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“Vintage blend, too precious to be had alone. What do you say?"
Problem one: Dexter likes his liquor. The finest reds that remind him of home. The darkest ambers; barrel aged or bootleg. Even the precariously distilled moonshine that gets him piss drunk after a single shot—he loves it. All of it. Dexter will never say no to a drink.
"I really shouldn't..." Pretty eyes flick from the bottle and back to him, weighing the options. "It's never just one glass with you."
Problem two: those eyes. Dexter is weak for them, pathetically so. Pastel blues framed by a fan of long, silver lashes, so innocent when they catch his gaze during class. Not so innocent when they're alone like this; pressed next to one another on the tufted chesterfield in Dexter's office, sharing wine and heat. Close enough to share breath.
Dexter laughs to ease the growing tension in his chest, sliding closer. "Just one more," he says, a lie he lets himself believe, and pours a generous glass. "Indulge an old man, won't you?"
Problem three—and this one's the worst—old man.
Properly old. Old enough to be Sylvester's father, Dexter is not only decades his senior, but also the father of his closest friend. Explaining this, whatever "this" is (whatever it absolutely cannot be), to Ramona will ruin Dexter. And really, the thought of disappointing his daughter should be enough to smother the fire building in the pit of his stomach. To kill that ache, the sinister voice that says it doesn't matter, they're both consenting adults, and Sylvester would look so good spread open and stretched around his cock—
Sylvester sighs and accepts the cup, fingers brushing his, lingering. Seems the boy doesn't know any better, either.
"If you insist, professor."
Problem f—alright. Too many problems to count, no point in keeping track.
Look, he knows. He knows that it's wrong, because professor, and student, and a boy young enough to be his, but it's just—
"It's good," Sylvester hums, already flushed, a rosy tint upon his cheeks. "Is it like the ones from Chaplin?"
His tongue darts out to catch a stray drop, licking slowly. The motion is a disaster, one of catastrophic proportions, giving Dexter's perverse mind just enough fuel to extrapolate. Sylvester's barely open mouth, the sweet O of it. How wide it might stretch when filled, how beautiful those eyes might look staring up at him, brimming with tears.
"Not quite." There's still red tinting the edge of Sylvester's mouth, distracting. "The wines of my hometown aren't quite so sweet." Dexter thumbs across the seam of those lips, parting them. They're spit-slick and swollen, begging to be kissed. "Would you like a taste?"
The words leave his traitorous mouth, too low and intimate, another line barrelled over. He doesn't mean for it to sound the way it does; an open invitation for something more sinful, one he desperately needs Sylvester to turn down.
"What are you doing? You’re Ramona's dad," he would say, reminding Dexter of his place, returning things to the comfortable status quo.
Professor. Student.
Ramona's sorry excuse for a father. Her bright-eyed friend only three breaths away from being bent over a desk.
"Yes," Sylvester says instead, the first nail in Dexter's coffin. And then he adds a little, breathy, "please" just to test Dexter's wavering will.
Dexter's will, contrary to what most would believe, is actually rather weak. Made of tissue paper when it comes to matters of the heart—sentimental sod that he is—and entirely non-existent when it comes to Sylvester.
Then there's this matter of tests, which is very much what he considers tonight to be. Sylvester, right within reach, those half-lidded eyes and a teasing sliver of skin; high collar unbuttoned. The rise and fall of his chest, breaths coming too fast; warm puffs of air that reach Dexter's face and tell of his eagerness. Saying "please", but not like he does when being polite. Rather please—fuck, please, full of longing, asking Dexter's permission for something he's damn well always had.
And right, tests. Having failed every test since youth, Dexter doesn't really see how he'll pass this one. Negligence was the root of poor performance in his studies. He'd have done well if he cared, just never bothered correcting his behaviour. But this? This boy and his pink lips and Dexter's downright rotten obsession with him? There's no chance in hell. He'll lose this battle as easily as he loses bets to Ryker: pockets and mind wiped clean, his reputation in shambles.
Another problem. The last one, he swears it. Dexter could do with some shame, for he has none of it. His bad reputation is well-earned, all that socialite gossip driving him to rebellion, not wanting to be like those half-witted, upper-class snobs despite his status. A contrarian to the end.
A fool, too, out feeding liquor to his student and trying to bed them in his office.
Sylvester thinks you're respectable, if only he knew.
Ramona's voice in his head is both a blessing and a curse, the old words teasing, triggering a vicious spiral of guilt.
If Sylvester only knew what he was…
If Sylvester knew, would his lashes still flutter and his shoulders still sag when Dexter touched him? Would his breath hitch like it just did, would he say 'please' the same way he does, when Dexter pinches his chin and tilts him closer?
Tiny freckles dot Sylvester's face, dusting the bridge of his nose and his flushed cheeks. Dexter can count each one at this distance, trace a path between them with careful fingers, just as he does with the stars.
It dawns on him, far too late, that even the weight of guilt cannot stop him. Dexter is already gone for this boy. Hopelessly, impossibly, gone.
"Forgive me for this," he says, succumbing to illness, and takes Sylvester's lips.
They're impossibly soft and pliant beneath his, accepting the tongue Dexter slips so unabashedly between them; a tiny sigh as his reward. Sylvester tastes of citrus and juniper from their earlier glass of shared gin. Of black currant and vanilla—almost of home.
"Professor," he pants, breathless, and Dexter swears he doesn't have a kink.
"Don't—" Don't call me that, use my name, but Sylvester chases his lips and the words die between them.
Their mouths move together, too desperate, like they're both twenty-something and tasting sin for the first time. Dexter is lost, suddenly taken back to his early years; a barely-lit room with a pretty thing in his arms, not knowing where to put his hands (everywhere), or how much of Sylvester he is permitted to touch (all of him).
Snaking under the hem of Sylvester's shirt, he presses a palm flat to the burning skin he finds; a fever infecting the both of them. Sylvester's head tips back at the touch, lips parting on a small gasp.
"Lord Dexter," he moans, and it's wicked—pure fucking filth. Every sick fantasy Dexter's had that keeps him awake at night, wearing him thin until he gives in and jacks off to the thought of Sylvester writhing beneath him.
"Again." Dexter fists handfuls of those silver locks; the ones he dreams of running his fingers through. The same ones he imagines holding when he takes Sylvester on his hands and knees. "Again."
"Lord Dexter," he says, yielding.
The space between them is suddenly too little and too much, and Dexter needs to be closer, but there are too many layers, too many straps and hooks and—
Sylvester's hands begin to fumble the buckle of his belt, slackening the leather until it's undone and pulled loose. Like a splash of cold water, the sound of his zipper tugging down brings back his senses.
"Easy, slow down." The gods spare him a moment of rationality and Dexter manages to ask: "Here? Are you certain?"
It should matter little to him. Dexter is tenting his pants, already painfully hard and aching to be buried inside something warm and wet. But this is Sylvester, who naively trusts him despite what Dexter is so carelessly doing; still calling him sir and professor and Lord Dexter, as if he's done anything to deserve such respect.
"Don't you want—" Sylvester heaves, trying to catch breath. "Where else?"
In bed, where Dexter can take him to pieces. Spread him out and map that body with his lips, have him over and over until his skin is marked with Dexter's fingerprints.
"Somewhere more comfortable. You deserve that much."
Sylvester flushes a brilliant shade of red and turns away. "Next time," he mumbles into the back of his hand. "Right now, I just want…"
Next time, is all Dexter hears, disbelieving. Next time, and the rest is lost to static; ringing in his ears and cotton in his mind.
Restraint obliterated, he hauls Sylvester the rest of the way into his lap and lifts them from the sofa, Sylvester yelping as he's scooped up.
"What are you—"
"Trust me," Dexter says, a big ask considering what it is he's about to do.
It's a short distance to the desk. Only a few strides before papers are tossed aside haphazardly, Sylvester clinging on as Dexter sets him at the edge. Slotting between his legs, Dexter reclaims his lips and wastes little time in freeing them of their barriers.
A flurry of clothes; grabbing at one another until fastening pop loose and buttons go flying. Sylvester's uniform is torn from him, trousers a puddle on the floor, boxers dangling from his ankle. Dexter's waistcoat and tie are discarded but little else, so desperate for the body in front of him that he can't be bothered with the rest.
When they settle, Sylvester is almost entirely exposed, his shirt uselessly pooled at his wrists, hard nipples on full display. Pale thighs glisten from where they're spread wide, shimmering wetness that catches lamplight. Between them is Sylvester's pristine cunt; shaved bare and flushed hot with want, swollen lips dripping wet.
Dexter stares. Indecently, rudely. Were you anticipating this? he wants to ask, but his mouth is parched, his brain overloaded. Impatiently, he runs fingers through the slickness; down to the rim to wet himself, back up in a single stroke. Sylvester whines, a high-pitched keen, echoing loudly in the quiet office; rattling around in Dexter's brain. Londinium's top table shark but Dexter folds at the sound, lost in such depravity it takes everything he has to not slide Sylvester onto his cock and fuck him until he is screaming.
"Just a taste," Dexter groans, asking again for too much. "Gods, just a taste. Will you let me?"
Sylvester blinks at him, wide-eyed, says something that Dexter misses on his hurried descent to the floor. Knees pressed firmly to hardwood, he brings those legs over his shoulders and finally breathes Sylvester in.
The scent there is heady and sweet. Dexter drags a slow tongue over the length of him, parting the folds and drinking his fill—savouring Sylvester like he would the most cherished blends of Chaplin.
"W-wait," hesitant fingers tangle in his hair, "you don't have to."
Don't have to? Absurd. Dexter wants to, needs to. Needs it more than he needs someone to tell him he shouldn't have his head between Sylvester's legs in the first place. But Dexter is a fool, a willing one, and he'd much sooner give up alcohol than part from Sylvester's divine cunt.
Reaching for the hand above, he guides it to take hold of his roots. Sylvester's fingers twist reflexively with the instruction, the delicious sting at his scalp encouraging. Dexter is made hungry—ravenous—spurred on by honeyed moans and Sylvester's tightening grip.
The thighs bracketing his head begin to shake, tensing and tensing; the pressure of imminent release. "I-I'm close," Sylvester stutters, and Dexter puts his skilled tongue to work. "Lord Dexter—" a desperate cry of his name and the remaining words come muffled, something distant about them—off.
Dexter stops, a cruelty, Sylvester whining at the loss of his mouth.
"You needn't be shy, darling." He kisses the inside of a trembling thigh, voice steady despite his delirium. "Let me hear you."
Rasping, followed by a shaky string of okay's. Dexter dips his tongue back into that strangling heat, giving Sylvester his reward for continued obedience; working him over until he is howling, coming quickly into Dexter's wanting mouth.
Wetness coats his lips and chin—drips onto his fastened collar that feels too tight. Dexter laps the saccharine sweetness of Sylvester's orgasm, aware that he is dangerously close to an end himself.
"Come here." Sylvester grabs at his wrist, pulling weakly. "Lord Dexter," he sighs, and Dexter can't help but grin.
Face shiny with slick, he rises to take his rightful place between Sylvester's legs, feeling a little bit crazed and a lot helpless when he puts Sylvester's arms around his neck and says, "taste yourself."
The command is wild in its obscenity, rooted in selfishness; Dexter wanting to be close. Sylvester listens and presses in, bringing their bodies flush as he accepts sticky kisses from Dexter's lips.
Their hips meet, warmth on warmth; the apex of Sylvester's thighs hot against the gape of Dexter's trousers. Dexter groans, rolling into it, chasing friction like a needy teen and wanting more. It's the closest he'll get to having Sylvester without having him; feeling his cunt through the thin silk of these boxers.
"I can't," Sylvester whines again, overstimulated, rocking counterpoint to his thrusts. It's lewd, desperate, and soon the desk is rattling under their weight; Dexter's motions harsh and stilted, Sylvester's moans rising to a crescendo.
"Please," Sylvester gasps, losing his grip, palms falling against the desk. "I need—" he leans back, bites his lip bloody when Dexter reaches between his thighs.
"Ah, ah. Hush now." Dexter soothes him; rolling his clit, rubbing the pads of rough fingers along those slippery lips. "I'll get you there again, I swear it."
"I'm sorry." Hitched breath, lashes damp with tears. Sylvester spreads wider and begs for him, sobbing out: "I need it."
I need it.
It's too risky to ask what "it" is, or why Sylvester is apologising. Dexter already knows, and they shouldn't. They can't.
Besides the obvious reasons of how he's had this boy in his lecture hall for classes and in his home for birthdays, watching him grow through the years—Dexter is simply not ready. Unprepared, like an amateur.
Perhaps telling of his age, Dexter is long past stashing condoms in desk drawers and briefcases. It was one thing to have strangers in his home as a bachelor, an entirely different thing to fuck them on campus as an educator; office door left open for anyone to see. The latter lent itself poorly to professorship, even less so to fatherhood. Dexter had only ever cared about one, and so he abandoned his debauchery for the sake of his daughter, kicking the habit with little regret.
Mostly.
He regrets it now that he has Sylvester on the cherry oak of his desk, wet pussy spread open for him, ready to be taken.
"Don’t tempt me, little one." His voice is ragged, distant to his ears.
Little one, he reminds himself. To keep himself in line when his thoughts stray, thinking of how little Sylvester's waist looks swallowed by his large palms. Of how tight Sylvester's cunt must be, how badly Dexter wants to run his cock along the seam of it, slick himself up and push past the lips, claim Sylvester in such a carnal way that no one else can have him.
"Don’t tempt me," he says again, bending to take Sylvester's mouth in a kiss. "I am a weak man," he rasps when they part, foreheads knocking together. "I shouldn't be doing this to you. Gods help me."
There's a gentle pressure at his chest, Sylvester urging him away.
At last, Dexter thinks, he is spared; rejected like the sick pervert he is. Put down like an old dog.
Sylvester slides from the desk with wobbly legs, the last piece of cloth falling from him, leaving him bare. He's beautiful; creamy skin coloured pink with arousal, smooth lines of his face and pillowy lips that remind Dexter of his age.
Dexter's fingers twitch at his sides, aching to touch, but he steps away to give Sylvester space, confused when Sylvester begins to follow.
"Can I take this off?" Sylvester asks, hovering over the buttons of his shirt. "I can't be the only one undressed like this. It isn't fair."
Capable of little else, Dexter nods to give his permission, letting Sylvester undress him—undo him bit by bit like he has been since they first met.
The shirt is unbuttoned and slowly pushed from his shoulders, baring his chest. Dexter is too old to be self-conscious about his body, but there's this intensity in Sylvester's gaze that makes him feel too exposed, his face hot with embarrassment.
Sylvester swallows before daring to touch. "What happened here?" he asks, tracing the edge of a deep scar. Back when Dexter was arrogant enough to pick fights, wanting revenge and thinking he'd win.
"I was a troublemaker when I was your age." He jokes to lighten the mood, though it does little to steady his heart, beating staccato beneath Sylvester's fingers.
"Not anymore though, right?"
"No," Dexter grins, "I would never cause trouble."
"No," he echoes, a teasing lilt. "Lord Dexter is an upright individual, he would never."
They laugh, and things almost feel normal; an evening spent together after a hard field mission, a drink offered to help Sylvester forget himself. Normal, but Sylvester is standing naked before him, Dexter almost there too, and the only thing forgotten is Dexter's promise about his bottom line: keeping Sylvester and Ramona safe.
"You know, you're not doing anything to me." Sylvester's eyes are lowered, his voice too soft. "I want this, so stop thinking that way," he whispers, and sets his mouth over the scar on Dexter's chest
Dexter's mind whites, buffers into oblivion as Sylvester leaves wet kisses across his skin. Hands wander to his navel, lower and lower, to the waistband of his pants. A finger hooks in, and—this is not safe—but Dexter is powerless to stop it. A rush of cold air as his cock is pulled free, then warmth from a smooth palm; Sylvester stroking him to leaking, come smearing over the crown.
"I want you." Sylvester looks up as he says it, and every inhale is like fire in Dexter's lungs, razing him.
He takes hold of the hand between them before friction drags him under, cups Sylvester's face and kisses him roughly, then pushes him back.
On the desk again, this time skin to skin. Sylvester's legs hitched over Dexter's hips, the slippery glide of his cunt against Dexter's aching dick. Sinful sounds of their bodies meeting, the lewd squelch of it, his cock slipping over those lips, catching at the entrance.
"Are you sure?" Dexter asks, taking hold of himself, pressing in.
"Yes." Sylvester gasps, tugging at Dexter's hair. "Please, yes."
Yes, he hears again as the head breaches that tight ring of muscle, delicious heat enveloping the length of him, Dexter's control slipping through his fingers like sand.
Muscles straining, he fights himself. To not be rough, to not fuck into the best cunt he's ever had.
A pointless endeavour, a losing battle. Sylvester shifts, something wanting in the motion, and Dexter bottoms out in a single, brutal stroke, all finesse lost as he's pulled tightly into that slick warmth.
He's bedded too many people to count, but Dexter can't help the tactless "fuck" that escapes him, because fuck, Sylvester is so little here, so tight; not yet broken in. He's heaving as Dexter rocks him down, struggling for breath as he's filled; unused to it. Dexter grinds in, pressing against that soft, inner limit and Sylvester yelps; a warning, a split second of horror that makes Dexter think the impossible—
Wait, is this your first time?
No. Sylvester is twitching too much for that, he's taking Dexter too well for that. Looking every bit a wanton slut, spread wide over his professor's desk, Sylvester's cries are too sweet and his pussy too wet for this to be anything close to his first.
"I can't," he gasps, the words a confusing contradiction. He still takes Dexter deeper, still tilts into the rolling thrusts. "I can't."
They're right where they were before: Sylvester braced on his elbows, Dexter between his legs. I can't, again, and I need it, again. Clockwork. Dexter's meant to be here, unable to escape fate no matter how hard he tries (he doesn't).
And fate, he thinks, as the pressure mounts and mounts, slow at first, then a runaway reaction—a high-speed train off its tracks. Dexter is barrelling towards an end, the sharp edge in sight, watching Sylvester's face knit with ecstasy, mouth hung open around ragged gasps.
"Inside," Sylvester sobs, damning. "Come inside me."
Dexter's mind skips, the words reverberating. "Don't be reckless," he warns, more for himself. "You’re not thinking clearly."
You're not thinking clearly.
"It's safe," Sylvester tells him, and Dexter's blood is a roar in his ears, knowing he's about to cross the last line and feeling unable to stop it. Even if it's safe, he can't, he won't, he shouldn't. He doesn't want to ruin Sylvester like he ruins everything else, except—
come inside me,
and, I need it,
and, Lord Dexter, I want this, I want you, it's safe—
"Sylvester, darling," he says, sounding wrecked. Reaching down, Dexter traces where they're joined, pulling open those flushed lips to watch the glide of his cock between them. "I already want so badly to make a mess of you, it's best not to encourage me."
The warning is lost on him. Sylvester makes these painfully soft noises and reaches. "Don’t care," he says, taking hold of Dexter's shoulders, mumbling something incomprehensible as he opens for another kiss.
They're both too worked up to go slow, even if Dexter wants it—even if Sylvester's tender kisses suggest he does, too. Dexter loses himself to the clutch of that body, says things he has no right to say. Praising Sylvester; telling him how perfect his cunt is, how Dexter doesn't deserve it, but it feels like it was made just for him. Sylvester sobs his thanks, rocking up with equal fervor, and then he's gasping again; come inside me, I need it— making Dexter's mind skip and skip and skip.
Please, and Dexter sees it too clearly, the image of Sylvester's perfect cunt, soiled and leaking his spend. Rough fingers that work the mess inside—don't waste it, he says— fucking it back in to make sure it takes.
"Please," and Sylvester comes with a broken cry, and Dexter is a weak, weak man, because immediately—he comes too.
Heat blossoms between them. Wet sounds echo as they grind into each other, riding out their release. Dexter's judgment lapses (the third time now), and he bites the tender flesh between Sylvester's neck and shoulder, sucking bruises well above where a collar might reasonably hide—claiming him.
"Beautiful," Dexter says, sick with it. "Mine," he mumbles, praying Sylvester won't hear.
Fingers card through his tousled hair, pulling softly. His head is drawn up and into warm hands; a thumb brushing the edge of his mouth, wanting. Sylvester tilts him in for a kiss; languid, searching—far too intimate for what they are. Forbidden.
"Are you feeling alright?" Dexter asks once their lips untangle. If you kiss me like this, I won't ever let you go.
"Yeah, it's just…" Sylvester sighs, regretful. Burying his head in Dexter's neck, he says, "What am I gonna tell Ramona?"
Ramona?
Ramona.
Dexter blinks, a little regretful himself.
"Imagine how I feel," he laughs, remembering himself. Dexter feels better than he has in years, which makes the guilt that much worse. "I will tell her, fret not," he says, and not for the first time, he considers telling Doll, too.
There are scratches on Sylvester's chin from Dexter's stubble, matching marks on his neck and likely between his legs—Ramona is sure to see at least one of them. They have no chance of hiding this.
"I don't want to lie to her," Sylvester starts up again. "But I don't want her upset with you because of me, either."
"We could say nothing," Dexter suggests, and because he's already too far gone, he adds: "If you're only interested in just this once, we could say nothing."
It's the right thing to do, the only thing Dexter can offer: a way out for Sylvester in case of regret.
There's a soft whine that sounds a lot like, no, which gives Dexter too much hope. Shifting, and then Sylvester is staring up at him, the tips of his ears looking terribly hot.
Cute.
"If I want more than just once, are you okay with that?"
"My sweet boy." Dexter runs a slow hand down his back, soothing. "If I admitted the times I've thought of you like this, Professor Doll would have me jailed."
"Then why didn't you do anything?" Sylvester flusters, voice cracking. Hot breath tickles Dexter's skin as he speaks, face reddening with the passing seconds. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Ah, my addictive nature." Dexter admits it easily. "I would want to have you everyday, but then your grades would suffer, and—"
"Miss Doll would have you jailed. I know, I know."
"Have me killed," Dexter corrects. "She may give you grief, but she thinks highly of you. Doll would sooner see me hang than let me sabotage your studies."
"She gives everyone grief," Sylvester mutters. "Most of all you."
"Because she thinks me a gambler and a drunkard." There's a long pause as Sylvester chews the inside of his cheek, hiding a grin. "Easy, now," Dexter teases. "Don't rush to defend me."
They laugh again, and it's—normal. This could be the new normal for them, Dexter thinks; naked in his office after hours, spilt wine, red-bitten lips. Sylvester's breathy moans and Dexter's reckless words; silly things said in the heat of the moment—you're perfect, and, the best I've had, and, come for me again, just like that—making him sound every bit the possessive bastard he is.
Sylvester stirs in his arms, whining. "I'm filthy."
They're both filthy. Still connected but Dexter's gone soft, and now there's nothing keeping the mess from spilling out from between them. "How about a bath?" He asks, another terrible idea.
"Together? How—where?"
"I'd love to take you home." Dexter ponders a moment, then pushes away the thought. Too tempting. "Your room is the safest option."
"Safest option?" The look on Sylvester's face is one of bewilderment. "You’re not worried someone will see?"
A perfectly appropriate reaction. Dexter's trousers are collateral damage, come and slick staining the front. But of the two, Sylvester is still worse off; the place between his legs messy, his neck littered with loving bruises. If someone were to catch them like this—well.
"I know a quiet way around," Dexter tests his luck, flashes the same provocative grin he uses when he wants to give Doll a hard time. "Don't you trust me?"
Sylvester's sigh is despairing. "You really are trouble," he says, but Dexter feels a little smile when their mouths meet for a kiss.
"Next time" comes quickly.
They mean to bathe, but the first sighting of a bed has Sylvester groaning, asking: can we lay down for a minute first? as he looks up at Dexter all starry-eyed.
Dexter can't resist. And so a minute turns into ten, then into sixty, and soon it's half past three and Dexter is back between Sylvester's legs, a hand tangled in his hair as he rocks him slowly into the mattress.
They make a mess there, too; sticky sheets and sticky skin and Dexter's come painting the inside of Sylvester's thighs before finally, they reach the bath.
As the water runs, Dexter makes quick work of stripping the bed, returning to find Sylvester already nodding off, head resting against the lip of the tub. There's still some resistance left in the boy when Dexter joins in, a handful of shampoo held in his palm that he tries massaging into Sylvester's scalp.
"You don't need to do this, 'm fine. I can do it."
"Have you considered that I might want to do it?"
The motions are familiar to him; caring for another, even if Dexter doesn't get much in the way of using the skill anymore, he still remembers it. Longs for it like he does the simpler days, before he knew anything of cultists and dead families and disasters.
"Lord Dexter," Sylvester calls out as he's carried from the bath and to bed, Dexter tucking him in. "Stay," he mutters, voice full of sleep. "It's so late."
"Darling, we were only spared by the witching hour." Dexter brushes stray locks of hair from his forehead, lingering. "If I'm here after sunrise, someone will certainly notice."
"Thought you knew a quiet way around." Sylvester clings to his sleeve. "Please. Just for tonight."
He's staring longingly at Dexter's mouth as he says it, which does awful things to Dexter's poor heart. Makes him feel things he really shouldn't be feeling for a boy more than half his age. But again, foolish. Old habits, or whatever the saying is. So Dexter shucks off his trousers and slips under the thin sheet, tucking Sylvester into his chest.
Their legs tangle together as he settles, Sylvester nuzzling close. "You've no chance of sleeping now," he says, holding tighter, feeling sentimental. "I told you not to encourage me."
Sylvester presses flush to him, fitting a hand in his shirt. "I told you I didn't care," Sylvester returns, and tips up for a kiss.