Chapter Text
Chapter 48 - Aftermath
Velvette swept around the suit—heels clicking, phone glowing, presence sharp enough to slice silk. The dressing suite still smelled faintly of steam and setting spray, laced with the rich note of espresso from the drinks Java had whipped up for them the bar Velvette conjured earlier.
Java watched her sip and pace while she glanced at her own phone. Her post glowed on-screen—green heart, soft lighting, quiet power. The numbers were still climbing.
Velvette didn’t comment. She just held up her phone, screen tilted like a flare.
“He’s coming up,” she said. “And babe—he’s coming in hot.”
Java blinked. “Hot like…?”
Velvette didn’t miss a beat. “Like screen overheating — hide the lowest earners this month people will die hot.”
Java set the phone down and smoothed her skirt—reflexive, unnecessary. Her pulse ticked a little faster.
“What’s happened?” she asked, quieter now. “Am I in the way?”
Velvette’s look softened by half a degree.
“No. Just… the rest of the city.”
She stepped closer, fingers lifting to adjust the collar of Java’s blouse with practiced grace.
“He’ll land in one of two moods: cold false-gratitude masking like a motherfucker or explosive emotional constipation. That one gets spicy. I’ll hang back till I know for sure which.”
Java nodded once.
Ping.
The elevator.
Velvette tilted her head toward the door. “Okay, showtime.”
She gave one last wink—sharp as her winged liner—then ghosted toward the hallway, pausing just long enough to murmur:
“Brace for impact, sunshine.”
The door chimed.
Soft. Polite. Final.
Java waited.
She was seated on the edge of the chaise, one leg crossed over the other, phone idle in her lap. Her reflection flickered faintly in the screen—still glowing, still composed, still waiting.
She felt him before she saw him.
The air tightened. The lighting dipped. A shiver of static ghosted down the mirror’s edge like a warning.
The door to the suit opened with a hush.
And Vox stepped in.
Not rushed. Not messy. But unmistakably charged.
The static rode in with him—sharp, hairline cracks of pressure trailing behind his polished boots. His suit was immaculate, every line crisp, every fold intentional. But his energy?
Barely contained.
It ripped all around him, dancing across his claws and suit. The electrics of the suit slightly sparking with him.
Velvette appeared beside the door like a conjured spell, all smirk and effortless posture. She took one look at him and let out a low whistle through her teeth.
“Well,” she said, with a hand on her hip and zero illusions. “This is a vibe.”
Vox zoned in on her, a man on a mission. He hadn’t notice Java yet or even glance her way.
“Start cutting Valentino out,” he said, voice like silk over broken glass. “Find alternate streams. Re-Divert assets and look for other avenues of to pick up contracts and profits. And get eyes on Angel Dust—quietly.”
Velvette blinked recognition of the situation hitting her. “Fuck okay V —Got it.”
His tone softened by a fraction. “Thank you, my Dear.”
He took a moment to calm and scanned the room.
And for Vox all that energy—everything stopped.
She was radiant.
“….Java” a broken whisper of awe.
The emerald blouse skimmed her waist with quiet confidence. Her glasses caught the light. The soft wave in her hair glowed under the sconces. Her tail curled in slow, elegant rhythm—calm, grounded, waiting.
But something inside him jolted.
“You look…” His voice caught.
She tilted her head. Just slightly.
“Nice?” she offered, voice low.
He inhaled.
“No. That’s an understatement. You look like something the world isn’t allowed to touch.”
His words landed heavy—too sincere to be smooth, too reverent to be flirtation.
“Like sunlight and sin, something forbidden and would be tainted if I touched..”
Static pulsed faintly at the corner of his screen.
Java gave a small smile.
“Velvette and I played dress up, she took good care of me….”
Then, softer: “Can you tell me what happened?” A pause. “Or… do you want a moment first?”
Velvette clocked the vibe instantly.
Two seconds of silence. One glance at Vox’s shoulders. And she was already stepping backward like a stagehand ghosting off set.
“Right,” she said, voice light but edged with reverence. “That’s my cue to vanish. Some of us have some actual work to fucking do— so, fuck you bye.”
She didn’t wait for permission. Just offered a faint wave and a knowing smirk as she slipped toward the door.
“Text me if you need backup babes,” she added, heels already clicking down the hall. “Or an alibi.”
The door shut behind her.
And just like that— It was quiet again.
That was when Vox stepped forward.
One pace. Then another.
Then—without warning—
He dropped.
His knees hit the floor in front of her, smooth and unceremonious. Like gravity had given up asking politely.
His arms came up around her waist, circling with mechanical precision. A containment protocol made personal. His screen pressed to her abdomen—his entire frame folding into her space like worship.
Java stilled.
Then breathed.
Her hands found the exact spot around his screen to offer relief. The edge of wire ports. The static was still there—buzzing under the surface like a scream shoved too deep.
She stroked along the side of his screen. Not trying to fix. Just being.
Vox exhaled against her stomach.
“I burned everything,” he said.
Java’s hand didn’t stop moving.
Just gentle passes along the side of his screen—like smoothing static. Like holding something that hummed with too much power and too much pain.
Then, slowly, she reached up.
Her fingers brushed the brim of his top hat—careful, deliberate.
She lifted it from his head.
Set it quietly beside them on the chaise.
That simple act—removing the antennae-crowned silhouette he ruled the city with—felt like stripping thunder from a stormcloud. Like telling lightning it could rest.
His claws dug tighter into her sides. Not hurting. Just anchoring.
She waited a beat. Then said softly—
“I saw it had something to do with your ex.”
A pause. No pressure.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Vox.”
For a moment, he didn’t respond.
His arms tightened slightly—just a fraction—around her waist. Like her voice had tugged something loose in him.
Then he spoke.
Low. Compressed. Like he was chewing broken glass just to get it out.
“He let the Princess walk into the studio.”
Java blinked—but didn’t interrupt.
“She saw AngelDust. Mid-shoot. Mid… everything. There was a fire, Val was..himself with Angel in front of her.” A deep sigh of exhausted passed through him.
“Long story short—She left crying. Cameras caught it. People posted it.”
He exhaled, and the sound was jagged.
“I deleted the footage. All of it. But the damage was done, he made the Vees look weak, I had to make an example. Burned the servers. All the films he had been working on, backups everything. Wiped it clean.”
Her fingers brushed the edge of his crown, thumb smoothing over the back of his head.
“And Valentino?” she asked gently.
A flicker. Glitch sharp. Static pulsed at the base of his neck.
“I gave him one last warning.”
Then quieter, barely audible:
“I don’t think he heard it.”
“…Is Angel okay?”
That did it.
The tension behind his screen cracked—not visible, not audible—but she felt it. Like a fault line shifting under her palms.
Vox didn’t answer right away.
When he did, his voice was quieter. Measured. Frayed at the edge.
“Alive. Still under contract.”
A pause.
Then, softer—real.
“I’m sorry, sweetness. I’m still working on that.”
Java nodded once. That was all he needed.
She didn’t press.
Didn’t scold.
Just let her thumb brush over the side of his screen again—present. Steady.
He didn’t stop there.
Didn’t even seem to notice he was speaking until the words were already falling out—tired, relentless, like pressure finally venting from a sealed chamber.
“We can get him some distance. Valentino’ll be weeks undoing the damage I left.”
His voice dipped darker, faster now—like he was convincing himself as much as her.
“He normally makes AngelDust work johns—”
He looked up at her then. Really looked.
“—but if I front you the difference, you can have him start working at the café instead. Pay him cash. Valentino’s too blind and fucking stupid to know it’s not from tricks. That keeps him out of harm’s way while I keep working on my promise to you.”
It hung between them—raw, generous, desperate to fix things in the only ways he knew how.
Java’s chest ached.
She reached down, brushing a curl off the side of his screen with aching fondness. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Then, gentler still:
“But why do you still look like you lost something?”
“I just…” he started, then stopped.
Static curled in his throat.
“I hate that you asked this of me. And I still haven’t delivered. It shouldn’t take this long. It shouldn’t be this hard to pull one soul out of the pit.”
His voice pitched lower—guilt warping it.
“And the feeds—some of the articles said it was a hissy fit. That Valentino only caused that scene because I went public with you.”
He didn’t look up.
Didn’t move.
Just pressed closer, like the pressure of her could shield him from that humiliation.
Java didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pull away.
She let her fingers drift through his hair, slow and grounding.
“I don’t care,” she said simply. “I’d rather be blamed than hidden.”
Then, lightly:
“And hey—with help at the café, I could actually leave for lunch once in a while.”
A pause.
She smiled, soft and crooked.
“Might even let you buy me dinner sometime.”
That earned the smallest flicker from him.
A low, fractured hum behind his screen—barely a laugh, but trying.
“You’d let me buy you dinner?” he echoed, voice rough but warmer now.
Java smoothed his hair back, nails brushing lightly at his scalp. “I might even let you choose some fancy place, let you really show off.”
Vox’s screen tilted, just enough to look up at her from her lap. His eyes glitched once—light catching on static like sunlight on a cracked lens.
Then, softly, “that sounds perfect—You’re dangerous when you’re sweet to me.”
Java’s tail curled around his wrist. “Only to men who forget I’m hungry.”
At that, his head dipped again with a groan—static muffled against her stomach.
“Fuck. I forgot lunch.”
She grinned. “I didn’t. I’ve been dolled up and nursing this coffee for an hour.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured. “Anything you want.”
Java leaned forward, kissed the top of his screen. “Then feed me, idiot.”
Vox let out a short, glitched chuckle—more breath than sound.
He rose first, smooth and unhurried, then gently pulled her to her feet—his grip sure, reverent.
As she steadied, his eyes swept over her once more. A faint glitch sparked at the corners of his screen.
“Perfection,” he said simply. Like it was a fact. Like it was inevitable.
Then, he spun her.
A light twirl—just enough to make her laugh, to send her hair swaying and her tail flicking with delighted surprise. She caught herself with a hand on his chest, breath soft, eyes bright.
“Vox,” she scolded, flushed.
“That was indulgence,” Vox corrected, voice low. “And I’m not done.”
He tapped his screen with one clawed finger, the call already connecting.
“Peppermint,” he said crisply. “Clear my afternoon.”
A pause. A tinny protest.
“No. Its handled. Velvette’s running point.”
Another pause. Vox’s screen dimmed half a shade.
“She can handle the wolves. I’ve got more important things.” Vox replied, already pulling her gently toward the hallway.
“I’m taking my girl to lunch.”
Java gave a little stretch, smoothing her skirt with zero urgency.
“About time,” she muttered. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten this girl runs on carbs.”
Vox let out a low, indulgent sound—somewhere between a chuckle and a threat.
Then, with no warning, he gave her ass a light, reverent slap.
“Can’t have anything happen to these curves, can we?”
Then, with a smirk that should’ve been illegal, she added—
“Hurry up, then. Or I’ll start nibbling on you instead.”
“Bossy,” he muttered.
Then he wrapped one arm around her waist, tugged her flush against him like she was part of the static, and nuzzled the spot she’d kissed—just for a second longer than was polite.
“I love it.”
He let her go reluctantly, still sparking faintly, and strode toward the console near the door.
A low hum. A flick of static.
Another appointment canceled. Another lackey left twitching.
And one short VoxTek command sent off-screen:
Keelie. VIP Lounge. Two guests. Start prepping.
He turned back.
“Come on,” he said, offering his hand. “I’ve got a table upstairs.”
Java slid her hand into his, smoothing her skirt with the other. “Fancy.”
He smirked. “Executive.”
“Isn’t everything in this place ‘executive’?”
“This one has Keelie, tamper proof dining, floor-to-ceiling views, and a plasma fountain shaped like a stripper pole.”
Java snorted. “Oh. Tasteful.”
“The others picked the décor,” he added dryly. “I picked the chef.”
The private lift to the VIP level rode smooth and fast, lined in brushed chrome and half-lit branding that pulsed with ambient static.
Java leaned against the wall beside him. “And that I take it is Keelie?”
“You’ll like her,” he said. “Imp from Wrath. Ex-bounty hunter. Went culinary. Keeps cleavers sharper than her knives.”
“Comforting.”
“She’s under contract. But she likes you. You kept me all cosy and caffeinated, remember, she ate some of the flan you sent back with me a few weeks back.”
“She had a bite of my espresso flan?”
“And immediately offered to kill for you.”
“Reasonable woman.”
⸻
The elevator opened on Level 99—VIP Lounge.
Muted lighting. Expensive silence. Screens embedded in the walls pulsed with ambient loops of Vee-branded promos: club events, studio showcases, promotional teasers from Angel’s old catalog. Not loud. Not trashy.
Just curated. Elite.
The space was designed like a cross between a cigar club and a high-roller’s waiting room—leather booths, polished glass, soundproof alcoves for “confidential” meetings, and a long bar backed by a scrolling ticker of current sin-share prices.
A two-top table near the window was already set.
Steam rose gently from a black stone serving slab. Keelie’s work—always plated like a threat.
Java stepped forward slowly, taking in the view—Hell’s skyline bleeding red against the glass. The soundproofing dulled everything but the faint hum of energy systems.
Vox moved to her side, one hand at her lower back.
“No one will bother us here,” he said.
Java glanced at the screens. “Feels like someone might film us though.”
“Only me.” He pulled out her chair. “And honestly just to relive this again once you go.”
Java eased into the chair, her eyes still on his screen. “Then I guess you better make it worth replaying.”
Vox didn’t answer.
He just stepped behind her, trailing one hand over her shoulder, then down her arm—slow, reverent. The kind of touch that said he already was.
Somewhere behind the walls, static hummed low and content.
And above the city—just for a while—they let the hell burn without them.