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Vox had never been this far north in the pentagram. Charlie Morningstar’s halfway house was situated nearly directly atop the first point of the Pride ring, outside the edges of Pentagram City. One such reason why Vox didn’t leave the city centre was because of the lack of wiring. Inside the metropolis, every surface was laced with electrical wiring, telephone poles, or hand-held devices he could easily jump between. The further out one went, the more sparce these convenient modes of travel became.
The Hazbin Hotel stood atop a hill seemingly devoid of any mainline electricity. It had taken Vox nearly ten minutes to walk from his last point of technological contact—a barely-functioning lamp post—before he arrived at the base of the hill. He glared up at the rickety building, it’s sign flickering against the night sky. It must’ve run on an independent generator of some kind. Whether it was sourced by the king himself or if Alastor had fitted the place out with one when he’d joined the ranks was unknown to Vox, though he wouldn’t put it past Alastor to think that far ahead.
He knew better than anyone how easy it was for Vox to get around when tech was involved. He gritted his teeth.
Well, it was no matter. Just because the hotel didn’t have a direct link to the rest of the city didn’t mean it was completely Vox-proof. It just meant he had to get a little closer to slip inside.
Which is exactly what he did. Skirting around the perimeter of the hotel, he kept his eyes on the dark windows as he slipped through the shadows and flattened himself against the edge of the building. No sounds came from within, but he still kept quiet as he strafed along the brick wall until he hit the edge of a basement window. He squatted down and was delighted to find it already open a crack. He spied the curve of a lightbulb hanging from the roof inside and all it took was him charging through the crack as a sliver of electricity, hitting the bulb, and he was in.
In his pure energetic form, Vox could travel through wires practically at the speed of light. He zapped through the entire hotel, floor to ceiling, in an instant, scoping the place out. He found a boxy antennae tv, a fridge that seemed to be stocking some questionable ingredients if the stench of rotting meat was anything to go by, as well as the various light fixtures of all the rooms. He caught fleeting glances of all the hotel’s occupants, tucked away in their beds.
There was Angel Dust, passed out on top of the covers, headphones still stuck in his ears and playing music. He passed by a dark room where that animal bartender of Alastor’s was hanging from the rafters by his tail, his wings wrapped around his body. He even spotted the princess herself, cuddled up to the attack dog of a girlfriend of her’s. There was no sign of the demented maid Alastor had for some reason taken a shining to, but Vox wasn’t worried about that. It wasn’t like she posed a threat to him.
Unlike another certain someone lurking somewhere within those walls.
Vox found what he was looking for when he spotted a plush red rug thrown over floorboards. He zapped into the space, rematerializing into his regular form, and knew instantly that he was in Alastor’s room. The dark upholstery, the oak mantlepiece framing a hearth burning with a cosy green hellfire, the walls adorned with animal skulls, framed insects, and pair of huge antlers all blasted him back to a time in the past in a similar room, in familiar company.
Vox pushed the thought away, instead sweeping his eyes over the room. No sign of Alastor. Just the gentle bob of fireflies and the chirping of crickets as he stepped deeper into the room, the toes of his shoes brushing the grass where floorboards met the outdoors. Vox wasn’t surprised to see the bayou stretching out impossibly from the walls of Alastor’s room. Alastor had spoken before about such an idea, throwing it around during one of the many strolls the two of them had taken in their early days.
“People always speak so fondly of the great outdoors,” Alastor had mused. “I don’t see why I can’t just sweep a certain part of it in through my doors. It’d certainly make the place feel more homely, don’t you think?”
Vox couldn’t remember what he’d said in response and he didn’t care to. He kept his berth from the edge of the dewy grass. He didn’t see a bed anywhere, so if Alastor was asleep, it stood to reason that he was somewhere in the depths of that swampy jungle. Probably he was curled up as a shadow somewhere, perhaps lurking beneath the water, only visible from his red, glowing eyes. Vox shuddered at the thought and turned instead towards the bookcase. If he had a modicum of luck, Alastor would be out for the night, terrorising some other poor fucker that wasn’t him.
Well, his coast was currently clear, so he took his advantage and began rifling through everything he could find. He turned over trinkets, flipped books open, and dug through drawers, not being careful to leave things as he’d found them. If he found anything worth taking, it wouldn’t matter if Alastor knew he’d been robbed or not, he’d be out of there with his booty!
“Come on, come on,” Vox muttered to himself, pushing aside a terrarium and tipping over a crystal paperweight. Stacks of sheet music scattered across the floor, getting crushed beneath his shoes as he slid over to a tall dresser. “There’s gotta be something around here.”
Vox didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, if anything at all. Something valuable he could either blackmail Alastor with or use as a bargaining chip. Some powerful artifact maybe, or something sentimental. Vox immediately scoffed at the idea. Alastor was about as sentimental as a praying mantis getting ready to eat the head of her mate.
His laughter died in his throat when he pulled out the drawer and was met with the sight of a row of neatly pressed bowties. Vox immediately dug his hands in, pulling out the strips of black fabric to inspect closer.
Oh, fuck. He’d stumbled across Alastor’s closet.
He immediately shoved the bowties back in place and opened the next drawer. It was a dozen rolls of silky black socks. Vox unfurled one pair, holding the slinky things up to rub between his clawed fingers. As he looked at the shimmery fabric, he pictured Alastor sitting on the lip of his non-existent bed, pant legs rolled up as he pulled the socks on over his hoofed feet. In life, Vox had been a fan of a sweet pair of legs wrapped in thigh-high stockings beneath a pencil skirt. Nothing got his motor running quite like a bare ankle peeking over the edge of a stiletto. It seemed his tastes had carried over to now include aggravating demons with a penchant for fucking him off.
He surreptitiously stuffed one pair of socks into his pocket before continuing down. He found Alastor’s shirts next, mostly red with a couple of variations of black thrown in there.
“Never very adventurous, were you, Alastor?” Vox snickered to himself, running his thumb along a stiff collar.
The fabric was worn and thin in Vox’s hands. He paused for a moment before bringing the shirt up to his screen, pressing it flat against the glass panes of his face and inhaling deeply. He breathed in the smell of rot and decay, those scents that had always been repulsive but now that they were forever associated with Alastor in his mind, only thrilled him. Just as quickly as he’d picked the shirt up, he discarded it, mildly disgusted with himself.
Vox’s disgust was short-lived as he opened the bottom drawer and found matching sets of knitted vests and shorts. It took his confusion-addled brain a minute to realise he was looking at Alastor’s underwear, then he let out a delighted squawk as he pulled one of the little shorts out from its spot.
“Oh, fuck,” Vox laughed, stretching the waistband out between his fingers. “That asshole really committed to the bit. Wearing this shit all the time? For what?”
“They’re actually rather comfortable.”
Vox yelped in surprise, jumping to his feet so fast he staggered back and fell on his ass. Alastor stood over him, peering down at Vox with a pinched smile, his hands folded neatly behind his back, gripping his radio cane.
“What the fuck?” Vox gasped, clutching at the spot over his chest where his heart was hammering faster than a hummingbird’s wings.
“I believe it is I who should be asking that,” Alastor replied easily.
He straightened up and brought his cane around in a clean swing. The tip of it caught the waistband of the undershorts in Vox’s hand, swiping them away. Alastor dropped the pair back into the drawer from whence it came and kicked it shut with the toe of his shoe.
“I mean really, Vox,” Alastor tutted. “Pilfering through another man’s delicates? I didn’t think you could stoop so low.”
“How long have you been there?” Vox asked, instead of answering.
He scuttled back along the floor like a crab until his hands touched the damp grass of the bayou. Alastor just advanced forward, keeping the distance between them slim. With his back to the fire, Alastor was illuminated from behind, his silhouette bathed in eery green light. His face was a swirl of shadows, his red eyes glowing in the dark and leering down at Vox like a couple of sniper targets locked in on their kill. The scrutiny had the pit of Vox’s stomach freezing over.
“The whole time,” Alastor said, picking some invisible lint off his shoulder. “I felt your presence as soon as you crossed over my wards—which was very rude, I’ll have you know. Paying a visit at such an hour? For shame.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “But I decided to let you roam about and see whatever it was you were up to. I didn’t expect you to be so brazen as to break into my room.”
His gaze hardened to steel, his smile straining into a rictus grin for a fraction of a second. Then his expression smoothed out, pleasantly amused once more.
Vox leapt. Diving straight between the window of Alastor’s long legs, he scrambled across the floor, his claws digging into the carpet and tearing up tufts of red fluff in his haste. He turned his gaze up towards the light fixture above and a moment later his body was a bolt of lightning, arcing up towards the roof. He had just breached the wires, his hope swelling as he thought he just might get out of there unscathed, when he felt an icy fist wrap around him. It squeezed tight, halting his progress and stalling him in place. Vox writhed and struggled in that vice-like grip but it remained as strong and constrictive as a boa.
“I don’t think so,” Alastor’s warbled, crackling voice sounded all around him, sending a chill down Vox’s non-existent spine.
Then he was being wrenched back, pulled from the coils of the wiring by shadows and flung down, where he rematerialized and landed hard on the ground. He turned over onto his side, blinking through the stars dancing across his vision. Alastor stood in the middle of the floor, shaking out his hand, which was charred and steaming. He winced as he flexed his clawed fingers before turning his ire back to Vox.
“Leaving so soon?” Alastor asked sweetly. “And after you went through all this trouble just to see me?”
Vox opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by a horde of shadowy tentacles suddenly sprouting from the ground in front of him. They lashed out, wrapping around his wrists and ankles, then hoisted him up into the air, leaving him writhing like a fish on a hook. He gasped against the odd, cold sliminess of the things slipping beneath his sleeves to touch his bare skin.
“You prick!” Vox yelled at Alastor, who just watched him squirm with a placid smile. “The only thing I wanna see of you is your head on a fucking spike!”
“Ooo, you know just what to say to a man,” Alastor cooed.
Vox ground his teeth together so hard he thought his screen might crack. He tried turning into electricity once more, but found that he couldn’t. The shadowy tendrils tightened around him, squeezing tight enough around his limbs to cut off circulation. He winced at the pain.
“Mm mm,” Alastor chided, wagging his finger at Vox like a school master scolding a naughty student. “There will be no more of that.”
“Mother fucker!” Vox hissed, trying to wrench his arm free but the tentacles held firm.
They sprouted from Alastor’s shadow, stretched long and menacing along the floor. It was impossibly dark, like a mini black hole tossed over Alastor’s rug. Alastor stood, straight backed and prim, hands folded over the top of his cane. His Cheshire cat smile stretched cheerily across his cheeks. His gleaming eyes hooded and eery as he watched Vox struggle against his grip. Everything about him was wrapped in a tranquil façade, but Vox knew Alastor too well, could read his little tells that told Vox he was pissed. The steady tapping of a claw against his cane, the way his ears dipped to half-mast, and his antlers growing an extra thorn on each side.
When Alastor took a step back, Vox stilled, his mounting apprehension stalled by confusion.
“Such a lovely evening,” Alastor said conversationally, then threw a smirk over his shoulder at Vox. “Company aside.”
He flicked a lazy finger in the direction of his shelf. An antique radio, perched innocently in the middle of the mess Vox had made while looking for blackmail material, sprung to life. A jaunty, jazzy tune flowed forth, brassy instruments swirling together and filling the room with an ambience that Vox would’ve found warm if he weren’t currently trussed up by a bunch of magical tentacles.
Alastor hummed along to the tune, twirling his radio cane as he strolled over to the fireplace. He set his cane down against the wall and with a snap of his fingers, conjured up a bottle of whiskey and an accompanying tumbler.
Pouring himself a glass, Alastor said, “I just love this song, don’t you?”
“The fuck’s your deal?” Vox demanded in answer. “Stop this pussyfooting and do whatever it is you’re gonna do, already!”
Alastor appeared amused as he peered at Vox over the rim of his glass. He let out a satisfied sigh as he swallowed his drink then set the tumbler down on the mantelpiece.
“My, my,” he crooned. “One might think you’re eager to get disembowelled.”
Vox balked at his words. Was that Alastor’s plan? Rip him open and gut him? Pull all of his wires out like a kid gutting a pumpkin on Halloween? He eyed Alastor’s sharp claws and gulped. A traitorous part of him, however, thrilled at the idea.
Alastor read the look on Vox’s face, his eyebrow quirking up and a low chuckle rumbling in the back of his throat. “Maybe. But, then again, maybe not. I’m not sure I want to get my hands on you. That electric form of yours was quite enough.” A crackle of screeching feedback spat from the radio, the noise accompanying a haze of static that passed over Alastor’s eyes. He grinned, his teeth razor sharp. “Not to mention, it’s more than you deserve.”
Suddenly, the slick tendrils holding Vox up seemed to multiply, more coils of inky shadows climbing up to swirl around his body. They snaked down his arms and up his legs, wrapping as they went, to squeeze around his torso. Vox gasped as the wriggling tip of one tentacle slipped beneath the collar of his shirt to rest in the dip of his collarbone.
“It would be so easy,” Alastor mused, seeming to speak just as much to himself as to Vox, “to squeeze the life out of you. Squish you like a bug. I wonder how long it would take to come back from that?”
He laughed softly, leaning casually against the wall as he tipped his head back and downed the rest of his drink. Vox watched his throat bob, transfixed at the sight of Alastor’s long neck, even with the confines of his high collar blocking everything from view. Just as he began to imagine running his finger through the line of that collar, opening his shirt up for Vox to see the ashen skin beneath, the tendril that had been resting peacefully above his chest slithered up, wrapping around Vox’s throat.
Vox lurched back, a strangled gasp clawing its way from his constricted windpipe. He instinctively tried reaching down to claw at the thing, but his arms remained above him, caught in the grip of more of Alastor’s shadowy appendages. Alastor set his tumbler down, glass rattling against wood, then pushed off the wall, humming along to the music as he turned in a lazy circle.
“Da da da,” he sang along to the tune of a burring trumpet. He span around to grin at Vox, who’s screen was beginning to glitch from lack of oxygen. “Why not sing along, friend? It’s a real diddy, this one!”
Vox wordlessly croaked, his head spinning and vision spotting with static.
“Oh, dear. Getting a little choked up, are we? Here, let me.”
The tentacle around Vox’s neck retracted, allowing him to gulp down ragged, gasping breaths. He slumped over and would’ve fallen to the ground, flat on his screen, were it not for his restraints. His brain felt like a boiled pea floating around in a soupy broth. It took a minute of just breathing at the floor before he felt some semblance of a normal heartbeat. He registered that the radio was still playing music, though the song had changed to something slower and grander.
When Vox feebly lifted his head, it was to see Alastor dancing with his shadow. He was spinning around the room, arms poised in some parody of a waltz, his shadow posed similarly against the far wall. The shadow followed him as he stepped around the coffee table, trampling the sheet music Vox had spilled earlier. His eyes were closed and a content smile graced his lips as he hummed along to the music.
“What...?” Vox muttered, his vocal cords raspy after nearly getting crushed to a pulp. “What—hrrk—is this?”
The tentacles continued to move, wriggling about his body and snaking around his limbs. One looped high around his thigh like a torniquet, the girth of it rubbing right between Vox’s legs and making him gasp. It was at that contact that Vox realised he was half hard in his pants, on his way towards full mast.
Fuck, that choking out he’d received had fucked him up more than he’d thought.
Vox bit down on his lip, trying desperately to ease away from that particular tendril, but it was no use. There was nowhere to go and no way to get there. He was strung up like a rotisserie pork hanging in a butcher shop window, free for those freaky things to touch him as they pleased.
But they were acting under Alastor’s order, weren’t they?
Vox bucked his head up to stare at Alastor, but he was still dancing with his shadow, arm raised over his head as his shadow somehow twirled him in a circle. He seemed completely engrossed, like he’d entirely forgotten Vox was even there. But he had to be doing this on purpose, right? Vox had seen Alastor sprout those tentacles from his back to act as extra limbs when fighting, or just for a heavy dose of freaky when trying to spook his prey. Alastor’s back was currently tentacle-free, these ones instead pushing out from between the floorboards, but Alastor was still controlling them, right?
Could he still feel with them? Could he feel Vox’s body, right this moment, growing hotter by the second? Was that him rubbing up against the stiffening bulge in Vox’s pants? He’d said he didn’t want to get his hands on Vox but he hadn’t said anything about this.
Vox bit down against a moan as the tentacle climbed higher, resting right on top of his straining erection. The tendril that had nearly strangled him dipped lower inside his shirt, brushing against a nipple. They were cool and left a prickling sensation in their wake but the touch was electric, lighting up every single one of Vox’s nerves.
“You fucking-“ Vox growled at the back of Alastor’s head, gasping against the writhing touches all around him. “You fucking dick! You’re doing this on purpose!”
Alastor spun on his heel, still whistling along to the tune of the song. He blinked innocently, even as his shadow tentacles molested Vox.
“Doing what?” he asked sweetly.
“You-“ Vox was so mad and turned on, he could hardly speak. Alastor staring right at him as a tendril prodded his waistband wasn’t helping things. “You prick! You’re just teasing me!”
Alastor let out a faux gasp, a hand flying to his chest. In the process, his shoulder poked out of the opening of his coat, causing the fabric to slip down his arm and pool in the crook of his elbow.
“Who? Meee?” Alastor cooed, batting his eyelashes coquettishly.
“Asshole!” Vox screamed in his stupid, smiling face.
Alastor broke the act long enough to throw his head back and cackle, his fangs gleaming in the firelight. At the same time, one of his tentacles wrapped itself around the fold of Vox’s lapel and tugged. With a loud rip, the fabric was torn clean down the center of his back. He garbled a wordless cry of outrage as his ruined suit jacket was tossed aside, leaving him in his vest and shirtsleeves.
“You can act angry all you like,” Alastor said, hands folded behind his back as he stepped right into Vox’s space. “But we both know you’re not actually opposed.”
With the tentacles stringing him up in the air, Vox was above him, but even so, Alastor managed to look haughty as he leered up at him from his spot on the ground. He held his hand up and his radio cane materialised in his grip. He jammed the pointy end of it right beneath Vox’s monitor, to the tender, bruised skin of his throat. Vox gulped, feeling his Adam’s apple brush against the sharp metal as he did.
Alastor leaned in even closer, close enough for Vox to feel the warmth of his breath against his screen. “Isn’t that right?”
Vox’s head was spinning at their proximity. When was the last time Alastor had been this close to him? Within arm’s reach? Fuck, if only he weren’t dangling by his wrists, he could reach out and-
“Fuck you,” Vox managed to spit out, even as his blood sang, his body crying out for Alastor to come closer and close the gap between them.
Alastor clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he pulled his cane away and stepped back, taking that delicious heat with him. Vox nearly cried out at the loss.
“Still with the insults,” Alastor admonished. “When you’re the one who broke into my rooms, messed up my things, and tried to raid my undergarments. Honestly, Vox, were you raised in a barn? Did nobody ever teach you the virtue of manners?”
Alastor turned his back to him just as the tentacle breached his fly, pulling Vox’s zipper apart. Vox couldn’t contain the garbled yelp that burst from his throat this time. He squirmed, caught between arching away from the slithering touch and grinding into it. That slick, cold touch wormed over his underwear, the head of Vox’s cock poking over the elastic waistband of his boxers. A shiver ran up his spine at how weird it felt, equal parts gross and pleasurable. As the tendril pulsed over his cock, the other tentacles continued to slide over Vox’s body, leaving no place free for relief.
“H-Holy fuck,” Vox panted.
Was this a dream come true? A nightmare? It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Alastor. He raked his eyes up the long lines of Alastor’s body, gaze catching on his tapered waist, his slim shoulders, the graceful slope of his neck. Vox watched the gentle sway of Alastor’s hair, the blackened tips brushing his jaw as he turned his head minutely to the side. From there Vox couldn’t see Alastor’s eyes, only the edge of his smile.
He set his cane down on an armchair and, with a flick of his finger, unfastened his coat. The pressure over Vox’s cock increased as Alastor shrugged his coat off. Vox’s eyes bugged, his lust spiking as he zeroed in on the way Alastor’s shirt clung to the panes of his back. He moaned, watching Alastor’s shoulder blades shift beneath the fabric as he carefully set his coat down on the arm of the chair. The tentacles squirmed all around him, digging into the crooks and crevices of Vox’s body as he panted over the fucking curve of Alastor’s jaw.
“Alastor,” Vox groaned, pulling futilely at his restraints. “Come on.”
“Come on, what?” Alastor asked without turning around.
“Stop this—fuck—already! You’ve made your—ah!—point.”
“Have I?” Alastor said, pivoting around.
His bowtie was undone, hanging around his shoulders, and fuck! Why was that so sexy? The high collar of his shirt was open a fraction, giving Vox a glimpse of his bare throat. That sight, along with a tentacle brushing against Vox’s exposed cockhead was enough to induce a full-body shudder.
“F-Fuck,” Vox whimpered.
“Because if I haven’t, let me make myself very clear,” Alastor said, advancing slowly towards him.
With every step, his antlers grew, branching out of his head to form twin racks of wicked spikes. The red of his eyes bled into black until all Vox could see were two glowing scarlet pins glaring up at him from the gloom of Alastor’s face. When he spoke, his voice was riddled with static, the screeching feedback and pulsating radio waves emanating off of him making Vox’s antennae twitch violently.
“Consider yourself lucky I don’t split you open from neck to navel,” Alastor growled, and Vox quivered with arousal. Alastor stopped just short of Vox’s straining body. He didn’t even glance down at Vox’s cock being openly fondled by one of his tendrils, instead staring unblinkingly up at his overheated screen. “If you ever show your face here again, I will not be so gracious.”
Vox’s mind was assaulted by images of the tentacles breaching his ass and mouth, fucking him while Alastor sat back in his chair, sipping his whiskey and watching. More movement along his cock and nipples had Vox keening with want. He couldn’t stop looking at Alastor’s sharp claws, the waistband of his slacks hugging his trim hips, or the pointed toes of his shoes. He was so close—right in front of Vox, yet still out of reach.
“Alastor,” Vox panted, out of his mind with desire. “Please. I-“
“Hmm?” Alastor hummed, turned his head to the side and leaning in close. His ear twitched as he did, serving to only drive Vox even crazier. “What was that?”
“Touch me,” Vox pleaded, sagging as the admission was hooked out of him. Alastor made a considering noise as he glanced skyward and tapped his chin thoughtfully. His antlers had retracted slightly, his eyes flickering back to their regular blood red. Vox rolled his hips forward, wrists straining against the slimy grip surrounding them. Alastor was so close. So, so close- “Fuck- I need it!”
Alastor reached a hand out towards Vox’s screen, his clawed finger near enough to make Vox buzz with anticipation, his antennae zapping with electric need. The tentacle slipped all the way inside Vox’s underwear, wrapping around his cock and making him jolt.
“Hm.” Alastor moved, making as if to stroke his finger down the edge of Vox’s monitor. Then, just before he made contact, he drew his hand away, stepping back and grinning cheerily at Vox’s devastated face. “Nope!”
With a garbled cry, Vox came.
“Damn it, Valentino! Would you calm your shit?” Velvette yelled over the sound of more glass smashing. She glared at him from her desk, over the top of her sketchpad, while he paced in the same circle, puffing on his cigarillo. “I’m sure Vox will be back soon.”
“From where?” Val demanded, eyes bugging and looking very much like he needed a drink. Tough shit for him, as he’d just tossed his last one to shatter against the ground. Velvette was just glad it wasn’t a show day and none of her models were there to act as Valentino’s personal stress ball. “Where the fuck is he? He’s been gone all night! No calls, no texts—nothing!”
“Who knows?” Velvette said with a noncommittal shrug, turning her attention back to the dress she was sketching. She was thinking something a little more avant garde that day, with a fuck load of tulle. “Maybe he got stuck in a faulty wire again. But who cares? He’ll get his arse back here eventually.”
Val crossed all four arms over his chest with a huff. He stared out over the city through the floor-to-ceiling length windows with a glower.
“If he isn’t back here soon, I’m gonna-“
Val’s growing threat was left hanging as Velvette’s cell phone rang, the ringtone blaring loud enough to burst most ear drums, but Velvette merely swiped it up off the coffee table with an irate sigh.
“What?” she barked, not even checking the caller ID as she answered.
“Um, sorry to disturb you, Miss Velvette,” a voice that Velvette recognised as the miserable fuck Vox employed as his assistant replied. “But a package just arrived with an express request to be hand delivered to you or Mr. Valentino.”
“A package?” She frowned, the tip of her pencil pausing at a hem line. “From who?”
“I’m not sure. There’s no return address. Just, um, a smiley face.”
Velvette rolled her eyes. Gooey fan mail, maybe. Or a prank. Either way, something moronic she wouldn’t usually waste her time on. But it was either this or keep watching Val lose his shit, so she sighed.
“Fine. Whatever. Send it up.” Valentino raised an eyebrow at her as she hung up. She clicked her tongue in annoyance. “I don’t know. Some special delivery for the both of us.”
“Both of us?” Val echoed, at least sounding more intrigued than pissed now. “Interesting.”
A minute later there was a knock at the door. Val waved for his robot bitch to go fetch it and within seconds, she was flouncing back, depositing a large carboard box on the table. Val dismissed her with a flick of his cigarillo, spilling ash over the box as he leaned over it curiously. Even Velvette set down her sketchpad to stand by Val’s side, squinting at the package.
A note was taped to the top of the box. Velvette swiped it up, reading the scratchy handwriting scrawled across the square of paper.
“Kindly keep your mess to yourself. Maybe a bell would help. The fuck is this?” she demanded, tossing the note aside with a scowl.
Valentino pulled a knife from his garter and sliced through the packaging tape. The two of them peered down as he flicked the box open.
It took Velvette a moment to realise what she was looking at. When she did, she saw the twisted, mangled shape before her as her own missing business partner, Vox. She gasped despite herself as his screen flickered to life, dimmer than usual and dotted with patches of static. His eyes were bleary as he blinked up at their two shocked faces.
“Vox?” Velvette exclaimed.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Valentino snapped. “Where have you been?”
“Let’s not talk about it,” Vox muttered. He was bent out of shape like a pretzel, his arms twisted around the wrong way, and his legs hooked over his shoulders. His clothes were in complete disarray, shredded in places and burnt in others. There was an odd dampness to the front of his pants and frayed wires poked out of his joints, crackling with electricity. He coughed, causing his screen to glitch out for a second before his normal face came back into focus.
Val leaned in to inspect him further, then immediately recoiled, waving a hand over his nose and sending trails of pink smoke through the air. “Jesus Christ. You smell like the aftermath of one of my shoots. What happened? You get lucky before getting real unlucky?”
Vox scowled at him but it lacked his regular heat. He appeared too exhausted and fucked up to conjure anything of substance. “Can you just get me out of this thing? I need a shower. And the I.T guy. Stat.”
Velvette stared down at him in disbelief before throwing her hands up and spinning round on her heel. She stormed away, snatching her sketchbook up as she went.
“There’s something seriously fucking wrong with you,” she told him, slamming the door and leaving Val to puzzle over how to pull their partner out of the delivery box he’d been mashed into.
Like hell she was dealing with that.