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Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandoms: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston, Red White & Royal Blue
(2023)

Relationship: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor

Characters: Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor

Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Post-Canon, Porn with Feelings, Marriage

Proposal, Introspection, Bottom Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Top
Alex Claremont-Diaz, Breeding Kink, feminization kink, Anal Sex, Blow
Jobs, Phone Sex, Spit Kink, Cock Warming, Overstimulation, Multiple
Orgasms, Dacryphilia, Begging, Dom/sub, they're both dom and sub in
this, Light Bondage, degradation kink

Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-11-20 Words: 18,048 Chapters: 1/1 Comments:
86 Kudos: 795 Bookmarks: 264 Hits: 7,088

let him be soft (let him be mine)

congee4lunch
Summary:

“I’m always cute,” Alex kisses the mole on Henry’s cheekbone.

“Yeah? Does your work wife tell you that?” Henry grumbles.

“I don’t have a work wife,” Alex breathes out, smiling against his
mouth. “Why need one when I got the real deal waiting at home for
me,” He licks at the mole on Henry’s upper lip. “All pretty and mine
for the taking?”

in which henry wants to be alex's wife, in so many words. alex wants all that
and more. their relationship ebbs and flows.

Notes:
henry is so housewife-coded i fear. title is from this poem!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

It goes like this.

Henry wakes before Alex.

Alex swears up and down that they get up at the same time, but nothing he can say can
change the fact that Henry wakes before him. He watches the line of Alex’s back, the brush of
his inky black eyelashes, and lets himself gawk openly. He still can’t believe it sometimes:
That he has this man in his bed, that he has Alex in his bed, that he has Alex Claremont-Diaz
under his thumb. It’s a glorious set of realizations to come to every morning.

So he watches Alex; sometimes tracing down the line of his back with a thumb, sometimes
running his index finger along those eyelashes. Or sometimes doing nothing other than
looking.

Then Alex comes to life, like how Henry imagines Adam—molded from clay by the careful
hands of God—took his first breath. Alex rouses slowly, those eyelashes fluttering, before his
gaze finds Henry’s. There’s a softness to his eyes in the lingering blanket of sleep, that rounds
his angles and smoothes out his edges. In the early hours of the morning, it’s a softness that
only Henry is privy to.

And every morning, without fail, Henry thinks: How beautiful.

“Hey, Wales,” Alex murmurs in the silence between them. “Admiring the view?”

“Hardly,” Henry parrots, the feeling in his chest expanding.

Alex leans in to kiss him and Henry lets him, morning breath and all.

They untangle then, Alex heading out for his morning run and Henry getting started on
breakfast. He’s been getting better at it—the whole cooking ordeal—through long nights
pouring over DIY recipes on the internet and watching painstakingly long YouTube videos. It’s
fun even, learning to make something new and learning what Alex likes and doesn’t like.

“It’s a labor of love,” Oscar had explained once, when he had taught Henry how to make
albondigas soup. He had brought the pot to a boil and the kitchen had filled with the aromatic
scent of beef, spices, and garlic. “Cooking good fuckin’ food for the sake of good fuckin’
people.”

The words resonate and ricochet now, as a sweaty Alex arrives back home, ducking into the
kitchen to stand beside Henry and press a kiss to his temple.

“Smells great,” he says against Henry’s skin. “You should have waited for me to finish my run.
We could have cooked together.”

“I fear you would have only ruined the process, love.”

Alex lets out an offended gasp.

“Excuse me, I wasn’t the one who almost burnt down our kitchen on our first week living
together. Three times.”

“I did no such thing,” Henry argues, flipping a pancake. “Your imagination knows no bounds.”

“I think the firefighters use pictures of our faces as a dartboard back in the fire department.”

“Let’s hope it’s the GQ photoshoot of us, then,” Henry quips, leaning over to kiss Alex’s cheek.
“I looked better there.”

“You ass did look fantastic there,” Alex acquises. Henry laughs and turns down the heat.

“Take a shower, you stink.”

“Aye, aye, cap,” Alex leaves the kitchen, not without a playful swat to Henry’s ass. He would
throw an eggshell at him for it, but Alex is a slippery fiend and Henry can’t stop smiling long
enough to actually throw the eggshell.

They eat breakfast together and Alex outlines his plans for world domination in between bites
of his food. He listens attentively when Henry talks about what he’s going to do with his day
at the shelter and at home. They do the dishes together, with the croonings of The Beatles
and Richie Valens playing on the radio. Alex flicks Henry with soapy dish water and Henry
hipchecks him for it.

Then Alex is slipping into his suit—the Tom Ford one that hugs his shoulders sinfully and
stretches across his thighs in a way that has Henry squeezing his own thighs together.

“Do my tie for me?” Alex asks, his crimson tie wrapped around his hand.

Henry sidles up in front of him and Alex tilts his chin back, smirking down at Henry. He’s a
tease, in the worst possible way, and Henry needs to push him down on the bed and bind his
wrists together with that crimson tie. To wipe that arrogant, attractive smirk from that face
and have him begging for more.

But a glimpse at Alex’s watch tells him that there’s no time for that.

Not right now.

So, Henry loops the necktie around Alex’s collar and gets to work. Alex’s own hands find his
hips, rubbing circles on them in a way that has a flush rising to Henry’s cheeks.

“Alex,” he warns, when those clever hands skate the dangerous line between his back and his
ass. The first stirrings of arousal tug at his gut and he bites his lip to quell them.

“Henry,” Alex says back.

He brings them flush, chest to chest, and Henry braces himself on Alex’s shoulders, fingers
curling in the expensive material of his suit.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he says. Alex’s breath ghosts over his cheekbone and
Henry shivers.

“So, you’re saying I have good stamina,” Alex teases. Their long nights together should be
enough evidence that he does, in fact, have a practically god-like stamina. Henry knows
better than to voice the fact and stroke his ego.

“I’m saying that you’re a brat,” he shoots back and watches as Alex’s cheeks flush.

He likes that.

“Am not,” he argues. In direct contrast to his words, he rocks his hips forward teasingly,
enticingly. Electricity shoots down Henry’s spine and he tightens Alex’s tie a fraction too tight.

He smooths the fabric out and shifts back, to admire his handiwork. Before Alex can even
think of grabbing him and pulling him back in again, Henry reaches out and places a hand on
his chest—effectively pinning him back.

“You’re going to be late.”

“But—”

“Go to work, you utter bellend. Before either of us does something we’ll both regret,” Henry
says and Alex huffs out a breath that’s somehow both amused and exasperated.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he sing-songs, grabbing his briefcase and heading out. He’s halfway to his
car, with Henry leaning on the doorframe and waving him off, before he doubles back—his
pace hurried.

Henry frowns.

“Did you forget something—?” he starts, before Alex skids to a stop in front of him and takes
his face into his hands. Suddenly, he’s kissing Henry—all heat and red-hot passion—and Henry
is swept away under it.

He grabs at Alex’s hips, just to steady himself, and Alex hums into his mouth, pleased.

They pull away much too soon and he smiles at Henry, his lips a pleasant shade of red.

“See you soon,” he whispers, like it’s some great big secret, and Henry can’t help but grin at
the sound of it. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“I’ll be counting down the seconds, my love.”

Alex swipes his thumb across Henry’s bottom lip, wiping away the mess there. Henry watches
as he brings his thumb to his own mouth and licks the spit away. Henry shivers at the sight,
his joggers suddenly feeling a little too tight.

“Later, baby,” Henry’s heartwrenching, gorgeous, dynamite of a boyfriend croons, and Henry
watches him go, his heart at his throat.

Henry likes working at the shelter. It’s hard work, of course, but the hours are good, the
ability to aid others (even if it’s in the tiniest of ways) is wonderful, and he wouldn’t change
anything about it for the world. But it’s equally as nice as being at home.

Cooking in the kitchen he and Alex modeled themselves, folding his and Alex’s laundry—
Henry’s sweaters and Alex’s muscle tees, cleaning every corner and crevice of the
brownstone: There’s a certain sense of peace that follows it all.

The labor of love.

David naps in the corner of the living room, and their kitten Priscilla (a gray tabby Alex had
picked off of the road a year ago and begged Henry to let them keep) paws at the socks
Henry’s just folded. He flicks it away from her and watches as she bounds after it—a flash of
gray fur.

He snaps a blurry picture and sends it to Alex.

Me :

Your cat is a menace.

Alex :

our cat, sweetheart

Me :

Are you on your lunch break?

Alex :

yeah

call me?

Henry dials and Alex picks up on the first ring.

“Missed you, darling,” he drawls, the first hints of his Texan accent shining through the
receiver and sending heat creeping down Henry’s neck.

“Missed you too,” he finishes folding the laundry and cricks his neck. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Doing that right now,” there’s crinkling coming from Alex’s end and shuffling around as he
probably unpacks what Henry made him. He laughs and Henry’s own smile in direct
accordance with the sound. “You made quiches again?”

“My quiches are a goddamn delight.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, I agree,” Alex says back, through a mouthful of food. He
moans appreciatively and Henry feels himself grow hot under the collar at the sound. “Fuck,
this is insanely good, baby.”

Tease.

Henry clears his throat.

“Really? I think I was a bit too slow with the whisking today, so the egg may not taste as light
as it usually does, but I did try adding bacon, which I know that you like.”

“The bacon is a great addition. And I’m sure the egg is light, Wales, whatever that means.
Light as a feather.”

Henry sniffs. “You would understand if you watched Bake Off with me, dear.”

“I do. But it’s just so boring, I don’t know how you don’t fall asleep during it. Now, Chopped,
on the other hand—”

“Pure rubbish,” Henry cuts in, shaking his head, as if Alex can see him. “It’s so…chaotic.
Stressful. I develop a migraine just from watching the intro.”

“You’re the love of my life, the apple of my eye, the ray of sunshine in my cloudy sky, and all
that other corny shit, but, fuck, man,” Alex drawls. “You’re so wrong.”

“How can I be wrong about my own opinion?”

“When you have the wrong opinion.”

“You’re so awful,” Henry murmurs, his cheeks hurting from smiling too much.

“Oh, am I?”

“Just the worst.”

“Hm, tell me how awful I am when I get home,” Alex quips back, his voice going all low and all
molten lava. “And I’ll make it up to you.”

Henry shivers. “How?”

“In any way you want,” there’s a muffled voice on Alex’s end and Alex’s voice goes a little
quiet as well, as he addresses whoever’s talking. “What? Okay, sure. Sweetheart, I gotta head
back. Hey, also, don’t forget, we have that thing tonight. The office dinner party. ”

“Haven’t forgotten. At 6:30, yes?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, then makes an obnoxious kissing sound over the phone. “See you tonight,
beautiful.”

“Good luck at work,” Henry says back.

Alex’s laugh chimes like bells. “You too.”

Ever since he was a little boy, Henry’s always despised dinner parties.

It was unfortunate, seeing how his duties as a prince mainly consisted of going to dinner
parties and making nice with insufferable lords and ladies alike. The people were always much
too prying, the wine not nearly strong enough, and Henry simply dreaded these occasions.

It’s much more tolerable now, with Alex acting as his shield and soaking up the attention
easily. Often, Alex takes the reigns of the conversation, sweeping the masses away with his
beautiful words, all while rubbing a hand on Henry’s knee—letting him sink into the shadows
beside him, yet still tethering him to the earth. It’s in those moments where Henry most
wants to pull Alex in close and crawl into his skin, making a home for himself in the other’s
ribcage forever. He had never felt more comfortable—more known—than he did with Alex.

But, even in Alex’s refuge, dinner parties are still insufferable.

Henry sloshes the wine glass in his hand, smiling as placidly as he knows how, as the stranger
in front of him drones on and on about some business deal he has no interest in. His eyes are
fixed across the room instead—to a head of dark curls bowed low in conversation. Halfway
through the mingling portion of the dinner part, Alex had been pulled away from Henry’s side
for a discussion about some upcoming case.

Henry had let him go, but even so, he couldn’t draw his eyes away from his boyfriend. There’s
something enchanting in the way Alex commands a whole room, with the effortless ease and
charm of a politician. He was born to be at the center of the solar system. He was born to be
the sun.

And Henry was born to love his light.

There’s a woman by Alex’s side. She puts her hand on his shoulder and Henry’s gut tightens
at the sight. The thick syrupy feeling of affection that had been seeping into his bones
curdles.

He vaguely recognizes this woman. Janice. Alex had mentioned previously that she had once
called herself Alex’s work wife. Alex had asked her to stop and, at the time, Henry had
thought that it was a little funny.

But now…

Alex brushes Janice’s hand off with a casual, suave ease and she doesn’t try that move again.
Yet, still, the feeling only coagulates and sinks to the bottom of Henry’s stomach.

He would never condemn someone for falling in love with Alex: Hell, if anything, Henry would
painfully empathize with them. Alex is magnetic and beautiful and perfect in a way that puts
every rom-com lead to shame. Over the years, Henry’s witnessed many a people wax poetics
about the bulge of his forearms, the brutal lines of his cheekbones, and the only thing he
could think in response was: Fucking same.

But at the sight of an unfamiliar hand resting on the familiar curve of Alex’s bicep, something
bitter catches in his mouth. Maybe it had to do with how there was a clear difference between
looking and touching. Maybe it was because Alex was the only thing Henry had ever fought for
and won—through his own blood, sweat, and tears. Maybe it was because this woman called
herself Alex’s wife, in a sense.

Maybe it was all of the above.

Either way, he straightens and offers a placid smile to the droning businessman in front of
him.

“So sorry,” he says, in a practiced, genial tone. “I think I’m being summoned. Would you
please excuse me?”

He inclines his head to the man and strides across the room. Alex is talking, his eyes like fire.
Passionate. Emblazoned. Heart-wrenchingly attractive.

“That’s fuc—actually absurd. Failing to issue a subpoena for a crucial witness is downright
incompetence. Did they really think we were stupid enough not to—” Alex cuts himself off as
Henry takes his spot beside his side. “Oh, there you are.”

“Here I am,” Henry says, smiling politely at the group at large, before fixing his gaze on Alex.
“Don’t let me interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Alex waves a dismissive hand. Henry catches the hand in his own
and gives it a squeeze. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Janice shifting on her heels.

“Good,” he says.

Another man in the group launches the discussion back into action, however, Henry tunes him
out. Alex has taken to loosely wrapping an arm around Henry’s waist, his hand resting on the
jut of Henry’s hip. Henry trails his own fingertips over that hand—over the ridges of knuckles,
through the fine hairs, and across the veins. Alex shivers under his touch.

His fingers find the signet ring on Alex’s pinkie.

He had given this piece of himself to Alex when this thing between them had just begun to
blossom. A piece of his armor for Alex to assume, a chunk of the burden of the crown to bear.
He had been more than he had ever given to someone before. He had wondered if it was too
much to entrust to someone else.

Then, Alex had met him halfway. He had taken Henry’s ring and had given him the key to his
home in exchange. Henry had gone back to Buckingham Palace with that key in his palm. He
had gone to sleep tracing the ridges and commemorating the cold press of metal to memory.

An equivalent exchange: His burden for Alex’s burden. His sorrows, adorations, and worries
for Alex’s sorrows, adorations, and worries. In the past, with his flings, Henry had prided
himself in giving these men a lot. Sex, expensive gifts, his time, and his apologies. It was the
least he could do, after making these men sign mountains of NDAs and squirreling them away
into dark corners. They would take and take; and eventually, when they grew tired of taking
his gifts and cloudy moods, they would leave.

He had thought this was all he deserved.

With Alex, however, love was as reciprocal as justice: An eye for an eye, in the kindest sense.
Whatever Henry gave, he returned. Banter and midnight phone calls; vulnerability, anger, and
a place to call home. A ring in exchange for a key.

Mine, Henry thinks, with vindication. Mine.

Henry twists the ring on Alex’s pinkie, and Alex glances back at him.

“Your Highness, what do you think about—” someone says, trying to bring Henry into the
conversation. Henry’s spine stiffens.

“Mr. Williams, sir,” Alex cuts in, smoothly. “I forgot to ask: How did that meeting with Jameson
and Co. play out? Did you get that deal?”

His arm tightens around Henry, the most secure belt in the world. Henry leans into it, a part
of himself melting into Alex’s embrace. He twists the ring on Alex’s finger again,
counterclockwise this time.

Janice leaves midway through the conversation, though the curdling feeling in Henry’s
stomach doesn’t quite disappear. Eventually, Alex manages to excuse them from the
conversation and they duck out into the hallway.

They round the corner and Henry can finally breathe again. He slumps against the wall, his
shoulders dropping. Alex watches him.

“You okay?” he asks. “Ready to call it a night?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Henry murmurs.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but it’s kinda my job to worry about you.”

Alex cups a hand on the side of his face. Henry bites back a keen and leans into the touch,
eyes fluttering shut.

“Last I checked, you were a lawyer. Taking care of a Prince of England isn’t part of that job
description.”

“I’m the one that suffered through three years of law school,” Alex reminds him. “I’m pretty
sure I know what being a lawyer entails. Reviewing contracts, giving legal advice, taking care
of a Prince of England: that’s all definitely part of the profession.”

Henry chuckles softly and Alex brings his hand to the nape of his hair. His fingers threaded in
Henry’s locks are an anchor.

“Do you want to head home, sweetheart?” he asks, again.

“Soon,” Henry breathes out. “But I’m alright with staying a little longer if you need. Truly.”

Alex scrunches up his nose, as if deep in thought.

“Let’s see. I can stay here and wade through boring conversations with a bunch of old white
dudes. Or, I could go home and spend the rest of the night with my gorgeous boyfriend. Hm.
This is a tough one. Can I get back to you?”

“Alright—”

“No, this is a hard decision. Let me really think about it. Geriatric lawyers or my hot, sexy
boyfriend? Fuck, we might need to let this marinate for a bit before making the final call.”

“Alright,” Henry cuts him off with a kiss. It’s meant to be light, but Alex smiles against his lips,
and really, who is Henry to not lick into that clever mouth?

He sinks his fingers into Alex’s coarse curls, and Alex gasps into his mouth. When Henry tears
away for a breath, Alex pushes him back against the wall with insistent hands. With Henry
pinned in place, Alex leans down and trails hot kisses down the length of his throat.

His teeth graze the sensitive spot by Henry’s ear. A whimper catches in Henry’s throat and he
tugs on Alex’s hair harder.

When his eyes open, blearily, he catches a glimpse of Janice at the other end of the hallway.
She’s staring at them, stunned. Something petty and hot like victory runs in his veins at the
sight.

He’s mine, Henry wants to shout from the rooftops—so uncharacteristic of everything he was
raised to be: Perfect, placid, princely. In that moment, he really doesn’t care.

He brings Alex’s face back up and crushes their mouths together. They kiss for what feels like
hours, centuries, before they’re pulling away—panting and flushed.

When Henry opens his eyes, Janice is gone.

He leans in to kiss Alex again, a little gentler this time.

“Take me home,” he demands against Alex’s mouth, and Alex nods, frantic.

They stumble into their home, dropping their coats and keys haphazardly to the ground.

“Did you have fun tonight?” Henry asks, biting back a keen as Alex grinds their hips together.

“Tons,” Alex grunts back. “And you?”

“Loads. You seemed to be getting along with everyone well. Especially Janice.”

He scrapes his teeth over Alex’s Adam’s apple, feeling it bob up and down.

“Janice?”

“The Janice who you work with? The Janice who has a crush on you?” Henry asks. “Don’t tell
me you forgot about her already.”

“I know who Janice is,” Alex combats, though his voice lacks any real conviction. Probably
because Henry’s now taken to biting at the skin of his throat, his teeth digging indents into
tan skin. Alex lets out a quiet yelp when Henry sinks in a little too hard, and Henry runs an
apologetic tongue over the blossoming mark.

“She called herself your bloody work wife.”

Alex makes a confused little noise. “Tonight? I thought I told her to stop. Want me to talk to
her again?”

Henry scrapes his canine across Alex’s skin, feeling his pulse thunder and tremble under him.

“She didn’t say anything,” he murmurs.

“Then, ngh, what’s the problem? Ah, you’re gonna leave hickies, baby,” Alex pants and Henry
pulls away, brushing a thumb alongside the length of Alex’s neck.

There’s already a splash of red staining Alex’s throat, just below his ear. It’ll turn a beautiful
shade of violet soon. Henry wants Alex to tattoo it there, for the whole world to see.

“Does it matter?” Henry asks. He scrapes his thumbnail into that mark and Alex shivers.
“You’re mine. I can leave as many lovebites on you as I want.”

Alex’s eyes light up.

“You’re jealous.”

Henry huffs.

When Alex is out there—charming the world and bringing it to its knees—he’s everything. An
accomplished lawyer, America’s sweetheart, and an unadulterated genius just a few steps
away from total world domination. But in the brownstone, in the warmth of the home they’ve
created for themselves, he’s just Henry’s.

Henry’s to keep, Henry’s to own, Henry’s to burrow deep into, and Henry’s to take apart and
bring back together. All Henry’s.

“You’re mine,” he repeats his mantra, then. Alex draws him in closer and kisses his cheek.

“Oh, am I?” he teases against Henry’s skin.

Henry curls his fingers into Alex’s shoulders, his fingers digging into designer fabric and
muscles toned from years spent on the lacrosse field and in the gym.

“Don’t act cute.”

“I’m always cute,” Alex kisses the mole on Henry’s cheekbone. He likes doing that, Henry
noticed, peppering kisses on the moles littered across Henry’s body—like he’s mapping out the
sea of Henry’s body, using Henry’s moles as his personal navigational star chart. Heat curls in
his stomach and he tilts his neck back, allowing Alex and his clever lips full access to his face.

He’s rewarded with a peck on the lips for it.

“Yeah? Does your work wife tell you that?” Henry grumbles.

“I don’t have a work wife,” Alex breathes out, smiling against his mouth. “Why need one when
I got the real deal waiting at home for me,” He licks at the mole on Henry’s upper lip. “All
pretty and mine for the taking?”

Oh.

Henry whimpers, a rush of heat spreading across his face.

He doesn’t even have time to question what Alex just said, and examine his own reaction to
those words, because the other is kneeling before him—in that perfect Armani suit and all. He
noses at the growing tent in Henry’s pants, his eyelashes fluttering.

“Henry, princess,” Alex mouths at Henry’s semi, his grin curling. “Take off your pants. Let me
make you feel good.”

Henry cards his hands through tawny dark curls and pulls Alex’s face back up.

“You want to take me?” he asks. “Do you want to choke on my cock, drool and spit sliding
down your face while you gag on it?”

Alex’s cheeks pinken and Henry’s own face heats up at the sight. He twirls a curl around his
finger and tugs lightly. Alex’s head lolls to the side—following Henry’s pull like a magnet to
metal—and Henry smiles.

“Or do you want to fuck me with this,” he nudges his socked foot against Alex’s groin and Alex
lets out a quiet, breathy noise. “And make me cum so hard I cry, my love?”

“Jesus, fuck,” Alex nods, frantically. “Yes.”

“Yes to what?” Henry murmurs. “To the first option?” he rocks his foot a little harder against
Alex’s groin. “Or the second?”

“Fuck my face,” Alex says.

Henry bites off a moan at those words, tinged with sin and the hints of a Texan accent. Alex’s
voice is straight out of a wet dream.

“You want it?” He rasps.

Alex runs a tongue alongside his bottom lip.

“More than anything, baby.”

“Say please.”

Alex opens his mouth as if to quip back with a smart-arse comment, but Henry yanks harder
on his hair, and that sly curl of that mouth rounds out to a soft ‘O’ .

“Alex,” he commands, and watches as Alex’s throat bobs. The hickey painted on it looks stark,
even from this distance. Henry tugs his hair again and the other’s eyes roll backward in his
skull, the beginnings of a moan caught in his throat.

“Please. Please fuck my mouth, baby.”

He would make Alex beg more, make him plead with every trick and honey-coated persuasion
tactic he’s learned in law school and in the courtroom, but; Henry’s cock is straining against
his trousers and Alex is flushed and wanting, and—

—He’s always been lenient when it came to Alex Claremont-Diaz.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, and delights in the way Alex trembles beneath him.

When Alex swallows him down, Henry has to tighten his grip on his curls, just to keep himself
cumming. Alex hums appreciatively around his length, the vibrations like heaven. Henry grits
his teeth and rocks his hips shallowly. Alex sucks dick much like he does everything else:
Headfirst, all passion and fire, and with an overwhelming urge to please Henry.

He’s heart-achingly perfect.

“You’re mine,” Henry pants. “Your body, your heart, this mouth—you’re all mine.”

He thrusts in harder and Alex chokes, nails digging into Henry's hips. Henry throws his back,
lost to the lethal combination of vicious spasms around his cock and flares of
pleasurepainpleasure sparking on his hips.

“So good, so tight,” Henry whispers. “Like you were, ngh, made for me.”

Alex makes a muffled noise and Henry raises a brow down at him, questioningly. Then, he
gasps, as he feels Alex grab at his ass with two rough, eager hands. His index finger brushes
over Henry’s hole and a bolt of electricity shoots down Henry’s spine.

He clenches around nothing, the beginnings of a mewl caught in his throat.

Amusement fills Alex’s dark eyes.

In retaliation, Henry thrusts harder into Alex’s throat, battering the skin there, and that
smugness in Alex’s eyes gives way to lust. Henry fucks in deeper and hopes Alex shows up to
the office tomorrow hoarse—wearing the hickies around his throat like a necklace. Henry
pictures all of Alex’s coworkers staring and whispering—blushing red as they wonder what he
and Henry had gotten up to in the dead of night.

Disappointed that they would never be able to render Alex—spit-fire lawyer Alex, People’s
Magazine Sexiest Man Alive Alex, untouchable-as-the-sun Alex—into a moaning mess, like
Henry Fox could.

A shiver wracks down his spine.

“Tell me, love: Do you want to fuck me?” He pants out.

He hears Alex making a garbled noise, his lips still stretched obscenely around Henry’s cock.
Henry crinkles his eyes down at him. He swipes a thumb across Alex’s lips, smearing the
precum and spit all over his chin, messily.
Alex stares back up at him, his eyes big and pleading. Henry thrusts into his mouth harder,
shivering. He can feel his orgasm peaking, drawing near.

“Do you want to fuck your wife?” He blabbers, unthinkingly, and Alex moans around him.

Then, Alex does that thing with his tongue that never fails to turn Henry’s brain into pure
liquid, his finger brushing against Henry’s fluttering hole, and Henry’s a lost cause.

He cums down Alex's throat. Alex doesn’t let him go, holding him still through the post-
orgasm aftershocks—hands firm on his hips—until Alex’s swallowed every last drop of Henry
and the other is almost tearing up from the overstimulation.

He slumps to the floor, right in front of Alex, and tucks his head into the crook of Alex’s neck.

“Wow,” Alex chuckles, hoarsely. He cards a hand through Henry’s hair. “I’m so good that your
knees gave out, princess?”

“I was doing all the work,” Henry mutters.

He reaches for Alex’s belt, but Alex bats him off. Henry squints up at him.

“You haven’t cum yet.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll have you screaming your pretty head off on my dick in a bit,” Alex murmurs
into his hair. “So,” he pauses, his voice half-serious, half-teasing. “You want to be my wife,
baby?”

Henry flushes a bright red and burrows his face against Alex’s pretty, bruised skin.

Alex kisses him the next day as he’s leaving for work, slow and sweet, and Henry cards his
fingers through his hair—wanting to keep him there.

“God,” Alex murmurs against his lips between kisses. Henry’s leaning against the doorframe of
the entrance, Alex is leaning in to kiss him, and everything is perfect. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Then stay,” Henry whispers back. He tugs Alex’s bottom lip between his teeth and pulls,
turning the kiss mean and dirty, and Alex wobbles. He catches himself on the doorframe, one
hand bracing above Henry’s head. Boxing him in and right where Henry wants him.

Alex stares down at him, his throat bobbing attractively. The hickey from last night is
prominent against his skin, a bloom of lilacs and wisteria. Henry needs to sink his teeth into it,
to suck at that mark, and to never let go.

“Call in sick,” he says. “Stay home with me.”

Then, he smiles up at Alex, making his eyes as coy as he can.

Alex groans.

“Henry,” he says, pained. “You’re a fucking siren, did you know that? A goddamn vixen.”

Henry hums, happily, and wraps his arms around Alex’s shoulders. Their mouths brush close—
just the ghost of a kiss—once, twice—before Alex, as impatient and bull-headed as ever,
crushes their lips together. He licks into Henry’s mouth, all confidence and boyish charm, and
Henry is lost to it.

Henry hitches a thigh across Alex’s hip, drawing him in even closer. When their groins brush,
Alex in his designer suit and Henry in his thin pajama pants, they both let out a soft gasp.
Henry rolls his hips upward, seeking more friction. More.

He’s stopped by a hand on his thigh.

Alex’s fingers dig into the meat of his thigh—although he seems torn between either keeping
Henry’s leg in place or pushing it off. His brow furrows.

“If you keep squirming all up on me like that, I’m gonna show up to the office with the world’s
worst semi,” he warns, his voice going breathy. “Gonna scandalize the poor receptionist and
everything.”

“The world’s worst semi from a little bit of grinding, love?” Henry can’t help but laugh. “You
really are so desperate for it. So easy.”

“You calling me a slut, Wales?”

Henry rocks his hips upward and captures Alex’s gasp in his own mouth. He swallows the
sound down greedily, licking his lips at the honey-sweet aftertaste.

“Maybe,” he murmurs and Alex gives him another bruising kiss.

“Call in sick,” he can hear how soft his voice is going. How the question seems less of a
demand from a prince, and more of a plead from a wanton housewife. His stomach squirms at
the thought. “Stay here with me, darling.”

Alex leans back, his jaw flexing.

“Fucking siren,” he muses. Then, he sighs “God, I wish I could. Trust me, I would but I can’t,
sweetheart. Not today. I have about a million shitty meetings to go to.”

Henry swallows his flash of disappointment. Alex, who takes to reading Henry like one might
read their favorite novel, seems to spot that disappointment. The kiss he presses to Henry’s
forehead is brief, but sweet. Henry tries not to melt into it, fails terribly, and sinks back into it
anyway.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Alex whispers. “Wait for me, I’ll be right back, before you know it.”

He kisses Henry’s forehead again, before moving onto his cheek. His lips trail all over Henry’s
face, peppering feather-light kisses across his skin. Henry giggles.

“I swear.”

“S’alright,” Henry’s heart feels lighter in his chest, disappointment melding into something
sweeter. Easier. “Go to work, love. Go change the world and all of that.”

“Gotta provide for the wife and kids too, am I right?” Alex quips back, and pinches the back of
Henry’s thigh—a hairsbreadth away from his ass. He peels away from Henry then, blows him a
goofy kiss, and drives away.

Henry stares after him—his cock straining in his pajama pants, eyes blown wide.

He spends the rest of his morning in somewhat of a daze. He gets work done from home,
vacuums, and meal preps, as he usually does; but the daze never clears. Like clockwork, his
mind wanders back to Alex’s voice low in his ear: All but calling Henry his wife. Then, it shifts
to Henry’s own voice in his ear, branding himself as Alex’s wife.

It goes in that loop, on and on.

Something hot coils under Henry’s skin. It shifts and grows as the hours pass, molding itself
into some monstrous beast. He goes about his day, with something monumental and terrifying
burrowing into his skin.

It’s around lunchtime when he finds that he can no longer ignore this thing.

He finds himself curled on the bed—his hand wrapped around his cock, teeth sinking into a
pillow to keep quiet. His mind, ever the love-sick bastard that it is, floods with thoughts of
Alex, Alex, Alex. Alex’s forearms which should be illegal in several countries. Alex’s shoulders,
broad and sturdy. His smile, his fire, and his desperate need to prove himself.

Alex calling Henry his wife. Henry wanting to be called Alex’s wife.

He whimpers, precum smearing all over his hand.

His phone, which had been carelessly tossed to the side, rings then. When his eyes find the
screen, Alex’s contact flashes back up at him. Henry struggles back up, wiping his hand on his
shirt. Something almost like guilt crosses his mind, as he picks up the phone.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Alex’s familiar drawl greets him. Henry’s cock jerks at the sound and he
silently wills his erection away. “God, I should have just stayed home with you today. I swear,
it’s like a mountain of paperwork fell from the sky last night and landed on my desk, because
I definitely did not have this much yesterday.”

There’s shuffling on the other end as Alex probably moves around his papers.

“Anyways, how has your day been?” He asks.

Henry swallows.

“I, um,” he says. “It’s been alright.”

Alex pauses.

“Are you okay?” He asks. “You sound sick.”

“I’m not, ah, sick.”

Alex makes a dubious noise.

“Then did I interrupt something? You sound…winded.”

“I’m fine,” Henry stresses. “I was just…cleaning.”

“Cleaning.”

“Yes, cleaning.”

Alex stays silent for a beat, before barking out a sudden laugh.

“Wait…Were you just jerking off?”

Henry’s face flushes in shame.

“I was not,” he denies. “I was cleaning!”

“Sure, because I also sound like a bitch in heat when I’m ‘cleaning,’” Alex drawls, his voice
mocking and deep. Henry really needs to pull himself together because heat pools in between
his legs at the sound. It’s his fault for finding mean American boys with dimples and filthy
fucking mouths hot.

“You are a menace,” he mutters. “An actual menace who is the utter bane of my existence.
You know, I could have you quartered and hanged for speaking to me like that.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy. What’s got you so hot and bothered, sweetheart?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh yeah?” Alex asks. “So, if I came home right now, I wouldn’t find you sprawled on the bed,
legs spread, with your hand around your pretty dick?”

“No,” Henry whispers, coolly, despite how hard his cock is now—leaking precum all over his
stomach. He’s aching to touch himself, to relieve this pressure that’s building slowly but
surely.

“You’re such a bad liar, Your Majesty,” Alex laughs, lowly. “Tell me, what’s got you so riled up?
Normally, you wait for me to get home to act like a needy slut.”

Henry whimpers, his hand clenched tight around his phone. His other hand drifts down to his
cock, hard and flushed, and grips it. He strokes, hard and quick. Just how he likes it. Just like
Alex likes it.

“Or are you just that desperate for a good fucking? You could have just asked for one this
morning before I was about to leave. I would have given it to you. Would have dropped to my
knees right then and there.”

“Ngh, at the front door?” Henry pants out, his lips curving. “Our neighbors would be so
scandalized.”

“They would mail me a fruit basket thanking me for the show. Are you fingering yourself too?”

“No,” Henry swipes a thumb across the slit of his cock, trembling. “Want you to. You can,
hngh, always reach deep. Deeper than me. I love your fingers. I love your cock.”

“Jesus Christ. Yeah? Your fingers don’t cut it anymore, princess? You need my fingers and
cock to cum your brains out?”

Henry strokes faster, his bottom lip catching in between his teeth. “I need you here with me”
the confessions tumble out in a tidal wave. “I want you here with me. I-I want you to fuck
me.”

“How?” Alex’s voice is low and scratchy—the way it gets when he’s turned on. Henry’s lost to
the sound of it. “How do you want me to fuck you?”

“Hard,” Henry digs his thumbnail into the underside of his cock. “Rough. I want you to make
me cry from it. Then, I want to, ah, push you on your back and ride you until you c-cry from
it. From how good I feel around you.”

Alex swears, a mix of Spanish and English curses.

“What else do you want?” he asks. He sounds wrecked. The thought of Alex—sitting alone in
his office, with his coworkers just outside—wrecked at just the sound of Henry getting off is
enough to send him hurtling toward the edge.

He moans.

“What do you want, baby?” Alex asks, again. Pleading. “I’ll give you anything you want.
Anything.”

“Want to be your wife,” Henry blurts out, so close to his orgasm, that he could burst at the
seams. “Want to be yours.”

“Fucking shit,” Alex hisses. “Fucking Christ, baby, you can’t just—”

“Gonna cum,” Henry whines. His veins feel molten hot, his skin flushing red. “I’m g-gonna—!”

“Y-yeah? Does my wife want to cum?” Alex asks.

And oh. Henry mewls, electricity shooting down his spine at the sound of Alex calling him his
wife.

“Yes,” he pants out, nodding frantically, like Alex can actually see him. “I do, I do.”

“Then fucking cum,” Alex says. With a flick of his wrist, Henry does just that.

The room spins from how hard he cums. For a brief moment, he feels almost boneless, his
orgasm turning every organ and bone in his body into liquid. He pants, staring up at the
ceiling.

Alex’s voice brings him back down to earth.

“Hey,” his voice floats from the receiver—a tether to reality. “Baby, are you there?”

“Mhm,” Henry slurs back. He curls into his phone—his body curved like a semicolon, the knobs
of his spine sticking out. “I’m here.”

“Someone came pretty hard, hm? You did so good,” Alex coos, and Henry’s cheeks flush.

“Well,” he corrects, just to be an arse. He can almost see Alex’s eye roll.

“This is why nobody likes English majors.”

“You do, apparently,” Henry corrects.

“Against my better judgment.”

Henry laughs softly. “Are you…?”

“As hard as a fucking brick? So turned on I might cum in my pants like some teenage boy
discovering porn for the first time? Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Sorry,” Henry smiles.

“No, you aren’t,” Alex complains. Then, he clears his throat. “Are we going to talk about it?”

Henry blinks, stupidly.

“About what?”

“About this, ” Alex stresses. “About this new kink that you seem to be developing, baby.”

Henry flushes, the first bout of panic rushing through him. Suddenly, everything that just
happened comes flooding back in vivid clarity. From today and last night. The weight of his
and Alex’s words sit on his chest, crushing and intense.

I want to be your wife.

Henry needs to die, actually.

“Can we, um, later?” he squeaks.

“Tonight,” Alex says, gentle but firm. “Lunch is almost over, I gotta go. Thanks for the show,
sweetheart. I really enjoyed it, 10/10. Would experience it again. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

They hang up and Henry stares back at the ceiling, utterly lost.

Here’s the thing.

Logically, people say strange things during sex. With the rush of endorphins, adrenaline, and
everything else, it’s probably a given that something—otherwise meant to be kept firmly
locked up—might slip out. A past hookup of Henry’s had confessed that he used to jack off to
paparazzi photos of Henry, right in the middle of Henry giving him head which was…weird at
best and uncomfortable at worst. They promptly went their separate ways after that.

Secrets are revealed in the peak, promises and hidden thoughts laid out in between gasps and
moans, and random thoughts blurted out when there’s a hand (or mouth) in between one’s
thighs. It’s not uncommon. It should be expected.

Still, he’s not sure where this came from.

This being the sudden, overwhelming urge to be called Alex’s wife.

Henry flushes at the memory and wipes at the counter furiously.

He’s said some embarrassing things during sex, especially to Alex—too dick drunk and in love
to think straight. But he’s never said something like this…Something so lewd, so scandalous,
and so unbefitting for a prince of England.

“Scrub any harder, sweetheart, and you’ll put a hole right through our countertop.”

An arm slides around his waist, and a familiar chest presses to his back. The smell of
cinnamon and brown sugar fills Henry’s nose. Alex hooks a chin over his shoulder.

He hadn’t even heard the other arrive back home, too lost in his own thoughts. Heny flushes,
his ears going hot.

“Hey, beautiful,” Alex murmurs into his ear. “What did the counter do to you? Want me to
punch it for you? Sue it?”

Henry makes a noncommittal noise that he hopes passes for something light and amused.
“How are you going to take a kitchen counter to court?”

“You know me. I’ll figure it out,” Alex nips on Henry’s earlobe lightly. “Can we talk?”

“About the legal case you’re going to build against an inanimate object?”

“About what happened today and last night.”

Henry swallows and wipes a nonexistent speck of dust away.

“Henry,” Alex murmurs, and his name in Alex’s mouth is enough to send a part of Henry’s
chest caving right open. He turns in the circle of Alex’s arms and looks at the man before him.
At his easy smile, the curl of that lip. Alex looks back at him, patient.

“I don’t know why I said that,” Henry blurts out, in a rush. “I’m sorry if I made you
uncomfortable.”

“Did I say you made me uncomfortable?” At Alex’s question, Henry shakes his head, slowly.
“Well, there you go. I would tell you if I was uncomfortable with something. I have before. You
know me.”

Henry blows out a breath.

It’s true. They’ve negotiated kinks and debriefed on scenes often in their years as a couple,
and Alex doesn’t shy away from conversations about what he likes and doesn’t. Henry doesn’t
either. At least, not before…this.

“Did you…like it?” He ventures, slowly.

“Honestly, I find it really fucking hot.”

Henry blinks.

“You did?” Hope balloons in his chest, but for what…He’s not sure.

“Yeah. Almost came in my pants when I heard you say it,” Alex taps his fingers on the fine
bones of Henry’s hips. “Both times—last night and this afternoon.”

“You did? ”

“Mhm,” Alex’s breath teases against his cheek. “But mostly, I think it’s hot that you find it
hot.”

Henry flushes and digs his nails into the palm of his hands. He can’t deny it—how hard he
came at the thought of being Alex’s wife, both times. He doesn’t even try to lie to Alex, who
knows him well enough to know when Henry’s lying through his teeth.

“I don’t know where it came from. I-I can’t explain it.”

Alex cocks his head, his eyes never leaving Henry's face.

“Does there need to be an explanation? Does there need to be a reason other than you find it
hot and I find it hot?”

“I’m not a woman,” Henry says. He’s sure of that, sure that he’s a man and that he loves
being a man, as sure as he is that the sun rises and falls.

“And I don’t see you as a woman, Henry,” Alex runs his hands along the dip of Henry’s waist.
His hands are molded to fit on there, and something in the universe shifts back into place
once Henry feels the weight of his hands. “You’re my man, my boyfriend, my love. Liking
being called my wife during sex doesn’t, like, invalidate your gender or who you are.”

He smiles, handsome and sweet.

“It just means you like being mine.”

Henry’s ears feel hot.

“Your ego knows no bounds, did you know?”

“And yet,” Alex says.

“And yet,” Henry breathes out, helplessly.

Alex smiles, so sweet and so understanding. Henry wonders what he ever did, in his wretched
miserable life, to deserve someone like him. He leans in to kiss that smile, and it only blooms
under his lips.

“I like it,” he confesses. “I really like it.”

Alex’s thumb finds the corner of his eye and presses against the mole there, reverent. Henry
melts into his touch.

“I know,” his voice is fond. “I know, baby.”

They fuck that night, Alex’s cock in Henry’s mouth. Henry pins Alex’s hips down with his hands
and teases him, until Alex is practically stupid with desire. He loves Alex like this: Overcome
with lust, babbling obscenities, and wrapped tight around Henry’s little finger.

At some point, late into the night, Alex cards his hands through Henry’s hair and begs:
“Please let me fuck your pretty pussy, sweetheart. I’ll do anything. I-I’ll get on my knees and
beg.” And Henry cums right then and there, untouched and shaking so hard, he’s practically
vibrating.

Alex chases after his own orgasm, groaning loud.

They collapse together, sticky and sweaty messes. When he finally comes to, Alex blinks and
smirks at Henry, his mouth opening to say something both awful and terribly sexy. Henry
kisses him silent, then promptly shoves him off the bed.

It’s like something unlocks then: Some door nestled deep inside the architecture of Henry’s
brain, that he hadn’t known had even existed before. The door swings wide open, hinges
creaking, and Henry can do little to pull it back shut.

Not that he really wants to.

Because he really, really likes this. Likes when Alex sobs and calls him pretty and beautiful
while Henry’s pulling him apart at the seams. Likes when Alex fucks him—rough and hard—
moaning about how good his pussy feels; or touches his heavy, weeping cock like one would a
clit. Most of all, he loves it when Alex comes home and Henry gets to wrap his hand around
that tie—dragging him in for a kiss.

“Missed me?” Alex quips into his mouth.

More than anything.

“Hardly,” Henry says right back.

He is always vividly reminded of those black-and-white American 50’s sitcoms, where a

nondescript husband triumphantly returns home from a long hard day’s work to his equally
nondescript housewife. She usually has a whole spread of food waiting out for him—her hair
neatly pinned back, her apron spotless.

He remembers watching a few episodes of one of those shows, because it was the only thing
on at the hotel he was staying at. The show had been outdated; its jokes were trite and much
too misogynistic. Henry had shut the TV off with a sour taste in his mouth.

Alex doesn’t like making Henry do all the housework—no matter how often he says it’s alright.
“You have a job too,” Alex says, as he physically jostles Henry away from the dishes one
night. “I want to help.”

He tells Alex that this is his job too and he loves this job, as much as he loves his work at the
shelter. Being able to take care of Alex, to be a place for the other to rest his weary head,
before getting back up to raze the goddamn world to the ground—Henry loves it.

“I know but,” Alex frowns, that crease between his brow deepening. “This is also your home. I
want to make this place your refuge too, baby. I want to take care of you too.”

Henry thinks of Patroclus in Achilles’ tent—threading Achilles’ sunkissed hair through his
fingers and listening to him bemoaning with a patient ear. He thinks of Achilles sending
Patroclus, handsome and clad in a suit of armor, off into battle—with every intent of receiving
him back into his arms. He thinks of Achilles keeping Patroclus’s body in the tent that they
used to share, pressing bloody lips to lifeless skin and cursing every god and human alike
under the sun.

Come home, he imagines both men, larger-than-life heroes, whispering to one another in that
tent they shared—in the midst of the bloodshed and tears. Come back to me.

Swallowing, he runs his fingers through Alex’s hair and kisses his cheekbone.

“You do the dishes,” he acquiesces. “But I’m putting them away.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Alex muses and Henry nudges their shoulders together.

Alex washes the dishes and Henry dries them off and tucks them back into the cupboards. The
radio plays Dreaming of You by Selena and Alex croons along to it, pointing a wooden spoon
in Henry’s direction.

“Corazón,” he sings to Selena’s sweet voice. Henry rests his hip against the counter and
watches him—a tidal wave of inexplicable emotion rising in his chest. “No puedo dejar de
pensar en ti. ”

Alex sweeps him up into a slow dance—his arms around Henry’s shoulders, Henry’s looped
around his waist. He rocks them back and forth together, half-silly and half-serious. Henry
tucks his smile into the crook of Alex’s neck.

“Cómo te necesito. Mi amor, ” he says into Henry’s hair and Henry breathes him in—the smell
of brown sugar, cinnamon, and home.

They’ve been domestic ever since they moved in together—head-over-heels in love and so
affectionate that their friends have all left their home gagging. But somehow, now it gets even
worse. One night, they invite the rest of the Super Six for dinner, and Pez flat-out asks if
they’ve up and eloped.

“You’re like a couple of newlyweds,” he says.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alex says, into his wine glass.

There’s something strained in his voice but when Henry glances back at him, the other only
smiles back. His smile looks just shy of too tight.

“You can’t keep your hands off of each other!”

Henry swirls his own wine glass, primly. “Alex and I are separate people that lead separate
lives, thank you.”

“You’re in his lap, Hen.”

“That has nothing to do with this conversation,” he says and takes a long sip.

Pez throws his hands up in defeat, though he’s grinning—bright and amused. Nora gags,
dramatically. June snickers. Bea raises an eyebrow at them.

Alex taps a quick rhythm out onto Henry’s thigh—the beat bordering on frantic.

Later that night, their friends leave their home and Henry curls into bed, flicking open a book.
Alex is sitting next to him—glasses on and gorgeous in a disheveled sort of way. He squints
down at his laptop, fingers tapping out that same frenetic rhythm, this time on his own
thighs.

“This is so fucked,” he mutters.

“What is?”

“This case,” Alex’s glasses slide down his nose. “It’s driving me insane. I’m going in circles and
I might actually have an aneurysm if I have to review the witness statements again.”

“You’re stressed,” Henry says, and Alex hums.

“Pretty fucking stressed, yeah,” he sighs, shutting his eyes. Henry purses his lips. Alex is
usually pent up, a raging ball of fire hurtling towards a cliff edge at top speed. But that stress
usually doesn’t manifest into something like this—pure, shaky energy. If anything, he seems
almost nervous.

And Alex was hardly ever this visibly nervous about anything work-related.

But then again, he has been in this weird mood for a couple of weeks. So maybe it was a
pretty big case.

“I’m sorry, love,” Henry cups the back of Alex’s neck, fingers running through the fine hairs at
the nape of his neck. “It sounds tough.”

“Mm,” Alex mumbles back as Henry presses his fingers to the side of Alex’s neck. The muscle
there is wound tight. It’s a little alarming. “I think my brain is gonna explode soon.”

“I would rather it didn’t,” Henry massages the tense muscle there. “I like you with your brains
intact.”

“And here I was, thinking you only liked me for my stunning looks, massive dick, and ass you
could bounce a quarter off of.”

“That does play a part in it,” Henry allows and Alex smiles a small grin at him. It’s nowhere as
big as the usual blinding grins he reserves for Henry. Henry’s heart sinks slightly at the sight.

Alex does seem really stressed.

“Do you need me to get you anything?” he asks, kneading the muscle. “Food? Tea?”

“Tea?” Alex unfurls a little into his touch. “Don’t make me sick. We’re in America, for fuck’s
sake.”

“Sorry,” Henry says, dryly. “I forgot that tea has been banned in America since today.”

“Since the Boston Tea Party, actually,” Alex says, his voice turning purposely obnoxious. Then,
it evens out and goes more gentle. “And I’m alright, thank you, sweetheart.”

“Well if you need anything—”

“Well,” Alex drawls, shutting his laptop. His smile turns a little mischievous and more real.
“There is one thing that could help me…loosen up.”

Henry’s face heats, his dick twitching.

“I’m reading, you insatiable knob,” he says, and Alex pouts.

“That book is lame, anyway,” he leans in to kiss Henry. Henry gasps into it and his willpower
turns to putty in Alex’s hands. His book is hastily shoved back onto the nightstand and his
hands go to cradle Alex’s face.

“Books are not lame,” Henry huffs as Alex detaches long enough to pepper kisses down the
length of Henry’s jaw. “That is just about the most insulting thing you could ever say to me.”

“Hey, I just said that book was lame,” Alex slides Henry’s pajama pants off and grinds his
palm down on his clothed dick. Henry moans. “I didn’t say all books are lame. I have a lot of
respect for books. Some of my best friends are books. The Metamorphosis and I go way
back.”

“Get back here and shut up,” Henry wrenches Alex’s face back up and pulls him into another
searing kiss.

They kick the rest of their clothes off and grapple for each other—a mess of teeth and tongue.
Henry comes out victorious and he is in Alex’s lap, his thighs flexing from where they’re
straddling the other man.

Alex’s hands land on his hips.

It takes little time to finger himself open and soon, he’s lining himself up on Alex’s cock—his
stomach squirming pleasantly. The head of Alex’s cock catches on his rim, and they both
shudder at that.

“Fucking shit,” Alex pants, eloquently.

“Quite,” Henry says and sinks down all the way.

He bites down on his bottom lip, barely managing to swallow down the litany of moans and
whines bubbling up. No matter how often they have sex, the stretch of Alex spearing into him
always catches him off guard. The sting is both sharp and delicious; Henry is hopelessly
addicted to it.

Alex throws his head back and moans.

“You’re so tight,” he garbles out and Henry leans down to sweep him into a dirty kiss. Alex
groans into the kiss, his tongue brushing against Henry’s. Henry licks at his canines, relishing
in their sharpness. He wants to cut his tongue on them—to bleed crimson red onto Alex’s own
mouth, and have him swallow it all down.

Alex’s blunt nails dig into his hips and he thrusts into Henry, a tiny aborted movement.

“Stay still,” Henry commands, turning his voice into that authoritative lilt that never fails to
bring Alex to his knees. And like magic, Alex stills underneath him, though his grip on Henry’s
hips remains bruising.

Henry reaches for the nightstand and grabs his book. Alex blinks at him, uncomprehending, as
Henry flicks the book back open.

“Wh—”

“Don’t move until I’m done.”

“What? ”

“You heard me,” Henry says, blankly. “I said: Don’t move until I’m done reading this book.”

“Baby,” Alex’s voice is already splintering at the edges. His eyes are big and pleading. “You
aren’t even halfway through it.”

“I’m a fast reader. And you can be patient,” Henry cards his free hand through Alex’s curls.
When he tugs a little too hard, the other whimpers and unfurls into his touch, tucking his face
into the junction where Henry’s shoulder meets his neck. “Can’t you, love?”

“You’re in my lap, I’m balls deep inside you, and you’re asking me to be patient?”

“I’m not asking,” Henry turns a page. “I’m telling you.”

Alex’s cock jerks inside of him as the other lets out a pitiful moan into Henry’s clavicle.

“I hate you,” he mutters.

“Hush now,” Henry says and refocuses on the book.

Alex Claremont-Diaz is many things, but mainly, he’s a massive brat. He puts up a good fight,
bucking his hips and gnawing at the sensitive skin of Henry’s throat—trying to get him to
move. It’s a testament to Henry’s willpower that he doesn’t give in, just drop his book, and
ride Alex until they’re both sobbing messes.

Instead, he merely holds himself still and fixes Alex the most scathing glare he can muster.
Alex goes still underneath him.

“You made me lose my page,” he says, measuredly, and flips back a few pages. Alex’s hips
twitch and Henry clenches down, in warning.

His eyes roll back in his skull.

“Henry,” he pants, so close to begging already.

“Be good for me,” Henry murmurs, brushing an open-mouthed kiss to Alex’s cheek. “Don’t
make me tie your hands to the headboard, love.”

“Hngh,” Alex responds back, and even his moans sound petulant, but he doesn’t thrust back
up into Henry. He stays still, hands on Henry’s hips, rendered quiet and docile. Henry smirks
down at him, pleased.

They stay like this until he finishes his book and sets it back aside.

In all honesty, he kind of stopped paying attention to the words almost as soon as he began
reading. The feeling of Alex inside of him—achingly hard and wanting—is enough to send just
about everything else flying out of his brain. He shifts his hips a little and gasps as Alex
brushes past that spot inside of him that sends sparks shooting up behind his eyelids.

“Henry,” Alex whimpers, his fingers digging into Henry’s sides. “Sweetheart, i-if you do that,
I’ll—!”

“Cum?” Henry grinds back down into Alex’s lap and relishes the way Alex shivers underneath
him. “From this, darling? But I barely even moved.”

Alex keens loudly, his fingers trembling from where they’re pressed into Henry’s side.

“Hold out for me,” Henry says, dismissively, and raises himself up—until Alex is barely inside
of him. Precum and lube drip out of him and onto Alex’s thighs, creating a mess of slick
everywhere.

“I can’t—!”

“Color,” Henry whispers and Alex blinks the daze from his eyes.

“Green.”

Henry grins.

“You can,” he says, amused, and slams back down on Alex’s cock.

He repeats the motion, over and over again as Alex gasps and pleads beneath him. Even
through his nonsensical babblings, he’s thrusting his hips up to meet Henry midway. It’s wet
and messy, and Henry’s drowning from how good everything feels.

“Tell me how I f-feel,” he demands, bracing himself on Alex’s shoulders.

“Ngh, good,” Alex moans. “So good. Like heaven, like my everything. You’re perfect, H-
Henry.”

“Yeah?” Henry pants, eyes threatening to roll back.

“Yeah,” Alex nods. Henry bares down on him and Alex thrashes in place, his limbs jerking and
toes curling. “I’ve never f-felt this good before.”

“Not with anyone else?”

“Only with you,” Alex swears, sweat dripping down his brow. “Only with my wife.”

Henry mewls, so turned on he could barely remember his own name. He grabs at Alex’s jaw
and tilts his head back, so that their gazes fully meet. Dark, blown-out pupils on dark, blown-
out pupils.

“Open your mouth,” Henry demands, and Alex lets his mouth fall open—tongue peaking out
between those sinful lips.

Henry leans in and spits onto the other’s tongue and Alex lets out a garbled moan out of
approval. He tries to swallow it down, but Henry holds his jaw open in place, thumb digging
into the plush of his bottom lip.

“You’re so good for me, sitting here, taking it like a bloody pro,” he says and Alex’s eyelashes
flutter. He lets go of Alex’s chin and lets him swallow—watching his Adam’s apple bob as he
takes Henry in, like a gulp of nectar from the gods. “You’re, ngh, my fucking slut, darling.”

“Yours,” Alex slurs and thrusts his hips up into Henry harder. “Always.”

A flash of heat travels through Henry at that and he rewards Alex for it by going even faster.
Alex snakes a shaking hand in between them and jerks Henry off, quick and fast. Henry cums
then, right into Alex’s waiting and open palm.

“Cumming,” Alex pants into his mouth after Henry’s done shuddering through the aftershocks.
“P-please, baby, let me cum.”

“Cum,” Henry commands, and the other does—trembling and moaning like a whore. Henry
kisses him through it, gentle and coaxing. Alex barely kisses back, his mouth too slack and
muscles too seeped in pleasure to actually form the motions of kissing.

“That’s my boy.” Henry murmurs, and Alex whines into his mouth.

They detach then. Henry wipes himself and Alex off haphazardly, before collapsing back on
Alex’s body. Alex barely manages to gather him and pull him close to his chest, shaky hands
resting on the ridges of his spine. He’s well and truly fucked out.

Henry kisses his bicep, grinning.

“Loosened up enough?” he asks, knowing the answer.

Alex mumbles something sharp and witty back, then promptly falls asleep. If Henry drifts
asleep in fits, Alex—when his insomnia isn’t too rampant—drops like a rock. One moment he’s
away, eyes bright and alive, and the next he’s falling off the face of the earth, lost to a bout of
sleep. It’s as hilarious as it is endearing. As Henry stares up at his face, the glow of his skin,
and the inviting sweep of his mouth, he comes to a startling realization.

He really, really wants to marry this man.

There was this thing Philip always said to him.

When he had taken a nasty tumble while playing football with Philip and his mates, scraping
his elbows and palms bloody. When Bea would drag him into her tea parties, wrestle him into
a frilly gown, and declare him Princess Henry for all her stuffed animals and dolls to see. That
time when he refused to go on a photo op date with some Belgian heiress, sick and tired of all
the pretending he had to do. Another time when he was so warped in his grief, he couldn’t
unfurl his limbs enough to get out of bed, for a week.

Philip would always find him first.

He had knelt by Henry’s side, putting a bandaid on his knee. He had wrenched the teacup
from Henry’s hand and brought him outside to toss around a rugby ball with. He had called
Henry all the way from another country, his voice stern and strong. He had placed a hand on
the nape of Henry’s neck, just like their father always would. In those moments, the line of his
jaw would soften, his voice would turn a little warmer, and their father’s face—a sight
relegated to photographs and memories that grow hazier with each passing day—would
return.

Henry despised him in those moments, almost as much as he despised Philip in his moments
of excessive cruelty and awfulness. He despised himself even more for burrowing closer into
his brother’s touch and words. Chasing after a twisted reflection of Arthur Fox.

“Be a man, Henry,” Philip would always say as Henry would bite back useless tears. “We’re the
royal family. Be strong, nobody can be strong for you. You need to be strong for our country,
for our people. Oh, man up, would you?”

Their grandmother would echo his sentiments. Henry could do little but swallow back this ache
in his body, choking on the enormity of it. Tilt his chin up high and square his shoulders, paste
a smile and wave.

Because he is strong.

He may be a raging homosexual, a poet, and a disappointment to the Crown; but he’s strong.
He has his father’s capacity to move mountains and pound them back down to dust again. His
mother’s ability to persevere alone in the most frigid of climates, his grandmother’s ability to
command a room. Centuries of kings, conquerors, and victors run through his blood—each
more awful than the last. He’s a living and breathing product of larger-than-life men who took
and never gave, women who ruled alone, and people who would rather put a knife to their
own throat than roll over and submit.

Someone proud and enough to walk on his own—with no rival or equal in sight. It’s a fact
that’s been ingrained in his head, from the day he could walk and talk. His bloodline and his
birthright.

A man. Someone strong.

And yet, somehow, he’s having a bad day.

These days are uncommon, but not as rare as Henry would like them to be. He lays curled up
in bed, bile rising to his throat at how pathetic he looks, at how useless he’s being right now.
He wills himself to get out of bed, to go for a run, to do the laundry, to do anything; but the
weight over his shoulders presses him into the mattress and crushes his lungs to dust. He’s
Atlas without the glory of holding up the world. He’s just a man whose strength slips away
from him, in the worst of times.

And today really was the worst of times. It’s his day off from the shelter, which is a positive,
but… It’s also the day he’s supposed to pick up Alex’s engagement ring. He had called a few
days before to confirm, he had sworn he would be there.

And yet.

“Sweetheart,” he hears Alex murmur. He feels the warm press of Alex’s hand on his forehead.
He lies there. “Bad day?”

“What gave it away,” Henry rasps, and Alex kisses him on the cheek.

“I’m gonna make you something to eat. Go back to sleep.”

“Go to work,” Henry tries to say, firmly, but his voice is splintered. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll go to work after I make you something, bossy,” Alex responds, and Henry squints at how
easily he gives in, without a fight. But he’s much too sluggish to question it, and he drifts
away.

When he comes to, there’s a blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders and a glass of water
on the bedside table. Henry sips at the cool water and checks the time through bleary eyes.
12:15 pm. He’s scheduled to pick up the ring from the jewelers at 3 pm.

He steels his jaw. He had done more arduous things while in these depressive episodes—
speeches, polo matches, and hour-long interviews—biting his tongue throughout it all so hard
that the taste of copper stained his mouth for weeks on end. He could go outside and pick up
a goddamn wedding ring.

He peels out of bed and treks downstairs for more water. Instantly, the smell of food, rich
spices, and garlic fills his nose. Then, the low crooning of the radio reaches his ears, as well as
the clattering of kitchen utensils and the simmer of the stove. Henry blinks and stops.

Alex is in the kitchen—apron tied around his waist, sleeves pushed back to his forearms. He’s
stirring something on the stove, while periodically glancing down at his phone. He’s a
goddamn vision.

“Alex?” Henry croaks.

Alex spins and smiles at him.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he says. “Hungry?”

His eyes fall on Henry’s empty water glass and he wrestles it free from Henry’s grasp.

“I can do it—” Henry complains.

“I got it,” Alex sing-songs as he fills Henry’s glass. “Food’s almost ready.” he prances back to
Henry and returns the cup. “Sit down, it’ll be done soon.”

Henry sits and watches as Alex works his magic and ladles out Albondigas soup into two
bowls. He slides one bowl Henry’s way and gestures for him to eat. Henry does, not tasting
anything.

“I thought I told you to go to work,” he says, slowly.

“Working remotely,” Alex says. “Trial prep is almost done so, the workload is pretty light.”

Light enough that he could stay at home and play nurse with Henry, apparently. Henry
scrapes his spoon against the side of the bowl. He wishes he could feel happy that Alex was
staying at home with him, he’s normally over the moon on Alex’s days at home. But today, it
sits on his tongue—bitter and utterly acrid in nature.

“I have to go grocery shopping,” Henry stammers, stupidly.

“Already done,” Alex slurps his soup. “Washed the vegetables and everything. Did the laundry
too. Our dryer is being weird, it’s making weird noises. Like, R2D2-esque beeps. Should I call
someone to take a look at it?”

“No,” Henry scrapes his spoon on the side of the bowl. The taste in his mouth grows more
sour by the second. “It does that when you set it for 30 minutes. Change it to 40.”

“God, I thought it was gonna explode, my life flashed before my eyes. What else do you have
to do today?”

“Why?” Henry asks, voice brittle.

Alex glances at him, a tiny furrow between his brows.

“You should just rest today, sweetheart. Let me take care of everything.”

Henry pushes his bowl away.

“I’m not weak,” he tries to snap—tries to conjure up the teeth and claws that his grandmother
gifted him, that Philip had painstakingly sharpened with whetstones and vitriol. Be a man. “I-
I’m not useless because I’m bloody depressed, Alex.”

Alex stares at him.

“Sweetheart,” he starts and Henry shakes his head.

“I’ve done more, while I was in a worse state. I can cook, I can pick up the groceries, I can—”
he swallows. “I can do a load of laundry. I don’t need you to do it.”

There’s a moment of silence, before Alex gets up and Henry’s stomach drops. He’s leaving, he
thinks, as nonsensical and stupid as the thought is. He’s leaving, tired of taking everything
Henry has to offer. He’s finally leaving, a pipedream dissipating into the wind. He’s leaving and
Henry’s just sitting here—shackled to his chair by chains of grief and horrible, destructive
rage.

“Wait—” he chokes out, panic surging through him.

His words catch in his throat, because Alex comes to a stop by his chair and crouches by his
side. Their eyes meet and Henry’s suddenly blinded by the light of a thousand suns, the
amalgamation of Apollo, Feyr, Ra, and Helios looking up into his gaze. His eyes dart back
down to the soup.

“Henry,” Alex says, strong and sure. “Look at me, please.”

Henry bites his lip and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he starts and Alex cuts him off.

“I’m sorry that I made you feel like you were weak and useless,” he says. “Baby, you’re the
strongest motherfucker I know. You stood up for yourself against the Queen of fucking
England. You survived the worst of the worst, and came out not just in one piece, but as
someone sweet, kind, and good. I will never not be in awe of the strength that you carry in
your bones, your heart, and your soul. Never.”

He puts a hand on Henry’s thigh, warm.

“You don’t need me to carry your weight, I know. But, I want to carry it anyway. I want to
take some of this everything that you put on your shoulders, sweetheart. If you’ll allow me.”

“Why?” Henry chokes out. His eyes feel much too wet.

“Because I’m a selfish bastard,” Alex says, bluntly. “I don’t want just your kindness and good
moods. I want your bad days, that burden on your shoulders, your blood in my mouth, and
everything in between. I want every piece of you, Henry.”

His thumb rubs circles on his thumb.

“I want to give you the world. And I want you to pluck it right from my hands, unashamed
and unapologetic.”

Henry looks back at the man before him and Alex’s dimples deepen.

“There’s so much of you, sweetheart. It’s vast and beautiful, but it also seems to weigh down
on you. Can you give this bad day—this piece of yourself—away to me? Will you let me take
care of you?”

The tears spill from Henry’s eyes, fat and heavy. It hurts to nod, but Alex’s resounding smile is
a balm to that particular ache. Alex reaches up and wipes the tears away from Henry’s cheeks
—his hands cupping Henry’s face like a shield.

“Thank you,” he whispers, reverent. “I’ll keep it safe.”

I know you will, Henry thinks.

He wraps his arms around Alex’s neck and hugs him close, feeling his heart thud against his.
They stay like this until Henry’s tears dry and his sniffles turn quiet. Alex traces circles on his
hips, soothing.

“A grocery bag broke in our driveway,” Alex says, into the silence.

“What?” Henry asks, his voice rough.

“I was carrying the groceries in and one paper bag just ripped. Like clean through. Everything
came spilling out.”

“Christ.”

“A dozen oranges bounced and rolled down our driveway. I had to get on my hands and knees
and crawl after them—right in front of our neighbors and passing cars. Everyone.”

Impossibly, Henry feels a tiny smile stretch on his face. “You’re lying.”

“Nuh-uh, an orange rolled into the road and a car drove over it. Blood and guts everywhere.
Orange juice splattered all over our pristine, safe neighborhood. It was a grisly crime scene.”

Henry lets out a watery laugh.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m ridiculously handsome,” Alex corrects, and then he’s suddenly lifting Henry off his feet.

Henry yelps, clutching harder at Alex’s shoulders—as Alex’s arm slots around his waist, while
the other holds up Henry’s knees. A trickle of heat makes its way down Henry’s stomach at
how easily Alex is holding him up, with just the clench of his jaw and the bulge of his arms
betraying the true weight that he’s carrying.

“Um.”

“Bed?” Alex asks, and Henry’s face goes red. Alex smiles, sweet and a little mocking.

“Not like that, you little minx. You just look tired.”

Denials rise on the tip of his tongue, verbal platitudes of how he’s fine and can walk just fine
on his own, thank you. Then, he looks at Alex’s face—the open, raw honesty tattooed onto the
bridge of his brows and line of his lips—and lets those denials die a bloody death. He tucks his
face into Alex’s neck, a puzzle piece slotting back into place.

“Alright, take me to bed,” he murmurs and Alex does just that.

Before he heads back to sleep, he ducks into the bathroom and dials Bea.

“Hen?” she picks up. She’s in town—a gig for her new band. He keeps this in mind as he asks,
quietly.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” his older sister says, immediately, and Henry’s heart swells in affection at her
words. Their father’s loyalty, their mother’s gentle kindness, and a selflessness that is so
uniquely Beatrice Fox are all intermixed to create the most wonderful woman known to
mankind. He’s deathly lucky to have her.

“Could you pick up this package for me?”

They ebb and flow together. Most days are good, some are bad—and they stay with each
other throughout it all. Henry grows increasingly familiar with the weight of a ring box in his
pocket.

He wishes someone told him that the days leading up to proposing were this nerve-wracking.
He wonders if this was how his father felt before he had asked Henry’s mother to be his. He
wonders if this was how Oscar Diaz, fresh-faced and newly graduated from college, felt before
producing a ring to the future president of the United States. If Leo felt the same rush of
anxiety and giddiness when he proposed to Ellen, years later.

Everyone in Alex’s family knows that he’s going to propose. He asked for their permission,
which seemed a little stupid and archaic at first. But when he sat the Claremont-Diazes down
and told them that he wanted to propose to their son, their brother, the baby of their
beautiful, explosive family, Oscar and Leo had launched out of their seats to tackle him into a
hug, June had grabbed his hands and screamed, and Ellen—

Ellen had cupped his face into her hands and brought him down to knock their foreheads
together—a move he had only seen her do before with Alex and June. Then, she had smiled at
him like Henry had never seen her smile before.

“Nobody deserves him more than you, sugar,” she had said, and Henry wasn’t ashamed of
how his eyes reddened at her words.

The problem arises on where to propose. At first, he thinks Paris, under the Eiffel Tower, lit up
with beautiful, golden lights. Then, he changes his mind and thinks of Rio, where they first
met and the sparks of something began. He waffles between the two with his friends, until
even mild-mannered Bea is yelling at him to just choose one already.

He picks Paris, Christmas time. He makes plans to fly Alex to the city of love, to get down on
one knee, and ask the question. He plans it down to the T, his heart thumping in excitement
with each step.

They travel to Austin on a whim, just two weeks before that scheduled flight. Alex has just
closed that awful long case successfully and he’s rewarded with a paid leave. He arrives back
home and sweeps Henry into his arms, his smile so luminous. Henry clutches at his shoulders
and lets Alex spin him around like a goddamn ballerina, laughing.

“Let’s go out of town,” Alex says, kissing him. “Let’s celebrate.”

“Where?” Henry asks, though he doesn’t really care about the final destination. He’ll follow
Alex to the end of the world if only he asked.

“Austin,” Alex blurts out and Henry nods, kissing him in congratulations.

They have Alex’s childhood home for a week—happy and sated on good food, alcohol, and
each other. They sleep in and swim, bike, hike, and watch bad TV in the afternoon. During the
evening, Alex drags Henry to barbeques and takes him back home to lick the barbeque sauce
off his mouth. At night, Henry shows Alex how to look for Orion, Aquila, and Cassiopeia. They
make love under the stars, in Alex’s childhood bed, and Henry is so happy, he could burst
from it all.

On the day before they’re supposed to leave, Henry wakes Alex up, wearing nothing but an
apron. He makes Alex breakfast, then washes the dishes—shivering at how Alex’s eyes trace
over every inch of him: Wanting, hungry.

Then, he gasps, as he’s pushed against the counter—lifted in the air to sit on the marble. Alex
crushes their mouths into a kiss, his hands digging into the meat of Henry’s hips. Henry
whimpers into it, caught off guard, and his thighs reflexively spread to accommodate for
Alex’s body.

Alex bites his bottom lip in between his teeth, and he’s suddenly jerked back to reality. Henry
slots a warning hand across Alex’s throat—not quite squeezing down—and pulls away.

Alex stares up at him, eyes half-crazed and delirious.

“Sweetheart,” he rumbles and Henry’s cock jerks under the thin material of the maroon apron.
Alex leans in closer, as if to recapture Henry’s lips. Henry presses his fingers down a little
harder, warning.

“Please, hngh, let me fuck you,” Alex murmurs, his mouth going a little slack. Still, the stream
of words that spill out from is nothing but obscene. “I know you need it so much, need me
filling you up and splitting you wide open. So, let me, baby. Let me worship your perfect cunt
and clit, and every inch of your body.”

Fuck, the mouth on him.

“No,” Henry grits out through his muffled mewls, and Alex whines.

“My wife is a fucking tease,” he huffs.

“You like it,” Henry says.

He pushes Alex back and takes him into his mouth. He pulls off as soon as Alex gets his hands
in his hair, and pretty soon, Alex—as fuck-drunk as he is—gets the message: Hands off.

He laces his fingers behind his back and Henry hums in approval. Then, he takes Alex back in
and shudders apart at the sound of the other’s moans and pleads.

As Alex pulls out and cums all over Henry’s face—splattering across his nose, mouth, and
eyelashes; marking Henry as his—Henry thinks:

I love you, I love you, I love you.

They clean up and bathe together, soapy hands running over soapy bodies. Alex quaffs
Henry's hair up into a mohawk with shampoo and laughs at the sight so hard, that Henry has
to splash him to get him to shut up. The cataclysmic swell of affection doesn’t subside as time
passes. Instead, it grows and grows into a beastly, radiant thing—impossible to push down
and ignore.

Alex passes him a mug of tea and that thing trills in Henry’s ears.

They make lunch together, talking about everything and nothing. The thing shifts in his chest,
impatient and antsy.

Patience, he tells himself. Be patient. From a young age, he’s perfected the art of waiting—of
sitting by the sidelines and aching for something he could not have. He’s learned how to wait
for good things, to keep his hands neatly folded in his lap until the time was right. He could
also wait for this.

Except.

None of his lessons on patience had ever factored in Alex Claremont-Diaz—with his touseled
curls meant to be tugged on, planes of golden muscles meant for teeth to sink into, and a
smile just asking to be kissed. None of them had ever factored in a ring in Henry’s pocket and
the bare skin of Alex’s ring finger.

They read one of Henry’s favorite books together, Henry’s back to Alex’s chest. As Alex’s eyes
fly over the pages in rapt attention, pausing for the occasional exclamations of shock or
annoyance at the character’s stupidity, Henry’s eyes stay on him. The words almost come
spilling out, caught between the skin of his teeth.

Marry me.

“What?” Alex asks, when he catches Henry staring. Henry turns his gaze back to the book,
feeling caught.

“Nothing.”

Alex pokes his side and Henry laughs, batting his hands away.

Later that night, Alex jerks his head to the front door and tells Henry that he wants to show
him something.

They hop on June and Alex’s old bikes and ride down the street—Alex’s face bathed in the
yellow of the streetlights, the wind rushing through Henry’s hair. Deja vu hits Henry then, at
the first time Alex let him into his childhood home: How they had biked away from the crowds
and prying eyes back then until it was just them—two anonymous people in the world—
cruising through the streets of the city. He smiles at Alex at the memory, and Alex whoops
and grins right back.

Eventually, they make it to what looks like a church—all stained glass windows and stone
archways. Alex unmounts his bike and gestures for Henry to do the same. Henry squints up at
the building, then back at Alex.

“You’re taking me to confess my sins?” he asks, and Alex smirks.

“Not quite,” he says and opens the door.

They slip inside.

The church is old but beautiful, years and years worth of history kept in perpetuity in church
pews and vaulted ceilings. It’s nearly deserted, save for a priest reading something in the
corner. He slips to a room in the back, after he incling his head towards them in greeting.

They take their seats in the back row and Henry watches

“My dad used to take us here for mass, every week,” Alex whispers, hushed. Their heads
swivel close together, foreheads knocking. “I used to hate it: Wearing the stuffy button-up
shirts and sitting through an hour-long sermon about people who may or may not have been
real, when I could be doing literally anything else.”

He traces the wooden lines of the pew.

“Then, Dad left for California, Mom got busier, and June stopped coming to church. But for
some reason, I kept getting drawn back here: To this church, to this pew. Then, I started
really listening to what the priest was blabbering about up there—” he chuckles and gestures
to the front of the room. “—and for the first time, I got it, y’know? What the big deal was.”

The mental image of Alex as a boy, sitting alone and wearing a blue button-up shirt, takes
Henry by storm. He swallows and watches Alex now, wondering how that boy had shifted and
grown into this man.

“I thought I knew what love was, before. I thought it was easy and natural. Then, when my
parents got divorced, I thought it was just about the stupidest, fragile thing in the world. But
here, within these walls, in this seat, I learned that it’s not either of those things.”

His hand finds Henry’s and squeezes down.

“Love is…unshakeable faith in something you can’t see or feel. It’s patience and pulling your
body wide open for someone else to sift through. It’s time and effort, and it’s really fucking
difficult, but God, it’s worth it.”

Alex brings Henry’s knuckles up to his mouth and brushes a kiss over the ridges of his
knuckles.

“I love my religion, I thank my God for everything good and wonderful that’s in my life,” he
murmurs against Henry’s skin. “But most of all, I thank Him for teaching me how to love you,
Henry. Everything I learned in this church, under these stained glass windows—every act of
devotion, every song of worship, and every prayer memorized—has molded me into being
able to love you. Because that’s what I was put on this earth to do: To love you like a believer
loves God.”

His mouth brushes against Henry’s vein, against the centuries of royal blood that’s running
through him.

“I’ve known the true weight of piety and faith in only two places, in my entire life: In this
church and in your presence,” he confesses and Henry clutches at him. Alex hums and kisses
the fine bone of Henry’s wrist. “It’s maddening, this effect you have on me.”

“Alex,” Henry whispers.

“Did you know that every night, I thank the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit for teaching me to
love, in the most sacred, most holy of ways? In the only way that you deserve? Because I do.
I thank them for sculpting my body to fit against yours, for shaping my soul in a way that
accommodates yours.” He whispers. “I’ll spend the rest of my time on earth prostrating before
them in gratitude for it.”

He’s tearing up now, Henry is too. The church is quiet all around them, a silent witness to
Alex’s confession.

“Every night, when I kiss you, when I lie beside you, when I exist in your vicinity, I think this,
baby:” Alex kisses the heel of Henry’s hand. “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” He kisses Henry’s
open palm, mouth warm and soft. “Amen.”

Henry cups Alex’s face with his free hand.

He’s not religious, not like Alex who still attends mass on Sundays and has a Bible tucked
away neatly on his side of the bookshelf, but he knows that Alex was not made for him. In
fact, it’s the other way around. Because Alex is Adam, and Henry is his Eve. Eve who was
crafted from nothing but Adam’s rib bone. Eve who was made to be Adam’s partner and
equal.

Like Eve, Henry is an amalgamation of everything Alex has given him over the years: Every
kiss, every fuck, every word, and every smile. Prince Henry Mountchristen-Windsor is bound
by the flesh and blood of his ancestors; the property of the crown. But Henry Fox: The Henry
Fox who sings karaoke and cooks quiches for his friends and family; who can finally cry when
his bad moods get too much, and who laughs when he cums. Henry Fox is a direct product of
Alex Claremont-Diaz.

Molded from his rib, shaped by his love.

“I love you,” Henry confesses, raw and true. “I fucking love you.”

“I love you too,” Alex whispers. He starts saying something else, but Henry doesn’t hear him,
too caught up in the adrenaline and pure, unfettered love rushing through him.

And all of a sudden, he doesn’t give a rat’s arse about patience.

“Marry me,” his question rings in the space between them.

“What?” Alex asks, blinking.

“Marry me,” Henry fumbles for the ring box in his pocket. This wasn’t how it was supposed to
go: He was supposed to be on his knee, and they were supposed to be under the Eiffel Tower
—windswept and drunk off of expensive wines. Yet, somehow, he can’t bring himself to care.

He pries open the box and shows Alex the ring. Alex stares at him, then back at Henry—throat
bobbing.

“Henry—”

“Alexander, I love you,” he says. “Every inch, particle, and atom that composes you—I love it
all. Your God may have taught you how to love, but you have taught me how to live. You’ve
taught me how to fight for something and win; and how to cultivate love under a caring hand
and watch it bloom into something good, right, and real. And for that, I cannot worship you
enough.”

He leans forward, nerves and adoration pinging through him, lighting him up from the inside
out.

“So, please accept this humble offering instead, darling,” he says. “So, please, be mine.”

“Yes,” Alex manages out. He’s crying now. They’re both fully sobbing and it’s kind of a mess.
Henry loves it anyway. “Of fucking course, yes, Henry.”

When the ring slides onto Alex’s finger, Henry can finally breathe. Alex smiles at it, his grin as
wide as Henry’s ever seen it.

“You just had to steal my thunder, huh?”

Henry blinks at him, uncomprehending, before Alex reaches into his hoodie pocket and
produces a tiny velvet box. Henry’s heart stutters, then soars at the sight.

“Is that…?”

“What,” Alex says, amused even through the fresh bout of tears that seem to be springing up
in his dark eyes. He clears his throat. “You thought I just brought you here and waxed a
poetic speech, just for the hell of it? I’ve been thinking about proposing to you here for, like,
months.”

Months.

Henry stammers and Alex pries open the box. A simple golden band rests in it, with a
diamond right in the middle. It’s beautiful.
“Marry me, Wales?” Alex asks, although the answer is already wrapped around his own ring
finger.

“Yes,” Henry squeaks out, and damn, he’s crying again, fat tears dripping down his chin.

Alex slides the ring onto his hand and Henry wrenches him in for a kiss. They kiss for a long
minute, clutching each other’s faces, matching wedding bands glinting in the low light. It feels
like a promise, it tastes like a victory.

“People usually get married in a church, not proposed to,” Henry murmurs against Alex’s
mouth, his eyelashes damp.

“Well,” Alex says back. “We can do both.”

That night, they make love, gentle and sweet—Henry on his back and Alex in between his
thighs, whispering prayers and platitudes of awe in his ear. My love, my husband, mine. Henry
cums laughing, and Alex is not far behind him.

Then, Alex is nipping at his neck and they’re going again, both drunk in love and utterly
insatiable. Alex has him on his front this time, back arched and ass up—with his wrists tied
behind his back, with Alex’s belt. No matter how hard he strains, the leather does not give
and Henry’s forced to just lie there and just take it—every thrust, every mindnumbing jab to
his prostate, everything Alex gives him.

Henry moans into the sheets and Alex grinds his dick into him, hard.

“Gonna cum,” Henry mewls.

“Then, cum,” Alex says, punctuated with another thrust of his hips that sends Henry’s toes
curling. He reaches down and takes Henry into his palm, stroking his neglected cock with
quick and practiced movements. Henry cums, moaning and drooling like a slut, but he can’t
seem to get his mouth shut.

Engagement sex truly is a wonderful thing.

When he comes to, Alex is still thrusting into him, languid like they have all the time in the
world. He’s still purposely aiming at Henry’s sensitive spot and Henry nearly wails at the
overstimulation.

“Alex,” he moans, as his fingers scrabble at nothing, and his thighs try to snap shut—his body
trying to get away from the mindnumbing overstimulation, trying to get closer to it. At a
particularly cruel thrust of Alex’s hips, Henry spasms so sporadically around his cock that it
slips out. He manages to squirm away—panting in relief at the reprieve.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Alex’s voice is rough and low in his ear. Henry freezes.
“We’re not done yet, princess.”

With one hand wrapped around the belt binding Henry’s wrists backward, he yanks Henry
back closer, his ass now flush against Alex’s thighs. Alex’s cock slides nudges against his hole,
the blunt head of it catching on Henry’s puffy, oversensitive rim—and Henry trembles.

“Wait, wait,” he babbles, uselessly. He’s not sure whether he’s begging for pity or for more. “I-
I just came—”

“And you’ll cum again,” Alex promises. “You’ll cum as many times as I want you to, baby.” He
hooks his fingers against the belt and tugs Henry’s arms further back. Henry’s toes curl at the
sudden, harsh pull and the delightful sting of pain traveling up and down his arms. “You’re
going to squirt all over my cock, again and again, until there’s nothing left for you to give me.
Got it?”

Henry’s spent cock jerks against his stomach, already starting to fill up at the sound of Alex’s
dirty words.

“Color,” Alex murmurs into his ear, his voice breaking into something soft.

“Green,” Henry pants. “Green, so bloody green.”

Alex kisses him on the ear, gentle and sweet, before leaning back. He tightens his grip on the
belt. Henry blinks blearily, trembling and flushed all over, his own fingers twitching.

Alex drives his cock into Henry, slamming all the way back into him in one go.

Henry shrieks.

His body clenches and unclenches around the sudden intrusion, sparks of overstimulation and
heat shooting up and down his veins. His wrists thrash against their confines, struggling to
break free and grasp for purchase on anything. The leather doesn’t give way to his silent
pleas, and Alex pulls back on it—reining Henry’s arms back in place, behind his back.

“Alex—!” Henry gasps.

Alex rocks into him and Henry’s hips tremble, unsure of whether to move away or closer. Alex
makes that decision for him and his next thrust is so deep inside Henry, he can feel it in his
throat. His cock bobs uselessly, precum dripping down it and onto his thighs in rivulets.

“Alex, my love, ah–ah–ah—! Have mercy—!” Henry slurs out, his face pressed against the
sheets—melting into a puddle of drool and tears. Pleasure nips at him, cloying and suffocating
and all too much. Yet, somehow it’s still not enough.

“Mercy?” Alex laughs, his laughter like whiskey and honey. “Why would I show mercy to a
little cock-tease like you?”

He thrusts in, hard, and his hips set a brutal rhythm that rocks Henry’s body further into the
mattress.

“You flounce around in nothing but that fucking apron all day, and you don’t let me do
anything but watch. You made me keep my hands to myself all day, as you bent over and
arched your back every five seconds, like some slut. And I’m the one that’s supposed to show
you mercy?”

Henry writhes violently, trying to twist away from the overstimulation. He only manages to get
another brief moment of relief, before Alex’s hands tighten around the belt and pull at it—
hauling Henry back onto his dick, in a rhythm. On, off; full, empty. The dichotomy is dizzying
and neither of them can get enough—judging from how loudly Henry’s moaning and how
harshly Alex’s breathing.

“P-please,” he begs, for something he doesn’t know.

Alex leans down and scrapes his teeth against the nape of Henry’s neck.

“Scream, cry, beg all you want,” he murmurs. “If you try running again, you’ll regret it,
princess.”

Henry cums for the third time that night, moaning nonsense. His body spasms so hard around
Alex, the other nearly slips right out of him.

“Fuck,” Alex moans, and continues thrusting into that sweet spot—his pace erratic and rough.
His hands are clenched tight on the belt binding Henry’s arms behind his back. “Look at you,
baby. My pretty cock slut. You’re taking me so well.”

Henry mewls.

“Wish you were on your back so you could watch your greedy little pussy swallowing me
whole.”

Henry clenches around him at those words and Alex laughs, breathy.

“Yeah? You like the sound of that?” He lets his hands trail to Henry’s hips. His hands are so
large, so warm, and they send shockwaves down Henry’s spine.

Henry nods, frantically.

“W-want to see,” he slurs out.

“Whatever makes the missus happy,” Alex quips, and it’s such a stupid joke, but Henry’s cock
twitches anyway. Carefully, Alex slips out of him and he bites back a whine as he clenches
around nothing.

Alex undoes the belt and flips Henry onto his back, carefully, ever so gently. Henry is left
dizzy, staring up at the ceiling. He’s so empty, it aches.

“Henry,” Alex murmurs as he pries open Henry’s thighs and makes a home for himself in
between there. He runs his hands over Henry’s bruising wrists, his thumbs rubbing comforting
circles on the skin. “How’re you feeling, baby? Color?”

“Good,” Henry manages. “Green. More.”

“You want more?” Alex asks, his voice awed.

“I want to see,” Henry pants out. “Want to see you inside of me, sweetheart.”

“Jesus Mary Joseph,” Alex swears. “What wet dream did you crawl out of?”

“Yours, darling,” Henry says, as fondly as possible, and holds out his wrists. “Tie me back up.”

Alex obeys his commands. As Henry drops his newly bound wrists to his chest, Alex stares
down at him—his syrupy sweet gaze changing into something more heady. Henry’s stomach
jumps in anticipation.

“You said you wanted to see yourself take me?” Alex asks. At Henry’s nod, he smirks. “Well,
then, I’m really glad you’re flexible, Your Majesty.”

He pushes Henry’s thighs up, up, up, until they’re nearly level with Henry’s ears. He’s folded
Henry into himself, like a goddamn pretzel. Henry squirms, but Alex holds him in place—all
callused hands and strong grips.

“Keep your eyes down here,” Alex murmurs and Henry’s eyes drop down to where the former
is looking. Heat rushes to his face at the sight. From here, he can make out his hole—sloppy,
pink, and dripping with lube and spit. Alex’s cock, thick and perfect, slides alongside it.

Henry shivers at the sight.

Then, without warning, Alex slams back in. He sets the pace to just how it was before, rough
and fast enough to send Henry’s teeth clattering. The sight is nothing short of obscene and
Henry moans at the way his body stretches to accommodate Alex.

“Look, Henry,” Alex breathes out, though punched-out moans. “I can see me in you.”

Henry blinks back tears, blinks away the fog, and sure enough, he can see the slightest bulge
in his stomach. Alex’s cock, deep inside of him. A gasp escapes him at the sight.

“You’re so, hngh, d-deep,” he sniffles. “I’ve never—”

Alex’s eyes light up.

“Never had anyone this deep before me, have you, baby?” He smirks and continues fucking
Henry like this. Henry’s mouth parts, his tongue peeking out between his lips. Drool is sliding
down his chin, intermixing with tears, but he can’t help it. Everything feels too good.

“N-no,” Henry replies.

“Only your husband can give you the deep fucking you want, isn’t that right?” Alex asks, his
eyelashes fluttering prettily. Henry moans, too far gone to answer straight.

Midthrust, Alex lets one hand rest on the bulge and presses down. His engagement ring is
cold, his hand warm, and it’s—

Indescribable.

Henry squeals—eyes rolling back into his sockets and legs kicking out uselessly. Alex is
rendering him stupider and stupider with each new lethal thrust. He’s being fucked stupid.

“Yes,” he blurts out, hips twitching, so dick-drunk he can hardly see straight. “Yes, only you
—!”

“Fuck, you’re perfect, I’m yours to keep, princess. I’ll give you anything you want, anything
you need,” Alex pants out against his neck. “Yours forever.”

Henry mewls, arching into Alex’s touch. He needs to be consumed by this man, swallowed up,
and spit back out. He needs Alex more than anything.

“Mine,” Henry manages back and he can feel Alex’s smirk growing—pressed to crook of his
neck.

A hand, callused and achingly clever, snakes down to Henry’s cock and pinches at the skin of
the head between two fingers. Henry wails. He tries rutting into that touch, but Alex’s hands
and cock are utterly relentless, and he’s left squirming uselessly in place.

“Alex—!”

He’s going die here, he thinks. He’ll die here in their bed—fucked to death by the most
beautiful man in the world—and he’ll go into the night happily.

“You’re dripping wet for me,” Alex says as he trails a finger down Henry’s length. “Can my wife
cum one more time for his husband, baby? Please?”

“Anything,” Henry would say, if he weren’t so cock-struck. “I’ll give you anything if you keep
talking to me like that.”

He manages a nod.

“Show me,” Alex pleads, and who is Henry to deny his lover of anything? All it takes is a few
more thrusts from Alex and a couple of Alex’s fingers rubbing circles on his cockhead, for
Henry’s back to arch off the bed and for him to cum his brains out.

He screams, but even the sound is distant. The orgasm seems to last forever, each new
second bringing on a new wave of pleasure. His body shakes and trembles through the
aftershocks.

When he finally comes to, Alex is rocking into him, his pace slow. He’s drinking Henry’s face in
like he can’t get enough, and Henry is so in love with this man. His fiancé and his future
husband. His Alex.

“Where, ah, do you want it?” Alex asks and Henry clenches around him.

“In me,” he whispers. “Breed my pussy, give me y-your babies. Make me yours forever,
husband.”

“God,” Alex swears and leans down to kiss Henry. Then, he’s cumming into Henry, filling him
up to the brim. Henry shivers and moans through it all.

Alex unbinds Henry’s wrists and rubs at the skin there to bring back blood flow. At the same
time, with his free hand, he wipes down Henry, his touch careful and methodical. Henry
watches him with half-lidded eyes—this man in his bed. His eternal love. His.

“I love you,” he says, just because he can. The ring on his hand is a weight he’ll take to his
grave, a weight he was born to carry proudly.

Alex leans forward and kisses his knee. “Love you too, Wales. You’re the only one for me.” The
two rings on his hand gleam in the low light of the bedroom: Henry’s past on his pinkie and
Henry’s future on his fourth finger—cemented and melded into reality by gold and silver.

“Well, obviously,” Henry says, in a terrible American accent, and Alex nips on his skin in
retaliation.

Henry lets out a breathy laugh, joy curling across his skin like a blanket.

It goes like this.

Soon, they’ll peel out of bed, get showered, and order sushi to feed each other while
rewatching Star Wars. Soon, they’ll call their friends and families with the good news. Soon,
they’ll pick wedding venues, look at honeymoon locations, and sit down for lengthy
discussions about adoption and surrogacy. Soon, he and Alex make more history for textbooks
to talk about and for the people to sing about, for years to come.

Soon.

But at the moment, they simply exist together. Alex leans in to kiss Henry, Henry kisses back,
and their rings clink as they slide their hands together. And it’s more than enough.

Notes:
thank you for reading! comments and kudos are always appreciated <3 come
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