Whiskey & The Weight of Want

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The third whiskey burned all the way down, but Henry didn’t care. He needed the heat, the numbness, the way it loosened the knot in his chest that had been there for months. No dates, no hookups, no relief—just his hand and a showerhead that wasn’t nearly as satisfying as a real mouth. Or a tight, wet hole. Fuck, he was *starved*.

Anthony leaned back on the couch, one arm slung over the backrest, his dark eyes glinting with that same knowing smirk he always got when he was three drinks in and feeling reckless. He wasn’t even trying to hide the way his gaze flicked down to Henry’s crotch, lingering. "You’re wound tighter than a virgin on prom night," he said, swirling the ice in his glass. "When’s the last time you got your dick wet?"

Henry exhaled through his nose, shifting in his seat. The denim of his jeans was suddenly too tight, his cock already half-hard just from the thought. "None of your damn business."

Anthony’s smirk deepened. "Mmm. That long, huh?" He set his glass down on the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping to that low, velvety tone that made Henry’s skin prickle. "You know, there’s no shame in admitting you need it. Hell, I’ve seen the way you look at Natasha when she’s got you by the throat. You like being *handled*."

Henry’s breath hitched. Fuck. He *did* like it. The way Natasha pinned him down, the way she told him exactly what to do, how good he was when he obeyed—it was the only time his brain shut the hell up. But this was different. Anthony wasn’t Natasha. Anthony was a *guy*.

And yet, his cock didn’t seem to care.

Anthony’s fingers traced the inside of Henry’s wrist, light as a feather, but it might as well have been a live wire. "Tell me you haven’t thought about it," he murmured. "Just once. Some late night, drunk off your ass, wondering what it’d be like to have a mouth on you that *actually* knows what it’s doing."

Henry’s throat went dry. His cock twitched, pressing painfully against his zipper. He should’ve stopped him. Should’ve laughed it off, called him a fucking tease, stormed out. But the whiskey had melted his resistance, and the way Anthony was looking at him—like he was already naked, already begging—made his pulse roar in his ears.

"Prove it," Henry growled, voice rough.

Anthony’s grin turned razor-sharp. "Oh, baby. With *pleasure*."

Before Henry could second-guess it, Anthony was on his knees in front of him, hands deftly unbuttoning Henry’s jeans. The cool air hit his overheated skin as Anthony yanked his pants and boxers down in one rough motion, freeing his cock. It stood thick and flushed, the head already weeping, the veins throbbing along the shaft. Anthony made a sound low in his throat, almost a purr. "Fuck, look at you. Starved *and* desperate." His breath ghosted over the tip, and Henry’s hips jerked involuntarily.

Then Anthony’s mouth was on him, hot and wet and *perfect*, swallowing him down to the root in one smooth motion. Henry groaned, fingers tangling in Anthony’s dark hair, his head falling back against the couch. The sensation was overwhelming—Anthony’s tongue swirling around the crown, his throat constricting around the head, his lips sealed tight as he hollowed his cheeks and *sucked*. Henry’s balls drew up, heavy and aching, and then Anthony’s hand was there, massaging them, squeezing just enough to make his vision white out at the edges.

"Fuck—*fuck*—" Henry’s voice was a wreck, his hips rocking up into Anthony’s face without permission. He didn’t even recognize himself. This wasn’t him. He didn’t let *men* touch him like this. But Anthony’s mouth was a goddamn revelation, his throat taking Henry’s cock like it was made for it, and when Anthony pulled back slowly, inch by inch, his lips dragging along the sensitive underside, Henry whimpered.

Anthony popped off with a wet sound, grinning up at him, lips glossy with spit. "Told you you’d like it." Then he dipped lower, nuzzling Henry’s balls, inhaling deeply before taking one into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue. Henry’s cock twitched, leaking, the sight of Anthony’s head between his thighs almost enough to make him come on the spot.

"Jesus *Christ*—" Henry’s fingers tightened in Anthony’s hair, his other hand gripping the armrest so hard his knuckles turned white. Anthony hummed around his balls, the vibration shooting straight up Henry’s spine, and then he was switching to the other, sucking it into his mouth with a filthy, slurping noise. Henry’s cock jerked, precome dripping down the shaft, and he was panting, his body coiled so tight he was seconds from snapping.

Anthony pulled back, releasing his balls with a wet *plop*, and licked his lips. "You want more?" he murmured, stroking Henry’s thigh. "Or are you gonna pretend you’re not dying to fuck my ass raw?"

Henry’s brain short-circuited. The image flashed behind his eyes—Anthony bent over, that tight hole spread, taking every inch of him. His cock throbbed, his balls aching with the need to empty. "Fuck you," he rasped, but there was no heat in it. Just pure, unadulterated *want*.

Anthony stood in one fluid motion, stripping off his shirt and tossing it aside. His chest was lean, his nipples pierced with small silver rings that glinted in the dim light. Then he was unbuttoning his jeans, shoving them down with his briefs, stepping out of them. His cock was hard, flushed, the tip already slick, but Henry barely registered it. His eyes were locked on Anthony’s ass as he turned, bending over the arm of the couch, spreading his cheeks with his hands.

"Come on, Henry," Anthony taunted, glancing back over his shoulder. "Show me how much you *don’t* want it."

Henry was off the couch in a second, his cock slapping against his stomach as he stalked over. He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. He spat into his palm, slicking his cock, then lined up, pressing the head against Anthony’s hole. It was tight, resisting at first, but then Anthony pushed back, and Henry groaned as the heat swallowed the tip.

"Fuck—*yes*—" Anthony hissed, his fingers digging into the couch cushion.

Henry didn’t go slow. He couldn’t. He gripped Anthony’s hips and *slammed* in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Anthony cried out, his body clenching around Henry’s cock like a vise, and Henry saw stars. "God*damn*," he grunted, pulling back and slamming in again. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, obscene and perfect, and Henry lost himself in it. He fucked Anthony like he was trying to brand him from the inside, his balls swinging heavy, slapping against Anthony’s ass with every thrust.

Anthony was moaning, cursing, his knuckles white where he gripped the couch. "Harder—*fuck*, just like that—" He reached back, spreading himself wider, and Henry growled, his control snapping.

His hands came down on Anthony’s ass, hard enough to leave prints, and he *spanked* him, the crack echoing through the room. Anthony yelped, his hole clenching around Henry’s cock, and Henry did it again, his other hand joining in, alternating cheeks until Anthony’s skin was pink and stinging. "You like that, you filthy *slut*?" Henry snarled, his voice rough, unrecognizable. "Taking my cock like a good little *bitch*?"

"*Yes*—" Anthony sobbed, pushing back against him, his own cock dripping onto the couch. "Fuck, *please*—"

Henry didn’t hold back. He pistoned into him, his thighs burning, his balls drawing up tight. The pressure coiled low in his gut, his vision tunneling as he fucked Anthony raw, the wet, sloppy sounds of their bodies filling the air. He could feel his orgasm bearing down on him, a freight train he couldn’t stop, and then Anthony reached between his legs, fingers brushing Henry’s balls, and that was it.

Henry roared, his hips stuttering as he came, his cock pulsing deep inside Anthony’s ass. He held him there, his fingers digging into Anthony’s hips hard enough to bruise, forcing him to take every thick, hot rope of come. Anthony whimpered, his body milking Henry’s cock, and when Henry finally pulled out, his spent dick glistening, Anthony’s hole gaped, leaking come onto the couch.

"Push it out," Henry ordered, his voice rough. "Let me see it."

Anthony obeyed, bearing down, and Henry watched, mesmerized, as a thick glob of come oozed out, dripping down his crack. Anthony groaned, his hand flying to his own cock, stroking himself furiously. "Fuck—*fuck*—" He came with a broken cry, stripes of white painting the couch cushion, his body shuddering.

Silence fell, broken only by their ragged breathing. Henry’s legs felt like jelly. His cock was still half-hard, his balls finally empty, but his mind was racing. What the *hell* had he just done?

Anthony collapsed onto the couch, pulling him down beside him. "Still think you’re straight?" he murmured, smirking.

Henry didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

---

The front door clicked open, and Natasha’s voice floated into the room before she even stepped inside. "Boys, if you’ve destroyed my couch, I swear to god—" She froze in the doorway, taking in the scene—Anthony sprawled out, naked and satisfied, Henry sitting stiffly beside him, his jeans still around his ankles, his chest heaving.

Natasha’s eyebrows shot up. Then, slowly, a smirk curved her lips. "Well. *This* is a surprise."

Henry’s face burned. He scrambled to pull his pants up, but Natasha crossed the room in three long strides, pressing a hand to his chest and pushing him back down onto the couch. "Uh-uh," she tutted. "You’re *mine* now."

Anthony chuckled, stretching like a cat. "Have fun with him, Nat. He’s a *mess*."

Natasha ignored him, her focus entirely on Henry. She straddled his lap, her skirt riding up her thighs, and cupped his face in her hands. "Look at you," she murmured, thumb brushing his lower lip. "All worked up and confused."

Henry swallowed hard. He should’ve been embarrassed. Should’ve been *horrified*. But the way she was looking at him—like he was something precious, something *hers*—made his chest ache.

Natasha leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "You liked it," she whispered. "You liked it *a lot*." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her own dark with amusement and something softer. "And that’s *okay*."

Henry exhaled shakily. He didn’t know what the hell he was anymore. But when Natasha gathered him against her, her fingers carding through his hair, her breast warm against his cheek, he didn’t pull away. He let her hold him, let her murmur nonsense against his temple, her voice a soothing balm over the chaos in his head.

Anthony grabbed his clothes and sauntered out with a wink, leaving them alone. Henry didn’t watch him go.

Natasha’s hand slid down his back, her nails scraping lightly over his skin. "You’re *mine*," she repeated, quieter this time. "No matter who else you fuck."

Henry closed his eyes, his body finally relaxing against hers. For the first time in months, the knot in his chest was gone.

And for now, that was enough.