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It's wrong. It's so wrong. That is the first thought that should be entering Henry's brain as he starts to recover from the deep, impenetrable sleep—but it's not. Rather, the first thing he feels is the warmth of Alex's giant, firm body curled around him, his hand wrapped possessively around Henry's wrist—keeping him captive, even in his sleep. As if there is anywhere else Henry could ever possibly want to be.
Alex's skin is warm, soft, and safe; his curls tickle the back of Henry's neck, brushing against it with each slow breath, grounding him in a reality that feels too close to a dream.
The rational part of him knows the gravity of the situation. Just how wrong it is. But in this moment, none of that seems to matter.
Henry inhales deeply, trying to steady his heartbeat, which seems louder than the soft morning light creeping through the curtains. The air is thick with remnants of last night, the weight of their choices hanging between them like something unsaid. Alex stirs behind him, his grip tightening instinctively, pulling Henry closer, burying his face into the nape of his neck. How could someone so young, so reckless, feel like the only thing keeping him tethered?
This isn't what Henry's life was supposed to look like at fifty-five. It's certainly not what he'd imagined when he first saw Alex's name on his class roster a year and a half ago—just another ambitious student. But now, with the way Alex clings to him, it's all so much more.
His body betrays him first–-leaning back into Alex's embrace as if seeking the heat, the comfort. This can't last. He knows it. The power imbalance. The ethical boundaries he's crossed—but with Alex's arm wrapped around him, so strong and sure, it's hard to remember why he should care. It's hard to remember anything beyond the steady thrum of Alex's heartbeat against his back. They'll have to face the consequences eventually, but right now, Henry lets himself forget. Just for a few more minutes.
“You should go,” he tries, anyway—mostly to be able to argue with himself later on that he did, in fact, consider they should part—but with the heavy, violent snowstorm ravaging New York outside—screaming around the corners of the building—they both know neither of them are going anywhere. Not for a while.
Alex merely makes a noise somewhere in between a hum and a chuckle, nuzzling his nose into the space behind Henry’s ear. Henry swallows a moan. They know each other like this now—-this may be the first time Henry broke any explicit rules, but he’s been toeing the line for far longer than he wants to admit. Every look shared, every flirty comment thrown his way that he probably should have put a stop to—but didn’t.
“I should go, huh?” Alex—young, mesmerizing, beautiful, confident, brilliant Alex—presses a smile to the side of his neck as Henry feels his arm tighten around him, his hips shifting until his morning wood slides perfectly in between Henry’s cheeks, head briefly catching on the swollen rim.
"Alex..." Henry tries again, but his voice barely rises above a whisper, a tremor betraying his crumbling resolve. Alex ignores it, or perhaps he even savors it. The words mean nothing, and they both know it—not when Henry's body is already giving him permission. He feels Alex's lips trace the curve of his jaw, slow and deliberate, the heat of his breath sending shivers down Henry's spine. And then—that voice—deep, smooth, with just the slightest Texan twang that draws Henry in every time.
"You're not gonna send me out there, are you?" Alex murmurs, that lazy drawl curling around Henry's senses, making it impossible to think straight. The playful lilt in his voice—half a tease, half a challenge—-slips beneath Henry's skin, pulling him deeper into the moment. "I think you’d rather keep me right here." The way Alex says here is thick—deliberate, his hips shifting again as if to drive the point home, pressing hard enough that Henry can feel every inch of him, the firm pressure setting fire to his veins.
Henry's pulse spikes, guilt and want warring beneath his skin, but the sound of Alex's voice—just that hint of an accent, roughened at the edges—has always been his undoing. He should be stronger than this. He knows better, knows he should say no—instead, he gives in, his body molding to Alex's like surrender is the only option left—and maybe it is. The snowstorm outside is nothing compared to the one building between them now.
“Alex,” Henry breathes again—but if it’s meant to be an objection, it’s severely dulled by the way he slides his hand out of Alex’s grasp, and moves it back up to his hair instead, tugging at the curls as he cranes his neck back to catch his lips in his own.
Alex moans into it—obnoxiously so—god, he’s been obsessed with this man since the first time he walked into the lecture hall—elbow-patched cardigan, faint strands of gray at his temple, a barely-present tummy spilling over his belt—and that’s not even mentioning his brilliant, passionate rants about queer history. Alex likes to think of himself as a smart guy—he knew that going after Henry would be a bad idea at best—a disaster at worst—he just couldn’t help it; he can’t help the way he wants to climb so deep inside of this man he’s never going to be able to find his way back out.
“Mr. Fox,” Alex moans back, just to be an asshole—which earns him a half-hearted smack on the ass just as he rolls over to settle his hips in between Henry’s parted legs. “Hot,” he comments into his mouth, picking his knees up just a little bit, teasing as he trails his mouth down the side of Henry’s neck, teasingly scratching his teeth over his collarbone. “Punish me more, professor.”
“Christ,” Henry bites—but Alex does earn himself three more smacks to his ass—until he’s a moaning mess, face buried in the crook of Henry’s neck.
The sting still blooms hot on Alex's skin, a sharp reminder of how far he's already let this go–-and how far he's still willing to take it. Each breath feels too shallow, too fast, as though the air itself has thickened between them, turning heavy with want. Henry's hands are still on him, one possessively gripping his hip, the other resting on the curve of his ass. Alex swallows down a groan, feeling that dangerous pull–-the one that's been there since the first time he saw Henry lecture about queerness in literature, all fire and passion, so painfully unaware of the effect he had on Alex. He was never really naive enough to believe that he could have Henry once and then get over it—but he hadn’t been expecting this. He hadn’t been expecting to see a version of Henry in bed that is so confident, and so smooth, and so good, and so—it’s just so far away from who he is out there, and yet he’s exactly the same, and god, Alex can’t imagine letting this go. Ever.
Alex lifts his head, eyes locking with Henry's, and for a moment everything in him stills, like the world has narrowed to just this bed, just the two of them; there’s something wild in Henry's gaze, something caught between hesitation and hunger, and it makes Alex's pulse spike. He smirks, but it's weaker than usual, a tremor running through it as he speaks.
"You like it, don't you, professor?" The words leave him softer than intended, a taunt laced with desperation; his voice is rough, hoarse from the force of his breathing, and the sound hangs between them like an invitation. “You act like you don’t, but I think you do,” Alex continues taunting gently as he shifts, getting up until he’s straddling Henry where he’s reclining back against the stack of pillows. “I think you like…” Alex continues, wrapping a hand around himself, stroking lazily. “Doing shit you shouldn’t be doing.”
“Yeah, well…” Henry huffs, and Alex is obsessed with the small little birthmark above his top lip as his mouth twitches into a smile. “We definitely shouldn’t be doing this. I definitely shouldn’t be doing this to you.” Alex neglects to point out that they already have done things to each other last night—a lot of things—but it’s different in the light of the day, and they both know it.
“You’re not doing anything to me, sweetheart,” Alex says, still stroking himself as he gives a lazy grind of his hips.
“Pretty sure I have t-shirts older than you,” Henry huffs.
“You want me to put one on?”
“Eh—that’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Henry shakes his head, but Alex has already let go of himself and climbed off the bed, curiously digging through the top drawer of his dresser for a shirt that looks washed out and faded—it doesn’t take long until he finds one. A Queen: The Works Tour band-tee from 1984.
“Damn, you actually saw them live,” Alex says, shrugging it on—which is a generous term, because it nearly cuts off the blood flow to his biceps. Henry must have been a skinny kid. Not that Alex wouldn’t have fucked his brains out anyway.
When he looks back up, Henry has shifted, leaning back on his elbows to face him—all of him on full, absolutely glorious display, all pale skin and pudgy stomach, hair falling just a little bit over his eyes—darker than a minute ago.
Henry’s throat grows dry. It’s not technically a new view—certainly not after last night—but Alex on full display, beautiful cock up and bobbing as he moves, a horny mischievous grin on his face—and all of it with Henry’s old Queen shirt stretched out over his chest because he just had to go and be a dick about Henry’s throw-away comment? God, Henry has never wanted anyone more in his entire, stupid life.
“You like this,” Alex observes, his grin only growing brighter as he takes the steps back over to the bed—until he places a palm next to Henry’s shoulder, and Henry is forced to drop his own elbows, succumbing to Alex as he hovers over him, slowly dragging his legs back up onto the bed as well, his calves warm as they rest against the outsides of Henry’s thighs.
“You?” Henry manages, in an attempt to get some semblance of control. Alex merely exhales in amusement, adding more weight to Henry’s legs, leaning back a little bit, but keeping a large palm resting on Henry’s stomach. Henry should feel insecure about it in the broad, cold daylight pouring in through the window—but he doesn’t. He takes care of himself, but he still looks middle aged. It would be impossible not to. And clearly Alex doesn’t mind one bit.
And as if Alex is a mind-reader, he keeps his eyes on Henry’s as he speaks, free hand once again lazily wrapped around his own beautiful cock. Christ.
“Me,” Alex confirms. “This,” he adds, then, nodding to the two discarded condom wrappers decorating the floor. “Breaking the rules.” There’s a beat, then, during which he pauses. “You, maybe,” he adds, somewhat more reluctantly.
“I like myself?” Henry asks, furrowing his brows.
“The same way I like myself when I’m with you, yeah—I mean, I hope so.”
And— christ —-Henry is wrapping his arms around Alex’s waist and rolling them over before he even completely realizes what he’s doing—but Alex is pliable and more than willing, his legs falling open like an invitation, arms both locked around the back of Henry’s neck, fingers in his hair as they both grunt with the impact, tongues desperate to find their way down each other’s throats, both of them ignoring the teeth getting in the way.
“So fucking wrong,” Henry manages into the kiss, but it doesn’t sound like an objection—not anymore.
“Disgusting,” Alex agrees, shamelessly grabbing two handfuls of Henry’s perfect ass, both of them swapping moans as Henry grinds his hips. “Rubbing that giant—“ Kiss. “Leaking—“ Kiss. “Cock all over me.”
“Want me to stop?” Henry mumbles into his mouth.
“Never,” Alex pants. “God, I want that pretty cock all over me, want it in me,” Henry trails his mouth down the side of his neck, giving him an opportunity to speak uninterrupted. “Want it in my mouth, in my ass, want you to fuck my thighs and my face, want—-want you to come all over me, wanna be covered in that pretty come, baby, fuck I need you to—“
“—Alex.” It sounds scolding, which only makes Alex’s cock twitch; he gets up into his elbows to see Henry, hair even more messed up than before, mouth hovering inches away from his cock, hot breath fanning the head.
“You want to have a hand in actually producing that come in a moment, you are going to have to stop running your mouth like that—and if you make a single crack about my age, I am going to leave you here to take care of yourself,” he adds.
Alex hums, grinning down at him as he plays with the hem of the washed out t-shirt, pulling it up to display one of his nipples, pinching it teasingly—all for Henry’s eyes.
“Yes, professor,” Alex says—and Henry huffs and takes him into his mouth—but not so quickly that he manages to hide the effect the word has on him. Alex knows. “Anything for you,” he adds breathily. “Tell me how it tastes.” Because this is what it really comes down to, isn’t it? It’s them wanting each other as individuals, that’s the main thing-–but there’s also Alex wanting to be good, wanting to please—and Henry, rarely allowing himself to want, to take—-to live. They haven’t known each other like this for a long time, but Alex has been pining for nearly a year and a half now—he knows Henry. And Henry knows him.
Henry pulls off with a gasp, his hand briefly taking over, stroking Alex as he looks up at him—those beautiful lines of pleasure carved into his forehead.
“Tastes so good, Alex,” he pants, and Alex grins—nearly as breathless—and lets himself get by with one elbow as he brings a hand down to comb it through Henry’s hair, the few strands of gray glittering even in the dull light of the storm outside. “Smell so good,” he adds, then, dipping his head to press a filthy kiss to the base of his cock, and Alex is able to see the way he inhales the sweat from his pubic hair.
“Just like that, baby,” he encourages.
Henry's mouth returns to Alex’s cock, slow and deliberate, while outside the snowstorm rages on, muffled against the windows; the pale morning light filters into the room, casting the messy sheets and tangled bodies in a soft glow; the contrast between the icy world outside and the heat building between them is dizzying, a reminder of how cocooned they are from everything beyond these four walls. Nothing else matters. Nothing but this—Henry’s tongue tracing a languid path, and Alex shuddering, his whole body tightening in response, desperately clinging to this one moment.
“Jesus,” he sighs when Henry takes him down nearly all the way—thus far, he’s been doing this best to play the part of mischievous, happy, horny boytoy—and it’s been going well, mostly because that is very much who he is. But jesus christ —the way Henry is looking up at him, the way he’s bobbing his head steadily—not slow, but not sloppy—the way his hands are kneading the bulk of Alex’s hips—how is Alex supposed to feel anything but fucking worshipped?
Last night hadn’t been like this —last night hadn’t been bad at all, but last night had been the inevitable explosion to a year and a half of tip-toeing and simmering, and not flirting, but also absolutely flirting. Clothes all over the place, teeth and tongue, quick prep, Henry face down, ass up on his bed while Alex fucked him through the mattress.
This is not that. This is something different. Alex thought that last night had been what they have been heading towards all this time, but it wasn’t—that was the prequel. This is different. This is eye-contact, and bright blue eyes staring up at him while bright pink lips work up and down his cock.
“God, you like sucking cock, huh?” he says, in an attempt to shake himself out of the thoughts he probably shouldn’t be having right now—or ever. Henry gives him an mm-hmm, and Alex sucks a breath in through his teeth as the vibrations roll straight into his cock.
The storm outside rages on, like a blizzard wrapping them in secrecy, burying them deeper in their own isolation. The rhythm of Henry’s mouth is as steady as the falling snow—each stroke deliberate, every movement as precise as flakes accumulating on the frozen ground. Alex can feel the pull of the storm inside him, too—wild, relentless—but Henry, in his slow devotion, is like the calm at its center.
When Henry starts to hollow his cheeks, Alex takes the opportunity to give him some payback—taking his hand out of his hair, he brings his index and middle fingers down to he pool of saliva and precome at the base of his cock, keeping his eyes locked on Henry’s as he shifts the fabric of the shirt up again, rolling his nipple in between his fingertips, dropping his head backwards, eyes falling closed as he lets a thick moan escape his parted lips—partly because it does feel really good, but mostly because if one of them doesn’t have the other’s cock inside of him soon, he’s going to lose his fucking mind.
It works.
The mouth disappears from his cock, and Alex lifts his head, quirking an eyebrow in mock confusion.
“You—” Henry says, dipping his head to drop a warm, wet kiss to the space right above his navel—which really shouldn’t feel as good as it does. “—are a bloody menace.”
“At this point, that’s starting to sound a lot like a compliment, darlin’,” Alex says, deliberately allowing his drawl to slip through.
“It is,” Henry confirms, and Alex laughs into the kiss he’s granted—reaching up to tangle a hand in the short blonde strands at the back of his head when he attempts to pull away, stealing another swipe of his tongue—and then two, and three, and eight. It just feels so fucking good. Alex has kissed plenty of people in his life—some of them have felt like nothing, some of them have felt like something —but none of them have ever felt like this. It’s like scratching a mosquito bite, or eating potato chips. How the fuck is he supposed to stop?
“I’m, uh…” Henry mumbles against his lips once Alex finally allows him some air. “I’m gonna get the lube and a condom, and I’m gonna ride that beautiful cock,” he manages—he’s not useless as far as dirty talk goes, but the words don’t seem to fall off of his lips quite as naturally as they do Alex’s. God, sometimes he says shit that Henry wouldn’t even be able to come up with. And Henry’s the writer. “You’re gonna be so good for me, alright?” he adds, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement when Alex swallows a whine, nodding impatiently.
“Yes, Mr. Fox.” Henry gives him a light bite on his nose for that—granted, he should probably tell him to cut that out, if not for obvious reasons, then because he hears those words countless times a day, and he probably shouldn’t let it grow into some kind of pavlovian response. Alas, that’s a problem for future Henry.
Henry pulls away, standing just long enough to grab the lube and a condom from the bedside drawer, his hand shaking slightly with anticipation. The chill from the window presses in around them, but all Henry can feel is the fire in his veins, the steady hum of need coursing through him. He glances back at Alex—flushed, his dark hair a messy halo against the pillow, pupils blown wide with lust. Henry’s heart stutters for a moment, the sight grounding him, reminding him of how far they’ve come to reach this point. Alex, so young and so fearless, makes Henry feel both reckless and vulnerable at once. There's something intoxicating about it, something that strips Henry bare in ways that have nothing to do with their clothes scattered across the floor.
When he climbs back onto the bed, straddling Alex’s thighs, Alex makes a move to take the shirt off.
“Keep it on.”
“Keep it on,” Henry tells him—but it’s not a demand, in fact, he’s not even looking at Alex as the words leave his mouth, he’s too busy squeezing some lube out onto the pads of his fingertips. Somehow Alex gets the feeling that he’s avoiding his eyes—so while it would be easy to tease him about the request—something stops him, and he doesn’t.
Henry tosses the open lube to the side, and when he drops his free hand to support himself on Alex’s thigh, Alex doesn’t think twice about adding his own hand on top of it, watching in awe as Henry’s eyes fall closed, a line appearing in between his brows as he sinks a finger—or two—inside of himself.
“Fuck, Hen,” Alex breathes, his stomach flipping—on fire. “Can’t believe I get to see you like this, you have no idea,” he continues babbling—he just can’t stop. Pale, flushed skin and a slight layer of bulk over modest muscles, his thighs thick and strong as he rocks himself back onto his own fingers—hair flopping over his forehead, plump lips even more swollen than they usually are—teeth digging into the bottom one as if he’s trying to silence himself.
“Stop that,” Alex says, doing a sit-up, using his own teeth to pluck Henry’s bottom lip out from in between his own; he gives him one more kiss, and then he leans back again, their eyes on each other’s as Alex gives a gentle shake of his head. “Wanna hear you—actually,” he changes his mind, then, Henry granted merely a blink of confusion before Alex leans over again, finding his wrist and gently guiding his fingers out of himself.
Quickly, Alex finds the lube and preps three of his own fingers, then he wraps his other arm around Henry’s waist.
“Come up,” he urges—and Henry does, their chests pressed together, noses bumping, eyes glued to each other’s as Alex carefully eases all three fingers inside of him at once.
“Bloody Christ,” Henry exhales—a combination that Alex hasn’t actually heard leave his lips before just now, so he takes it in stride, grinning as Henry tips his head back, eyes falling closed. The column of his throat is simply too beautiful and too there for Alex not to grant it a wide-mouthed, filthy kiss to the skin as he rubs Henry’s prostate—clearly doing a good job of it, too, because Henry doesn’t even begin to lecture him about the bright purple mark that Alex is actively very much sucking into the skin of his throat. At least it’s scarf-season. “...fingers should be illegal,” Henry mutters as he grinds himself down onto them. Alex grins into the crook of his neck.
“Not illegal, just forbidden,” he teases, and any retort Henry may have to that comes out as absolute nonsense when Alex starts thrusting his fingers, the slick, filthy sound filling the room, bleeding together with Henry’s moans—and Alex’s, when Henry starts tugging his hair, forcing his face deeper into the side of his neck. God, Alex wants to stay here forever.
Eventually, they manage to let go of each other enough to get a condom and some lube onto Alex’s cock—and… Henry should stop. He really should. Last night was last night, and it wasn’t right, but if nothing else, it was just the once. One time. It wouldn’t make a difference to the university, should they ever find out—god forbid—but it would make a difference to him. One time. One night. One mistake.
The thing is, though—as much as this—all of it— should feel like a mistake—it doesn’t. It didn’t feel like a mistake last night, when Henry reluctantly allowed Alex to come by to pick up a textbook so he didn’t have to spend money on one. It didn’t feel like a mistake when Alex crowded him up against his modest kitchen island and Henry told him he should back off—it didn’t feel like a mistake when Alex asked him if Henry thought he should back off, or if Henry wanted him to back off, and it didn’t feel like a mistake when Henry reluctantly exhaled that it was certainly not the latter.
It didn’t feel like a mistake when Alex grinned, grabbed him by the waist and kissed him in a way that made him feel as if he were floating. It didn’t feel like a mistake when they stumbled to the bedroom, and it didn’t feel like a mistake when he was face down, ass up in bed, getting absolutely railed by the most beautiful man he has ever seen.
It didn’t feel like a mistake, falling asleep together through the flimsy excuse of a few flakes of snow falling outside—it would have made more sense for Alex to get going as fast as possible so he could get home to his roommate before the storm started, but he didn’t—and now they’re here, and the wind is screaming around the corners of the building, shaking the walls—and their eyes are locked upon each other’s as Henry sinks down onto Alex’s cock—and none of it feels like a mistake. Not one bit.
“Christ, Alex,” he sighs, hands clutched in the fabric of the old Queen shirt. The one from the concert his father took him to just about a year before he died. They never talked about it—never had time—but Henry thinks he knew. He knew who Henry was—who Henry is—and that shirt is a reminder, not just of one of the best nights of his life, but about who he is, and a reminder that it’s okay for him to be exactly who he is. That he’s allowed to be happy. Why it feels so right seeing that shirt on Alex is a mystery Henry is going to ignore. For now.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” Alex hisses, his fingers digging into the meat of Henry’s outer thigh, the heat radiating from his skin driving him wild. He can feel the urgency building between them, the bed frame creaking rhythmically beneath their movements, almost in sync with the frantic pounding of his heart. “God, look so fucking good, baby,” he gasps, his voice thick with lust. “Look at you bouncing on that cock, fuck.” He kneads the soft flesh of Henry's thigh, thrusting his hips up to meet the delicious rhythm Henry sets, every upward stroke igniting a fire deep within him.
“Alex,” Henry huffs, his eyes squeezed shut, his forehead creased with a deep line of pleasure that makes Alex’s stomach flip. There’s something primal in the way Henry moves, the raw need painted across his flushed skin—a fifty-five year-old man reveling in the uncharted territory of this moment, where age melts away and desire reigns. It’s intoxicating, watching Henry let go, losing himself in the rhythm as he rides Alex, the way his body, though lined with years, moves with a youthful abandon that leaves Alex breathless. The world outside is reduced to a distant blur, the snowstorm raging on, but in this cocoon of heat and flesh, all that matters is the way in which Henry’s body responds to him—every gasp and moan pulling Alex deeper into a connection that feels equally exhilarating and forbidden.
With each thrust, Henry’s back arches, the muscles in his arms tensing as he rides the waves of pleasure crashing over him. Alex can’t tear his eyes off of him, spellbound by the sight of this man—his professor, his secret—losing himself to the sensations. The sounds they make blend into a heady symphony, punctuated by the wet slap of skin on skin and the desperate gasps that slip from Henry’s lips, a chorus of need that reverberates through the room. It’s raw and unfiltered, each sound hanging in the air like a promise—a promise that they’re not just crossing a line, but diving headfirst into something profoundly real. And with each and every thrust, Alex knows they are crafting a moment that transcends all boundaries, where age and propriety dissolve, leaving nothing but the fire between them.
As Alex watches Henry lose himself in pleasure, a wave of smug satisfaction washes over him, curling around his heart like smoke. He can’t help but feel a twinge of pride in knowing that out of all the students and professors who have looked at Henry with longing eyes—each one dreaming of the charismatic professor with his silver-streaked hair and literary charm—it’s him who gets to experience this. While others pine for the unattainable, Alex is the one who gets to see the raw, unguarded side of Henry, the way he lets go and surrenders to desire. There’s an undeniable thrill in that, an electric jolt that makes his skin tingle, it feels almost surreal to have Henry, who’s been a beacon of wisdom and authority, here, now , riding him with reckless abandon. It’s a privilege not lost on him, and that realization ignites a possessive spark deep within, fueling his desire even further.
“Feels so good, Alex, fuck,” Henry breathes, and Alex will never tire of the way his accent curls around curse words. Or his name. Or any words, for that matter.
“Yeah? God, Hen, you were fucking made to bounce on this cock, you know what? Look so good,” he manages. “You like young cock?” The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, but thankfully Henry is too gone to argue—he just nods; a series of quick jerks of his head. “Yeah, you like young cock—fucking deserve it too, fuck, Hen, look at you,” Alex praises—and Henry’s praise kink may not be quite as strong as Alex’s, but he still watches, mesmerized as his sweaty chest grows a shade darker, along with his neck, up to his cheeks as he speeds up, bouncing like he was made to do nothing else—the bed creaking louder, their flesh clapping every time he lands. Fuck, if Alex’s hands weren’t so busy clinging to Henry, he would probably clap, too.
“So fucking—” Henry starts, clearly trying to feed into Alex’s praise kink right back, despite the way in which each punch of Alex’s cock against his prostate seems to be stealing his breath. He’s still thinking about Alex. And Alex loves him for it. This is no time to say it—probably not for a long time, if ever, but goddamn it, if Alex hasn’t been in love with this man for the past year—and that’s being conservative. “—big, fuck.”
Henry’s thigh, still clutched in Alex’s hand starts to shake just a little bit, and Alex is quick and smooth in rolling them over, not missing a beat as he takes over, Henry’s eyes wide and dark, mouth open as Alex pounds into him—not too fast, but hard —one of his hands dug deep into the side of his other thigh now, tucking his leg up around his own waist as he slips his other arm between Henry’s neck and the pillows, hand clutching his shoulder as their breaths mingle, gazes glued to each other’s.
“So—” Thrust. “—fucking—” Thrust. “—beautiful,” Alex pants—and then, because he’s losing his own mind just a little bit, he adds; “I think you fucking love it, too.” Thrust. Thrust. One of Henry’s hands fly up to the headboard, clutching the wood as he nods, eyes remaining open, glued to Alex’s. “Think you fucking love—” Thrust. “—taking forbidden cock.”
“It’s s—it’s wrong,” Henry moans, and Alex grins. Bingo.
“So fucking wrong, baby.” Then he lowers his face, deliberately swiping the tip of his nose over Henry’s as he continues pounding into him within an inch of their lives. “Not our fault, though—this tight little ass was made to take my cock, wasn’t it?” Henry nods, jaw clenched. “Legs around my waist.” Alex instructs, and Henry obeys, Alex stealing both of his hands back to pin both of Henry’s to the headboard, their fingers slipping in between each other’s, granting himself more momentum as Henry’s heels dig into his ass. “Just like that,” Alex praises, his own throat thick with moans. “God, do you have any—” Thrust.” —idea how many—” Thrust. “—people want you like this? You walk around like you don’t know what you do to people.” Another thrust—harder. “But I think you do.” Henry’s breath stutters, his whole body arching, and Alex can feel the desperation building between them, making everything sharper, hotter. Perfect.
“Christ, Alex, do you think I—” Thrust. “—bloody care—” Thrust. “—about anyone else?”
“Hm,” Alex hums, diving down to steal a quick, but downright filthy kiss. “Right answer, Mr. Fox.”
“Having a possessive streak, are we?” Henry—somehow—manages to pant.
“I supposed you’d, uh—“ Alex huffs. “—be just fine if I, uh—“ Thrust. “—fucked someone else’s brains out on my way home, huh?”
“I’m afraid that, uh—“ Henry grunts. “—would not be allowed under my teachings, Mr. Claremont-Diaz.”
“Hm, two for two, professor.” They both grin into the next deep, filthy kiss, teeth clashing, getting in the way of their tongues. They get lost like that for a while, tongues tangling, the headboard creaking, Alex’s thrusts only growing more and more brutal—until Henry seems to be too far gone to fully kiss him back; never once slowing down, Alex raises his head slightly, getting a clear view of Henry with his jaw dropped, eyes rolling to the back of his head. Most of the things coming out of his mouth are absolute nonsense, but Alex does catch something that sounds a lot like ‘harder’ so he obeys—somehow.
“You ever, uh—” Alex pants. “—jerk off to this? To me?” He’s only asking to be a bit of a dick–-and because he thinks that there’s no way that Henry is anywhere present enough to actually answer the question right now—but he does. In a quick series of nods, and a gasped ‘yes’ he does—and Alex comes. “Fuck—oh fuck —”
The orgasm hits Alex out of nowhere, like a lightning strike—one second he’s pounding into Henry, still teasing, still in control—and the next, it’s like his body betrays him; his hips stutter, his breath catches, and the release slams into him with an intensity that knocks the air from his lungs. It’s brutal, sudden, and completely and utterly out of his control. Alex’s entire body locks up, his fingers tightening around Henry’s like he’s trying to anchor himself, and his eyes slam shut as he lets out a deep, guttural groan, forehead glued tight to Henry’s.
It feels as if it goes on for an eternity; he can’t stop it, can’t slow it down, the pleasure so overwhelming it’s like his brain short-circuits; he remains buried deep, hips frozen as the orgasm rolls through him in wave after wave, stealing every ounce of composure he thought he had.
It’s not until the last few aftershocks shake his body, and he starts to get ready to gather himself back up and start thrusting again—what are your twenties for if not for coming and then going right back to fucking?—that he realizes that he doesn’t need to—his shirt and Henry’s torso are both already painted with Henry’s come, and it’s only then that Alex remembers the brief, happy laugh in his ear as he was coming—it happened last night, too. Fuck, he’s so in love.
“Sorry,” Alex pants—what he’s apologizing for, he’s not sure. For not actively watching Henry get off? For not warning him that he was about to get off? For not getting Henry off first? All of it?
“I don’t think you’re meant to apologize after you make someone come their bloody brains out,” Henry pants, their hands both slipping off of the headboard, one of Henry’s landing in Alex’s hair, the other curled around his bicep. “Think you’re meant to kiss them, actually.”
Normally, Alex would have some slick, clever retort ready, but right now, he’s got nothing—nothing but the hum he gives into the kiss, low and warm, as if the words themselves have been lost somewhere between them. His hands abandon Henry’s waist and gently cradle his face instead, thumbs brushing over the flushed skin of his cheekbones. The kiss deepens, slow and messy, but not in the way they’ve kissed before. There’s a tenderness now, something raw, aching beneath it all, as though Alex finds himself trying to memorize the way Henry feels beneath his hands, the way their mouths fit together like they’ve done this for years.
It’s romantic, but there’s a quiet desperation threading through it—like they both know something this good, this intense, can’t last. The thought creeps in for just a moment, sharp and uninvited, but Alex doesn’t let it settle. Instead, he tilts his head, shifting the angle of the kiss, his breath catching when Henry’s lips part beneath his, like they’re both reaching for something neither of them are quite ready to say aloud. The soft drag of their tongues is intimate, but there’s an edge of something bittersweet there, too—like they’re kissing through the fear of what comes next, as if this kiss is the only thing holding their world at bay.
“Hen–”
“Shh,” Henry shushes into his mouth. “Kiss me.”
So Alex does.
Alex doesn’t leave that day. Or the next. They blame the storm at first—and it’s a convenient excuse—it’s so bad that Alex actually worries for Henry and David’s safety when they have to quickly brave it to empty David’s bladder.
They spend the entire weekend talking, and watching television—when the storm lends them the power to do so—and they kiss. A lot. They fuck, too, of course—but more than anything, they kiss. And kiss. And kiss. On the mouth. On the neck. Backs, shoulders, stomachs, hands, thighs, cheeks, foreheads—everywhere.
By Sunday night, it’s still snowing, but it can no longer be called a storm by any stretch of the imagination. Alex still doesn’t go home. Henry doesn’t ask him to. They both have the next two weeks off, anyway—Alex is wearing Henry’s clothes by now, and using his spare toothbrush, but he doesn’t want to approach the subject of packing a bag. Doesn’t want to break the spell.
It’s wrong. It’s so wrong. That’s what Henry should be thinking as his twenty-two year-old student is reclined up against his own headboard, his heartbeat loud, beating straight into Henry’s ear where he’s resting upon his chest. As he shifts his calf against his beneath the covers—a lazy sign of affection—and as he gets a kiss to his temple in reciprocation, their eyes never leaving the television screen.
It’s wrong to sleep with a student—that much Henry knows—but somehow, this feels worse; playing house, pretending like they’re an old married couple that has spent years wrapped around each other like this—sharing touches, quiet moments—a rhythm that feels too natural, too easy.
It doesn’t feel wrong, though, is the thing. It doesn’t feel wrong—not even close. There’s no guilt clawing at his chest, no shame pulling him under. It just feels right —like he belongs here, beside Alex, like they have stumbled and slipped into this quiet intimacy without even trying. They aren’t acting. There’s no pretense, no facade. It’s real. They’re real.
What they’re meant to do with that fact is a different question entirely—but it’s not one to be answered tonight.
Tonight David jumps up onto the bed, and curls up at Alex’s feet as though he already considers him family. Henry holds Alex just a little bit tighter. Alex holds him tighter right back.