Chapter Text
Time moved differently in Hell.
It was quicker here, stripped of all the soft, human pauses that made life bearable. No day. No night. No sleep. Just work, order, and the endless hum of punishment dressed up as routine.
William stood in the elevator and watched the numbers climb.
Slowly. Deliberately. As if the building itself enjoyed making him wait.
Henry liked to complicate things. Of course he did.
Sixty-sixth floor.
A good number. A devilish one. Convenient, really.
At last, the bell chimed and the doors slid open to reveal a long corridor swallowed in dim red light. William stepped out without hesitation and made his way down the hall. A few demons passed him on the way, all of them lowering their eyes like they’d been trained to do it. William barely noticed. He was used to that kind of fear by now.
He didn’t bother knocking.
He opened Henry’s office door and walked in.
Henry stood with his back to him, framed by the massive window behind his desk, staring out over the same impossible landscape William had seen a hundred times before. Black towers. Smoke that never dispersed. A horizon that looked permanently injured.
William tilted his head.
Maybe it was a thing with old men, he thought, a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth.
“That was unkind,” Henry said, smooth as silk.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, but you were thinking it.” Henry turned then, and his gaze landed on William with unnerving precision.
“Your face is very expressive.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Henry’s eyes flicked downward, taking in the hoodie William was wearing. His expression changed immediately.
“Whose is this?”
“Borrowed.”
Henry’s brow arched. “From who?”
“Chance.”
“Your little distraction?”
“Friend,” William corrected.
Henry gave him a look that made the word sound ridiculous. “Do friends usually fuck you in the ass?”
William’s mouth twitched. “Sometimes.”
“Clearly.”
Before William could answer, Henry crossed the room in one swift movement, caught him by the waist, and turned him hard enough that William’s back hit the window. The glass was cold through the fabric of the hoodie. Henry was not.
William drew in a breath, then let it out slowly, watching him with open curiosity rather than fear. He liked Henry most when he stopped pretending to be patient.
Henry’s hand slid up, thumb brushing once over William’s lower lip before he kissed him.
It was not soft.
It was a warning, a claim, a demand all at once.
William felt it everywhere at once, the way Henry pinned him there, the way his hands held the back of William’s head as if he had every right to keep him still. William made a quiet sound against his mouth and melted into it despite himself, because Henry always knew exactly where to press to make him forget his own pride.
When they broke apart, both of them were breathing harder.
A thin thread of saliva still connected their mouths for a second before Henry’s hand tightened at William’s jaw and he wiped it away with his thumb.
“I don’t mind you entertaining yourself,” Henry said, voice lower now, roughened at the edges. “But I don’t like you wearing what belongs to someone else.”
William blinked at him. “I took a hoodie.”
“I give you everything,” Henry’s gaze narrowed. “I provide for you. You don’t need scraps from someone else.”
“It’s just a hoodie,” William said, though his voice had gone softer than he intended. “You called me out of nowhere. I didn’t have time to go home.”
Henry studied him for a moment, then leaned in close enough that William could feel the words against his mouth before they were spoken.
“And yet,” Henry murmured, “you still chose to wear his.”
William smiled, slow and reckless. “Maybe I wanted you to notice.”
Henry’s expression darkened with something satisfied and dangerous. “Careful.”
William lifted a shoulder. “Or what?”
Henry’s hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, firm and possessive. “You know exactly what.”
William met his eyes and let the silence stretch.
Then he said, lightly, “Maybe if you’d warmed me up properly, I wouldn’t have needed it.”
That did it.
Henry’s grip tightened, and the air between them shifted, heavy with heat and threat and want. For a moment neither of them moved. The office was still, the city outside forgotten, the rest of Hell held at bay by nothing but the weight of Henry’s attention.
Then Henry kissed him again, harder than before, and William gave in with a quiet breath that sounded too much like surrender.
The window rattled softly behind him.
Henry’s hand slipped under the hoodie, warm against William’s skin, and William arched into the touch before he could stop himself. Henry noticed, of course. Henry always noticed.
“Mine,” he said against William’s mouth.
William smiled into the kiss, reckless enough to tease, foolish enough to enjoy the danger of it.
The rest of the world disappeared.
Henry’s hand splayed flat against William’s stomach, fingers pressing just hard enough to feel the sharp intake of breath that followed. The hoodie bunched awkwardly between them, and Henry made a sound of impatience low in his throat before shoving it upward.
“Off,” he said.
Not a request.
William let him pull it over his head, the fabric catching on his hair for half a second before Henry yanked it free and let it drop to the floor. The cold of the window touched his bare back again, and William shivered—not from the cold.
Henry looked at him.
Not the way normal people looked. Not even the way lovers looked. Henry looked at him like he was studying a map of somewhere he already owned, just tracing the lines for the pleasure of it.
“You’re too thin,” Henry observed, thumb dragging along William’s ribs.
“You don’t feed me enough.”
“You don’t eat enough.”
“Same thing.”
Henry’s mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. He leaned in and bit down on the junction of William’s neck and shoulder, hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave a mark that would last for days. William gasped and his hands came up—not to push Henry away, but to grip his shoulders, fingernails digging in through the expensive fabric of his shirt.
“You wear his name on your skin,” Henry murmured against the bruise he was making, “and expect me to be kind about it?”
“I didn’t expect anything.” William’s voice was breathy now, control fraying at the edges. “I just wanted to see if you’d care.”
Henry pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. The red light from the office caught his face in strange angles, made him look less like a man and more like something older. Hungrier.
“I always care,” he said. “That’s the problem.”
He kissed William again, slower this time, as if he wanted to taste every part of him. One hand stayed on William’s ribs; the other dropped to his hip, fingers curling around the waistband of his jeans. William made a small, helpless sound and pushed into the touch without meaning to.
Henry smiled against his mouth.
“Desperate already,” he said, almost softly. “I’ve barely touched you.”
“Then touch me properly.”
Henry’s eyes darkened. He stepped back—just one step, but it was enough to make William feel the loss of him like a pulled thread. Henry watched him for a moment, head tilted, the way he might watch a spell take effect.
“Turn around,” he said.
William turned.
He faced the window, hands flat on the cold glass, breath fogging it slightly. Behind him, he heard Henry move—the soft sound of a belt being undone, fabric shifting. Then Henry’s hands were on his hips again, turning him just slightly, pressing him forward until his forehead touched the glass.
“You came here wearing someone else’s clothes,” Henry said, and his voice had dropped an octave, rough and quiet all at once. “You stood in my office and you smiled at me like you weren’t sure I’d notice. Like you weren’t sure I’d care.”
His fingers hooked into the waistband of William’s jeans and pulled them down, just enough. The cold air hit bare skin, and William shivered again, a full-body tremor that made Henry’s hands tighten.
“I notice everything,” Henry said.
He pressed close behind William, chest to back, and William could feel him now—the heat of him, the solid weight of him, the unmistakable proof that Henry wanted this just as much as he did. Henry’s mouth found the back of his neck, teeth grazing the edge of his spine.
“You wanted me to be jealous,” Henry murmured. “Congratulations. It worked.”
William laughed, breathless. “That was easy.”
“Don’t mistake restraint for indifference.” Henry’s hand slid around to William’s front, fingers splaying low on his stomach, then lower. “I let you run because I like watching you come back. And I know you’ll always come back”
William’s hips jerked forward into nothing, the glass cool against his palms, and he made a sound he’d be embarrassed about later but couldn’t bring himself to care about now.
Henry’s fingers wrapped around him, slow and deliberate, and William’s whole body went tight.
“Henry—”
“Shh.” The word was soft, almost gentle, but there was nothing gentle about the way Henry’s grip tightened, the way his thumb moved with precision that felt like cruelty. “You wanted my attention. You have it.”
William dropped his head forward, forehead pressed to the glass, breath coming in uneven gasps. Behind him, Henry was still dressed, still in control, and William hated how much he wanted that. Hated how much he trusted it.
“Please,” he heard himself say.
Henry’s hand paused. “Please what?”
William swallowed. “Please don’t make me say it.”
“I always make you say it.”
A long moment. The city of Hell burned below them, indifferent and endless. William closed his eyes.
“Please fuck me,” he whispered.
Henry made a quiet sound of approval, something almost gentle in it, and kissed the back of his shoulder.
“Good boy.”
He pulled his hand away, and William heard him open a drawer—the desk, because Henry didn’t keep things where normal people kept them. Then Henry’s hands were on his hips again, turning him, guiding him. William went where he was pushed.
Henry kissed him once more, open-mouthed and dirty, and when he pulled back his eyes were nearly black.
“Don’t move,” he said.
William didn’t.
Henry’s fingers were slick when they found him, and William bit his lip hard enough to taste copper. Henry worked him open slowly, deliberately, the way he did everything—like time was something he owned, not something that owned him. William had nothing to grip onto. He could only breathe through it, hips twitching every time Henry crooked his fingers just right.
“You’re always so tight,” Henry observed, like he was commenting on the weather. “Even after all this time.”
“Maybe if you did it more often—”
Henry pushed deeper, and William’s sentence collapsed into a moan.
“Maybe if you behaved,” Henry said, “I’d have more patience to indulge you.”
William laughed, shaky and half-mad. “I’m in Hell. Behaving seems like a waste.”
Henry withdrew his fingers slowly, and William felt the loss like a physical ache. Then Henry’s hands were on his hips again, turning him back toward the window.
“Hands on the glass,” Henry said. “Don’t take them off.”
William placed his palms flat against the cold surface. Behind him, he heard Henry move, felt the heat of him approach, and then—
Henry pushed inside him in one slow, steady motion, and William forgot how to breathe.
The window fogged with his breath. Henry’s hands were bruise-tight on his hips. The world outside—Hell, all of it, the smoke and towers and endless suffering—became a blur of red light behind his closed eyes.
Henry gave him a moment. Just one. Long enough for William to feel him, all of him, the impossible heat and the stretch and the way Henry’s chest pressed against his back.
Then he moved.
William made a sound he didn’t recognize, raw and desperate, and his fingernails scraped against the glass. Henry’s rhythm was slow at first, almost lazy, as if he had all the time in the world and meant to use every second of it. Each thrust was deep, deliberate, designed to take William apart from the inside.
“You feel that?” Henry asked, voice steady despite everything. “You feel how easily you take me?”
William couldn’t answer. His mouth was open, his eyes were shut, and all he could do was hold on.
Henry’s hand slid up his chest, fingers finding his throat—not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder. “I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” William gasped. “Yes, I feel it.”
“Good.” Henry’s pace quickened, and the hand on his throat tightened just slightly. “Because I want you to remember who you belong to.”
William’s hips pushed back to meet him, and Henry rewarded him with a harder thrust that made the window rattle in its frame. The sound was obscene in the quiet office—skin on skin, breath on breath, the soft creak of the desk beneath them.
“Look at you,” Henry murmured, almost to himself. “Falling apart already. And I’ve barely started.”
William wanted to say something clever. He wanted to bite back, to tease, to prove that Henry hadn’t broken him yet. But then Henry shifted his angle and hit something inside him that made his knees buckle, and all that came out was a broken moan.
Henry caught him before he could fall, arm around his waist, holding him upright. “I’ve got you.”
He didn’t stop moving.
He drove into William harder now, faster, the pretense of patience gone. William pressed his forehead to the glass and let himself be held up, let himself be used, let himself want it more than he’d ever wanted anything. The cold of the window against his palms. The heat of Henry inside him. The city burning below.
“Henry,” he said, and it sounded like begging.
“I know.” Henry’s voice was rough now, control finally fraying. “I know.”
Henry’s hand slid down from his throat to his stomach, then lower, wrapping around him again. William sobbed—actually sobbed—when Henry’s thumb found the head of his cock and pressed, just there, just right.
“Come for me,” Henry said, and it wasn’t a request.
William shattered.
He came with a cry that echoed off the glass, body clenching around Henry, vision whiting out at the edges. Behind him, Henry swore under his breath—a rare thing, a treasured thing—and slammed into him twice more before following, teeth biting down on William’s shoulder to muffle his own noise.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Henry’s forehead rested between William’s shoulder blades. William’s palms were stuck to the glass with sweat. The office was silent except for their breathing, slowly evening out.
Finally, Henry pulled back. William felt the loss of him like a wound.
He turned around slowly, legs unsteady, and leaned back against the window. Henry was watching him with an expression William couldn’t quite read—satisfied, maybe, but something else underneath. Something softer.
Henry reached down and picked up the hoodie from the floor.
He looked at it for a moment. Then he looked at William.
“I’m burning this,” he said as a burst of flame appeared from his bare hand destroying the hoodie in a few seconds.
William laughed, exhausted and wrecked and happier than he had any right to be. “It was a good hoodie.”
“It was his hoodie.” Henry scoffed like it offended him. “I’ll buy you ten more. Better ones.”
“That’s not the point.”
“The point,” Henry said, stepping close again, hands settling on William’s hips like they belonged there, “is that you’re mine. Not his. Not anyone else’s. Mine.”
William looked up at him, still catching his breath, and smiled.
“Now… as for why I called you here,” Henry says, turning slightly, attention shifting back to business.
William raises an eyebrow. “It wasn’t for sex?” he asks, almost offended.
Henry’s lips curve faintly. “Not only.”
William exhales through his nose, folding his arms.
“Alright. What is it?”
“I have a job for you.”
That gets his attention immediately. William straightens, something restless flickering in his expression. “Finally. I’m sick of doing nothing.”
Henry tilts his head, studying him. “Oh? Has my company become so dull to you?”
William rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.” A beat. “So who’s the target? And please don’t say a priest again.”
A flicker of amusement crosses Henry’s face. “No. I’ve prepared something… different this time.”
William narrows his eyes slightly. “That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“It should be,” Henry replies calmly.
“So?” William presses. “Who is it?”
Henry lets the silence stretch just long enough to be deliberate.
“A student.”
William blinks. Then lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re kidding.” He gestures to himself. “This is because of the hoodie, isn’t it? Some kind of punishment?”
“I can assure you,” Henry says, voice cooling, “it is not.”
William studies him, trying to read past the composure.
“Since when do we care about random students?”
Henry steps closer—not aggressive this time, but controlled, precise. “He’s not random.”
That lands.
William’s expression shifts, curiosity replacing irritation.
“Then what is he?”
Henry’s gaze sharpens, something calculating settling behind it.
“You’ll find out for yourself.”
William clicks his tongue, clearly unsatisfied. “You love doing that.”
“And you love asking questions you don’t need answered,” Henry replies smoothly.
A pause.
Then Henry reaches for his desk again, tapping the file William still holds.
“I’ll send you the rest of the details.”
William doesn’t look down at it yet. His eyes stay on Henry.
“Anything I should know before I go?”
Henry smiles—small, controlled, and just unsettling enough.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Don’t underestimate him.”
That, more than anything, catches William off guard.
He frowns slightly. “He’s a student.”
Henry’s voice drops, quiet but firm:
“And you’re a demon who used to be a boy.”
Silence.
William’s grip tightens on the file.
Henry steps back, already dismissing him with a glance.
“Go to Earth,” he says. “Find him.”
William finally looks down at the folder, thumb brushing over the edge.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll find him.”
As he turns toward the door, Henry adds, almost casually:
“And William—”
He pauses.
“Don’t think that I’ll just let you go now…”
William doesn’t turn back.
A faint, knowing smile tugs at his lips.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”