Work Text:
Baxter emerges into the lobby of the Hazbin Hotel just in time to hear Charlie say, in one of the sharpest tones of voice that he’s ever heard from her, “You know, if he doesn’t want to go, I’m not going to help you force him.”
The besuited Sinner she’s speaking to doesn’t seem all that intimidated. “That’s quite alright. Mr. Valentino would be perfectly happy to force him if—”
Baxter clears his throat, raises his voice, and cuts in before this can get truly ugly, “That won’t be necessary.”
Charlie and the Sinner both turn as one, watching as he comes to stand next to them with his bag in one hand and his phone in the other. Baxter’s suspicions — if they can really be called that when he knew this was coming — are proven correct as he gets a better look at the person that Charlie’s talking to. While he’s not familiar with every VoxTek employee, he’s been under contract for the Vees for more than long enough to recognize Valentino’s driver. The porn Overlord has a tendency to go through assistants and drivers at an alarming rate, which means that the only reason Baxter recalls the large, dog-like Sinner’s name is by sheer nature of the fact that he’s stuck around for several decades, if memory serves.
“Hello, Bullseye,” Baxter says with his best approximation of bland amicability, ignoring Charlie’s glowering look at his fellow VoxTek employee and pocketing his phone. “I just had to get my bag together.”
“Afternoon, Doctor,” Bullseye responds with the same neutral-but-polite air and holds up what Baxter assumes is the paper copy of the email that arrived in his inbox less than half an hour ago. “If everything’s ready—?”
“Wait, what?”
Baxter doesn’t wince when he hears the exclamation from behind him. He does, however, close his eyes for a heartbeat and allow himself an internal sigh as Cherri and Husk’s footsteps approach. The last thing he wanted was for this to turn into some kind of production, but it appears he no longer has a choice in the matter.
“Who’s this yob? Are you going somewhere?” Cherri gets there first and reaches over Baxter’s head to yank the paper Bullseye is holding right out of his hand and read over it. “And since when have you been a doctor?”
“Since 1893.” Baxter snatches the paper back and shoves it into his pocket, stepping back out of Cherri’s grabbing range. “I’m going to do my job. I may be gone for several days. If, God forbid, anything happens to endanger my experiments while I’m away, text me. If any of you endanger my experiments...” He scowls at each of them in turn, glaring hardest at Cherri, who glares back, unimpressed. “You’ll be the next experiment.”
With that wholly sincere threat thus delivered, Baxter turns on his heel and strides towards the front doors, Bullseye following only a half-step behind. Baxter doesn’t foresee this little work trip as being anything other than unpleasant, which is part of the reason why he’s so eager to make a quick and clean escape from the Hotel and Charlie’s overbearing protectiveness; his job is his job and absolutely nothing good will come from her or anyone else interfering with it. Especially not after his little...betrayal.
It wasn’t really a betrayal, Baxter reasons with himself as he steps out onto the front drive. Velvette and Valentino joined in eventually, so really, if you actually think about it, we were on the same side all along.
It’s perfectly logical, which should make him feel better. It does not.
The car waiting for him underneath the overhang of the Hotel doesn’t make him feel better, either. The Vees have sent cars for Baxter before — usually when he’s had to make emergency fixes that can’t be done remotely and they want him at the tower as fast as possible — but never before have they sent a limousine. It’s usually a simple town car or maybe even a taxi if the other options are indisposed for whatever reason. The car... Valentino’s personal driver... Baxter runs a hand over his front to smooth down his lab coat, restless despite himself, and then shakes his head to shake away the urge to flatten his fins and steps forward as Bullseye opens the door for him and motions him inside.
“Please,” Bullseye says, ever the picture of pleasantness.
Baxter nods stiffly at him in acknowledgement, herding his bag inside and making sure it’s settled on the far side of the seat before stepping into the car. He doesn’t really have to duck that far to fit himself inside, sliding onto the warm, cinnamon-scented leather with ease, and barely has he even had time to reach for the seatbelt before the door slams shut and envelops him in darkness.
“Mm,” a voice says from across the obscenely roomy space inside the car, “you do glow.”
The only thing that keeps Baxter from jumping right out of his own skin is the fact that his brain recognizes Valentino’s voice even if his sympathetic nervous system does not. Not at first, at least, and the automatic brightening of his lure that accompanies the spike in his heart rate provides enough light for him to barely make out the shape of Valentino sitting on the opposite bench, halfway shrouded in darkness and seeming far too large like a shipwreck looming in the endless midnight of the bathypelagic zone. Baxter swallows, bites back a side comment about moths and darkness, and forces the shake out of his hands so he can finish buckling himself in as the engine thrums to life underneath him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Valentino.” Baxter has had many decades of practice at moderating his tone and right now is no different. His words are perfectly even and mild as he sits back, folds his hands in his lap, and continues, somewhat more bluntly, “I hadn’t realized you were personally picking me up.”
Hadn’t given it a second thought, more like — none of the Vees have ever bothered to actually come fetch him themselves. He’s Baxter. They know he’ll come when they call. The leash around his neck doesn’t leave him much choice and he’s far too old for escape attempts. Besides, the benefits really are quite good. Apparently, though, when Bullseye told Charlie that Valentino would be perfectly happy forcing Baxter into the car himself, he was being quite literal.
Valentino presses a button on the door panel closest to him and the space comes to warm, reddish-pink life as lights turn on around the roof of the car’s ceiling. “I realized that we hadn’t met yet, and I just couldn’t let that stand. You’re one of the most important people at the company if Vox’s notes are anything to be believed, and here I was, barely knowing your name. You keep an awfully low profile, Dr. Baxter.”
It’s not that Baxter is under any illusions of how much safety being relatively unknown to Velvette and Valentino brings him. He knows quite well that it provides almost none. The way that soul contracts are set up means that if one Vee owns your soul, all the Vees own your soul; they’re free to borrow and trade and loan out their Sinners to each other at will. It became a part of the contracts when Valentino joined Vox in the late seventies and got updated when Velvette joined as well, so it’s not a new thing, either. Still, Baxter thinks he’s done a fairly good job of keeping himself off the other two Vees’ radars. He’s a scientist and a software programmer first and foremost and he’s done those jobs so well that Vox hasn’t, at least to this point, saw fit to throw him to either of his partners for using as they see fit. (If Vox is throwing Baxter to anyone, it’s usually to his pet sharks. Baxter tries not to wince at the memories.)
“I’m flattered,” Baxter says when he catches up to himself and remembers that people generally consider it rude to take several seconds to respond. “I’ve done a lot of good work with Mr. Vox.”
Valentino tilts his head slightly at that, smiling like he knows a joke that Baxter doesn’t. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling and certainly not a pleasant one. Baxter clears his throat and looks away from Valentino’s face, unable to bear looking into those multifaceted eyes even less than he can bear looking into anyone else’s eyes, to better glance over the interior of the car. They’ve pulled away from the Hotel now — he can feel the sensation of movement, even if the engine is smooth and Bullseye’s driving is impeccable. Val’s logo is embroidered into the plush carpet beneath Baxter’s feet and matched by the same design emblazoned on the ceiling, glinting light gold, and Baxter counts to five in his head before looking away and feigning interest in the wood paneling and maroon leather around him.
“I pulled up your file,” Valentino prompts when he must realize that Baxter doesn’t intend to make small talk, and Baxter looks back to see him pull out his phone. He motions with it in his hand, allowing Baxter a glimpse of what looks like a PDF that’s been zoomed in on a truly hilarious amount, and adds, “You’ve been working for us since the 60s, right? Good job.”
“Mr. Vox has found my varied expertise extremely useful, yes,” Baxter says, puffing his chest out despite himself. “I’m the best in the BioTek and the IT departments. That’s why I’m usually the one who works on him.”
Valentino laughs and leans back, his shirt open to reveal jewelry underneath that glints when he moves. “Aren’t you a confident one? I love a man with an arrogant streak.”
Perhaps Baxter is being a little arrogant when he says that he’s the best, but he’s also, quite frankly, being accurate. No one else is at the company is the architect of the tower’s security system, the architect of Hell’s broadcasting system, the architect of Vox’s favorite pet shark — no, that’s all Baxter. He’s been in Hell for over 100 years and hasn’t stopped learning for a single one of them, meaning that if you need someone with experience in bioscience, software programming, chemistry, nuclear physics, microbiology, or any other of the various disciplines he’s studied and dabbled in over the years, it’s always going to be Baxter that you call. He even keeps up-to-date on his old career field, even if there’s not much use for human medicine when you live in Hell.
“Not really much in your employee file, though.” Valentino’s scrolling on his phone, comically large text reflected in his glasses. “Died in 1912...”
Ocean water washes down Baxter’s spine and his lungs threaten to seize, but he blinks the salt away and grits his teeth until his jaw creaks as Valentino goes on, clearly not paying it any more mind.
“You were a doctor... You speak four human languages...” Valentino pauses. “¿Sigues hablando español con fluidez?”
“Sí,” Baxter says, and then hastily recalls his third language and continues, “En français aussi.” He switches back to English. “My Russian is much rustier. I never did end up using it that much.”
“Where are you from?” Valentino’s glasses reflect Baxter’s lure when he looks up at him instead of his phone, a little point of light in two heart-shaped lenses.
Baxter should have known that would be Valentino’s next question. To be honest, he’s gotten used to being able to mutter insults in Spanish around Vox without having Vox know Baxter’s calling him a micromanaging asshole who wouldn’t know a USB from a vibrator, and the rapid recalibration he’s doing right now to remind himself that he absolutely cannot get away with that around Valentino is sort of annoying. He wonders if his one-word answer in the affirmative was enough for Valentino to pick out his accent or if the Overlord is just being nosy.
“Asturias.” Baxter’s unsure if the arch of Valentino’s eyebrow is unfamiliarity or disdain, and banks on the former to avoid getting defensive at the latter. “Spain.”
Valentino, clearly unenthused, makes a face and goes back to looking at his screen. “Not a lot of company gossip about you. Clearly, you don’t...get around.”
Baxter has a policy of not fucking people he’s contractually mandated to spend time with, so no, he doesn’t get around. Not within VoxTek, at any rate. Not really much at all, these days, but that’s a separate topic. Baxter glances beside him to his bag where his tablet is safely stowed, wondering why the scant few minutes he’s spent in this car with Valentino have felt like the longest minutes of his whole afterlife. He has such a desire to pull his tablet or phone out and start doing busy work just to try and forget Valentino’s eyes fixed on him, but he also knows quite well that Valentino is just as, if not moreso, impulsive and prone to quick flares of temper as Vox was. Baxter’s seen the aftermath of what happens to Sinners that piss Valentino off, and he’d rather make it to the tower with his fins and limbs still attached to his body.
“Have you ever thought about coming to work for me?” Valentino asks, kicking back slightly to further lounge against the bench. “Hah, I mean, obviously, you already work for me since I’m the CEO now, but...” He looks over Baxter again, eyes raking up and down him as if peeling away every layer of his clothing one by one. “I think you might have some talents that are going...unutilized. People love a shiny one, you know.”
Baxter bites back a shudder and shakes his head stiffly, having to press his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth so he doesn’t refuse Valentino’s oh-so-generous offer in terms that would get him dismembered. “No, thank you, Mr. Valentino. I appreciate the offer, but I quite enjoy my current work.”
“Call me Val,” the Overlord in charge of Baxter’s immortal soul says with a purr in his voice, and then he shrugs his shoulders and crosses his long, spindly legs. “Suit yourself, I guess. If you ever change your mind and want to make some money...”
Baxter’s current paycheck is plenty, especially considering he doesn’t have to get naked on camera for it. He hides another shiver and, without really knowing he’s doing it, crosses his legs at the ankle as if that would ever save him from Val’s advances.
“So what’s the light for?” Val asks after another moment of quiet, apparently not content to let the car ride pass in silence.
Baxter blinks, focusing on his esca for a second before letting his brain edit it out of his field of vision again as he’s gotten used to doing after so many years spent living with it. It is one of his more characteristic features, right up there with his glowing freckles and fins, and it makes sense that the moth demon would be a fan of it.
“It’s an esca,” Baxter says, focusing on scanning over his mental pictures of the various articles, websites, and books that he’s read about his animal aspect to avoid thinking too hard about how Val’s staring at him. “It’s used by deep-sea anglerfish to lure prey.”
“Not mates?” Val’s smiling a little bit too wide to be comfortable.
Baxter bites his tongue and says around the sting, “The use of escas to attract mates has not been documented in the scientific literature, no.”
“I think you could document some scientific literature with it, pececito,” Val purrs. “Are you sure you’re not interested in making some money with me? I could make you rich, Doctor.”
Despite himself, Baxter’s eyes flick towards the door. He knows there’s no escape and that even if he were to throw himself out of this car, Val would just drag him back, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s got two lifetimes’ worth of survival instincts telling him to get the fuck out as soon as his body can physically take him. This is Val being nice, after all. If he wanted to...
Baxter takes a breath and tries to take comfort in that fact. If Val really wanted him, he would just force Baxter into it. The fact that he’s asking probably means this is nothing more than a game to him, a chance to watch Baxter squirm. After all, the Overlord that sells sex wouldn’t really want someone like Baxter, would he? It’s not that Baxter thinks he’s ugly — he considers himself reasonably attractive by Hell’s standards — it’s just that he’d be lying if he said he was the definition of sex appeal.
“I’m afraid I once again have to respectfully decline, sir.” Baxter reaches for his bag and places it on his lap, feigning interest in the contents as if checking to make sure that he’s got everything he needs. “There are several experiments I’m running that my moving to another department would be detrimental to.” Finally accepting that if he doesn’t talk about something, Val will, Baxter doesn’t give Val a chance to twist those words before adding, “What exactly will I be doing? The work order was quite vague.”
Val crosses his top set of arms and rolls his eyes — at least, Baxter thinks he rolls his eyes. The glasses and Val’s lack of pupils make it a little hard to be sure.
“You’re going to be helping with Vox.” Val spits out his former business partner’s name like it’s a curse. “I need his head and body to be fixed so Velvette and I can plug him in and unplug him as we see fit. He’s only going to get body privileges when he behaves.”
Baxter is so glad he’s single and that his only dissolution of a partnership ended with his own lab, no more annoying eggs running around, and a strange fascination with cobras. The Vees are on another level when it comes to interpersonal drama. They’d make a truly wonderful telenovela.
“Okay,” Baxter says out loud, deciding to leave the antics of the terrible polycule-or-whatever-the-fuck known as the Vees uncommented upon out of a healthy sense of self-preservation. “I believe I’ll be able to do that without too much trouble. Will I be working in tandem with Mr. Vox?”
Val scoffs. “No. That pendejo is shut down until I’m ready to talk to him again, and if you turn him back on, I’ll tear those cute little fins right off your fucking head.”
“I understand.” Baxter looks at the emblem on the floor again, wondering if perhaps dealing with Val is a little bit like dealing with a large, predatory animal and avoiding eye contact is the way to go — wouldn’t that be nice? “I’ll leave Mr. Vox in a shutdown state for the entirety of my work.”
“You sure seem know how to take orders,” Val says, voice back to that syrupy purr as he pulls out a fresh cigarette in its long black holder. There’s a flash in the corner of Baxter’s vision and the click of a lighter, and then a long inhale before Val says, “I’m sure you know how to take other things, too, with how long you’ve been down here.”
Baxter, trying not to inhale too much of the sickly sweet, cinnamon-tinged smoke that puffs from Val’s mouth, stiffly deflects, “I have had many decades of experience working for and with Mr. Vox.”
Val hums, but doesn’t say anything. The pink, cinnamon-sugar smoke winds around him where he sits across from Baxter, and for the first time, Baxter notices the glint of the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants where his jacket is falling open over them. Baxter quickly jerks his eyes away and tries not to make it obvious how he’s shortening his breaths as much as he possibly can without hyperventilating. He knows what Val’s aphrodisiac laced smoke does to people and he does not intend to be one of its victims, especially not alone in a car with him. Thankfully, just when the saltwater darkness of running low on oxygen is beginning to press too hard at the corners of his vision, Val smirks around another mouthful of smoke and reaches over with one of his lower hands to press another button on his side of the cabin. One of the windows cracks open and Baxter, too obviously, gasps in a breath of dubiously fresh air.
“Mm, that’s a shame,” Val adds, raising his eyes to glance out the crack in the black glass. “It looks like we’re here.”
Barely a minute after the words have left his mouth, Baxter feels the car come to a smooth, effortless stop. His head is swimming and there’s a pounding in his ears, waves crashing on rocks, and he has to blink hard to adjust to the light of the pentagram sigil and bright neons of the city that bleeds through the window. The feeling only gets more acute when the handle clicks and the door swings open a moment later, Bullseye dipping his head in acknolwedgement and extending a hand for Baxter’s bag.
“Allow me to take that for you, Doctor,” Bullseye says, and this time Baxter is happy to shove his bag in his direction and pull himself out of the car like there’s ocean waves lapping at his heels.
Baxter’s afraid for a moment that his breathing wasn’t quite shallow enough and Val’s smoke did seep into his lungs — but no, the breath that he takes when he finally gets his feet underneath him on the pavement outside Vee Tower is steady and his heart rate is already slowing as the rising tide gradually recedes. He has no doubt in his mind that he was at least a little affected, but his mental faculties still seem to be intact and he doesn’t seem to be in any danger of collapsing; he takes his bag from Bullseye and gives him a nod.
“Thanks,” Baxter says, trying not to let himself sound breathless.
Val’s climbing out of the car after him, unfolding all three hundred and change centimeters of himself out of the small space like a clown car at a traveling circus. The experience of standing next to him when you’re the size of Baxter is not unlike standing next to a skyscraper or a particularly slender mountain, and Baxter resists the urge to shade his eyes with his hand as he looks up at Val. For God’s sake, he barely comes up to the Overlord’s mid-thigh. It’s downright laughable.
“I’ll walk you in,” Val says breezily, dismissing Bullseye with a wave of one of his hands. “Wouldn’t want a pretty little thing like you getting lost.”
Baxter has worked in the tower longer than Val has, but he rolls his eyes only to himself and acquieses to Val’s whims without protest. The last time Baxter was walking through this plaza, there were chunks of rubble scattered everywhere and the remains of Vox’s weapon were still smoking. Everything has been cleaned up, the visible signs of Vox’s defeat swept away out of sight and the fountain replaced, but the Sinners that stride to and fro across the plaza still move with a certain sense of wary purpose. Baxter turns his eyes upwards as they approach the tower itself, the damaged parts of it wrapped with caution tape and construction materials, and then Val is herding him through the doors and Baxter is back in Vee Tower for the first time since becoming a traitor to the Vees.
Baxter’s glad for the shield of his bag that he can pull a little closer to his chest and even more glad for the thick material of his lab coat and gloves that hides him from the many eyes that turn to watch his arrival, seemingly every Sinner in the vicinity unashamedly pausing in their work to watch his walk towards the elevators. Val struts happily along next to him, uncaring or unnoticing, but Baxter can’t help the instinctive flattening of his earfins at all the attention. His contract allows for a largely remote position when he’s working at an off-site lab or in his own space, as he has been for the past few months with no large projects that require the use of the labs here at VoxTek; when the company-wide notification went out in the hours after Vox’s disaster that all employees would be working remotely unless otherwise specified, not much really changed for Baxter. He was worried, and a little bit relieved, that he might have simply been unceremoniously fired, but his credentials still log him in and he still has full remote access to everything that he’s always had full remote access to.
Really, if Baxter’s being honest, he had begun to wonder if everyone had...sort of...forgotten that he had been involved in the first place.
Clearly not, if the stares are anything to go by. Baxter wrestles his earfins back up into a neutral position and makes an effort to straighten his shoulders, dropping his bag to his side as usual and looking straight ahead at the elevators instead of at the steadily resuming activity around him. The prospect of being stuck alone in an elevator with Val isn’t any more comforting than being stuck alone in a car with him, but then again, it’s not like Baxter has a choice in the matter. The doors swish open and Val swans in, all purple silk and crimson corduoroy, and Baxter follows with only a heartbeat of hesitation.
“They’ve got him in the lowest lab space,” Val drawls as one of his lower hands swipes a keycard and then presses a button for the lowest sub-level of Vox’s basement workspace. “That’s what all the freaky nerds in IT said was best.” Then, halfway smirking and tucking the keycard back into an unseen pocket, he adds, “No offense.”
“None taken,” Baxter says.
There’s a stomach-turning lurch and the elevator begins to drop, carrying them down, down, and down still, all the way past where electronic interference can screw with the delicate work of maintaining a delicate biomechanical machine like Vox. It also means, of course, that Baxter will be alone down there, wholly and entirely, and should he need to call for help...
The elevator, built roomy to accomodate Val’s height, suddenly feels like it doesn’t have quite enough air in it. Baxter subtly tugs at the collar of his lab coat and tries not to focus on the hint of cinnamon and men’s cologne.
The hiss of the elevator doors opening comes as a welcome relief, as does the cool, dry air of the subterranean lab used exclusively by Baxter and other senior members of his department for working on Vox. The familiarity of it is as soothing as the new room for Baxter to break away from Val and go to the closest bench, where a work summary and next steps document has clearly been laid out by someone preceding him. Yes, definitely one of his coworkers; Baxter recognizes the signature at the bottom. Well, at least he’s got a place to start.
“How long do you think this whole thing will take?” Val hasn’t moved very far from the elevator, and when Baxter looks back at him, he’s wearing an expression of utter boredom and scrolling on his phone with one hand.
“Hard to say,” Baxter tells him, hoping that Val won’t get distracted by something more exciting and forget he’s down here. “Where is Mr. Vox?”
Val jerks his head towards the far end of the room, where a makeshift operating theatre has been set up and divvied off from the rest of the space with curtains in a desaturated version of the classic VoxTek blue. In the center of it is a padded table covered in a white sheet.
One hundred years later, Baxter thinks as he walks over and steps up onto the low metal platform built in to allow someone of his stature a proper look onto the table, and I’m still practicing medicine.
The version of Vox that greets him when he flips the sheet down is nothing short of a crime scene: Vox’s head and body are two separate entities, ragged skin and wires trailing from each and his screen blank and dull in its shutdown mode. Though, Baxter admits, turning him off is probably a form of mercy in this situation. It doesn’t look comfortable and Baxter would hate to think of how upset Vox would be to have his autonomy so abruptly decreased.
“Most of the wires are still intact,” Baxter says, moving on from pondering Vox’s just desserts and focusing on the task at hand. “I believe I should be able to have this finished before tomorrow afternoon.”
“Ugh. Good.” Val turns and presses the button to summon the elevator once more. “Velvette or I will be back in to check on things soon.”
Baxter allows himself a wince at the thought of facing Velvette — he’s absolutely certain that she won’t be quite as content to play nice with him as Val is after what he and Niffty did to her. Hopefully it’s Val who decides to monitor him, but either way, at least for now it seems like they’re both content to leave him alone. Baxter watches as Val steps into the elevator, smiles and waggles his fingers at him, and then the elevator doors close and there’s a chime as it whisks his new boss away. Baxter looks back down at the wreckage of his former boss and sighs.
“Well,” he says after a moment, speaking to Vox’s blank screen, “it could be worse.”
***
Baxter passes several hours alone and engrossed in his work.
Cleaning the dirt and dust that accumulated in the cracks of Vox’s casing, reorganizing Vox’s many cables and biomechanical veins, smoothing the ragged join and suturing up the hollow of his neck around the blank that Baxter inserted to make sure the fit is right — there’s a lot of work to be done to get Vox back to a somewhat functional state. Baxter could just repair him entirely, of course, but those weren’t his orders and he has no intentions of disobeying Valentino when his standing with the Vees is already so...precarious. Besides, he doesn’t really want to deal with an awake and aware Vox any more than Val does.
Baxter’s going over a wiring diagram, having shed his lab coat and gloves to leave him only in his turtleneck and slacks, when the elevator chimes again to signal that someone has returned. He looks up in time to see the doors open and Val step out. Thankfully, the moth demon is alone. Velvette apparently hasn’t decided to show much interest in Baxter’s work. That’s actually a bit worrying, now that Baxter is thinking about it, but then again...the alternative is probably worse.
“What have you gotten done?” Val asks as he strides up to the table where Vox is still laid out.
“Almost all of the cleaning and organizing is finished,” Baxter says, hastily shoving his laptop off his knees and pushing himself off from where he was perched on the edge of the counter to follow Val to the examination table. “As you can see, there was a lot to straighten up before I could begin any other work. There was also some damage that warranted hardware replacements, which I’m mostly through with. I only need to replace three more components inside of his head, which I’m working on planning now to make sure the wiring can remain the same. I, ah...I assumed you wanted the interface to be as user-friendly as possible.”
Val sniffs. If he understands that Baxter just politely called him an idiot, he doesn’t seem to care. He crosses his upper arms and puts his lower hands on his hips, then scoffs and turns on the heel of his shiny white boot and to go pace where there’s more room for him to do so.
“He’s such an idiot! All of this over that stupid fucking deer!”
Baxter holds no love in his heart for Alastor, either, but nor does he intend to take either side in a fight between two of Pentagram City’s biggest fuckbuddies-slash-business-partners, even if one of them is in the biomechanical equivalent of a coma. Wanting to try and sidetrack Val from the impromptu and wholly one-sided couples therapy that Baxter’s afraid he’s starting in on, he clears his throat and heads back to the counter he was sitting on to pick up his tablet and swipe his wiring diagram onto it, then pull up his list of tasks he’s made. If he stands on the counter, the height difference is marginally less stupid, so that’s exactly what he does as he tries to hold out his tablet to show Val his progress.
“The good news is, there’s not much really left for me to do from here on out beyond replacing those components and—” Baxter cuts himself off when Val rounds on him and his tablet, eyes narrowed, and then remembers that Val’s vision is even worse than his and anglerfish are not renowned for their keen eyes. “Sorry, sir, I’ll make it larger. Here, this is the checklist I’m working on right now. You can see there’s still a few things to be done in the basic setup section, but after that...”
“Hmph,” Val says, grabbing the tablet with one hand and bringing it up closer to his face. “Alastor isn’t even hot. I don’t understand what that estúpido sees in him, not when he had me.” Val drops the tablet from his face to pout at Baxter. “You think I’m hotter than Alastor. Right, Doctor?”
Oh, great. Absolutely fucking none of this is good. Baxter focuses on the bridge of Val’s glasses and ticks rapid-fire through his internal list of dialogue scripts to try and find one that won’t sound like a come-on or piss Val off further. He honestly can’t say he’s thought for any longer than a couple seconds about Val’s attractiveness — the tongue is a bit fascinating, but Baxter knows Angel, which loses Val a hell of a lot more points than a long tongue could ever earn him. Through it all, the way that Val says his title sends unpleasant shudders down Baxter’s spine, seeping into everywhere it shouldn’t and making him feel warm and slightly slimy like he’s gotten doused in Val’s spit. The fact that he’s lost the protection of his lab coat doesn’t help at all. His plain black turtleneck, a staple of his wardrobe ever since day suits went out of style (one of the happiest days of Baxter’s afterlife), abruptly seems like it’s clinging far too tightly.
“You’re...um,” Baxter manages, watching Val’s eyes get brighter and brighter as his pout twists into a smile, “quite the presence, M— Valentino. Val.”
“Aw, you’re adorable.” Val hands the tablet back and gets closer in the process, stepping up right to the edge of the counter that Baxter is standing on so he can reach out and lightly tap Baxter’s esca with the tip of one finger. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you how to just ask for what you want?”
Baxter doesn’t want anything except to keep his clothes on, and he tucks his tablet against his chest and crosses his arms over it as if that will do anything. “I’m sorry, sir, you— I must have given you the wrong impression—”
“No, I don’t think so,” Val purrs. He barely even seems to move, that’s how fluid and confident he is with it as he plants two of his hands on either side of Baxter and leans in to whisper, “I think this is what you’ve wanted since you got into that car with me.”
No. No, absolutely not. Baxter glances to either side of him, trying to gauge how far he’d get if he made a break for it — but then where would he go, exactly? Even if it’s Vox’s name on the contract that Baxter signed all those years ago, Val’s holding his leash now, and the phantom sting of icy, electric chains around his throat threatens to close it entirely as Baxter gives up on searching for a way out and instead tries to shrink back against the wall that this bench is up against.
“I—” Baxter bites his tongue to avoid baring his teeth as Val presses closer and shakes his head hard enough to shake his esca, managing a nervous, strained laugh. “No, I’m— I’m very satisfied with my current position—”
“You haven’t even heard about any of the other positions.” Val’s so close that Baxter can practically count the fractals in his eyes, glittering iridescent pink behind the lenses of his glasses. “There are a lot that are...open, and I’m sure I could get a few more to...” He raises one of his lower hands to trace a line up the center of Baxter’s chest. “Open up.”
Baxter can’t take it anymore: he snaps his teeth on instinct when Val’s hand gets close enough to his face, scrambling back the rest of the way until his shoulders hit the wall and his knees threaten to buckle. He’s not even scared, honestly; he’s fucking mad, because he’s survived for decades under the Vees and not once has Val looked at him twice but now—
“Oh, peque,” Val breathes, eyes widening and his smile turning sharp and mean, “I didn’t think you’d be a biter.”
Whatever happens next happens too fast for Baxter to really process it. One second he’s standing, backed up against the wall with his tablet still clutched in his arms and Val in front of him, and the next, he’s being dragged off his feet and thrown halfway across the room. The high, plain walls and bright fluorescent lights on the ceiling swim in his vision as the force of the impact slams into him just as hard as he slams into the floor, a sharp yelp escaping from between his teeth as he skids to a stop on the plain concrete underneath him and lays there, stunned and paralyzed with the shock and pain.
Everything has happened so fast, Baxter barely even has time to process the realization that’s setting in rapidly, pooling somewhere in him along with the ache of being tossed across the room like a fucking ragdoll. (Darkly, through the humiliation and rage, Baxter supposes that the size disparity between him and Val doesn’t really do anything to dispel that notion.) He manages to get his forearms underneath him and push himself up, wincing as he does — miraculously, nothing feels broken and he can still move all his limbs, though his head is still spinning and his joints feel like they’ve been locked in cement. Forcing his unresponsive body into movement, Baxter pushes himself up onto his knees and crawls towards the nearest thing he can see that isn’t Val.
Val doesn’t seem upset that Baxter’s scrambling away from him. He laughs as Baxter grabs for one of the steel tables used to lay out surgical implements during procedures and hauls himself up to a standing position, blinking away involuntary tears and focusing through the pounding in his head at Val. It’s only now that Baxter notices his safety glasses are cracked: Val seems to be split in two as he stalks towards Baxter like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Stay away from me,” Baxter growls, desperate and stupid because he knows it’s not going to work, not on Val. “I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Val’s getting closer, still grinning. “Try to bite me again? It’s cute, Doctor, but you’re not exactly the threatening type. I’ve eaten hearts bigger than you.”
Baxter snarls at him, feral and animalistic, and grabs behind him in desperate hopes that maybe someone forgot to put a scalpel away last time they used this room. He’s out of luck. Of course he is. He’s the one that uses this room and he’s never left a scalpel laying around a day in his life or afterlife. All his fingers meet is the cold steel of the table and the second of hesitation that hits him when his ploy proves useless is rewarded by a single beat of huge, velvety wings — and then Val is on top of him.
It’s like being smothered by a plush blanket or being wrapped in a rug, everything going dark red and hazy as Val scoops Baxter up in two of his arms and folds his wings around him as he crosses the room in two strides before dumping Baxter right back onto the workbench surface. Things clatter to the floor on either side of them, Baxter’s vision threatening to go dark as whatever head injury he sustained from being thrown to the floor rears back up, and it’s so overwhelming that he barely notices Val is grabbing his legs in two of his hands and pulling them apart.
“Don’t tell me you really want to do this the hard way,” Val says, gold tooth gleaming in the worklights. “I can make this feel so good. All you have to do is relax...lie back... Some people would pay for this, you know.”
Baxter’s not one of them. He writhes, trying to kick Val where it hurts; Val dodges it easily and pushes Baxter’s legs down, one of his other hands catching his wrists and slamming them down onto the hard counter above his head with enough force that Baxter yelps. He’s trapped, totally and completely, and even if he were to scream with all his voice, no one except Val would hear him. There’s not even a chance of fighting Val off under his own power, not with how big Val is compared to him, and Baxter writhes in Val’s hold with another sharp, furious noise before falling still, panting hard and glaring up at the Overlord currently pinning him to the counter like a bug on a corkboard.
“Feisty looks good on you.” Val doesn’t seem concerned with the baleful glare being aimed his way. “I didn’t take you for a fighter, but I guess life is all about little surprises like that, hm?”
There’s nowhere for Baxter to go when Val leans over him until he blocks out the lights in the ceiling, looming over Baxter with that wicked grin on his face. All Baxter can smell is cologne and cinnamon and cigarettes, making him feel as lightheaded as the dull throb that’s settled in his temples from his abrupt meeting with the floor, and he twists his wrists in Val’s grip and is rewarded with another slam down onto the counter that leaves his hands shaking and spots dancing in the corners of his vision.
Nobody’s coming to help him. Baxter knew that already, but now he remembers it: absolutely no one would ever stick their neck out to sneak down to a restricted area and check on the latest traitor to the Vees. He can scream, fight, even run if he could get out from underneath Val, but the only thing that’ll happen if he does is being chased into the lobby, dragged back by a leash that tastes like icy ocean water, and probably disciplined right there in front of everyone who happens to walk by. The thought makes Baxter feel vaguely nauseous. For as awful as this is...it could be a lot worse.
“That’s right,” Val says sweetly, sugar laced with cyanide, ants carrying their tainted poison. “Relax. Relax, pececito. I don’t want to hurt you. You know how long I’ve been doing this? I can always tell when someone’s pent up.” His hand holding Baxter’s loosens slightly, one slender thumb massaging feeling back into Baxter’s wrists. “I’m only trying to help.”
“This—” Baxter squeezes his eyes closed, the overbright glow of his esca through his cracked glasses disappearing into darkness along with Val’s leering face. “I don’t— I really don’t— I really don’t want this. I mean it, I don’t— I’m not—”
Damn it, he can’t steady his voice, can’t keep it from cracking on every other word as he feels Val’s heat get closer and closer until he’s leaning in so far Baxter can practically hear his heartbeat. His teeth ache with the urge to sink them into Val’s throat, but he grits his jaw until it hurts and reminds himself that he rather likes his internal organs remaining, well, internal.
Val’s breath is on his cheek now, ghosting hot and damp over his freckles. “I know.”
Baxter doesn’t know why that’s as devastating as it is. He’s well aware of Val’s ideas when it comes to a concept like consent, but he supposes there was always a part of him that figured that maybe— maybe it’d be different, if he just...just said it out loud like that, and the idea is so hilariously stupid that Baxter nearly laughs at his own expense. Why would that ever be the case? Was he really so fucking arrogant to think that he could just tell Valentino ‘no’ and the porn Overlord would listen?
Something wet lands on his cheek and Baxter jerks, eyes flying open to see Val still hovering above him, having crawled halfway onto the counter to perch above Baxter like an ocean liner looming over a lifeboat. Val’s mouth is still hanging open, tongue curling invitingly, and as Baxter stares up at him, still trying to process what just happened, another slick droplet of Val’s spit drips down onto his cheek to join the first.
“Since you’re such a fighter...” Val licks his lips and slides his tongue back into his mouth, pink and shiny and long behind his teeth. “I’ll let you do this sober. How’s that sound?”
No spit. No smoke. Baxter nods hard, desperate to avoid the drugged-up haze that he’s sure will accompany being dosed with either of Val’s aphrodisiacs. He doesn’t care that it’ll make it that much worse — he’s seen how Val’s stars act on his drugs, how pliable it makes them and how easy it looks for them to cum — because as long as he’s still got his mind, he’ll take whatever he has to in order to get this over with. And when it’s done, he’ll finish working on Vox, and when that’s done...
Baxter swallows and leaves that line of thought unpursued. He’ll figure it out when he gets there.
“I knew you’d like that,” Val coos, his one free hand toying with Baxter’s belt. “You’re so stubborn, pececito. Do you have any idea how much easier this would be for you if you just let yourself play along? It’s always you Victorians. Free love, baby.”
“Edwardian,” Baxter forces out from behind gritted teeth.
Val blinks at him, fingers pausing where they were undoing his pants. “What?”
“My lifetime spanned over the Victorian and Edwardian eras.” Baxter can tolerate the rest of this, but he won’t tolerate Val being incorrect about history that Baxter lived through. “Twelve years of my adult life were spent in the Edwardian era and I died slightly after or within the last four years of it, depending on which measurement you’re using. Therefore, I feel as though it’s slightly disingenuous to refer to me as purely a Victorian.” Then, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Val’s collarbone, he adds, “And I don’t like being lumped in with those useless prudes.”
Baxter really thinks he’s going to be dismembered for that. It might even be worth it. Then Val smiles again, wide and amused in a disturbingly sincere way, and he laughs and gives an affectionate little squeeze to Baxter’s inner thigh.
“You’re fun, baby,” Val tells him. “You’re a lot of fun. We should do this full-time. Get you out of this shithole and into my penthouse. I could make such a star out of you.”
Right. The reality catches right back up to Baxter as Val’s long, clever fingers pop the button on his slacks and tug the zipper down. Val undresses him without fanfare and without even seeming to register Baxter’s half-hearted squirming. It’s like Baxter isn’t even really a person to him, just a— a problem to be overcome, like how Baxter looks at a particularly troublesome equation or experiment. The cold countertop meets Baxter’s thighs as Val tugs his pants off and throws them aside, shivers running through him and making him press his thighs together without really meaning to.
“Oh, don’t worry.” Val waves a careless hand and then separates Baxter’s legs once more without even having to try, his hands wrapping around Baxter’s thighs with room to spare. “I read that in your file too. It doesn’t bother me as long as it all still works.”
That wasn’t anywhere near the reason for his sudden shyness, but Baxter still feels his face flush a hot, angry blue. “...Yes.”
Val beams. “Good!”
Baxter has to bite his tongue to avoid snapping his teeth. Everything works just fine according to the last time he got himself off, but that doesn’t mean he ever wanted Val to know about it. His body is his and he’s put a lot of work into making it that way and Val is— is doing this, pulling Baxter all the way to the edge of the counter until his legs are dangling off into thin air and his shirt is riding up over his midsection, the glittering blue glow of his scars barely peeking out from under the black fabric. Baxter should’ve taken the dismemberment. He should’ve fought harder. This is humiliating, it’s demeaning, and Val hasn’t even done anything to him yet. Baxter balls his hands into fists and digs his claws into his palms, closing his eyes again and trying to think of anything other than Val’s hand toying with the waistband of his boxer briefs.
What was Baxter reading this morning before he got the email that summoned him here? It was one of his journals, the ones he gets from Earth — he just got a new stack last week and there were a few he was interested in, so he had set them aside and he had just started on one. Chemistry & Biodiversity. Baxter breathes in and tries not to squirm when Val’s touch presses fully between his legs, two fingers rubbing over Baxter’s clothed folds with something...experimental in the motion.
Baxter breathes out. It was an article about plant-based compounds as a new method against antibacterial resistance. Val’s touching him gently but insistently and all Baxter can hear is the hum of the lights and the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. The article was good but not great; there were some issues with the methodology that Baxter personally would have fixed had he been in charge of the study and the authors weren’t very thorough in their breakdown of the leading compound’s bioavailability analysis. Baxter shuts his eyes tighter and imagines a dry erase board, imagines his hand reaching for a marker and writing a heading down. How would he fix it? It’s not rocket science. Follow the steps. Okay. Fix it.
Val presses lightly at Baxter’s cock and Baxter hisses through his teeth, momentarily jerked out of his thoughts as a spasm runs through him. This little outing couldn’t have happened at a worse time for him — he just did one of his shots a day ago and the spike in sensitivity that always accompanies his treatment is working against him when it comes to Val’s exploratory fondling. Val, clearly having noticed Baxter’s reaction, hums and spreads his fingers out to pull the plain gray fabric of his underwear taut over the slight bulge of his dick.
“Wow,” Val says appreciatively. “You’re bigger than I expected.”
Baxter fights back a sneer. Testosterone has been kind to him when it comes to bottom growth; his cock isn’t anything to sniff at, especially considering his size. He’d still rather have had Val not know about it at all.
What he wants clearly stopped mattering a long time ago. It stopped mattering about the same time he signed the contract to hand his soul over to Vox, he supposes. This is just a natural consequence of that, albeit one he never could have foreseen. Baxter keeps his eyes closed and his mind focused on the imaginary whiteboard with his imaginary study notes on it as Val tugs his underwear down and...
“It glows?!” Val actually squeaks, small but unmistakable, and Baxter barely has time to find that funny before Val’s hand is right back on him, spreading his folds to expose the soft blue glow Baxter knows is down there. “Baxter. Baby. You have got to let me get you on camera sometime. This is the kind of pussy they do paintings of.”
Very understandably (in his opinion), the only thing Baxter can think to say is, “What?”
“You’ve got a huge cock and a glowing blue pussy and you don’t even show it off? Is there something wrong with you? If I lived in that decrepit old whorehouse the princess calls a hotel, I’d be blowing you every night. You’d have to tear me away from this.”
“...What.”
Val’s enthusiasm seems wholly sincere, his fingers light as he strokes Baxter’s folds. When Baxter, daring to open his eyes just enough to find Val’s face, looks up at him, he’s staring down at Baxter’s pussy with hunger written across every centimeter of his face. Baxter...didn’t think that Val actually found him attractive. He thought this was about power, about control, about humiliating him, and he’s sure it is about those things to some extent, but not once did he consider that Val might also actually...want him.
“Yeah,” Val breathes when he rubs Baxter’s cock with gentle, warm fingers and it hardens sickeningly easy under his touch, flushing a brighter blue as his body responds. “Yeah, pececito, see? I knew you just needed a little bit of an expert touch. Your cock certainly thinks so. When’s the last time someone ate your pussy, baby? When’s the last time someone made you cum your pretty brains out?”
One of Baxter’s thighs spasms as Val teases his cock to full hardness, trying not to think about his words too hard. It’s been a while, but it’s not like that matters. Baxter’s never worried too hard about his sex life. It’s always been secondary to his work and his science and his endless experiments and with everything that’s been going on recently, what interest he did have in seeking it out dried up entirely in favor of making sure his department was ironclad and watertight in the face of Vox’s increasingly mercurial moods. So...what, a month? Two? ...Three and a half?
Val seems to know all about Baxter’s silent struggles. “You had to think about that one.”
“It’s not important,” Baxter snaps, face feeling hot again at the humiliation of being interrogated about his sex life as if he’s not a grown man who owns sex toys and isn’t afraid to use them.
“Clearly it’s a little important,” Val says with a giggle and a playful little pinch to Baxter’s cock. “Since you’re getting hard about it and all.”
Baxter can’t take the whiplash. Val was throwing him around the room mere minutes ago, then he was flirting with Baxter, and now he’s talking to him like they’re college frat girls at a fucking sleepover. With Val, Baxter never knows what’s coming next and it’s not helping the panic that’s starting to resettle in him at every warm touch of Val’s fingers. Between the sensitivity from his recent shot and Val’s sheer insistence, every press and pinch and stroke is bleeding further and further past the anger and embarrassment to seep warm and throbbing into his stomach. Baxter’s hips jerk of their own accord when Val slides two fingers on either side of his cock and starts stroking it like he’s jerking off any other man, as confident as anything even with how his hand barely fits between Baxter’s legs.
Val makes an approving noise at the next roll of Baxter’s body, sliding his two lower hands up Baxter’s thighs until he can tilt his hips slightly and pull his legs apart a little wider. It nearly brings tears to Baxter’s eyes and he throws his head back, a whimper clawing its way out of him at the feeling of his pussy splayed open and vulnerable to whatever Val wants to do to him, but then Val picks up his rhythm again and the stinging pain dissolves into another wash of unwilling, unwanted pleasure. He’s not wet enough to really make it feel like how it should feel, but Val’s gentle enough that it doesn’t really hurt, either, especially not when Baxter’s back arches and he feels himself spasm under Val’s touch.
“Don’t ever tell me again that you didn’t want this, peque,” Val hisses so close to his head that Baxter’s fin twitches, using his height to his advantage to lean over Baxter. “You’re already arching your back like a whore. All you have to do is stop fighting it and it’ll feel so good. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to feel good? Don’t you want me to make you cum?”
Baxter shakes his head hard, trying to claw some semblance of control back into his reach — he’ll go back to the darkness behind his eyelids, he’ll go back to the dry erase board, he’ll fix this — and finding nothing but cinnamon and Val’s solid muscle. If he stops fighting Val wins, and the self-satisfaction in Val’s voice is already so strong that Baxter wants to howl with rage, but Val’s fingers are so fucking good. Baxter groans somewhere deep in his chest as another spasm in his hips turns into a jerky thrust, and then another, and then before he knows it he’s fucking his cock into Val’s fingers and Val’s just holding him steady, still pinning his wrists above his head and body laid over top of Baxter’s like a pile of rocks burying him.
“Just look at you.” Something slick traces along the outer edge of Baxter’s earfin, trailing along the bright line of bioluminescence as Baxter shudders and tries to turn his head away without breaking his desperate, staccato rhythm into Val’s fingers. Only when Val laughs does Baxter realize that he was licking him, and the threat of that tongue and the spit it carries so dangerously close to his gills is enough to make him whimper as Val goes on, “Fucking my fingers like this... You’re giving me all kinds of nasty ideas. Maybe I’m tired of Vox getting all your attention. Maybe I want the mad doctor to strap me down and have his way with me. Would you like that? Would you fuck me with that big cock of yours? Make me whimper?”
Val’s words are an auditory assault, hot and low and whispered right against his earfin until Baxter’s eyelids are fluttering and he can’t swallow back his noises anymore, each movement of his hips forcing another sharp sound from his throat. The feeling of it is cutting deep now, pleasure knifing all the way up to his sternum, and Baxter’s pussy is clenching hard around nothing on every harsh snap of his hips into Val’s hand.
Baxter’s orgasm hits like a whaler’s harpoon striking true, forced through every part of him as he gasps and goes rigid in Val’s unceasing grip. The clenching waves of ecstasy in his pussy and the way his stomach feels like it’s been tied up in a knot, all of the slippery, writhing things inside him wrapping tight and squeezing every last convulsion from his muscles until finally, he collapses back against the counter, panting hard and staring through half-lidded eyes at Val.
Slowly, as if expecting Baxter to bolt, Val lets go of his wrists. When it finally becomes clear that Baxter’s currently in no mood to run, Val smiles and relaxes a bit, charming affability coming back in a second.
“Was that really so bad?” Val asks, two hands now free to find places on Baxter’s waist. “Looked pretty good from where I’m standing.”
Baxter can’t find his voice for a second. Then he shakes his head and reminds himself that all things considered, he could have come away from this with a lot more damage than some unpleasant memories and a slightly overstimulated cock. Onwards and forwards, or whatever it is they say; he’s got a job to do here.
“I still have the rest of the work to finish on Mr. Vox.” Baxter hopes Val can’t tell how hard he’s trying to keep his words even. “So if we’re through here...”
Val scoffs. “You’re adorable.” He glances down between Baxter’s legs again, licking his lips unsubtly. “You’re not very wet, though, baby. Don’t tell me I did a bad job.”
“I’ve been on testosterone for over fifty years,” Baxter says, further humiliation warring with fear — if Val were to try to fuck Baxter, even with just his fingers, Baxter has no doubt that it wouldn’t be pleasant. “I don’t— It’s sometimes difficult for me to get wet.”
“Sounds terrible,” Val says with real sympathy in his voice, then he just shrugs and drops to his knees between Baxter’s legs. “I guess this means I get to blow you after all.”
The words haven’t even fully left Val’s mouth before Baxter’s squirming again, struggles renewed at the reminder of Val’s promise to him all the way back at the beginning of this. “Wait, Val— Wait— You said—”
“I said you could do it sober.” Val’s hands effortlessly catch Baxter’s flailing limbs once more, pinning his hands down to the table and keeping his thighs pulled apart so Val can lean in over Baxter’s half-hard cock and say, without a hint of shame, “I didn’t say you could do all of it sober.”
“Val, please—”
Val yanks Baxter forwards by his hips, drops his head, and wraps his mouth around Baxter’s cock like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do. Even the moan that tears itself free from Baxter’s throat at the wet, slick heat wrapped around his oversensitive dick sounds despairing, hating how good it feels, how warm it makes his pussy feel as Val opens his mouth wider and laps all the way along Baxter’s folds—
“You’ll be fine,” Val says indulgently when he pulls away for a second, glasses askew. “Trust me, it’s gonna be the best high of your life, and you’ll sleep it off like nothing ever happened.”
“Val,” Baxter moans desperately, unsure why he feels betrayed when Val was already forcing him to begin with, and then a wave of dizziness slams into him with the force of a rogue wave and the ceiling starts to spin. “Val, please.”
“Shh, baby.” One of Val’s hands pets Baxter’s thigh, holding him where he wants him as much as it’s comforting. “Let it hit you.”
Baxter doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter. He whines as another dizzy spell washes up on the heels of the first, his eyes rolling back in his head and his stomach turning, and then the warmth that’s been building in his pussy overflows and spills throughout every nerve and muscle inside him all the way to the tips of his webbed feet, shivers running through him at how cold the air suddenly feels. Val is right there and he’s not touching him. Why isn’t he touching him?
“No,” Baxter says out loud, and then he realizes he’s spoken out loud and blinks, everything seeming far hazier than before. “No, no— No— Val, please. Please don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what, Doctor?” Val’s hand that was on Baxter’s leg slides up to toy with his folds once more, newly slick under his touch with spit and Baxter’s wetness. “Don’t touch you? Don’t fuck you?”
Touch me. Fuck me. Baxter whines hard, pushing himself down into Val’s touch as best he can before realizing what he’s doing. If Val doesn’t touch him, he’s going to die. He doesn’t know how he knows that, either, it’s just one of those things that he knows, and he’s getting so wet already that Val’s fingers come away slick when he readjusts Baxter’s hips and then leans in again.
Val’s tongue finds his cock again and coils around it, squeezing it gently in a trap of slick muscle that nearly makes Baxter’s vision white out. He doesn’t care that his thighs are splaying wider and he’s pushing himself down onto Val’s face or that he’s moaning high and shameless and loud. It feels like there’s a fire inside him, like something’s burning underneath his ribs and the only thing that’ll fix it is Val’s tongue or his fingers or his cock — Baxter shudders and his eyes roll back in his head as he thinks of Val’s cock pressed against him — and if Baxter doesn’t do everything in his power to satisfy it, it’ll simply burn him alive.
“Val,” Baxter whines, this time fucking into Val’s tongue on him and holding onto the edge of the counter, “Val, Val, please, please—”
Val moans, loud and delighted, and that’s all it takes. Baxter cums again with a cry of Val’s name this time, the pleasure clawing at his ribs until he’s gasping with tears in his eyes and thinks he might actually be so wet he’s dripping. There’s a reason he’s not supposed to be feeling like this, he thinks, but it’s all so distant and vague in the face of how good it feels. It’s like a live wire plugged straight into the pleasure center of his brain and Baxter wants more, wants it all, wants whatever Val is willing to give him.
“That’s better.” Val’s standing up and smiling and leaning in close to press his face into Baxter’s neck, laving his tongue along the underside of his jaw. “How’s it feel, huh? Tell papi how it feels.”
“Good,” Baxter says without hesitation, because it does, it feels so good and he never wants it to stop. “Good, it feels good, please— please fuck me— please—”
He hasn’t been this wet in years, literal fucking years, and everything is hot and he’s so ready for it that he feels stupid. He’ll beg for it if Val wants him to, or crawl on his knees, or suck his dick and choke on it when it’s too big, and Baxter’s cock throbs needily at every single filthy thought runnning through his head.
“I don’t think I can fit my dick in you right now, pececito. Not without a little bit of practice on your part. You’re too small.” As if to demonstrate his point, Val wraps two of his hands around Baxter’s waist and squeezes gently, his fingers overlapping without even having to try. “How about I finger you instead? Would you like that?”
Baxter’s nodding before he can even reigster doing it, letting his legs fall open that much more so Val can slide his fingers between his folds, the air smelling like saltwater and sweet spice. Baxter would practice for Val’s cock if he wanted him to — he knows just how resilient Sinner bodies are and he could find a toy that’s the right size if he just looked for one. The thought makes him clench when Val’s fingers finally find his entrance, still holding Baxter by the waist, and he moans desperately as Val slips two inside without hesitation. This is what he wants, right? This is what’s going to douse the fire in him? This is what will make him stop feeling like he’s going to burn up?
Does any of that matter when it’s this fucking good?
The first crook of Val’s fingers against his sweet spot makes Baxter sob, body lighting up in neons with another orgasm like crackling fireworks. It seems more like he’s falling apart, the counter underneath him slick and his thighs shaking, and Val’s fingers are still inside him, pressing deeper and deeper still until they’re touching so far inside him Baxter thinks he might be able to taste them in the back of his throat.
“You’re so handsome when you let yourself give in and feel it,” Val says, and Baxter abruptly realizes that Val’s pulled his cock free from his clothing with one hand and is jerking himself off between his legs. “Just like that.”
Val’s dick is fucking massive, just like Baxter knew it was, and jutting up from between his legs like this, it makes him feel lightheaded. He could take it, he knows he could, and then he thinks of how hard he’d have to work to sink down onto it and gives up on thinking, eyes slipping closed entirely as he moans out Val’s name again and goes totally limp and pliable for him.
Baxter doesn’t know how many more orgasms Val wrings out of him. He knows that by the time Val finally pulls his fingers free, there’s a puddle on the workbench underneath him and probably on the floor, too, and he’s panting for breath and glowing so intensely that his blue freckles look white. Val’s still jerking himself off — long, slow strokes, never taking his eyes off Baxter, and when he takes a step back and lines up his cock with Baxter’s slick, relaxed pussy, Baxter just whines and arches his back the best that his exhausted muscles allow.
“You want me to stick my dick in you so bad, don’t you?” Val laughs, not entirely kindly. “I hope you remember that later. I’m not gonna do it, baby. I don’t want to break you. I still need you to finish Vox, after all.”
Baxter couldn’t give less of a fuck about Vox. He’s too fucked out to say that, though, and the only noise that escapes him when Val’s cum shoots over his folds in lines of sticky heat is a ruined moan. He’s half-aware of the fact that he’s laying on a countertop and everything hurts for reasons he can’t quite remember, but none of it really feels all that important. Baxter feels Val’s hands on his thighs, pulling his legs apart, and then a clicking sound. When he cracks one bleary eye open, it’s to find Val smiling at him and tucking his phone back into a pocket of his coat.
“Until then,” Val says, “I guess we’ll just have to find ways to fill your time, Doctor.”