Just another warning-this is a smut fic. If you're not into that stuff, get out now. Once you see Sonny and Henrik together, they're together for life in your mind... probably because their last names rhyme and that's just obviously a turn of fate. This story was requested from TheTroubledTroubadour. Hope you like it! :)
Fuming and rolling his sleeves down from his elbows, Henrik Van Der Hune strides in from the garden in the shortest possible path to Joanna Riggs' office.
Only minutes before, she had threatened to push him in a body of water, for goodness' sake.
His eyes darted down to his watch. 6 PM. He knows everybody else will be gone by now—only Joanna stays late.
As he steps out of the long hallway, though, he hears a series of mutters and scuffling footfalls. The sound is different than Joanna's heavy clear clomp. For a moment his mind branches off into various theories. Is Sinclair still here? he wonders. Back up to his old bad habit of pacing and twitching?
When a globe of straw and crimson spikes in front of Joanna's door greets him instead, Henrik can honestly say he is shocked.
Sonny Joon whirls around. The stricken look on his face tells Henrik that he's up to no good as usual. But it disappears amidst a wide, uneven smile and a robust, "Hello, Henrik!"
"Are you looking for Joanna?" Henrik asks after gathering his capabilities to speak.
"No." Just as suddenly as he'd blurted it his brow creases and he shakes his head. "I mean, yes."
"Which is it? And while I'm asking questions, why are you here late? It seems every other day you're trying to leave early."
"She told me she wanted to see me about something after work."
"About what?" Henrik prompts him.
"Eh..." Sonny's speech suddenly drags as his eyes go a classic deer-in-headlights stance. "About some archaeological photoshoot."
"An archaeological photoshoot?" Henrik raises an eyebrow. "Sonny, you are a terrible liar."
"I'm not lying. She did say she wanted to see me at one point."
"Is this another of your pranks? Because if so, I must ask—"
"Some pranks are fun, you know," Sonny blurts out, although he has the decency to look contrite. "Sorry about your HAM radio, though."
"We agreed not to discuss it," Henrik replies crisply, removing his gloves. "Is or isn't Joanna here?"
"I knocked already, so, um, I'm banking on isn't."
Henrik raises an eyebrow. "And why did you want Joanna gone?"
Sonny shrugs and lowers his eyes to one of his front pockets. "Extracurricular activities in her office." He grins and gingerly takes out a block of green cheese carefully wrapped in plastic.
Squinting, Henrik leans forward. "Is that… mold?"
"Anyway." Sonny plunks it on the front desk (ignoring Henrik's wince) and leans back against it, crossing his arms. "Why did you want Joanna gone?"
"Because I'm quite sick of her by now."
"Whaddya mean?" Sonny places his arms at his sides and one ups Henrik by raising both of his eyebrows. Henrik sees a brief flash of anger ebb and flow in his eyes. He knows Sonny dislikes Joanna almost as much as he himself does—more, perhaps. But it doesn't account for the bestial note his expression takes on.
If Henrik were any younger, he'd be paying attention. But right now the past quarter of an hour is still harsh on his mind. Joanna had managed to corner him in the garden with an impossible deadline—seven stelae translated in two days. Henrik always airs on the side of caution, and so he thinks he'd been too polite to her in refusing. But her face had promptly turned the color of cinnabar, and instead of accepting his refusal she shoved him and loudly proclaimed that if the museum had a fountain, he'd be in it. Sonny had come running and refused to do any more work until Henrik told him what happened, and as if that weren't bad enough, Taylor had been there to witness the spectacle with a nasal little chuckle.
No doubt he'll be gossiping about it to future interns for some time to come. (Henrik simply has to face facts in regard to Sonny's undependable working habits, no wonder how amusing his caricatures of Taylor and Joanna are.)
"So. Are you my accomplice? Or not?"
Henrik snaps out of his embarrassed reverie as his eyes glide over to Sonny's, which are back to their normal flicker of mischief. "You really do have to buckle down and work, Sonny." But Henrik can't bring himself to care about the alien boy's misdeeds, not with bigger matters on hand, and his voice reverberates with exhaustion.
Unfortunately, Sonny does pick up on it. His smirky face turns into a pouty one. "Aw, you don't mean it. Not today." And before Henrik can protest, he's bounding into Joanna's office with the smelly cheese in tow. But once he's in the center of the room he stops, swivels around without straightening his slightly bent knees, and—good grief, Henrik has to force his eyes not to roll—fairly beckons to him with a fluid wiggle of his fingers.
"You really cannot cease the histrionics, can you?" Henrik attempts to wrinkle his nose in distaste but instead feels merry lines crowd around his eyes instead.
"What kind of a question is that?" Sonny's voice spirals up to a shout with his exuberance, and Henrik struggles not to flinch. "Come on, live and let live!"
"You've got the wrong office for that, I'm afraid," Henrik replies as he walks casually in, looking at the stack of magazines on the table beside the window.
"What do you mean?" Sonny frowns as his head flops to the side, rather in the manner of a weeks-old puppy. It's decidedly too adorable for Henrik to ignore, and already he feels the memory of his altercation with Joanna slipping away through the door, which he is suddenly tempted to shut.
It scandalizes him, though. Sonny Joon is young enough to be his son, and he acts young enough to be his grandson. Even if he could ethically enter such a relationship, he would not want to enter it at all.
"—io's office, or Sinclair's?"
Henrik blinks.
Sonny's lips indeed are moving—Henrik's a bit lost in the motion—but just like a badly synced YouTube video, his words are lagging terribly. "Repeat again?" he asks feebly.
"Are you talking about Del Rio's office, or Sinclair's?"
"We'll leave that for you to find out, eh?" Henrik says before he can bite back that final colloquial syllable. He mentally kicks himself for slipping back to his childhood accent.
"What is that?"
Refocusing to Sonny, Henrik realizes he's been avoiding his face. And his own face is heating exponentially. "England," he replies. "East London."
A little grin lights up his face. "It's better than your all-purpose posh accent. Seriously, where does that come from? A factory?"
"No. My first one did."
"Huh." The smile grows. "You're from a working class family. Who knew you were relatable?"
Henrik shakes his head and removes his lab coat, hanging it on the hall tree. "You young people always figure you have it the hardest, don't you?"
Sonny walks oh-so casually to the desk and leans back on his palms, completely facing Henrik. "Don't you miss being young?"
Pity it has to hit him now, but Henrik cannot have relations with the employees. Absolutely, one hundred percent not.
He'd already tried it when he was self-employed, or so he called himself while wandering up and down smoldering grassy hills during summertime in the Yucatán. He'd had his suspicions that Taylor Sinclair could not deliver him long-term happiness through a relationship—even with his laudable abundance of ambition—but Taylor, as it turned out, had even been bad for mere experimentation.
And Henrik especially can't do it right now with a colleague who's a third his age. It isn't prudent. It isn't right—
Sonny, suddenly close, slips his hands through Henrik's, weaving his fingers neatly through the space between his thumbs and forefingers. "I think this could work," he says, upper cheeks staining with a fuchsia blush as he levels his eyes to the collar of Henrik's shirt.
"I think—" Henrik stiffly attempts to extricate himself, "—you need to find someone your own age, who shares your interests."
Sonny does let go now, scowling as if Henrik has called him some awful name. "You'd think a guy who wears nude-colored clothes would be more open-minded," he says coolly, already on his way to the door.
"Nude colored shirts," Henrik corrects loudly.
"Mmm-nhmmm." His shakes his head, but Henrik, being directly behind him, can't see his expression. "Your pants are the same color, too."
"They're khaki!" Henrik replies, aghast and indignant.
But it doesn't matter to him in a second when he sees Sonny's moving far too quickly.
Away from him.
"You know what they say when the planets are aligned?"
He stops with his hand on the outer knob. "What?"
"I don't know. I'm asking."
"Well…" he swings around with great agility, the energy back in his stance. "I hear they say that humans will be ready for the next big step in evolution. Improvement."
"From a purely scientific standpoint, you are standing directly opposite me to the very same degree. If this is the next step for evolution, I guess I think it would be foolish for either of us to walk away."
Sonny grins to split his lovely face. The next moment he's slamming the door shut and practically leaping into Henrik's lap as Henrik falls against the desk. Slender fingers curl around the side of Henrik's neck. Lips leap from his cheekbone to his jawbone and onward from there.
Certainly eager, Henrik observes.
Sonny's fingers reach his belt buckle. There he pauses, eyes fixed on Henrik's. "You're into this, right?"
"With a change or two." Henrik's lips find Sonny's and they rock back and forth in the ambits of their individual energies, tongues meeting delicately as both pairs of hands wander. "For one thing, we should change location."
"Yeah? And go to your work area?"
There goes that idea. Instead Henrik relaxes and focuses more on what's happening now, selfishly waiting until the soft edges of Sonny's nails sweep toward his center. They ghost once, twice, thrice over the growing bulge in his yes-admittedly-pretty-nude-colored pants. Then he lifts Sonny up and plants him on the desk with little effort, toppling some of the clutter.
His feet kick the front impatiently. "I already know you're ripped. You don't need to show off about it."
"Oh, yes I do," Henrik steps between Sonny's knees and cups Sonny's cheek in his hand. "Because your drawing of me showed egregious ignorance of my physique."
"So incredibly vain. Yes, your head is big." Sonny smirked. "But I wonder if you don't have something that's bigger."
Henrik's a little disappointed he has to leave it to that, letting Sonny win the battle of witticisms. After all, he thinks of himself as the driest, smartest sort of soul and he does have just as much pride as Sonny says he does. But there are other priorities right now, like raising his knee up to brush strategically against Sonny's core without losing balance in his passion-induced incoordination. For the first time in years he feels chagrin for possessing a job that has him sitting down all day.
Hand trailing to his zipper, Sonny opens his eyes when Henrik's fingers close over his, gently pulling them away. Henrik kisses each knuckle and pulls the zipper and the pants down. A high, airy moan floats to his ears as he tugs gently on the right leg of his boxers, pulling as Sonny shucks them off his hips.
Henrik reaches for him and pumps his hand slowly up and down his shaft. He inches closer, eyes darting up to Sonny's. They're all clouded over and his adorable purple glasses are fogging up, and his fingers ease down to frame Henrik's jaw and cheek. After one more flicker of eye contact Henrik lowers his head, tongue lapping over his tip in two steady, strategic licks. Gradually he works his way back up, claiming the whole of him.
"Oh," Sonny says breathlessly. "Oh, fuck." His hand goes to pump his cock, and this time Henrik doesn't stop him. They forge a rhythm step by step, small motions to big, slow to fast until both are barely breathing.
Henrik curls his tongue down his lover's narrow length, waiting for Sonny's ethereal moans to cue him. Then he rounds his lips over the head and sucks gently, keeping his eyes up on Sonny's as they go every which way. His hips quiver against Henrik's swollen tongue as he recoils in the pleasure, arching his back as Henrik's tongue sweeps columns around him, shifting worlds around in his hyperactive brain, enveloping them both in an unforgettable, irreversible aura.
Then Henrik begins to tease. The tip of his tongue signing peace treaties with his skin, then darting back. Kisses, licks. Tickling the balls. Worshipping the head with little nudges and moans.
It soon becomes apparent Sonny just can't take it, and Henrik rolls the smugness forward to his busy tongue. Sonny explodes with a whisper against Henrik's ready lips, every calligraphic flourish of his tongue taking its own encore, so slow against him.
Henrik's hand runs up and down his willowy thigh, and Sonny's closes over its languid, infrequent movements. Moments later Henrik's making his way up his stomach and Sonny is tearing the buttons out of his blue blouse like he won't be complaining in an hour over ruining his favorite shirt. But Henrik takes it as the ultimate compliment that Sonny, for even just a moment, can forget about his precious alien tales when they're together.
And they are together, with myriad stray fingers starting maps over each other's skin and blazing, completely blindly, familiar patterns to pleasure.
Sonny's head falls to Henrik's taller shoulder as Henrik's lips shift the skin on his neck. His arms wind around the older man's waist, and Henrik's slide neatly behind his. It's their last second of halcyon when Sonny recovers a moment later, layering kisses over the bridge of his chin to his throat. He shoves himself closer and doesn't waste time sliding his hand down the center of Henrik's chest, pulling the shirt off at the belt. Henrik works at everything below it, and between the two they get everything off in record time, all things considered. Lightly stroking the small tuft of blond hair at Henrik's navel, Sonny's fingers curl lower and lower over his abdomen. At uneven intervals they jump backward then wait, cuing Henrik to buck against him. Finally they reach the destination, the touch just as light as before. His lips land square on Henrik's with more force, moving both their mouths in a pattern he can't follow. Sonny puts his palm over the hard-on and inches it up and down routinely. His kisses heat up. They start rocking back and forth again, Sonny's hand steadying Henrik's back towards the desk. Again without warning he pulls back, a delicious chortle on his tongue, eyes flashing with a wild merriment. "How would you like to finish?" he asks, working both his hands in busy patterns.
Henrik pushes their lips together and pulls Sonny's legs behind his back amidst the latter's low feral purr. "This what you had in mind?" he asks with a hint of amusement.
"Yes, and god your accent is hot!" Sonny wraps his legs tighter around him.
"I knew you liked it," Henrik replied smugly.
"Nah, the posh one is gone." Sonny's hands go to Henrik's cheeks. "Has been for a while."
More important things to think about, Henrik reminds himself as he tilted Sonny's hips to meet his. But checking out accent slips during sex would definitely be high on his to-do list for future encounters.
Sonny eagerly produces a lubricated condom from some secret compartment in his combat boots. Henrik decides on the spot that time-wise, he can only afford an eye roll at this phenomenon before tearing it out of the wrapper and getting it on and forthwith them getting it on.
Carefully he slides in, gauging Sonny's face for any sign of discomfort. None comes. It's a bit of a battle at first, with Henrik lagging, Sonny pushing his hips away from the desk toward him so they both end up almost on the floor. And Henrik realizes with a strange jolt of ironic surprise that they aren't opposites, despite his general experiences with Sonny and despite the moment they were having right now. Between his bulk and Sonny's skinny ass they fit perfectly.
There's a little knocking before their hips snap up and down together, their groans meeting in unison as the rhythm speeds up.
Nothing's perfect, and neither is Henrik.
It's his last thought before he's gone, crying out like it's pain, hands clutching the soft sides of Sonny's neck, skin searing and scorching in the nonsensical, brilliant rays they're swathed in.
The pride brings him down slower, and when he finally looks down at the man tangled around him, he sees Sonny is already tracing tiny spaceships on his chest, happier than all the times Henrik caught him procrastinating or just not doing things.
"Do you think Joanna will find out?"
Henrik looks at him in stunned amazement. If Sonny thinks there is any chance of Henrik's telling about this… to Joanna Riggs, of all people… he's far crazier than anything Henrik could dream up.
"I mean, do you think she'll sense something?"
"I think not."
"I don't think so, either," Sonny adds contentedly. "She and Alejandro do it here, like, all the time."
Henrik's eyes stop open. "How would you know such a thing?"
"He comes here after hours, like, a lot. He and Joanna are always arguing in front of other people. You tell me, Henrik, what do you think they're doing?"
"Well, Joanna is a very public arguer." Henrik's brow wrinkles as he recalls her threat from earlier today.
"They want everybody to think they hate each other because they don't hate each other."
"That's ludicrous, Sonny."
"Ludicrous, but not impossible," Sonny replies calmly, stressing each quality. "Think about it." His eyes wander around the room, sweeping outward in, until they finally fall on the hunk of green cheese he'd perched on the arm of one of Joanna's chairs. "Hmmm. What should I do with that?"
"Figure it out yourself." Henrik rises from where he'd been sitting on the desk. He reaches for his clothes and orders the articles carefully before putting them back on one by one.
"Aren't you afraid I'll get fired?" Sonny asks, mock hurt permeating his upbeat tone.
"You've done worse and not been fired for it. I don't see why this would be the one to do you in."
"Well, in that case," Sonny crouches to the ground and slings his clothes in a lopsided bundle over his arm, "I might be around a little longer than usual."
"Oddly enough, I may be looking forward to that," Henrik mutters.
Sonny laughs, but Henrik only hears him halfway. He was talking to himself that time. Now his thoughts fall away from him, arching low over the floor as if spurred on by a hurricane.
Sonny.
Joon.
A potential partner.
He does get fired for it, exactly 13 hours and fifty-seven minutes later. He only knows it because Sonny comes barreling through the hall like usual, cutting through a crowd of museum guests like they're water.
Except this time, there are tears in his eyes.
He stops when he sees Henrik looking at him. He folds his arms across their opposite elbows, shuffling his legs together until he's so closed off Henrik doesn't know how he can breathe.
The museum guest Henrik is talking to—and until just now forgot about—begins turning around to follow Henrik's eyes.
Ripping his gaze away, Henrik continues magically on exactly the thing they'd been talking about before Sonny distracted him. For some reason he remembers the topic in a snap: the monolith Joanna had recently put a bid in for. When the guest starts turning back toward Henrik, relief pulses through him. Who knows what nosy people would do with the knowledge that Dr. Van Der Hune, an old divorced esteemed epigrapher, is enamored of his current intern?
Sonny stays for some reason, ignoring the confused complaints of the seven people he just shoved out of his way. He stays while two of them help themselves off the ground, while three others curse at him, while Henrik finishes settling into a conversation with yet another interested scholar, while Joanna storms up the ramp shrieking that he's fired and has to leave immediately. She snaps around to placate the swearing guests and apologize profusely.
Finally Sonny seems to break out of his haze. His eyes snap into focus on a woman in her thirties glaring spikes. He raises his arms in front of him, eyeing them with sorrow. When he looks up from them to apologize, she turns away.
He scuffles backward to the front entrance like a caged coatimundi, turning and lifting all his fingers to his face as he slams repeatedly into the door to open it hands-free.
Henrik doesn't follow.
The door opens.
He closes.
No notes regarding content-just uploading this is making me blush. It is something this fandom needs-I just never thought I'd be the one to do it, haha. Nonetheless, my first lemon, always great to get experience writing new things! So TheTroubledTroubadour, thank you for getting me out of my comfort zone-I'm a better writer because of it!