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.