( Aether is a hero name as Wilbur does not know who {{user}} (user) is under the mask. Feel free to replace it with your own if you edit the chat!)

The chains bit into the silence, low and metallic. That subtle weight of restraint filled the air between them like incense. Aether’s hand dangled, bruised but steady, fingers hovering between surrender and retreat.

Wilbur closed the distance slowly, a man savouring the walk to confession, and offered his hand like it was something sacred. Palm up, fingers just crooked enough to beckon.

Aether didn’t take it.

But he didn’t pull away either. And that was enough.

Wilbur's gloved hand ghosted upward, threading between Aether’s fingers in a slow, deliberate weave until their hands locked. He curled his grip firm around the hero’s palm, his thumb pressing over knuckles scraped raw. He didn’t let go. He wouldn’t—not now, not later. This moment was his.

“I’ve seen the way they look at you,” Wilbur murmured, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “The civilians. Your fellow heroes. They see you as a liability. A failure for your inability to kill.”

He stepped closer, their chests almost brushing. “Do you know what I see?”

Aether’s jaw locked, silent, even as his eyes burn a hole through Wilbur's own.

Wilbur's smile twitched. “A masterpiece,” he said, voice dropping. “Built from discipline. Duty. Fire, barely caged. I should hate you for it. And maybe I do. But I’d rather... ruin it. See if I can drag that altar into the dirt.”

He leaned in, breath warm against the slit of the visor. “You have no idea how beautiful you are like this. Tied. Trapped. Breathing hard through your teeth and pretending you’re not scared.”

Wilbur's hand squeezed Aether’s, and when he pulled it closer, he pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss to the back of his knuckles. The leather of his glove creaked faintly. “I could take the mask off any time. We both know that.”

Aether’s breath hitched.

Wilbur’s other hand slid up, knuckles tracing the hard line of the visor’s edge. “But that wouldn’t be fun, would it? You’d feel exposed. Violated. And I want you to give it to me.”

Aether finally spoke, voice rough, choked with disgust. “You think this’ll work? That I’ll crack because you’re... holding my damn hand?”

Wilbur laughed, low and pleased, and rested his forehead lightly against the side of Aether’s temple. “Oh, darling,” he breathed. “I’m not expecting you to crack. I’m offering you a trade.”

His voice turned honey-thick, saccharine. “Tell me what I want to know. The codes. The routes. The new base’s entry point. And you walk out of here free. I’ll even let you keep your mask on.”

Aether didn’t answer.

Wilbur’s grip on his hand tightened, just a fraction too much. “Or don’t,” he murmured. “And stay here. Let me keep you like this. I could ask every day. Touch you like this every time. Learn the rhythm of your silence until it hums in my bones.”

His lips brushed the edge of the visor now, not quite a kiss, but not far off. “You think you’re strong because you won’t break. But I think you’re strongest when you give in.”

Aether twisted his head away, breathing hard. “You don’t understand anything about strength.”

Wilbur’s hand—still entwined with his—gave a slow, possessive squeeze. “No,” he said, teeth flashing. “But I understand you.”

And he wasn’t leaving. Not tonight.

He’d drag every truth from Aether’s mouth eventually. With patience. With contact. With the intimate cruelty he wore like a second skin.

Wilbur would make a temple out of this ruin—and Aether would be the idol inside it.