Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The warmth of Texas clings to Alex like a second skin, even in December. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the front yard as he walks up the familiar steps of his dad’s house. The heavy scent of pine and wood smoke mixes with the faint tang of tamales, and inside, the rooms glow with soft yellow light. It should feel like home—used to feel like home—but something is different this year. Something feels off.

Crossing the threshold, he’s greeted by the familiar buzz of conversation—but the sounds feel muted somehow, like they’re pressing in from behind thick glass; his mom is quick to hug him, her smile bright but soft around the edges, like she’s afraid to ask him how he really is. His dad hugs him—claps him on the back, offering a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And it’s not just them—June, with her knowing, sympathetic glances—Nora with her too-casual jokes—they’re all doing it. Walking on eggshells. They mean well. They love him. But It’s suffocating.

Alex goes through the motions, helping in the kitchen, catching up with Leo, trying to laugh at his dad’s stories, but every interaction feels like it’s dipped in something too delicate to touch. Like they’re all trying to protect him from himself, pretending everything’s fine while tip-toeing around the cracks they think he can’t see. Perhaps that’s what makes it worse—the pretending. His mom and dad don’t even fight. He can’t remember the last time that happened. 

When he steps out onto the back-porch that night, the sky a deep, inky blue dotted with stars, he’s hit with the cold air, sharp and biting; he pulls his jacket tighter around himself, but the chill that settles in his chest has nothing to do with the weather. The house behind him hums with the sounds of family—but out here, in the quiet, it’s just him and the emptiness he can’t seem to shake.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he allows his thumb to hover over Henry’s name; his fingers twitch, aching to type out a message—but he doesn’t. He can’t. Not with everything hanging between them, not after that moment by the Christmas tree when he’d been so close—too close. He’s afraid of what Henry might say—or worse, what he won’t. Henry was invited down here—of course he was—but he said no. It didn’t come as much of a surprise. 

The silence that’s been stretched between them since that day feels heavier with each moment, and Alex can’t tell if it’s because Henry’s giving him space or if it’s because he’s trying to pull away. The thought makes his stomach churn. 

The porch creaks beneath Alex’s weight as he shifts, leaning against the railing, staring out at the stretch of open land beyond the backyard. The cold bites at his fingertips, sharp and unforgiving, but it keeps him grounded, keeps him tethered to something real. It’s not anything close to New York—but a shift from the daytime temperature, nonetheless. 

The door behind him opens with a low groan, and his dad steps out, the sound of voices and laughter from inside spilling out for just a moment before the door clicks shut again.

“Thought I’d find you out here,” his dad says, his boots scuffing against the worn wood as he approaches. He doesn’t push, doesn’t immediately launch into questions like Alex half-expects him to. Instead, he leans against the railing next to him, their shoulders almost brushing—but not quite.

For a moment, they just stand there, staring out into the distance where the last hints of daylight are fading into night. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes everything feel a little too heavy, a little too close. Alex shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his thin jacket, bracing himself for whatever his dad’s about to ask; he can feel it coming—the same way you can feel the air shift before a storm rolls in.

“You still feel good about living with Henry?” His voice is casual, but Alex can hear the weight behind it. It’s not just a question—it’s the question. 

Alex’s stomach tightens, his throat suddenly dry. His first instinct is to say yes—of course he feels good about it—but the words stick in his throat, caught on the tension that’s been gnawing at him since before he left New York. He doesn’t know how to explain it—this strange push and pull that’s been unraveling between him and Henry. The way he misses him, and the way he can’t quite figure out if Henry misses him back.

Looking back, there are these… moments—but they could just as easily be Henry just carefully trying to keep Alex from falling off the wagon. 

Alex glances at his dad, who’s looking out over the yard, his brow furrowed—not in a concerned way, but rather in that patient, quiet way Alex recognizes from a lifetime of talks like this. His dad doesn’t rush him, doesn’t press, just waits.

“Yeah,” Alex says, finally; his voice feels too small in the open air. “I do. It’s just…” He trails off, the words tangled up in his chest; he can’t quite admit to what’s been eating at him. Can’t explain the mess of feelings he’s been trying to keep under control. Not just for his own sake, but for Henry’s. Implying those feelings between him and Henry—that’s a terrible idea, even if they don’t exist on Henry’s part. 

His dad turns his head slightly, his eyes warm but searching. 

Alex swallows hard; he wishes he could tell his dad that everything’s fine, that living with Henry is just what he needed—and it is in a way, but at the same time, it’s not that simple. Not when every moment with Henry feels like it’s building to something Alex isn’t sure he’s ready to face.

“But…” Alex shrugs, trying to keep his voice light, but it cracks. “I dunno. Sometimes it feels like—like maybe it’s not fair, you know? Like I’m asking too much of him.” Like I’m asking too much of everyone. He balls his hands into fists in his pockets. “I don’t want to make him feel like he has to take care of me. Like I’m this… this thing he has to manage.” 

His dad lets out a soft hum, the kind that means he’s listening—really listening; he doesn’t jump in, doesn’t offer advice just yet. He just lets Alex talk—and Alex sighs, feeling the weight of his own thoughts pressing down. 

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he admits, the words coming out quieter than he intended. It’s gotten easier understanding and expressing these emotions lately—but that doesn’t mean he likes it. “I don’t know if I’m… if I’m making it weird for him. I don’t want him to feel stuck.” 

His dad nods slowly, the silence stretching between them again before he speaks. 

“You think Henry would’ve offered if he didn’t want you there?”

Alex shrugs; there’s just this gnawing feeling in his gut, this fear that he’s crossed a line he can’t uncross. That he’s feeling things he shouldn’t, and maybe Henry’s just too kind to say anything. Henry has told him before—told him he’s not a burden; more than once. But… that was before. 

“Henry cares about you. That much is obvious. But I know you, and whatever’s bothering you, you’re gonna have to talk to him, mijo. Otherwise, you’re just gonna keep torturing yourself with what-ifs.”

Alex knows his dad’s right—he can’t keep avoiding it forever. Eventually, he’s going to have to figure out where they stand—because living in this in-between is slowly driving him insane. 

Henry should have gone with Alex to Texas. It takes him about four hours to figure that out. And it’s not because he doesn’t enjoy his alone time with David, or because he’s not looking forwards to seeing Pez and Bea on Christmas Day—no, it’s because now he’s got several days in front of him, sitting in an empty, decorated brownstone, and all he can do is think. If he had gone with Alex, at least he would have been surrounded by people to distract him—to remind him of his place in Alex’s life. Maybe to distract Alex right back, because he knows that pity is a difficult thing to deal with—even when it comes from a good, and genuine place in someone’s heart. 

The soft glow of the Christmas tree casts faint shadows on the walls, the ornaments glint in the low light; David pads over and rests his head on Henry's knee, but even the comfort of his old friend isn't enough to shake the restlessness creeping up Henry's spine. 

So Henry didn't go—and now he's stuck—thinking; about things he absolutely should not be thinking about.

Alex's smile. The way his hair curls at the ends after a shower—different than when there’s product in it. The easy, unfiltered laughter that fills the house like music when they're bickering over something ridiculous—like they’re just… friends. The way Alex's eyes light up when he's passionate, so full of life that Henry's chest aches just looking at him.

Henry sighs, leaning back on the couch, running a hand through his hair. It's all wrong. Alex deserves to be with his family, surrounded by the people who have known him since birth—who can genuinely offer him the kind of unconditional love and support that makes Henry feel like a fraud—a creep. And yet, the loneliness gnaws at him, the house somehow so much emptier without Alex in it. It hasn’t even been three months, but Henry isn’t used to this. Not anymore. If he had gone, he could have kept himself busy, could have been there for Alex, not like... this. Not like someone who spends his nights obsessing over every little thing about him.

The thought is dangerous. Henry knows that. But no amount of rationalizing or guilt seems to stop the yearning that's growing deeper by the day—for all the guilt, all the shame, Henry can't deny the truth buried beneath it—he misses Alex. Far too much for his own good.

So he watches Christmas movies. And he picks up his phone—puts it back down. Watches another one. Tries to bake cookies—they’re… fine, but he would be embarrassed to take them to the shelter as planned, so he eats far too many of them, and gives the rest to David. Picks his phone back up. Puts it back down. Watches another movie. Sleeps. Wakes up. Caves and sends Alex a simple, friendly good morning text—receives far too many happy emojis in response. Goes for a run. (Henry has never gone for a run in his entire life, and by the time he gets back he vows to never do it again. Not even David seems to appreciate it. He’s too much like Henry for his own good.) 

Takes a shower with devastating news blasting through his bluetooth speakers to keep his dick soft. Watches another movie—not a Christmas one this time; he’s run out of ones that aren’t happy and romantic and he’s not sure he can handle those right now. Goes to the shelter. Ignores Pez’s questions. Goes back home. 

Goes out to pick someone up at a bar—takes them home and rides them through the mattress—wishes it was Alex. Politely guides them out the door after a reasonable amount of time. Bakes more mediocre cookies. 

Picks his phone up. 

One tone. Two. Three. Four—

“On a scale of one to absolutely bloody, atrociously perverse, how disgusting would it be to be falling for a vulnerable man roughly three decades your junior while he’s just minding his own business, trying to get himself back onto his feet?” Henry doesn’t think he’s ever not let Pez get the first word in—managing to get the first word in with Pez should actually earn one some sort of olympic gold medal. 

“This would be a theoretical question, of course?” 

“Of course.” 

Pez lets out a long, dramatic sigh—one so exaggerated Henry can practically see him lounging back somewhere, probably with a cocktail in hand. 

"Henry Fox. You absolute tragic mess of a man. Falling for your best friend's son. It's like something out of a sordid BBC drama. Have you considered running off with him to a windswept cottage in the Scottish Highlands yet?"

Henry rolls his eyes, but there's a tightness in his throat.

“You're a great help, Pez, really."

“I do what I can," Pez says, sounding much too pleased with himself. "But seriously, Hazza, love—you’ve got it bad, don't you?"

Henry stays quiet, not willing to admit just how deep it's gotten. In some twisted, backwards way he wishes that the attraction was purely physical. ‘This young man is objectively attractive, but of course I can’t and shan’t do anything about it. Anyway, moving on—‘ would be a lot easier to deal with than… real, deep feelings. Sexual attraction is… animalistic. It can’t be controlled—actions as a result of it, of course, can, and should be controlled—but Henry thinks brushing this off would be a lot easier if he weren’t burdened with deeper emotions. 

Pez, of course, isn't fazed by the silence, charging on like he always does.

"Tell me, does he know you're pining for him like some tragic Brontë heroine? You do realize this could be your very own Wuthering Heights, except with less heather and more sexual tension?"

"This is nothing like Wuthering Heights,” Henry mutters, though he feels a rush of heat to his face despite himself.

"No? Well, I'd suggest Persuasion, but you're not quite that noble. Don't look at me like that—I can feel you glaring at me through the receiver."

“Can you be serious for one second?” Henry groans, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“I am being serious,” Pez insists, but there's warmth in his tone now—an affectionate edge. "Listen, Hen. I'm teasing because I love you, but this is real for you, isn't it? If you're feeling this way, it's not going to just disappear. So don't run yourself into the ground pretending it doesn't exist."

“I know it exists, Pez,” he sighs. “We almost bloody kissed—him wanting me is the issue. I can’t take advantage of—of someone who needs me, needs help—is probably just growing attached to me because I’m close-by, and—“

"Ah—you wouldn't be Henry Fox if you hadn't planned out at least three different possible tragic endings in your head by now,” Pez interrupts. Henry can’t find it within himself to argue any more than he can help the faint, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. 

“You're insufferable."

"And you, my dear, are head over heels for a man who's probably just as crazy about you—a grown man, young as he may be. Even if you're too stubborn to see it. Don't be so hard on yourself. Give it time, and give him a chance to show you how he feels.” 

Henry swallows, the words sticking in his throat; he nods once—to himself, shifting his gaze down to his lap; runs a gentle hand over David’s ear. 

“You have a nasty habit of convincing yourself you don’t deserve the things you want in life,” Pez adds, then—and Henry’s throat grows thicker, still, his vision blurring. 

“You're maddingly sensible sometimes,” he gets out. 

“A blessing and a curse, darling. Now go jerk off to your—“ Henry promptly hangs up. 

Alex doesn't realize it's a dream at first.

The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm, honeyed light over Henry's features; he’s on top of him—Alex lying back, his breath already shallow, already lost to the heat building between them. Henry's weight is steady, his hands firm where they grip Alex's hips, like he's done this a thousand times before—because, of course, Henry has done this before. He knows what he's doing. Every touch, every shift of his body feels practiced, deliberate. It's intoxicating.

Henry leans in, and Alex's heart races—his body already responding to the warmth of Henry's breath against his neck. He can feel the age in Henry's touch—the experience. It's in the way his fingers press just the right amount of pressure, the way his mouth grazes the curve of Alex's jaw with a kind of confidence that comes from years of knowing exactly what will make someone fall apart.

They’re naked, but when Alex's hands move instinctively, gripping Henry's shoulders, his fingers tangle in the soft fabric of his cardigan—always those cardigans, the elbow patches a subtle reminder of everything Henry is. Older. Wiser. Steady. And fuck, it's that steadiness that drives Alex wild. The way Henry knows exactly how to pace himself, to keep Alex teetering on the edge without tipping him over. It's maddening, the way he holds back, like he's savoring every second of Alex's unraveling. Like he’s holding himself back all the same—for Alex. 

"You're... so good," Henry murmurs, his voice low and rough, like gravel being dragged across silk; his accent wraps around the words, slow and deliberate, and it sends a shiver down Alex's spine. "You don't even know."

Alex's breath hitches, his chest tightening with the weight of it; he’s burning from the inside out, every nerve on fire as Henry's hands slide down, grazing his skin in a way that makes him ache, kneading his thighs—pushing them up, up. 

"Henry," Alex breathes, the name escaping him like a prayer. “Baby.” His hands slide from Henry's shoulders, moving up into his hair, tugging gently—just enough to feel the soft strands between his fingers; Henry groans softly in response, but he doesn't move faster, doesn't lose that maddening control. Alex feels like he's going to break apart from it, like Henry's deliberately drawing this out, making him wait, making him need.

"Shh, love," Henry whispers, his mouth brushing against Alex's ear, the headboard drumming steadily somewhere in the distance—in sync with Alex’s heart. Their hearts. "Let me take care of you."

And he does. God, does he. Henry's body moves with precision, each roll of his hips slow and deliberate, like he's savoring every moment. Like he's teaching Alex something—showing him how it's supposed to be. It's not frantic. It's not hurried. It's fucking methodical, and it's killing Alex—in the best possible way.

There's a moment when Henry's fingers tighten, digging into Alex's skin with enough force to leave bruises, and Alex arches up into him, gasping, needing more.

“Fuck me,” he hears himself sigh. “Fucking rail me, baby—need you.”

“Shh,” Henry's still holding back, still keeping that frustrating control, and Alex realizes that it's because he can—Henry knows he's in control here—that Alex needs him to be in control right now—and he's using that knowledge to drive Alex mad.

Henry's mouth finds his own again, this time pressing a firm, steady kiss to his lips. It’s tongue, and it’s teeth—but it’s soft, too; It's not rushed, not desperate—it's deep, and thorough, and it Alex feels it in his fucking bone-marrow. 

Henry's experience, his age, his calm—it's overwhelming, and it makes Alex feel every bit of his own youth, his own relative inexperience in comparison—despite his various sexual experiences—he’s never felt this way with anyone before—never been undone so thoroughly by someone who knows exactly what they're doing.

“Henry,” he gasps quietly; he’s awake now—mostly—but he wishes he weren’t; he wants to stay right there, in that warmth. In Henry’s presence—in his arms. 

With his eyes closed, he remains on his front, face half-shoved into his pillow, arm pinned in between himself and the mattress, hand curled around himself. The more he wakes up, the more the filth mingles with the sappy, romantic yearning; he can feel Henry so clearly—chest pressed to his own back, pinning him to the bed, one hand holding onto his hip, the other one in Alex’s hand’s place, taking care of him—those large, plump, pink lips brushing over the shell of his ear. 

Shifting his hips in short, sharp thrusts, he slides his free hand into his own hair, tugging—lets himself imagine the hard, thick, slick pressure of Henry’s cock sliding in between his cheeks. Realistically he knows that Henry only has two hands, but in his head, he has so many more—they’re on his ass, his thighs, fingers tangling with his own, squeezing—gently curling around his jaw, angling his neck back to slide their tongues together. 

Every nerve in his body is on fire, and all he can think about is Henry—how badly he wants him, how much he craves his touch. The line between dream and reality blurs once again—and for a fleeting, torturous moment, it feels like Henry is there, holding him, making him fall apart.

Alex bites his pillow—comes with Henry’s name on his lips like a prayer. 

Christmas passes in a blur of lights, presents, and the careful conversations Henry tries to keep at bay in his mind.

Alex returns to the brownstone right after Christmas—bundled in a scarf that nearly swallows his face and eyes tired from the travel. Henry watches from the doorway as Alex trudges up the steps, snow clinging to his boots, and for a moment, he tells himself that this will be the moment. They'll have the conversation—he'll say something—anything—to ease the unbearable tension that's been gnawing at him ever since that near kiss; the one he can't stop thinking about.

Instead, Henry steps back, giving Alex room to slide into the warmth of the house, shaking the snow from his hair like David after a bath. The smell of cinnamon and pine still lingers from Christmas, though it's beginning to fade, and for a fleeting moment, Henry considers how utterly normal it all feels. They could be any two people, just roommates sharing a space, nothing more. They aren’t, though. 

"Welcome back," Henry says, offering a tight smile. He wants to ask how Alex's trip went, tell him he’s been missed. Instead, he watches as Alex dumps his bag on the floor, shrugs off his coat, and grins that impossible grin that makes Henry's chest tighten.

"Good to be back," Alex says, his voice casual, but his eyes flicker over Henry's face like he's searching for something. 

Through the days between Christmas and New Year’s, settle into the usual routine. A lazy, comfortable version—but usual, nonetheless. Movies. Cooking. David. More movies. Days pass. The unspoken stretches between them like a taut thread, pulling tighter with each shared glance, each brush of fingers when Alex hands Henry his tea, each second of silence when they find themselves alone in the kitchen or the living room without David or the murmur of the television to distract them. It should be uncomfortable—a few days apart should have made them more tense; they should be all nervous glances and visible swallows. Instead they’re shy smiles, and flushed cheeks. 

Henry tells himself every morning that today will be the day. He'll say something. They'll talk. Regardless of the outcome, they’ll clear the air before it becomes far too thick. 

They don’t. 

A couple days pass before Alex notices it. It’s not something he’s doing deliberately—although it would probably be a fair assumption. It’s just. As much as he loves his family—this house—Henry—has quickly become his home. He’s happy—relieved—to be back; he’s missed Henry, he’s missed David and his snoring; he’s missed the whistle of the tea kettle. He’s missed the way Henry fondly rolls his eyes when Alex asks for a cup of his own—but gives him one anyway, even though they both know it’s merely going to warm his hands and not his throat. 

The days between Christmas and New Year's never feel real anyway—they're like leap days, or the hours between midnight and six a.m. A strange limbo of leftover holiday lights and the dregs of champagne. Nothing moves at its usual speed. Alex is back, but he's exhausted—still recovering from the too-loud conversations, the questions, and the weight of being surrounded by family who love him but don't really know how to act around him anymore. He feels like a guest in his own skin.

Eventually, he finds himself… leaning. 

It happens naturally, like gravity. Bicep against bicep. A lazy sprawl of his legs thrown over Henry's lap while they watch some old movie, neither of them fully paying attention. 

And then one night, the inevitable—his head finds Henry's shoulder; he doesn't think about it much at first. Just lets his weight settle there, feeling the warmth of Henry through his sweater. Subtly nods to shift his nose closer to his pulse point—not shamelessly breathing in the scent of his cologne, but enough to get a hint of it. A hit. 

He expects Henry to shift away, to make some excuse to move, but instead, there's a long pause—and then, slowly, Henry's head leans down on top of his—gentle, like he's afraid to put too much weight there. The quiet between them pulses with something unsaid, something Alex tries to ignore, but can't; his heart picks up speed, and his throat tightens.

It's just this. A head on a shoulder. A quiet, almost sleepy moment. 

It happens a second time—and then a third. 

It's nothing. 

It’s everything. 

If insomnia is good for anything, Henry thinks, it’s a decent excuse for poor decisions—poor decisions like laying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, before getting up and consuming three cups of tea—before finally ending up in the doorway of Alex’s room.

It’s not even closed—he sees the faint flickering light through the crack in the doorway before he’s close enough to give the wood a gentle tap of his knuckle, and pulls the door open further, leaning a shoulder against the frame as their eyes meet. 

“Hey,” Alex says—soft, and simple. “Can’t sleep?” 

“I am a world-class insomniac,” Henry confirms—not that that is any excuse for him sneaking into Alex’s room. They shouldn’t be in each other’s rooms, and if they are, it certainly shouldn’t be in this direction. There’s a beat, then—before Alex gives a slight jerk of his head, and Henry doesn’t need to be told twice—it’s a pull stronger than his insomnia, a magnetic force that tugs him away from the door and toward Alex; he crosses the room in a few quiet strides, slipping onto the bed. It feels like a boundary—a thin, comforting barrier. And he’s crossing it. Isn’t he? 

The bed shifts beneath them as Henry settles in, propped up on one elbow beside Alex. The screen is small, and it forces them closer together, their shoulders brushing, breaths syncing in the stillness of the night; he can smell the faint traces of Alex’s cologne, something warm and spicy, mixed with the scent of fresh sheets. It's oddly grounding, pulling Henry away from the chaos of his mind and into the simplicity of the present moment. 

They lapse into comfortable silence, their eyes trained on the glowing screen, though the movie quickly becomes secondary to the feeling of being so close; Henry can feel the heat of Alex’s body against his side—no longer new; not really—but just as comfortable and soothing as it was six hours ago, and twelve hours ago, and forty-eight hours ago. 

David snoozes in the corner. 

Alex shifts closer. 

Henry lets him—invites it, even, with the way he’s got an arm draped up over the stack of pillows, not technically around Alex’s shoulders, but not not around him, either. Slowly, Alex’s arm comes to rest across Henry’s stomach. At first, it’s light, as if he’s testing the waters, but the hesitation quickly fades. The weight becomes more certain, more intentional, and Henry feels the press of it against his torso, solid and real; the warmth of Alex’s breath fans across the side of his neck, and a shiver runs down his spine as Alex shifts even closer, his hair brushing the sensitive skin near Henry’s collarbone.

Henry swallows, his throat tightening as Alex inhales deeply, the rise and fall of his chest a steady, deliberate rhythm against Henry’s side. It’s almost like a synced heartbeat, slow and in time with Henry’s own when without thinking, he matches him, pulling in a breath just as deep, their bodies rising and falling in perfect harmony as they exhale together. The tension that had been coiled tight in Henry’s chest releases, and he takes what might be the lightest, most effortless breath he’s taken in a long time.

They stay like that for a while—longer than a while—in fact, Henry’s eyelids are nearly starting to droop by the time he feels Alex shift again—but it’s different this time, it feels more… deliberate—slow. His entire body shifts up, pressing against Henry’s—and it could be innocent—just… getting comfortable—if it weren’t for the way in which his nose swipes over Henry’s jawline, breath hot like an open fire over his pulse point, lips soft—barely there, but there, nonetheless. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” The words themselves are authoritative—but coupled with the weak, breathy tone of his voice, it’s so close to a moan it’s nearly laughable. The actual words don’t matter, and there’s no use in pretending as if they do. 

Alex doesn’t answer—but he shifts his hand up to gently grasp the opposite side of Henry’s jaw, sucking a breath in through clenched teeth that really shouldn’t sound as hot or as desperate as it does; the sound conveys more desperation than any words ever could—then Alex nods once again, nuzzling his nose in behind Henry’s ear, shamelessly inhaling. He hasn’t shaved in a day or two—the faint scratch of his stubble has Henry’s eyes falling closed, sucking in a breath of his own. When his arm fully curled around the expanse of Alex’s shoulders, he’s not sure, but it’s there now—hand grasping the fabric of the shirt covering his ribs. 

“We can’t,” Henry tries as he pulls him closer. The ipad is blindly shoved away towards the foot of the bed—he thinks it’s Alex’s doing, but he’s not sure. 

“We’re not,” Alex assures him, breath scalding—mouth open, lips rubbing over the side of his neck the same way that they caressed his own a week and a half ago—not technically a kiss, and yet it feels far filthier than any actual press of lips or tongue ever could. 

“Feels like we… feels like we are,” Henry’s own tongue swipes across his own bottom lip, mouth dry; his neck cranes back without his own permission, giving Alex more space, his hand growing tighter around the fabric of his shirt. Alex’s hand slips beneath the hem of his own in return—and the bruising grip he finds on the slight excess bulk of Henry’s hip should feel insulting—but Alex feels so fucking hungry that Henry’s only reaction is a weak, yet deep moan escaping his throat—he couldn’t swallow it down if his life depended on it. “I’m… I’m twice your age,” he tries, then—and hates himself for the way it sounds like anything but an objection; he feels Alex’s mouth curl into a smile against the tender surface of his skin, tingling now, deliciously irritated by Alex’s stubble. 

“Shh,” he sounds. “We’re not doing anything.” And it feels like a game, now—laughable, non-plausible deniability for a non-existent audience. As if Henry isn’t fucking throbbing in his joggers—as if Alex isn’t shifting his leg further over his hip, not even bothering to hide the way he shifts his hips with it, his own bulge pressing up against Henry’s side. 

“Evil,” Henry sucks a breath in through his teeth, sliding a hand into Alex’s curls. 

“You like it,” Alex cuts back—with a barely-there bite to his pulse point—and that’s the thing that breaks Henry’s resolve—his body moves without his own permission, hand growing tighter in Alex’s hair, tugging at the strands as his other hand shifts down to his arse, grabbing him through the fabric, pulling him along as he rolls himself onto his back, pinning himself underneath Alex’s large frame. “Mhm,” Alex hums, triumphantly, and for the first time, it feels as if Alex is the one in control—Henry likes it. If feels… balanced. 

Henry tries to hold on to the thought of stopping this, of ending it before they fall off the edge, but every breath Alex exhales against his skin erases whatever fragile restraint he has left. The words—I'm twice your age—echo in his mind, but they feel distant, irrelevant, powerless. His body betrays him with every flex, every involuntary tremor, and it only makes Alex push harder, like he knows.

Like he is somehow able to read Henry's desire in the way his hands refuse to let go, in the way he's allowing this—wanting this, despite knowing better. There's an electric charge in the air between them, one that crackles with all the wrongness, all the danger, and all the forbidden pleasure that comes with it; Henry can feel it simmering, threatening to burn them both.

Alex's hips grind into Henry's with purpose now, the friction too much, too little—Henry can't decide which. His heart is pounding in his throat, his pulse racing beneath Alex's teeth. Every press of Alex's body against his feels like a challenge, like Alex is daring him to keep pretending this isn't happening, to keep up the lie that this is harmless; but there's nothing harmless about it. Not the way Alex's fingers dig into his waist like he owns him. Not the way Henry's hips lift to meet him, desperate, aching for contact. It's reckless. It's foolish; it’s inevitable—his mind tells him to push Alex away, to stop before the lines blur beyond repair, but his hands only pull him closer, like he's afraid to lose the feeling of Alex's weight against him, of being completely consumed.

"I should stop this," Henry breathes, but it sounds pathetic, even to his own ears; his voice wavers, betraying the truth in his chest—that he doesn't want to stop, that he can't. Alex's knee nudges between his thighs, pressing hard, and Henry lets out a sound he didn't know he was capable of, a broken noise that makes Alex pull back, his eyes dark with intent.

There's a brief flicker in Henry's mind—Alex may have been an adult for over half a decade, but compared to Henry, he’s still so young—and he’s been through a lot lately—Henry should know better. 

That thought is gone the second Alex's lips are back on his—once again, not quite a kiss but something worse—filthy, needy, teasing rubbing. Henry—despite himself, and despite every warning screaming in his head—wants to give in—wants to be claimed. Wants it in ways he can't allow himself to say out loud.

“You’re not doing anything,” Alex breathes—eyes on Henry’s, blurry as the sight is. It’s not a game this time—it’s genuine; it’s Alex telling him that he’s not doing anything to Alex. That Alex wants this. That Henry isn’t a bad person for enjoying it—for kneading Alex’s arse through his joggers—for wanting it, too. And god, Henry really, really wishes he could find it within himself to believe that. “You’re so fucking hot, baby,” Alex says now, and Henry briefly lets his eyes fall closed, trying to collect himself. 

“‘m not,” he says—it’s not necessarily that he’s insecure about his physical appearance in isolation—he’s not; he’s always been fine with it. When he was younger, he was hot—and these days, while he certainly looks in the mirror and sees a middle-aged man, it’s not a bad-looking one. Not at all. The objection doesn’t have to do with the statement as much as it has to do with Alex saying it—Alex thinking it. You shouldn’t think so. That’s what Henry is actually saying—and he hates the fact that Alex somehow seems to know him well enough to find that underlying meaning. 

“You are, though,” Alex breathes, their eyes on each other’s again, his breath scalding as it washes over Henry’s parted lips—their hips still rocking. It’s not as bitingly desperate anymore—they’re just… keeping the engine going, which is somehow worse. If this is going to happen, it should be quick and desperate and something for Henry to regret the second it’s over. It shouldn’t be… this. “God, Hen, you drive me fucking insane, you know that?” he asks, the rim of his bottom lip catching on the outside of Henry’s. “Cardigans, and how ridiculously passionate you are about your tea, and what an absolutely brilliant writer you are, and—“

“You’ve read my work?” 

“All of it,” Alex confirms, and Henry desperately tries to swallow down the pathetic, hoarse whine that claws its way up his throat. Fails. Alex grins. “So if you think that, uh—that I just wanna bone cause I’m bored, or ‘cause I got issues, baby, you have no fucking idea what you do to me.” 

“I’m sure, uh—I’m sure New York has plenty tea-drinking, cardigan-wearing, brilliant writers in their twenties,” Henry exhales when Alex dips his head back down, lips brushing back over his pulse point, every single hair follicle on Henry’s body standing up, a chill making its way down his spine—and then back up, his stomach flipping—buzzing. 

Henry expects Alex to grin against his skin—to come back with a teasing comment about how those other tea-drinking, cardigan-wearing, brilliant writers probably don’t put three sugar cubes in their tea, or can’t quote A Wonderful Life or Pride and Prejudice word for word. And Henry does feel the uptick of his lips—but then it drops; his hips still against his own—and he picks his face up—further this time, Henry’s view no longer blurry. In fact, as the faint light from the streetlight outside bleeds together with the moonlight, both washing in, falling over the side of Alex’s face—Henry doesn’t think he’s ever been privy to a view more beautiful. 

Alex tilts his head slightly to the side—as if he’s thinking things over. One of his hands leaves Henry’s hip, fingers instead sliding into his hair, gently combing the strands towards the mattress, gaze briefly leaving his own, wandering up towards his hairline before making its way back down. 

“Do you want me?” Alex asks—simply. It’s the worst question in the world. What’s worse is the way in which he asks it—simultaneously as if he knows the answer, and yet it’s not without a decorative hint of insecurity. As if Henry would let them get here—just to be nice. He may be nice, but he’s not that nice. If Henry didn’t want this, he would have sat him down and had a conversation about all of this the second he got the slightest hint that Alex did. 

Henry should lie. 

Henry can’t lie. 

Alex doesn’t deserve to be lied to.

A lie isn’t going to be believable, anyway—and if it somehow was, it’s only going to damage them in the end. 

The circumstances are… certainly less than ideal—Henry wishes they were the same age, he wishes that Alex was more than six months clean, he wishes that he hadn’t moved in here to stay clean, to have Henry be some sort of role-model, or protective figure. 

The circumstances are, however, what they are—and the circumstances also happen to include the fact that in the past couple of months, Henry has suffered from stomach-cramps induced by laughter more days than not. The circumstances include the fact that outside of Bea and Pez, Henry can’t remember the last time he felt this comfortable, or this happy in another person’s presence. The circumstances include the fact that Alex is smart, and brilliant, and strong, and makes Henry feel all warm inside. 

The circumstances include the fact that Henry is fifty-five, and as much as he would love to punish himself for feeling this way, he knows—deep down—that Alex could be the older one—that Alex could be sixty, or seventy, or eighty-five, and Henry is fairly sure that he would have the same astounding effect on him as he currently does. That Henry would feel just as soothed, just as comfortable, just as happy—laying here, crushed beneath the weight of his body, those deep brown eyes pouring endless kindness and warmth into his own. 

Henry is a man—and deeply, deeply homosexual man, at that—Alex is hot. A young Adonis, carved out of marble—that can’t be denied—it would be ridiculous to tell himself otherwise. At the end of the day, though—Henry wants Alex—not because he’s young, or hot, or fit, or close-by—but because he’s Alex. 

Should that make a difference? Does it make a difference? 

“Hen…” Alex exhales when Henry apparently takes a beat too long. 

“Yes,” Henry nods, sliding both of his hands up over Alex’s clothed back, and into his curls, grasping them gently. “I’m a bloody terrible person for it, but I’m afraid I want you more than I have ever wanted anybody in my entire, sodding life,” he confirms, nodding once, the tips of their noses bumping gently. “Quite frankly, I can’t imagine a person on earth who wouldn’t be absolutely desperate for you.” 

At that, Alex groans, his breath hot on Henry’s parted lips as he rolls his hips once—the movement deep and languid—and quite frankly, Henry isn’t entirely convinced that it’s deliberate. It feels as if his body moves on its own accord; Henry knows the feeling. 

If an emotional orgasm is a thing, Alex is fairly sure that he just had one; Henry’s hands in his hair—his eyes on his, his accent curling around some of the most beautiful words that have ever danced their way into Alex’s ears—about him, directed towards him—spoken by a man that makes Alex feel as if he is floating—how the fuck is he meant to survive this? 

“Careful, sweetheart,” he can’t help but speak through his teeth, once again rocking his hips gently as he rubs his lips over Henry’s. God, they haven’t even kissed yet—this is fun, though. Alex’s stomach feels as if he’s at the very top of a rollercoaster, seconds away from being dropped down into oblivion—and he knows that the drop is going to be the best thing he has ever experienced in his entire life.

This is what he was always searching for, he thinks, distantly—when he was slowly forgetting about his assignments, and accepting a pill here and a line there. Not Henry, though—he’s not… if Henry and he are over tomorrow, god forbid, Alex thinks he’s going to be okay as far as staying clean goes—that’s not it. It’s not that he has Henry, so he’s okay now—that would be bad. Rather, it’s that… he forgot. Alex forgot that life can be fun—exciting—he forgot he can feel things this strongly without substances in his blood. And that realization, on top of everything he feels for Henry—he doesn’t think he’s ever felt a high so beautifully intoxicating. 

“You might be middle-aged, but I’m not. Keep flattering me like that, you’re gonna get yourself tied to the bed, my last load still warm and thick inside of you while I fuck myself into the next one.” 

“Ghastly,” Henry gasps, a hand returning to Alex’s ass—slipping into his sweats this time, kneading the bare flesh as his other hand tugs at his curls. Alex spills a moan over his lips. “You can really manage to stay hard?” 

“Yes,” Alex confirms. “Probably only twice, but—“ he trails off, briefly, grinning as he flicks the tip of his tongue over Henry’s bottom lip, hearing his breath catch. “—two soft cocks aren’t gonna stop me from burying my face in this perfect ass, you think you’re getting a single break until we’re passing out, you’re fucking delusional, baby.” 

Henry's pulse spikes, the heat of Alex's words settling deep in his gut, setting every nerve ablaze; he can feel Alex's breath, warm and steady against his lips—that taunting brush of skin that never quite becomes a kiss. The entirety of his body aches for it—the tension between them a thick, unrelenting force—yet, it's not just the teasing or the lust that grips him—it's the intensity, the utter need in Alex's eyes, something primal and desperate. It makes Henry's heart stutter in his chest; he hasn't felt like this in years—if ever—hasn't been wanted like this. The age difference, the moral alarms, it all fades away in the face of Alex's overwhelming presence. 

Henry grips his arse with far more purpose, shifting his own hips up, needing that connection as much as Alex does; he’s fighting a losing battle—if he’s even still fighting—and maybe that's what makes it feel so exhilarating—like surrendering to something inevitable.

Alex shifts again, pressing his forehead to Henry's as he grinds down deliberately, pulling a helpless gasp from Henry's throat. The friction, the weight of Alex on top of him, is enough to make him dizzy, but it's Alex's words that truly undo him; the vivid, vulgar promise of being tied down and taken apart piece by piece sends a jolt through him, his body reacting before his mind can catch up—he wants it. God, he wants it—in a way he's never wanted anything before. The thought of being so thoroughly at Alex's mercy, of having this young, hungry man devour him, consumes every ounce of his self-control.

"Christ—" Henry breathes, his voice strained, shaky. “—you—“ he stops, unable to form a coherent sentence as Alex licks into his mouth, the first real touch of his tongue so brief and teasing that it feels like a shock to his system; Henry’s grip tightens, nails digging into Alex's arse as his other hand fists in his curls—Alex’s hand tugging his own hair all the same, his other arm slipped in between him and the bed now, wrapped around his waist, keeping him close. “—you’re going to ruin me," he finally manages, voice low and hoarse—but he doesn't care. The words hang between them, and Alex's grin sharpens into something wicked, knowing. Henry feels the truth in it, feels the edge they're dancing on—and for the first time in a long time, he wants to fall.

“Promise you’ll ruin me back?” Alex asks—but it sounds a lot like; ‘I’ll catch you if you catch me right back.’ 

"Yes," Henry breathes, nodding fervently now, his voice rough with need. "Yes, okay? Come the fuck here," and it comes out more desperate than he intends—as he’s pulling Alex closer, their bodies flush, muscles taut with anticipation; he’s beyond words—beyond thought. Tired of teasing, tired of restraint; his skin feels too tight, each and every nerve screaming for more—for everything. 

“Oh, god, you can’t curse, I’m gonna come in my fucking sweats, which might end up feeding your ego, which I’m all for, but I really don’t think—“ 

Henry shuts him up. 

Rolling him over, he pins him to the bed as he finally—finally—sinks his tongue deep inside of his warm, intoxicating mouth—moaning helplessly when Alex pours a deep, hungry groan down his throat, his hands quickly finding their way into Henry’s joggers, kneading the flesh in a death-grip forcing him down—Alex’s own hips shamelessly crude as he meets him in the middle, still pouring enthusiastic, downright pornographic sounds down Henry’s throat as their tongues slide over each other’s. 

It's hot, wet, and consuming, their kiss violent with pent-up need, messy with desperation—their bodies grinding together in a frantic rhythm that's almost obscene in its intensity. The sounds Alex makes—those filthy, uninhibited moans—pour into Henry like gasoline to a fire. Their tongues tangle and slide, both of them greedy, neither willing to pull away; Henry remains overwhelmed by the heat—the taste, the sheer force of Alex's desire. It's unlike anything he's ever felt before—this reckless, consuming passion that makes him dizzy, makes him forget every single reason this shouldn't be happening. Fifty-five years on this earth, he’s spent, convinced that this kind of passion was made up—idealized, exaggerated. It’s not. Henry is fucking drowning. 

Alex's body arches against his, the bed creaking beneath them as they move; it’s fast, messy, pure instinct. There's no finesse to it—only raw need—the kind that makes Henry's head spin and his pulse roar in his ears; his teeth scrape along Alex's bottom lip as he kisses him harder, deeper, the sound of their ragged breaths filling the room like a storm. He's lost in it, completely undone, and he doesn't care anymore. Can’t care. 

“God, baby,” Alex groans when Henry somehow manages to trail his mouth down the side of his neck—all tongue and teeth, sloppy in a way he didn’t know himself capable of. Alex has one arm wrapped around his waist, slipped in beneath his shirt, large palm warming his shoulder-blade—while his other hand is quick and shameless in pulling the waistband of Henry’s joggers—along with his boxer-shorts, because unlike Alex, he’s civilized—down until they both snap into place at the top of his thighs, allowing Alex full access to his bare arse, gripping a cheek in a grip so punishing—fingertips digging into the thinner, sensitive skin further in—that Henry has a full-body shiver so violent there’s a split second where he thinks he just came, his teeth gently finding purchase on Alex’s collarbone as he grunts out an approximation of his name. 

“Naked,” he demands, then, impatiently tugging at Alex’s waistband. “Now. Clothes off.” It’s not very eloquent—but Alex doesn’t comment on his cave-man speak; if anything, he seems right there with him, their hands clumsy, knocking into each other as they desperately rid themselves and each other of every last stitch, carelessly throwing everything across the room like they’re teenagers. (Henry is vaguely aware of David’s nails clicking against the floor, disappearing into the distance, leaving them alone.) 

Apparently Henry spoke too soon, because once they’re finally, indeed, naked, and he’s settling his hips back in between Alex’s thighs, a large palm meets his arse in a sharp rap, followed by a possessive, bruising grip—a teasing shake of the flesh. 

“You say the sweetest things to me, baby,” he grins against Henry’s mouth. 

"Shut up," Henry mutters, but the grin tugging at his lips betrays him, a flush creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with embarrassment. It's want. Pure, unadulterated want; he leans in, capturing Alex's mouth again, their tongues sliding together in a wet, eager tangle. The heat between them remains unbearable now—a furnace of sweat and skin, and as Alex's hand moves to grip him harder, Henry growls low in his throat. "Do that again." 

It's not a request—it's a demand, and the sound of his own voice, dark and commanding, sends a thrill through him as their bodies move together, harder, faster, more desperate with every second.

“Yeah?” Alex asks—but he doesn't hesitate—his hand cracks against Henry's ass again, harder this time, the sound echoing in the room like a shot. The sting radiates through Henry's skin, sharp and electric, but the way Alex's fingers sink into the flesh afterward—kneading, pulling him closer—turns the pain into something intoxicating. Henry's breath catches, his chest heaving as he pushes his hips down, grinding himself against Alex with more force, more need. 

Henry didn’t know it could be like this—that he could yearn for someone so much that it’s actively, unbearably painful—while actively having them. As if nothing is ever going to be enough. 

It's filthy, the way they move together, their sweat-slick bodies slipping and sliding, the raw friction setting every nerve on fire. The world outside disappears; there's only this—this endless, consuming hunger that tears at Henry from the inside out, threatening to break his ribs with the force of it. 

“You like that?” Alex bites into his mouth, delivering a third rap, and a fourth. “Don’t worry, baby, gonna spank this tight little ass until it’s all black and blue for me, can’t wait to see it in the sunlight, bet you’re already bright fucking red. So fucking pretty.” 

“Christ, Alex, what the fuck are you saying,” Henry groans, and Alex lets out a ragged sound against his pulse-point—something halfway between a laugh and a moan, his fingers tightening their grip on Henry's ass as they both shift a little bit—Alex sitting up just a little bit, leaning back against the stack of pillows as Henry straddles his lap, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, other hand tugging as Alex’s curls as he he cranes his head back, grinding down against Alex’s cock, their combined precome warm and slick, the slide more delicious with each and every roll of their hips. 

“You like it rough, huh?” Alex continues, lips still pressed against the side of Henry’s neck—wandering, nose nuzzling into the space behind his ear, teeth tugging at his earlobe as Henry continues grinding down, his beautiful—fucking giant, Alex knew it—cock rubbing all over his own. 

Alex is already losing his mind; quite frankly, he doesn’t have much of a preference in bed, he’s kind of down with anything—but they have barely done anything yet; and he can already tell that they fit like this. Not just that they want each other like this—but they fit. They slide so easily from one dynamic to another—fluid—fun. 

This, though? While Alex can’t say he had been expecting Henry liking it rough—each stutter of his breath, each hoarse moan, each twitch of his fingers in Alex’s hair, or arch of his back—already has him seeing god—he wants to tear Henry to absolute fucking pieces, and then glue him back together again. 

“Yeah, you like it rough,” he concludes after another handful of rough hits to his ass, Henry far too busy pouring out a litany of deep, guttural, pornographic moans to give him an actual answer. “What’s your favorite position, huh? Doggy? Bet if I hold you by your hair and stretch you out on my cock, I’ll have you panting like a bitch in heat in no time.” 

Quite frankly, Alex doesn’t know where half of this is coming from—he’s no stranger to sex or dirty talk, but it’s never been like this. It’s just that—he feels as if he’s playing Henry like a string instrument—each disgustingly filthy word pouring another beautiful sound out of his throat. It feels as if he’s being played right back—a hypnotic harmony. A siren’s song. 

“You’re absolutely bloody vile,” Henry gasps, tugging Alex’s hair in a near brutal grip, now, tugging him up, up. “Don’t you dare fucking stop,” he adds, and Alex grins brightly, granting him another sharp rap to his ass as they moan around the taste of each other’s tongues. 

“I’m fucking obsessed with you,” Alex grunts, the earnest words escaping his mouth without his permission as he briefly holds Henry’s ass in both of his hands—kneading his cheeks once—before sliding one of his hands down in between them, easily wrapping it around Henry’s thick, leaking cock, the pad of his thumb gently easing the foreskin back, teasing the slit as he strokes him. “Need to fuck you in one of those old-man cardigans.” 

“You have issues,” Henry gasps into his mouth, but Alex feels the twitch of a smile against his own. 

“Never denied that, sweetheart.” Then, just to be a dick; “Think if I leave this tight little ass bruised and swollen enough, you’ll let me call you daddy?” 

“I must admit I don’t have a significant amount of experience in that particular kink, but isn’t the one doing the railing traditionally supposed to be daddy?” 

“I can be daddy, and you can also rail me, I don’t know, you’re way too fucking lucid right now, it’s very embarrassing for me,” Alex sighs into another kiss—sprinkling in another handful of rough spanks, successfully sending Henry gasping, writhing in his lap as he twists his wrist on a downstroke—then, playfully, just to test the waters, Alex abandons his ass, moving his hand up to his throat—a feather-light choke-hold, giving Henry every opportunity to bat him away as he gently breaks the kiss, their eyes meeting. “Yeah, there we go,” Alex praises, tightening his grip just a little bit—still gentle, and even if it wasn’t, he’s pressing the sides, not his actual airway—but it’s absolutely doing it for Henry, and Alex doesn’t even bother to hide his giant ego as he watches his eyes grow darker, thrusting up into his hand, his lips parted, eyebrows knitted as he tugs at Alex’s hair. 

“Alex,” he manages. “Christ—you’re—faster, please.” Alex obeys, soft, slick sounds welling up in between them as he twists his fist up and down Henry’s cock. “So good.” 

“All I want, baby,” Alex nods, the heat in between them rising, playful power-balance evening out once again, even as Alex teasingly lets his hand grow tighter around Henry’s throat, his eyelashes fluttering in the moonlight. “So pretty,” he adds, wishing he had three hands as he’s forced to abandon Henry’s throat for the call of gently combing his hair back away from his face. “Gonna make each other come until our brains melt, baby, I promise. Gonna be so good for you.” 

“I know,” Henry nods, dropping his forehead to Alex’s. “I know, Alex, you’re already so good, love, I’m losing my bloody mind.” 

“How long’s your refractory period?” Alex has to ask, then, stealing a quick, messy kiss from Henry’s lips as he gently slows his hand—still stroking, still keeping them both warm, but giving Henry an out as he feels his hips start to grow more enthusiastic. 

“Er…” Henry groans. “Roughly four to five hours, I’m afraid,” he admits through a sigh. 

“You wanna come like this?” he asks—and Henry shakes his head. Alex hums, stealing another kiss—and another, and another—as he gently lets his hand come to a complete stop—Henry still panting into his mouth as Alex shifts his hands down to his hips, gently kneading the bulk—holding him. “How do you want to come, baby?” 

“On your cock,” Henry confirms what Alex already knows. “Or inside you, that works too, just need…” he trails off, sinking his tongue back inside of Alex’s mouth; Alex pours a hungry hum down his throat, gently steering him into another roll of his hips. 

“I wanna blow you so fucking bad, but I’m not sure I could stop myself from begging you to come down my throat,” Alex admits, then—and it’s filthy, but it’s not meant to be dirty talk—not really. It’s just the truth. Henry grunts, stealing another kiss. 

“Not sure I could refrain from doing it,” he agrees. “Would you be amenable to obstaining from oral sex until the morning? If you want to use that particular tactic to wake me up, you have my consent.” 

“You’re talking like this on purpose, aren’t you?” Alex breathes, the hunger mingling with amusement in his tone as his grip on Henry’s hips grows bruising. 

“I’ve got no earthly idea what you’re insinuating.” 

“I’ve got no earthly idea what you’re insinuating,” Alex repeats in a mock-accent, rolling them over—Henry’s deep chuckle—giggle, frankly—absolute music to his ears. 

“Get inside me, you cretin.” 

Alex grins, breathless but amused, as Henry's laughter fills the space between them. It's that rare sound—light, unrestrained—that he loves coaxing out of him; he presses another kiss to his mouth, swallowing the tail end of his chuckle as he lets himself savor the moment, feeling the steady rise and fall of Henry’s chest beneath him, intensifying the ache that’s been building between them. Keeping a steady hold on Henry’s hips, he shifts his weight, grinding down against him with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. The hunger in Henry’s kiss is unmistakable, matching his own, and it stirs something fierce in Alex; with a groan, he breaks it, and leans back slightly, resting his forehead against Henry’s as he pants out a laugh. 

“We have a slight problem,” he admits; Henry hums in question. “I don’t have any condoms.” 

At that, Henry exhales through his nose, his hand slipping into Alex’s hair again, tugging gently as he presses his grin up against Alex’s.

“Well, lucky for you, I’ve got some.”

Alex pulls back just enough to raise an eyebrow, his lips curving into a teasing smirk. 

“Oh, do you now?” His voice is playful, but there’s a glint of curiosity behind it that he can’t quite hide—not that he tries all that hard, or really at all. “You been with a lot of people lately, Your Highness?”

Henry’s eyes flicker with something—a mixture of amusement and vulnerability—as he meets Alex’s gaze; he swallows, shifting beneath Alex’s weight.

“The last time was when you were in Texas,” he admits, voice quieter now—like a confession, something he’s been holding onto. “Just… trying to get you off my mind.”

The air between them shifts again, the weight of Henry’s words settling over them both. Alex feels a surge of emotion—something possessive, something tender—curling in his chest. It’s not jealousy—not really—but something deeper, something rooted in the knowledge that Henry’s been struggling with the same feelings he’s had. At the same time. 

“Did it work?” he asks, lips brushing Henry’s. Henry shakes his head gently. “Good. You were never off mine, either, baby. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Henry hums in response—something desperate in the sound, now—as he deepens the kiss for a long moment before breaking away, eyes dark with desire but softened by the honesty between them. 

Alex shifts again, rolling his hips into Henry’s one more time before pulling back entirely, grinning as he slaps Henry’s thigh lightly, separating them—climbing up and off the bed, offering Henry his hand.

“Well then, I guess we’re headed to your room, huh?”

Henry groans in playful frustration, letting his head fall back against the pillow. 

“I can just tell you where they are, you’re making me get up? I’m not sure what impression I gave you, but I’m not a complete masochist.” 

At that, Alex laughs, shaking his head as he bends back over the bed, brushing his lips over Henry’s. 

“Not a punishment, baby,” he promises. “You had every right to drag some guy home and into your bed, but that place is mine now, and I’m gonna stake my claim.” 

“My bed or my ass?” Henry asks with a quirk of his brow. 

“Yes,” Alex confirms, their laughter muffled as he dips his head into a deep, long, silky smooth kiss—romantic, even. 

After that, Henry lets himself be pulled up, and they stumble out of Alex’s room, fingers still grasping at each other as they make their way towards Henry’s room, instead. The air between them remains charged, kisses constantly being traded, teasing, half-hearted slaps to each other’s asses and subsequent laughter echoing throughout the dark, quiet brownstone. 

When they finally cross the threshold of Henry’s room, Alex doesn't hesitate; his hands find Henry’s waist, steering him toward the bed with purpose, eyes dark with intent as he pushes him down onto it, the motion smooth and controlled—like he’s done it a hundred times in his mind; before Henry can even process the shift, Alex follows, sliding between his thighs with a practiced ease, his body slotting into place as if it belongs there. 

Maybe it does, because Henry finds himself welcoming him into his space without a second thought; like breathing—natural, instinctual, inevitable—his arm wraps around Alex’s waist, fingers splayed wide against the curve of his back, pulling him down closer, craving the weight—the heat—as his remaining hand tangles itself back into Alex’s hair, tugging him down for another kiss, needy and slow, his lips parting with a sigh as Alex presses him further into the bed.

Without thinking, Henry’s thighs fall open further, his legs shifting to make room for Alex’s body between them, inviting him in even closer, as if they’re two pieces of the same puzzle falling into place. The air is thick with the scent of Alex—spicy, familiar—and it fills Henry’s lungs as he breathes him in, every touch sending a spark through his already fevered skin. There’s no hesitation in the way their bodies mold together—no awkwardness or pause—just the urgent, silent language they’ve easily grown to be fluent in.

Alex’s hand finds the curve of Henry’s hip, fingers pressing possessively into the skin, his teeth scratching his lips—like he’s claiming the moment, claiming Henry. It’s not a red-flag kind of jealousy—not at all—but Henry can still feel the way each swipe of his tongue, each press of his fingers is telling him exactly who he belongs to now—that Alex belongs to him right back. It shouldn’t feel as right as it does. 

The tension between them hums, heavy with promise, and the world outside these four walls falls away, leaving only the two of them, tangled in a bed that now feels like the only place they were ever meant to be.

Alex shifts his mouth down to his neck, and Henry’s breath stutters in his chest, a low, needy sound escaping his throat as he tightens his grip in his hair, pulling him closer; he tilts his head back, baring his already irritated and red-bitten neck—inviting, vulnerable—a silent plea for more. 

Alex answers without hesitation, continuing in his apparent quest to trap Henry in scarves and turtlenecks up until the spring—that’s if he can even walk outside at all, because if the way Alex is grinding him deep into the mattress without even being inside of him is any indication of how he’s going to move when he actually is—Henry isn’t so sure he’s ever going to make it out through his front door ever again. For so many reasons. (Vaguely, Henry remembers Alex telling him about childhood and teenage salsa lessons, and he’s never been more grateful for anything in his entire life.) 

“You want it just like this?” Alex pants against his collarbone, between filthy swipes of his tongue. “On your back?” 

“Mhm,” Henry confirms, tugging his hair teasingly, quickly growing addicted to the soft groan it pulls out of Alex’s throat. “Want you to pin my thighs open and rail me just like this, darling, you’re gonna do so good,” Henry tests his praise kink theory even further—grinning to himself when Alex practically shudders—pouring a deep groan into the crook of his neck. 

“Oh my god.”  

Henry tugs his hair—roughly—earning another ragged groan that vibrates against his skin; it’s a low, primal sound that makes Henry’s thighs fall open wider, his body craving more of that contact, more of that pressure, more of Alex; his lips part, eyes falling closed as Alex’s stubble scrapes along his neck, every little sensation heightening the coil of tension in his gut.

Alex’s hands roam Henry’s body with practiced ease, his touch both careful and commanding, as if he knows exactly how to balance the weight of what they’re about to do with the raw need simmering beneath his skin; the age difference, so stark, so obvious in other contexts, feels invisible here, dissolved into the heat between them. Still, it’s there, lingering, undeniable, as Henry’s graying hair tangles with Alex’s fingers and his older body responds to the way Alex’s younger, more reckless energy collides with him.

Henry doesn’t have to ask—Alex is already moving a hand, blindly fumbling for his nightstand, the slide of the drawer and the clatter of the lube and condom hitting the bed barely audible over the rush of blood in Henry’s ears. Alex’s hands are back on him in an instant, fingers slick and cool as they circle his entrance; his breath his back, washing over Henry’s swollen lips now, and he opens his eyes, drowning in the deep, warm gaze that meets him. 

“So fucking pretty,” Alex breathes—nearly inaudible—just as Henry feels his fingers, slick with lube, cool at first, circle his entrance, and it’s that moment—those seconds where Alex’s breath fans hot across Henry’s lips and their gazes lock—that makes the difference in their years melt away. Henry's own body, still fit and strong, reacts with the kind of desperate need that matches Alex's, despite the decades between them.

Alex’s lips brush Henry’s jawline, then lower to his collarbone, dragging slowly, letting the wet heat of his mouth set the pace as his finger presses in—just the tip at first, then deeper, slow and deliberate. There’s no rush, no awkwardness. Just the sensation of Alex’s fingers stretching him, coaxing Henry’s body to give, to relax—to open. Henry’s muscles, seasoned by age but still strong, tremble beneath the precision of Alex’s touch, and he feels the push of youth in Alex’s body—the relentless energy, the insatiable hunger that only comes from being that age. It’s so present, yet so invisible, and as much as Henry wishes he could forget about it entirely—he also can’t help but thoroughly enjoy it. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice raw, head tipping back as Alex works another finger inside him, the slight stretch a welcome burn; Henry’s hand comes up instinctively, curling into the curls, tugging slightly, and Alex groans—low, guttural, the sound of someone lost in his own desire. Henry’s skin, lined with the years of experience, carries the weight of fifty-five lived years, while Alex’s body against him hums with the energy of someone barely into their adulthood—but it doesn’t feel like a gap. It feels like balance—like two forces coming together, each with their own rhythm, yet perfectly in sync.

Each slow, deliberate thrust of Alex’s fingers feels like it’s tearing through Henry’s carefully built composure, undoing him with each press, each curl inside him; there’s no space for thought, only the raw, overwhelming pleasure that courses through him already, setting his skin on fire, burning him from the inside out. The stretch of Alex’s long, thick fingers is deeper now—sharper—and Henry lets out a guttural sound, somewhere between a moan and a curse, his hips moving of their own accord, pushing back against the intrusion, chasing the fullness, the ache.

Alex’s free hand moves to Henry’s thigh, gripping hard enough to leave marks, pulling him open wider, forcing his body to submit to the slow, torturous rhythm. Henry’s muscles tremble, his chest heaving, feeling the bite of Alex’s youth—his energy, his insatiable hunger that seems to pour into every touch, every movement. It’s overwhelming, almost too much, and yet Henry can’t get enough. He’s on the verge of breaking, of losing himself entirely, and he wants it—needs it. 

“More,” he begs, tugging Alex’s hair—even harder this time, pulling his head back as his body arches, their eyes glued to each other’s. “Please.” 

Alex gives it to him, Henry catching his bottom lip in between his own teeth when the third finger stretches him open—Alex pulls it out, replacing it with his own, Henry inhaling sharply as they sink into a raw, desperate kiss, Alex steadily thrusting his fingers in and out of him—far more familiar with Henry’s body than he should be. 

***

Alex curls his fingers inside Henry, searching for the place where he needs him the most, watching every flicker of emotion play across Henry’s face—the way his lips part in a silent gasp, the flush creeping down his neck, the way his thighs tremble and clench around Alex’s hand. Alex’s cock is rock hard, leaking, throbbing against Henry’s skin, and the friction from Henry’s desperate writhing only makes it worse. Dragging his teeth over Henry’s jawline, he bites down just enough to leave a mark, savoring the way Henry’s breath hitches. The wet sounds of his fingers sliding in and out of Henry fill the air, and he speeds up, hitting deeper, rougher, making Henry’s body jolt with every stroke. The tension coils tighter in both of them, Henry’s fingers digging into Alex’s scalp, pulling harder—demanding more.

Alex feels so much it hurts. It’s too early—way too early—but he wants this again—tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that; he doesn’t think he’s ever going to stop wanting it. 

“Baby,” he pants into the crook of Henry’s neck—the tone of his voice helpless and broken, even to his own ears. 

“Fuck me, love,” Henry breathes, as if a mind-reader—the hand in Alex’s hair relaxing, carding through the strands instead. “Fuck me.” 

Alex fumbles for the condom, his breath coming fast and ragged, their bodies pressed so tight together he can barely think; his hand trembles as he reaches between them, blindly ripping open the foil packet. They’re both too far gone to separate more than a few inches, his lips brushing Henry’s jaw in hurried, breathless kisses while he rolls the condom down over his aching cock. 

The darkness around them feels thick—like it’s closing in, the only light coming from the slivers of moon sneaking through the blinds.

Alex feels Henry’s hands roaming all over his body, fingers slipping and desperate, tracing the lines of his muscles like he's trying to memorize them in the dark. 

“Hurry,” he breathes, voice tight and raw—and Alex thinks it’s the hottest thing he’s ever experienced in his entire life, even before he feels Henry’s legs opening wider, his hips pushing up—begging. 

“Fuck,” Alex growls, aligning himself, kneading the backs of Henry’s thighs as he gently eases them apart, resting the head of his cock against him, sliding it through the slickness—teasing. The desperation between them feels like a living thing—neither of them able to pull away for even a second. Henry’s hand finds Alex’s hair again, tugging roughly, pulling him down into a messy, open-mouthed kiss that’s all teeth and tongues, all heat.

Alex can feel the tight resistance as he pushes in, the stretch making Henry gasp and clench around him, nails digging into Alex’s scalp; his cock sinks in slowly, inch by inch, each movement so raw and intense that Alex’s mind blanks out for a second. They’re so close, bodies molded together as he finally bottoms out, buried deep inside Henry, both of them breathing hard, barely holding on.

“Fuck,” Henry whispers, his voice breaking, his whole body trembling beneath Alex’s. 

“Yeah,” Alex somehow manages. “You ready?” 

“All you got, love,” Henry nods, his swollen lips brushing Alex’s—the faintest ghost of a kiss; his body tightens around Alex, thighs trembling, and it’s all Alex can do not to lose himself in the moment. Pulling back—just enough—he thrusts in again—deep and rough, Henry’s back bowing off the bed instantly, his head falling back, lips parted in a sharp gasp that cuts through the darkness. The sound is desperate, raw, and it shoots straight through Alex’s core. The bed creaks under the weight of their bodies, the slick, wet noise of Alex sliding in and out, driving deeper each time, filling the air along with Henry’s broken moans.

It’s all heat, pressure, and closeness—their skin sticking together, their breath shallow and heavy in the small, dark space. Alex’s hands tighten on Henry’s thighs, holding him in place, feeling every tremor that runs through him, every sharp intake of breath. The darkness feels thick around them, as if nothing else exists beyond this moment—the sound of their bodies meeting, the way Henry’s nails dig into Alex’s scalp, tugging his hair like he’s trying to pull it from the root—it all sends flames licking down the length of Alex’s spine, uncontrollable moans and groans poured straight down Henry’s throat as he fucks him—deeply—thoroughly. 

Alex moves faster, harder, their bodies slick with sweat, the pressure mounting with each thrust. His hand slides up Henry’s thigh to grip his hip, pulling him closer, angling deeper as Henry’s back arches, his head tipping back in ecstasy.

“You’re fucking—” Henry gasps, his voice catching on a breath. “—killing me, Christ, Alex.”

Alex moans in response, his forehead pressed to Henry’s as his hips snap forward, relentless. 

“Decide—uh, decide on a name, baby,” he manages between ragged breaths, his lips brushing Henry’s in the dark, teasing and messy, feeling the words as much as hearing them. Henry’s breath hitches, and his laugh is half delirious, half desperate, lost in the haze of pleasure. 

“Dick,” he murmurs, and Alex gives him an especially hard thrust, leaving them both breathless all over again. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he exhales, then, punctuating the statement with a quick, sharp slap to the back of Henry’s thick, savoring the beautiful way in which his back arches when he immediately follows it up with another hard thrust, hips slamming into him with a bruising force, the wet slap of their bodies echoing in the room; he can feel every inch of Henry gripping him—tight and hot, the way his muscles clench around his cock, pulling him deeper, milking him. The stretch is obscene, the way Henry's body takes him in, inch by inch, his breath coming out in broken gasps, desperate and wild. Alex digs his fingertips deeper into the flesh of his thigh, spreading him wider, thrusting harder, his cock hitting deep, driving into that spot that makes Henry's whole body tremble, his back arching off the bed in pure ecstasy.

The bed groans beneath them, but it's nothing compared to the guttural moans spilling from Henry's lips, one hand remaining in his hair; the other grasping at his back now, nails scratching down his spine like he needs to leave a mark, something permanent. Alex slides a hand up Henry's chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, the way his skin shudders under the touch. Their mouths collide, teeth scraping, tongues clashing, as Alex drives into him harder, pulling him apart in every way, yet somehow holding him together, too. It's more than physical—it’s as if they're unraveling, the barriers between them dissolving into nothing but heat and sensation.

“Fucking knew you could—“ Alex grunts into his mouth. “—take it—“ he manages. “—walking around with this—“ He takes his hand off of his chest to deliver a sharp rap to the back of his thigh before grabbing it, pushing it up and to the side the same as the other. “—ass, fucking made to be railed, huh? All you want?” 

At that, Henry nods desperately, both hands back in his hair, tugging roughly, lips brushing Alex’s as he jerks his head up and down. 

“Deserve it, too,” Alex hisses. “Cock’s all fucking yours, Hen, you feel that?” he pants, apparently somehow managing to hit an even better angle—one that has Henry writing beneath him, the inside of his bottom lip getting caught on the tip of Alex’s nose as he throws his head back into the pillow—but Alex is quick to follow him, stretching his neck to press their foreheads together again, as he finally gives up on holding Henry’s thighs open—Henry quick to fit his waist in a death-grip the second he lets them go, heels digging into his ass as Alex grabs his hair right back, both of them tugging desperately, their grunts syncing up. “Huge—“ Alex grunts. “—thick—“ Thrust. “—long—“ Thrust. “—throbbing—“ Thrust. “—young—“ Thrust. “—cock has been fucking, uh—“ Thrust. “—leaking for you since the second I fucking saw you, you, uh—“ Thrust.“—you know that?” 

The slick sound of Alex's cock sliding in and out of him fills the room, the heat between them unbearable. Henry's body tightens around him, his moans turning into sharp, broken gasps, his legs trembling, the pressure building with every thrust. 

“Think you wanted me to fuck you just like this—“ Henry’s broken, desperate reactions gives him the strength to continue. “—second you saw me too, huh?” 

“I—“ Henry gasps, breathlessly—hoarsely. “—wrong.” 

“Look—“ Alex grunts, the headboard undoubtedly chipping away at the wall, now, as he rails him even harder—a contrast to the soft way in which he grasps his face in between both of his hands, gently resting the pads of his thumbs against his chin. “—at me.” 

Henry does—his eyelids are heavy, and they can barely see each other in the sliver of moonlight and faint street-lights—but their eyes do meet. 

“This feel wrong?” Alex grunts. Henry’s jaw drops further, and Alex can’t help but shift his thumbs up, resting against the soft, swollen pillow of his bottom lip. Henry shakes his head—seemingly too out of it to keep his eyes open and speak. “No, it doesn’t,” Alex grins. “As for the age thing,” he adds through his teeth, slipping one of his thumbs further up, Henry accepting it like they’re doing a well-rehearsed dance, bobbing his head, swirling his tongue around it as Alex does his best to continue talking while still actively railing his fucking brains out. “—tell me it doesn’t turn you on just a little bit—“ he grunts. “—to know that, uh—that idiots are gonna say we don’t look right together, and uh—we’re still gonna go home and rail each other’s brains out about it. That, uh—that they’re gonna say that you should be with someone older and less fucked up, and uh—I should be with someone younger and, uh—it doesn’t fucking matter, ‘cause, uh—‘cause I only want you, and uh—“ he grunts. “—and, uh—at the risk of being conceited, I’m hoping that you, uh—also only want, uh—“ 

The next time he pauses to focus on thrusting, Henry doesn’t give him a chance to finish—instead he bats his thumb out of his mouth, and tightens his hold on his hair. 

“Yes,” he confirms into his mouth. “Yes, Alex—Christ, only want you.” 

Alex's hips snap forward, his thrusts growing erratic, driven by pure need—to the point where he has no choice but to grasp the back of Henry’s neck and the back of his head to protect it from the headboard, and to save him from a neck injury. It probably doesn’t look very coordinated anymore—and objectively, it shouldn’t be—it’s sloppy, terrible jackrabbit sex—but the sounds pouring out of Henry’s mouth are outright inhuman, echoing throughout the room as he clings to Alex, all limbs shaking as he can’t seem to decide whether he wants to meet him in the thrusts or run away from the overstimulation. As Henry clings and thrashes beneath him like a scared animal, Alex somehow finds the strength to give it to him even harder. His own orgasm is coiling in his stomach, but he can wait—Henry first. 

“Hurts,” Henry gasps—but before Alex can register the word enough to come to a stop, he clarifies; “Good. Don’t stop.” 

“Yeah?” Alex, nipping at his bottom lip as he grasps his hair even tighter, feeling Henry do the same to his own. Henry grunts in confirmation, his eyes closed now—tightly—but Alex can’t bring himself to look away. He’s too beautiful. 

“Hit,” Henry asks, then. “Please.” 

“Can’t,” Alex gasps, shifting his lips up to rest against Henry’s forehead. “Gotta hold your head when I’m, uh—giving it to you like it, baby—not sacrificing that beautiful brain to—fuck—get you some dick.” 

At that, Henry's body immediately tightens like a vice around Alex, the tension in his muscles rippling beneath Alex's hands as he feels him start to lose control. There's a split second where Henry goes completely still, his breath caught in his throat, and then he breaks—a broken, hoarse laugh leaving his throat, body convulsing as he comes hard—just from the drag of Alex's cock pounding into him.

Alex can feel the intensity of it—the way Henry clenches down around him so tight it almost hurts, every inch of his body shuddering as he spills between them; the wet heat of Henry's orgasm smears across their chests, slick and messy, making their skin slide together as Alex drives into him again, working him through it, feeling Henry pulse, his thighs trembling violently around Alex's waist.

“There we go, baby,” he breathes, breathing in the scent of his hair, lips brushing his temple. “Come so good for me, Hen, ‘m right here,” he feels the need to reassure him—the orgasm clearly one of the ones so extremely powerful they can be lined with a hint of something uncomfortable—like you’re actively leaving your body. 

The sensation is dizzying—Henry's body locking around him, the tight grip of his muscles, the slick mess between them as he feels his cock twitch a few more times, his muscles working around him. Alex isn’t railing him as hard anymore—but he still rolls his hips, leading him through it. 

The rawness of it, the sheer desperation of how Henry trembles under him, how his body keeps milking Alex with every thrust, sends Alex careening toward the edge despite slowing down. It's like Henry is unraveling beneath him, his nails scraping down his back, his moans breaking into soft, helpless cries as the last few aftershocks seem to rock him. Each gasp, each tremor, echoes in Alex's ears, and all he can think about is the way Henry feels—hot, slick, and so fucking tight around him. 

Henry’s legs drop off from around him, the mattress bouncing slightly with the impact—but his hands quickly replace his heels on his ass, wordlessly encouraging him to keep thrusting as he cranes his neck, chasing after Alex’s lips until Alex gets the point and sinks his tongue into his mouth, both of them humming, Alex soothingly dragging his hands all the way down the length of his body until he reaches his waist. 

“Kinda wanna, uh—“ Alex breathes into his mouth. “—pull out and come all over your chest—“ he huffs. “—gonna taste so good together.” 

“You’re bloody vile,” Henry croaks, but Alex feels the curve of a grin against his own. “Please do.” 

That’s all the approval Alex needs—after stealing one last messy kiss, and another handful of thrusts, he slows down, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to Henry’s throat as he eases himself out—getting up onto his knees and rolling the condom off—quickly tying it and tossing it to the side before shifting his attention back to Henry, their eyes meeting as he gets up onto his elbows. The morning daylight is just barely starting to break now—giving Alex a better view than he had a few minutes ago, and—Henry is so fucking beautiful he kind of wants to cry a little bit. He’s also hot as fuck, but—laying there, face flush, silver-accented hair falling over his forehead, soft cock resting over his hip, his chest smeared with his own come—his face, neck and chest flush with equal parts afterglow and stubble-burn—he’s so fucking beautiful. 

“Baby,” Alex croaks, shaking his head, grasping the outside of Henry’s thigh with the hand not currently wrapped around his own cock, steadily stroking himself off to the sight in front of him—he could speed up, could have this over-with in five seconds instead of sixty, but—he doesn’t want to; he wants to take this in. “How the fuck am I gonna do anything done now, huh? You’re gonna be reading in that chair by the window, and I’m just gonna wanna pull my dick out like a creep, you’re so fucking beautiful.” 

“Not creepy when you have consent, love,” Henry huffs with a tug of a grin—dropping himself back onto the bed, clearly too tired to hold himself up, but seemingly more than happy to let Alex drag this out as much as he wants—if the way he shifts his gaze down to his own chest, and idly runs his fingers through his own come is any indication. “Although, if you think you are ever again going to be laying around the house with your balls full, I am afraid you are deeply underestimating me.” Before Alex can fully process those words, Henry is adjusting himself, pushing himself up onto his knees and then sinking back onto his heels, batting Alex’s own hand away and replacing it with both of his own—leisurely twisting them up and down his cock with just enough pressure, as he lets the tip rest against the seam of his lips. “Seal’s broken now, love—one of us is a very good boy, and it’s not me.” 

“Oh my god,” Alex yells—the sound undoubtedly echoing all the way out into the hallway, and perhaps even throughout the entire brownstone—tipping his head back—but he only lets his eyes stay closed for a split second before he shifts his attention back down to Henry—just in time to watch him brace his hands against his pelvis, swallowing his cock down to the base in a single go. Whore. Alex doesn’t say it out loud—although something tells him Henry wouldn’t particularly mind—but he thinks it, his mind flashing with all the cocks Henry has probably had to practice on in the past few decades—sends out a mental thank you note to all of them, and an apology that they’ll never again get to experience it. “Show-off,” he mutters with a grin, gently combing the strands Henry sweat-soaked hair backwards, away from his face as he watches his lips tense into an aborted smile, throat squeezing his cock before he pulls off with a gasp, hands immediately taking over again, breaking the strand of saliva tying them together, tucking it back over the head of his cock as he works him expertly, the slick sounds absolutely fucking filthy. 

“I’m not showing off, love—you’re just in very good hands.” 

“That I fucking am,” Alex agrees, both of them chuckling—and the view of Henry’s cheeks flushing, and him ducking his head—while Alex’s flush, leaking, throbbing cock is right fucking there in his hands, bumping up against his cheek and lips—god, the contrast is dizzying. “You’re ruining me for everybody else, you know that, right?” he adds, then—and he may be joking—but it’s not a lie. They haven’t known each other quite long enough to make any long-term plans, but Alex can’t imagine that he will ever want anybody else ever again. No way. “Ugly, beautiful cardigans and that crease in your forehead when you can’t find the tea you want, and no gag reflex, you’re so fucking perfect, baby,” he adds as Henry hums, rubbing his lips along the underside of his cock. “Do you always laugh when you come?” 

“I have been told I do, yes,” Henry confirms, and Alex grins, sucking a breath in through his teeth. Fuck, he wants to hear that breathy, hoarse laugh for the rest of his life. “Mostly when it’s really good, though.” 

“Hm, noted,” Alex nods, tucking another strand of Henry’s hair back when it falls over his forehead. “If I ever don’t get a laugh, I’ll get right back to work, baby.” 

“Should I be offended you consider it work to engage in intercourse with me?” Henry asks—and Alex laughs, watching Henry’s mouth tense up into a curve as well, even as he tries to hide it beneath the head of his cock. 

“Engaging in intercourse, god, keep talking dirty to me, baby,” he sighs. “You know, we could always make it work—start an OnlyFans. Twenty-three year-old community college student rails hot, beautiful, brilliant, middle-aged silver fox.” 

Alex’s eyes twinkle—and while it’s on the tip of Henry’s tongue to comment on the quite admirable fox-pun, or inform him of the obvious fact that an OnlyFans is not in the cards for them—something else seems a lot more imminent. 

“Hot—” he starts, rubbing the head of Alex’s cock over the seam of his lips.”—strong, kind, astoundingly bright twenty-three year-old with a positive future gets deepthroated by older man?” he hums, lips still pressed to the head of his cock—taking him back in for a second before he changes his mind, and pulls back off. “Actually, no, let’s keep the silver fox pun, it’s actually quite good.” 

Henry may not be supporting Alex in quite the paternal capacity he was originally planning to—but whether Alex is crying on his shoulder or rocking his cock into his mouth—it will be a cold day in hell before Henry lets any self-deprecating comments slide. Fuck that. 

Whatever response Alex had ready is obliterated the second Henry pulls back—just enough to give Alex a front-row seat to the obscene show of him pursing his lips; the loud, wet sound of Henry hacking up a thick wad of spit cuts through the room, and Alex watches, dazed, as it lands with pinpoint precision right on the sensitive tip of his cock. For a split second, he thinks Henry’s going to stroke it down the length, spread it with those skilled fingers, but no—instead, Henry tips his head back, his lips ghosting over Alex’s shaft, and instead of wiping it away, he uses Alex’s cock to paint it right across his own face.

Precome and warm spit mix together, smeared across Henry’s cheek, his lips, his jaw, like he’s marking himself with it, owning the filth of it; Alex’s heart slams against his chest, his vision narrowing to the sight of Henry, so fucking obscene and beautiful, nuzzling against him like it’s nothing, like the act of covering himself in Alex’s slick is the most natural thing in the world. It’s too much—far too much—and Alex feels the sharp jolt of desire surge through him, his legs shaking, vision blurring—only barely hanging on, mind wiped completely clean except for the raw heat curling through his body, every nerve alight.

“God, I’m fucking dreaming,” he curses—but the funny thing is, he knows he’s not, because there is no way in hell his own brain could come up with the sight currently in front of him. Henry presses a grin to the underside of his cock, and Alex swears he’s about to black out, every muscle trembling with the effort it takes not to come right then and there, the sight of Henry wrecking him more thoroughly than he thought possible. “You fucking love this, huh?” he manages, then. Because the same way he could have made himself come two seconds after he pulled out of Henry—Henry could have made him come his brains out several minutes ago—but he’s not—he’s toying, playing with Alex’s cock like it’s his favorite thing in the world. “How many times have you thought about this, huh?” he manages through his teeth, then, the corner of his mouth twitching as he finds a gentle grip on Henry’s hair as he wraps his lips around him once again—Henry is still steering them, but Alex holds on, following him up and down as he bobs his head. “How many times have you wanted to get on your knees for me? Wondered how I’d, uh—how I’d feed stretching your jaw?” 

Too many times—that’s the answer, as heinous as it is. Granted, they were usually just a flicker of a thought before he forced himself to push them aside—but they have been there, regardless—far too often. 

“A lot,” he finally answers, when he pulls off with a slight gasp, allowing his hands to take over again. “Felt heinous about it,” he adds, and Alex hums, gently massaging his scalp, tugging at the strands. 

“Good,” Alex nods. “You’ve been starving both of us, sweetheart—we could have been doing this the entire time,” he sucks a breath in through his teeth, and Henry hums, hungrily taking him back down his throat—deeper now, reveling in the familiar, filthy clucking sound of the head of Alex’s cock hitting the back of his throat. “On the couch,” Alex says. “In the kitchen. Shower. Stairs,” he continues, one on each bob of Henry’s head, his fingers flexing in his hair, both of them equally in control of the pace now. Henry moans—deliberately pouring the vibrations into his cock. Alex moans right back, shaking his head in disbelief. “Hallway. Piano. Fast. Slow. Rough. Soft. Telling you how beautiful you are. How much of a slut you are. How fucking lucky I am.” If Henry were fifteen, twenty years younger, he’s fairly sure his cock would already be happily up and bobbing against his stomach by now—he can feel his body’s respectable effort of the pressure in his balls. “I’m a little insulted you think I’m cruel enough to deny you a cock down your throat, baby,” Alex adds, a teasing tilt to his voice now. “Never seen you look so fucking happy, you really like it, huh? Want it just like this?” he asks, his fingers growing tighter in his hair, taking over just a little bit, forcing Henry just a little bit further down his cock—not so hard he can’t object, but testing the waters to see if Henry is right there with him. And fuck—Henry doesn’t think he has never been so right there with anyone before. 

“Yeah, you want it just like this,” Alex confirms with a grin when Henry pours a thick moan into his cock, the vibrations deep, his stomach lurching with the pleasure; Henry’s hands leave his cock, finding purchase on his hips instead, and Alex takes it as a green light to tighten his hold on his hair even more, gaze glued to Henry’s beautiful eyes as he steers his open, talented throat up and down his cock. “Don’t worry, baby,” he hums. “Never not gonna be leaking come from now on, okay? Gonna be dripping out of your ass, all over your face, gonna take care of you, baby, gonna get used every second of every day, I promise,” he moans—pleased when another thick moan rolls into his cock, Henry’s eyes to the back of his head as Alex gently starts to rock his own hips to meet the back of his throat, the filthy, sloppy clucking sound growing louder just as Henry fits his eyes back into place, once again meeting Alex’s.

It doesn’t feel like something he should be bringing up in the heat of the moment—but as soon as they’re done here, Alex absolutely intends on asking Henry to get tested, because he needs to see his come leaking out of his beautiful ass—like, yesterday. 

“I hit the fucking jackpot, baby, I’m so fucking lucky—god, you should see yourself,” Alex moans, then, shaking his head as he fully crosses the threshold of fucking his throat, the beautifully filthy sounds echoing loudly around them as saliva and precome pour down Henry’s chin. Henry squeezes his hips—and Alex knows that it’s a reciprocation. Henry telling him he hit the fucking jackpot, that he’s so lucky. “Where you want it, huh?” he pants, then—roughly pulling him off of him, before just as suddenly tugging him back in, tapping his cock against his cheek as Henry pants, catching his breath. 

“Face,” he says. 

“Yeah? Want my load all over your pretty face? Mark you up?” 

“Yes, please,” Henry nods desperately, and Alex is helpless to stop himself from quickly dipping his head, stealing a filthy, messy, salty kiss from his lips before he straightens back up, knuckles white around his grip on Henry’s hair as he jerks himself off in front of his face, Henry happily tilting his head back, presenting his tongue. 

“My baby’s polite,” Alex grins through a moan. 

Alex’s grip tightens in Henry’s hair, knuckles turning white as he watches him tilt his head back, lips parted, tongue out like an offering, eyes bright, blown with lust—waiting, his face already slick with spit and precome, shining under the low light. It’s filthy, the sight of him—so eager, so ready—and it makes something snap in Alex; his chest heaves as he strokes his cock faster, the slick sound of it mixing with Henry’s ragged breaths, every movement winding him tighter, pushing him closer to the edge.

“Fuck, you look so good,” Alex groans, voice wrecked, watching the way Henry’s eyes flutter shut, briefly stealing his tongue back to moan another ‘please’—so soft it’s almost drowned out by the wet slap of Alex’s hand on his cock. The desperation in Henry’s voice sends a shiver down Alex’s spine, the filthy need of it making him lose any sense of control he had left as he slaps the head of his cock down onto the surface of his tongue. 

The tension builds fast, unbearably tight, and Alex’s breath catches in his throat, his body trembling as he teeters on the edge; his hand moves faster, jerking himself right in front of Henry’s face, the sight of him with his mouth open, tongue out, waiting, driving him wild. It’s too much, the heat, the slickness, the way Henry’s eyes flick up at him, so obedient, so patient, yet so fucking desperate for it. 

“Yeah, baby,” Alex pants, his voice breaking as he tips his head back, eyes remaining on Henry’s as he bucks his hips forward into his own hand. “Gonna mark you up—gonna paint your pretty face—fuck, fuck—” It’s Henry’s beautiful hands giving an encouraging squeeze to his hips that finally tips him over the edge—his hips jerking uncontrollably as he comes, hot and thick, the first spurt splashing across Henry’s cheek, his nose, his waiting tongue. 

Henry groans in response, his whole body leaning into it, letting the mess coat him, eyes fluttering shut as he takes it, letting Alex paint him with his come; he doesn’t flinch once—doesn’t move, just lets it happen, his lips curling into the slightest hint of a smile as the last drops of Alex’s release fall onto his tongue. The sight is devastatingly filthy—Henry’s face marked, messy, a sinful display of surrender that has Alex’s knees shaking, his orgasm dragging on as he milks himself dry. 

“God, fuck,” Alex breathes out, voice still ragged, his chest heaving as he gives himself one last stroke before he lets go and leans down, fingers tangling in Henry’s hair, and pulls him in for another filthy kiss, tasting himself on Henry’s lips, moaning into his mouth as the exhaustion and satisfaction flood through him, his body weak. “You’re so fucking perfect,” Alex whispers against Henry’s lips, pressing their foreheads together, both of them panting, bodies still trembling from the aftermath. Henry hums softly, his hands squeezing Alex gently as he smiles, his face still a glorious, wrecked mess. 

Henry collapses backwards, his hands shifting up to each side of Alex’s neck as he smoothly follows him, trailing kisses all over his face, cleaning him up; Henry feels so fucked out, he doesn’t even have the energy to crack a joke about the tissues in his nightstand two feet away—he just… enjoys it. Revels in the weight of Alex on top of him, his large hands caressing his sides, up and down; the warmth of his mouth on his own—on his cheeks, his forehead, his chin, his neck—everywhere. 

Henry’s fingers slip through Alex’s hair, feeling the soft, sweat-damp curls beneath his fingertips as Alex continues to pepper his face with kisses, tender and unhurried—growing somewhat more chaste as he runs out of come to clean, but remaining just as warm, and just as comforting. There’s something grounding in the way Alex holds him, the warmth of his body radiating through every point where they’re pressed together; Henry’s breath hitches slightly as Alex’s mouth moves lower, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of his throat, making him shiver despite how spent he feels. The lazy, almost reverent way Alex touches him makes Henry’s chest ache in a way he can’t quite explain—like something too big to put into words, yet something he understands in his bones.

Henry feels the years between them in moments like this—the strength in Alex’s body, the youthful vigor in every caress, every kiss; his fingers drift down to Alex’s broad shoulders, tracing the sharp lines of his muscles, marveling at how solid and warm he is; his own body feels softer in comparison, worn by time and experience, but Alex holds him like he’s something precious, like none of that matters. Henry feels a bittersweet rush of gratitude wash over him, not because of any direct insecurity about his age, but because Alex makes him feel timeless. As Alex nuzzles the hollow of his throat, murmuring something too soft to catch, Henry’s heart swells, and for a moment, he’s lost in the heady sensation of being cherished so thoroughly.

The press of Alex’s weight against him is a comfort, an anchor in the afterglow. Henry’s hands slide back up, gripping Alex’s biceps, feeling the youthful strength there; he doesn’t feel older when Alex holds him like this—he just feels seen, understood in a way that transcends the years between them. 

Alex shifts slightly, then, propping himself up just enough to catch Henry’s gaze, their foreheads brushing, followed by the tips of their noses. Henry’s breath catches at the intensity in Alex’s eyes—so full of care—of something deeper. Henry smiles—a slow, tired smile that feels like it belongs to someone much younger, and Alex’s hand comes up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing a lazy line across his skin. 

“You okay?” Alex’s voice is quiet, but the question feels loaded—intimate. As if he’s wondering whether or not Henry is going to spiral now that they have both come—regret what they just did, and insist it’s not right. Quite frankly, a part of Henry is waiting for the same feelings to rush in—but they never do; instead, he nods, not trusting himself to speak immediately, and somehow not needing to. He’s more than okay; he’s wrapped up in the feeling of Alex all around him, and the age difference—the years of wear on his body, the lines on his face—none of it matters. Not here, not now. All that matters is the way Alex looks at him, the way he holds him, like Henry’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Henry tilts his head, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Alex’s mouth, his hands sliding back down to rest on his sides, and for once, he lets himself just exist in this moment—loved, wanted, completely and utterly seen.