Fanfic: After Hours (Corner Gas, Rating: M)
Title: After Hours
Author: eshtah
Rating: M (for adult situations)
Pairing: Wanda/Hank
Wordcount: 1611
Disclaimer: I don't own them. If I did, the series wouldn't have been canceled. ;)
Summary: Somehow these two have managed to keep a secret in a small town.
Hank is an idiot, there’s no doubt about that. But as she snuggles backwards, her skin brushing harder against his, she begins to wonder if he’s the kind of idiot she could spend her life with.
Okay, that was uncalled for. She opens her eyes and rolls them upwards, trying to erase the image of living with Hank out of her mind.
He mumbles something in his sleep, and wraps one arm around her, pulling her close. His breath trickles across her shoulder, and she shivers. This is stupid, she thinks. She’s not a teenager anymore. This kind of behaviour has real life consequences.
Like the boy down the hall, for one.
But sometimes she gets lonely. So when Brent has her lock up, she hangs around for a bit. Sometimes she visits the Ruby, but not every night. More often than not she just leans against one of the gas pumps, staring out at the horizon until it gets dark.
And then he’ll show up. Again, not every night, but usually on the nights that count. He leans out the passenger seat of his truck with a semi-serious look on his face. It kills her each time. She must look desperate to him, which is saying something considering it’s Hank. But it’s their signal, her standing there.
Her self-doubt is erased when he asks her if she wants a ride. She always replies, “Yes.” Always.
She parks her car behind the gas station and climbs in, stretching to get into the cab of the truck. They drive in silence.
Every time, she thinks it’s going to end right when they get to the house. She’s afraid that he’ll turn to her, with some silly, pitying smirk across his face, and that he’ll tell her to have a good night.
But she’s more afraid that the expression of shock on her face will betray how she feels about their encounters. And then he’ll always have that to hold over her.
Hank never says goodnight. Maybe that’s why she keeps doing it. He never makes her believe that he’s better than her. He’s never grateful for what they do, but she senses he appreciates her, silently, when he thinks she doesn’t notice.
He pulls into the driveway, gets out, and walks her to her door. She opens it up, he follows her in, still quiet. The second the door closes, things change.
She changes.
All of her frustrations hit Hank like a fury as she grabs a hold of his face and mashes her own against it. It’s not romantic. It’s not even hot. It’s just frantic. It’s biology.
And he’s game for it. He’s always been game for it, for her. Ever since high school.
First he holds her head back to slow the pace, and then he lifts her up, supporting her weight with his arms. She wraps her legs around his waist and sucks him deeper.
He pulls back, his eyes closed - clearly he’s trying to concentrate - and asks in a whisper, “Where’s Tanner?”
“Asleep,” she hisses back before charging towards his mouth. His lips are soft and puffy.
“Mmm - Are you sure?”
“Shut up, Hank,” she replies under her breath, bucking her hips to change the topic. It works.
He lets go of her, letting her hang off of him, and runs his hands under her shirt. Her willpower goes out the window and she moans into his mouth. And then his hands are at the button of her jeans, and then pulling down the zipper, and then his hands are in her pants, and she’s moaning even louder.
“Bedroom. Now,” she orders, and he dutifully obeys, returning his hands to support her as he carries her up the stairs. He’s so un-Hank-like, without the dithering and the pathetic confusion. Maybe it’s all the practice they’ve had. Or maybe he just understands that if he speaks, he ruins the mood, and if he ruins the mood, there goes the suspension of disbelief required for these rendezvous.
They fall into the bed, and she wonders how her son can sleep through the ruckus. He could sleep through a fire alarm. While that particular thought scares her, his sleeping habits are handy when it comes to the sort of thing she has going with Hank.
She tears his shirt over his head and flings it across the room, pulling him in for another kiss. Now it’s hot. Still not romantic - that comes later, when he thinks they’re both asleep - but it is hot. Underneath his scrappy shirts he’s well built, and she pulls him closer, pressing up against him. He has no idea.
Sometimes she likes making him undress her slowly, piece by piece. It drives her wild to see him pay such meticulous attention to her. But tonight’s a little different. They haven’t been together in months, and she needs him. Damned if she can’t deny it, but she needs him.
She consoles herself with the thought that it’s not really him that she needs. It’s more like there’s a certain part of him she needs. And it’s not his brain.
She pushes him back slightly to pull her own shirt off, and he kneels between her legs as he pulls his own pants down. He’s learned over the years that it’s a bad idea to pick her up wearing pants with buttons. He kicks off his socks and shoes and slides out of his sweatpants to stand there, at the end of her bed, naked except for his hat.
It only makes her work faster, and she shimmies out of the rest of her clothing. She lies there for a moment, panting heavily, eyeing the man before her. Is he having second thoughts?
Only about the hat. He removes it slowly, placing it on her dresser, before turning his attentions back to her. Second fiddle to a hat. Who would’ve thought?
He sort of chokes in the back of his throat at the sight of her. She’s sweaty, she’s tired from a day of work, and her hair is all over the place. But he still chokes.
“Condoms?” he asks, his voice hoarse. Of course. Neither one wants to make another mistake.
“Same place,” she replies.
His hand moves to the dresser while he keeps his eyes on her. He’s done this before. His fingers wiggle around in the top drawer and come out with a small package. He rips it open carefully and rolls the latex on.
They share a glance, and he walks methodically back to the bed, crawling over her. She boosts herself backwards so that her head can lie on the pillow, and he begins to kiss her again, all over. It becomes clear to her that they’re in different time zones, and she corrects his speed and course by mumbling, “Come on, already!”
He gets the hint and adjusts his position. He hovers there for a moment, and then she reaches around to push him in. He grunts as she continues to push him further in, until there’s no more of him to push in.
She squeezes around him, smiling internally because she knows it boggles his mind that women can do such a thing. He lets out a low whine, whipping his head back, and he begins to move in and out. Back and forth. She matches his motions as they get quicker.
They’re back to frantic biology.
She whimpers and moans, scratching his back in desperation. There needs to be more, and somehow he makes it happen.
And then they’re both shaking, holding their breath as pleasure shoots through their bodies. He keeps thrusting and she shudders again. Oh, the miracle of the female body.
He slides out of her and supports his body weight on his hands, which are placed on either side of her head. His own head hangs as he tries to inhale. She takes a moment to catch her own breath before reaching up to his head and pulling him down for a deep kiss. She doesn’t have to say thank you. He already knows.
It’s too much for him, and his elbows bend with a sudden weakness. His knees don’t fare very well either, and he lets his body fall next to hers.
With one hand he removes the condom and tosses it into the garbage can next to the bed. He slides the other under her head, maintaining physical contact. She leans into him and kisses his shoulder.
They fall asleep for an hour or so, and then she wakes him up to repeat the process. This time she rolls the condom on, and this time she’s in control. They take more time, the second time around.
When they’re done, they spoon, still naked. He drifts off, and she lets her mind wander.
At some point she falls asleep too, wrapped in his warm body.
She wakes to find him gone. Of course. It wouldn’t do to have his truck in her driveway in the morning.
She gets up and showers. She makes Tanner breakfast, sends him off to school, and walks to work.
When Brent asks her where her car is, she tells him she parked around back. Then she grabs a piece of liquorice, her puzzle book, and plants herself on her stool behind the counter.
Hank comes in an hour later. He’s wearing the same clothing, and she rolls her eyes. Of course.
It’s as if it never happened. He makes some stupid comment, she cuts him down a notch or two, and Brent continues on believing that nothing has changed.
Nothing has, really. Yet.
She dreads the day that it does.
Author: eshtah
Rating: M (for adult situations)
Pairing: Wanda/Hank
Wordcount: 1611
Disclaimer: I don't own them. If I did, the series wouldn't have been canceled. ;)
Summary: Somehow these two have managed to keep a secret in a small town.
Hank is an idiot, there’s no doubt about that. But as she snuggles backwards, her skin brushing harder against his, she begins to wonder if he’s the kind of idiot she could spend her life with.
Okay, that was uncalled for. She opens her eyes and rolls them upwards, trying to erase the image of living with Hank out of her mind.
He mumbles something in his sleep, and wraps one arm around her, pulling her close. His breath trickles across her shoulder, and she shivers. This is stupid, she thinks. She’s not a teenager anymore. This kind of behaviour has real life consequences.
Like the boy down the hall, for one.
But sometimes she gets lonely. So when Brent has her lock up, she hangs around for a bit. Sometimes she visits the Ruby, but not every night. More often than not she just leans against one of the gas pumps, staring out at the horizon until it gets dark.
And then he’ll show up. Again, not every night, but usually on the nights that count. He leans out the passenger seat of his truck with a semi-serious look on his face. It kills her each time. She must look desperate to him, which is saying something considering it’s Hank. But it’s their signal, her standing there.
Her self-doubt is erased when he asks her if she wants a ride. She always replies, “Yes.” Always.
She parks her car behind the gas station and climbs in, stretching to get into the cab of the truck. They drive in silence.
Every time, she thinks it’s going to end right when they get to the house. She’s afraid that he’ll turn to her, with some silly, pitying smirk across his face, and that he’ll tell her to have a good night.
But she’s more afraid that the expression of shock on her face will betray how she feels about their encounters. And then he’ll always have that to hold over her.
Hank never says goodnight. Maybe that’s why she keeps doing it. He never makes her believe that he’s better than her. He’s never grateful for what they do, but she senses he appreciates her, silently, when he thinks she doesn’t notice.
He pulls into the driveway, gets out, and walks her to her door. She opens it up, he follows her in, still quiet. The second the door closes, things change.
She changes.
All of her frustrations hit Hank like a fury as she grabs a hold of his face and mashes her own against it. It’s not romantic. It’s not even hot. It’s just frantic. It’s biology.
And he’s game for it. He’s always been game for it, for her. Ever since high school.
First he holds her head back to slow the pace, and then he lifts her up, supporting her weight with his arms. She wraps her legs around his waist and sucks him deeper.
He pulls back, his eyes closed - clearly he’s trying to concentrate - and asks in a whisper, “Where’s Tanner?”
“Asleep,” she hisses back before charging towards his mouth. His lips are soft and puffy.
“Mmm - Are you sure?”
“Shut up, Hank,” she replies under her breath, bucking her hips to change the topic. It works.
He lets go of her, letting her hang off of him, and runs his hands under her shirt. Her willpower goes out the window and she moans into his mouth. And then his hands are at the button of her jeans, and then pulling down the zipper, and then his hands are in her pants, and she’s moaning even louder.
“Bedroom. Now,” she orders, and he dutifully obeys, returning his hands to support her as he carries her up the stairs. He’s so un-Hank-like, without the dithering and the pathetic confusion. Maybe it’s all the practice they’ve had. Or maybe he just understands that if he speaks, he ruins the mood, and if he ruins the mood, there goes the suspension of disbelief required for these rendezvous.
They fall into the bed, and she wonders how her son can sleep through the ruckus. He could sleep through a fire alarm. While that particular thought scares her, his sleeping habits are handy when it comes to the sort of thing she has going with Hank.
She tears his shirt over his head and flings it across the room, pulling him in for another kiss. Now it’s hot. Still not romantic - that comes later, when he thinks they’re both asleep - but it is hot. Underneath his scrappy shirts he’s well built, and she pulls him closer, pressing up against him. He has no idea.
Sometimes she likes making him undress her slowly, piece by piece. It drives her wild to see him pay such meticulous attention to her. But tonight’s a little different. They haven’t been together in months, and she needs him. Damned if she can’t deny it, but she needs him.
She consoles herself with the thought that it’s not really him that she needs. It’s more like there’s a certain part of him she needs. And it’s not his brain.
She pushes him back slightly to pull her own shirt off, and he kneels between her legs as he pulls his own pants down. He’s learned over the years that it’s a bad idea to pick her up wearing pants with buttons. He kicks off his socks and shoes and slides out of his sweatpants to stand there, at the end of her bed, naked except for his hat.
It only makes her work faster, and she shimmies out of the rest of her clothing. She lies there for a moment, panting heavily, eyeing the man before her. Is he having second thoughts?
Only about the hat. He removes it slowly, placing it on her dresser, before turning his attentions back to her. Second fiddle to a hat. Who would’ve thought?
He sort of chokes in the back of his throat at the sight of her. She’s sweaty, she’s tired from a day of work, and her hair is all over the place. But he still chokes.
“Condoms?” he asks, his voice hoarse. Of course. Neither one wants to make another mistake.
“Same place,” she replies.
His hand moves to the dresser while he keeps his eyes on her. He’s done this before. His fingers wiggle around in the top drawer and come out with a small package. He rips it open carefully and rolls the latex on.
They share a glance, and he walks methodically back to the bed, crawling over her. She boosts herself backwards so that her head can lie on the pillow, and he begins to kiss her again, all over. It becomes clear to her that they’re in different time zones, and she corrects his speed and course by mumbling, “Come on, already!”
He gets the hint and adjusts his position. He hovers there for a moment, and then she reaches around to push him in. He grunts as she continues to push him further in, until there’s no more of him to push in.
She squeezes around him, smiling internally because she knows it boggles his mind that women can do such a thing. He lets out a low whine, whipping his head back, and he begins to move in and out. Back and forth. She matches his motions as they get quicker.
They’re back to frantic biology.
She whimpers and moans, scratching his back in desperation. There needs to be more, and somehow he makes it happen.
And then they’re both shaking, holding their breath as pleasure shoots through their bodies. He keeps thrusting and she shudders again. Oh, the miracle of the female body.
He slides out of her and supports his body weight on his hands, which are placed on either side of her head. His own head hangs as he tries to inhale. She takes a moment to catch her own breath before reaching up to his head and pulling him down for a deep kiss. She doesn’t have to say thank you. He already knows.
It’s too much for him, and his elbows bend with a sudden weakness. His knees don’t fare very well either, and he lets his body fall next to hers.
With one hand he removes the condom and tosses it into the garbage can next to the bed. He slides the other under her head, maintaining physical contact. She leans into him and kisses his shoulder.
They fall asleep for an hour or so, and then she wakes him up to repeat the process. This time she rolls the condom on, and this time she’s in control. They take more time, the second time around.
When they’re done, they spoon, still naked. He drifts off, and she lets her mind wander.
At some point she falls asleep too, wrapped in his warm body.
She wakes to find him gone. Of course. It wouldn’t do to have his truck in her driveway in the morning.
She gets up and showers. She makes Tanner breakfast, sends him off to school, and walks to work.
When Brent asks her where her car is, she tells him she parked around back. Then she grabs a piece of liquorice, her puzzle book, and plants herself on her stool behind the counter.
Hank comes in an hour later. He’s wearing the same clothing, and she rolls her eyes. Of course.
It’s as if it never happened. He makes some stupid comment, she cuts him down a notch or two, and Brent continues on believing that nothing has changed.
Nothing has, really. Yet.
She dreads the day that it does.