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It was all Alex could think about.
He started thinking about it about a month ago, when he’d walked into their apartment at the worst—or best—moment, and heard the unmistakable noise coming from Henry’s room. Groans, long and needy, sharp breaths, and low endearments muttered between gritted teeth. The man in there with him, practically screaming the walls down about Henry’s amazing cock. It was branded in his memory. He’d stopped in the hallway, frozen, lips parted, as he listened, and hadn’t moved until the noises had faded and he’d finally remembered how to breathe again.
And then, two days after that, Henry had walked into the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of thin, clingy boxer briefs. He was still wet from the shower, the lightest line of moisture still trailing down the center of his chest. And Alex, poor, pitiful Alex, had turned, seen the shape—the very distinct shape—inside those boxers and felt his mind melt out of his skull.
It hadn’t even been fully hard and was still so impressive. That was maybe the part that fucked him up the most.
So, of course, now, all this time (over a month) later, it made a perverse kind of sense that Alex couldn’t stop thinking about it. He told himself it was curiosity. That’s all it was. He had a question and was looking for an answer. How big? How thick? What would it feel like in his hand, in his mouth, stretching him open?
He blamed Henry entirely.
Because it wasn’t just wanting to have sex with him. Not really. It was the way Henry always poured his coffee for him when they were running late, and Alex was frantically moving about the kitchen like a madman. The way he sat with Alex during late-night study sessions, curled up against him on the couch, their legs kicked together in a way that was supposed to be nonchalant. The way he’d drape a blanket over Alex when he fell asleep there, too exhausted to make it back to his room. The way Henry smiled at him, as if he knew all of Alex’s madness and loved him anyway.
Alex was ruined. Thoroughly, utterly, embarrassingly ruined.
Which was why he was currently perched on their couch, staring at the bathroom door where the sound of the shower was still echoing, and wondering if he could possibly get away with peeking. Just a little. Just to see.
His leg bounced nervously, fingers tugging at the hem of his sleeve. He knew it was wrong. He knew it. But he also knew that Henry had left the door cracked—he always did when it was just the two of them in the apartment—and Alex’s self-control had been at an all-time low for weeks now.
He rubbed a hand across his face and muttered, “Jesus Christ, calm down, dude.”
“Everything okay?”
The voice made him jump. Henry was standing in a towel, wet and dripping, brow furrowed, steam wafting into the hallway behind him. His hair was wet and messy, and his skin was pink from the heat. Alex blinked at the sight of him, then very deliberately kept his eyes on Henry’s face and refused to let them wander lower, no matter how badly they wanted to.
“I—yeah.” Alex’s voice came out higher than usual. “Fine. Yeah. Totally fine.”
Henry squinted slightly, clearly not buying it. “You sure? You look … I don’t know. Weird.”
“Thanks.” Alex glanced up at the ceiling, dragging his eyes away. “You always know just what to say.”
Henry laughed, stepping into the living room, and Alex’s eyes most definitely did not flick down to his chest. Not even for a second.
“You’ve been weird for days,” Henry said, collapsing down on the other end of the couch, that towel still clung dangerously to his hips. “Did I do something?”
Alex’s heart leapt. He swallowed. “No. You’re perfect.”
It came out before Alex could stop it.
Henry blinked. “What?”
Alex panicked. “Nothing. I meant you didn’t do anything. Seriously. I’m just … I had a long week.”
Henry fixed him with a long stare, the kind that Alex knew meant Henry saw more than he wanted him to see. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist, smirking. “Okay. But if you ever want to talk about whatever it is, you know you can, right?”
Alex nodded, already looking away because he knew he was so screwed.
Because it wasn’t the talking he wanted. It was Henry.
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The next step of Alex’s descent into madness, of course, started, as they often did, with too much alcohol.
Bars were loud, buzzing with the kind of heat and artificial light that made everything blurry around the edges. Alex had nestled his side against Henry’s in the booth, warm from whiskey and the comfort of his company. But somewhere between the third and the fourth drink, something had shifted. It had been a small thing, a slight change in atmosphere, a change in air pressure even. Maybe it had been the way Henry’s hand had brushed Alex’s thigh as he moved to reach for a napkin, perhaps it had been the memory of that one night months ago when he’d caught Henry moaning through the walls. Or maybe it had just been that Alex couldn’t keep it in any longer.
“I think about your cock an inordinate amount,” he had said, slurring only slightly.
Henry had blinked. “I—what?”
“Your penis,” Alex had repeated, nodding like it was serious, like it was something that needed to be said—needed to be said and understood. “Like. All the time. Morning, night. In class. At work. You have ruined me. I can’t look at you without wondering how I’ll ever know if I can fit it inside me.”
Henry had stared at him.
“I’m serious,” Alex had said, insistent, flushed with drink and need. “I need to know what I’m working with. So, I know how much prep I’m gonna need. Because I want you to fuck me. I want to be so good for you that you never want to leave.”
It was then that Henry—quietly, gently—got them both up, paid their tab, and took Alex home.
Alex had, bold and completely unfiltered, immediately tried to cop a feel the second they were through the door. His hand had slipped to the waistband of Henry’s jeans, his eyes glassy with want, his voice low and hoarse with need. “Please, let me see it. Just a little. Let me feel you. I need it so bad.”
But Henry had only caught his wrist and kissed his forehead. “Not like this,” he had whispered. “Not when you might not remember it.”
He had tucked him into bed fully clothed, even as Alex had clung to him like something desperate and aching. At some point in the night, Henry had climbed in, wrapped his arms around Alex, and held him close like he had always wanted him to.
In the quiet, before the sun had even begun to rise, Henry’s lips had brushed the curls at the back of Alex’s neck, and he had whispered, “If only you knew I have no intention of ever …”
But he had trailed off the second he realized Alex was waking. And Alex, still hovering somewhere between sleep and full consciousness, hadn’t known how the sentence was supposed to end. No intention of ever what? Leaving him? Letting him go? Touching him? Staying?
He had fretted about it all week.
Henry was gentle, polite, careful—not distant, not cold—but different. There was hesitation in his touches now, a question mark in every glance. And Alex, tortured by the unknown, had grown increasingly restless. Embarrassed. Scared that he’d ruined everything.
And so, on Friday morning, after a whole week of awkwardness and overthinking and longing, Alex had finally cracked.
“I know I fucked things up by telling you how much I want you,” he had said, barely above a whisper, hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stood by the kitchen counter. “I’m sorry. Can we please go back to when you were one of my best damn friends and didn’t know how much of a fucking torch I carry for you? I need my friend. No matter how much I want your cock, it’s my friend that I need.”
Henry had frozen mid-pour, looking down at his tea as if it might offer him some sort of wisdom. Then slowly, so slowly, he’d set the kettle aside and looked up with a soft, nervous smile.
“What if you can have both?” he had asked.
Alex had blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
Henry’s voice had been quiet but sure. “Alex, I’ve been in love with you for longer than I can recall. I think it’s always been there, really. But I never thought I’d get the chance for more than friendship with you, so I resigned myself to just … being near you. Taking whatever pieces of closeness you gave me. But I haven’t stopped thinking about what you said last weekend and …” He’d paused and looked at Alex with one last smile. “If you’re willing to take a shot on this, so am I.”
Alex had sagged against the counter like all the tension had been cut from his spine. “Oh, fuck, yes. I want to. I want to so much. I’m going to be so good for you, baby, that you never want to leave.”
Henry had stepped close, pulling Alex into his arms, forehead resting against his temple as he whispered, “I already could never leave you, love.”
Alex had kissed him then. A soft, trembling thing full of relief and promise. Henry had kissed him back, slow and tender and just the slightest bit hungry. They’d made it to the couch without breaking apart, hands in hair, bodies pressed close, sighs caught between them like something sacred.
They’d talked, mouths brushing against kisses, and agreed that they’d take it slow.
But Alex had one request, voice low and full of need as he murmured against Henry’s lips, “I need to see your cock. I really do need to know how hard I’m gonna have to work to get it in me because I need it in me.”
Henry had laughed, full and warm, and kissed him again.
That laughter had carried them into the shower, both flushed with giddy disbelief. The kisses were steamy, and their hands mostly behaved. When Henry had finally let his clothes fall away, Alex had taken one long, appreciative look and said, “It’s just as impressive as I thought it would be.”
Henry had smirked. “Glad to live up to expectations.”
“Baby,” Alex had said, wrapping his arms around him, lips brushing Henry’s collarbone, “You fucking exceed them.”
And though the night had ended with nothing more than kisses, nothing more than touches that promised and teased, it had been more than enough.
Because this was the beginning. And neither of them was going anywhere.
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It had been little more than kissing and heavy petting for weeks—but it wasn’t for lack of trying, at least on Alex’s part. Those first few weeks had been intoxicating, all slow build and teasing touches and kisses stretched until his lips were swollen and his cock was aching.
He and Henry would sprawl together on the couch, mouths hot and needy, hands roaming but not daring past their waistbands. Henry was a goddamn miracle for having the patience to let him crawl all over him. Every kiss was an occasion, every grind an eternity. It was sweet and gentle. And it was torture.
Weeks bled into a month, and so many nights, Alex was going to bed so hard that some nights he could have used his cock as a hammer. He’d rut helplessly into his sheets, whimpering into his pillow, picturing Henry’s weight, Henry’s hands, the slow, deliberate way Henry always seemed to look at him as if Alex was something delicate and too precious to touch.
Eventually, Alex started doing more than just rutting into his mattress when the need clawed at him after they spent their more intense evenings together. When he crawled into bed aching and flushed and too wound up to sleep, he started playing around with himself in a more methodical way—a way that would help him when they finally got to the point of what he wanted.
At first, it was just his fingers, one at a time, tentative, slick with lube and eager to know what it would feel like, how much it would take him to open him enough for Henry’s cock. He would stretch himself open in slow, measured strokes that had him panting into his pillow. It never did the job by itself, not quite, but it was enough that a few practiced strokes of his cock, would have him tumbling over the edge in shuddering, toe-curling release.
The orgasms themselves weren’t what he wanted, though—not really. They were just a side effect. A pleasant byproduct. He wanted something else. More. Henry in him. And he knew he needed to get himself ready for it.
Eventually, he gave in and ordered toys. Two dildos, one a little larger than the other, and a sleek, black prostate massager were both put into his online cart. The night the prostate massager showed up, Alex had been home alone, so he stripped down, cleaned and tried it on a whim, too curious to hold out. When he found the right angle and applied just enough pressure, his vision nearly whited out. His body went slack, overloaded, orgasm ripping through him with enough force that he was pretty sure he could see stars exploding behind his eyelids.
It was the first time he really understood what a difference an orgasm could make in how loose his ass could be. He eventually learned that while slick and spent and shaking, he could slide one of the dildos inside of himself and feel almost no resistance. Not for long, of course—he was way too sensitive after a prostate orgasm to do more than a few slow thrusts before it got to be too much. But it was enough to leave him gasping and breathless, sheets bunched up in the crook of his hands. With a bit of work, he was able to ride that second round to orgasm as well.
After that, most nights became something almost ritualistic. After Henry kissed him—those kisses that rattled something in his bones, made him shake and shake with want—and worked him into a lather, Alex would fall into bed, heart racing and skin already on fire. He would slick himself up and reach behind, slip his fingers or toys into himself, let the edges of reality and fantasy blur and curl around one another.
He’d let his mind focus on Henry. Henry’s hands, where his own were. Henry’s cock, thick and hot and finally, finally filling him the way he needed to be filled. He’d open himself every night with a practiced desperation, fingers spreading him, not just in search of pleasure—but in preparation. Longing. Praying. Waiting for the night when he wouldn’t have to imagine it anymore.
The night Henry would finally be inside him for real.
And then—somewhere around week five—the dam finally broke.
Because suddenly it wasn’t all soft lips and achy nights where Alex was getting himself off. It got faster. Dirtier. Desperate.
Every night that week, they ended up collapsed across the couch, rutting into each other like they hadn’t seen skin in days. Grinding against each other in their clothes until Alex came with a wordless groan, shaking in Henry’s arms, and had to strip off the shirt he’d somehow managed to soak through. Henry’s breath hot on his ear, his hand firm at the back of Alex’s neck, murmuring filthy praise as Alex begged.
By midweek, they were both coming—covered in sweat, flushed and breathless, shirts askew and damp, jeans undone halfway, cocks twitching wetly against their boxers. And even then—even then—Henry would kiss him soft and gentle, cradle him carefully against his chest and say, “Not yet, love. Soon.”
By Friday morning, Alex had officially had it up to here with soon.
Henry was in the kitchen at the table, nursing his tea before he headed to his internship like he wasn’t methodically fucking Alex over one starched shirt button at a time. And Alex, half-naked and half-fucking-wild with want, leaned against the counter and said, very seriously, “I’m ready for you to fuck me.”
Henry spluttered and choked on his tea.
There was a cough and a huff and a very undignified noise, and Alex couldn’t stop himself from bursting out laughing. Henry wheezed a few times before gingerly setting his mug down and blinking up at Alex with big, startled eyes. “Right now?”
“If that’s what you want,” Alex said, grinning even as he was still fighting down his laughter. “But I was thinking more like this weekend. Saturday. I want you to take me out—properly. Wine and dine me and then bring me back here and finally get your cock in me.”
Henry chewed on his lower lip, slow and deliberate like he was trying to rein himself in, to keep from saying—or doing—something rash. The motion set Alex’s blood on fire. God, he wanted to take that lip between his teeth and suck on it so good that anyone who passed by Henry would know whose he was, whose Henry belonged to. But he didn’t budge, somehow.
“Okay,” Henry said, slow and quiet. “One stipulation.”
Alex raised his eyebrow, already curious.
“Lunch,” Henry said, his voice dropping low, gruffer around the edges. “And only one drink—if we have any at all. Because I’m going to spend the whole afternoon taking you apart, slow and easy. Until you’re begging.”
Alex almost groaned, but all that came out was a giggle, high and bright and bubbling from his belly. “Fuck, I’m already begging.”
Henry’s smile became wicked, and Alex felt his knees get a little unsteady. “Then this weekend’s going to be just what you’ve been waiting for, won’t it?”
Alex nodded, flushed and breathless, eyes dark with want. “Yes. I accept.”
And he already knew—
He wouldn’t last a minute.
But God, he was ready.
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Lunch had been at a food truck that set up on the weekends, not far from their apartment. It was somewhere they had been to so many times, but today it had a different feel. They didn’t take the food home, like they usually did. They had sat at a table in the park across the street and talked about their weeks, as if they didn’t already know everything there was to know.
When they finished, they walked home, hand in hand, and somehow, Alex kept his mouth to himself until Henry had shut the door. But that was the end of his restraint. He had backed Henry into the door and kissed him as if his life depended on it.
They made out by the door for what was probably only minutes, but Alex didn’t know because he was already in that fuzzy frame of mind where time traveled in that way where you start to wonder if it was traveling linearly still.
They made their way to Henry’s room, slowly, stopping to press each other into the wall and kiss and strip clothes from the other’s body along the way. When they crossed the threshold to his room, they had both their pants undone, and it was no work at all to shove them to the ground. Henry pulled Alex to his bed, turned them, and then sat Alex on the edge of the mattress.
Alex couldn’t help it. Henry was there, in front of him, flushed and staring at him with lust-filled, blown pupils. His cock strained against the front of his boxer briefs, and Alex’s mouth watered at the sight of him. There was something so unfair about how good he looked, about how casual the tension in his muscles was, how he managed to draw out every last ounce of want from Alex’s body with nothing more than a casual stretch or a cocky smirk.
Without thinking, Alex leaned forward and licked him through the thin cotton. Just one long stroke of his tongue, slow and deliberate, along the thick line of Henry’s cock, and Henry sighed—actually sighed—like Alex was the most exquisite kind of torture and not the other way around.
That sound set him on fire. Alex tugged the waistband down, just enough to give the head of Henry’s cock freedom to move, and leaned in again. He licked at the flushed tip of it, teasing and tasting, letting his tongue lap up the slick bead of precum there and then circling the slit. He trailed his fingers over Henry’s cock, playing with the foreskin, tugging at it back and forth, and watching the way his thighs shuddered as he did so.
Henry’s hand settled at the back of his neck, not pushing him away, not demanding that he move, just resting, fingers curling into the curls at the nape of his neck. Alex grinned at him, smug and hungry, and kept teasing, kept playing until Henry growled low in his throat and all of his self-control seemed to fall apart.
Suddenly, Alex was being pushed back down onto the bed, breath knocked from his lungs as Henry climbed over him. He reached to open the drawer in his nightstand and fumbled out the lube and condoms before turning back to Alex, stripping him fully, slow and purposeful and hungry. Alex shivered as his underwear came off, bare and already aching with how much he wanted this.
Henry shoved him around a little, pushing him where he wanted him, gently but firmly. He settled him down in the center of the bed, and Alex sprawled for him, completely bare, legs parted slightly, cock hard and twitching against his stomach. He watched, eyes still a little lazy, as Henry slid his boxer briefs off, and fuck, he couldn’t stop staring. The full length of Henry’s cock was as gorgeous, flushed, thick, and perfect as he remembered. His mouth went both dry and wet at the same time.
Then Henry was climbing over him again, kissing his way up Alex’s chest, licking over his nipple just to hear the sound that came out of him. He took his time, and Alex lost himself in it, in the worship, in the slow undoing of his body with Henry’s hands and mouth and tongue. Kisses and licks, soft sucking against his hips and inner thighs, until finally Henry slicked his fingers and pushed one inside him.
Alex gasped at the fullness of it, but it wasn’t too much—it was perfect. Better than anything he’d done to himself with his fingers, he realized with a flush of heat. Henry was so good, so expert. Every motion was precise, slow, and focused on Alex’s pleasure, from the way he crooked his fingers just right to the way it drew wet moans from Alex’s throat that didn’t even sound like him.
Alex was shaking with anticipation by the time Henry had the condom rolled down and lined himself up with Alex’s entrance. Alex’s body was already taut, unraveled at the way Henry had kissed and touched him—complete and worshipful—and stretched him open with slow, careful fingers until he was raw and aching for more. He wanted this. He wanted Henry.
He was already shaking, coming apart at the fucking seams when—finally—Henry was inside him. He slid in with one slow, even pressure that robbed Alex of his breath. Alex’s spine arched helplessly, and a long groan tore free of his throat as his body opened to him. It was too much, too little, all at once. He could feel everything—the stretch and the slick press of skin on skin, the deep bliss of Henry’s cock filling him—and he clung to it, clung to him. His hands scrabbled over Henry’s shoulders, over his arms, searching for something to hold onto as his head fell back and his mouth fell open.
“Henry …” Alex’s voice broke around the groan, thin and needy. It tore free of him unabashed, raw in its truth. His thighs clenched around Henry’s waist, pulling him closer.
Henry’s hands were solid on his thighs, grounding him as Alex shook. He held him, steady and sure, strong fingers digging into the flesh of Alex’s thighs like an anchor. He dipped down, and Alex melted, submitting to the open, needy press of Henry’s mouth against his own. Kisses, again and again, lips brushing against lips and breath spilling from them. “You’re doing so good, love,” Henry murmured against his mouth, gentle and sure. “So good for me.”
The words set him on fire from the inside out. Compliments had always been powerful, but from Henry, they were incendiary and unraveled him in a way nothing else could. He’d never wanted to be this fucking good for anyone. Not like this. Not like with Henry.
They moved together as if they had all the time in the world, slow and even, the rhythm leisurely and yet all-consuming. Henry’s hips rolled with a precision born of deliberation. Each thrust was a firm press stroking every nerve inside Alex until his vision blurred. The soft slap of skin, Henry’s balls brushing up against Alex with every forward motion, sent white-hot sparks across his skin.
Henry moved faster and harder, and Alex gasped for it. He fucking begged for more—though he couldn’t even say what he needed more of, only that he needed Henry more, deeper, everything. He locked his ankles behind his back and tugged, dragging Henry closer, desperate to keep him close.
Then Henry’s hand wrapped around Alex’s cock. The touch nearly broke him then and there. Steady fingers stroked him in long, steady pulls, the rhythm perfectly matched to the rapid snap of Henry’s hips. Alex could not keep still. He could not stay quiet. He writhed, mouth open and sound pouring from it—broken moans, shuddering gasps, needy whimpers. He was already gone, already undone, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting like he had no idea how to breathe.
Then he shattered. His orgasm crashed over him, tearing through his body like an explosion. He cried out Henry’s name, the sound halfway between a sob and a moan as he came hot and messy across Henry’s hand, across his own stomach. He trembled, every limb shaking, every muscle giving. He went limp beneath Henry, wrecked and shaking, still quivering from the sheer force of it. It was too much, and it was everything.
And yet he still clung on, just long enough to watch the way Henry came apart above him. The stutter of his hips, the way his face twisted in pleasure, the way his mouth fell open in a single breath as Alex clenched around him. Henry was beautiful like that, wrecked and raw and completely Alex’s.
Henry fell onto him a moment later, still panting, arms curling tight around Alex’s body as he kissed at his shoulder and murmured his name like a prayer.
They cleaned up in lazy, half-sleepy silence, limbs tangled together, smiles soft. Alex didn’t bother putting his boxers back on, didn’t bother putting on any clothes at all. He just curled back into bed, into Henry’s arms, and let himself stay.
And when he fell asleep, cheek pressed to Henry’s chest, he did so with the quiet, steadying knowledge that Henry would be there in the morning.
And that—for once—he didn’t have to leave the safety of being loved, and he’d wake up, and they could do it all again, after all Henry had promised to spend the day and night taking him apart.