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This is not the first time they shack up in a hotel after a successful operation, high and horny from bloodshed and adrenaline.
Night never falls in Hell, and in the pleasure quarters the neon lights shift in every phosphorescent color that exists. They sift through the red smoke floating in the hotel room, washing Valentino’s naked limbs in purple and green and pink. He exhales slowly, the cigarette balancing delicately between two fingers, a glowing red spot in the low light.
Vox considers asking for a smoke, but doesn’t feel inclined to move from his position at the foot of the bed. His hands are preoccupied anyway.
Valentino takes another drag of the cigarette and exhales. The hotel room is nice - nicer than any of the previous ones they’ve checked into just for sex - but there’s not a single self-respecting establishment in Hell with a no-smoking policy. Red eyes blink slowly before Valentino’s mouth parts into a knowing grin.
“You know,” Valentino says, sounding amused, “when I fuck someone who’s into feet they usually let me know right away.”
Vox stops running his fingers across the sheer fabric of Valentino’s stocking, but doesn’t remove his hand. Valentino is vulgar, and every time he gives voice to the baser urges simmering at the back of Vox’s brain he manages to make them sound vulgar too. It’s somehow both infuriating and arousing at the same time.
“Your feet are the least interesting part of your body to me, Val,” he replies without sounding annoyed at all. Vox chalks it up to the post-coital endorphins still kicking around in his system. Unfazed, he lets his hand slide upwards, over the knee, across Valentino’s naked thigh, and to the suspender slip holding the stocking up.
Valentino’s underwear is gathering dust somewhere on the floor, but he’s still wearing the garter belt, something black and lacy that looks quite obscene, the way it frames his naked and spent cock.
It’s not the first time they hook up under circumstances like this. It’s not the first time Vox has thought about this, either. Far from it, in fact; his legs are one of Valentino’s favorite assets, and he’s always been good at flaunting them, whether wrapped in leather, latex or nylon.
“I will admit though,” Vox adds, meeting Valentino’s gaze as he slips a claw under the elastic slip, “that you look really good in those.”
Red teeth flash back at him as Valentino puts out the cigarette directly on the night table. When Vox tugs suggestively, the other demon shifts and bends his knee without a word. The stocking stretches to accommodate the movement, neon lights shifting on the shiny fabric, and Vox knows it’s just a question of time before he’ll be hard and ready to go again.
“I forget you’re such an old man sometimes,” Valentino says, eyes thin with glee. “Should I wear an apron too next time? Bring a feather duster, perhaps?”
“Some of us didn’t find porn rags lying around in the street back on earth. I had to make do with the ads in ladies’ magazines.”
That earns him a laugh, but when Vox huffs in response Valentino unbends his long leg and holds it up as if offering an olive branch. Reclining naked against the massive pillows, with wings pooling off the side of the bed and face half-buried in his own fur, he looks both well fucked and regal at the same time.
“Relax, babe. There’s nothing ‘make do’ about these legs.”
Vox shifts so that he’s facing Valentino directly and lifts his foot up to rest on his shoulder. Valentino trades in desire; he has made a business out of knowing what people want before they know it themselves. It’s no wonder that voicing those desires feels like admitting defeat, a crack in the professional shell that can be exploited.
Which is irrational— if Vox wasn’t getting something out of Valentino exploiting him, they wouldn’t be business partners in the first place, much less fucking one another.
Like this, he has a better view when he runs a hand down the length of the stocking, from knee to ankle and back, careful not to let his claws catch and snag the fabric. Vox likes the slick feel of it, how it clings to the skin and emphasizes Valentino’s already well-shaped leg.
Moreover, he likes having access. To watch his own hand glide smoothly over the stocking makes his pulse pick up. And the sound— the low, rasping noise when he drags his knuckles across the nylon sends shivers down Vox’s spine. He could definitely get hard just from this.
“Look at you,” Valentino purrs from the head of the bed. “Seems like we’re still getting to know each other after all.”
Getting impatient, Vox turns his head and presses his screen against Valentino’s calf. For a brief moment, he regrets not having a face anymore— a regular, three-dimensional face, with a nose that could fit in the hollow of Valentino’s knee and lips to slide across the tightly woven fibers. But he never longed for his old body even when he was recently deceased; Vox had embraced its unique strengths with ease and never looked back. As if to prove a point to himself, he severs the suspender slip with a nick of his claw before taking Valentino’s leg in a firmer grip. He shuffles forward and, leg still raised, begins to peel the stocking off with his teeth.
Besides, his refractory period was much longer when he was still alive.
“No biting, remember,” Valentino says. “I have a show tomorrow. No one wants to pay for a stripper who looks like they got mauled by a shark.”
Wrong. Vox would, if he knew the shark that had done the mauling was himself. Does he have plans for tomorrow evening? He can probably reschedule if Valentino still wants to see him when the night is over. None of that matters as much as the fabric stuck between his teeth and the small discharge of static electricity when his screen presses against Valentino’s skin. His hand rests where the leg becomes heel, a pleasant curve that feels surprisingly vulnerable in his palm. The knowledge that he could snap Valentino’s bone if he wanted to rests hot and heavy in the pit of Vox’s stomach.
The stocking rips almost immediately. The fabric is sheer and his teeth are sharp, and when Vox pulls there’s a tearing sound that feels delicious at the back of his mouth. He loses patience at that and makes short work of the stocking’s remains, tearing it to shreds with teeth and claws. Vox can feel Valentino’s eyes on him, always deceptively attentive in intimate settings. When he looks up, the lights outside shift from blue to red.
Valentino is looking at him with little expression, but Vox can tell his breathing is elevated from the way his chest moves. Without breaking eye contact, he sits up straight and places himself between Valentino’s legs. The other demon sinks even further into the pillows as Vox begins to fuss with the last pieces of nylon left. That makes him want to drag it out, make a whole process out of it just to see the effect it would have.
Valentino’s foot is surprisingly soft.
Truth be told, Vox would have liked to put the stockings on as much as tear them off. To watch and feel the fabric stretch out into place, to get the stocking seam straight, slowly so as to not rip the nylon. But the chance of Valentino letting him is about as great as Vox out-doing him at pole-dancing. They’ve worked together for over a decade now, and Vox can still count the number of times he’s seen Valentino putting himself together on one hand. And he doesn’t even have five fingers anymore.
Maybe this is the reason why. As he pulls the final strips of stocking away, it becomes impossible for Vox to keep a straight face.
“Is this why I’ve never seen you barefoot before?” Vox laughs and buries his fingers in the white fur that covers Valentino’s foot from toe to ankle.
“Why, have you been trying to peek?” Valentino says, in a sultry tone that would probably be emasculating if Vox was less amused. The other demon tries to pull his leg back, but Vox grabs hold of it again, cradling the heel in his palm and running his palm over the fur with unrestrained glee.
Valentino’s feet are long and slender, feeling human enough except for the familiar white fur that makes it look like he’s wearing a pair of very fluffy socks or slippers. So fluffy that Vox doesn’t immediately catch the two curved claws where one would usually find toes. He traces a finger along the sole, from the heel to the arch of the foot, and when he reaches the claws they grip onto his finger for a second before slowly unfurling again. Vox can’t tell if it’s a reflex or if Valentino is being a tease.
“If I didn’t know better I’d think you’re actually capable of feeling self-conscious,” Vox says, still gleefully squeezing Valentino’s foot. “But that can’t be, right Val? A big strong demon like you?”
“Those are big words coming from someone drooling over my feet, Vox,” Valentino bites back, his irritation off-set by undignified squeaks. “Boots are sexy as shit, unless you’re a fucking foot guy.”
“I’m neither drooling nor ‘a fucking foot guy’, as you so eloquently put it,” Vox says and presses Valentino’s foot to his face.
It’s really soft. Even the underside is covered in a layer of fuzz. Vox’s sensors are set off, the smell of sex and smoke that permeates the hotel room overtaken by sweat and leather, and the static discharge when he nuzzles the white fur is a pleasant tingle where his cheeks should be. Vox’s thumb finds the hollow at the inside of Valentino’s ankle and he begins to rub slow circles there, enjoying the contrast between the softness of the fur and the bone beneath. Once again he considers how quickly he could snap them if he wanted to and relishes the illusion of vulnerability.
With a firm grip on Valentino’s heel, Vox sticks his tongue out and tentatively licks the tip of the other demon’s toe. The fur doesn’t taste of anything in particular, and he doesn’t waste time dipping his tongue between Valentino’s claws before slowly, slowly tracing a straight line from toe to ankle. He can feel Valentino twitch involuntarily, tiny movements that make the pit of his stomach feel tight.
By the time Vox pulls back to mouth and kiss the inside of Valentino’s foot he has to admit to himself that maybe he’s a little into this after all.
“Imbécil,” Valentino mumbles, but doesn’t protest as Vox continues to press his tongue against fur and skin.
Not that Vox has ever known Valentino to say no to anything in bed. He’s long since chalked it up to some strange sense of professional pride. Valentino is up for anything on screen, a slate that any denizen of Hell can project their own depraved fantasies onto, but Vox has seen him slap overly forward make-up artists on set and snap the spines of co-stars who got too handsy without warning. He’s still not sure what he did to get his screen cracked for the first time, but he’s pretty certain this isn’t going to trigger a similar response.
Besides, Vox thinks as he licks the soft skin in the hollow of Valentino’s knee, they’ve done this enough times for him to know that Valentino likes to be spoiled sometimes. His business partner has a wide repertoire of sex noises, but the heavy sighs when he finds a particularly sensitive spot are not a sound Vox has ever heard him make in front of a camera.
That, embarrassingly enough, is what finally makes his spent dick hard again: lying between Valentino’s legs, kissing and licking and nipping low sighs and hums out of him, feeling the muscles of his thighs tighten beneath Vox’s tongue. He thrusts against the messy bed sheets, relishing the friction that sends frissons of pleasure up his spine, and makes sure to hold onto both of Valentino’s legs before burying his teeth in the soft flesh of his inner thigh.
Valentino moans, loud enough for a money shot in one of his films. A hand lashes out to claw at Vox’s head, scratching at the black plastic as his legs jerk violently beneath Vox’s hands and drive his teeth in deeper.
“You piece of shit,” Valentino growls as Vox pulls away. “I told you no biting!”
Vox ignores him and presses his tongue against the bite to lap up the spots of blood that have already begun to form. One, two, three times before Vox schools his features into the most shit-eating grin he thinks Valentino will tolerate and looks up.
“Don’t be like that, Val. We both know you like it.”
That earns him a deep growl in reply. Vox decides he needs to act fast and doesn’t wait for a response before leaning forward and pressing his tongue against Valentino’s hardening cock.
“Fuck you,” Valentino says and places his second pair of hands on each side of Vox’s head.
This part is admittedly awkward. Vox is not a blowjob kind of guy, and as if to make this point clear to the world Hell gave him a box for a head that isn’t exactly conducive to sucking dick. The first time he tried Vox had been too drunk to let his fragile ego overrule his desire to get the upper hand against Valentino for once. The other demon had looked surprised for all of two seconds before he burst out laughing and offered to teach Vox how to give him head.
Still, Valentino is well on his way to a full erection, and even Vox won’t have a problem helping him get there. He presses his tongue flat against the base, thinking about the way he knows Valentino likes to be touched; with broad, rough strokes at first, more palm than fingers, focusing more and more on the tip the closer he gets to coming. The taste of sweat and semen from Valentino’s first orgasm of the night goes directly to Vox’s own dick, which is still mercifully pressed against the bedsheets.
Valentino lets out something between a sigh and a moan, claws flexing dangerously against his head. Vox almost hums in response, but refrains. He doesn’t want to enjoy this too much, and he especially doesn’t want Valentino to know that he does. He’s at a disadvantage in these situations as it is; Valentino, ill-tempered and painfully transparent in all other aspects of their partnership, navigates sex like the professional he is. He’s never as difficult to read as he is in bed, regardless of how little he’s wearing.
Vox lets his tongue curl around the head of Valentino’s cock, fingers tugging absently on the remaining suspender slip. It unsettles him sometimes, the shape of the something he can perceive between them, dark and indistinct but undeniably there. How a flash of leg in his office can make his stomach churn. How he doesn’t really have any reservations about taking Valentino’s cock in his mouth anymore, how the feeling of it growing stiff against his tongue makes his pulse race. How much Vox wants to look, how he would stick his tongue in every damn hole Valentino has just to make him squirm.
When Vox tastes the first drops of precum he pulls back immediately. Valentino’s dick is long and arches towards his belly in a way the studio cameras love, the color a dark shade of purple that reminds him of a bruise. Vox takes a moment to admire his handiwork, how it glistens with spit in the shifting light. He’s incredibly aroused by now, the rush of cool air when he moves onto his hands and knees almost painful. Vox’s body hums with blood and electricity, potent enough to make him spark, like they haven’t already fucked once tonight.
Vox doesn’t realise he’s honest-to-fuck panting until Valentino places a finger on the tip of his tongue and chuckles. Like he’s gagging for it.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to leave you hanging when you look like that.”
He would simmer in that humiliation more if Valentino didn’t take the opportunity to spread his legs properly, the lower pair of arms holding himself open for Vox while the other rests languidly on the large pillows.
“You’ve kept me waiting long enough,” Valentino says, knees folded towards his chest.
Fuck. Vox can see everything.
“Fucking hell, Val,” he says, grinning despite himself. He can’t resist the urge to sink his fingers into the purple flesh of Valentino’s ass, kneading and watching his hole stretch, eliciting a wanton sound that has to have been carefully cultivated for the sole benefit of a camera. Vox doesn’t care; he loves watching too much.
Without further ado, Vox grabs hold of Valentino’s hip with one hand while guiding his cock inside with the other. For all that Vox has taken his sweet time to get to this point it happens very fast; Valentino is still loose from their first round, and all it takes is a shallow thrust for Vox to push inside, relishing the hungry noise the other man makes.
As if springing a trap, the pair of arms holding Valentino open snake around Vox’s waist before he even bottoms out. Vox groans, overcome by the feeling of skin on skin and the heat that envelops him. When he can’t push further, Valentino’s long legs wrap around him too as if to keep him firmly in place. Like this, on his hands and knees above him, Vox can almost taste the familiar scent that wafts from Valentino’s fur, musky beneath the delicate notes of his perfume.
Vox feels him tighten around him, the second pair of hands pulling him into Valentino’s hips. This close, Vox swears he can feel Valentino’s cock twitch where it presses against his stomach, and that completely fries some wire in his mechanical brain. He thrusts into him deep, briefly overwhelmed by Valentino’s moan and how fucking good he feels before recovering enough to do it again.
No matter how elegant he may appear, Valentino’s body is always brimming with the potential for violence. Vox knows that better than most people; he’s seen those slender limbs crush necks and tear arms from their sockets by the sheer momentum of Valentino’s rage, felt those claws tear his own clothes and skin open. It turns him on how, for all of Valentino’s strength, he still spreads his legs for him. Vox loves being the one who sets the rhythm, who can take his sweet time thrusting in and out of the yielding body below, a little slower than he knows Valentino likes. The man can stand to learn a bit more patience.
Valentino still moans, loud and shameless, the hands at Vox’s waist slipping down towards his ass as if to pull him deeper. If he thinks too much about the garter belt chafing against his stomach with every thrust Vox won’t be able to keep this up for much longer.
As if on cue, Valentino presses a soft, downy foot against the back of Vox’s thigh, rubbing a small circle there, and fuck knows why that makes it so hard to hold back, but Vox groans and slams his hips into Valentino a little harder than before.
“You’re so fucking tight I don’t think I could pull out even if I tried,” Vox says, needing to preoccupy his brain with something other than Valentino’s body. “Even though you’ve already had my cock once.”
“You’re not pulling out this time, you bastard,” Valentino says, winded but entirely too coherent for Vox’s taste. “I’m not letting you go until I’ve milked you completely fucking dry, I swear to God—”
If they were closer in height, Vox would shut him up with a deep kiss. He’d wind his tongue around Valentino’s before letting a spark or two loose and relish the full-body tremble of ecstatic pain that would elicit, like it has so many times before. But Valentino is ten fucking feet tall and has a firm grip on Vox’s ass, so trying to bend him in half is out of the question. Vox has to make do with clutching the bedsheets harder and watching.
Valentino’s head is tilted back, his face bathed in blues and purple, antennae swaying enticingly with every thrust. There’s a trail of red at the corner of his mouth that makes Vox’s tongue tingle with the urge to taste. His other hands are still in repose, a marked contrast to the iron grip around Vox’s waist— one curled lightly against the white of Valentino’s neck fur, the other on his chest, lazily circling a nipple. The intense want that washes over him makes something in Vox’s head shake loose without him even trying.
“Look at you,” he says, feeling his eye pulsate, a little taken aback by his own scrambled voice. “Let me look at you.”
Even when Valentino’s gaze isn’t turned away, he’s never particularly susceptible to Vox’s influence. It was one of the first things to tip him off on how bad Valentino’s sight is.
At the sound of Vox’s voice Valentino’s head still snaps up, red eyes huge in the low light. Vox pushes into him again, panting openly.
“You look so good I could fuck you for days,” Vox groans. “I swear I could fuck you forever when you look like that, Val—”
Well shit. He doesn’t usually start rambling until the third round. But Vox is too far along to hold back, thrusting deep but less and less steady, words coming out tinny and distorted from his speakers. How good Valentino feels, how good they are as a team. How he was given this perfect body, to be maintained and upgraded to flawlessly execute his will and give Valentino dick.
How there’s going to be a tower with their names on it, one day.
Vox doesn’t let up, doesn’t let Valentino get a word in edgewise, only nails him into the mattress with a steady relentlessness, making sure to bury his cock as deep as possible every time. Valentino moves his hips and takes it as he takes everything else he wants: with enthusiastic greed.
When he can feel the first twinge of an impending orgasm, Vox slows down for a moment and takes a deep breath without breaking eye contact. He wonders what Valentino sees on his face. The dark screen behind Vox’s facial features, the lights reflecting on the screen. Valentino’s own image looking back at him, hot and enticing and close. There are millions of pictures like this in circulation, millions of copies of Valentino in compromising clothes and even more compromising positions circulating in Hell, each individual frame of tape another fragment of Valentino.
It hits Vox with sudden clarity that he could spend the rest of eternity combing through each millisecond of footage in their archive and not match this Valentino perfectly, that this moment is unique and isolated. He could watch Valentino for every moment for the rest of their mutual lives and some aspect of him would always exist outside of the camera’s reach. Outside of Vox’s reach.
A deep, directionless jealousy stirs at the thought and he almost recoils, except Valentino chooses that moment to wrap his upper pair of arms around Vox’s neck.
And Valentino doesn’t plead, hardly ever says the word please even out of bed, but he moans Vox’s name towards the end and that’s even better.
When Vox comes he buries himself to the hilt and stays, orgasm quaking through his limbs as he spills inside of Valentino. The second climax wracks his entire body, as it always does, and Vox moans loudly and shamelessly through it.
Still shaking, Vox can’t hold back the triumphant laughter that bursts out of him while he’s still coming in his partner. He feels so fucking good about everything right now. Before he can pull out, Valentino’s second pair of arms grab his hips and pulls them impossibly closer. Valentino makes a rumbling, primeval noise deep in his chest, pulling him closer again, fucking himself on Vox’s softening cock, and Vox has just about enough presence of mind to register the feeling of Valentino’s cock trapped between their bodies when the other demon comes, warm and wet against sweat-soaked skin.
Vox vaguely registers that he’s still chuckling when he collapses on top of Valentino, screen pressed flat against the other demon’s chest. For a moment they lie like that, limbs intertwined and hearts racing, until Valentino sighs and loosens his death grip on Vox’s waist.
Vox doesn’t protest when he’s tipped over onto his back; he just lies there, watching the colors on the ceiling change. At some point he begins to register the sounds of Pentagram City’s nightlife again.
They stay like that for a while, until Valentino unceremoniously throws his bare leg over Vox’s. The warm weight catches him off-guard, but he doesn’t move except to glance down. Valentino’s lavender skin, currently washed pink in the neon lights, gleams with sweat and bodily fluids, and there’s an almost perfect bite mark on his inner thigh. The claws at the tip of his foot flex again, difficult to see behind the white fluff.
It really does look like he’s wearing socks.
“Only one of them?” Valentino says, indicating the stocking that met a violent end. “You’re the most half-assed fetishist I’ve ever fucked.”
Vox tries and fails to look at Valentino’s other, still stocking-clad leg with any sort of subtlety. It’s difficult to side glance with a box for a head. That does nothing to temper the smug satisfaction that dominates his afterglow. Vox rests a hand on the other demon’s naked thigh, grazing his knuckles against the bitemark there.
“Val, Val, Val,” he says, cajoling. “You know that I always save the best for last.”
Feeling lucky, Vox finds the wounds left by his own teeth and presses down.
Valentino doesn’t even hiss, only shakes his leg with all the urgency of someone trying to get rid of an insect.
“Bitch. That does piss me off. I should make you crawl on your bare knees for pulling that stunt on me.”
Vox laughs and squeezes the other demon’s leg harder. He would like to see Valentino try. Still basking in the afterglow, Vox is happy and infused with a deeply obnoxious confidence.
That feeling of elation, of riding the high of success, where their mutual hunger tips over into other appetites, was how Vox had ended up in bed (and seedy clubs, and dark alleyways, and empty warehouses) with Valentino in the first place.
“You know I’ll pay for a new pair,” Vox says magnanimously, still stroking the inside of Valentino’s thigh. “All you have to do is ask.”
Without a word, Valentino rolls over, wings rustling as he ends up almost on top of Vox. A long finger unfurls to tap against Vox’s screen, as he leans close enough for an antenna to brush against his.
“Three pairs. With interest.”
Before Vox can reply he’s rolled over to the edge of the bed and unhooked the garter belt from his waist. Vox watches as Valentino bends forward, no doubt removing the remaining stocking with great care. That causes a twinge of possessiveness he doesn’t feel like examining right now.
“You can pick them out, if you like,” Valentino says as he makes his way to the bathroom. He’s always been quite particular about clean-up when it’s available; Vox decides it’s not worth it to try and convince him that it’s a waste of time.
As Valentino steps in for a quick shower, Vox rolls off the bed to open a window. With the fresh air comes bass notes from the street below, and he stops for a moment, gazing into Hell’s phosphorous night. The room they’re staying in is on the twenty-first floor.
One day they will be so, so much farther from the ground than this.
Vox looks down at the miniscule silhouettes that swarm beneath the neon lights and turns the offer over in his head.
He resolves to buy Valentino at least four pairs of stockings.