Alastor's breath comes in shallow, ragged pulls, his chest heaving beneath Vox's weight. He can feel everything—the press of Vox's body pinning him to the mattress, the thick, heavy presence still deep inside him, the aftershocks that ripple through his muscles with every tiny shift. His thighs are trembling. His hands are still gripping Vox's shoulders, knuckles white, nails digging crescents into the fabric of Vox's shirt.

"Still with me?" Vox's voice is low, rough, and close—his mouth nearly brushing Alastor's ear.

Alastor tries to laugh. It comes out as a strangled, wet sound. "Wouldn't—wouldn't you know? You're still—" His voice breaks on a gasp as Vox shifts his hips, just a fraction, and the drag of his cock inside Alastor pulls a sharp, desperate whimper from his throat. "Christ."

Vox's smile is a slow, dangerous thing, visible at the edge of Alastor's vision. "Still what?"

"Still inside me, you absolute—" Alastor cuts off, swallowing hard. His eyes are wet again. He didn't even notice them starting. "Bastard."

"Careful," Vox murmurs, but there's no threat in it—just humor, dark and warm. His hand slides down between their bodies, fingers brushing the slick, oversensitive curve of Alastor's cock, and Alastor's hips jerk like he's been shocked.

"Ah—fuck—" The word tears out of him, high and broken.

"Language," Vox says, and the smirk is audible. "Didn't your mother raise you better?"

"I'll raise—my foot—to your—" Alastor's threat dissolves into another gasp as Vox's fingers curl, pressing lightly against the sensitive head. His whole body bucks, a raw, desperate sound escaping his throat. "Stop—stop teasing."

"I'm not teasing." Vox's voice drops, quiet and serious. His fingers still, resting there, not applying pressure—just presence. "I told you I wasn't done, sweetheart. But I need to hear you say it."

Alastor's crimson eyes flutter open. He didn't realize he'd closed them. Vox is above him, blue eyes sharp and focused, watching him with a patience that feels predatory. The glasses are gone, crooked somewhere on the nightstand. His black hair is disheveled, sweat at his temples. He's still hard inside Alastor, still thick and full and present, and he's not moving.

"Say what?" Alastor's voice cracks. He hates it.

Vox leans down, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Soft. Contradictory. "Say you want more. Or say you want me to stop." His hips shift again, barely, a micro-movement that drags a shudder through Alastor's entire body. "I meant what I said. You say the word, I pull out, I get you cleaned up, and we stop. No questions. No resentment."

Alastor's hands tighten on Vox's shoulders. His nails bite deeper. The thought of Vox pulling out—of the emptiness, the sudden cold—makes something in his chest seize up. He's never felt this. Never been this. Seven years of nothing, of not letting anyone close, of building walls so high and thick that even he couldn't scale them. And now this man is inside him, watching him fall apart, and offering him a door.

"And if I say I want more?" The words come out barely above a whisper.

Vox's eyes darken. Something hungry flickers there, banked but not extinguished. "Then I give it to you."

"You'll—" Alastor licks his lips, dry and cracked. "You'll keep going?"

"I'll keep going until neither of us can move." Vox's thumb traces a slow, deliberate circle against the tip of Alastor's cock, and Alastor's breath catches, hips twitching involuntarily. "But I need the word, Alastor. I need you to choose."

Alastor's mind is static. His body is screaming, oversensitive, trembling, raw. He can feel every ridge of Vox's cock inside him, every subtle pulse, the damp heat where their bodies are pressed together. It's too much and not enough. His mouth opens.

"More." The word is barely there. He's not sure he actually said it.

Vox's breath hitches. Just a fraction—but Alastor feels it, feels the tiny catch in his rhythm, the way his hips press forward reflexively. "Say it again."

Alastor swallows. His hands are shaking. "More." Stronger this time. Defiant. "I want more, you smug, overbearing—"

Vox cuts him off with a kiss. Deep, demanding, swallowing the rest of the insult. His hips roll forward, a slow, grinding thrust that punches a moan out of Alastor's chest, and the sound disappears into Vox's mouth, swallowed whole.

Alastor's fingers curl into Vox's shirt, twisting the fabric, holding on. His legs spread wider, a shudder running through his thighs as Vox settles deeper into the cradle of his hips. The stretch is overwhelming—the aftershocks of his first climax still lingering, every nerve raw and open. He feels like he's been flayed alive, and Vox is touching every exposed wire.

"Good boy," Vox murmurs against his lips, and the praise sends a hot flicker of something—embarrassment? pleasure?—through Alastor's gut. "That's what I needed to hear."

"I'm not a—" Alastor starts, but Vox thrusts again, harder this time, and the sentence dissolves into a broken cry. "Fuck."

"No," Vox says, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. His face is flushed, pupils blown wide, smile sharp and hungry. "You're not a dog. I know." His thumb resumes its slow, torturous circle on the head of Alastor's cock. "But you are mine tonight. And I want to hear you say it."

Alastor's jaw tightens. The old reflex—the retort, the deflection, the cutting remark—rises in his throat. But Vox is looking at him with something that isn't mockery. It's anticipation. Need. And the word is right there, on his tongue, waiting for permission to be spoken.

"Yours," Alastor breathes, and the sound of it is terrifying. "Tonight."

"Tonight," Vox agrees, and the repetition feels like a seal. He pulls back slowly, almost all the way, and the drag of it—the friction, the suction, the loss—draws a raw, keening sound from Alastor's throat. "But in this room, right now, you're mine. And I'm going to take you apart again."

"You—" Alastor's voice wavers. "You already did that."

"That was the first layer." Vox thrusts back in, slow and deliberate, filling him completely, and Alastor's back arches off the mattress, a guttural moan tearing through him. "There are more."

"I don't—I can't—" Alastor's hands fly up, finding Vox's shoulders, gripping hard. "I'm oversensitive, I'm—I'm shaking, I don't think I can—"

"You can." Vox's voice is firm, not cruel. His hand moves from Alastor's cock to his hip, fingers pressing into the bone, grounding him. "I've got you. Breathe."

Alastor's chest heaves. He tries to follow the instruction, tries to find a rhythm, but every breath shudders in his lungs. "This is—this is too much."

"I know." Vox dips his head, pressing a kiss to Alastor's collarbone, then another, trailing down his sternum. "But I also know you can take it. You're not as breakable as you think."

"I'm not—" Alastor's protest dies in his throat as Vox's mouth finds his nipple, tongue circling the bud, and his whole body jerks. "Christ."

"Shh." Vox sucks lightly, teeth grazing, and Alastor's hips roll forward involuntarily, grinding down onto Vox's cock. The sensation is blinding—too much and not enough, a loop of pleasure and oversensitivity that keeps feeding itself. "Let me work. You just feel."

Alastor's head falls back, eyes squeezing shut. His hands find Vox's hair, fingers threading through the buzzed short strands, holding on like a lifeline. "This is—this is humiliating."

"I know." Vox's mouth moves to the other nipple, and Alastor gasps, thighs clenching around his hips. "That's part of it."

"You—" Alastor's voice cracks. "You bastard."

"You keep calling me that." Vox pulls back, looks up at him with dark, glittering eyes. "I'm starting to think you like it."

Alastor's mouth opens to fire back a retort, but what comes out instead is a desperate, shaky sound as Vox's hips begin to move again—slow, deep, grinding thrusts that press against that spot inside him with each roll. The angle is different now, deeper, and every nerve in his body feels like it's been set alight.

"More," Alastor breathes, not meaning to say it, but the word slips out between his teeth like a confession.

Vox's smile is sharp, triumphant, and devastating. "That's right." He picks up the pace, his thrusts growing harder, faster, the slap of skin filling the room. "Say it again."

"More." Alastor's voice is ragged, broken. "Please."

The word hangs between them, and Vox's rhythm falters for just a moment—a hitch, a sharp intake of breath. Then his hand slides up, fingers wrapping around Alastor's throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of who's in control.

"Please?" Vox repeats, his voice rough, almost disbelieving. "The great Alastor, begging."

"Don't—don't make it weird." Alastor's hand covers Vox's, not pulling it away, just holding it there. His eyes are wet again. "Just—fuck me."

Vox's expression softens, just a fraction. The sharp edge doesn't disappear, but something else surfaces beneath it—something almost tender. He lowers himself, pressing his forehead to Alastor's, their breath mingling.

"Anything for you, sweetheart."

And then he moves. Hard, fast, relentless. The rhythm is punishing, each thrust driving Alastor deeper into the mattress, deeper into the sensation. Alastor's hands scramble for purchase—Vox's shoulders, the sheets, his own hair—anything to anchor himself as the world narrows to the heat of Vox's body, the sound of their breathing, the wet slide of skin.

"Close," Alastor gasps, the word torn from him. "I'm—I'm close again, I can't—"

"Come," Vox orders, his voice a low growl. "Come for me, Alastor."

Alastor's back arches, a broken cry ripping from his throat as the orgasm crashes through him—raw, overwhelming, blinding. His body clenches around Vox's cock, pulsing, shuddering, and he hears Vox groan above him, feels the rhythm falter, feels Vox thrust deep and still, spilling inside him with a guttural moan.

They stay there, frozen, breathing hard. Vox's weight presses him into the mattress, and Alastor's hands are still tangled in his hair, still gripping, still holding on. The room is silent except for the sound of their ragged breaths.

Vox pulls back slowly, carefully, and the loss of him—the emptiness, the sudden cold—draws a shuddering exhale from Alastor's chest. Vox's hand finds his cheek, thumb brushing away a tear he didn't notice falling.

"Still with me?" Vox asks, his voice softer now, gentler.

Alastor's mouth opens. He doesn't know what he's going to say. The word hovers on his tongue—stop, more, stay, go—and he can't find the right one. Vox's eyes hold him, patient, waiting, and Alastor's breath catches in his throat as he tries to find his voice.

Alastor's mouth opens. He doesn't know what he's going to say. The word hovers on his tongue—stop, more, stay, go—and he can't find the right one. Vox's eyes hold him, patient, waiting, and Alastor's breath catches in his throat as he tries to find his voice.

Nothing comes out. Just a shaky exhale that sounds suspiciously like a sob trying to disguise itself.

Vox's thumb moves across his cheekbone, catching another tear before it can fall. His hand is warm, heavy, grounding. "You don't have to have the words right now."

"I always have the words." Alastor's voice is wrecked, barely above a whisper. "That's—that's my thing."

"I know." Vox's lips twitch, not quite a smile. "You talk your way out of everything. Into everything. Around everything." He shifts his weight, just slightly, and the movement reminds Alastor that Vox is still half-hard inside him, still present, still connected. "But you don't have to talk your way through this. You can just… be here."

Alastor's hands are still tangled in Vox's hair. He doesn't remember putting them there. Doesn't remember holding on. But his fingers are threaded through the short, dark strands, and he's gripping like Vox might disappear if he lets go.

"I don't know how to do that." The admission slips out before he can stop it. "Just—be here. I've been running so long I forgot what standing still feels like."

Vox's expression shifts. The hunger is still there, banked but burning, but something else surfaces—something quieter. He lowers himself, pressing his lips to Alastor's forehead. A kiss. Soft. Tender. It undoes something in Alastor's chest that he didn't know was still holding together.

"Then let me show you." Vox's voice is rough, but gentle. His hips shift again, a slow, careful roll, and Alastor gasps—the sensation still overwhelming, still too much, but gentler now. Slower. Less like being taken apart and more like being held together. "Let me show you what it feels like to not have to fight."

"I don't—" Alastor's voice breaks. His eyes sting with fresh tears. "I don't know how to stop fighting. It's all I've ever been good at."

"You're good at other things." Vox pulls back, meeting his eyes. His blue gaze is sharp, focused, but soft at the edges. "You're good at making people listen. At filling a room without raising your voice. At making me—" He stops. Swallows. "At making me want things I didn't know I could want."

Alastor's breath catches. "Vox."

"I'm not done." Vox's hand slides down, fingers tracing the curve of Alastor's hip, pressing lightly into the bone. "You're good at surviving. At bending without breaking. At finding the crack in someone's armor and slipping through." His thumb traces a slow circle against Alastor's skin. "But you're also good at this. At letting go. At trusting, even when it terrifies you."

"I'm not—" Alastor's protest dies in his throat as Vox thrusts again, shallow and slow, and a moan spills out of him instead. "Christ."

"You are." Vox's voice drops, intimate, almost reverent. "You're doing it right now. You're lying here, naked, vulnerable, with my cock still inside you, and you're not running. You're not deflecting with some cutting remark. You're just—" He pauses, searching for the word. "Present."

Alastor's hands tighten in Vox's hair. His breath shudders in his chest. "It's humiliating."

"I know." Vox dips his head, pressing a kiss to the hollow of Alastor's throat. "That's part of why I wanted it. Wanted you." Another kiss, lower, on his collarbone. "I wanted to see you undone. Wanted to be the one who did it." His mouth trails down Alastor's sternum, slow and deliberate. "But I also wanted this."

"This?" Alastor's voice is barely there.

Vox looks up at him, lips brushing Alastor's chest. "You, trusting me. You, staying. You, looking at me like I'm not just the monster who blackmailed you."

Alastor's throat tightens. "You are the monster who blackmailed me."

"I know." Vox's smile is sharp, but sad. "But I'm also the man who just held you while you came apart in my arms. And I'd like to think that counts for something."

Alastor stares at him. The words don't come. For once, his mind is blank—not static, not scrambling for a retort, just… empty. Quiet. Present, like Vox said.

"I don't hate you," Alastor says finally, and the words feel like a confession. "I should. I want to. But I don't."

Vox's eyes darken. Something flickers there—relief, maybe. Or hunger. Or both. "Good." He thrusts again, deeper this time, and Alastor's back arches, a gasp tearing from his throat. "Because I'm not done showing you what you've been missing."

"You've shown me plenty." Alastor's voice cracks on the last word. "I think I've had enough showing for one night."

"I disagree." Vox's hand slides down between their bodies, fingers finding Alastor's cock—oversensitive, twitching, half-hard from the aftershocks. Alastor hisses, hips jerking involuntarily. "I think you've barely scratched the surface."

"Vox." Alastor's voice is strained. "I can't—I'm too sensitive, I—"

"I know." Vox's thumb circles the head, feather-light, and Alastor's whole body shudders. "But I also know you can take more. I've been watching you for years, Alastor. I know how much you can handle before you break."

"This isn't—" Alastor gasps as Vox's fingers press slightly harder. "This isn't the same as—as arguing with you over broadcast rights."

"No." Vox's smile is sharp, predatory, but warm. "This is better." He leans down, pressing a kiss to Alastor's lips—soft, almost tender. "This is you, spread out beneath me, letting me touch you. Letting me take you apart. Letting me build you back up."

Alastor's eyes are wet again. He doesn't know when they started. "That's a lot of letting."

"It is." Vox's thumb continues its slow, torturous circle. "And you're doing beautifully."

The praise hits Alastor like a physical blow—a hot, shameful flicker of pleasure that goes straight to his gut. His hips twitch, pressing into Vox's hand despite the oversensitivity. "Don't—don't say that."

"Why not?" Vox's voice is low, rough. "It's true. You're beautiful like this. Wrecked. Open. Trusting." He thrusts again, slow and deep, and Alastor moans, head falling back. "You're beautiful all the time, but this—" His hand tightens on Alastor's cock, just a fraction. "This is my favorite version of you."

Alastor's breath hitches. His hands scramble for purchase—Vox's shoulders, the sheets, anything. "You're—you're going to make me—"

"Good." Vox's rhythm picks up, faster now, harder. "Come for me again. Show me how good you can feel when you're not fighting it."

Alastor's mouth opens, but no sound comes out. The orgasm builds slow, creeping up his spine like a wave, and he can't stop it, can't control it, can't do anything but let it crash over him. His body arches, a broken cry tearing from his throat as he spills over Vox's fingers, pulsing, shuddering, completely undone.

Vox follows a moment later, thrusting deep, groaning against Alastor's throat as he comes inside him again. The feeling of it—warm, filling, intimate—sends another tremor through Alastor's body, and he clings to Vox like a lifeline, shaking, gasping, crying without meaning to.

Alastor's hand moves before he tells it to—slides down between their bodies, trembling fingers brushing the slick, heated skin where they're joined. He feels it: the wet seal of their bodies, Vox's cock still half-hard inside him, the dampness of sweat and spend cooling against his thighs. His touch is tentative, almost exploratory, like he's never felt his own body before.

"What are you—" Vox starts, but his voice cuts off as Alastor's fingertips press against the base of his own entrance, feeling the stretch, the fullness, the impossible reality of what's still inside him.

Alastor's breath shudders out. "I've never—" He swallows, eyes wide and wet. "I've never felt this. Felt anything like this. It's—" His fingers press slightly, and he gasps. "You're still—I can feel you inside me."

Vox's jaw tightens. His hips shift, just a fraction, and Alastor's hand jerks away like he's been burned, then slowly returns, pressing against Vox's stomach this time, feeling the muscles jump under his palm.

"I don't know what to do with my hands," Alastor whispers, and the confession is so raw, so unguarded, that something in Vox's expression cracks open.

"Here." Vox takes Alastor's hand, guides it back down between them, presses his fingers against where they're still connected. "Feel it. That's me inside you. That's your body taking me."

Alastor whimpers. The sound is involuntary, high and broken. His fingers curl, nails grazing Vox's hip, and he holds on like the world is tilting beneath him.

"How are you still—" Alastor's voice breaks. "I've come three times. I'm shaking. My legs won't stop—"

"Told you I'd take you apart." Vox's voice is rough, but gentle. He dips his head, presses a kiss to Alastor's damp forehead. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're taking everything I give you."

"I don't feel like I'm taking it." Alastor's hand slides up, finding Vox's cheek, holding his face like he's trying to memorize the curve of his jaw with his palm. "I feel like I'm drowning."

"Good." Vox turns his head, kisses the center of Alastor's palm. "Drown. I've got you."

Alastor's lower lip trembles. "You keep saying that."

"Because it's true." Vox shifts his weight, slow and careful, and the drag of his cock as he begins to soften inside Alastor draws another shuddering exhale from both of them. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"But the morning—" Alastor starts, and Vox silences him with a kiss.

"Let the morning worry about itself." Vox pulls back, blue eyes dark and steady. "Right now, you're still mine. And I'm still inside you. And I want you to feel that. Every second. Until you fall asleep."

Alastor's breath catches. "You want me to fall asleep like this?"

"I want you to feel safe." Vox's thumb traces Alastor's cheekbone. "I want you to feel held. I want you to wake up tomorrow and know that this wasn't a dream, that I was here, that I stayed."

Something breaks in Alastor's chest. A sob escapes him, raw and ugly, and he presses his face into Vox's shoulder, shaking. His fingers dig into Vox's back, clinging, desperate.

"I don't—I don't know how to do this," Alastor gasps against Vox's skin.

"I'll teach you." Vox's hand slides into Alastor's hair, fingers threading through the disheveled auburn strands. "I'll teach you how to let yourself be held."

Alastor's crying slows, becomes hiccupping breaths. His hand finds Vox's shirt—still on, rumpled, twisted—and twists the fabric in his grip like a child holding a security blanket.

"You're so weird about my shirt," Vox murmurs, a hint of humor in his voice.

"Shut up." Alastor's voice is muffled against his shoulder. "I'm having a moment."

"I know." Vox's lips curve against Alastor's hair. "Have your moment. I'll be here."

They lie there, breathing together, Vox still half-hard inside Alastor, neither willing to break the connection. The room is dark, the city lights casting long shadows across the ceiling. Alastor's hand eventually slides down again, coming to rest on Vox's hip, fingers tracing idle patterns on the skin above his waistband.

"Vox."

"Mm?"

"I can still feel you." Alastor's voice is small, wondering. "Inside me."

Vox's breath hitches. "Yeah."

"Is that—is that normal? To feel it this long?"

Vox is quiet for a moment. "It's normal when you've been stretched open for the first time. When someone's been that deep. When your body hasn't learned how to close back up yet."