Chapter Text
Alex
Three things happen during the last week of September, midterms right around the corner—and when Alex says right around the corner , it really means a few weeks but as the self-labeled overachiever that he is, he damn well has to study now— that leads Alex into the café on a random Tuesday afternoon, eyes glued to the doors on the lookout for a familiar pair of blue eyes.
Three things, in quick succession, that turns the Alex dismissive of Peer Tutoring program—they’re all fucking students, Nora, okay, and he’s not paying an exorbitant amount of money to college to be taught by kids his age— to signing up for a tutor himself for as many days in the week as possible.
Three things that boil down to one thing when Alex really thinks about it—liquid gold hair, wide sky blue eyes, and rosy lips that Alex wants to somehow devour until swollen and preserve at the same fucking time. One thing with the name of Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor— what a fucking mouthful , Alex would’ve said, except it immediately made him think about having Henry’s weight in his mouth, and his pants are way too fucking tight for that right now—that obliterated all of Alex’s theoretical straightness and blossomed him into a beautiful bisexual rose.
Henry, whose face Alex only caught briefly on his way to the campus café and proceeded to dream about for two fucking days until he found him in the campus directory—it’s not stalking if it’s an official school website, and no, scrolling through about ten pages of students don’t change that fact—" Peer Tutor for Literatures in English” written beautifully underneath a picture that, frankly, doesn’t do him justice. Henry, who’ll be walking into the café sometime in the next three and a half minutes to help Alex with a class he doesn’t even need to take . Henry, who turned Alex into a bumbling damsel in distress pretending to be failing something he’s passing with flying colors just to spend a few hours with him in a café, and, y’know, maybe get his number and switch that café to a room with a bed and maybe a shower—
Alex lets out a groan and shifts on the chair, throwing his jacket over his legs as a precaution. Henry isn’t even here yet, and his blood is traveling to places it should definitely not be heading to just at the thought of him; the last thing Alex needs is to sport a hard on during his first session with Henry. That would be a surefire way to end things before they started, and Alex plans on having Henry in him at least once before he blows this thing.
He tries really, really hard not to think about the few condoms and a bottle of lube tucked into the front pocket.
His eyes flicker to the clock. 6:58 p.m. Henry should be there within the next few minutes; it’s physically impossible, but Alex swears he feels his heart jump to his throat when the little bell above the café door jingles. He lifts his gaze, and then immediately has to look away, because if he thought he wasn’t prepared to see Henry in any capacity that isn’t across the fucking street, he absolutely wasn’t prepared to see Henry with a warm flush on his cheeks and a soft sweater hanging from his shoulders that Alex kind of wants to bury himself in. It’s not even that fucking cold outside, yet Henry’s wearing a beanie and a loose scarf, and Alex is kind of halfway in love with the way tufts of blond hair curls over his forehead in an attempt to escape their confines. Part of Alex wants to pull the damn beanie down to hide Henry’s forehead—and eyes too, for that matter—probably the whole face if he’s at it—but it’s small compared to his entire chest aching to bury both hands under that stupid beanie. Like, possibly now. Maybe he’d find out just how soft that sweater is, too, in the process.
So.
Three things.
One, Alex is officially bisexual without any doubt or question or hesitation in mind.
Two, he apparently has a thing for boys in soft fabric—well, more specifically, Henry-fucking-Fox in soft fabric—and kind of wants Henry’s clothes to swallow him. Or, y’know. Henry to swallow him. Either is fucking perfect .
Three, Alex’s plan to act dumb related to anything English lit might not be as hard as he imagined; it’d be a fucking miracle if he can put together a fucking sentence with correct grammar in Henry’s presence, let alone focus on or dissect whatever book they’re currently reading. He has already finished it and is halfway through his outline for his paper, and yet if Henry asked him the name of the book now, he’d probably blurt out something stupid like Twilight and proceed to try to save his ass by analyzing exactly what an asshole Edward was.
He dares another glance at Henry, watching his lips part in an exhale as if he’s trying to warm his face, and immediately snaps his eyes away again. Alex Claremont-Diaz never accepts defeat, and yet he’s also fucking smart— well, most of the time anyway, when golden haired boys with jaws that can cut marble and legs for days aren’t around —which means he’s acutely aware that if he doesn’t get his act together in the three and a half seconds it’ll take Henry to stride to his table—again, legs for fucking days —there’s near zero chance that he’ll sweep Henry off his feet like he’s been planning to.
Henry’s eyes sweep over the café and stop on Alex, and all Alex can think is fuck, as the potential success of his plan tumbles from about 4.3% to negative a billion. Nora would call it an exaggeration, but Nora isn’t here to watch Henry purposefully walk towards Alex as if he’s on a fucking mission to destroy him —not that he has to do much; one glance at Henry across the stupid café already got Alex there halfway, and the snug fit of his dark jeans seem determined to push him the rest of the way—and, quoting her own words, she “can’t very well come up with a statistic without going over all the evidence.”
“Alexander Claremont-Diaz?” The evidence in question stops across from Alex, his posh British accent curling around Alex’s name like it’s something to be revered— Alex would claim he thinks accents are overrated, except it’d be a fucking lie considering his stomach seems to be channeling its internal Simone Biles with the amount of cartwheels it’s doing—and Alex spends the next few seconds collecting his jaw from the table. Henry’s watching him expectantly, probably waiting for him to confirm or deny his identity—Alex has to remind himself that while he might’ve stared at Henry’s shitty student ID photo for longer than he’d like to admit without booking a ticket to Antarctica, Henry wouldn’t know what he looks like asides from the name the deans gave him. His full name, apparently, even though Dean Luna knows Alex goes by, well, Alex, because apparently even his dean is out to fucking destroy him.
It’s been years since anyone’s called him Alexander. The stupid name always made him feel too fucking old for his skin, yet somehow his entire body kind of wants to hear it from Henry again. And again. Potentially with less clothes, and maybe with his voice muffled around—
“You’re Alexander, right?” Henry’s voice takes him out of his thoughts. He blinks at the blue eyes watching him with an unreadable expression, hands tucked into his pockets, and is suddenly very, very glad that there’s a jacket on his lap. “I’m sorry if I misplaced you, I just assumed—”
“Yes!” Alex blurts out suddenly, probably louder and thinner than necessary, because Henry’s saying big words like misplaced that sound even fancier in his stupid accent and Alex might just pass away or do something stupid like kneel in front of him like he’s a fucking prince if he continues. The chair creaks under his hands when he fists the arm. “Yep. That’s me. Alex. I mean, Alexander. I mean, people call me Alex. I mean—” Alex is forced to take a breath when his lungs run out of air trying to string all of those sentences together. “You can call me Alexander,” he finishes in a small voice, shoulders curled inward.
He’s half surprised Henry doesn’t walk away. Even more surprised that he doesn’t even laugh. His lips do twitch at the corners and his eyes look brighter if that’s even fucking possible—did he swallow the sun or something when Alex wasn’t looking?—but instead he sticks his hand out instead of calling Alex some sort of a lost cause. Which, admittedly, would’ve been fair. Whoever strings more than one “I mean”s together in one paragraph doesn’t deserve to pass English lit.
“Alexander, then. I’m Henry, your tutor,” he murmurs, and no, Alex absolutely does not shiver at hearing his name from his mouth again. Or doesn’t watch the way his tongue moves around it. Or doesn’t imagine that tongue doing something infinitely more inappropriate someplace else. He especially does not think at all, as he slides his fingers around Henry’s hand and feels his handshake, about where else that firmness might be useful. “May I join you? Sorry we’re a bit late, but I can stay a bit later and make up for it.”
Right. As if the only reason they’re late isn’t Alex ogling Henry for a solid minute, trying not to drool like an excited puppy. “Yeah, uh, of course.” Alex gestures at the chair across from him with a vague hand gesture. “I mean, you’re the teacher. I’m just here to fucking swallow down whatever you’re gonna give me.”
Henry’s chair scrapes loudly on the floor as he almost stumbles over the legs, knuckles white trying to hold onto the back. His face looks so red that for a moment Alex thinks he’s having a fucking stroke instead of flushing, but then his words truly catch up with him, and…
Yep, Alex is definitely moving to Antarctica, where the only people who can hear his stupid brain is a bunch of penguins. That’s not what I meant, is at the tip of his tongue because for fucking once, that’s actually true, even though his body’s reacting to his words in a way that indicates he wouldn’t fucking mind if that’s where this study session went. I swear I’m innocent, he thinks as he shifts the stupid jacket, glaring at his crotch for betraying his very much PG-13 intentions. Can we just forget what I said?
All those would’ve been fine options, but what leaves Alex’s mouth, as he slams Pride and Prejudice in the middle of the table like some kind of a fucking barrier, is something else entirely. “I think we’re analyzing Twilight,” he pretty much yells, turning a few gazes to himself, and watches Henry’s annoyingly full lips part with shock. Alex clears his throat and nudges the book closer to Henry as if it’ll fucking save the situation. “Edward is a fucking stalker?” he offers in a very thin, childish voice.
Henry is a fucking trooper for not walking out right then and there.
Henry
Alexander Claremont-Diaz is a bloody demon sent to earth to torture Henry, and yet, like some kind of a moth to a flame, Henry’s halfway in love with him already.
Henry isn’t stupid— well, most of the time, anyway. He studied his ass off during high school, got into NYU’s English program, and carved out a little corner in a foreign country all by himself even though the mention of taxes his first year nearly sent him into a full on panic attack and a transfer application to Oxford. Henry isn’t stupid when it comes to academics; his track record as the longest standing editor for the college newspaper, as well as working as a peer tutor for pretty much the entire English department, shows that he’s at least capable of something.
That intelligence, however, doesn’t extend to beautiful boys with curly hair and heart-stopping dimples, and Henry has practically jumped instead of fallen in love when his eyes caught one Alex Claremont-Diaz the first week of the year, running a hand through his hair and grinning like he’s out to murder everyone in his vicinity.
Henry took one look at Alex, realized whatever interaction he had with him would probably ruin him, and rushed right through the door anyway as if he was afraid it’d close if he didn’t.
Then he found out Alex was straight—Nora from the newspaper somehow figured out his little crush, not that anyone with half a vision wouldn’t be able to see it, and told him in no uncertain terms that Alex is “about 69% straight”; Henry isn’t about to bet on a 31% chance when it’s more than likely Nora was making a joke—and proceeded to fall even more in love with Alex instead of tucking his heart away like a sane person would do.
In his defense, he and Alex have completely different majors and pretty much zero overlapping classes, never mind that they travel in completely different circles. There isn’t really a chance that he’ll ever interact with Alex, and a little bit of daydreaming never really hurt anybody. At least that’s what he tells himself as he listens to Pez’s thirty seventh tirade about how Henry should probably let go of Alex and offers of another cute boy Henry has more than a zero chance with.
That is, until he gets an email from the deans telling him that someone requested a peer tutor for Literatures in English, that someone is no other than Alexander Claremont-Diaz, and he picked his name out of—admittedly—the small pool of tutors specifically. Dean Luna gives him a time and a place to meet Alex, a tentative schedule that works for both of them, and ends the email very casually with a thank you as if he didn’t just turn Henry’s world 180 degrees around its axis and upended pretty much everything solid.
It takes Henry about ten minutes to recover from the initial shock of the email. Then the entire night to recover from the fact that Alex apparently knows he exists. Then the whole fucking week leading up to the session to recover from how exactly he’s going to survive spending more than a few seconds with Alex in close proximity without combusting or doing something stupid like kissing him.
He thinks he was doing a stellar job at the recovery thing, too—he even managed to look around the café before approaching Alex as if his entire body doesn’t gravitate towards wherever Alex is at any point—until Alex opened his admittedly gorgeous mouth and blurted out an obscene sentence that completely knocks Henry’s world out of orbit yet again.
I mean, you’re the teacher. I’m just here to fucking swallow down whatever you’re gonna give me.
Henry doesn’t have a dirty mind, and he knows Alex’s straight; he should’ve fucking known all Alex meant was to swallow down knowledge and not some body parts Henry would offer on a golden bloody platter if Alex asked. That doesn’t stop Henry’s entire body from reacting to the statement by directing his blood southward, and Henry is very glad for the table for blocking his crotch.
Somehow, he manages to shorten the hours it would’ve taken for him to recover from that statement into seconds and get his seat as close to Alex as he can possibly handle, and starts the bloody study session because that’s what he’s here for; he makes a deal with himself to not think about any part of Alex at all for the remainder of the hour. Henry’s a respectable student, and he will not cave to a boy with a dimpled smile and gorgeous curls that Henry kind of wants to devour 90% of the day—and 100% of the night, if he has to round down. Henry will survive this study session without any… more inappropriate thoughts, and he’ll make sure Alex gets something out of it, too.
Henry makes the deal without taking into account what a fucking menace Alex ander Claremont-Diaz is and breaks about fifty of his own rules in the first five minutes of the session. Thirty minutes in, Henry’s eyes are pretty much permanently fixated on Alex’s mouth, his arm is thrown as casually as possible over his crotch in a sore attempt to hide his hard on, and it’s a testament to his love for Jane Austen that he still manages to make sense as he tries to lead Alex’s jumbled thoughts through analyzing one of his favorite books.
Once he got him to shut up about Edward Cullen. That was…two interesting minutes, to say the least.
Right now, Alex is staring at him with moony eyes over the pages of Pride and Prejudice, a stupid pen between his teeth that Henry kind of wants to replace with his own lips. He has his other hand curled around his hair, head tilted to the side as he wraps his curls around his fingers like he’s some sort of a damsel in fucking distress trying to charm a prince, and Henry absolutely fails at pretending the whole thing isn’t doing it for him. Alex tugs on his hair one more time and purses his lips around the pen, sucking the end into his mouth, his foot somehow sliding right where Henry’s ankle is and hiking up his leg as if Alex’s whole purpose is to drive him crazy; his knuckles are white around the table as he forces himself to talk.
“Alex?” Dark eyes flicker up to him as, for some fucking reason, Alex pushes the pen even further into his mouth; Henry has half the mind to ask the barista to turn down the AC before Alex gives him a fucking heatstroke. Henry pointedly stares at the cover of Pride and Prejudice and thinks very unsexy thoughts like Lizzie’s parents going at it in the bed. “Can you elaborate a little bit more about how Austen uses satire to comment on the society described in the book?” Henry had asked the question about five minutes ago and all the answer he got was, to quote verbatim, “Uh…satire?” and he kind of wishes Alex didn’t look stupidly charming even when he was being, well, a little bit stupid about Pride and Prejudice .
“Uh…” Alex says again, as if it’s his favorite word, and finally removes the stupid pen from his mouth. Henry has one moment of reprieve before his tongue sticks out this time, swiping over his lower lip in a frankly obscene speed. Henry doesn’t think at all about how it would feel if Alex did that to his lips. “Right. I mean. It’s kind of like…played up? The whole thing?” Alex looks up from the book to Henry, something akin to hope in his eyes, and Henry reminds himself that he’s here to help Alex, not ogle at him.
“Played up in what ways? In dialogue? Tone?” Henry urges him on. “Think about the devices Austen uses while building up the world.” Alex tilts his head again, the pen returning to his hair this time, and Henry is so, so fucked.
“Tone, I think,” he says slowly after a few seconds. “It’s like… Wait, I know this.” Alex almost drops the book from his hand as he scrambles to get his notebook, opening up a page that frankly looks like a foreign language to Henry. It seems like Alex manages to make sense of it because his eyes light up, as if he wasn’t shining super fucking bright already. A bit more, and Henry’s gonna need sunglasses. “It’s hyperbole, right? Like, every little thing in the book is exaggerated. Especially the stupid traditions and customs—no offense, Mr. Englishman.” Alex sends him a look that he thinks was supposed to look sheepish but all Henry thinks about is slamming Alex against the wall and kissing the word hyperbole from his lips. It has no right to sound so inappropriate in his mouth.
“That’s good, Alex.” Henry thinks Alex chokes on his breath slightly, but it’s probably just his imagination. He gestures at Alex to continue. “Try to convince me of that. Imagine I’ve never read this book.”
“Right. As if you haven’t reread it like a bajillion times.”
“Alex.” Alex taps the pen to his cheek before returning it to his lips, and Henry has half the mind to swat it away from his hands. Because it’s unhealthy, that is. Not to free his lips for a kiss or anything. “Please.” Alex doesn’t even look apologetic as he tilts his head
“I’m just saying—”
“You know I won’t let you distract me, right?” Henry argues, even though there’s about a million things Alex can do right now that will absolutely stall any answer Henry expects. Henry tries to discreetly move his arm over his lap, closing his legs just slightly, and somehow ends up trapping one of Alex’s foot between his. This time, Henry swears Alex’s breath hitches in his throat.
“Right,” Alex spits out, a bit more forcefully than needed. His fingers curl around his hair. “Not like your whole face isn’t too fucking distracting to focus.”
Henry goes very, very still with those words. Alex mirrors him, eyes wide as saucers. The pen clatters onto the table.
The thing is. The thing… is, Henry’s pretty sure he wasn’t meant to hear it. Any of it. Alex was, by all accounts, muttering under his breath, but Henry’s sitting right next to him, and Alex is a loud person on a good day. Henry wasn’t supposed to hear it, and he knows the best thing—for his stupidly fragile heart, for this study session, for Alex who’s maybe a bit less than a hundred percent straight—is to breeze through it as if it never happened. However, that requires Henry to talk, and at the moment his tongue is just a tad uncooperative; it doesn’t help that his brain takes advantage to his stall and repeats the fucking words over and over and over again in his mind.
Alex thinks he’s distracting. Alex finds his face distracting. Henry’s… reeling, mind spinning around all the possibilities as he tries not to land to the obvious answer that’ll surely end in a heartbreak, and fails spectacularly as he takes in Alex’s expression. Even with his complexion, Henry can tell that he’s flushing. Henry kind of wants to devour that flush.
He realizes two things at once. One, that Alex successfully distracted him from the question. Two, there is a chance, albeit small, that Alex wouldn’t be too opposed to him devouring that flush. Henry is pretty sure he won’t recover from point two even if he lives to a hundred.
Henry abruptly returns to his body when Alex forcefully removes his foot from between Henry’s and scrambles to his feet, almost collapsing onto the floor when his chair precariously tips back. “I’m just gonna…” he whispers, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the restrooms. He doesn’t give Henry the chance to even react before he’s rushing away like there’s a serial killer after him and disappears behind the doors.
Henry hesitates for a second, and only because Pez’s warnings ring in his mind. Then, he files them away in a corner of his mind and follows Alex.
Alex
The thing is, Alex isn’t stupid.
There’s about ten reasons he can think of right now that proves his intelligence, starting with getting into NYU with a scholarship and pretty much getting straight As, even in classes he technically doesn’t need for his major and could very well half-ass if he wanted. He’s a good fucking student, he gets good grades , and he doesn’t even actually need help with English lit. He’s smart, okay?
Except when Henry’s within his vicinity. Then, for some fucking reason, Alex reverts to a primal desire to be protected and taken care of like he’s some sort of a Disney princess . Henry sends all of his senses into overdrive and destroys any kind of common sense that barely even exists in the first place, making him say things like I’m just here to fucking swallow down whatever you’re gonna give me and Not like your whole face isn’t too fucking distracting to focus.
If Alex had a slim chance of getting in Henry’s pants, it’s pretty much ruined now. He’s pretty fucking sure that by the time he leaves the stupid bathroom, he’ll find the table empty; in the morning, Dean Luna will send him a stupid email about Henry’s stupid cancellation, and assign him another stupid tutor that can’t even hold a candle to Henry.
Not that anyone can. Objectively. Because Henry objectively looks like he belongs in photoshoots instead of college. Alex isn’t biased at all.
With a sigh, Alex leans against the sink like some sort of a heroine in a romcom movie and turns the tap to the max to drown out the voices in his head. Part of him aches to get back out there and apologize to Henry, try to somehow fix what he’s so spectacularly ruined, but the last thing Henry probably needs is to see him right now. He at least deserves—
Alex jumps when the door slams open and scrambles for surface on the wet counter. He expects some rowdy jocks or even a fucking barista, but then golden hair comes into his vision, stupidly blue eyes find his, and his heart gives a valiant try lodging itself all the way up to Alex’s mouth.
“Henry?”
Henry’s face is completely unreadable as the door slowly closes behind him. Alex thinks that maybe he should be apologizing now as it seems that Henry didn’t leave, but there’s something large in his throat if not his heart—it’d be a fucking miracle if he made any noise that’s not a stupid whine. He watches fearfully as Henry’s hand wrap around the handle of the door to push it close the entire way and—
Lock it.
Alex’s entire internal organs rearrange themselves trying to make way for the blood rushing south .
“Tell me to stop,” Henry murmurs before Alex can even get a hold of himself and closes the distance between them in two long strides. Stupidly long legs, Alex would’ve quipped if he had any sort of control over his mouth. Instead, he whines , his dick making a valiant effort to come just from the sheer predatory look in Henry’s eyes. He’s completely trapped and blanketed against the sink with Henry’s few inches; the logical part of his brain thinks he should find it scary, but that part is really just a small voice compared to the tsunami of arousal rushing through him.
Domination isn’t really his kink. Except it apparently fucking is.
“Tell me to stop, and I will,” Henry repeats, as if to make absolutely sure Alex absolutely understands this isn’t forced at all, even though Alex has been on board whatever fucking train Henry’s been leading him to for the last minute or so. Henry waits for another excruciating five seconds before his hands land on Alex’s hips, thumbs hooked around the belt loops, and slowly descends to his knees.
It’s a miracle Alex doesn’t ascend to another plane of existence at the sight.
Henry’s fingers make quick work of Alex’s belt and button. In no time, his jeans are hooked around his thighs, his underwear stretched against his rock-hard cock. Alex doesn’t have to look down to know that there’s a stupid wet spot at the tip like a glaring neon sign advertising to Henry just how fucking much this whole thing is doing it for him. That, or the hiss that escapes Alex’s mouth when Henry traces the line of his cock with his thumb.
“So hard for me already.” Henry rubs Alex’s cock again like it’s his fucking mission to make him come just from this, and then his eyes find Alex’s. “Good boy,” he whispers, and… Yeah, fuck. Praise is also apparently something Alex is into now. Like. A lot.
“Henry,” Alex whines at the third or the thousandth swipe of Henry’s thumb, leaning back to support himself against the sink. His knees feel just short of Jell-o and Henry seems determined to extend…whatever this is beyond a stupid blowjob; at this rate, Alex will be a puddle on the floor by the time he’s done. “Fuck, Henry, please—” His voice is already wrecked and dissolves into a moan when Henry’s tongue replaces his thumb without warning.
“There’s a method of study,” Henry says, voice only slightly muffled through Alex’s underwear but otherwise steady compared to Alex’s delirious breaths. Alex wants to tell him this is not the time to talk about any sort of classes or studying at all, but Henry’s tongue is doing things over his underwear and Alex is kind of… gone. “It can be a highly effective tool for memorization if used right.”
“Oh my fucking God,” Alex whispers, feeling every turn of Henry’s tongue around the words effective and memorization. It’s stupid and ridiculous and he sort of wishes Henry would just take him in his mouth already, but he also wants Henry to keep using his big fucking words as he blows Alex just to see how far he can take it when his lips are around Alex’s cock.
“I call it the reward system.” Henry kisses the tip of Alex’s cock before he looks up, thumb brushing his hipbone back and forth, and— fuck. Alex loses all higher brain functions at his words. “If you get the question right, I reward you…however I see fit.” Henry’s thumb stops at the dip of Alex’s waist, questions in his eyes, and he doesn’t even have to say the first word before Alex is frantically nodding.
“Fuck, God, yes, fucking hell, please.” Henry’s answering smile is almost blinding, and then his teeth scrapes Alex’s skin and latches on, and… Well, there’s a good fucking chance Alex actually goes blind.
There’s a question at the tip of Alex’s mouth, a question about what happens if he gets something wrong, but he doesn’t get to ask it before Henry’s fingers dip inside his boxers. An embarrassingly loud moan escapes Alex’s lips as Henry jerks him off, still sucking on the same stupid spot at his waist, before he finally wraps his lips around the tip of Alex’s cock. His tongue swirls around it, collecting the precum Alex has been steadily leaking, and—
Yeah. It takes an embarrassingly short time for Alex to come in Henry’s mouth, one hand in Henry’s hair and the other on his shoulder. He tries to warn Henry when he’s close but Henry latches on as if his sole purpose is to ruin Alex and swallows the whole thing down; if there was any world Alex could get it up again immediately after an orgasm, it would be because of Henry’s gaze holding his as he works him through.
Then, Henry’s lifting himself off and standing up, annoyingly steady on his feet, and Alex almost hits his forehead against his chin trying to get to his lips. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “Fuck, God, baby, where the fuck did you learn how to—” Alex insistently pulls Henry closer and hisses when he feels Henry’s own hardness.
His hands tighten around Henry’s hips. “Does this reward system include giving back?” he asks, watching Henry’s face, and doesn’t really wait for an answer other than parted lips and darkening eyes before his own hand dips under Henry’s pants.
At least it isn’t only him who came stupidly quickly.
Henry is hot and hard against Alex’s palm, already leaking as Alex collects the precum to smear down; Alex feels just slightly better about ruining his underwear when he feels just how wet Henry is. Then, he’s jerking Henry off and all thoughts kind of disappear into a haze of feelings. His dick, still kind of hanging in the air, makes a valiant effort to get up even though it’s physically impossible as Henry’s lips part in pleasure and his eyes fall closed. In no time, Alex feels him tense under his fingers before he comes with a huff of laughter.
Alex feels the sudden urge to record the stupid sound and listen to it on repeat. Make it his ringtone. Put it on a Spotify playlist titled serotonin boost. Preserve it in a precious jar for the future generations to find and appreciate, and hide it all to himself for the foreseeable future. It’s conflicting, really, but all Alex knows is that he doesn’t want to let go of it.
“Let me buy you coffee,” he blurts out, still holding onto Henry’s hips as if he might just slip out of his fingers if he doesn’t. Henry’s muscles jump under Alex’s hand, and suddenly Alex feels like he’s free falling from an airplane, scrambling for his parachute. “If you want to. No pressure. Like. Zero. Especially if you’re not allowed to. Are you allowed to?” Shit. In his attempt to meet Henry, he’s used the tutorship without really thinking about the implications. Is he even allowed to date Henry? “I’m sorry if I—”
“Alexander.” Henry’s thumb presses gently against Alex’s lower lip, which is probably a good fucking thing because Alex doesn’t think he would’ve stopped otherwise. A soft sigh leaves his lips when Henry doesn’t stop touching him, thumb just very slightly pushing in; he tilts Alex’s head to catch his eyes. “I was just thinking that we could clean up before we talked about that.” He pointedly stares at Alex’s hand, still wet with Henry’s cum, their dicks still hanging out from their underwear. Alex licks his lips.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Henry moves his hand to tuck an unruly hair behind Alex’s ear and leans in with a smile. Alex’s breath hitches in his throat when Henry grabs his dirty hand and brings it to his lips. “And besides, I’m more of an Earl Grey person,” he whispers in a low voice and wraps his lips around Alex’s fingers as if he’s sucking off fucking Earl Grey instead of his own cum, and—
Well. Alex thinks he officially broke his record of how fast he can get it up after an orgasm.
Henry pulls Alex’s hand out of his mouth with a pop and places something colder in his palm. His fucking phone that he left on the table in his rush to get to the bathroom. “I put my number in. Text me tomorrow.” Henry offers him a smile and pulls him into a soft enough kiss that it causes Alex whiplash— how the fuck is this the same guy as the one who just slammed him against a sink and gave him the best blowjob of his life?— before he leaves the bathroom in quick strides.
Alex takes several long breaths before he manages to lift his arm. Henry’s name shines through the phone, except it’s not his name at all and instead…
Baby. Henry fucking named himself Baby in Alex’s phone.
It takes the entire night for Alex to recover from that fact.
(He doesn’t change Henry’s name.)