The red ON AIR light glared down at him like an accusation. Alastor's knees ached against the studio's concrete floor, the handcuffs cold and unforgiving against his wrists, cinched tight enough to leave marks. He'd stopped testing them after the first five minutes—the metal had already bitten through his vintage suit jacket, through his shirtsleeves, into skin.
"Comfortable?" Vox's voice came from behind the broadcast board, low and amused. He hadn't bothered to look up from his phone in the last ten minutes. Just let Alastor kneel there. Let him feel every second of it.
"Quite." Alastor's smile stretched across his face, all teeth. "The floor has a certain... rustic charm. Very authentic. I'm considering redecorating."
Vox glanced up. One eyebrow rose. "Yeah? What would you change?"
"Starting with the company."
A short laugh. Vox set his phone down and leaned back in the rolling chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His broad frame filled the space behind the board like he owned it—which technically, at this hour, he did. The penthouse was his. The building was his. The studio, this whole floor, all his.
And Alastor was here because Vox had made sure of it.
"You're cute when you're pissed," Vox said. "You know that?"
"And you're tedious when you're gloating. We both have our cross to bear."
Vox stood. Pushed the chair back. Walked around the broadcast board with the kind of deliberate slowness that said he had nowhere to be and nothing to rush for. His black turtleneck hugged his chest, the silver watch catching the dim light as his arms hung loose at his sides. Wire-rimmed glasses. Blue eyes that picked Alastor apart like a puzzle he'd already solved.
"I've got your cross right here, actually." Vox pulled his phone from his pocket, held it up. The screen was black, but they both knew what was on it. "Want me to play it again? For old times' sake?"
Alastor's smirk didn't waver. "I'm familiar with the recording. You've made that abundantly clear."
"Humor me."
A tap of the thumb. Then Alastor's own voice filled the studio—tinny through the phone's speaker, but unmistakable. The words he'd said in a locked room to the only person he'd trusted. The words that could end everything. His career. His freedom. His life, depending on who heard them and what they decided to do.
The recording played for twelve seconds. Alastor counted. When it stopped, the silence that followed was louder.
"You see," Vox said slowly, pocketing the phone, "that's the thing about secrets. They're only valuable when the person keeping them knows you have them." He crouched down, bringing himself level with Alastor—close enough that Alastor could smell him. Something clean. Expensive. "And I want you to know, Alastor. I want you to think about it every time you open that smart mouth of yours. One text. One email. One phone call I don't make. And you're done."
Alastor held his gaze. Felt the weight of those blue eyes pressing down on him. Felt the cool air against his skin, the bite of the cuffs, the numb ache spreading from his knees up into his thighs.
"Then why haven't you?" He kept his voice smooth. Careful. "If that's your leverage, why am I still here? Why not just destroy me and be done with it?"
Vox's smile widened. "Because destroying you would be boring."
"And this isn't?"
"This is just the beginning."
He stood, towering over Alastor again. For a long moment, he just looked down—at the kneeling figure in the vintage suit, the slicked-back auburn hair that had shifted loose in the struggle, the crimson eyes that still burned with defiance even as his body stayed still.
"Take off your jacket," Vox said.
Alastor blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Take it off."
"I'm handcuffed."
"I can see that." Vox's voice was flat. "Work with it."
The demand was absurd. Alastor stared at him, waiting for the punchline, the smirk, the gotcha—but Vox just stood there, arms crossed, watching him with an expression that said he had all night. That they had all night.
"This is ridiculous."
"This is you learning to follow instructions." Vox tilted his head. "First one's free. After that, we start counting."
Counting what? The question hung unspoken between them. Alastor felt his pulse quicken, felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. Not embarrassment—he didn't do embarrassment. Something rawer. Something that sat in his chest like a trapped bird, beating against his ribs.
"I'm not going to—"
"You want to test that?" Vox cut him off. "I've got twelve seconds of you confessing to arson. I've got witnesses I can call. Evidence I can fabricate. I've got a whole goddamn case file waiting for a prosecutor's signature." He leaned down again, voice dropping to something almost gentle. "Now. Take. Off. Your. Jacket."
Alastor's jaw tightened. The words sat on his tongue—biting, sardonic, everything he was. But the recording. The evidence. The life he'd built on a lie that Vox now held like a leash.
He moved slowly. The handcuffs made it clumsy—he had to shift his weight, angle his shoulders, shrug the fabric down one arm at a time. The jacket pooled around his bound wrists, trapping him further. When he'd finished, he was in his shirtsleeves, the white fabric strained across his shoulders, his forearms bare.
Vox watched the whole thing. Didn't help. Didn't comment. Just watched, and when Alastor was done, he said, "Good. Now the shirt."
"Absolutely not."
"Wasn't a question."
"I am not stripping for you in this—this farce of a—"
"Alastor." Vox's voice cut through like a blade. "I'm not asking. I'm telling. You can make this easy on yourself and do what I say, or you can make it hard and I'll do it for you. But either way, that shirt's coming off."
The trapped bird in Alastor's chest slammed harder. He could feel the flush spreading, the heat crawling up his throat, and he hated it. Hated that Vox could see it. Hated that Vox was probably enjoying it.
"What exactly is the endgame here?" Alastor's voice came out sharper than he'd intended. "You strip me. You humiliate me. Then what? You get bored and let me go?"
"I get bored when I decide I'm bored." Vox pulled something from his pocket—a small remote, black, with a single button. He pressed it.
A low hum filled the room. Not from the broadcast board. From the cuffs.
Alastor felt it before he understood it—a vibration, subtle at first, then building. The handcuffs were vibrating. No. Not vibrating. The cuffs weren't cuffs. They were lined with something. Pads. Contacts. Pressed against the soft skin of his inner wrists.
"What the hell is this?"
"A motivator." Vox held up the remote. "Low setting. Gets your attention without leaving marks." He turned the dial slightly. The vibration intensified, and Alastor felt it travel up his forearms, through his shoulders, settling somewhere deep in his chest. "Middle setting's a bit more... persuasive."
"You're insane."
"Probably." Vox crouched again, meeting Alastor's eyes. "Now. Shirt. Off. Or I turn it up."
Alastor's fingers trembled as he reached for the buttons. The vibration made it harder, the sensation buzzing through his hands, turning the simple task into something clumsy and frustrating. One button. Two. Three. He could feel Vox's gaze on him like a brand, tracking every movement, cataloging every tremor.
When the last button came free, he hesitated. The fabric hung open, revealing the pale skin of his chest, the lean lines of his torso. He could feel the cool air against his ribs, against his stomach. Could feel Vox's eyes.
"Keep going."
"It's off." Alastor's voice cracked. "What more do you want?"
"I want you to take it off. Not undo the buttons. Take. It. Off."
The vibration spiked. Not painfully—not yet—but enough to make Alastor's breath catch. Enough to make him move faster, shrugging the shirt down his shoulders, fighting with the fabric caught on the handcuffs, until it was bunched around his bound wrists and his chest was bare.
Vox's smile was slow. Satisfied.
"See? That wasn't so hard." He reached out, and Alastor flinched before he could stop himself. Vox's hand paused, hovering an inch from Alastor's collarbone. "Easy. I'm not going to hurt you."
"You have a strange definition of 'hurt.'"
"This?" Vox's fingers brushed against Alastor's skin—featherlight, barely there. "This is nothing. This is the warm-up." His hand settled on Alastor's shoulder, palm flat, thumb tracing the line of his collarbone. "I want you to understand something, Alastor. I've been planning this for months. Watching you. Learning you. Figuring out exactly what buttons to push."
"And what have you concluded?" The defiance was thinner now. Alastor could hear it in his own voice, that slight waver he couldn't quite suppress.
"That you're a brat who talks a big game but crumbles the second someone calls your bluff." Vox's thumb pressed harder, tracing up the side of Alastor's neck. "You're smart. You're fast. But you've never had anyone push back. Not really. Not hard enough to make you stay."
"I stayed."
"Because I gave you no choice." Vox's hand slid up, cupping Alastor's jaw, tilting his face up to meet his gaze. "And that's going to be the theme, sweetheart. I give. You take. I say. You do. Until I'm satisfied."
"And when will that be?"
Vox's smile widened. "When I decide."
He released Alastor's jaw and stepped back, pulling the phone out again. Not the recording this time—just the screen. A photo. Alastor, in the studio, earlier tonight, hands bound, looking up at the camera with the beginnings of fear in his eyes.
"Good picture," Vox said. "Captures the moment." He swiped. Another photo. Alastor, shirtless, kneeling, the red ON AIR light staining his skin. "This one's even better."
"What are you doing?"
"Building a collection." Vox pocketed the phone. "Photos. The recording. Maybe some video, if you're good. Or if you're bad. Haven't decided which is more entertaining."
The vibration from the cuffs stopped. The sudden absence of sensation left Alastor feeling hollow, like something had been cut out of him.
"Stand up," Vox said.
Alastor's legs were numb. He stumbled on the first attempt, catching himself on his bound hands, the metal biting into his wrists. On the second try, he made it to his knees. On the third, to his feet, swaying slightly, his shirt still bunched around his cuffs, his jacket discarded on the floor.
"Good." Vox walked toward the studio door. "Follow me."
"Where?"
"To the bedroom." Vox glanced back over his shoulder. "We're not done. Not even close."
Alastor's feet stayed rooted. His heart hammered against his ribs, the trapped bird flailing, desperate. "I can't—"
"You can." Vox's voice was patient. "And you will. Because I have your recording, and I have your photos, and I have you exactly where I want you." He turned fully, hands in his pockets, head tilted. "The question is, are you going to make this hard on yourself? Or are you going to accept that for once in your perfect little life, you don't have the upper hand?"
"I don't accept anything from you."
"That's cute." Vox laughed. "Really. It is. But I didn't ask if you accepted it. I told you how it is. Now." He pointed toward the door. "Walk."
Alastor's breath came shallow. Fast. He could feel his control slipping, the mask cracking, the smirk threatening to dissolve into something uglier. He held it. Barely.
"You're going to regret this," he said quietly.
"Maybe." Vox shrugged. "But not tonight."
He waited. The door stood open. Beyond it, the penthouse stretched into shadow, the city lights glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows like a thousand cold stars.
Alastor took a step. Then another. His bare feet against the cold floor. His wrists bound in front of him. His chest exposed, his jacket abandoned, his pride hanging by a thread that Vox held in one closed fist.
Behind him, the red ON AIR light watched. Blinked once. Stayed dark.
The penthouse stretched before them, all polished concrete and floor-to-ceiling glass, the city bleeding neon through the windows in streaks of red and blue. Alastor's bare feet whispered against the cold floor as he followed—because he had no choice, because every step was a calculation, because the recording sat in Vox's pocket like a second heartbeat. His shirt still hung from his bound wrists, a white flag he couldn't drop.
Vox didn't look back. Didn't need to. His broad frame blocked the hallway, the black turtleneck swallowing the dim light, his buzzed hair a dark silhouette against the skyline. He walked like he owned every inch of this place—which he did—and like Alastor was just another piece of furniture being moved to a more convenient location.
The bedroom door was already open. Vox stepped aside, one hand gesturing inward with theatrical courtesy.
"After you."
Alastor's feet stopped at the threshold. The room was vast—a king bed against the far wall, white sheets crisp and unwrinkled, a single lamp casting warm light across the headboard. The windows here were darker, the city lights muted by blackout curtains half-drawn. A leather armchair sat in the corner. A dresser. A mirror on the far wall that caught Alastor's reflection—pale, shirtless, wrists bound, the smirk barely holding.
"I said after you." Vox's voice hardened.
"I heard you." Alastor stepped forward. The carpet was softer here, a deep charcoal that swallowed his footsteps. He stopped in the center of the room, turning to face Vox, the cuffs cold against his stomach.
Vox closed the door. The click of the latch was quiet, final.
"Kneel."
"I've been kneeling all evening."
"And you'll do it again." Vox leaned against the door, arms crossed. "Unless you'd rather find out what the middle setting feels like."
The remote was in his hand. Alastor hadn't seen him pull it out, but there it was—black, small, one button. The same one that had sent vibration through his wrists, through his chest, through that hollow place behind his ribs.
"This is tedious." Alastor lowered himself to his knees. The carpet was thick, softer than the studio floor, but the position still burned. His bound hands rested in his lap, the shirt Bunched around them like a bizarre accessory. "You've got me in your bedroom. On my knees. Stripped to the waist. What's next? A collar? A leash?"
"Tempting." Vox pushed off the door and walked toward him, slow, deliberate. The remote disappeared back into his pocket. "But I've got something else in mind first."
He stopped in front of Alastor, close enough that his knees almost brushed Alastor's shoulders. The angle forced Alastor to look up, to crane his neck, to feel every inch of the height difference between them.
"You talk a lot." Vox reached down, fingers finding Alastor's chin, tilting his face up further. "Always a comment. Always a retort. Like if you keep talking, you won't have to feel anything."
"I assure you, I feel plenty. Humiliation. Boredom. A growing desire to set this building on fire."
"There it is." Vox's thumb traced along Alastor's jaw, slow, almost gentle. "The arsonist reflex. You know, that recording's got me curious. Was it one building? Two? How many before you got good at it?"
Alastor's smirk tightened. "You'll have to find out the same way everyone else will."
"Or I could just ask." Vox crouched, bringing himself level with Alastor, his blue eyes sharp behind the wire rims. "And you could answer. Because I'm the one keeping that recording safe, and I'm the one who decides if it ever sees daylight."
"You're not going to release it."
"No?"
"If you were, you'd have done it already." Alastor's voice steadied. "You've had weeks. Months. You didn't bring me here to destroy me. You brought me here for something else."
Vox's smile was slow. Appreciative. "You're smart. I've always liked that about you."
"Then what is it?"
"I told you." Vox's hand slid from his chin to the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. "I want to see what happens when you stop running."
He pulled. Not hard—just enough to tilt Alastor's head back, to expose his throat, to make him feel the pressure of the grip. Alastor's breath stuttered. He hated that. Hated that Vox could hear it.
"I'm not running."
"You've been running your whole life." Vox's thumb pressed against the hinge of Alastor's jaw. "From whatever made you that recording. From anyone who gets too close. From yourself." He leaned in, his mouth inches from Alastor's ear. "But you're not running tonight."
The words sank into Alastor's skin like cold water. He could feel Vox's breath against his ear, the warmth of his body, the solid weight of his hand in his hair. The trapped bird in his chest beat harder.
"I want you to count for me."
Alastor's eyes snapped to his. "What?"
"Count." Vox released his hair and stood, walking toward the dresser. He opened the top drawer, pulled something out—a strip of fabric, dark red, long enough to tie around a wrist. Or a neck. Or a mouth. "Every time you talk back, I add one. Every time you argue, I add one. Every time you make this harder than it needs to be, I add one."
"Add one to what?"
Vox turned, holding up the fabric. "To the number of things I'm going to do to you before the night's over."
The words hung in the air between them. Alastor felt his pulse in his throat, in his temples, in the hollow of his wrists where the cuffs pressed against his skin.
"That's not a threat," he said. "That's a menu."
Vox laughed. Actually laughed, low and rough. "God, you're insufferable." He walked back, the red fabric trailing from his fingers. "I'm going to count to three. If you haven't started counting backward from twenty by the time I reach three, I turn the cuffs up to the middle setting, and we try again from the beginning. Understood?"
"Crystal."
"One."
Alastor's jaw tightened. The defiance rose in his chest, hot and familiar—the urge to push, to test, to see how far Vox would actually go. The recording. The photos. The leverage. It all felt abstract from this angle, kneeling on the carpet, Vox standing over him with a strip of red fabric.
"Two."
"Twenty." Alastor's voice came out flat. "Nineteen. Eighteen."
Vox's eyebrows rose. "Well. That's a first."
"Don't get used to it."
"Seventeen. Sixteen." Vox crouched in front of him, the red fabric draped across his palm. "Keep going."
"Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen."
Vox reached for Alastor's bound wrists. His fingers were warm against Alastor's skin as he worked the ruined shirt free, pulling it away from the cuffs and tossing it aside. Alastor's hands were fully exposed now, the cuffs gleaming under the lamplight, the metal cold against his bare forearms.
"Twelve. Eleven."
"Good boy." Vox wrapped the red fabric around Alastor's wrists, knotting it loosely over the cuffs. It did nothing to restrain him further—it was decorative, symbolic, a ribbon on a gift that had already been unwrapped. "Keep going."
"Ten. Nine. Eight."
Vox's hands moved to Alastor's shoulders. Spreading. Measuring. His palms settled on Alastor's collarbones, thumbs tracing inward toward the hollow of his throat. "You've got a good frame," he said, almost to himself. "Lean. Cut. You'd look good with more weight on you."
"Seven. Six."
"But I like you like this. Hungry. Desperate." Vox's hands slid down, over his chest, his stomach, the heels of his palms pressing against Alastor's ribs. "Makes you easier to break."
"Five. Four."
"Stop."
Alastor stopped. The number hung in the air between them, unfinished.
"Good." Vox's hands settled on his hips, thumbs pressing into the sharp bones there. "Look at me."
Alastor raised his eyes. Met the blue gaze that had been dissecting him all night, piece by piece, layer by layer.
"I'm going to ask you a question," Vox said. "And you're going to answer it honestly. Because if you lie to me, I'll know, and the cuffs go up, and we start the counting from zero. Understood?"
"Yes."
Vox's smile widened. "When was the last time someone touched you?"
The question landed like a punch. Alastor felt it in his chest, in his throat, in the sudden tightness behind his eyes that he blinked away before it could become something real.
"That's none of your—"
"Honestly." Vox's grip tightened on his hips. "Or I find out the hard way."
Alastor's breath came slow. Measured. The trapped bird had stopped beating—it was just sitting there, waiting, watching through his eyes.
"I don't remember."
"Try."
"It's been a while." The words felt like glass in his throat. "Months. Maybe longer."
"Months." Vox repeated the word like he was tasting it. "No one's touched you in months. Not a hand on your shoulder. Not a kiss. Not a—"
"I said I don't remember."
Vox's expression shifted. Something softer flickered behind the amusement. Something almost human.
"That's sad." He said it without mockery. "That's genuinely sad, Alastor."
"I don't need your pity."
"You don't need anything. That's your whole problem." Vox's hands slid up his torso, mapping the lines of his chest, the ridge of his sternum, the hollow of his throat. "You've built this whole life around not needing anyone. And look where it got you."
Kneeling. Bound. Bare. In a bedroom that wasn't his, at the mercy of a man who held his secrets like currency.
"I'm going to touch you now," Vox said. "And you're going to let me. And you're not going to talk. You're not going to count. You're going to just—" He paused, searching for the word. "—be here. Can you do that?"
Alastor's throat was tight. The refusal sat on his tongue, sharp and familiar. But the recording sat in Vox's pocket. The photos sat on his phone. And somewhere beneath the defiance, beneath the mask, beneath the years of not needing anyone—something quiet and terrified and hungry was waiting.
"Yes."
Vox's hand found the back of his neck again. Gentle this time. Guiding. He pulled Alastor forward, not to the floor—to his chest, pressing Alastor's face against the black turtleneck, against the solid warmth of his torso. Alastor's bound hands rested awkwardly against Vox's thighs. His breath came shallow, muffled by the fabric.
"That's it," Vox murmured. "Just stay."
Alastor stayed.
The seconds stretched. The city hummed beyond the windows. Vox's hand moved in slow circles on the back of his neck, grounding, rhythmic, like he was soothing an animal that had forgotten how to be still.
"I'm going to take the cuffs off now." Vox's voice was low. "And you're going to keep your hands where I can see them. Understood?"
Alastor nodded against his chest.
The click of the cuffs was loud in the quiet room. The metal released, and sensation flooded back into his wrists—pins and needles, the burn of returning circulation. His hands fell to his sides, numb and heavy.
"Good." Vox pulled back, looking down at him. The cuffs were off, but the red fabric still wrapped his wrists, a reminder of what had been. "Now stand up."
Alastor rose. His legs were unsteady, his hands hanging useless at his sides. The room felt different without the cuffs—wider, emptier, like something had been taken away that he hadn't realized he was holding onto.
Vox looked at him. Took in the pale skin, the slicked-back hair that had started to fall loose, the crimson eyes that couldn't quite meet his.
"You're beautiful," he said. "You know that?"
Alastor's breath caught. The words hit him somewhere unexpected, somewhere he'd forgotten was there.
"I'm not—"
"I know what you are." Vox stepped closer. "And I know what you're afraid of. But right now, I don't care about any of that." He reached out, fingers brushing a stray strand of auburn hair from Alastor's forehead. "Right now, I just want to take care of you. Can you let me do that?"
Alastor's throat worked. The words wouldn't come.
"Use your words." Vox's voice was gentle. "I need to hear you say it."
"Yes." The word cracked on the way out. "Yes. I can—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I can let you do that."
Vox's smile was soft. Real. He pressed a kiss to Alastor's forehead, warm and lingering.
"Good boy."
He stepped back, toward the bed, pulling the covers down with one hand.
"Lie down," he said. "On your stomach."
Alastor moved. The mattress dipped under his weight, the sheets cool against his bare chest. He settled onto his stomach, his cheek pressed against the pillow, his arms stretched above his head. The red fabric still wrapped his wrists, a soft constraint that meant nothing and everything.
Vox's weight settled onto the bed behind him. A hand found his shoulder, trailing down his spine, slow and deliberate.
"You're going to count for me again," Vox said. "But this time, it's not a punishment." His hand reached the small of Alastor's back. "It's a promise."
Alastor's eyes closed. His breath evened out. The trapped bird in his chest had finally stopped fighting.
"How high?" he asked.
Vox's laugh was low. Warm. His hand traced down, over the curve of Alastor's ass, pressing just hard enough to make him feel it.
"High enough."
Vox watched the curve of Alastor's spine rise and fall with each breath—slow, steadying, a man trying to remember how to be still. The red fabric around his wrists caught the lamplight, a dark promise against pale skin. His auburn hair had finally surrendered, loose strands falling across the pillow, the once-impeccable slick-back ruined.
Vox wanted to keep him like this forever.
Not just the body—though that was a sight he'd replay later, alone, in the dark. The surrender. The way Alastor's shoulders had dropped when Vox said lie down, like the fight had been draining out of him all night and he'd just now realized he was empty. The way his breath evened out when Vox's hand found his spine. The way he'd said how high like he already knew the answer didn't matter—he'd count to whatever number Vox chose.
Fuck, that's beautiful.
Vox's hand traced lower, past the small of Alastor's back, settling on the waistband of his trousers. The fabric was expensive—Vox could tell by the weight, the cut, the way it sat on Alastor's hips like it had been made for him. Probably had been. Alastor had always dressed like he was performing for an audience that never arrived.
But the audience was here now.
"These," Vox said, his fingers hooking into the waistband, "are coming off."
Alastor's breath hitched. His fingers curled into the sheets, but he didn't say no. Didn't argue. Didn't even open his eyes.
Progress.
"I need your help for this part." Vox tugged gently. "Lift your hips."
A pause. Then Alastor's hips rose—slow, hesitant, like his body was still catching up to the fact that he'd decided to obey. Vox worked the trousers down over his hips, past his thighs, until finally they pooled around his knees.
Vox pulled them the rest of the way off. Dropped them on the floor. Alastor lay in nothing but his boxers—dark red, silk, because of course they were—and the binding on his wrists.
"Better." Vox ran a hand up the back of Alastor's calf, over the curve of his thigh. His skin was warm, smooth, the muscle taut underneath. "You've got good legs. Do you work out?"
"I walk." Alastor's voice was muffled by the pillow. "A lot."
"Clearly." Vox's hand reached the hem of his boxers. "Can I take these off too?"
The question hung in the air. Alastor's breath stopped—just for a second—then resumed, shallower than before.
"You're asking?"
"I'm asking." Vox's thumb traced the waistband. "I can take them either way. But I want to hear you say yes."
A long silence. The city hummed beyond the windows. Vox's hand stayed where it was, patient, waiting.
"Yes." The word was barely audible. "You can."
Vox smiled. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled—slow, deliberate, letting the fabric drag across Alastor's skin. The boxers caught on his hips, then slid free, revealing the pale curve of his ass, the long line of his thighs, the vulnerable dip of his lower back.
Alastor was completely naked now. Bound wrists above his head. Face pressed into the pillow. Body open and exposed under the warm lamplight.
Vox took a moment to look. To memorize. The lean lines of his shoulders. The sharp ridge of his spine. The way his thighs pressed together, like he was trying to protect something even now.
"You're trembling." Vox didn't say it as an accusation. Just an observation.
"I'm cold."
"Liar." Vox ran his palm flat over Alastor's ass, feeling the muscle jump under his touch. "You're nervous. That's okay. You're supposed to be nervous."
"It's not—" Alastor's voice cracked. He stopped. Swallowed. "I'm not nervous."
"Then what are you?"
Another silence. Longer this time. Vox could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped the sheets, the slow deliberate rhythm of his breathing—a man trying to hold himself together.
"I don't know," Alastor finally said. "I don't know what I am right now."
Vox's chest tightened. That was more honesty than he'd expected. More than he'd probably deserved.
"That's okay too." He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the small of Alastor's back. "You don't have to know. You just have to stay here and let me take care of you."
Alastor's breath stuttered. His hands opened and closed against the sheets.
"How high?" he asked again. Smaller this time. Quieter.
Vox smiled against his skin. "We'll find out together."
He reached for the bedside table, pulling open the drawer. Inside: lube, condoms, a small leather paddle, a silk blindfold. He'd prepared for this—weeks of planning, of imagining, of watching Alastor from across rooms and wondering what it would take to get him here. The drawer was proof that he'd thought about every angle.
He chose the lube. Set it on the mattress within reach. Closed the drawer.
"I'm going to open you up," Vox said, his voice low. "Slow. Careful. I want you to feel every inch of it. And I want you to tell me if it's too much."
"And if I do?"
"Then I stop." Vox's hand settled on Alastor's lower back. "I'm not here to hurt you, Alastor. I'm here to take you apart. There's a difference."
Alastor's laugh was hollow, breathless. "I'm not sure I see it."
"You will." Vox picked up the lube, squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. "Count with me."
"Again?"
"Again. Starting from ten. Backward." Vox's slick fingers found the cleft of Alastor's ass, tracing down, circling his entrance with featherlight pressure. "Every time I push in, you count down. When you reach one, I'll be inside you. Understand?"
Alastor's breath came shallow. Fast. His fingers gripped the sheets.
"Yes."
"Good boy." Vox pressed his finger forward—just the tip, just enough to breach that tight ring of muscle. "Ten."
"Ten." Alastor's voice was strained.
Vox pushed deeper. Slow. Steady. The heat of Alastor's body wrapped around his finger, tight and desperate. He could feel every tremor, every tiny adjustment Alastor made to accommodate him. The way his hips shifted. The way his breath caught when Vox reached the second knuckle.
"Nine."
"Nine."
"Good. You're doing so good." Vox worked his finger deeper, curling slightly, searching. "Tell me how it feels."
"Full." Alastor's voice was a whisper. "Strange. I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don't-."
"I know." Vox pressed a kiss to his lower back. "I know, sweetheart. We're going slow. Just breathe."
Alastor breathed. Deep, shaky inhales that made his ribs expand, his spine arch. Vox watched his body adjust to the intrusion, watched the tension in his shoulders slowly ease as he stopped fighting and started accepting.
"Eight."
"Eight."
Vox added a second finger. Alastor's breath caught, a sharp inhale that turned into a low moan—muffled by the pillow, but unmistakable. The sound went straight to Vox's cock, already hard and straining against his trousers.
"That's it." He scissored his fingers, stretching, preparing. "You're taking it so well. So fucking well."
Alastor's hips pressed back, just slightly. An invitation. A demand wrapped in surrender.
"Seven."
"Seven."
Vox curled his fingers, searching—and found it. The spot that made Alastor's whole body jerk, that pulled a sharp gasp from his throat, that made his hands grip the sheets so hard his knuckles went white.
"There." Vox smiled. "There it is." He pressed again, watching Alastor's reaction, cataloging every twitch and shudder. "You like that."
"I—" Alastor's voice broke. "I don't—"
"You do." Vox pressed again. "Your body doesn't lie, Alastor. It tells me exactly what you need. And right now, it's telling me you need more."
He added a third finger. Alastor's moan was louder this time, less restrained, spilling out of him like something he'd been holding back for years.
"Six." The word came out ragged.
"Six."
Vox worked him open methodically, each stroke deliberate, each curl of his fingers aimed at that spot that made Alastor's thighs tremble. The lube made everything slick, easy, the sounds of his fingers sliding in and out filling the quiet room.
"Five."
"Five."
"Four."
"Four."
"Look at you." Vox's voice was rough. "Three fingers in and you're dripping. You're fucking dripping for me, Alastor. Did you know that?"
Alastor didn't answer. Just pressed his face deeper into the pillow, his hips pushing back against Vox's hand, a desperate wordless plea.
"Three."
"Three."
Vox pulled his fingers out slowly, watching the way Alastor's body clenched around the emptiness, searching for something to hold onto. He reached for his own trousers, undoing them one-handed, freeing his cock—hard, aching, precum already beading at the tip.
"Two."
Alastor's voice was barely audible. "Two."
"One more, sweetheart. One more and I'm inside you." Vox positioned himself at Alastor's entrance, the head of his cock pressing against that tight ring of muscle. "Ready?"
A pause. Then Alastor's hips pushed back.
"One."
Vox pushed in.
The heat was overwhelming—tight, slick, desperate. Alastor's body wrapped around him like it had been waiting, like every moment of resistance had been leading to this single point of contact. Vox's breath came out in a rush, his hands finding Alastor's hips, holding him steady as he sank deeper.
"Fuck." The word escaped before he could stop it. "Fuck, Alastor. You feel—" He couldn't finish. Didn't have the words.
Alastor's answer was a low, broken moan. His hands found Vox's on his hips, fingers intertwining, holding on.
Vox stayed still. Let Alastor adjust. Let him feel the fullness, the stretch, the reality of what they were doing. His forehead pressed against Alastor's shoulder blade, his breath hot against his skin.
"You okay?"
Alastor nodded. His throat worked. Swallowed.
"Yes." The word was rough, raw. "Yes. I'm—" He stopped. Took a breath. "I'm okay."
Vox pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, then pushed in again. The rhythm started gentle, easy, letting Alastor set the pace. Each thrust drew a sound from him—a gasp, a moan, a whispered curse that slipped out like a confession.
"You're so good at this." Vox's voice was low, rough. "Taking me so fucking well. Like you were made for it."
"Don't—" Alastor's voice broke. "Don't talk like that."
"Why not? It's true." Vox's thrusts grew deeper, harder. "Look at you. Naked. Open. Letting me fuck you. A week ago you wouldn't even look at me. Now you're counting down until I'm inside you."
"That's not—" Alastor gasped as Vox hit that spot again. "That's not fair."
"Who said anything about fair?" Vox leaned down, his mouth against Alastor's ear. "I've got your secrets in my pocket. I've got photos of you on my phone. I've got you in my bed, taking my cock like you've been waiting for it your whole life."
Alastor's answer was a moan—wordless, broken, edged with something that might have been a sob.
"That's it." Vox's hand found his, fingers lacing together on the sheets. "Let go. I've got you. Just let go."
Alastor's body tensed. His inner walls clenched around Vox's cock, a desperate rhythmic pulse that told Vox everything he needed to know. Alastor's voice cracked on a sound that could have been his name—could have been anything.
"Come for me." Vox's voice was a command wrapped in a plea. "Come on my cock. I want to feel it."
Alastor shattered.
His body arched, his spine bowing as the orgasm tore through him, his cry muffled by the pillow, his hands gripping Vox's like he was drowning. His ass clenched around Vox's cock, milking him, pulling him deeper—and Vox followed, his own release crashing through him in hot pulses, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed against Alastor's back.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Just breathing. Just the weight of what had happened settling over them like a blanket.
Vox pulled out slowly. Alastor's body trembled at the loss. He lay there, face-down, wrists still bound, cum leaking down his thigh, the picture of utter surrender.
Vox reached for the red fabric, untying it gently. Freed, Alastor's hands fell to the mattress, limp and useless.
"Roll over," Vox said softly.
Alastor obeyed. His eyes were glassy, his cheeks wet, his lips parted. He looked wrecked. Ruined. Perfect.
Vox gathered him up, pulling him against his chest, settling them both against the headboard. Alastor's head rested in the crook of his neck. His breath was still uneven, his body still trembling with aftershocks.
"You did so good," Vox murmured, pressing a kiss to his hair. "So fucking good, sweetheart."
Alastor didn't answer. His hand found Vox's, holding on like a lifeline.
Outside, the city glittered. Inside, the silence was full.