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Valentino isn’t smart—that’s not really his thing. He’s the hot one, the cute one. He knows how to draw, and he’s got a nice hot bod. Thinking isn’t his job. That’s Voxxy and Vel’s, that’s what they’re for!
But he isn’t stupid, either. He can’t see very well, but that doesn’t make him blind! And he’s noticed some things. Little tics and interpretations, part of being the best in the business. After all, his good looks help, but it’s not quite enough for his line of work. Good seduction requires a little bit of… special, shall he say, expertise. Looking at someone and figuring out, in an instant, what they need. What they’re looking for.
Some people put on a big, tough, dominant persona, when really, all they want is to be plowed into the mattress and called a good little thing until they scream. And then there’s the quiet ones—usually the biggest freaks of them all. Everyone’s got things they want, and it’s almost never what you’d expect.
Valentino picks up on it all. So in his years of being… partners, shall he say, with Vox (who insists it’s just business, of course, but Valentino knows better—he’s just too pussy to say what they really are out loud), he’s figured out what makes that flat-faced prince of his tick.
He was a man from the 1950s who led a cult. Caucasian, very obviously so, and very, very repressed. All good and fun. But the most interesting thing is not within any of these factoids, but rather, the result of them. Blatant in how he looks at Valentino, or that radio demon.
Vox wants a man he can make his woman.
It’s obvious from how he speaks to Valentino, how he acts in bed, around his fits. He likes being the man, the only man.
Hissy fits, in particular, Valentino recalls clearly. He remembers being upset about something, though the topic, not quite so much, and he remembers Voxxy coming up to him with an easy sort of look.
“I see you’re all worked up about this,” he murmurs, condescendingly, cooing, yet so, so pleased. Valentino had ignored it at the time, more focused on being angry, but it all comes so very clearly in hindsight. “Look. Why don’t you just get all that anger out now and- take a breather?”
He pinches Valentino’s cheeks like he’s speaking to a child. Like an older man speaking to his wife.
Valentino hadn’t quite picked up on it at the time. He never picks up on it when it’s happening. Voxxy’s little tendency isn’t quite that offensive, see, just the opposite. It’s so, so easy to let himself be taken care of, be talked down from his pique of rage. Valentino likes having Vox there to help him, to do all the thinking when he’s too angry to do so.
“O…Okay,” says Valentino, before repeating, more excitedly, “Okay!”
Vox’s expression splinters with fondness for a second, satisfaction ever so distinct, before he resumes with his calm act. “Good idea, Val!”
Patronizing, so much so that someone without Valentino’s keen little talent would think they were being tolerated. But Vox is enjoying this quite a bit.
Vox likes being smarter. He likes to be calm and rational—those old jokes about the ordinary man and his mercurial, bewildering wife.
That’s one sign. Easy enough to dismiss as it is, Valentino wants to know what his love wants, and so he keeps it in mind. In the back, just in case it will ever be of use.
Another sign comes in the bedroom. Voxxy always tops—it’s sort of a given, by now, for reasons Valentino can only assume are related to that standard complex those 1950s men have.
It’s one day, and out of curiosity, Valentino asks to flip things around. He’s versatile—whatever his prince wants, after all… But he can’t lie and say he isn’t just a tad curious as to what sorts of delicious reactions he could draw out of Vox with the positions flipped. Someone so keyed up could surely benefit from getting all his worries fucked away.
“Voxxyyyy,” he says, putting up his most pleading, high-pitched, whiny voice—the kind he knows Vox is weak for. “Can I try topping tonight?”
Vox looks at him with widened eyes, like he’s been threatened, aggrieved. As if Valentino has just called into question one of the core tenets of his worldview.
“I don’t bottom,” he says in response, hissy, insistent. Vox must realize how fragile he sounds, nothing like the stoic sort of rock he imagines himself as, because he lowers his voice—tries to bring back that typical sort of easy tone. News broadcaster on the air. A husband taking a gander at the expense of his wife. “C’mon, Val, did you forget or something? Or maybe…”
His voice lowers into a husky whisper, breath hot on Valentino’s neck as he pushes him down onto the mattress.
“You’re feeling like a brat today?”
That wasn’t the case—that’s what Vox wants to be the case—but it’s so, so easy to forget, let Voxxy’s voice wash over him, to slip into being taken care of as he always is. Valentino’s in good hands.
Valentino’s fuzzy eyes dart away ever so slightly, an airy giggle escaping him.
“Maybe—” he drawls. “You gonna put me in my place, papi?”
A low chuckle escapes Vox as he eyes the rope.
“You’re something, Val,” he says, fond yet tired. Valentino lets himself be taken by bliss in the moment (even mercifully choosing to ignore how quickly Vox finishes).
But it’s the morning after when it hits him again what Vox did. What Vox wanted out of the whole ordeal.
This time, it’s far more unconscious, a little thing Valentino tries very, very hard to block out of his mind. He wants to be stupid, oblivious to the whole ordeal. But he fails.
Voxxy wants to be in control. Always. And that’s one thing, but then there’s those old-timey pornos that Valentino can’t help but think of.
The wife, ever submissive—except for when she forgets her place.
Valentino tries not to think about that again. And it’s easy not to, except it really isn’t—because once the pieces fall into place, there’s no ignoring it anymore.
Vox likes it when he wears dresses. Vox always makes sure to leer, to stare like a man in the desert. And Valentino loves to bask in his gaze, loves revelling in Vox’s eyes are on him, only on him, and no one else’s. But then, he thinks of it again, for only a moment.
They’re in a nightclub, and a bright cyan flush is on his face as he stares at Valentino, mouth agape. Valentino, in response, wiggles his hips, licking his lips with a salacious grin.
“See something you like, Voxxy?” he says, batting his eyes. Maybe Vox can see it through his glasses, or maybe he can’t. Just in case, though, he does it anyway. Vox wraps an arm around his waist, dipping him downwards as the music blares. Valentino feels charmed, all too ready to take either of their clothes off at that moment.
“Hey, babe,” Vox murmurs lowly. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m all yours already, papi,” Valentino replies with a wink. “Buuut… a margarita?”
Vox chuckles, pulling out his credit card, and Valentino’s heart is thumping ‘till it’s well out his chest, until—
“Can I buy you a drink?” says the man in that low-grade black-and-white feature film, an old one straight from the fifties. Normally, the entertainment would be much more modern, but Vox has money, and Vox has very outdated tastes.
The babe, blonde, rich, and stupid, flushes and giggles like she’s just heard the most charming thing in her life.
“No need,” she says, in a ditzy, drawled American voice. “But a margarita would be real sweet of ya’, hon.”
It’s enough to remind him again of that thing—the man and the woman, his for the taking. He tries very, very hard not to think about it.
But his hazed eyes aren’t on Voxxy anymore. They’re glued to the film.
“You interested?” Vox says. Valentino wants to say—Yes, very. He wants to ask if that’s where Vox got his line from, if this is another part of that thing he likes.
But Voxxy wouldn’t like it if he asked that. So instead, Valentino giggles, and drawls out a pitchy, ”hmm, maybe.”
“They fuck in the next part,” says Vox. “It’s not in here, ‘course it isn’t, they wouldn’t show it, but they fuck so goddamn hard. It was the kinkiest shit I’d ever seen.”
His hand trails up Valentino’s chest, tugging at the nipple clamps.
“This club’s got a nice bathroom,” he says, as if Valentino doesn’t know that already. He’s been here countless times on various endeavors with clients and whores alike—it’s Vox who’s the first-timer. These bathrooms are made for fucking in. “Why don’t we go in there and…” he winks. “Make like they did?”
The prospect is attractive, but again, the image of the movie—the man and the ditzy woman lingers in his head. It’s no good. Valentino isn’t supposed to be thinking about these things. It’s never been his thing, so why is he starting now?
Before his mind can linger on it any longer, Valentino grabs Vox by the collar and kisses him, letting his blush red saliva drip down into Vox’s throat. “Haah—” Vox tries to say something, but his mind is too fuzzled to form words. “Va-a-l—”
“Let me take care of you, Voxxy,” Valentino says with a wink, taking him up by the shaky legs and carrying him off to the bathroom. His tongue keeps dripping saliva down Vox’s throat, enough to shut off all conscious thought.
The door is shut behind them as Valentino enters the spacious stall. His thoughts are all in order. He thinks of the film, of that girl and that charmer, while Vox claws at his torso and humps the air.
“Val, please-” he says, voice shaky, the opposite of all those usual projections. “Hurry uuuup…”
He’s drawling like a slut begging for his master, Valentino thinks, huffing a laugh of amusement. Who would’ve thought Voxxy of all people would be squirming like a bitch in heat under his gaze? “Patience, mi amor,” Valentino says. It’s more fun to use Spanish endearments when he knows Vox is too out of it to say anything insensitive about them.
Vox stares at him like a lost puppy upon being unceremoniously set on the bed (Which, seriously, just call it a bedroom with a toilet at that point), reaching out and falling unceremoniously onto the floor, leaving a small crack in his screen.
“Owww,” he whined, downright whined, sending blood straight down to Valentino’s dick.
“Now, what did I just say?” Valentino says, using a set of arms to pin Vox’s own down upon dropping him back off on the bed. “Tch. Sounds like someone needs a lesson in manners—”
“Y-Yes, sir,” Vox murmurs out, the words sending a jolt of electricity down his spine, wrapping around his mind like those damn television wires. It’s one word, his whores say it all the time, and yet, it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. Sir. Power and adrenaline surge through his veins and leave the rest of the night a hazy memory. All Valentino can say is—he fucked Vox’s brains out so hard that night the little prince had to be carried home.
The next morning, however, Voxxy is up and about despite the limp with which he walks, bringing a glass of water over to Valentino.
He blinks at the sight a few times for good measure.
“Voxxy?”
“I figured you could use it,” Vox said, rubbing his sore backside sheepishly. “Even I’m sore… Can’t imagine how rough I must’ve gotten with you last night, hah.
He keeps on chuckling to himself, and it dawns on Valentino that he really must have no memory of the events that transpired the night before. He just- Assumed he was on top, of course he did, it’s a sensible assumption… But when his ass is sore? Did he really not think to question that?
And here Voxxy was supposed to be the one with the brains.
“Sit down, mi luz,” says Valentino, pressing up a finger to Vox’s lips—whether he’s shutting down an objection or another ill-timed remark about the island language, he doesn’t know, but it’s for the better either way. “Let me take care of you.”
He bats his lashes and Vox falters at that, downright falters, and for once, only sighs and lets himself slump into bed in lieu of protest.
“Well- heh, o—kay-” he says. “If you insist.”
But his gaze splinters with fondness, and so, Valentino eagerly brings him food from the fridge. Nachos from yesterday's lunch—best to get rid of them now, anyways… in case he gets tempted later.
Vox is waiting for him in bed with a frumpy sort of frown, murmuring, “You sure took your time.”
“Missed me?” replies Valentino, an easy grin making its way across his face. Vox’s eyes widen briefly and a cyan flush spreads across his features, only for him to rapidly shake his head like a wet kitten trying to dry.
“I-I was just, pssht, getting bored,” he says, playing for that same, old composure. It’s an interesting composure—always calm, but not quite stoic. Not serious and composed. Moreso relatable, taking everything and bearing it all with a grin. A gameshow host.
An old-timey husband.
Valentino hands over the nachos a little bit too forcefully, not that Vox noticed, too focused on the portioning (or lack thereof). He doesn’t like how little Valentino eats—he never says it out loud, but he always tries to shove more food on his plate, or order food whenever his stomach growls. It’s all so non-verbal. Indirect.
The fifties’ husband is stoic and does not show emotion, for fear of being seen as weak, a ‘sissy’.
Valentino tries very, very hard to push it all to the back of his mind, really, he tries so, so hard. He lets his thoughts drift into the growling of his stomach, how empty he is, the pleasant sort of pain. He’s a masochist, but the pleasure of this pain is a different sort. Valentino can’t quite express it with words—again, not very good at thinking, but he does say that, as his stomach aches with hunger, he can truly forget about the problem, if only for a moment.
Vox glares off at the air, static buzzing.
“Val,” he says, before laughing again, easily. “You forgot to leave some for yourself.”
“I didn’t forget,” responds Valentino with a huff. “It’s all for you!”
It’s part his own compulsion but admittedly part spite as well, because he knows full well how much Vox hates it when he does this. Well, if Voxxy’s not going to say what he wants, then Valentino won’t acknowledge it at all.
Vox grumbles some more, before looking of with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.
“Val.” Pointed, pissed. “Your stomach’s growling like a- fuckin’ typhoon. Eat.”
It’s more insistent, enough to make him falter for a second, pause and think. Valentino doesn’t want to eat, no matter how insistent Vox is about it. Well-meaning as it is, he’s just going to end up fattening him up.
There’s a knot in his throat again and he swallows it down with a gulp disguised as a growl.
“Voxxy-”
“Eat it,” he insists, all but shoving the plate into Valentino’s hands, having eaten not even half. He’d object, surely, but the nachos are in his hands now, and they look so very delectable that he just can’t resist—Valentino’s hands tremble for only a moment in hesitation before he demolishes them.
When he’s done, he stares at Vox for a second, who looks at him in turn with fondness like shrapnel piercing his cold eyes. It should be a pleasant sight, but again, it registers most like bile in his throat. Maybe this is another one of those things. Maybe he’s just trying to play caretaker again, letting Valentino gorge himself on food as if he’s doing some sort of favor.
It’s easy to be oh so mad at Vox, to hate him more than anything in the world. But then, he flushes, says, “Anything to drink?” with averted eyes, and Valentino can only smile.
“Oooh, get me the horchata!” he says, slipping back into routine as usual. Vox nods, and Valentino forgets about it all.
But the thought keeps lingering in the back of his mind. The fifties man and his wife.
The fifties man is dominant, not overly emotional; disaffectionate, laid back. A jack of all trades, independent, smartly dressed in business clothes. His wife is submissive and obedient, but ditzy, temperamental. She does the domestic work and is taken care of in turn, her patient husband calming her through her fits, helping her through her obliviousness, providing. Good-looking, eager to please.
It permeates the air like a miasma each and every time they interact, always just- there. It shows up in how Vox laughs off every little fit of rage, in how he always seems to throw money at every problem. The more Valentino tries not to think about it, the more connections his mind seems to draw.
One night, however, he and Voxxy are cuddled up together in bed. Vox’s clawed hand clasps at his own, a pleasant smile spreading its way across his features. Accompanied by hazy, tired eyes (yet another all-nighter, Valentino had to drag him off to bed), and so positively lovestruck—like he’s looking at the most precious thing in the world.
“Love spendin’ eternity with you, babe,” he says.
Valentino realizes that he doesn’t care what exactly it is Vox wants out of him—so long as he gets it, that’s good enough. Anything for more of those fond looks, or little moments of tenderness. Sure, there’s other whores he likes. They’ll let him do as he pleases freely, no expectations to speak of. None of those stipulations or misunderstandings Vox brings.
But that doesn’t matter. He just wants Voxxy to smile at him like that again.
Some point from there onward—Valentino can't quite pinpoint when—something changes. When Vox propositions him, he complies more easily. Forgets about the lingering echo of the fifties husband and his darling wife. It's easy, so, so easy, and Valentino forgets why it was hard. Being a trophy wife is fun—now, if only he could get Vox. to flaunt him around on his arm like one.
If he has a problem, he takes it out on one of his whores. Not on Voxxy, never on Voxxy. Vox is too precious for that.
And he's ever so sweet, caring, princely, even, that Valentino can almost say he likes it more this way.
Almost.
And then, the Radio Demon returns.
It isn't much at first—funny, even, watching Voxxy being the one having a meltdown for once, losing his mind on air. But then it starts to seem like his mind is on Alastor and Alastor alone, and it isn't so funny anymore.
“Mi luz.” Valentino finds himself in Vox’s headquarters one night, after one too many late night spent tracking the radio demon. “it's getting late.”
Vox sits huddled over his half fried desk, fidgeting with buttons like a madman.
“Five more minutes, Val,” he says, slumping over midway through his sentence, only to shoot up with a start at an intermittent beeping sound seemingly designed for the express purpose of keeping him awake.
“I’m awake-!” he shoots up blearily, only to half fall asleep again. The absolutely pathetic display is almost endearing enough to make Valentino forget why he’s there.
But then, Vox growls out an “Alastor…” and Valentino remembers all too well. His mood sours in an instant like milk gone bad, and he grabs Vox by the collar.
“Off to bed with you, Voxxy,” he says, lowering his voice and putting on an easy grin. “Come along now.”
Vox groans incoherently, something about Alastor again, but Valentino pays it no mind.
It’s the dead of night and Vox is limp the moment his back hits the cushioned mattress, not even a goodnight to be heard. There’s another one of those old feature films blaring in the background noisily, and Valentino wants nothing more than to punch the damn screen’s lights out.
“Come to bed, hon,” says the wife, clambering up to her husband slumped over in his desk, her hair done up in a pompadour and eyes wide as saucers. Couldn’t even be open about the sex appeal aspect, tch. What a waste. “It’s gettin’ late.”
Valentino chugs down a bottle of wine from the nightstand and tosses it at the screen, reveling in the sound of shattered glass.
He wishes it were Vox’s face, for a second.
Things seem to escalate for a while after that. It's different from the normal routine—Normally, there's always something to set things back to zero, a pleasant moment or a stroke of brilliance that leaves him back on cloud nine, revelling in Vox's affections until things start to degrade again. But there is no such moment. No light at the end of the tunnel, or loving little look from Vox, or anything, really, to leave Valentino crawling back. And yet, he does anyways, more so driven by desperate delusions than by any real action or emotion he has a chance of receiving.
The television is unbearable to look at or listen to nowadays. Every time one of those damned fifties films plays, husband and wife, Valentino ends up shattering it. Vox notices, of course he does, but he never bothers bringing it up. Not even to question how he intends on footing the bill.
It all comes to a head one day, when the radio demon gets into a little scuffle with them. Well, with Vox, who called him and Vel to help.
The scuffle ends in Alastor's defeat. The scuffle ends in Alastor being taken captive.
That’s when the cracks really start to form.
“I like winning!” Vox cheers in front of all of hell like a kid on Christmas. It’s funny, until Valentino finds himself in bed that night with Alastor’s begrudging eyes on them both, and it really hits just how one-track Vox’s mind is now.
Cuck chair. That was what he called it. Valentino could only thank his unbelievable patience for the fact that he hadn’t made a remark about how he may as well have been the one getting cucked, what with how Voxxy was eyefucking the little radio demon.
It’s after that whole song and dance (followed by a literal song and dance), that Alastor speaks through the radio, a smarmy leer in his voice. Distasteful, yet pitying, the sort of tone one would take on with a bug to be squashed.
“You’ve got an awful lot of patience for his antics, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Well, best learn what I taught our dearest Vincent—”
The radio demon does not punctuate his statements with blackouts or power surges as Voxxy always does, all too focused on putting on a show. And yet, his words hit him with fair more pointedness, more impact—a well-aimed dagger versus a bomb.
“There is no love in hell.”
The words seem to ring in his ears, an echoing aftereffect long afterwards. Tinnitus comes to mind. That cloud of miasma grows thicker and thicker, day by day by day. Valentino wonders what he’s even doing anymore, chasing after a man who cares for none of it. When was the last time Voxxy looked at him all lovestruck? Took him out on a date? Did anything together, beyond business?
It all comes to a head on the night of the rally. Vox was asking him to bring Angel over—ugh, he’s just going to break him down further, and that’s no fun—and the radio demon pauses, roading.
It’s the spiraling of Vox’s eyes as he grabs Valentino by the collar that makes him realize how tired it’s all gotten for good. Hypnosis—the kind of trick Vox uses on low-level employees. Maybe that was how Voxxy saw him, all along. A low-level goon he could order around.
Valentino flares up his wings defensively, finally making do on his fantasy and shattering the screen he’s grown to love and hate.
It’s all grown so, so tired. And Valentino has no interest in maintaining it anymore.
It’s that night, the bed is cold. Vox is busy plotting again. It’s a marriage from the fifties, well and true. The TV is on again, even without Vox there to watch.
The marriage is falling apart—the husband caught mid affair. A workaholic, grown dissatisfied with the tired, stagnant state of his marriage. Unable to confide in his wife, unable to take his eyes off his career, his mistress—
Well, that damned husband has no one to blame but himself, thinks Valentino.
This time, it’s with his bare hands, uncaring for the pricks of glass in his palm, that he tears the damn thing apart by the wires.