Chapter Text
Something has to be done about Vax, once and for all. When Valentino had told him that against all odds, in defiance of the edicts of heaven and hell and whatever magic held this shitshow together, the two of them had created something, Vox had been ecstatic. He'd never managed to mark that particular item off his to-do list topside, but part of him had always wanted to. Passing on his best traits, his charisma, his business savvy, his sharklike predatory ruthlessness, had always been a dream. When he breathed his last on earth only to wake up more machine than man, Vox had put that dream away. After more than fifty years, he can finally put his plans into practice.
Twenty years into raising Vax, it's become clear that no amount of planning is enough to combat the unbridled chaos of a creature that is half Valentino. Vox is harsh with his son, giving frequent long-winded rants on the importance of image, their brand, and how Vax cannot keep going around like some kind of degenerate, throwing wood at the slightest stimulation and constantly sneaking off to touch himself- does he think Vox can't see him? He sees everything.
And here, as he paces back and forth in front of his cowering son and remorseless partner, Vox gives Val a hard look, and repeats that he sees everything. Like he didn't know Val was fucking around with their son the second it started, like he doesn't track them both every minute of every day with single-minded dedication. And sure, maybe Vox has been trying to be more attentive lately, more adventurous, more available, in a not-so-subtle attempt to seduce Val's full attention back to him. He's not above a bit of petty jealousy, especially when it comes to the former idol turned business partner turned partner. But really, Vox insists to himself, it's about the brand. The legacy Vax should stand to inherit. But there's no way Vox will ever let him into the business with self control so weak.
Maybe, Vox concedes, he needs to be a more hands-on parent. Maybe he's the one who has to introduce his son to discipline, since the ever-indulgent Valentino clearly won't. It's time for their son to grow the fuck up. To be a man, standing proudly on his own two feet, instead of hanging off his mother's leg- or dick- all day.
What Vax needs is training. Instruction, discipline, command- all things Vox is equipped and eager to provide. It might end up being a waste of his valuable time and energy, but he knows that ultimately, things can't continue as they are. Something has to give, someone has to break, and if it has to be anyone, then it will be Vax. He'll either rise to the challenge, or crumble into just so many pieces of obsolete tech. As it stands now, Vox couldn't care less which way this goes.
The stressor Vox has arranged for this training session is, of course, Valentino. An easy choice, since he's known about Vax's little obsession with his idol mother since it started. To call Vax artless and unaware would be an understatement. Vox would have to be completely unplugged from the tower not to notice the constant power surges from Vax's bedroom. Even for his little shut-in gooner of a son, the last few weeks have been excessive.
Valentino has never stopped loving to perform for an audience. It's in his nature to want to be adored. Vox didn't need to push hard to get him to agree to wind their son up deliberately with a skimpy outfit and a series of suggestive poses. That perfect body of his is such a good lure that even Vox is struggling to stay on task, as weak to his idol's beauty now as he ever was.
But he's not the one being tested here.
Vax is kneeling in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner, floor to ceiling, anywhere other than at either of his parents. He briefly meets Vox's disapproving stare, and his whole awkward body flinches as if struck. Vox rolls his eyes so hard his display glitches, but he doesn't say a word, content to wait out this meager attempt at self-control. Best to see exactly where he's starting from.
Twenty four seconds. Vax makes it not even half a minute before his heart-shaped pupils dance their way to Valentino, spread out on the couch like a meal. Vox can't exactly blame him for looking. Valentino is a vision in black leather, a corset and miniskirt leaving his long, elegant body bare enough to make even Vox's processor lag by a fraction of a second- an eternity. Thigh high boots and fuck-me fishnets complete the look, and all Vox wants to do is ruin every stitch of clothing and the body underneath. But unlike his pathetic son, Vox has self-control. He understands there is a time and place for all things. And Vax is going to learn that lesson if it kills him.
Valentino stretches out on the couch with his back sinfully arched until his bare chest is offered up in mouthwatering temptation. On the floor, Vax kneels, cock hard, panting like a dog, his tongue hanging long and slick from his gaping maw. That tongue is Vox's electric blue, but the length is all Valentino, an obscene amalgamation that sets Vox's teeth on edge. Vox bends, but not far, his son's pulled-taffy body nearly as tall kneeling as Vox is standing. As if that weren't enough to piss him off, Vax's lust-dazed eyes take a moment to shift focus from Val to him. Clearly, Vax hasn't fully realized the rules of today's game. Vox will just have to clarify.
He pinches that lolling tongue with the sharp tips of his fingers until it bleeds thick trickles of metallic blue, the muscle spasming in his hold. Vax whines out a wounded little noise, all four hands fluttering with the urge to pry off Vox's grip. But Vax doesn't dare. "Keep your tongue in your mouth," Vox instructs with calm detachment as he sinks his claws a little deeper. Vax shrieks in a distorted screech of audio feedback, glossy pink-tinged tears welling in his eyes. Vox waits until Vax's output falls silent, then continues. "You're not a fucking animal."
Vax pulls his tongue in as soon as Vox lets it go, upper hands protectively covering his mouth. At a leisurely pace, Vox walks slow circles around his trembling son. It's a tactic, his measured steps around Vax, the way he lingers a little longer behind him, watching him twitch and fidget with nerves the longer Vox is out of sight. In truth, Vox doesn't have to move at all, can see his son from every angle, his cameras, his eyes embedded in every wall, every corner, all that footage written flawlessly into Vox's superspeed supercomputer memory. He doesn't have to move a muscle. But until the boy stops flinching, Vox won't stop pushing. In a contest of wills, Vox always comes out on top.