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—" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, forcing the words through a throat gone dry. "That's none of your goddamn business."

Vox's eyebrows rose, but the smile stayed. "Indignant. Cute." His thumbs pressed harder against Alastor's hip bones, a grounding pressure that made Alastor's breath hitch. "I asked a question. You agreed to answer honestly."

"I agreed to nothing." Alastor's voice came out sharper than he meant, the indignation burning through his chest like acid. "You gave me an ultimatum under duress. That's not consent. That's coercion."

"Duress." Vox tasted the word, rolling it around like it was something new. "Fancy word for a man on his knees in cuffs with a strip of red silk around his wrists." He leaned closer, close enough that Alastor could smell coffee on his breath, something minty underneath. "You want to talk about consent? Fine. I'm asking. Willingly. Would you like to answer my question?"

"No."

"Would you like me to turn the cuffs up to the middle setting and ask again?"

Alastor's jaw tightened. The vibration had been manageable before—annoying, distracting, but nothing he couldn't bear. But the threat of more, of worse, sat in Vox's voice like a promise.

"That's not a request either."

"No," Vox agreed. "It's a negotiation. You give me what I want, I give you something you want. A fair exchange."

"And what could you possibly give me that I want?"

Vox's smile widened. "My silence. My discretion. The recording staying in my pocket and nowhere else." He tilted his head, the lamplight catching his glasses. "And maybe, if you're good, something you didn't know you wanted."

Alastor's stomach turned. The indignation was still there, hot and familiar, but underneath it was something colder—a thread of fear he couldn't quite suppress. "You're disgusting."

"I'm honest. There's a difference." Vox's hands slid from his hips, trailing up his sides, the touch light and deliberate. Alastor's skin broke out in goosebumps despite himself, the sensation cutting through the numbness. "Your body's telling me something different than your mouth."

"My body is reacting to the temperature. It's cold in here."

"It's seventy-two degrees."

"Then I'm cold because I've been stripped half-naked and forced to kneel on the floor like a—like a—"

"Like a what?" Vox's voice dropped, low and rough. "Like a whore? Like a pet? Like something that belongs to someone else for a change?"

The words hit like a physical blow. Alastor's breath caught, his chest hitching, the heat crawling up his neck and into his cheeks. He could feel the flush spreading, staining his pale skin red, and he hated it. Hated that Vox could see it. Hated that Vox was probably cataloging every shade of humiliation that crossed his face.

"I don't belong to anyone."

"Not yet." Vox's fingers reached his shoulders, tracing the line of his collarbone. "But we've got time."

"You're a fucking degenerate."

Vox laughed, low and genuine. "Takes one to know one, sweetheart." His hand slid up, cupping Alastor's jaw again, forcing his gaze up. "Now. I'm going to ask one more time. And this time, you're going to give me a real answer. Because if you don't, I'll assume you're lying, and we'll find out if the middle setting makes you more cooperative."

The remote was in his other hand. Alastor hadn't seen him pull it out, but there it was, black and small, the button catching the light.

"When was the last time someone touched you?" Vox asked. "Not a handshake. Not a professional pat on the back. I mean touched you. Skin to skin. With intention."

Alastor's throat closed. The question was too intimate, too invasive, peeling back layers he kept locked behind a dozen different masks. He could give a sarcastic answer, deflect with humor, change the subject—but the remote was right there, and Vox's patience was clearly finite.

"I don't remember."

Vox's eyes narrowed. "Try harder."

"I said I don't—"

The cuffs buzzed. Not the low hum from before—this was sharper, more insistent, the vibration digging into his wrists like a thousand tiny needles. Alastor gasped, his hands jerking, the red silk fluttering around the metal.

"That's the low-middle," Vox said, his voice calm, conversational. "Uncomfortable, but not painful. Yet. It'll get worse if you keep lying to me."

"I'm not—" The vibration spiked, and Alastor's words dissolved into a strangled huff. His shoulders hunched, his hands twisting in the cuffs, trying to find relief that wasn't there. "Please—"

"Please what?"

"Stop." The word came out broken, stripped of all the sass and sarcasm that had carried him through the night. "Please, stop."

Vox held his gaze for a long moment. Then the vibration cut off.

Alastor sagged, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his forehead almost touching the carpet before he caught himself. The silence was thick, heavy, broken only by his own uneven breathing.

"I'll ask again," Vox said softly. "When was the last time someone touched you?"

Alastor's eyes squeezed shut. The indignation was still there, burning under his skin, but it was tangled up with something rawer—a shame he didn't want to name, a loneliness he'd spent years ignoring.

"Six years." The words came out barely above a whisper. "Almost seven."

Vox went still. The silence stretched, and when he spoke again, his voice was different—softer, less certain. "Seven years?"

"I haven't exactly had a lot of opportunities." Alastor opened his eyes, meeting Vox's gaze with a defiance that felt hollow. "Running a radio show, hiding a criminal record, maintaining a public persona—it doesn't leave much time for intimacy."

"But before that?"

"Before that, I was eighteen and stupid." Alastor's smirk flickered back, thin and brittle. "A one-night stand with someone whose name I don't remember. It was awkward, unsatisfying, and over in about four minutes." He laughed, and it came out bitter. "So no. I don't have fond memories to warm me at night."

Vox was watching him with an expression Alastor couldn't read. The blue eyes behind the wire rims had lost some of their sharpness, replaced by something contemplative, almost curious.

"Seven years," Vox repeated. "And in all that time, no one got close?"

"I didn't let them."

"No." Vox's hand moved, his thumb tracing along Alastor's cheekbone, a touch so gentle it made Alastor's breath catch. "I don't suppose you did."

The contact was brief, barely a second, but it left a trail of heat on Alastor's skin. He felt it long after Vox's hand dropped away.

"That's going to change." Vox stood, looking down at him with that unreadable expression. "Starting tonight."

"I didn't agree to—"

"You didn't have to." Vox reached down, his fingers finding the knot of red silk at Alastor's wrists. He tugged, and the fabric came loose, falling away to reveal the cuffs beneath. "The agreement was that you answer honestly. You did. Now we move to the next part."

He pulled a key from his pocket—small, silver, catching the lamplight. Alastor's heart stuttered.

"You're taking them off?"

"I'm upgrading you." Vox knelt, fitting the key into the lock on the right cuff. It clicked open, and the metal fell away, leaving a red ring around Alastor's wrist. He repeated the process on the left, and suddenly Alastor's hands were free, the weight gone, the pressure lifted.

He didn't move. Couldn't. His hands stayed in his lap, wrists bare, the skin raw and red where the cuffs had bitten.

"Stand up."

Alastor rose on unsteady legs. The blood rushed back into his thighs, pins and needles prickling through the numbness. Vox was close, too close, his broad frame filling Alastor's field of vision.

"Turn around."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to." Vox's voice was patient, but there was an edge to it. "Turn around, Alastor."

He turned. The mirrored dresser faced him, reflecting his own pale form—shirtless, wrists marked, the red silk pooled on the carpet behind him. Vox's reflection stood behind him, taller, broader, his blue eyes fixed on Alastor's back.

"Hands on the dresser."

Alastor's palms pressed against the cool wood. He could see himself in the mirror, could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath came shallow and fast.

"Good boy." Vox's hands settled on his shoulders, warm and solid. "You're learning."

"I'm humoring you."

"Same thing." Vox's hands slid down, tracing the lines of Alastor's back, his palms pressing against the muscles that bunched and tensed under the touch. "You've got a beautiful body. Did you know that?"

"I've been told."

"By who? The one-night stand you don't remember?" Vox's lips brushed against his ear, his voice dropping low. "I bet they didn't appreciate you properly. Didn't take the time to learn every curve, every hollow, every place that makes you shiver."

His hands reached Alastor's waist, fingers curling over the waistband of his trousers. Alastor's breath caught.

"What are you doing?"

"Exploring." Vox's thumbs hooked under the fabric, tugging it loose. "You agreed to answer honestly. You didn't agree to stop there."

"I didn't agree to this either."

"No." Vox's hands stilled. "But you're not telling me to stop."

The words hung in the air. Alastor could see his own reflection, the flush high on his cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell with each shaky breath. He should tell him to stop. Should push away, should fight, should do anything but stand here with his hands on the dresser, waiting.

He didn't speak.

Vox's hands moved, sliding under the waistband, pressing against the bare skin of Alastor's hips. His fingers were warm, calloused, tracing circles into the hollows of bone.

"That's what I thought." Vox's voice was rough, a thread of satisfaction running through it. "You talk a big game, Alastor. But underneath all that sass, you're desperate for this. For someone to touch you like you matter."

"I don't need—"

"You don't need anything." Vox's hands tightened, pulling Alastor back against him, his chest pressing against Alastor's spine. "But you want it. You've been wanting it for seven years. And I'm going to give it to you."

"Why?" The word came out raw, stripped of all pretense.

"Because I want to." Vox's lips found the curve of Alastor's neck, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin there. "Because I've been watching you for months, and I know you better than you know yourself. And because—" He paused, his mouth hovering over Alastor's pulse point. "Because when you finally break, I want to be the one who catches you."

Alastor's eyes closed. The shame was still there, hot and thick, but underneath it was something else—a hunger he'd been ignoring for so long it had become a part of him.

"I don't break."

"Everyone breaks." Vox's hands slid lower, fingers tracing the waistband of his trousers, teasing the edge of something Alastor wasn't ready to name. "The question is whether you break into pieces, or whether you break open."

His fingers dipped lower, brushing against the front of Alastor's trousers, and Alastor's breath stuttered into a gasp.

"Tell me to stop," Vox said, his voice soft, almost tender. "Say the word, and I will."

Alastor's throat was tight. His hands trembled against the dresser. The reflection in the mirror showed a man on the edge of something—a precipice he'd been running from his whole life.

He didn't say the word.

Vox's smile widened in the mirror, sharp and satisfied. "Good boy."

His fingers found the button of Alastor's trousers, working it open with practiced ease. The zipper descended, a low metallic sound that cut through the silence like a blade.

The zipper's descent stopped at half-mast, the sound dying into the space between them. Alastor's hands were still pressed flat against the dresser, his reflection staring back at him from the mirror — pale, shirtless, wrists ringed with red where the cuffs had bitten. The strip of silk lay forgotten on the carpet behind him. The lamp cast his shadow long across the bed.

Vox's fingers lingered at the waistband, waiting. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the city through the blackout curtains.

"That's a lot of thinking for a man who's about to get his dick out," Vox murmured against his ear. "Something on your mind, sweetheart?"

Alastor's throat worked. The reflection stared back — the sharp cheekbones, the crimson eyes that usually held a smirk, the mouth that always had a retort ready. But the man in the mirror looked different now. Smaller. Stripped of the theatrical armor that had carried him through every confrontation, every close call, every night he'd spent lying awake wondering if today was the day someone found out.

His hand moved before he consciously decided it would.

Fingers closing around Vox's wrist. Stopping the descent.

The touch was light — barely a grip, more a question than a resistance. But it was the first time all night he'd physically pushed back, and they both felt the weight of it.

Vox went still. His breath was warm against the curve of Alastor's neck, held and waiting.

"That's new." Vox's voice was low, curious. Not angry — not yet. "You sure you want to do that?"

Alastor's fingers tightened around Vox's wrist, the contact a fragile barrier between what was coming and what he couldn't face. His throat worked, the words stuck somewhere behind his teeth, his heart hammering so loud he was sure Vox could hear it.

"I just—" The voice that came out wasn't his. Too high, too thin. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I need a minute."

Vox's breath was warm against his neck. "A minute."

"Yes. A minute. Is that—" Alastor's jaw clenched. "Is that allowed?"

Vox didn't move. His hand stayed where it was, fingers resting at the half-open zipper, not retreating, not advancing. The silence stretched, and Alastor could feel the weight of it pressing down on his bare shoulders, on the curve of his spine, on the place behind his ribs where the trapped bird had worn itself raw.

"You're shaking," Vox said. Not a question.

Alastor looked at his reflection. His hand was trembling against Vox's wrist, the fine tremor visible in the dim lamplight. He hadn't noticed. "It's cold."

"It's not cold." Vox's free hand came up, settling on Alastor's hip, his thumb pressing into the jut of bone.

"You're scared."

The words hung in the air between them, simple and damning. Alastor's reflection stared back at him — pale, shirtless, trembling, caught. His fingers were still wrapped around Vox's wrist, a fragile barrier that suddenly felt like the only thing keeping him from shattering.

"I'm not scared." The words came out automatic, the reflex so ingrained it barely required thought. "I'm — I'm assessing the situation. There's a difference."

"Uh-huh." Vox's voice was dry, amused. "And what's your assessment so far?"

Alastor's jaw tightened. His grip on Vox's wrist held, but he could feel the strength beneath his fingers — the solid weight of bone and muscle, the pulse that beat steady and calm against his palm. Vox wasn't rushing. Wasn't pushing. Wasn't doing anything except standing there, waiting, letting Alastor's own panic fill the space between them.

"My assessment," Alastor said slowly, "is that you're a manipulative bastard who's orchestrated this entire scenario to get me exactly where you want me—" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, forcing it steady.

"Stop talking."

Vox's voice was calm. Flat. Not the sharp edge of a command, but the quiet patience of a man who had already won and was simply waiting for the other person to catch up. His wrist was still caught in Alastor's grip, and he didn't pull away. Didn't flex. Didn't do anything except stand there, breathing slow and even against the back of Alastor's neck.

"You asked for a minute. I'm giving you one." His free hand stayed on Alastor's hip, thumb tracing a slow, idle circle into the bone. "But you're filling it with words. Same as you've been doing all night. Same as you've been doing your whole life, probably."

Alastor's reflection stared back at him—pale, flushed, caught. His fingers were still wrapped around Vox's wrist, and he could feel the steady pulse beneath his thumb, calm and unhurried. His own heart was a traitor, hammering against his ribs, loud enough that he was sure Vox could feel it through the skin of his back.

"Is there a point to this observation?" The words came out thin, the sass barely clinging to them like loose thread.

"The point is that you run your mouth when you're scared. And you're scared right now." Vox's thumb pressed harder, grounding. "Not of me. Not of what I'll do. You're scared of what you want."

The words hit something deep, something Alastor had spent years walling off. His breath stuttered, and he felt the flush spread down his throat, across his bare chest, staining him red from the collarbones up.

"That's—that's a bold assumption."

"It's not an assumption. It's an observation." Vox's voice dropped, softer now, almost gentle. "You've been alone for seven years. You've built a life around not needing anyone. Around keeping everyone at arm's length with that sharp tongue and that perfect smirk." His thumb traced another circle, slower this time. "And now someone's finally calling your bluff, and you don't know what to do with it."

Alastor's throat tightened. The reflection in the mirror blurred, and he blinked hard, forcing the wetness back. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you set fires." Vox's voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. "I know you burn things down when they get too close. When they matter too much. I know you'd rather destroy something than risk losing it."

Alastor's grip on Vox's wrist went slack. His hand fell away, dangling at his side, the strength gone out of it. He stared at his own reflection—the sharp cheekbones, the crimson eyes that suddenly looked too bright, too wet. The mask was cracking. He could feel it.

"That's—" His voice broke, and he swallowed hard, forcing the words through a throat gone raw. "That's not—"

"It's okay." Vox's hand moved from his hip, sliding around his waist, pulling him back against his chest. The contact was solid, grounding—the broad warmth of Vox's body pressed against his bare spine, an arm wrapping around his middle, holding him steady. "It's okay to be seen, Alastor. It's okay to let someone know you."

Alastor's breath came in shallow gasps. He could feel Vox's heartbeat against his back, slow and steady, a counterpoint to his own racing pulse. The arm around his waist was firm, not restraining—supporting, maybe, if he was willing to accept it.

"I don't—" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"This." Alastor gestured vaguely with one hand, the motion encompassing the room, the situation, the strange intimacy of being held by a man he'd spent years hating. "Letting someone in. Trusting someone not to—" He stopped again, the words sticking in his throat.

"Not to what?"

"Not to use it against me." The words came out barely above a whisper, raw and honest in a way that Alastor hadn't been with anyone in years. "Not to take everything I give them and turn it into a weapon."

Vox was quiet for a long moment. His arm tightened slightly, pulling Alastor closer, and when he spoke, his voice was low and rough against Alastor's ear.

"I'm not going to lie to you and say I won't use things against you. I've already got your recording. I've already got your photos. I've already got more leverage than I know what to do with." His hand spread across Alastor's stomach, warm and solid. "But I'm not going to pretend this is just about leverage either. I've been watching you for months, Alastor. I didn't do it because I wanted a pawn. I did it because I wanted you."

Alastor's breath caught. The trapped bird in his chest went still, stunned into silence by the sheer audacity of the statement.

"You wanted me," he repeated, the words flat, disbelieving. "So you orchestrated an elaborate blackmail scheme to get me alone in your bedroom."

"When you put it like that, it sounds almost romantic."

A laugh—genuine, surprised—escaped Alastor's throat before he could stop it. It came out rough, cracked around the edges, but it was real. "You're insane."

"I'm determined." Vox's hand slid up, settling over Alastor's heart, feeling the wild beat beneath his palm. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yeah." Vox pressed a kiss to the curve of Alastor's shoulder, soft and unexpected. "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Determination is finding a way to get what you want."

"And what do you want?"

Vox's hand stilled on his chest. The silence stretched, thick and charged, and when Vox spoke, his voice was stripped of all the mockery, all the smugness, all the performative control.

"I want to be the first person who's ever actually had you."

The words landed like a blow to the chest. Alastor felt them echo through him, through the hollow places he'd filled with sarcasm and deflection, through the spaces he'd kept deliberately empty for seven years. His eyes burned, and this time he couldn't blink it away.

"That's—" His voice cracked, and he stopped, pressing his lips together hard.

"It's the truth." Vox's hand pressed flatter against his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart. "I'm not saying I'm noble. I'm not saying I won't use the leverage I've got. But I'm saying that when I touch you, when I—" He paused, his breath warm against Alastor's skin. "When I fuck you, it's going to be because you want it too. Because you choose to let me."

Alastor's eyes closed. The tears slipped free, sliding down his cheeks, and he couldn't bring himself to care. His hands came up, covering Vox's where it lay over his heart, holding it there like something precious.

"I don't know how to choose this." His voice was raw, stripped of all pretense. "I don't know how to want something without it turning into a weapon."

"Then let me teach you."

The words hung between them, simple and terrifying. Alastor's reflection in the mirror showed a man undone—shirtless, tear-streaked, held together by the arms of the man who'd spent months planning his destruction.

"Teach me," Alastor whispered. It wasn't a question. It wasn't an agreement. It was an opening, a crack in the armor, a door left ajar.

Vox's arms tightened around him. His mouth found the curve of Alastor's neck, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin there, slow and deliberate.

"Turn around."

Alastor turned. The movement brought them face to face, chest to chest, Vox's broad frame blocking out the lamplight, his blue eyes sharp behind the wire rims. Alastor's hands came up, resting on Vox's shoulders, the contact tentative and new.

"I'm going to kiss you," Vox said. "And you're going to tell me if you want me to stop. Understand?"

Alastor's throat worked. "Yes."

Vox leaned in. The kiss was slow, deliberate—a question more than a statement. His lips brushed against Alastor's, soft and warm, and Alastor's breath caught at the contact. It had been so long. So long since anyone had touched him like this, since anyone had treated his mouth like something to be savored rather than a weapon to be dodged.

He kissed back. Clumsy at first, unpracticed, his lips moving against Vox's with a hesitation that spoke of seven years of disuse. Vox didn't push. Didn't rush. Just kissed him, slow and patient, letting Alastor find the rhythm, letting him lead even though he was the one who'd never done this before.

When they broke apart, Alastor's breath was coming fast. His lips were red, wet, slightly swollen, and his cheeks were flushed with something that wasn't shame.

"There," Vox said softly, his thumb tracing along Alastor's jaw. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Alastor's mouth opened, the retort already forming—but he stopped himself. Breathed. Let the silence hold.

"No," he said quietly.

Vox's smile was slow, genuine, reaching his eyes in a way that made something in Alastor's chest shift. "Good boy."

His hands slid down, settling on Alastor's hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of his trousers again. But this time, his movements were slower, more deliberate, his eyes meeting Alastor's for confirmation before he moved.

"Is this okay?"

Alastor's heart hammered. The fear was still there, coiled in his chest like a live wire, but underneath it was something else—hunger, want, a desperate need to feel something real for the first time in years.

"Yes."

Vox's fingers worked the button free, pulled the zipper down. The trousers sagged, and Vox pushed them down over Alastor's hips, letting them fall to pool around his ankles. Alastor stood in his boxers, pale and exposed, his hands gripping Vox's shoulders for balance.

"Beautiful," Vox breathed. His hands traced up Alastor's thighs, over the jut of his hips, settling on his waist. "Absolutely beautiful."

Alastor's flush deepened. "You're biased."

"Maybe." Vox's hands slid around to cup his ass, squeezing gently, the touch firm and possessive. "But I'm also right."

Alastor's breath stuttered. His hands tightened on Vox's shoulders, and he swayed forward, his forehead dropping to rest against Vox's collarbone. The contact was grounding, the solid warmth of another body pressing against his, and he felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted, the words muffled against Vox's shirt.

"I know." Vox's hand came up, threading through his hair, the touch gentle. "That's why I'm going to tell you." He pulled back, tilting Alastor's face up to meet his gaze. "You trust me?"

The question was a trap. A test. Alastor knew it—but the answer that came out wasn't one he'd planned.

"I don't trust you," he said slowly. "But I... I don't think you're going to hurt me. Not in the ways that matter."

Vox's smile was soft, almost tender. "That's a start."

He guided Alastor backward, toward the bed. The edge of the mattress hit the back of Alastor's knees, and he sat down hard, the springs creaking under his weight. Vox stood over him, looking down with an expression that was equal parts hunger and reverence.

"Lie back."

Alastor obeyed. The sheets were cool against his bare back, the pillows soft beneath his head. The lamp cast warm light across the bed, catching the planes of his chest, the hollow of his throat, the flush that had spread down to his stomach.

Vox followed him down, his body covering Alastor's, hands braced on either side of his head. The weight was grounding, the heat of Vox's chest pressing against his, the fabric of his turtleneck rough against Alastor's bare skin.

"You tell me if you want to stop," Vox said, his voice low and rough. "At any point. For any reason. You say the word, and we stop. Understood?"

Alastor's hands came up, settling on Vox's shoulders, tracing the line of his collarbone through the black fabric. "Understood."

Vox's mouth found his again, and this time the kiss was deeper, hungrier, his tongue tracing along Alastor's lower lip. Alastor's breath hitched, his fingers curling into the fabric of Vox's shirt, pulling him closer.

Seven years. Seven years of emptiness, of walls, of pushing everyone away. And now, under the weight of a man who'd blackmailed him into submission, Alastor felt something crack open inside him—something that wasn't pain, wasn't fear, wasn't shame.

It was want. Raw and desperate and terrifying, and for the first time in his life, he didn't try to burn it down.

He held on instead.