Fic; Long Distance, 2/?
Title Long Distance 2/?, following Running Uphill
Rating NC-17.
Summary Hank and Alex move past curious and into the strange new territory of 'committed.'
Disclaimer Will never own, boo.
part one
His mother picks him up from the airport. It had been a grueling flight back, with multiple stops and a four-hour layover at JFK waiting for a smaller plane to take him to a local airport serving upstate New York, making his total time travelling somewhere near twenty-four hours. He sleeps in the car because he is genuinely exhausted but also because he can’t stomach the idea of talking to his mother about his time in Abu Dhabi. (It was hot, his father slept with a woman named Tanya, and Hank looked at a lot of reports and did moderately complicated things with numbers. That was about it.) He would tell her about Tanya later, since he imagines that this is what his mother is really interested in - whether or not his father had already moved on from their marriage, started dating again so soon.
He sleeps with his cheek pressed against the warm window of the passenger side door, and he dreams that he dozed through the alarm he set to make it to Alex and his dinner reservation on time for later that night. They get back to the house and Hank has the distinct feeling of not belonging, like that kid who sits down at a lunch table and everyone rises and leaves, when his mother pulls into the garage. “Welcome home,” she says with an uncertain smile on her face, turning to her son and shutting off the engine. The garage door thunders its way closed. Hank says, “Thanks,” as simply as possible.
Then she says: “I’m putting the house on the market. It’s too big for us, now, especially with you going off to Columbia next month.”
He looks at her, eyes wide, fully awake. “Wow, mom.”
“Was that a shock? I’m sorry; I couldn’t think of a proper way to break it to you.” She fiddles with the keys in her lap. “We won’t move out of the district; I still need to be close to the hospital, so it’s not like when you come back for vacations you won’t be near your friends.”
“If I come back,” Hank spits out spitefully, startling himself with his own resentment. He jerks open the door with unnecessary force.
“Oh, Hank, don’t be like that.”
“Like what? Upset that the first thing you want to talk about after I get back home is how you want to sell it?” The door slams. Hank’s mother clambers out after him, much more calmly.
“I didn’t think you were so attached to it,” she says, her lips pursing.
Hank scoffs. “How would you even know,” he mutters, just loud enough for her to hear it, and the reaction he gets is expected.
“What did you say?” Her hands are in fists on her hips, her eyes narrowed; she still strikes an intimidating figure despite their difference in height.
“Nothing. I’m tired. Let’s talk about this later, okay?”
His mother noticeably deflates and lets the subject drop. Hank, grateful, grabs his duffel and escapes into the huge, empty house.
It turns out that Hank has no use for the alarm because as soon as he showers and changes into a fresh set of clothes, he can’t sleep anyway, his brain whirring like a machine, trying to factor a new house and address and room and college and the city into something that he can understand. He texts you free? to Alex and doesn’t wait for a response, grabbing his wallet and nearly falling down the stairs. His mother is in the kitchen, pouring herself a mug of coffee. “You meeting Alex early?” she asks when she sees him pocketing his keys. Hank slides his feet into a pair of Rainbows.
“Yeah,” he says, even as he’s closing the door behind him. He hears his mother’s muffled “Have fun!” through the door and grits his teeth. He shouldn’t be so angry. He’s leaving in a month, anyway, and this house has always felt too big. There are rooms that have no purpose in that house.
His phone buzzes in his pocket as he starts his Camry. Working at garage, Alex has texted back. It buzzes again after he’s backed out of the driveway. Welcome home, is the message, and it drains the tension out of his shoulders. He turns the music up too loud and rolls down the windows and drives to Scott’s garage.
Scott’s garage is strategically located on the border of North Hills and South Hills and doesn’t really have a name. Unofficially, residents call it “the Summers’ place” because Hank doesn’t actually know anything about cars but apparently this garage is one of the only garages around the area. It’s a fat, grey building with warehouse doors and bright red rusted lifts for the cars inside. Once, Scott told him that they could have anywhere between 5 to 20 cars in the shop at a time, and Hank had never really thought about how it was that the garage actually made money, but then he stopped to think about the people he knew in North Hills and how nearly everyone owned a car, and then Hank had actually entered the garage on what Scott had called “a slow day” and saw three Lexuses and a BMW on the lifts, their wheels in various arrangements.
He pulls into the car lot and is immediately approached by Logan, a gruff man with coarse, dark hair that during the winter he shapes into an intimidating beard but in the summer he shaves. He’s sporting very manly stubble, now, and also no shirt. Hank really needs to talk to Scott about the dress code for his place, unless of course the dress code is part of the ploy to get the lonely wives of North Hills into the shop. Logan, for some reason, has a soft spot for both Summers brothers, and quirks an eyebrow - the closest thing to a smile, for him - when Hank climbs out of his parked car. “How can I help you, McCoy,” he offers, wiping his hands on a dirty rag and then shoving it into the pocket of his jeans.
“I’m just here to see Alex,” Hank admits, shrugging and going for nonchalance.
“You got a date, or somethin’?” Logan’s low grumble of a voice doesn’t change, so Hank can’t tell if he’s being poked fun at or if Logan has decided to be particularly thorny today.
He says, “Or something,” and the other man rolls his eyes.
The thing is, he isn’t sure how to talk about what he and Alex have, because he and Alex haven’t talked about it themselves, yet. They haven’t really officially told anyone yet, and Hank is reasonably certain that his mother still thinks that Alex is just a very good friend who has been spending the night very often. Their friends, of course, know, but the adults around them seem to be hovering around whether or not they should just assume.
“He’s working on the Civic,” Logan tosses over his shoulder as he leads Hank into the garage. “And Scott’s in a mood.”
“Why?” Hank asks, wary, keeping a safe distance behind Logan.
“Fuck if I know.”
The first thing Hank notices in the garage is that every fan is on full-blast, the hum of the blades loud and echoing in the enclosed space, but it does little to dispel the humid, heavy heat. The second thing he notices is Alex’s back, which is bare, and the taper of his waist into his dark jeans, the elastic of his briefs a teasing line against his skin. Alex doesn’t notice him, though; he stretches his arms over his head once before ducking under the hood of the car that he’s working on. Hank suddenly wishes that there were more fans.
Logan calls, “Summers!” and Hank watches Alex startle and bump his head against the hood as he withdraws, but it’s the older brother who appears first, walking briskly out of the office tucked into one corner of the garage.
“What,” Scott says, sunglasses masking his expression. He does look to be in a mood, but at least he’s wearing a shirt, a very respectable dark tee that does very respectable things for his arms. Hank wonders briefly if fantastic arms are a Summers’ family trait.
“Look at what I found outside,” Logan replies, and Hank tries not to bristle. He’s not used to adults treating him the way Logan treats everyone. It’s similar to how Coach Lensherr treats his students, but then they’re on a team, so there’s purpose behind the treatment.
“I drove here,” Hank explains. “I wasn’t just loitering outside.”
Scotts nods toward him. Sometimes, Hank has to remind himself that there’s a real person behind those sunglasses, and not just some person-shaped robot. “I thought you guys had dinner plans. You’re early.”
Alex comes up behind his brother, a rare smile on his lips, pulling a thin white tee over his chest. “Hey,” he greets him, all casual, like the last time they saw each other hadn’t been on each other’s computer screens, slick-skinned and panting and wanting. The blond looks at Hank from beneath his lashes, coy. He thinks Alex must be getting lessons from Raven, because damn.
“Hey,” Hank exhales.
“I’m done with the Civic,” Alex says to his older brother, who frowns at the words. “Can I go?”
“You sure you’re finished? I won’t check it and find a half-assed job, will I?”
“It’s McCoy’s first day back,” Logan interjects, which surprises Hank. “Just let ’em go. Suck the fun out of another day.”
Scott considers this, forehead creasing. Alex looks to Logan with what can only be gratefulness on his face. Maybe Logan has an even softer spot for the younger Summers. “Fine,” Scott says, a quirk in his lips. “But you owe me two hours, or breakfast duty for the whole week.”
“I choose breakfast,” Alex returns easily, smile morphing into a toothy grin. “We just got a waffle thingy,” he explains to Hank.
“A griddle?”
“Yeah, that. Come on; let’s go.” He slings an arm over Hank’s lower back, his hand warm and pressing against Hank’s side. Hank mirrors him, but over Alex’s shoulders. “Thanks, Scott!” Alex calls as they’re walking to Hank’s car, pressed against each other. They could just be two friends, couldn’t they, if someone were driving past and saw them like this? They would miss the way Alex drags his fingers across Hank’s back when they have to part, though.
Behind them, Logan leans into Scott’s space, talking low into his ear, and Scott laughs, the sound unfamiliar to Hank, before he punches Logan’s arm good-naturedly and walks back into the garage.
It’s a quick drive back to Alex’s place so he can shower and change before dinner. Hank lounges on Alex’s bed as he waits, the sound of the faucet squeaking shut making him pause in the text he is about to send Raven about weekend plans. The door opens and a cloud of steam rushes out, and then Alex, towel wrapped around his hips and dripping into the carpet. Hank licks his lips, which Alex does not miss.
He takes slow, deliberate steps to the bed and then pauses before lifting a knee onto the mattress, making a dark spot on his covers. God, but Hank wants him; he forgets to breathe, and Alex crawls, cat-like, onto the bed, the towel miraculously staying on his hips. Hank lets his knees fall open a little bit so Alex can shift between them, and when he inhales again they’re kissing, and Hank smells mint and spice and maybe a little of the garage, still, in Alex’s hair.
Alex says, “Two months,” and then his lips are pressed into Hank’s again, his hands snaking under Hank’s shirt to scratch against his ribs. Hank shudders into the touch. It feels divine to be able to touch Alex again, to see him without pixels and a microphone. In one swift maneuver he’s switched their positions so that Alex is the one against the covers and Hank is straddling him. Alex breathes a laugh into Hank’s throat. “Something about this is a little unfair,” he says, vibrations of his voice going straight to Hank’s cock.
“Yes,” Hank agrees, grinding their hips together. Alex arches off the bed beautifully, the denim of Hank’s jeans rough against his bare legs. “I think I’m wearing too many clothes.”
“Yes,” Alex hisses, so Hank takes off his shirt. “Still unfair,” the blond protests, reaching for the button of Hank’s jeans. Hank wriggles out of them and then stutters to a stop when Alex sits up and cups a warm hand underneath his balls. His dick jumps in his briefs, and he would be embarrassed, except when Alex sat up the towel had fallen away, and Alex’s eyes are so glazed over Hank’s whole body flushes at being on the receiving end of that lust.
He breathes hot over the fabric and then puts his mouth over it and Hank has to screw his eyes shut and inhale through his nose to keep control. He threads his fingers through the short blond hair and then makes a fist, which stuns Alex enough to make him look up at Hank with plaintive eyes. Hank pulls gently, exposing Alex’s throat before falling upon it with open-mouthed kisses. Alex moans when Hank sucks on that spot on his collarbone, back arching again, and Hank uses the motion to press him against the mattress, one hand reaching and fumbling into the drawer of Alex’s nightstand. He pulls out a small bottle of lube and a condom. He wants Alex to come apart because of him.
“What’re you doing?” Alex mumbles, breathy, eyelids fluttering as Hank sucks a hickey into that spot. Alex threads his fingers through Hank’s hair and clutches at him when Hank decides to scrape his teeth against the sensitized skin. “Oh.”
“Trust me.”
“Yeah, of course. I do,” Alex says, only it sounds like a plead.
“I want to make you feel amazing.”
And whatever response Alex has for that is lost in a whine when Hank wraps a free hand around the base of Alex’s cock.
“Open this for me,” Hank says, tossing the lube onto Alex’s chest. Alex’s breath hitches; he fumbles to open the bottle as Hank slowly pumps him.
“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he tells him, finally opening the bottle.
“Squeeze,” Hank orders next, holding out his other hand. Alex does so, the lube instantly warming against Hank’s skin. “More.” Alex quirks an eyebrow but does as he’s told, and then Hank wraps his lips over the head of Alex’s dick.
The bottle of lube falls to the side and Alex shakily exhales, settling back into the sheets. Hank is learning the heaviness and thickness of Alex, but he’s still working on his gag reflex. He hollows his cheeks when he sucks, and Alex fists the sheets. Gently, he lifts Alex’s leg from under his knee and places it over his shoulder. Alex raises himself up, then, onto his elbows, but his eyes are hooded as he watches Hank pull off with an obscene smack!
Hank flutters his fingers over Alex’s tight hole, the lube making Alex wet and warm. They’re both panting now, Hank’s erection straining in his briefs, and Hank rubs his fingers over Alex a few more times, watching his pupils dilate and his mouth fall open, and then he takes a chance and swallows Alex down again while pressing a digit into him. The sound Alex makes, low and guttural and needy.
Alex is tight and hot and slick, and he’s heavy in Hank’s mouth; he says, “Jesus fucking Christ,” when Hank works another finger into him, and Hank hums in appreciation. He finds a rhythm - he bobs his head in time with the thrust of his fingers.
Hank’s fingers are long. When he sinks into Alex to his third knuckle, he crooks his fingers as he withdraws, and Alex jumps, the leg over Hank’s shoulder tensing and unintentionally drawing Hank’s lips further over Alex’s cock. Hank gags but crooks his fingers again, and when he looks, Alex has a forearm over his eyes, and the heat coming off of him is palpable. “Hank,” he gasps, when Hank does it again. “More,” is all he says.
So Hank obliges and pushes another finger into Alex’s tight heat, and Alex whimpers and his other leg relaxes to the side and Hank can work him in earnest. If he looked he would see how red and wet and open Alex is, but then Alex’s hands are in his hair, on his cheeks, a weak attempt to warn Hank before he comes, so Hank swallows him down as far as he can, and braces himself when Alex’s hips lift off the bed and he cries out, soft but insistent, and all Hank can taste is Alex on his lips and tongue and teeth. He drags his fingers out slowly, watching now, can see how wrecked Alex is, how he quivers when Hank’s thickness is gone. He’s taking big, heaving lungfuls of air, chest rising and falling, as he pulls Hank up to kiss him and lick into his mouth. “Next time,” he breathes, “I think I want you to fuck me,” which makes Hank stumble a bit, cock leaking in his briefs, as Alex draws Hank’s lips between his teeth and reaches between them to snake a hand around Hank and squeeze.
Alex must have lotioned his hands in the shower because he’s so smooth and Hank has been wanting and ready this whole time that it only takes a few expert tugs and twists and whispered promises before Hank is coming, too, eyes rolling back as Alex works him through it, falling onto his lips.
The bed is sticky and hot and perfect, their chests pressed together and legs tangled. For the first time that Hank can remember, he wishes he could just exist like this, warm and sated.
The next thing he knows he is blinking awake and it is dark out, the stars barely visible through the leaves of the tree in Alex’s yard. Alex has, regrettably, put on some clothes - an old t-shirt and some boxers - but he smiles as he climbs back into bed, nuzzling into Hank’s throat as he informs him in a low voice: “We missed dinner.”
“Apologies,” Hank mumbles, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“I woke up ‘cause I was hungry,” Alex explains, teasing, a smile against Hank’s neck.
“Can I feed you my penis,” Hank returns, because he still doesn’t want to move, and he’s still only eighteen, really. Alex laughs; it tickles Hank’s throat and he grins, his arms settling to wrap around the body above him.
“Maybe later.”
Moments pass in silence. Hank watches Alex’s blond head rise and fall on his chest, and then he is probably dozing off again when Alex moves and pulls him up by the waist - he forgets sometimes how strong Alex is - and says, “Come on; let’s make sandwiches.”
Alex gives him one of his shirts that’s actually a little short on Hank, but he puts it on and shrugs on his jeans, after. They end up making peanut butter and banana sandwiches, because they can’t find the jam and there seems to be nothing else in the pantry or refrigerator, and they shuffle over to the couch in the living room with their plates and find nothing on the television except for back-to-back marathons of the Men in Black movies, which secretly Hank loves and Alex doesn’t mind, as long as the volume is turned down low enough for the explosions not to be jarring.
By the time the credits roll around the second time, Alex is asleep again, a secure weight against Hank’s side. Hank doesn’t have the heart to move him, so he carefully gathers their plates to put on the coffee table, and settles in for the night.
//
part three
Shout-out to beakanoma because I doubt this would have been written if not for our back-and-forth. You are awesome.
Rating NC-17.
Summary Hank and Alex move past curious and into the strange new territory of 'committed.'
Disclaimer Will never own, boo.
part one
His mother picks him up from the airport. It had been a grueling flight back, with multiple stops and a four-hour layover at JFK waiting for a smaller plane to take him to a local airport serving upstate New York, making his total time travelling somewhere near twenty-four hours. He sleeps in the car because he is genuinely exhausted but also because he can’t stomach the idea of talking to his mother about his time in Abu Dhabi. (It was hot, his father slept with a woman named Tanya, and Hank looked at a lot of reports and did moderately complicated things with numbers. That was about it.) He would tell her about Tanya later, since he imagines that this is what his mother is really interested in - whether or not his father had already moved on from their marriage, started dating again so soon.
He sleeps with his cheek pressed against the warm window of the passenger side door, and he dreams that he dozed through the alarm he set to make it to Alex and his dinner reservation on time for later that night. They get back to the house and Hank has the distinct feeling of not belonging, like that kid who sits down at a lunch table and everyone rises and leaves, when his mother pulls into the garage. “Welcome home,” she says with an uncertain smile on her face, turning to her son and shutting off the engine. The garage door thunders its way closed. Hank says, “Thanks,” as simply as possible.
Then she says: “I’m putting the house on the market. It’s too big for us, now, especially with you going off to Columbia next month.”
He looks at her, eyes wide, fully awake. “Wow, mom.”
“Was that a shock? I’m sorry; I couldn’t think of a proper way to break it to you.” She fiddles with the keys in her lap. “We won’t move out of the district; I still need to be close to the hospital, so it’s not like when you come back for vacations you won’t be near your friends.”
“If I come back,” Hank spits out spitefully, startling himself with his own resentment. He jerks open the door with unnecessary force.
“Oh, Hank, don’t be like that.”
“Like what? Upset that the first thing you want to talk about after I get back home is how you want to sell it?” The door slams. Hank’s mother clambers out after him, much more calmly.
“I didn’t think you were so attached to it,” she says, her lips pursing.
Hank scoffs. “How would you even know,” he mutters, just loud enough for her to hear it, and the reaction he gets is expected.
“What did you say?” Her hands are in fists on her hips, her eyes narrowed; she still strikes an intimidating figure despite their difference in height.
“Nothing. I’m tired. Let’s talk about this later, okay?”
His mother noticeably deflates and lets the subject drop. Hank, grateful, grabs his duffel and escapes into the huge, empty house.
It turns out that Hank has no use for the alarm because as soon as he showers and changes into a fresh set of clothes, he can’t sleep anyway, his brain whirring like a machine, trying to factor a new house and address and room and college and the city into something that he can understand. He texts you free? to Alex and doesn’t wait for a response, grabbing his wallet and nearly falling down the stairs. His mother is in the kitchen, pouring herself a mug of coffee. “You meeting Alex early?” she asks when she sees him pocketing his keys. Hank slides his feet into a pair of Rainbows.
“Yeah,” he says, even as he’s closing the door behind him. He hears his mother’s muffled “Have fun!” through the door and grits his teeth. He shouldn’t be so angry. He’s leaving in a month, anyway, and this house has always felt too big. There are rooms that have no purpose in that house.
His phone buzzes in his pocket as he starts his Camry. Working at garage, Alex has texted back. It buzzes again after he’s backed out of the driveway. Welcome home, is the message, and it drains the tension out of his shoulders. He turns the music up too loud and rolls down the windows and drives to Scott’s garage.
Scott’s garage is strategically located on the border of North Hills and South Hills and doesn’t really have a name. Unofficially, residents call it “the Summers’ place” because Hank doesn’t actually know anything about cars but apparently this garage is one of the only garages around the area. It’s a fat, grey building with warehouse doors and bright red rusted lifts for the cars inside. Once, Scott told him that they could have anywhere between 5 to 20 cars in the shop at a time, and Hank had never really thought about how it was that the garage actually made money, but then he stopped to think about the people he knew in North Hills and how nearly everyone owned a car, and then Hank had actually entered the garage on what Scott had called “a slow day” and saw three Lexuses and a BMW on the lifts, their wheels in various arrangements.
He pulls into the car lot and is immediately approached by Logan, a gruff man with coarse, dark hair that during the winter he shapes into an intimidating beard but in the summer he shaves. He’s sporting very manly stubble, now, and also no shirt. Hank really needs to talk to Scott about the dress code for his place, unless of course the dress code is part of the ploy to get the lonely wives of North Hills into the shop. Logan, for some reason, has a soft spot for both Summers brothers, and quirks an eyebrow - the closest thing to a smile, for him - when Hank climbs out of his parked car. “How can I help you, McCoy,” he offers, wiping his hands on a dirty rag and then shoving it into the pocket of his jeans.
“I’m just here to see Alex,” Hank admits, shrugging and going for nonchalance.
“You got a date, or somethin’?” Logan’s low grumble of a voice doesn’t change, so Hank can’t tell if he’s being poked fun at or if Logan has decided to be particularly thorny today.
He says, “Or something,” and the other man rolls his eyes.
The thing is, he isn’t sure how to talk about what he and Alex have, because he and Alex haven’t talked about it themselves, yet. They haven’t really officially told anyone yet, and Hank is reasonably certain that his mother still thinks that Alex is just a very good friend who has been spending the night very often. Their friends, of course, know, but the adults around them seem to be hovering around whether or not they should just assume.
“He’s working on the Civic,” Logan tosses over his shoulder as he leads Hank into the garage. “And Scott’s in a mood.”
“Why?” Hank asks, wary, keeping a safe distance behind Logan.
“Fuck if I know.”
The first thing Hank notices in the garage is that every fan is on full-blast, the hum of the blades loud and echoing in the enclosed space, but it does little to dispel the humid, heavy heat. The second thing he notices is Alex’s back, which is bare, and the taper of his waist into his dark jeans, the elastic of his briefs a teasing line against his skin. Alex doesn’t notice him, though; he stretches his arms over his head once before ducking under the hood of the car that he’s working on. Hank suddenly wishes that there were more fans.
Logan calls, “Summers!” and Hank watches Alex startle and bump his head against the hood as he withdraws, but it’s the older brother who appears first, walking briskly out of the office tucked into one corner of the garage.
“What,” Scott says, sunglasses masking his expression. He does look to be in a mood, but at least he’s wearing a shirt, a very respectable dark tee that does very respectable things for his arms. Hank wonders briefly if fantastic arms are a Summers’ family trait.
“Look at what I found outside,” Logan replies, and Hank tries not to bristle. He’s not used to adults treating him the way Logan treats everyone. It’s similar to how Coach Lensherr treats his students, but then they’re on a team, so there’s purpose behind the treatment.
“I drove here,” Hank explains. “I wasn’t just loitering outside.”
Scotts nods toward him. Sometimes, Hank has to remind himself that there’s a real person behind those sunglasses, and not just some person-shaped robot. “I thought you guys had dinner plans. You’re early.”
Alex comes up behind his brother, a rare smile on his lips, pulling a thin white tee over his chest. “Hey,” he greets him, all casual, like the last time they saw each other hadn’t been on each other’s computer screens, slick-skinned and panting and wanting. The blond looks at Hank from beneath his lashes, coy. He thinks Alex must be getting lessons from Raven, because damn.
“Hey,” Hank exhales.
“I’m done with the Civic,” Alex says to his older brother, who frowns at the words. “Can I go?”
“You sure you’re finished? I won’t check it and find a half-assed job, will I?”
“It’s McCoy’s first day back,” Logan interjects, which surprises Hank. “Just let ’em go. Suck the fun out of another day.”
Scott considers this, forehead creasing. Alex looks to Logan with what can only be gratefulness on his face. Maybe Logan has an even softer spot for the younger Summers. “Fine,” Scott says, a quirk in his lips. “But you owe me two hours, or breakfast duty for the whole week.”
“I choose breakfast,” Alex returns easily, smile morphing into a toothy grin. “We just got a waffle thingy,” he explains to Hank.
“A griddle?”
“Yeah, that. Come on; let’s go.” He slings an arm over Hank’s lower back, his hand warm and pressing against Hank’s side. Hank mirrors him, but over Alex’s shoulders. “Thanks, Scott!” Alex calls as they’re walking to Hank’s car, pressed against each other. They could just be two friends, couldn’t they, if someone were driving past and saw them like this? They would miss the way Alex drags his fingers across Hank’s back when they have to part, though.
Behind them, Logan leans into Scott’s space, talking low into his ear, and Scott laughs, the sound unfamiliar to Hank, before he punches Logan’s arm good-naturedly and walks back into the garage.
It’s a quick drive back to Alex’s place so he can shower and change before dinner. Hank lounges on Alex’s bed as he waits, the sound of the faucet squeaking shut making him pause in the text he is about to send Raven about weekend plans. The door opens and a cloud of steam rushes out, and then Alex, towel wrapped around his hips and dripping into the carpet. Hank licks his lips, which Alex does not miss.
He takes slow, deliberate steps to the bed and then pauses before lifting a knee onto the mattress, making a dark spot on his covers. God, but Hank wants him; he forgets to breathe, and Alex crawls, cat-like, onto the bed, the towel miraculously staying on his hips. Hank lets his knees fall open a little bit so Alex can shift between them, and when he inhales again they’re kissing, and Hank smells mint and spice and maybe a little of the garage, still, in Alex’s hair.
Alex says, “Two months,” and then his lips are pressed into Hank’s again, his hands snaking under Hank’s shirt to scratch against his ribs. Hank shudders into the touch. It feels divine to be able to touch Alex again, to see him without pixels and a microphone. In one swift maneuver he’s switched their positions so that Alex is the one against the covers and Hank is straddling him. Alex breathes a laugh into Hank’s throat. “Something about this is a little unfair,” he says, vibrations of his voice going straight to Hank’s cock.
“Yes,” Hank agrees, grinding their hips together. Alex arches off the bed beautifully, the denim of Hank’s jeans rough against his bare legs. “I think I’m wearing too many clothes.”
“Yes,” Alex hisses, so Hank takes off his shirt. “Still unfair,” the blond protests, reaching for the button of Hank’s jeans. Hank wriggles out of them and then stutters to a stop when Alex sits up and cups a warm hand underneath his balls. His dick jumps in his briefs, and he would be embarrassed, except when Alex sat up the towel had fallen away, and Alex’s eyes are so glazed over Hank’s whole body flushes at being on the receiving end of that lust.
He breathes hot over the fabric and then puts his mouth over it and Hank has to screw his eyes shut and inhale through his nose to keep control. He threads his fingers through the short blond hair and then makes a fist, which stuns Alex enough to make him look up at Hank with plaintive eyes. Hank pulls gently, exposing Alex’s throat before falling upon it with open-mouthed kisses. Alex moans when Hank sucks on that spot on his collarbone, back arching again, and Hank uses the motion to press him against the mattress, one hand reaching and fumbling into the drawer of Alex’s nightstand. He pulls out a small bottle of lube and a condom. He wants Alex to come apart because of him.
“What’re you doing?” Alex mumbles, breathy, eyelids fluttering as Hank sucks a hickey into that spot. Alex threads his fingers through Hank’s hair and clutches at him when Hank decides to scrape his teeth against the sensitized skin. “Oh.”
“Trust me.”
“Yeah, of course. I do,” Alex says, only it sounds like a plead.
“I want to make you feel amazing.”
And whatever response Alex has for that is lost in a whine when Hank wraps a free hand around the base of Alex’s cock.
“Open this for me,” Hank says, tossing the lube onto Alex’s chest. Alex’s breath hitches; he fumbles to open the bottle as Hank slowly pumps him.
“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he tells him, finally opening the bottle.
“Squeeze,” Hank orders next, holding out his other hand. Alex does so, the lube instantly warming against Hank’s skin. “More.” Alex quirks an eyebrow but does as he’s told, and then Hank wraps his lips over the head of Alex’s dick.
The bottle of lube falls to the side and Alex shakily exhales, settling back into the sheets. Hank is learning the heaviness and thickness of Alex, but he’s still working on his gag reflex. He hollows his cheeks when he sucks, and Alex fists the sheets. Gently, he lifts Alex’s leg from under his knee and places it over his shoulder. Alex raises himself up, then, onto his elbows, but his eyes are hooded as he watches Hank pull off with an obscene smack!
Hank flutters his fingers over Alex’s tight hole, the lube making Alex wet and warm. They’re both panting now, Hank’s erection straining in his briefs, and Hank rubs his fingers over Alex a few more times, watching his pupils dilate and his mouth fall open, and then he takes a chance and swallows Alex down again while pressing a digit into him. The sound Alex makes, low and guttural and needy.
Alex is tight and hot and slick, and he’s heavy in Hank’s mouth; he says, “Jesus fucking Christ,” when Hank works another finger into him, and Hank hums in appreciation. He finds a rhythm - he bobs his head in time with the thrust of his fingers.
Hank’s fingers are long. When he sinks into Alex to his third knuckle, he crooks his fingers as he withdraws, and Alex jumps, the leg over Hank’s shoulder tensing and unintentionally drawing Hank’s lips further over Alex’s cock. Hank gags but crooks his fingers again, and when he looks, Alex has a forearm over his eyes, and the heat coming off of him is palpable. “Hank,” he gasps, when Hank does it again. “More,” is all he says.
So Hank obliges and pushes another finger into Alex’s tight heat, and Alex whimpers and his other leg relaxes to the side and Hank can work him in earnest. If he looked he would see how red and wet and open Alex is, but then Alex’s hands are in his hair, on his cheeks, a weak attempt to warn Hank before he comes, so Hank swallows him down as far as he can, and braces himself when Alex’s hips lift off the bed and he cries out, soft but insistent, and all Hank can taste is Alex on his lips and tongue and teeth. He drags his fingers out slowly, watching now, can see how wrecked Alex is, how he quivers when Hank’s thickness is gone. He’s taking big, heaving lungfuls of air, chest rising and falling, as he pulls Hank up to kiss him and lick into his mouth. “Next time,” he breathes, “I think I want you to fuck me,” which makes Hank stumble a bit, cock leaking in his briefs, as Alex draws Hank’s lips between his teeth and reaches between them to snake a hand around Hank and squeeze.
Alex must have lotioned his hands in the shower because he’s so smooth and Hank has been wanting and ready this whole time that it only takes a few expert tugs and twists and whispered promises before Hank is coming, too, eyes rolling back as Alex works him through it, falling onto his lips.
The bed is sticky and hot and perfect, their chests pressed together and legs tangled. For the first time that Hank can remember, he wishes he could just exist like this, warm and sated.
The next thing he knows he is blinking awake and it is dark out, the stars barely visible through the leaves of the tree in Alex’s yard. Alex has, regrettably, put on some clothes - an old t-shirt and some boxers - but he smiles as he climbs back into bed, nuzzling into Hank’s throat as he informs him in a low voice: “We missed dinner.”
“Apologies,” Hank mumbles, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“I woke up ‘cause I was hungry,” Alex explains, teasing, a smile against Hank’s neck.
“Can I feed you my penis,” Hank returns, because he still doesn’t want to move, and he’s still only eighteen, really. Alex laughs; it tickles Hank’s throat and he grins, his arms settling to wrap around the body above him.
“Maybe later.”
Moments pass in silence. Hank watches Alex’s blond head rise and fall on his chest, and then he is probably dozing off again when Alex moves and pulls him up by the waist - he forgets sometimes how strong Alex is - and says, “Come on; let’s make sandwiches.”
Alex gives him one of his shirts that’s actually a little short on Hank, but he puts it on and shrugs on his jeans, after. They end up making peanut butter and banana sandwiches, because they can’t find the jam and there seems to be nothing else in the pantry or refrigerator, and they shuffle over to the couch in the living room with their plates and find nothing on the television except for back-to-back marathons of the Men in Black movies, which secretly Hank loves and Alex doesn’t mind, as long as the volume is turned down low enough for the explosions not to be jarring.
By the time the credits roll around the second time, Alex is asleep again, a secure weight against Hank’s side. Hank doesn’t have the heart to move him, so he carefully gathers their plates to put on the coffee table, and settles in for the night.
//
part three
Shout-out to beakanoma because I doubt this would have been written if not for our back-and-forth. You are awesome.