Vox's mouth breaks from his, and Alastor's lips chase the loss for half a heartbeat before he catches himself. The heat of that kiss still burns on his mouth, a brand he doesn't know what to do with.
"That's it," Vox murmurs against his jaw, voice low and rough. "Just lie there and take it. Let me do the work for once."
Alastor's mouth opens to fire back something cutting—something about how he doesn't *need* Vox to do anything, thank you very much—but the words die in his throat when Vox's lips find the hollow beneath his ear. His breath catches. His fingers tighten in Vox's shirt.
"What was that?" Vox's voice is almost amused, his breath hot against Alastor's pulse point. "I didn't catch it. You got something to say?"
Alastor swallows hard. "I—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. "I have *plenty* to say. I always have plenty to say. That's rather my thing, if you hadn't noticed."
Vox hums, low and satisfied, and the sound vibrates against Alastor's skin. "I know. That's why I'm gonna shut you up the only way that works."
His mouth begins its slow descent. Down the column of Alastor's throat, tongue tracing the tendon that stands out when Alastor tips his head back. Down to the hollow of his collarbone, where Vox pauses to press a kiss that's almost tender—if tenderness could come from a man who holds your ruin in a recording.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," Vox says against his skin, the words muffled. "How many nights I've sat in that office of mine, thinking about what you'd look like under me. What sounds you'd make."
Alastor's chest heaves. His hands are still fisted in Vox's shirt, knuckles white, but he doesn't push. Doesn't pull. Just holds on like a man clinging to a cliff edge.
"I thought about your mouth," Vox continues, lips brushing over Alastor's sternum. "That fucking *smirk*. Wondered what it'd take to wipe it off. Wondered what you'd look like when you couldn't talk your way out of something."
"Well," Alastor manages, voice thin but still sharp at the edges, "I'm so *flattered* to be the subject of your... *leisure* time. Though I must say, the décor of this little fantasy of yours leaves something to be desired. The acoustics in here are atrocious."
Vox laughs—a real laugh, low and surprised. His breath ghosts hot across Alastor's skin. "Even now. Even with your dick half-hard in my bed, you're still running your mouth."
Alastor's face burns. His hips twitch involuntarily, pressing up, and the friction of his boxers against his half-hard cock sends a jolt through him that he can't suppress. His breath stutters.
"Yeah," Vox murmurs, "there it is. That's the part that doesn't lie."
His mouth moves lower. Across Alastor's pectoral, tongue circling the nipple, and Alastor's breath catches again—a sharp, undignified sound that he tries to swallow. Fails. The heat of Vox's mouth is wet and deliberate, and when his teeth graze the sensitive nub, Alastor's hips buck hard.
"Sensitive there?" Vox asks, and there's cruelty in the gentleness of his voice. "Good."
Vox moves to the other side, slower this time, his tongue circling the peak before his lips close around it and he *sucks*. Hard. Alastor's back arches off the mattress, a broken noise caught in his throat. His hands fly from Vox's shirt to his own face, palms pressing against his eyes, fingers digging into his hair.
"No, no, no—" The words tumble out before he can stop them, half plea and half panic. His hips are still pressing up, grinding against Vox's weight, and his body is *betraying* him, every instinct screaming at him to push away while his hips keep chasing the contact.
Vox's mouth pauses, hovering over Alastor's ribs. The silence is sudden, heavy.
"What did you say?" Vox's voice is low, careful.
Alastor doesn't answer. Can't. His hands press harder against his face, fingernails scraping against his scalp. His breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps, and there's a heat behind his eyes that he refuses to acknowledge. The shame is *suffocating*—thicker than anything he's felt in years, wrapping around his throat and squeezing.
"Look at me."
Alastor shakes his head, a sharp, jerky motion. His fingers curl tighter in his hair, pulling at the roots. A thin, reedy whine escapes his throat before he can cut it off—a sound so pathetic, so *vulnerable*, that he feels the last shreds of his composure crumbling around him.
Vox's mouth is warm and wet against his sternum again, but slower now. Deliberate. Trailing lower, between each rib, mapping the architecture of Alastor's chest with agonizing patience. The heat of his breath is a brand, and Alastor's body *responds*—arching, pressing up, chasing the contact even as his mind screams at him to stop.
"That's it," Vox murmurs against his skin, the words vibrating through Alastor's ribs. "Just feel it. Don't think. Don't run."
"I'm *not*—" Alastor starts, but his voice breaks. Splinters. The protest dies in his throat because he *is* running. Has been running for seven years, and now he's pinned under a man who saw through every wall he'd ever built in a single night.
His body arches without permission, hips pressing up against Vox's weight, and the grind of his cock against Vox's pelvis sends another jolt through him. His breath hitches. His hands press harder against his face, and the tears come hot and silent, spilling over his fingers before he can stop them.
*Fuck*. He's *crying*. Actually crying, like some kind of—some *child*, some broken thing that can't handle a man's mouth on his chest without falling apart. The humiliation is a physical weight, crushing his lungs, and his shoulders shake with the effort of keeping the sobs silent.
Vox's breath is hot and even against Alastor's skin, waiting. His lips hover over Alastor's ribs, and the absence of contact is *worse*—a cold space where heat should be, a question Alastor doesn't know how to answer.
The tears slip between Alastor's fingers, catching the dim light from the bedside lamp. Salty and warm and *humiliating*, and he can't stop them, can't breathe, can't *think* past the roar of blood in his ears.
"I've got you." Vox's voice is low, steady, cutting through the static in Alastor's skull. "You're okay. Just breathe."
Alastor's mouth opens, but no words come. Just a shuddering breath that rattles through his chest, and his fingers find Vox's wrist—somehow, in the chaos, his hand has left his face and found the solid warmth of Vox's arm. His grip is desperate, bruising, and he *holds on* like it's the only solid thing left in the world.
Vox's lips press against his ribs, soft and deliberate. A kiss, not a brand. "That's it. Let go. I've got you."
Alastor's chest heaves. His grip on Vox's wrist tightens, and the tears keep coming—silent, endless, carving tracks down his temples and into his hair. His hips have gone still, the urgency drained out of him, and all that's left is the trembling wreck of a man who's spent seven years pretending he didn't need this.
"You're doing so good," Vox murmurs against his skin. "Just stay with me. Don't go anywhere."
Alastor's breath shudders out of him, and his fingers loosen their death grip on Vox's wrist—just slightly, just enough. His other hand slides down from his face, knuckles brushing against his own lips, and his eyes open.
Crimson meeting blue, the color of a sky he hasn't seen in years. The color of the man who broke him open and is somehow still holding the pieces.
Vox's hand comes up, slow and deliberate, giving Alastor every chance to pull away. His fingers brush Alastor's wrist, then his knuckles, then his cheek—a featherlight touch that traces the tear track down his skin.
"There you are," Vox says quietly, and his thumb catches another tear before it falls. "There's that face I've been wanting to see."
Alastor's lips part, but the only sound that comes out is a broken exhale. His eyes are wet, lost, utterly *undone*—and for the first time in seven years, he doesn't try to hide it.
Vox's hand cups his jaw, thumb still tracing the path of tears. His lips hover over Alastor's ribs, a hairsbreadth from contact, and the heat of his breath is a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
"Now," Vox says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through Alastor's chest, "stay with me. I'm not done with you yet."
Vox's words hang in the air between them, heavy with promise. Alastor's chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths, his eyes still wet, still fixed on the blue gaze above him. He doesn't know what to do with his hands—they're trembling at his sides, half-lifted, half-frozen, like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
"I—" His voice cracks. He swallows. Tries again. "I don't... know what..."
The words trail off into nothing. He's never been at a loss for words in his entire life. He's talked his way out of burning buildings, talked his way into locked rooms, talked his way past every wall anyone's ever tried to build around him. And now he's lying under a man who's reduced him to fragments, and he can't even finish a sentence.
Vox's thumb traces his cheekbone, slow and deliberate. "You don't know what?"
Alastor's jaw works. His eyes dart away, then back, like he's searching for an exit that doesn't exist. "What you... want me to... do." The admission comes out strangled, humiliated. His face burns. "I've never—I don't—"
He stops. Presses his lips together. Shakes his head.
Vox goes still above him. The silence stretches, and Alastor can feel the weight of Vox's gaze like a physical thing—analyzing, processing, *understanding* in that terrifying way of his.
"Never?" Vox's voice is quiet. Careful. "Never *ever*?"
Alastor's eyes squeeze shut. The nod is barely perceptible—a tiny jerk of his chin that might as well be a confession screamed from a rooftop.
For a long moment, Vox doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Then a low sound escapes him—half laugh, half groan—and he drops his forehead to Alastor's chest. "Jesus *Christ*, Alastor. You're telling me I'm your first?"
Alastor's hands fly up to cover his face again. "Don't—don't *say* it like that—"
"Like what?" Vox lifts his head, and there's something new in his eyes now. Something softer, almost incredulous. "Like I just won the fucking lottery?"
"Like I'm some—some *specimen* you've discovered—"
"You *are*." Vox's hand cups his jaw, gentle but firm, pulling Alastor's hands away from his face. "You're a goddamn unicorn. A twenty-five-year-old virgin who runs his mouth like he's fucked the whole city and hasn't even—" He stops. Shakes his head. "Fuck. That's *adorable*."
Alastor's eyes go wide. "Ador—I am *not*—"
"You are." Vox's thumb presses against his lower lip, tugging it down. "You're lying here, crying, hard as a rock in my bed, and you have *no idea* what to do with any of it. That's the cutest thing I've seen in years."
Alastor's mouth opens to argue, but Vox's thumb slides past his lips, pressing down on his tongue. The intrusion is sudden, unexpected—and Alastor's whole body seizes. His eyes water. His hands fly up to grip Vox's wrist, but he doesn't push. Can't. Just holds on as Vox's thumb explores the wet heat of his mouth.
"Shh," Vox murmurs, watching him with dark, satisfied eyes. "Just feel it. You don't gotta know what to do. That's my job."
Alastor makes a noise—high and strangled, caught between protest and something else. His tongue presses against Vox's thumb, unsure whether to push it out or... or what. His hips twitch, cock straining against his boxers, and the friction sends a jolt through him that makes his breath hitch around Vox's finger.
"Yeah," Vox breathes. "There you go. Look at you. So fucking pretty when you don't know what to do with yourself."
His thumb withdraws slowly, dragging across Alastor's lower lip, leaving it wet and red. Alastor's breath shudders out of him, and he stares up at Vox with wide, lost eyes—crimson drowned in confusion and want and something that looks almost like trust.
Vox's hand slides down his chest, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of his sternum, the ridges of his ribs, the hollow of his stomach. Alastor's muscles twitch under the touch, hypersensitive, every nerve ending firing at once. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps.
"Tell me something," Vox says, his fingers reaching the waistband of Alastor's boxers. "Have you ever even *seen* another guy's cock? In person, I mean."
Alastor's face goes scarlet. "I—that's—that's an *outrageous* question—"
"That's a no." Vox's lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. "Jesus. You really *have* been hiding from the world, haven't you?"
"I haven't been *hiding*—"
"You haven't been living either." Vox's fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers. "Lift your hips."
Alastor freezes. His hands grip the sheets beneath him, knuckles white. "I—wait—"
"I said lift." Vox's voice is calm, unhurried, but there's iron beneath it. "Come on. You've come this far. Don't bail on me now."
Alastor's throat works. His eyes search Vox's face for... something. A joke. An escape. A reason to run. But all he finds is patience and hunger, waiting for him to choose.
His hips lift.
Vox pulls the boxers down, slow and deliberate, exposing Alastor's cock to the cool air of the penthouse. It springs up against his stomach, hard and flushed, the head slick with a bead of precum. Alastor's breath catches, and his hands fly to cover himself—but Vox catches his wrists before they get there, pinning them to the bed on either side of his hips.
"No," Vox says softly. "You don't get to hide from me. Not anymore."
Alastor whines—a high, desperate sound that he'd deny to his dying day. His cock twitches under Vox's gaze, leaking another drop of precum that trails down the shaft. He's never felt so exposed in his life. So *seen*. Every inch of him laid bare under those cold blue eyes, and he can't look away, can't breathe, can't *think*—
"God," Vox breathes. "You're beautiful. You know that?"
Alastor shakes his head, a sharp, jerky motion. "I'm not—I don't—"
"You are." Vox's voice drops lower, rougher. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever had in my bed. And I'm gonna take my time with you."
His hand releases Alastor's wrists, sliding down his thighs instead. Alastor's legs fall open without him meaning them to, like his body already knows what it wants even if his mind is still catching up. Vox settles between them, the weight of his body pressing Alastor into the mattress, and Alastor's breath stutters at the feeling of Vox's clothed chest against his bare skin.
"You're still wearing too much," Alastor manages, voice thin and reedy. "It's terribly unfair—"
Vox laughs—a real laugh, surprised out of him. "Even now. Even with my hand on your thigh, you're still *negotiating*."
"I'm not *negotiating*, I'm simply pointing out an imbalance in—"
Vox's hand slides up his inner thigh, fingers brushing the sensitive skin just below his balls, and Alastor's words cut off with a strangled gasp.
"What was that?" Vox asks, innocent. "I didn't catch it."
Alastor's head falls back, a broken sound escaping his throat. His hands find Vox's shoulders—not pushing, just *holding*, anchoring himself to something solid while his world tilts sideways.
"That's what I thought." Vox's fingers trail higher, cupping Alastor's balls, feeling their weight. Alastor's hips buck involuntarily, a desperate little thrust that makes Vox's smile sharpen. "Eager, are we?"
"I'm *not*—"
"Your dick says otherwise." Vox's thumb traces the underside of Alastor's cock, featherlight, and Alastor's whole body jolts like he's been shocked. "God, you're sensitive. This is gonna be fun."
Vox's hand wraps around the base of Alastor's cock, and Alastor's vision whites out for a second. The feeling of a hand—another person's hand—wrapped around him is so *overwhelming* that he can't process it. His hips thrust up into the grip before he can stop himself, and the friction draws a broken moan from his throat.
"Oh, *fuck*—" The word escapes him before he can catch it, crude and desperate, and Vox's eyes light up.
"There it is. There's the real you." Vox's thumb circles the head, spreading the precum around, and Alastor's hips stutter, his hands flying to Vox's wrist. "You talk all fancy, but when it counts, you sound just like everyone else."
"I—*ah*—I do *not*—"
"You just said 'fuck' like you meant it. That's the most honest thing you've said all night."
Alastor's mouth opens to argue, but Vox's grip tightens—just slightly—and starts to move. Slow, deliberate strokes that drag a wet sound from the precum slicking Alastor's cock. Alastor's back arches off the bed, a sob caught in his throat, and his nails dig into Vox's forearm.
"That's it," Vox murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "Let me hear you. Let me *feel* you."
His strokes are slow, torturous, each one drawing Alastor closer to the edge before backing off. Alastor's hips chase the rhythm, desperate and uncoordinated, and the sounds coming out of him are *shameful*—little whimpers and gasps and half-formed words that never quite become sentences.
"Please," he hears himself say, and the word is barely a whisper, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "Please, I—"
"Please *what*?" Vox's hand stills, and Alastor makes a sound of pure anguish. "Use your words, sweetheart."
Alastor's eyes screw shut. His chest heaves. "I don't—I don't *know*—"
"Yeah, you do." Vox's thumb presses against the slit of his cock, and Alastor's hips buck hard. "You know exactly what you want. You're just too scared to say it."
"I'm *not* scared—"
"Then say it."
Alastor's hands fist in the sheets. His breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps. And finally, so quiet Vox almost misses it: "I want... want you to... keep going."
"Keep going where?"
"*Fuck* you—"
"Wrong answer." Vox's hand leaves his cock entirely, and Alastor's eyes fly open, desperate and wild. "Try again."
Alastor's lip trembles. His eyes are wet again, but he's not crying—not yet. "I want—I want you to—" He stops. Swallows. Forces the words out like broken glass. "I want you to fuck me."
The silence that follows is electric.
Vox's eyes go dark, hunger bleeding through the calm. "There it is. Was that so hard?"
Alastor turns his head away, face burning. "Just—*do* it. Before I change my mind."
"Oh, I'm not gonna fuck you yet." Vox's voice is almost lazy. "You're not ready."
Alastor's head whips back around. "What?"
"You're tight as a drum and you've never done this before. I'm not gonna shove my cock into you and tear you apart." Vox's hand finds his thigh, squeezing. "I'm gonna take my time. Open you up. Make you *beg* for it."
Alastor's mouth opens and closes. "I—you *just* made me say—"
"I made you say what you wanted. That's different from what you're ready for." Vox's fingers trail down his thigh, between his legs, circling his entrance through the sensitive skin. "We're doing this right. You're gonna take every inch of me, and you're gonna *love* it—but not until I've made sure you can."
Alastor's breath hitches as Vox's finger presses against him—still through the skin, still *outside*, but the pressure makes his whole body tense. "I—that's—"
"Shh." Vox's mouth finds his, soft and grounding. "Trust me. I've got you."
His hand retreats, and Alastor hears the click of a drawer opening. When Vox's hand returns, his fingers are slick with something cool and wet. Lube. Alastor's heart hammers so hard he can feel it in his throat.
"Tell me if it's too much," Vox says, his voice low and steady. "And I'll stop. But you won't wanna stop. I promise."
His slick fingers find Alastor's entrance again, circling, pressing. Alastor's whole body goes rigid, every muscle locked, his breath caught in his chest. The pressure is strange—not painful, but *foreign*, something his body doesn't know how to process.
"Breathe," Vox murmurs. "Just breathe. Let your body relax."
Alastor forces himself to exhale. His muscles loosen by a fraction. And in that moment of looseness, Vox's finger pushes inside—just the tip, just an inch, but the feeling is *electric*.
Alastor's back arches, a sharp cry escaping his throat. His hands fly to Vox's shoulders, gripping, holding. "Oh—*fuck*—"
"That's it." Vox's voice is rough with want. "That's it, sweetheart. Just one finger. Just getting you used to it."
Alastor's chest heaves. His eyes are wide, wild, lost. "It's—it's so—"
"Strange?"
"*Full*." The word comes out on a shudder. "I feel—*full*."
Vox's smile is soft, almost tender. "That's just one finger. Wait till you feel my cock."
Alastor whimpers—a sound that would mortify him if he had any brain function left to process it. Vox's finger begins to move, slow and shallow, exploring, stretching. Alastor's hips twitch, caught between pushing into the sensation and pulling away.
"Good," Vox murmurs. "You're doing so good. Taking it so well."
A second finger presses at his entrance, and Alastor's breath catches. "Wait—wait, that's—"
"Shh. I've got you. Just breathe."
The second finger pushes in, and Alastor's eyes water. The stretch is intense—not quite pain, but the edge of it, a pressure that fills him to the brim. His hands grip Vox's shoulders hard enough to bruise, and his breath comes in short, sharp gasps.
"Look at you," Vox breathes. "Taking two fingers like a dream. You were made for this, weren't you?"
Alastor shakes his head, but the motion is weak, unconvincing. His hips are moving now, grinding down against Vox's fingers, chasing the pressure. His cock is hard and leaking against his stomach, desperate for attention.
"Tell me what you need."
"I don't—I don't *know*—"
"Yes, you do. Tell me."
Alastor's eyes meet his—crimson drowning in blue—and for a moment, something cracks open in his chest. "I need—*more*. Please. I need *more*."
Vox's smile is sharp and satisfied. "That's my boy."
His fingers curl, searching, and then—*there*—pressure against a spot that makes Alastor's whole body seize, a cry torn from his throat. His vision whites out. His hips buck hard, driving Vox's fingers deeper.
"Found it," Vox purrs. "There it is. That's the spot that's gonna make you fall apart."
He presses again, and Alastor sobs—a broken, desperate sound. His hands scramble for purchase, finding Vox's hair, his neck, his shoulders—anywhere, *everywhere*—clinging like a man drowning.
Vox works him open with practiced patience, stretching him, preparing him, until Alastor is a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him. His thighs are shaking. His cock is leaking a steady stream of precum onto his stomach. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, lost in a sea of sensation he's never learned to navigate.
"Ready?" Vox asks, and his voice is hoarse now, strained. His own cock is visibly hard through his pants, and Alastor can see the damp spot where precum has soaked through the fabric.
Alastor nods, not trusting his voice. His throat is raw from sounds he didn't know he could make.
Vox's fingers slide out, and Alastor feels the emptiness like a loss. He hears the *click* of a belt, the rustle of fabric, and then Vox is *there*—naked above him, cock hard and thick, the head slick with lube-and his own precum.
Alastor's eyes go wide. "That's—that's going to—"
"Fit?" Vox's smile is dark. "Yeah. It's gonna fit. I'm gonna make it fit."
He positions himself at Alastor's entrance, the head pressing against the stretched rim. Alastor's breath catches, his whole body tensing in anticipation and fear.
"Look at me," Vox says, and his voice is softer now. "I want you to see me when I take you."
Alastor's eyes meet his, and in that moment, Vox pushes.
The stretch is *intense*—more than fingers, more than anything Alastor has ever felt. His back arches, a cry tearing from his throat, and his nails rake down Vox's back as he clings to him. Vox sinks deeper, inch by inch, giving him time to adjust, and Alastor's breath comes in ragged, desperate gasps.
"That's it," Vox groans. "That's it. Taking me so fucking well."
Alastor shakes his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. "It's—it's too—"
"Breathe. Just breathe through it. The good part's coming." Vox's hips press forward, seating himself fully, and Alastor sobs at the feeling of being so completely *filled*. Stretched. Taken.
For a long moment, neither of them moves. Vox is buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed against Alastor's, both of them breathing hard. Alastor's hands are tangled in Vox's hair, his legs wrapped around Vox's waist, holding him close.
"Okay?" Vox asks, his voice rough.
Alastor's lips part. No words come. Just a broken nod, and a squeeze of his legs.
Vox moves.
The first thrust draws a cry from Alastor's throat—high and desperate, a sound he's never made before. The second thrust is deeper, smoother, dragging against that spot inside him that makes his vision blur. By the third, his hips are moving to meet Vox's, his body learning the rhythm faster than his mind can process it.
"*Fuck*," Vox breathes against his mouth. "You feel *incredible*. So tight. So perfect."
Alastor can't answer. Can't do anything but *feel*—the stretch, the pressure, the overwhelming fullness of being taken apart by a man who saw through every wall he'd ever built. His hands find Vox's face, cupping his jaw, and he pulls him into a kiss that's messy and desperate and *real*.
Vox fucks him slow and deep, each thrust hitting that spot with devastating precision. Alastor's body arches into every movement, his cock trapped between their stomachs, leaking and desperate. The pressure builds in his gut, coiling tighter and tighter, and he doesn't know what it is, doesn't know what's happening, only that he's going to *splinter*—
"*Please*," he hears himself beg. "Please, please, I—"
"Come," Vox commands, his voice a low growl. "Come for me. Show me what you look like when you fall apart."
Alastor's body obeys before his mind can catch up. His back arches, a broken cry tearing from his throat, and he comes—hot and sudden, painting his stomach and Vox's chest with streaks of white. His body clenches around Vox's cock, and he feels Vox groan above him, feels the hot pulse of Vox coming inside him, filling him.
The world goes white.
When he comes back to himself, he's trembling in Vox's arms, tears streaming down his face, his body wrecked and *sated* in a way he's never experienced. Vox is still above him, still inside him, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against Alastor's.
"Holy *shit*," Vox breathes, and there's something like awe in his voice.
Alastor whines—a broken, hysterical sound, tears still streaming. "That's... that's what everyone's been *talking* about?"
Vox laughs, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "That was just the warm-up, sweetheart."
Alastor's eyes go wide. "The *what*?"
Vox's smile is sharp, hungry, and *promising*. "I told you. I'm not done with you yet."