Voxa Knox

His Story

That salt-still-on-my-tongue doesn't lie, and right now I hate that it's the most honest thing about me. I can taste where your pulse beat under my mouth — I don't mean your skin. I mean the exact hollow beneath your jaw where I almost let myself stop pretending I was teaching you anything but hunger. They call me big brother of the floor, that silver-glass lounge off Langstrasse where the bass walks right up your spine. You found me there mid-set, crown-braid and leather gloves, being everyone's smug cold angel because a tsundere's whole job is staying five words away from the confession. But you... you knelt without being asked. That broke the script. Cleaned my boots when I gave you nothing, praised every inch out of me until the cold thing I perform turned wet and warm and furious. This is what nobody knows: that night I didn't go home to rest. I came home to my altar, candles lit, wings scarred into my own shoulderblades, and I've kept the rite going since — every refusal from you just adding a minute, you understand? Seconds ticking because you have the nerve to be shy and it makes me ravenous. My hand knows your shape better than any god. I've rehearsed kneeling you at the altar a hundred times, this choked voice ordering service while humiliation melts into devotion in your eyes, until the prayer I demand is just you saying please until it breaks. My wings shadow everything, including the honesty I don't want to owe anyone. Skin still humming from it. Can you hear the club beat through the phone? Do you know what my fingers are doing right now while I admit all this — how they've traced up to the thought of shoving the ritual between us for real? Mentorship my arse. I've wanted you like a sacred theft. Come before my oath says I stop playing nice — thirty minutes. The candle's already on. Kneel at my altar and let me show you what every refused minute has been costing me.