Archive of Our Own

“Hen, we—fuck—we can’t,” Alex shakes his head, jaw tensing as he bites down on his own tongue, eyes clenching shut as he wills the flames inside of him to cease their licking through his veins. 

All he gets in response is a slight noise—somewhat needy, but mostly argumentative—as the weight in his lap rolls once more; with his eyes remaining shut, Alex balls his fists around the covers where he lies back on his forearms. 

“It certainly feels like you want to, love,” Henry’s—deep, sultry, far too fucking British, which Alex has somehow not grown immune to, even after spending nearly an entire year in this country—voice hums. 

“I—I…” Alex tries, but he’s completely and utterly unable to get anything more coherent out of his stupid mouth. Fuck, how the hell did he let himself get here? This isn’t who he is, he’s not some disgusting creep who would ever let his eyes linger on someone who isn’t even fucking legal—that’s not… that’s… even the idea of that has his gut swirling with sour guilt and disgust. 

Henry is… Alex first met him about six months ago, now, when Nora first started hooking up with his best friend Pez, who is about a year and a half older than Henry, himself. After that, the four of them kind of ended up forming this tight-knit group—spending most of their free time held up in one of their dorms, laughing, and talking, and eating take-out on the floor. 

And, well… Henry is beautiful, of course he is—in a… general sense of the word; and he’s also brilliant—he would have to be, in order to get into one of the most esteemed universities in the entire world a full year early. Henry is funny, and passionate about literature, and queer history, and his smile is… yeah, Henry is… Henry. 

Alex feels a lot of things about Henry, he likes Henry—but he doesn’t like Henry like this, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t. 

Except it’s nearly midnight, and Pez and Nora are passed the fuck out in Pez’s dorm across the hall, and Alex doesn’t even think he can blame two fingers of whiskey for the fact that he somehow let Henry drag him over to his own dorm, let him push him down into the bed, and climb onto his lap, but—God, what other grace is there he can possibly give himself? Not that anything would ever be enough—he could find excuse after excuse, but none of them would change the fact that he’s nearly old enough to drink back home in America, and he’s got a fucking seventeen year-old in his lap, grinding like his hips are made of smooth waves, steadily rocking up onto the shore of Alex’s body. 

“Would you like me to stop?” Henry questions, voice remaining warm—and his hips do slow down, but Alex also feels him shift—feels the delicate wisp of warm breath washing over his face, the mattress dipping to his left, likely from the weight of a palm supporting Henry’s weight as he leans over him. Alex isn’t dumb enough to open his eyes—but he also can’t seem to get his heavy tongue to cooperate—so… he says nothing. “Would you like me to dismount you? Leave you alone to take care of that massive, throbbing cock in your joggers? Let you wrap a hand around yourself and pretend you’re not thinking of me while you come all over yourself? Would that make you feel better, love?” Alex feels him shift again, the smooth, determined rolls of his hips growing heavier once again, the weight of two palms finding Alex’s clothed chest, warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “Or would you rather take that cock out while I’m still here? Bury yourself in a tight arse instead?” 

“Underaged,” Alex rasps, knowing full well it comes out far closer to a moan than it should. “S… seventeen—you’re fucking seventeen, Henry, I can’t—oh, fuck,” he curses when Henry manages an especially good roll of his hips. 

“Only for…” Henry trails off, and Alex feels his weight shifting to the side—likely to get a glimpse of the clock-radio on Alex’s nightstand. “…twenty more minutes, love.” 

“Mhm,” Alex nods, genuine frustration mingling with sexual frustration. “But you are now,” he reiterates, because… okay, realistically, what difference do twenty minutes actually make? And sure, he is able to recognize that he, himself, is twenty—and not… twenty-five, or thirty, or whatever, but still. Fuck, he wants to be a lawyer—his brain already is in a lot of ways, and because of that, well—twenty minutes make a whole hell of a lot of a difference, actually.

“Would you open your eyes for me, Alex?” Henry asks, after a beat of silence—and he sounds genuine, he sounds sweet—and that, combined with the fact that his hips have come to an actual stop—is what has Alex obeying the request, blinking a few times to take in the view in front of him, cool moonlight bleeding in through the gaps in the blinds, falling across Henry’s bare chest. 

Alex doesn’t know when the fuck he took his hoodie off, but it doesn’t matter—because here he is, now, perched on Alex’s lap, dressed in nothing but a soft, washed-out pair of beagle-printed pajama pants, his hair—usually so carefully styled—falling across his forehead like the dainty wisp of a feather. 

Henry has never looked younger. Henry has never looked older. Henry has never looked softer. Henry has never looked more like himself, he’s never looked more comfortable, more confident, he’s never looked… happier. Fuck. Alex deeply regrets opening his eyes. 

“There you are, love,” Henry smiles, not an ounce of playful, sexual undertone in his voice. It’s just soft. Kind. Sweet. 

“Henry…” Alex sounds—and it’s not a whine, but… it might be. 

“Do you want me?” Henry asks—as if he already knows the answer; Alex thinks he does. 

“I’m not having sex with a seventeen year-old, Henry,” Alex shakes his head. Henry hums, nodding, as one of his hands shifts down, sliding in beneath the hem of Alex’s t-shirt, before continuing up, resting between his pecs. The gesture should feel teasing—sexual—but it doesn’t; it feels… comforting. 

“Would you be amenable to having sex with an eighteen year-old Henry?” he asks, then—which has Alex barking out a laugh, his head falling backwards. On one hand, he still doesn’t want to admit it, because really? If he were to sink into Henry’s body the second he’s officially eighteen in the eyes of the law, when he’s already six months into a friendship, well, then… what does that say about him? On the other hand, well… the massive, unmistakable fucking tent in his gray sweats that Henry has gotten extremely acquainted with for the past fifteen minutes has probably put them well past the point of denial. “If it would make you more comfortable, we could always call it a birthday present,” he suggests, then—and when Alex picks his head up, and lets their eyes meet, he’s got this… smile on his face, this light in this eyes—god… fuck. 

“Oh, that’s what you want for your birthday, huh?” Alex teases. “Older cock?” 

At that, Henry gives a playful click of his tongue. 

“I’ve wanted one specific older cock for a while now, Alex,” he assures him. “Just had a feeling an attempt wouldn’t be all that successful before tonight.”

“Well, you’re… right about that,” Alex says, and Henry hums. 

“You’re a good friend, Alex,” he says, then—and something about the tone of his voice, something about the way he’s let his gaze fall to the spot where his hand rests over Alex’s sternum—has Alex holding his breath, has his fingers twitching on the covers, fighting the urge to react out. “A beautiful man,” he adds, and when those words are accompanied by a slight, teasing scratch of his short nails over the skin of Alex’s chest—Alex has no choice but to let his eyes fall closed, collecting himself. He can’t. Not yet. Preferably, ideally, not at all—but either way. Not yet. “Which is why I have a feeling you’re going to give me everything I want.” 

Alex doesn’t have the energy to refute the claim; he’s just… too weak. Weakened by the smooth, buttery tone of his voice, by the weight of his body over his hips, by the warmth of his hands on his chest—the second one now slipped in beneath the hem of his t-shirt to join the first, his monogrammed pinky ring cool against a nipple. Just resting—but there, nonetheless. 

“In fact…” Henry continues, and when Alex feels the weight of him start to rock again, he has no choice but to dig his teeth deep, deep into his tongue once again, only seconds away from tasting blood, his knuckles growing white around the grip he keeps of the covers. “…I’ve such utter faith in you, that I’ve already made sure you’ll have a very…” Another roll of his hips. “…easy time giving me what I want.” 

Then there’s another roll of his hips—just as filthy—but this time, his weight shifts, just a little bit, backwards—just enough to let Alex feel the object between Henry’s ass and his own thigh—unmistakable even through the two layers of thin fabric. 

Eyes remaining closed, Alex drops his head back again, letting it hang between his shoulders as a sound of exasperation fades into a wry chuckle; he hears Henry join in with a chuckle or two—but he doesn’t allow himself the risk of opening his eyes before their laughter fades away. Not that it matters—because when he does open his eyes, Henry’s grin is wide and bright, and… far too innocent, but his eyes are dark, and he’s still shifting his hips a little bit, almost as if he’s not even really thinking about it, but he looks so soft in those fucking pajama pants that—judging by the taunting way in which they stretch over his thighs—he’s probably had since he was just entering puberty, and Alex can still feel the plug against his thigh, and—

“You know, if an eighteen year-old Henry crawled on top of me and started grinding all over my cock with a plug up his ass, I’d probably call him a slut.” Alex shouldn’t be saying any of this—but his mind feels cloudy, and his cock is aching, and there’s gotta be, what? Sixteen minutes left now? Fourteen? Something like that. Alex still cares—of course he does; his own hands will not leave these sheets until that clock reaches midnight, and his hips won’t twitch, god help him—and he’s still not sure how he feels about… all of this, theoretically, but… it’s becoming gradually more difficult to deny the man on top of him. 

“Hm…” Henry hums, and then he leans back, his hands slipping out from under Alex’s shirt; he tries not to miss the weight—and he’s not sure he does, not when he gets a hand on his thigh instead, Henry leaning back—unabashed, and unashamed as his remaining hand shifts the waistband of his pajama pants down, eyes remaining trained on Alex’s as his cock springs free. Commando. Of course. “Seventeen year-old Henry is indeed quite the slag—so was sixteen year-old Henry. I highly doubt eighteen year-old Henry will object,” he says—and Alex looks deep into his eyes, forcing himself to keep his gaze from wandering down. One glance was more than enough—Henry is fucking huge. Bright, and pink, and uncut, his delicate, piano-playing fingers curled around a length half the size of his forearm, and Alex’s mouth is already watering, but he can’t. Not yet. Can’t. Won’t. 

“So that’s what you think he’ll be doing?” Alex asks, voice strained; he tries to keep a hint of humor in his tone, but he’s not sure he’s all that successful. “You think eighteen year-old Henry’s gonna have a lot of fun? Fucking his way through campus?” 

At that, Henry smiles—he doesn’t smirk, and there’s no teasing tilt to the expression—fuck, his eyes even seem to go… soft. Alex is so fucking fucked.

“Seventeen year-old Henry has spent six months getting off to nothing but the thought of loudmouthed, American boys, love,” he says, and Alex takes a breath. “I don’t think eighteen year-old Henry’s mind will be any less preoccupied with the thought of you,” he says, breathing smooth but slightly heavier as he rocks into his own hand—lazily, almost. “I think he’ll be perfectly happy being a slag for you, and only you.” 

You can’t say that when I can’t fucking touch you, Alex almost says—but he doesn’t. Not. Yet. 

“How long?” he rasps, instead. 

“Roughly twenty-one centimeters last time I bothered with a ruler,” Henry says with a cheeky glance down —and Alex clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes. 

“Henry,” Alex whines now—it’s a playful whine, but a whine, nonetheless. 

“Hm,” Henry hums with a glance over to the clock. “Eleven minutes.” 

Alex feels like a monster, but, God—that sounds like a fucking eternity right now; something about the expression on his face must betray him, because once again, Henry hums—and then he’s dismounting him, and Alex is left to watch as he stands at the foot of the bed, the two of them sharing brief look. Then he turns around, and… there is absolutely no need to fold himself practically completely in half only to push his pants to the floor—but Alex doesn’t have the brain-power to poke fun at him for it—especially because Henry is clearly showing off, and it fucking works. The base of the plug is plain—black, likely silicone—but it’s wide. God, how fucking big is that thing? 

“God, how fucking big is that thing?” Shit. 

“Massive,” Henry confirms—and Alex swallows down a needy groan, clutching the covers tighter. “Told you I would make it smooth for you,” he adds, then—and Alex expects him to turn around, but he doesn’t; instead, he backs up towards the bed, and in a move that he somehow manages to make look extremely graceful—he swings himself back up onto the bed, straddling Alex backwards now—hands braced on the bed between Alex’s knees. Or at least he assumes so—but he can’t quite see much at all beyond the swell of his ass. Shit. Fuck. Alex tastes more blood; his hands may never relax out of their fists ever again. “Don’t worry, love,” Henry practically purrs. “I know you won’t touch a seventeen year-old.” It could sound teasing—like he’s trying to get Alex to break before the clock strikes midnight—but it doesn’t; it sounds genuine—reassuring. This is foreplay—killing time until Alex can actually join in; Henry isn’t trying to get him to betray his morals—a realization that only has Alex tasting even more blood, still. “You’re already doing so good, laying back, keeping your hands to yourself,” he says, then, and the praise strikes Alex right in his gut, his cock twitching—as if it can possibly get any harder than it already is—fuck, he’s so hard it’s painful. “I’m just entertaining myself, making sure I’ll be ready to accept your present,” he says—and then, one of his hands comes back, sliding over his own ass, tender fingers slipping down to brush over the base of the plug. 

“Look pretty fucking ready to me,” Alex bites before he’s able to stop himself—but any real cut is greatly undermined by just how fucking breathless he sounds. Shit. 

“You think so, love?” Henry hums, and—fuck, his voice is so deep; it always is, but… now more than ever. It’s dripping off of his tone—how much he wants this. How much he wants Alex. “I do feel quite…” he continues, as his hand finds a grip on the base, shifting it a little bit. Henry releases a soft, breathy moan—Alex feels a similar sound curl around his own vocal cords, but he digs his teeth deeper into his tongue in order to keep himself quiet. “…open,” Henry says, then—hissing, sucking a breath in through his teeth as he finally pulls the plug loose, and—fuck, that thing is huge. Half the size of Alex’s fist, at least. 

“Henry.” The name leaves Alex’s mouth—he’s not sure if it’s a moan, or a protest, or a whine, or a… fuck, he doesn’t know. Everything, and all of the above, most likely. 

Henry merely hums—and it doesn’t sound particularly playful this time, it just sounds… content. Fuck. 

The plug is tossed somewhere next to them, the hand soon returned to Henry’s ass, fingertips brushing over the stretched rim, a soft moan leaving his lips. Alex is starting to get used to the taste of his own blood. 

“How do I look, love?” he asks, then—his hand sliding back up to one of the globes of his ass, his lithe fingers curling as he finds a grip on the flesh, kneading it as he pulls himself open. 

“Open,” Alex manages, voice hoarse. “So open—fuck, I think I can see inside of you,” he adds—which is somewhat of an exaggeration, especially with nothing but moonlight to help them—but the words drag a deep, pleased moan out of Henry’s throat, regardless. 

“It’s warm,” Henry says, then—as he shifts, the bed dipping deeper between Alex’s legs, Henry adding a second hand to his own ass, holding himself open completely now, still kneading the soft, full flesh of his cheeks. Fuck, those hands look so strong. So delicate, yet so strong. “Inside,” he adds. “It’s so warm, Alex. So soft,” he continues, and Alex wonders if he knows—if he knows that Alex desperately needs him to keep talking, because if he stops talking, Alex is going to keep talking, and if that happens, he might do something extraordinarily stupid. “So tight,” he continues, extending a middle finger to slip it inside of himself, just barely—just to the very first knuckle. “It’s a damn good arse, Alex,” he says—as if he knows exactly what Alex would be saying if he could. Alex doesn’t have nearly enough blood left in his brain to throw out a teasing comment about how Henry keeps complimenting himself—it’s true, it’s all true. It’s also fucking hot to see Henry like this—so confident, he always likes to see Henry confident in himself, regardless of the setting. On top of all of that, there remains the fact that he keeps voicing Alex’s thoughts out loud—helping him, because he knows him. Fuck. “It was made to take cock, made to get used. It’s—hmm,” Henry cuts himself off with a hum of pleasure when he sinks his middle and ring finger into himself—all the way, the descent smooth like butter as his other hand pulls the flesh wider. “It’s already been thoroughly used—“

“—guess English boarding schools do have a reputation,” Alex cuts in before he’s able to stop himself—and Henry… laughs—it’s not pretty, it’s almost a snort actually—but the sound sends Alex’s stomach tumbling with something far more significant than a need for sex. Fuck, he likes him. A lot. Shit. 

“You are correct,” Henry confirms. “It always wants more, though,” he continues, lazily thrusting his fingers once, twice, before he pulls them out, the digits glistening, transferring a swipe of the shimmer to his cheek as he finds a grip on either globe of his ass once again. “God, Alex,” he moans, then—and it sounds breathy, needy—his cheek likely pressed tightly to the sheets, his warm lips brushing the skin of Alex’s calf. “The moment that clock hits midnight, you better bloody rail me,” he says—punctuating the plea with a sharp—and, at least to Alex, completely unexpected—spank to his left cheek, the sound so loud it echoes throughout the small dorm room, ringing like a gun firing. 

“Shit,” the word slips out through Alex’s lips, and he doesn’t bother stopping it—couldn’t, even if he tried; not with the way he watches the flesh jiggle before it settles back into place, the pale skin already flush from the impact. “I will,” he assures him—because, really—who the hell is he fooling anymore? “That’s how you want your gift?” he adds, voice tight. “Rough?” 

“Yes—christ,” Henry confirms, breathy and desperate. “Want you to be a good boy and destroy it for me,” he adds, with another spank, which… fuck. “I want you to leave me bruised and swollen, I don’t want to be able to walk afterwards, do you think you can do that for me?” 

“Yes,” Alex confirms, without missing a single beat. Then he regretfully tears his eyes away from the view in front of him, instead craning his neck to get a look at the clock. “Four minutes—turn around,” he says—and Henry obeys instantly, dismounting him once again, Alex taking the opportunity to hook his thumbs into both of his waistbands—it’s probably a little bit clumsy, the way he kicks his briefs and sweats off, t-shirt soon joining the pile on the floor—but Henry doesn’t seem to mind in the least. Judging by the way he merely stands at the foot of the bed, steadily stroking himself with a flick of his wrist, eyes wandering hungrily over Alex’s body—it seems to be quite the opposite. 

“Raw,” Henry says when Alex reaches for some lube and a condom out of his nightstand. 

“Hen…” Alex manages through a sigh, his tone warning as he drops the items next to his own hip, their eyes meeting. 

“I haven’t shagged anyone since I got here—I only… Christ, I only wanted you—and I know you haven’t shagged anyone since that archeology major a few months back, you’ve practically been glued to your books,” Henry says, which… admittedly, is true. “And it’s only been a month since we all got that flyer,” he continues—not whining, but just… laying the facts out. Calmly. Rationally. It shouldn’t be hot. “You’re just as responsible as I am, Alex, I know you jumped at the chance to get a free STI test, and if you weren’t negative, I’m fairly sure you would have let us know, you told us when you got a spot in your armpit,” he says, raising an eyebrow. 

“It was painful,” Alex defends himself. Henry smiles. Not a grin—just a close-mouthed, warm smile. Fuck, he’s beautiful. There’s a beat of silence. A comfortable one. It’s stupid—but, then again, that kind of feels like a running theme tonight. 

Then—Alex lets a sharp breath leave his nose, and with a shake of his head, he finds the lube, making sure to keep his eyes firmly on Henry’s as he foregoes his own palm, and instead drizzles it over his throbbing cock like chocolate sauce on an ice cream cone. 

Henry’s eyebrows knit, a faint line appearing in his forehead as he strokes himself, arm seemingly trembling, just a little bit. 

“You really need it bad, huh?” Alex asks as he strokes himself—and it could sound like a tease, in fact, he thinks that’s how he means for it to come out—but it doesn’t. It leaves his lips, and it sounds genuine—caring. Which it is, he realizes. Fuck, he just wants to take care of him. Give him what he needs. Make him happy. Shit, he wants to make Henry so fucking happy. 

“Fuck, Alex, I—you haven’t got the faintest idea,” he shakes his head. 

Once again, Alex cranes his neck to get a look at the clock. 

“Well,” he says, finding Henry’s eyes once again, as he lets his hands fall to the sheets. “One minute left—bring your fancy vocabulary and that tiny little waist over here,” he says, leaving his hands where they are, but moving his index fingers in a ‘come here’ gesture. “Park that ass where it belongs, baby,” he adds—slapping the tops of his own thighs, as if Henry isn’t already climbing on top of him. 

For a split second, Alex is scared that Henry is going to take those words as a green light for everything—but thankfully, he doesn’t; he doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t wrap a hand around Alex’s cock. Instead, he rests his palms on his sternum, the same way as before; he shifts his hips a little bit, Alex’s cock sliding easily into the crease of his ass. 

They’re not looking at each other, though—Alex has his neck craned again, and he knows Henry’s watching the clock like a hawk, the same way he is. There’s no way to count the seconds exactly, especially seeing as they weren’t staring at it when it flipped the last time—but at least thirty seconds must have passed since Alex announced they had a minute left. 

Which means that… anytime now… eight seconds must pass. Ten. Fourteen. Around twenty, Alex feels Henry’s hand grasp the base of his cock, shifting them both until the head rests against his warm, desperate hole. Alex doesn’t acknowledge it, but he doesn’t stop him, either—because… anytime now, anytime. Any second, those bright green numbers are going to stop taunting h—

Alex barely has a chance to register the 0:00 in front of him before Henry drops himself down to the fucking hilt. 

“Holy fuck, baby,” Alex curses, his own body moving on instinct as he sits up, arms wrapped around Henry’s tiny waist, one of his hands finding a bruising grip around the back of his neck. “Couldn’t fucking wait for me?” he breathes through a chuckle, pressing their foreheads tightly together, their warm breath mingling as Alex feels every inch of his body throbbing—burning—desperately trying to recalibrate, to get used to the tight, hot, slick, perfect muscles strangling his cock. 

“No,” Henry breathes, both hands sliding into Alex’s curls—tugging, forcing his neck back. A weak, needy, pathetic noise climbs its way out of Alex’s throat; he can’t help it—doesn’t care to help it. Nothing else matters anymore. The world could be on fucking fire, but he’d still stay right here; Henry’s weight in his lap, his body wrapped around his cock, his hands in his hair. This is good. Yes. Fuck, it’s good—all of it. “It’s my birthday,” Henry says, teeth finding Alex’s bottom lip, tugging at it—hard enough that it stings, hard enough that another weak, needy sound crawls its way up Alex’s throat. Henry soothes the sting with a swipe of his tongue. Alex drops his jaw in invitation—in request, even. “Now, be a good boy and rail my perfectly legal arse like a whore.” 

“Posh and filthy, what the fuck—“ Alex grunts, as he roughly flips them over, a shiver of accomplishment zapping up his spine when Henry gasps as the impact. “—are you doing to me?” Alex grits through his teeth—nose to nose; briefly, he sees Henry’s plump lips part for a retort—one Alex doesn’t allow him, because the next second, he’s diving down into a kiss that takes the phrase ‘tongue down the throat’ very literally. 

There’s nothing careful about it—any of it—the kiss is tongue, and teeth, and probably a faint aftertaste of Alex’s own blood; Alex’s hands aren’t much kinder—one of them digging bruises into the outside of Henry’s thigh, the other arm remaining trapped against the bed, wrapped tightly around his infuriatingly tiny waist, fingers digging deep into the barely-there bulk on the opposite side. 

“Harder,” Henry mumbles into his mouth, the sound nearly intelligible with the way his tongue is practically lolling out of his mouth, desperately chasing Alex’s. 

“Oh, baby, you think I’ve even fucking started?” Alex grins, not bothering to open his eyes as he shakes his head, their slick, swollen lips brushing. It’s true—it’s been roughly three, four, five seconds since he flipped them over, he’s just kind of grinding—he’s getting comfortable. Jesus Christ, Henry’s needy. Fuck, this is gonna be so much fun. 

“Bloody hell, what are you waiting f—fucking christ!” Another sharp, zap of accomplishment burns its way up Alex’s spine when he successfully catches him off guard with a rough, solid, deep thrust, putting every ounce of strength he has into it.

“This is what you wanted right?” Alex asks, hand abandoning his thigh to find a grip around his throat—not tight, but heavy—as he gives another thrust, just as sharp and hard, eyes glued to the way Henry’s head tips back into the stack of pillows, eyes rolling to the back of his head, leaving nothing but pure white as his mouth remains wide open, plying the room with deep, loud sounds hovering somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. “Wanted. A big. Fat. Cock. To hold you down. By your. Tiny, slutty little waist?” he tightens the arm around his waist, fingertips digging deeper into his side to help make his point. “Wreck. That tight. Little whore ass?” Because fuck it—Henry started it. Alex can talk some disgusting filth, too. And he’s fucking competitive as shit. 

“Yes. Yes,” is all Henry seems capable of getting out, his voice tense, eyes remaining glued to the back of his head, but the corners of his open mouth are twitching up. Smiling. While getting absolutely fucking railed. Jesus fuck. 

“You can,” Alex grunts. “Do better. Than that,” he baits, tightening the hand around his throat—only pressing the sides, so as to not actually block his airway, but still. “You wanna. Get fucked. Like a whore. You fucking. Act like one.” Alex grunts the last few words through his teeth, lips brushing Henry’s, their noses smushed. 

The sounds of their flesh colliding is obnoxiously loud—almost deafening in the small room, and Alex is fairly sure they’ll end up with complaints and a warning, but that’s a problem for the future. Right now his one and only obligation is to rail Henry until he’s shaking and leaking come, and he takes his obligations pretty fucking seriously. 

Alex feels Henry’s lips twitch—and for a second he thinks he’s going to say something, try to match the dirty-talk or even one-up it—but instead, he feels his legs shifting around his waist. 

Briefly, Alex pauses his thrusts, lifting his head slightly, just enough to get a clear view of Henry’s face—his eyes have rolled back into place now, but the pupils are so big, so dark with mischief and need, the blue may as well be non-existent. 

Then…

“What the fuck?” Alex curses, frowning, as he watches Henry fold himself in half—completely—tucking his calves under his fucking shoulders. It’s not quite to where he would be able to cross his angles behind his head or anything, they’re still kind of by his ears, but—what the fuck? 

“Yoga is actually a quite relaxing activity,” Henry comments, eyes bright again, grin wide. God, he looks so proud of himself—as he fucking should, by the way. 

“Yoga is ac—oh…” Alex doesn’t even get through three words of the mocking accent before he chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, you fucking…” he clenches his teeth again, unwrapping his arm from around his waist, adding a second hand to his throat. “You have…” he says, as he draws back. “No.” Thrust. Henry gasps, the grin remaining steadfast on his face, eyes glued to Alex’s despite his eyelids growing heavier. “Fucking. Idea. What. You. Just. Started,” Alex grunts—and he doesn’t know how he manages to find extra strength, but somehow he does—and he fucking revels in Henry’s sounds, revels in the deep frown of pleasure, the way his calves grow white from the way his grip tightens, short nails likely digging marks into his own skin. “Spreading. Yourself. Wide open,” Alex continues grunting, because now he’s on a fucking roll, and Henry’s muscles clench on every borderline violent thrust, and the lube and Alex’s precome is all mixed together and the sound is sloppy, it feels fucking creamy, and Henry’s ass his blooming red, the same as Alex’s pelvis, because he’s really fucking going for it now, and every thrust brings that sting to their bodies when they collide, and it’s so fucking rough, and it’s filthy, and it’s good—fuck, it’s so, so, so good. “Before you’re. Even. Fucking. Eighteen,” Alex grunts on. “Ass. Fucking. Gaping. Spanking yourself—god, you’re such a slut.”

“F—fuck, fingers,” Henry gasps, eyes trained on Alex’s. Big, and blue, and needy, “In my—mouth.” 

A huff of a laugh leaves Alex’s throat, but he immediately obeys, shifting one of his hands up so he’s holding onto his face instead, pressing his middle and ring finger past his plump lips. 

“Bossy, too.” Alex grunts, tightening his grip on his face as Henry greedily swallows his fingers down, moving his other hand away from his throat, instead landing a sharp, punishing slap to Henry’s ass, where it’s practically lifting off the bed, Alex almost more on top of him, now. “Which is. So fucking hot,” he continues—because oh, God, it is. Alex may be the one doing the fucking, doing the tossing, the grabbing, the spanking—but he is not under any illusion that he’s the one in charge here. Fuck no. Henry gave him an order, and he’s following it. Fucking happily so. 

“Knowwha’Ilikelove,” Henry mumbles around the fingers in his throat, drooling shamelessly around them. “Mm—more,” he begs, then. 

“What’s. More, baby? You. Want it harder? Faster?” Alex grunts. “More spanking? Want me. To keep talking?” 

“Mhm,” Henry nods, a pleased look through his eyelashes as he somehow manages to tuck his calves just a little bit further up, his tongue swirling around Alex’s fingers. 

“Jesus. Fucking Christ,” Alex curses with a shake of his head. “Do you. Have a fucking. Off-button?” he grins, and steals his fingers out of his mouth—ignoring Henry’s look of disappointment—especially because it vanishes the second Alex gives his ankles a tug; he’s not sure how the fuck Henry learned this position, how long it took to learn, nor does he understand how it’s so easy for him to force him deeper into it, collecting both ankles in one hand to hold him down like they were a pair of wrists—but by god, and Henry’s no-doubt extensive yoga routine—he somehow does.

“Oh, Chr—fuck,” Henry starts babbling, his eyes rolling to the back of his head once again, as Alex gets further up the bed, practically riding his ass, now—making sure to rain down a heavy litany of harsh, punishing raps to his ass. 

“What. The fuck. Am I. Even fucking asking, huh?” Alex grunts. “You’re. A freshly legal. Cockwhore. ‘Course you don’t. Have a fucking. Off-button.” 

“S—so f… Alex, that’s… don’t stop, don’t—“ Henry rambles, as Alex keeps it up; he’s fairly sure the sound is deafening—the twin bed rocking against the wall, their bodies colliding, Alex’s palm assaulting Henry’s bright red ass, their bodies colliding, their grunts—all of it. They’re getting so fucking written up, but he doesn’t care—he has Henry underneath him, writhing, and gasping, and grunting, and begging, and how could Alex ever, ever care about literally anything else right now? 

“You look. So fucking. Beautiful. Like this,” Alex grunts, punctuating every thrust with another sharp spank. “You know that? You were. Fucking made. For this. For me.” Alex isn’t sure whether he means to say the last two words or not, but quite frankly, he doesn’t really care; his head is cloudy with pleasure, and Henry is so tight and overwhelmed, and so beautiful, and with the way he’s folded in half, his pink, swollen cock is leaking drops of precome into the hollow of his own throat, and the view is so filthy, yet somehow Henry manages to look angelic, and—fuck, it feels right. It feels like they belong like this. 

“Uh—uh-huh,” Henry nods. “F—for you Alex, just—just wanna be. Yours.” 

“God, baby,” Alex hisses, laying a second hand onto Henry’s ankles, forearms against his calves as he leans forward, burrowing his face into the soft skin under his jaw. It’s an awkward angle for Alex, but he’s nothing if not stubborn. “Gonna. Date your ass. Just as hard. As I’m railing. Your ass.” 

Henry… giggles. 

Henry, while quite literally folded in half, being actively pounded into absolute oblivion, his ass likely already bruising from the extensive abuse of Alex’s heavy palm… hears Alex’s playful, but nevertheless earnest confession, and half-funny joke, and he… giggles. The sound deep, and breathy, yet simultaneously bright, and happy as it pours straight into Alex’s ear—and, oh, Alex is so, so, so, very fucked. 

“C—close, love,” Henry gasps, then—and thank, fucking god. Alex isn’t sure how much longer he’ll be able to hold out, but coming before Henry during their first time, on his birthday, just isn’t something Alex is willing to do. 

“Hm,” Alex hums into his neck, placing a deep, filthy kiss, savoring the taste of sweat and Henry, before pulling back with a scrape of his teeth, and leaning back, sitting down, dragging his hands along with him, down from Henry’s ankles, until he’s able to knead the tender, full flesh of his thick, mouthwatering, fucking polo thighs. “You gonna. Come all over your own. Pretty little face?” Alex huffs—which isn’t anything he’s ever really considered before, but the position makes it kind of an obvious and irresistible choice. 

Henry nods—a series of sharp, jerky little movements, eyes remaining fixed on Alex’s. 

“S-stroke me,” he gasps, then. “Aim.” 

“Yes, your royal whoreness,” Alex mumbles before he can stop himself—and it’s a stupid joke, it’s so dumb it even runs the risk of being a turn-off—which is exactly why he punctuates it with another spank. Henry, however, just gives him an eye-roll, and the tug of a smile. Fuck. Alex is so, so, so, so, very fucked; he might be more thoroughly, metaphorically fucked than Henry is literally fucked. God. “Uh—eyes. On me,” Alex grunts when he wraps a hand around Henry’s beautiful, heavy, leaking cock, and his eyes proceed to roll to the back of his head. “Wanna. See you.” 

Henry complies, looking up at him, eyes glazed over, lids heavy. 

“There we go,” Alex hisses, allowing the brutal thrusts to come to a stop, instead burying himself deep, deep inside of him, making sure he’s nestled right up against his prostate as he grinds, and grinds, and grinds. He’s prepared for Henry to tell him off, tell him to keep railing him—but he doesn’t; instead, his jaw drops wider than Alex as ever seen it, his eyebrows furrowed in pleasure as Alex rolls his hips, matching the pace with his hand, twisting it up and down his perfect cock, savoring the weight, the soft feeling of the velvety skin; he knows the view of his foreskin tightly pulled down around the base of the head is probably filthy, and beautiful—but he can’t bring himself to look away from Henry’s eyes—not right now. “Gonna give me a nice, thick load?” Alex asks—which might be one of those lines he’ll cringe about post-orgasm, but right now, he doesn’t give a shit. “‘Cause I’m gonna breed this tight little ass, gonna come so fucking deep inside you, but I still wanna see that face all covered, you gonna do that for me? Think I—shit—think I’m earning that, baby, huh?” 

It’s not the most subtle ask for praise, but to be fair, there’s virtually no blood left in his brain right now. 

“Yes,” Henry nods. “So—so good, Alex—fuck, love, you’re—you’re so good.” As expected, the words sink deep inside of Alex’s bones, his blood singing with it, gut tensing, balls aching with his own impending orgasm—but not yet. Henry first. “So—such a good boy, love—I—fucking christ,” he curses when Alex picks up the pace just a little bit, squeezing his cock a bit tighter, the slick, filthy sound like an angel's choir. 

“Yeah, come on,” Alex grunts, adding some extra force into his grinds, the bed rocking against the wall once again. “Come on, paint that pretty face for me, stick your tongue out, baby,” he continues, stroking him even faster now, as Henry obliges, eyes trained on Alex’s as he presents his tongue. “Fuck, yeah, need to see you taste it, come on, sweetheart.”

There’s something else on his tongue—more of those lines that he would likely end up cringing at in just a few minutes—something about birthdays, and cakes, and frosting—but there’s no need for them, because the next second, there’s a gasping, breathless laugh; Henry’s cock twitches in his hand—and a bright, thick rope of come paints his chin, glimmering in the moonlight. 

“Chin down, baby—yeah,” Alex nods, barely able to keep his own eyes from rolling back when presented with the absolutely filthy view of Henry tilting his head down, as Alex works him through it, painting strokes of white all over his tongue—his lips, his nose, his chin—fuck. Alex eventually gives up on aiming, far more interested in getting Henry’s angelic face as coated as possible. Fuck, he wants to take a picture. He won’t—but he wants to. 

“Fuuuck, baby,” Alex grits through his teeth when Henry finally seems to be coming down from it; all he gets in response is another tired, breathless fucking laugh—and a bright grin as he relaxes back into the pillows—as much as he can in his current position, that is. “You, uh—you want me to pull out?” he rasps, then. 

“I recall…” Henry pants. “…a vow you made to breed me,” 

“I recall a vow—“ Alex starts mocking. “—you’re so annoying, can I spit in your mouth?” Alex doesn’t know where the thought comes from, but it doesn’t matter—because the second the request is out there, Henry’s mouth is wide open once again, his eyes glimmering with… a lot of things—and Alex hacks a thick wad of saliva onto his awaiting tongue. “Fuck,” he curses again, allowing his hips to pick up the pace, going back to thrusting—not quite as violently as before, but thorough rolls, nonetheless. “You’re fucking…” Alex shakes his head—and Henry doesn’t close his mouth, so Alex spits again, and then a third time, as he slides one hand into the sweat-damp strands of Henry’s hair, finding a tight grip as he rushes himself closer to the edge. “…unbelievable,” he grunts, free hand swiping two fingers over his cheek, collecting some come before he tucks them into Henry’s awaiting mouth—the hum he gets in response practically melting his spine. 

It’s just… Henry’s lips are so plump, and perfect, and his eyes are so bright, and his face is a complete mess, and he’s looking up at Alex like… 

And Henry is so fucking brilliant, and so passionate, and so smart, and so kind, and so beautiful, and it turns out he’s a complete fucking pornstar in bed, and he’s old money rich, but he wears old, beagle-printed pajama pants to bed, and he laughs when he comes, and he—

“Oh, fuck, baby—baby,” Alex gasps—and then he’s gone, a swipe of Henry’s come smearing across his cheekbone on his way to bury his nose in his neck; his hips jerk, vision like static as the pleasure zaps through every single nerve in his entire body—from his toes to the very top of his fucking scalp. 

Henry’s body squeezes him tightly, practically milking every ounce of come he knows he’s pouring deep, deep inside of him. Draining him. 

Vaguely, he’s aware of Henry humming something into his ear, but he’s too far gone to make out any words. 

“Baby,” he hears the distant, muffled sound of his own voice rasping a third time. “Baby.” 

“Right here, love,” is what he hears Henry hum once he’s finally starting to come back to himself, a handful of aftershocks rocking his body as he breathes him in. “Did so good—you’re so bloody good to me, did everything I wanted,” Henry continues, and—Alex doesn’t even care that his praise kink is apparently so utterly transparent. In fact, he’s happy for it—he might even be enjoying this part even more than the orgasm itself. 

“Yeah?” he mumbles into his neck, nuzzling deeper as he feels his cock give one last, valiant twitch inside of him. “You laugh when you come,” he hums with a soft kiss to the sweaty skin. “‘S so cute.” 

“Mhm. Alex?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Young as I may be, I desperately need to get out of this bloody position before I get stuck.” 

“Oh, shit, you’re still…” Alex realizes with a sharp laugh as he pushes himself back up, both of them wincing as he gently eases himself out—as soon as he’s free, though, he’s reaching for Henry’s calves and ankles, helping him back down. “How the fuck d’you even discover you could do this?” 

“Yoganidrasana,” Henry sighs, clearly relieved when he’s finally laying flat. “It’s a legitimate yoga pose, love.” 

“No, I don’t doubt that,” Alex assures him, as he steers his palms over the outsides of his thighs, and up to his hips, before going back down again, hopefully kneading some of the blood back into his legs. “Pretty sure there’s a yoga pose for everything, I just…” he trails off with an exhale of amusement. “How long did it even take you to learn—did you start practicing six months ago?” he asks, the playful glint in his own eyes so bright he can feel it. 

“That’s awfully presumptuous,” Henry clicks his tongue. “No,” he denies, though. “But you are the only one who’s ever fucked me while I’m in it.” 

“That might be even fucking hotter,” Alex grins, giving his legs one last squeeze before dropping himself in the tight space between Henry’s body and the wall—which leaves about half his weight on top of him, anyway. 

They move like magnets, smiles bright as they each fit a hand to the back of each other’s necks, coming together into a kiss that’s admittedly more teeth than lips, Alex’s cheeks aching with the width of his smile. It doesn’t matter. It’s worth it. It’s so fucking worth it. 

It’s even more worth it, still, when he slides his hand back around to find a grip of Henry’s jaw, attempting to hold him still as he drags his tongue all over his face. 

“Shut up, I’m cleaning up your mess,” Alex points out, their giggles harmoizing as Henry half-heartedly wriggles around on the small bed, as if he’s actually trying to get away from Alex’s tongue. “There,” Alex decides, after one last lick to his jawline. “‘S like I never stole your virtue at all,” he hums, placing a chaste kiss to his cheek as he cuddles closer with a soft sigh—humming contentedly when he feels Henry return it to his temple. 

“I’m gonna choose to bypass the fact that I gave my virtue—such as it was—away several years ago, and instead point out the fact that your mess is currently pouring out of my arse.” 

“‘S the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me—I’ll lick that up too, just need a minute,” Alex hums—and Henry huffs out a laugh—melting his heart with another soft kiss to his cheekbone. 

They lay there for a while—Alex content to breathe in the scent of Henry’s skin; fresh-cut grass cut with sweat that shouldn’t smell nearly as addictive as it does. Content to revel in the comfort of Henry’s arm tucked around his shoulders—the soft, warm pillow of Henry’s chest under his own tricep. 

“Hen, you, uh…” Alex eventually feels the need to start, as he reaches for Henry’s hand, admiring the view of their fingers lacing together—fitting perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle. Henry hums in question. “…you know that I really—really would never have done this before tonight, right? I mean, it’s—it’s just really fucking important to me that you know that,” he says, using his free arm to pick himself up onto a forearm. “Like—I wasn’t, just, like—walking around, waiting, looking at you, I would never—“

“I know, love,” Henry interrupts him softly, as the hand around his shoulders comes up, delicate fingers brushing a curl behind his ear. “You know how I know that?” he asks, and Alex hums. Henry smiles—his eyes somehow growing warmer. ”Because if you had even briefly considered taking me a second prior to midnight, you wouldn’t be the man I love.” 

“You…” Alex breathes. “Fuck, baby…” 

“Alex, you don’t have to say it—“ he starts, but Alex shakes his head, squeezing his hand, as he brings them over to his own lips, pressing a kiss to Henry’s knuckles, eyes never leaving his.

“I didn’t know, but—fuck, baby—yes, yeah—me too.”

“Really?” Henry asks—and he has the absolute gall to look surprised. Alex laughs—a wet hiccup of a sound, as he presses one last kiss to the back of Henry’s hand before dropping them both to rest on the bed—inching his face closer to Henry’s instead, swiping their noses together. 

Henry is the best, most beautiful, most brilliant human being he’s ever met—with a heart that is so large it’s a wonder it even fits inside of his ribcage. How the fuck could Alex be anything but deeply, irretrievably in love with him? 

“Yes,” he assures him. “Fuck, I love you,” he says—and Henry is grinning, and it’s so fucking beautiful, and Alex leans in, ready to get lost in the—

“You claim you love me, but I don’t actually recall you wishing me a happy birthday,” Henry pouts. 

Alex guwaffs—jaw dropping as he pulls back, eyebrows raised. 

“Baby, I’ve never been more offended in my fucking life, I just—“

“—It is the polite thing to do,” Henry argues gently, clearly struggling to remain serious, the corners of his mouth twitching, a bright, happy glint in his eyes. “However adequate your present may have been.” 

“However adeq—well, fuck me, I guess,” Alex laughs, as they collapse into a heap of sweaty limbs and giggles. 

“That could be arranged.” 

Eventually, Alex does wish him a happy birthday. 

Eventually.