blur
I have committed Flack/Hawkes porn. I'm not entirely sure how that happened.
title: Blur
with: Flack/Hawkes
rated: NC-17
herein: Flack needs to stop thinking; set late season three
disclaim: I only own the dvds; everything belongs to Zuiker, CBS, et al
for: buffy-lily
Flack is wasted.
His head feels disconnected from his feet, but his feet stay on the ground pretty well. The sidewalk is half-crowded with club kids and hangers on. He makes his way through them, aimless enough that he’ll probably end up right back on a subway station.
Flack is wasted, and it is not helping. He went out tonight, alone, with the intention of getting fucked up. Getting fucked. Both. The streetlights flash green-yellow-red, and Flack stops at a corner. There’s a twig-thin redhead next to him. She has glittery make-up, and she’s obviously high, clinging to another girl’s hand.
“You’re tall,” she says and giggles. “Can I measure you with my hands?” She reaches out and puts a palm on his waist.
“I’m six-two, sweetheart, and no.” Flack’s head is spinning a little, and it’s harder to move away from her than it should be.
She pouts, and Flack looks out into the street. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Something’s humming beneath his skin, and he can’t figure out what to do with it.
The lights flicker, and Flack crosses the street.
There’s a gay bar on the other side, and it’s crowded and noisy. Flack walks by it, even though part of his brain is screaming at him to go in. It’s not his scene; none of this is. He could still salvage this night, but he won’t. His gut is turning over now, and he’s sweating.
“Flack.”
The voice comes from behind him, and it takes a moment for him to place it.
“Doc,” he says and turns around because he can’t not.
Hawkes walks up to him and half reaches for his arm. It’s a friendly gesture, a tipsy gesture. Flack flinches away. Hawkes frowns. “Are you okay?” he asks.
Flack wants to say he’s fine and laugh it off. He does. Instead, he shakes his head, mouth tight in a flat line. The look on Hawkes’s face softens.
“You want to get some coffee?” Hawkes asks. “Let’s go get some coffee.”
Flack starts to laugh, then swallows it because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop. “You sure like to save people, don’t you Hawkes?” He’s glad to see Hawkes’s face harden again. “I’ll pass.”
“Wait,” Hawkes says. He takes a deep breath, and Flack waits. “If the situation was reversed, would you just let a friend walk away?”
Flack smiles ruefully. “You got me there.” He shakes his head. “Wait, you think we know each other well enough to be friends?”
“Maybe not,” Hawkes says, “but I think my original point stands.”
“It probably does.” Flack licks his lips. “Okay, fine, coffee.”
At the little diner two blocks over, Flack hunches over his coffee and tries to pretend that Hawkes isn’t watching him. Problem is, Flack’s not in the mood to confess, but he doesn’t know how to burn off the energy humming through his body either.
“I’m angry,” he finally says. “But there’s no one to fight, no one to lock up.”
“What happened?” Hawkes asks softly. Flack kind of wants to punch him. It’s completely irrational.
“Nothing. Everything.” Flack closes his eyes, but that makes the world tilt so he opens them again. “I hit my limit is all, but I can’t let go of it this time.”
Hawkes makes a sympathetic noise. Flack still kind of wants to punch him because of all the people he’s not.
“I’m good at letting it go,” Flack says.
“But this time is different.” Hawkes has intense eyes. Flack has never been the straight-on focus of those eyes before.
“This time is different,” he echoes.
“Do you know why it’s different?” Hawkes asks.
Flack takes a swig of sugar sweet coffee. It still has a bitter aftertaste. “Do you know what’s wrong with Stella?” he asks instead, even though he’s not sure he wants the answer. “Because I know what’s wrong with Mac. I even know what’s wrong with Danny, though I don’t get why.”
“I’ve noticed something, but no, I don’t know what’s going on with Stella.” Hawkes leans forward, propping his elbows on the table.
Flack frowns and nods and decides it’s time to change the subject. “Do you want to fuck me?”
Hawkes, to his credit, doesn’t blink. “I think either you’re too drunk, or I’m not drunk enough.”
“Not that drunk,” Flack says. He’s not. He still feels loose, but he’s sobering up.
“Sure.” Hawkes doesn’t believe him.
“I’m not.” Flack curls his hand around the edge of the table. That urge to punch Hawkes is not going away.
“Why?” Hawkes asks.
“I’ve been hanging out with you all from the lab too much.” Flack shrugs and leans back. “I can’t quit thinking.”
“I’ve been there before,” Hawkes says quietly.
“I’m sure you have.” Flack smirks. The hum under his skin still hasn’t lessened.
“And you think getting fucked will help,” Hawkes says.
“I don’t think it’ll hurt.” Flack lets his smirk twist into a leer. Hawkes’s smile gets a little edge to it. Flack can see the wheels turning.
“You’re not that drunk are you,” Hawkes says.
“Not anymore.” Flack stretches his legs out beneath the table and slides a foot next to Hawkes’s. “Is that a yes?”
“That’s a maybe.” Hawkes’s voice is smooth, and he’s starting to look intrigued.
“That’s a yes,” Flack says.
Flack is right of course. He’s good at reading people.
Back at Hawkes’s apartment, Flack lets Hawkes take the lead. Flack doesn’t want to think about any of this; that’s the entire point. He lets Hawkes shove him against the wall, and he pushes back just a little, just enough. Hawkes pins Flack’s wrists to the wall and leans against him.
Flack looks out into the apartment, where shadows cut wildly across the room. Hawkes studies Flack’s face for a long moment, long enough for Flack to become uncomfortable.
“You want it rough, don’t you?” Hawkes asks.
“Yeah.” Flack lets his head thunk back against the wall, and Hawkes begins to gnaw on his exposed neck. “What I want is to stop thinking about it, and I sure as hell don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine,” Hawkes says.
When they’re naked and on Hawkes’s bed, Flack turns and kneels, drops to his elbows and lays his forehead on the bed. His ass is in the air, and he feels a little like a whore. It’s an odd feeling, but he really doesn’t care. Hawkes slowly starts to finger him, and Flack pushes back, wanting more.
Hawkes shushes him and continues to tease with one finger. Flack shuts his eyes tight, and for a split second he’s so frustrated he almost wants to cry. Hawkes’s finger leaves. Flack huffs his breath, waiting for two, but instead he feels the blunt head of Hawkes’s cock pressing into him. Flack keens because it’s too much and not enough, and Hawkes is pressing in steadily before Flack has time to adjust. It hurts, and Flack rides the tide of it, giving everything he has over to his body.
Then Hawkes is there, all the way in. He shifts his hips against Flack, and their balls slap together. Flack arches, groaning. Hawkes pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, hard. Flack keens again. Hawkes fucks him with sharp thrusts, and Flack has to reach forward to brace himself against the head of the bed. He closes his eyes, and sparks fly through his mind. It’s breaking him open, and it’s good. He starts to snap his hips back in time with Hawkes’s thrusts.
Too soon, Hawkes wraps his hand around Flack’s cock, and Flack can’t hang on. He comes, his arms trembling. The angle is right, and Flack’s prostate is getting hit with each thrust, sending little sparks through him. Hawkes doesn’t let him collapse down on the bed. Hawkes doesn’t let go of his cock, still jerking him off until it’s painful. Until Flack starts to get hard again.
Flack aches everywhere, and he can’t push back against the steady thrust of Hawkes’s hips anymore. He feels like he’s floating, and he’s just taking it and taking it, and part of him never wants it to stop.
Finally, Hawkes starts to lose his rhythm. Flack is fully hard again, painfully hard, but he doesn’t know if he can come again, doesn’t know if he’s close enough. Doesn’t know anything. Maybe Hawkes will come and just leave Flack aching like this. He gets a certain sick pleasure from the idea.
Hawkes leans forward, bracing himself with one hand and still ruthlessly working Flack’s cock with the other. He bites Flack’s shoulder hard, hard enough to mark. His hips snap forward once, twice more, and he stills. Flack can feel Hawkes coming, can feel it deep and hot within himself.
“Come for me,” Hawkes says roughly, and gives Flack’s cock a final tug. Flack’s whole body goes tense, and he trembles, coming in one long blur of pleasure-pain. He whites out for a moment, only faintly aware of Hawkes moving. When it’s over, Flack’s blood is still rushing in his ears, and he’s curled up against Hawkes. Hawkes’s hands are running up and down Flack’s back, and it’s a soothing counterpoint to the good, bone-deep ache in his body.
“Stay a while,” Hawkes says quietly.
Flack hums and lets himself fall toward sleep.
title: Blur
with: Flack/Hawkes
rated: NC-17
herein: Flack needs to stop thinking; set late season three
disclaim: I only own the dvds; everything belongs to Zuiker, CBS, et al
for: buffy-lily
Flack is wasted.
His head feels disconnected from his feet, but his feet stay on the ground pretty well. The sidewalk is half-crowded with club kids and hangers on. He makes his way through them, aimless enough that he’ll probably end up right back on a subway station.
Flack is wasted, and it is not helping. He went out tonight, alone, with the intention of getting fucked up. Getting fucked. Both. The streetlights flash green-yellow-red, and Flack stops at a corner. There’s a twig-thin redhead next to him. She has glittery make-up, and she’s obviously high, clinging to another girl’s hand.
“You’re tall,” she says and giggles. “Can I measure you with my hands?” She reaches out and puts a palm on his waist.
“I’m six-two, sweetheart, and no.” Flack’s head is spinning a little, and it’s harder to move away from her than it should be.
She pouts, and Flack looks out into the street. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Something’s humming beneath his skin, and he can’t figure out what to do with it.
The lights flicker, and Flack crosses the street.
There’s a gay bar on the other side, and it’s crowded and noisy. Flack walks by it, even though part of his brain is screaming at him to go in. It’s not his scene; none of this is. He could still salvage this night, but he won’t. His gut is turning over now, and he’s sweating.
“Flack.”
The voice comes from behind him, and it takes a moment for him to place it.
“Doc,” he says and turns around because he can’t not.
Hawkes walks up to him and half reaches for his arm. It’s a friendly gesture, a tipsy gesture. Flack flinches away. Hawkes frowns. “Are you okay?” he asks.
Flack wants to say he’s fine and laugh it off. He does. Instead, he shakes his head, mouth tight in a flat line. The look on Hawkes’s face softens.
“You want to get some coffee?” Hawkes asks. “Let’s go get some coffee.”
Flack starts to laugh, then swallows it because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop. “You sure like to save people, don’t you Hawkes?” He’s glad to see Hawkes’s face harden again. “I’ll pass.”
“Wait,” Hawkes says. He takes a deep breath, and Flack waits. “If the situation was reversed, would you just let a friend walk away?”
Flack smiles ruefully. “You got me there.” He shakes his head. “Wait, you think we know each other well enough to be friends?”
“Maybe not,” Hawkes says, “but I think my original point stands.”
“It probably does.” Flack licks his lips. “Okay, fine, coffee.”
At the little diner two blocks over, Flack hunches over his coffee and tries to pretend that Hawkes isn’t watching him. Problem is, Flack’s not in the mood to confess, but he doesn’t know how to burn off the energy humming through his body either.
“I’m angry,” he finally says. “But there’s no one to fight, no one to lock up.”
“What happened?” Hawkes asks softly. Flack kind of wants to punch him. It’s completely irrational.
“Nothing. Everything.” Flack closes his eyes, but that makes the world tilt so he opens them again. “I hit my limit is all, but I can’t let go of it this time.”
Hawkes makes a sympathetic noise. Flack still kind of wants to punch him because of all the people he’s not.
“I’m good at letting it go,” Flack says.
“But this time is different.” Hawkes has intense eyes. Flack has never been the straight-on focus of those eyes before.
“This time is different,” he echoes.
“Do you know why it’s different?” Hawkes asks.
Flack takes a swig of sugar sweet coffee. It still has a bitter aftertaste. “Do you know what’s wrong with Stella?” he asks instead, even though he’s not sure he wants the answer. “Because I know what’s wrong with Mac. I even know what’s wrong with Danny, though I don’t get why.”
“I’ve noticed something, but no, I don’t know what’s going on with Stella.” Hawkes leans forward, propping his elbows on the table.
Flack frowns and nods and decides it’s time to change the subject. “Do you want to fuck me?”
Hawkes, to his credit, doesn’t blink. “I think either you’re too drunk, or I’m not drunk enough.”
“Not that drunk,” Flack says. He’s not. He still feels loose, but he’s sobering up.
“Sure.” Hawkes doesn’t believe him.
“I’m not.” Flack curls his hand around the edge of the table. That urge to punch Hawkes is not going away.
“Why?” Hawkes asks.
“I’ve been hanging out with you all from the lab too much.” Flack shrugs and leans back. “I can’t quit thinking.”
“I’ve been there before,” Hawkes says quietly.
“I’m sure you have.” Flack smirks. The hum under his skin still hasn’t lessened.
“And you think getting fucked will help,” Hawkes says.
“I don’t think it’ll hurt.” Flack lets his smirk twist into a leer. Hawkes’s smile gets a little edge to it. Flack can see the wheels turning.
“You’re not that drunk are you,” Hawkes says.
“Not anymore.” Flack stretches his legs out beneath the table and slides a foot next to Hawkes’s. “Is that a yes?”
“That’s a maybe.” Hawkes’s voice is smooth, and he’s starting to look intrigued.
“That’s a yes,” Flack says.
Flack is right of course. He’s good at reading people.
Back at Hawkes’s apartment, Flack lets Hawkes take the lead. Flack doesn’t want to think about any of this; that’s the entire point. He lets Hawkes shove him against the wall, and he pushes back just a little, just enough. Hawkes pins Flack’s wrists to the wall and leans against him.
Flack looks out into the apartment, where shadows cut wildly across the room. Hawkes studies Flack’s face for a long moment, long enough for Flack to become uncomfortable.
“You want it rough, don’t you?” Hawkes asks.
“Yeah.” Flack lets his head thunk back against the wall, and Hawkes begins to gnaw on his exposed neck. “What I want is to stop thinking about it, and I sure as hell don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine,” Hawkes says.
When they’re naked and on Hawkes’s bed, Flack turns and kneels, drops to his elbows and lays his forehead on the bed. His ass is in the air, and he feels a little like a whore. It’s an odd feeling, but he really doesn’t care. Hawkes slowly starts to finger him, and Flack pushes back, wanting more.
Hawkes shushes him and continues to tease with one finger. Flack shuts his eyes tight, and for a split second he’s so frustrated he almost wants to cry. Hawkes’s finger leaves. Flack huffs his breath, waiting for two, but instead he feels the blunt head of Hawkes’s cock pressing into him. Flack keens because it’s too much and not enough, and Hawkes is pressing in steadily before Flack has time to adjust. It hurts, and Flack rides the tide of it, giving everything he has over to his body.
Then Hawkes is there, all the way in. He shifts his hips against Flack, and their balls slap together. Flack arches, groaning. Hawkes pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, hard. Flack keens again. Hawkes fucks him with sharp thrusts, and Flack has to reach forward to brace himself against the head of the bed. He closes his eyes, and sparks fly through his mind. It’s breaking him open, and it’s good. He starts to snap his hips back in time with Hawkes’s thrusts.
Too soon, Hawkes wraps his hand around Flack’s cock, and Flack can’t hang on. He comes, his arms trembling. The angle is right, and Flack’s prostate is getting hit with each thrust, sending little sparks through him. Hawkes doesn’t let him collapse down on the bed. Hawkes doesn’t let go of his cock, still jerking him off until it’s painful. Until Flack starts to get hard again.
Flack aches everywhere, and he can’t push back against the steady thrust of Hawkes’s hips anymore. He feels like he’s floating, and he’s just taking it and taking it, and part of him never wants it to stop.
Finally, Hawkes starts to lose his rhythm. Flack is fully hard again, painfully hard, but he doesn’t know if he can come again, doesn’t know if he’s close enough. Doesn’t know anything. Maybe Hawkes will come and just leave Flack aching like this. He gets a certain sick pleasure from the idea.
Hawkes leans forward, bracing himself with one hand and still ruthlessly working Flack’s cock with the other. He bites Flack’s shoulder hard, hard enough to mark. His hips snap forward once, twice more, and he stills. Flack can feel Hawkes coming, can feel it deep and hot within himself.
“Come for me,” Hawkes says roughly, and gives Flack’s cock a final tug. Flack’s whole body goes tense, and he trembles, coming in one long blur of pleasure-pain. He whites out for a moment, only faintly aware of Hawkes moving. When it’s over, Flack’s blood is still rushing in his ears, and he’s curled up against Hawkes. Hawkes’s hands are running up and down Flack’s back, and it’s a soothing counterpoint to the good, bone-deep ache in his body.
“Stay a while,” Hawkes says quietly.
Flack hums and lets himself fall toward sleep.