with the Might of Lillith and whatnot—but Val had behaved worse before, and Vox didn’t give him half the hard time. All that Vox could truly, distinctly decipher was wounded pride and mutual bitterness that had lasted for agonizing weeks.
But he was ready to mend the fence. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and he needed to get more creative in doing so. Valentino hadn’t touched him in weeks. That was usually how Vox could get through to him.
He gingerly pushed the doors to the balcony, heeding his force—”¡Don’t fucking burst in like that, troglodita!”—and inched his way to Valentino with deliberate caution.
Val took a long drag from his cigarette, his back still passive-aggressively turned. His wings hung loosely off of him, tied into a lazy, makeshift robe. “What do you want, Vox.” His name seemed to taste foul in Val’s mouth, like he was eager to spit it out and scrub the remnants off his tongue.
Vox’s chest pulled, his lips pursing in preemptive defeat. For a damning beat, he hesitated, already sensing a lost cause.
He hovered at the doorway of the balcony with his shoulders stiff, his jaw tight, and his hands clasped awkwardly behind his back. Even being out here with Val felt dreadfully undignified. He found himself hating every moment already. Vox’s screen flickered, blue light skipping as he drew in a trembling breath.
“...You can have me tonight.”
Immediately upon speaking, the tension could be seared with a knife. He loathed the offer that he unleashed between them, instantly desperate to scramble to retrieve it, to take it back, to cage the vulnerability and lock it away. He could revoke this proposition, then accept the fight for what it was and choose that specific brand of torture instead, a poisoned, slow-death that would claim them both in different beds.
Valentino whirled around, guarded disbelief patent on his face. His eyes traveled across Vox’s rigid form, scrutinizing every inch of him. He was probably already undressing him, stripping him down to his raw, naked body—and Vox despised it. He felt detestably exposed, even before they had done anything.
Vox swallowed mechanically, ridding the bile climbing up his throat. “...I mean it.”
Silence still hung between them, breeding nasty assumptions for Vox to deduce. Val’s hands were already inside of him, fishing around for pleasure that Vox could not feel.
“You want control?” Vox offered, reaching for suave confidence and missing it by a mile. “Fine. You’ve got it. I’ll—” The words caught on a lump in his throat, choking him momentarily.
Val stared down at him as he struggled, not yet convinced, nor impressed. The ridiculous stuttering likely did not help his failing case.
“...I’ll let you top,” he finally managed, and the implications expanded past only the position. Once out there, it instantly coiled nausea’s vicious, vice grip within Vox. He actually might throw up over the balcony.
Valentino’s brows slowly lifted behind his glasses. Well, that certainly got his attention. His face changed. The proposition had landed Vox’s intended effect: for the first time in weeks, Valentino didn’t look so revolted when he looked at him.
“You can do whatever you want, honey,” he lied easily, as though this was the easy, obvious outcome to finally douse the spreading flames of the fight.
It was no secret to Val, or anyone, that Vox preferred—nay, required control, in every sense of the word. Even when he let Valentino top him, Vox tried to orchestrate the dance. He fought hard to direct it as much as he could, to keep at least one hand on the wheel at all times.
Granted, Valentino had a way of getting what he wanted—but Vox would never relent so easily. To forfeit control entirely went against every survival mechanism that had kept Vox safe for this long. He could probably count the times, on one hand, that he had initiated intimacy in such a contradictory way to who he innately needed to be. It sounded repulsive leaving his whore mouth.
But he needed a peace offering. Vox was running low on leverage, and Val was drained of grace and forgiveness. He required a real, meaningful attonement from Vox, if he was ever again expected to give him more time of day than he would a weeping bag of shit. For this slow death to end, Vox needed to surrender.
Valentino sucked in a long drag from his cigarette, blazing red eyes locked onto Vox the entire suspenseful time. Vox sat at-attention in the hot seat for the exaggerated duration of it.
Finally, he released the pink smog into Vox’s face, relenting the pressure at last—and Val spoke to him. “You think you can fuck your way out of of this?”
“Maybe,” Vox muttered, unable to conjure the certainty from before.
Valentino huffed a laugh at him, degrading, slicing Vox’s genitals in a clean castration. The tension pulled hot and ugly as Val slinked closer, looming over Vox until he needed to crane his head back to see him.
“Are you gonna behave?” Val asked menacingly, implications hanging between them on hundreds of nooses.
Vox’s stomach churned nauseously, even as scathing heat bloomed in his trousers against his will. “...I’ll try.”
Val roughly grasped his chin, jerking the screen upward. “Who are you talking to?”
“You—” Vox rasped, squeezing his eyes against the flaring discomfort in his strained, barely-healed neck. “You, Val.”
“So what do you say?” He force-fed him the words, prying them out with bile-stained saliva, oozing on Val’s invasive fingers. “Are you going to behave, Vox?”
“Yes, Val,” he corrected despite himself, his lip curling in incomprehensible disgust.
Apparently, that was all he needed to do.
Val dropped the cigarette and slammed their lips together instead, all four arms wrapping and gripping Vox possessively.
There was nothing romantic or erotic about it, to Vox. Val was greedy and enraged, lashing out weeks of pent-up resentment into a gesture they had once used to share devout passion. This was not mutualistic as it once was—Vox felt more like an unwilling participant in Valentino’s sexual tantrum.
Unfortunately, Vox had actually been the one to permit it. He alone instigated Val’s most primal flaw. He knew this could be the inevitable outcome.
Valentino’s sopping saliva somehow tasted sour on Vox’s tongue, but he melted into it anyway with a shaky sigh. His thick claws grasped Val’s fur unintentionally, clinging on like a needy slut, just for any hope to stay upright.
Despite the agony, his brain flooded with relief and endorphins in a confounding juxtaposition. He found himself praising his success—thank God, thank God, thank God, it’s over, it’s done, we’re moving past the fight—
—
But jubilancy was short-lived, leaving him with his breath as he was slammed backward against the bed, his head bouncing off the wooden frame.
“Ow—”
“I thought you wanted this,” Val instantaneously goaded, as if already trying to call his bluff, to push Vox to his fullest extent until he cried for Val to give him mercy.
“I do,” Vox remedied quickly, blinking through the stars flooding his vision.
And he had, at least to a degree. He had wanted it all to be fixed. He had wanted Val back. And this was the way to his good graces, Vox knew very well—so indirectly, he did want this. Or, at least he wanted to get through this, to finally make it out on the other side, and this might be the only way how. This was a necessary trial, and he could endure it to finally have his friends back.
Valentino manhandled him, seemingly desperate to best Vox. It was peculiar, because Vox didn’t fight him at all this time. His compliance only seemed to embolden Val more. He furiously tore Vox out of his pants, graceless and violent. As soon as enough access was granted, Val dragged Vox further down the mattress by the wrist, hauling him off the headboard. Unwilling to waste any time, Val wrenched Vox’s legs apart without warning.
“Woah—” Vox sputtered a shocked gasp. Hundreds of microscopic tears screamed from between his thighs, unstretched and unprepared, fraying the muscles and ligaments. “Holy shit,” he tried to force with a laugh, bubbling up but laden with anxiety. “Easy, tiger—”
He could speak no more when Val flipped him over, pushing him face-down, apparently deciding he wanted him differently. “You don’t get to talk, pendejo.” Val’s knee shoved his legs apart impossibly further, just as two arms scooped under his hips to lift his ass up to match Val’s disproportional height where he was perched on his knees. Vox’s back protested the forced arch, made ever worse when Val roughly stuck three spit-soaked fingers inside of him, encircling his sphincter with erratic, rushed motions.
A pained whine escaped Vox, the size of Val’s hand already overwhelming him. It was wet enough to slide decently, but he wasn’t ready for more than a tease, wasn’t stretched, wasn’t prepared for the sudden overstimulation.
More devastatingly yet, the “prep” lasted only seconds before Valentino jammed his dick inside with his hand.
“FUCK!” Vox barely managed through the mattress pressed into his screen, horrible glitches obstructing his voice further.
Valentino growled at the resurgence of his voice, spanking him on his asscheek. “Talking doesn’t make me harder, babe.”
He didn’t want him to get any harder than this!
Vox swallowed down a string of curses that probed insistently at his vernacular. There was way too much inside of him, stretching the taut, unpracticed muscles of his ass, made worse by the anguished tension stiffening his entire body. It wasn’t the least bit enjoyable, but rather vomit-inducing, blinding him with flickering blackness that wasn’t only from the mattress under his face.
“You said you were giving me control today,” Valentino reminded him, just to rub it in, or to remind him of his place. He set a pace that was relentless from the get-go, entirely unfair.
Still, it was a deliberate challenge, and Vox would not lose now. He braced against his suffering, all of his muscles squeezing defensively.
Valentino moaned animalistically, his fingers slowly slipping out as his cock expanded to its full size. “God, Vox,” he crooned. Vox could feel globs of drool dripping on his back, seeping upwards towards his newly-mended neck. He still had open wounds there, and he didn’t know if aphrodisiac saliva was sterile. Valentino wouldn’t care either way. He would just need to wash them thoroughly, after he got through this.
He had bent Vox nearly in half at this point, pressing him down into the mattress until pain shot through his sore spine and delicate neck. Vox made the mistake of lifting a shaking hand, instinctively reaching to the caress back of his neck—but he didn’t get far, as Val yanked and pinned the arm behind his back. It was harsh enough that a suspiciously loud pop resounded between them, and explosive pain surged from his shoulder through his arm. “Val—”
“Hush, Vox. You can take it.”
Usually, he could take it. They did it rough often. But this was borne of uncontained, pent-up rage, significantly past Vox’s comfort and experience levels, which were critically lower than Val’s. The discrepancy was now more obvious than it had been for decades, since the first years that Val had found a sex partner in him.
But Valentino had actually been more cautious, then, for both of their sakes.
The longer it went on, Vox’s body tensed ever more instead of relaxing into it. Every slam against his anal cavity jarred him unpleasantly, through his back, his head, his stomach, and organs he was not even familiar with. A queasy pressure had begun to brew low in his abdomen.
He tried to ignore it at first, to ride out the experience until Val was finished with him. He could check himself out later. Maybe Val would even be willing to help, by then. In the weeks since regeneration, Vox hadn’t been in the best of health even on his better days. Now, every vigorous jostle worsened the sickness tremendously, to a nearly unbearable degree.
Valentino smashed his cock inside of him so brutally that the breath knocked out of him, and suddenly his bladder cramped hard.
Oh no—
No, no, no—
That feeling he knew.
He could hold it. Obviously. He needed to. There was no other choice. He could not get out of this, and he could not release his bladder all over Valentino right now.
He needed a moment, maybe even the briefest pause, because consistent strikes inside of him might push his bladder past its limit. Instead, Valentino fucked him ruthlessly, spreading Vox’s legs too far, forcing his hips upward, gripping him directly against his lower stomach without a care for what he was doing to him.
The adrenaline, as well as the damning, cruel fear made it all more dangerous, as involuntarily soiling himself wasn’t entirely off the table. Should Valentino’s violence escalate, rattling him any further, the pain, pressure, and panic could genuinely be his demise. As much as he masqueraded as a man without limits, even Vox could only take so much.
His body felt horribly overstimulated—too tense, too aware, nerves firing off everywhere. It cried out from deep inside his organ system, to the raw, sweaty skin on the outside, still dripping in Val’s goopy drool.
Another virulent thrust into him had panic sparking as a hot, wet dribble squirted out of him. It was not precum, he wasn’t even that hard—it was piss, beginning to leak out of him against his control.
He supposed he had handed control over to begin with. He got himself into this mess.
Still, he scrambled for purchase as soon as he felt the treacherous accident beginning. “Wait—”
Val did not stop. He huffed frustratedly, pressing on.
“Val, wait—” He fucking loathed how weak and desperate he sounded in his helpless plea.
But evidently, Valentino was committed to finishing, wrath interpreting Vox’s distress as bratty resistance.
“Nuh-uh,” he chided, grabbing Vox’s thigh and pulling him closer, his ass slamming into Val’s fluffy pelvis. “You wanted this, cariño.”
Vox’s stomach clenched critically, his body begging with every possible signal to stop what he was doing. “Val— Stop, stop, I need—”
Before Vox’s discombobulated begging could even finish, there was a sudden, humiliating warmth spilling out of him, soaking the bed sheets beneath him in his stream.
Oh, God, he was pissing.
Little rivers dripped down his thighs, pooling at his knees against the mattress. The disgusting mess expanded in miserable patches of piss atop the mattress.
It probably spread back to Valentino behind him, too. The realization twinged newfound, distinctly awful dread in Vox’s chest. Guilt and remorse had him whining pathetically. He couldn’t even revel in the immensely relieving release—the first pleasant sensation he had felt since Val started this punishment—as he instead braced for a new, worse punishment for allowing such a disgusting, heinous, immature accident to occur whilst giving him sex.
“Oh, baby.”
The tone shift struck Vox so suddenly—and coupled with it, all at once, mercifully, too good to be true, utterly surreal—the curtain fell, and all of the pressure and force was relented from Vox’s ailing body. Valentino slipped out of Vox, softened his grip, lowered his hips, released his arm, stretched his back out, closed his legs… and it was over.
By God, it was over. He was free. He was finally free.
Valentino tenderly turned Vox over, laying him flat on his back. Finally, Vox could see again, no longer blinded by a mattress in his face—and immediately, he onced-over Val to assess the situation. His face had softened, the hard lines and stark edges melted into gentle concern. His eyes were wide and blinking, his glasses endearingly askew, and his antennae perked and twitched as he seemed to process and recalibrate what was beneath him.
He sat back on his heels, carefully gathering Vox this time instead of dragging him.
“Mi amor, look at me.”
Vox absolutely refused. After scanning Val for ire, and not finding any, shame immediately took its hold, and he bore holes into the ceiling. His body curled inward in humiliation. “I told you to stop,” he whispered miserably, his voice racked in faulty glitches. “I told you, Val.”
“Oh, cariño…” It dripped in heartfelt compassion, somehow earnest and genuine in a contradictory way that only Valentino could manage right after an assault so vicious. “You really needed a break?”
Vox gave the tiniest miserable nod. He wanted to curse him out, to let bitterness run him, but Valentino would only fight back harder, and they would be back at square one. Enduring all of this would have been for nothing. Vox needed to salvage a victory and run while he still had legs to do so.
“Oh, mi bebé…” Valentino scooped him closer, heedless of the dribbling piss Vox still pushed out—it made no difference to the state of the bed at this point, so he should at least complete the job—and pressed a far kinder kiss to Vox’s forehead. “I’m sorry,” he shocked Vox to his core as he murmured sincerely. “I was too rough with you, amorcito.”
The pitying degradation might have been as torturous as the physical pain was before. “I literally pissed myself, Val. Why are you talking like that?”
“Well, whose fault was it?” Val intercepted, now surpassingly patient.
Vox blinked up at him, stifling the urge to scowl.
In the silence, Valentino answered for him. He ran his fingers across Vox’s screen, stroking the scalding, buzzing surface. “I was tossing you around like a ragdoll, baby. I’m sure it scared the Hell out of you.”
Vox suddenly bowed up, unable to hide his offense. “I wasn’t scared. I let you do that.”
Valentino’s lips curled in a smile, fucking damn him. He was so pleased, so charmed, and somehow winning with ease, even with his blue balls. “I can feel when los culos are tight,” he drawled proudly. He pecked a few rewarding kisses over his face. “It’s not bad, bebé. It felt good when you were so scared.”
God—Fucking—This was absolutely not better. Vox could hardly formulate a thought, his mind repeating Valentino’s vile words in an excruciating loop.
“You should’ve seen how you looked,” he recollected fondly. He hummed pleasantly. “You poor thing, trying so hard to tough it out.”
Weeks without sex with Vox bred the worst possible outcome. Consistent, unchallenged domination had corrupted Val’s brain in such a filthy manner.
“Proud, sharp-talking Voxxy got so overwhelmed by Big Daddy’s cock that he had an accident in his arms, all over my—”
“VAL.” Vox snapped at last, failing in his efforts to remain digestible. “Stop making fun of me.” He realized his only retort sounded far more pathetic after he actually said it. It likely would just fuel Val more. Fuck.
Sure enough, he giggled wonderfully. “I’m not making fun of you, silly.” He hugged him close, as though Vox were a stuffed animal. “You’re cute!”
“...Valentino.” The blunt word was muffled against Val’s broad chest he was strangled against.
“You are!” He pulled Vox back to flash a big, pink, toothy grin at him. His gold one reflected Vox’s blue light. “You did a good job, bebé. You were brave.”
Vox’s throat tightened, his face threatening to fall in frustration and despair. “...I know,” he boasted, but he didn’t sound all that proud.
His arms stroked Vox’s back as he held him, marginally soothing the aching muscles. Guilt, affection, and triumph seemed to dictate Val’s infuriatingly doting maneuvers. It was the antithesis of who he was mere moments prior.
“...I need a shower, Val.”
Valentino raised his eyebrows in interest, cocking his head. “Oh?”
Vox’s glower could curdle milk. “Are you expecting to, as well?” They hadn’t showered together in weeks. Part of initiating this apology, in the first place, was because Vox had missed moments such as those. Now, he wasn’t very interested.
“With you, yes,” Val proclaimed decisively, nuzzling his face into Vox’s bandaged neck—and unfortunately, that was that. Alas, it seemed Valentino would simply be calling the shots for a while, whether Vox was okay with it or not.
At least he was engaging with him again. Mission accomplished, he pondered, though at what cost? Vox dreaded a long, winding road ahead, and he knew he would not be driving it this time.