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Alex is pressed flat against the mattress, shirt rumpled halfway up his ribs, mouth parted, fingers curling tight into the sheets.
And Henry—of course Henry’s still composed. Shirtless, yes, hair tousled, yes, but still somehow maddeningly collected as he drags his mouth up Alex’s neck like he has all the time in the world.
"You're trembling," Henry murmurs, voice low and warm and obscene. "God, that's adorable."
Alex groans, half in frustration, half in want. “Shut the fuck up.”
But Henry doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
Instead, he leans in, lips brushing the shell of Alex’s ear, and purrs—purrs, the bastard—
“Say please.”
Alex makes an honest-to-god whimper. “Fuck you.”
"Later,” Henry says sweetly. “But right now, you’re going to ask nicely.”
His hand slides slowly down Alex’s torso, featherlight, maddening. Alex bucks under him, chasing it, desperate. But Henry pulls back just enough to not give him what he wants.
"Jesus Christ," Alex gasps. "What is wrong with you?"
Henry smiles. “I don’t know. Maybe I just like watching the First Son of the United States come apart at the seams over the word please.”
Alex should fight it. He really should. But Henry’s voice dips again, dragging out the syllables like he’s seducing parliament.
“Go on, love. Be good. Use your words.”
And Alex is gone. Drenched in shame and arousal and something dangerously close to reverence.
“…please,” he croaks. Voice rough. Eyes wild.
Henry hums like it’s the greatest gift he’s ever received. “There’s my boy.”
He slides down Alex’s body, and—
Alex stops thinking entirely.
“fuck,” alex gasps, voice high and wrecked, thighs trembling where they’re spread open. “fuck, henry—”
“language,” henry tsks. calm. infuriating. his voice clipped and clean, that polished posh lilt curling around every syllable. “you are in the presence of royalty, darling.”
alex nearly screams. “i am getting fucked by royalty.”
“you’re getting ruined by royalty,” henry corrects, voice smooth as silk, dragging out every r and vowel like a slow knife to the gut. “and you’re bloody lucky i’m so fond of you, else i’d leave you like this. dripping, desperate, and denied.”
a broken, choked-off moan.
henry presses a hand to alex’s hip, grounding him, and leans in, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear.
“look at you,” he purrs. “squirming like a bloody debutante. all because i said please.”
“you didn’t just say please,” alex pants, “you—fucking moaned it. like—like a victorian ghost trying to seduce me—”
“oh, do shut up,” henry says fondly. then, lower:
“or do i have to gag you with the american flag to keep you quiet?”
alex lets out the filthiest noise he’s ever made in his life. no thoughts. head empty. just dick, accent, and god complex.
henry’s hand slides down, wraps around him deliberately slow.
“i said, beg for it, love.”
"please," alex gasps, "fuck, henry, please—"
"better," henry murmurs. "now, let’s see if i can get you to cry just by saying your name in the queen’s english.”
and alex?
he does.
sae