I’m not generally a writer, but I’ve been writing more for my The Book in the Glovebox story with Henry and Walter over on AO3, and decided to sketch out one of my favourite scenes so far.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Original Work
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Characters: Original Characters, Original Male Character(s)
Additional Tags: Angst, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Internalized Homophobia, Pre-Relationship, Religious Guilt, Forbidden Love, Catholic Guilt, Original Character(s)
Summary:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Original Work
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Additional Tags: Angst, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Internalized Homophobia, Pre-Relationship, Religious Guilt, Forbidden Love, Mild Sexual Content, Car Sex, Catholic Guilt, Original Character(s)
Summary:
Walter and Henry's first encounter in the Pomegranates AU.
A prelude to the Pomegranates story, set in the late 1970s or early '80s, before Walter and Henry even know each other. Walter, a disillusioned priest, spends a long weekend escaping to a city several hours away—a place where no one knows his name, and the dive-bar on the corner is rumoured to be ambivalent to queers. He only wants a few hours of feeling like he belongs. Instead, he meets Henry: headstrong, self-assured, dressed in a white corset and reeking of sweat and summer heat. Henry grins like he’s already won, and invites him out to his car to continue the night.
Note: implied internalised homophobia, religious imagery, mild sexual content
They stumbled out of the dive bar, laughing with mouths too close and fear forgotten, talk muffled by the press of lips on skin.
“This way,” Henry urged, tugging Walter by the elbow, half-dragging him through the wind toward his car. Walter stumbled on the curb, cursed softly—and Henry’s laugh at the thunk of his head against the door frame made him burn, cheeks hot, chest tight.
They fit, strewn across the backseats, limbs folding together like they’d done it before. Walter let himself be guided down, and Henry—bare-legged, bright-eyed, already burning—climbed into his lap like it was instinct. Walter was just his type: handsome in a way that had aged well, soft muscle and weathered hands. Henry spread his thighs for him like an offering. He looked down with those bright, wanting eyes, and Walter was weak.
He pressed his palms up Walter’s sides, under his vest, slow and reverent. His fingers found coarse hair, skin, warmth—mapped the shape of him without asking permission. Walter gasped, head tipping to the crook of Henry’s neck, shoulders arching to encourage him on. Henry pushed the vest up, and Walter raised his arms, letting it be pulled over his head.
With the shirt tossed to the front seat, it felt like worship from above. Henry roamed the firm planes of his chest, the soft give of his belly, the solid weight of him. His fingers trailed lower, teasing the waistband, and Walter let him. Let him. The belt gave way under practiced hands.
“Christ, boy…” he whispered, eyes caught on that gaze below him—wide, steady, pleading. He dragged Henry up by the waist, breath catching as Henry tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion. Walter shivered at the touch—fingertips grazing, knuckles brushing—and let himself be handled, pliant. Then it was his turn. He reached for the white corset, fingers fumbling at the loosened laces where Henry had already started to undo it. It creaked softly as he pulled it free, the boning yielding in his hands. Henry giggled at the tickle of Walter’s trembling touch, drunk on it all. Walter folded the corset gently, tucking the lace away like folding an altar cloth. Henry kissed him hard—loose and joyful—pulling him closer, deeper, until their teeth clicked and neither of them cared.
With a shimmy, Henry had his shorts down, bare skin meeting the night air. Walter swallowed thickly as Henry rolled his hips forward and worked the zipper of his jeans down with ease. It was intoxicating: the warmth, the smell of sweat and cologne and summer, the breath hitching in his throat as Henry’s hand slipped inside.
“Glove box,” he murmured against his mouth.
“What?”
“I don’t know you.” His voice was teasing, but his hand didn’t stop. “I always keep Johnnies up front.”
Right. Of course.
Walter blinked, slow and dazed, the boy, half-naked and eager, in his lap making it hard to think. He leaned forward, bodies pressed, fumbling for the latch. Henry didn’t help—just traced lazy circles over his belly, mouthing at the pulse in his neck.
The glove box popped open with a creak.
Walter reached inside—past mints, crumpled receipts, tobacco packets—and touched it by accident.
The New Jerusalem.
The leather was worn smooth. The embossed gold caught the dark. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
Henry didn’t notice—his hand still making gentle love to him, his mouth warm against Walter’s shoulder. But Walter’s fingers had gone cold.
He pulled back.
Henry followed, lips seeking. “Hey—what’s wrong?” He giggled, reached for Walter’s cheek, oblivious.
Walter was already tucking himself back in. He felt hollow. Cold. “I’m sorry.”
“What—why?”
But he was halfway gone. Henry blinked, the smile faltering only as the door swung open.
He was still nude, still flushed, still half-hard and breathless in the backseat.
Walter couldn’t look back.
---
Henry zipped up, lit a cigarette, and laughed a little too loud. Whatever.
He drove home half-naked, windows down, radio up, pretending he wasn’t on his way to cry in the shower.
It was just another man who couldn’t take it. Just another night. That’s all.
But he couldn’t help replaying the way Walter looked at him.
Like he meant it.
Like it hurt to leave.
He should have been dead – pinned to the earth by steel and silver, bled dry on the sandstone. And yet, through the dust and ruin, he only smiled. The bastard wouldn’t die.
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