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Valentino does not do labels.
Except maybe for one certain TV-headed demon.
He doesn’t really know what the fuck they are. They’re not exclusive. They’ve never had that talk. They still fuck who they want- mostly him, sue him. Vox is usually too busy with his boring boss daddy bullshit or locked away in his stupid mancave with their shark babies.
Yes, their shark babies. Because apparently, Vox decided that his pets needed “mommy”, and who else would it be other than Valen-fucking-tino? Which is whatever he doesn’t really mind. At least the sharks are not as annoying as his old dumbass pet queef. God, that thing was so loud and needy. It pissed him off so bad that it felt really fucking good when he finally shot the bitch.
Anyways.
He actually likes Shok.wav. They get along just fine. Val slips him extra wings sometimes, sneaking them in when Vox isn’t looking. He can’t help it! Shok.wav gives him those stupid puppy eyes, and it’s not like he’s gonna finish the food anyway. It’s their little secret.
The mancave isn’t just for the sharks, though.
It’s where Vox works. Sprawled out in front of a dozen screens, spying on sinners like it’s his personal fucking hobby. Vox says it’s about gathering data and maintaining influence, but Val’s not stupid.
Especially when Vox keeps tabs on one specific deer sinner.
He swears Vox has a voyeurism kink. Not to kink-shame or anything, it’s actually kinda hot. A lot of people are into that shit anyway. He wouldn’t mind if Vox made it a them thing.
Scratch that.
He wouldn’t mind if they were something.
If Vox ever decided on it.
It’s not like Valentino has a long list of past partners. He can count them on one hand, and that’s mostly because he’s absolutely ass at picking them. Fuck, he never even had a real partner in Hell. He’s good at hookups. One-night stands. Transactional shit. That’s the only kind of connection he’s ever been able to choose without it blowing up in his face.
But love? Commitment? Too complicated.
He’s used to it, though. That’s just how he grew up. Being used, getting beaten, and depending on people who only ever got him hurt. Who needs partners, right? He can handle his own.
Except.. no one has ever been soft with him the way Vox is.
And that fucks him up.
Because what do you mean they go on dates? What do you mean Vox dances with him in public, hand on his waist like it belongs there? What do you mean they do all this corny couple stuff, but the best label Vox will give them is business partners?
So what if he wants to be loved differently? So what if he wants to be treated right, for once.
He knows he doesn’t deserve it. But still, that doesn’t stop him from wanting it.
“Val?”
Oh right. Vox is telling him something about how he started Shark Week. How can he even do that? It’s not like he gets periods.
Unless..
“Voxxiee, do you get periods?” Val blurts.
Vox flinches, flustered. “What the fuck? How would I even get periods? I’m a man.”
“Then how else would you have started Shark Week?”
“Val, I’m talking about a weeklong series of shark episodes that happens every year. Why would your first thought even be about periods?”
“Ugh, I don’t know! Maybe you have both a pussy and a dick or something.”
Honestly, he wouldn’t mind that. Maybe he could convince Vox to alter his body. Ugh, he's getting hard just thinking about fucking Vox like that. He’ll even lap up his tongue on that wet slit while finger fucking him until he’s begging for his dick.
“Val, you’re not listening again,” Vox points out.
“I’m listening, papi. Go on,” Val teases.
“Anyway,” Vox continues, “I still can’t believe it only got popular after I died. I started that, and they stole my idea! Do you know how hard it was to convince people that sharks are fucking awesome?”
What is it with this man and his obsession with sharks anyway? Val doesn’t really get it, but Vox is so cute like this, talking passionately about them. He doesn’t even mind listening to these shark facts all day.
“Uh-huh. Sure, babe,” Val hums, lounging against Vox in the bed.
Somehow, they started sleeping together in Vox’s room every day. It started when Vox told him to stay after they fucked. Then the second time, the third time, and then it became a whole routine.
He barely even goes to his own room anymore, except when he wants some alone time or when he’s pissed at Vox. And even then, he’s still usually thinking about Vox. The way Vox stays even when he’s throwing tantrums, even when he’s being a pain in the ass, even when he does whatever stupid shit pops into his head.
“And actually, do you know that only a few sharks are warm-blooded, like the great white-” Vox rambles, but Val barely hears a word.
Before he can even stop himself, Val crashes his mouth against Vox’s, desperate and messy. His hands fist into Vox’s shirt and drag him down like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if Val doesn’t hold him hard enough. He craves warmth, comfort, wanting everything at once. Wanting Vox. And maybe that’s pathetic. Maybe that’s exactly the problem with him.
Vox lets out a startled little sound but melts instantly, hands finding the familiar curve of Val’s waist, holding him tight.
Vox kisses him back slow at first, grounding him. His tongue brushes against Val’s, soft and teasing, and Val makes a low, broken sound in his throat. Fuck. It feels so good. Makes him feel alive in a way nothing else does. Nothing can compare to Vox- making him feel wanted like he’s not just another disposable fuck. Like someone who is actually worth being chosen.
He climbs into Vox’s lap, straddling him. He needs the pressure. Needs the friction. Needs something physical to drown out the noise in his head. The jealousy, the fear, the whispering doubts. The part of him that’s always thinking about what he deserves and what he doesn’t, and what happens if Vox decides he’s not special enough.
They pause, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving, and Val can feel every shift, every tiny pull of Vox’s hands tracing him.
“Fuck, Val, you’re beautiful,” Vox breathes.
Val chokes a little, heart hammering. Beautiful? He’s been called a lot of things, but beautiful? Rarely. Never like this. Never with the softness in someone’s voice that makes him feel like maybe he’s more than the show he puts on. He feels something twisting in his chest.
“You’re perfect,” he adds, lips ghosting over Val’s collarbone.
“You’re incredible. Every inch of you,” Vox continues, kisses trailing down to his chest, along his sides.
He might be the one who owns his soul, but fuck, Vox might as well own every other part too.
“I’m so lucky to have you by my side,” Vox murmurs, tracing along Val’s inner thigh, marking him in a way that makes Val shiver.
Vox’s hands find Val’s fingers, kissing each one softly. “I’m so glad you’re my partner,” he adds, before pressing another heated kiss against Val.
Val moans, crushing himself closer, desperate for more. There’s the word. Partner. But they don’t mean the same thing. Vox doesn’t mean it like Val wants him to. And fuck, this is too intimate. Too much for whatever the fuck they were supposed to be.
“Val, are you okay?” Vox asks, thumb brushing under his eye.
“Why’d you stop-” Val whimpers.
“You’re crying.”
Crying? He’s not some fucking virgin sobbing the first time he’s having sex, but fuck, he can’t help it. His chest feels too tight, can’t breathe. Everything he’s been pretending doesn’t exist is eating at him. He loves Vox, that’s a fact that he’s known for a while now, even if he's never said it out loud. And he doesn’t even know if Vox feels the same. Which, if he doesn’t, then congratulations to the smallest man who ever lived- because it would mean Vox could keep doing all this, kissing him, holding him, calling him “partner,” and still never actually make him his.
And maybe he could deal with that. Maybe he’d convince himself he’s fine with it for the rest of eternity. He’s been with a lot of shitty people who never gave a fuck, but Vox isn’t one of them. Vox isn’t shitty. Well, maybe sometimes he is, but he also cares. And that just makes it worse because he can’t pretend it doesn’t matter. He can’t pretend he doesn’t want more. He can’t pretend that he doesn’t want Vox to choose him in a way that actually counts. He knows damn well that what he’s asking for is dangerous, but he can’t stop thinking about it anyway.
“Baby, talk to me. What’s wrong?” Vox’s voice is low, gentle, and it cuts straight through the tight coil of panic and shame twisting in Val’s chest.
Val grinds his hips to Vox’s, tears slipping down his cheeks. All he wants is to be closer than he’s ever let himself be to anyone, to feel Vox’s warmth pressed against him.
“It’s okay. We don’t have to do this today,” Vox says, wrapping him in his arms.
He almost laughs bitterly at himself for a moment. Since when has consent ever mattered to anyone else? Not that it excuses him from thinking about it now. He probably should feel guilty, but all he can focus on is how much he wants to be held like this, how much he wants Vox to let him stay, no matter how fucked up they both are.
“Shh, let me kiss those tears away. It’s okay, I’m here.”
Val softens against him, crying quietly into Vox’s chest. He lets himself be kissed, soft, lingering kisses that press against his head, his temple, his eyes.
“Do you maybe want some strawberry ice cream? We still have some in the fridge. It’ll make you feel better,” Vox suggests gently.
“Mm, not hungry. Just stay. You can tell me more of those shark facts if you want.”
Vox chuckles. “Shok.wav is actually inspired by a megalodon. Vark is a hammerhead.”
Val drifts into his thoughts as Vox says something about how some sharks need to keep swimming, or they’ll lose oxygen. Isn’t that something? He thinks about labels, about choices, about whether Vox is ready to actually be something more with him. And maybe he’s not. Maybe Vox never will be. And that’s fine, he can wait.
But he’s going to say it anyway. He’ll say it, even if it makes him look stupid. Even if Vox isn’t ready. He needs Vox to hear it, and fuck it, he doesn’t care if it changes everything or shatters the fragile balance they have.
“Te amo, mi amor eterno,” he mumbles, voice muffled against Vox’s chest.
Vox stiffens for a beat. “What does that mean?”
Val just nuzzles closer, “Sleepy,”
“Goodnight, my flutterby,” Vox coos, sliding an arm tighter around him.
And as sleep finally takes him, Vox whispers softly behind his antennae, steady and warm,
“I love you too, Val.”