Charles Xavier’s Guide to Getting the Girl, Boy, or Mutant of Your Dreams | X-Men: First Class
Title: Charles Xavier’s Guide to Getting the Girl, Boy, or Mutant of Your Dreams
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Alex/Hank, Erik/Charles (secondary), Alex/OMC (secondary), Alex/Pyro (secondary)
Rating: NC-17 for a very slutty Alex Summers and language.
Word Count: 5,200
Genre: Slash, Humor, Romance
Summary: Alex is dying to know how Charles is so successful in bed: thus, Charles guides Alex into becoming the most excellent pick-up artist possible. Meanwhile, Hank watches in bewilderment.
Author’s Notes: We're gonna handwave away that Pyro doesn't belong in the 1960s. Beyond that, this is supposed to take place in that indefinite time between getting to Westchester House and leaving for Russia.
He realizes it when he sees Charles sauntering into the kitchen that morning: hair askew like someone’s been running their fingers through it; plum-colored bruises on his neck and (from what little Alex can see beneath Charles’s open shirt) his collarbone as well; lips too red and slightly plump; and that smug expression that reads I fucked someone thoroughly last night that lingers far beyond the morning after.
“You look positively post-coital,” Raven laughs, slinking into the room and grabbing a mug from the cupboard behind Charles. Charles takes a sip of his coffee and gives her a wordless look, all bulging eyes and brow wiggling. Raven harrumphs. “That good, huh?” Charles laughs, and it is a smooth chuckle that makes Alex’s blood boil. By this point in the conversation, Alex is almost groaning in sexual frustration. He hasn’t gotten any since before prison, and shit, how exactly was he supposed to just sit there while other people were being… satisfied.
It’s not that Charles has moseyed just once into the kitchen like this: no, somehow every fucking night this week he’d managed to score some sort of tail. Alex wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Charles had mindfucked them all into ignoring his scores as they left the mansion for their walk of shame home.
“You have to teach me how you get these chicks,” Alex blurts out at last. Charles almost spit takes his coffee in shock. “I’m serious,” Alex begs. “Whatever it is that makes them want to fuck the shit out of you… God, I’m in some serious need of whatever you’re having. They can’t all be easy fucks… you don’t mind-bend them or any of that shit, do you?”
“Alex, I would never,” Charles says, voice shocked. Raven raises a single eyebrow at him. He purses his lips. “That was once, Raven-”
“He made himself look like Clark Gable,” Raven blurts out hastily. Charles looks half-annoyed, half-pleased with himself. “And he had like, fifteen girls hanging off him, in addition to the very cute, very male bartender that somehow ended up passing out in the backyard.”
Charles shrugs. “It was a good night.” A little smirk. A glint of pleased nostalgia. “And there were only three girls.”
“For the love of God, teach me your ways,” Alex pleads, hands pressed together in front of his chest as if in prayer. Please, please, please, Charles, do me this favor. Teach me.
Raven rolls her eyes. Charles looks thoughtful for a moment.
“Okay,” Charles says after a long moment of silent supplication from Alex as preamble. “But I have some rules.” Charles looks like he’s about to laugh, but Alex’s libido is too grateful for Alex to be embarrassed.
Hank walks into the kitchen as Alex does a victory lap of sheer elation.
“What did I miss?” the brunet asks, slipping his glasses off and rubbing them on his nightshirt.
“Charles is teaching Alex how to be a man whore,” Raven says dryly.
Hank tilts his head to the side. “A what?”
RULE ONE: “Dress the part.”
Alex frowns at his reflection.
“I’m not wearing this,” he yells to Charles.
Charles pokes his head out of the bathroom, shirt half buttoned, slightly bemused. “It appears that you are wearing that.”
“To clarify: I’m not wearing this in public,” Alex says.
“You’re wearing it,” Charles says with finality, clapping Alex on the shoulder. "I'm wearing a button down, Hank's wearing a button down. You're going to wear a button down. Deal with it."
"These are girl's jeans," Alex grumps. "And are you sure Hank should be coming with us tonight? Shouldn't we bring, like, Raven... or someone who can at least take a shot without wincing?"
"Just because they show you have an arse do not make them girl's jeans," Charles says, straightening out his collar in the mirror next to Alex. “Hank is coming with us. He’s had a long day in the lab, and he deserves a shot or three, no matter how much he may wince when he takes them. And, Raven is not interested in picking anyone up tonight, I already asked.”
Alex turns to look at his ass. “They do?” He raises his eyebrows appreciatively. “Raven’s just not coming just ‘cause she has the hots for Erik.”
Charles frowns. “Perhaps.”
They get to the bar and Charles takes command of the situation. “Go up to the bar and put your foot on the bottom rung of one of those bar stools,” Charles says in a low voice. “Just enough so that you can give everyone in here a good look at your arse. And take your time when you’re walking back from the bar: give the bartender his due diligence.”
“His name is Mark,” Hank says in a small voice that Alex cannot decipher.
“What the fuck is it with you and my ass,” Alex mutters, but he starts walking to the bar slow and sure, like he’s done it a thousand times. He puts his foot up on the bottom rung of the stool and leans forward, elbows on the edge of the bar.
He thinks he hears a murmur from somewhere behind him. He sticks his butt out a little more.
“Don’t look now,” the bartender says, sidling up to Alex, “but you’ve got two stupidly hot brunettes checking out your ass in the corner over there. What can I do you for?” Alex feels like the bartender is saying a lot of things with just a few words, and maybe that is the magic of bartending: that you can say so much, or so little, with What can I do you for. Mark has dark hair and scruff, and something about him is bizarrely comforting, like Alex has known him all his life. Alex feels something bristle deep in his stomach as his hand brushes the bartender’s when he hands him three beers and a couple of shots on a round plate, and he almost forgets to check the brunettes out in the corner of his eye. Almost.
The girls are stupidly hot, one with short hair bobbing just below her ears and a pouty lip, the other with long hair and absolutely massive tits. Alex allows himself a long look. When he gets back to Hank and Charles, Alex feels pretty pleased with himself.
“Well done,” Charles says with a smile. He grabs a beer and twists it open smoothly.
“The shots are for you, bozo,” Alex says, pushing the short glasses toward Hank after a short moment of Hank just staring at Alex like he’s never seen him before. Hank jumps a little and nods, taking one of the shots in his hand. Alex opens his beer.
“What now, wise guy?” Alex asks Charles. “What's the next rule?”
“Now, we drink,” Charles says. “You’re not ready for rule two.”
Hank takes his first shot as Alex’s mouth drops open.
“Not ready?” Alex says, voice low. Hank takes his second shot. Another wince.
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Charles says. “Now drink your beer and smile. You’re turning off the brunettes, and I’ve determined that Hank is going home with one of them.”
“Excuse you?” Alex says incredulously. Hank makes a sound as if someone’s just punched him in the gut.
“Charles, that is extremely unnecessary,” Hank stutters out.
“Can we take a moment to reflect on the fact that it was my ass that did all the dirty work this evening?” Alex points out. “Seriously.”
“Hank, you are two shots in and an incredible lightweight,” Charles says reasonably. “Take your inebriated state as a sign that you should just go for it.” Charles pushes Hank in the direction of the brunettes, and then turns back to Alex with a sly look in his eye. “I have greater plans for you, my student.”
“Greater plans that getting laid? I thought that was the plan,” Alex grunts, pulling up a seat at last to watch Hank stutter through perhaps the most awkward interactions of his entire life. Alex seethes, and he’s not sure who he’s madder at: Charles, for being an absolute dipshit about his little fucking rules, or Hank, for capitalizing on Alex’s ass. It was his ass, for crying out loud. Alex should be the one reaping its benefits, not Hank.
“This is bullshit,” Alex says gloomily.
“This is just the beginning,” Charles replies, as one of the brunettes appears to attack Hank with her mouth. Alex buries his head in his arms in aggravation.
“Want to know why that couldn’t be you?” Charles asks Alex, a little gleefully.
“WHY,” Alex asks, exasperated. “Why couldn’t it be me. And why, why the fuck does it get to be Hank.” Alex is nearly spitting with anger.
“Those two girls were never going to go home with you,” Charles says under his breath, trying to calm Alex. “They might have wanted you briefly, momentarily as you passed them by, but they’ve been staring daggers at Hank since he walked in the bar. They see you as a bad boy, dangerous, whatever the fuck they make up in their heads. They see Hank as they guy they can fuck silly and then take home to mom. They might want you, but they need Hank. Or at least, they can pretend until they wake up the next day.”
“This isn’t making me feel any better,” Alex says into his arms. “I want to feel better. Sex would make me feel better, Charles.”
Charles shoots him a look. “Go get us more booze,” Charles says in a strange tone, “and stop acting like a complete neophyte.”
RULE TWO: “Make your move.”
“For the purposes of right now,” Charles says, a smirk playing along his lips, “Erik is the target, and I am me. Pay close attention, Alex, and watch the master at work.” Alex rolls his eyes as Charles walks over to Erik, who has his nose buried in a newspaper. Alex isn’t sure exactly how Charles roped Erik into participating in this charade; perhaps, Charles had simply chosen the living room as their stage and Erik just happened to be sitting in the middle of it.
“You look bored," Charles drawls. Erik looks up at him from over the newspaper.
"Do I?" Erik asks lightly. Charles sits directly next to him.
"I am told I can be quite entertaining," Charles says. "Though I'm sure you get offers for entertainment all the time, looking the way you do."
"Looking like what?" Erik asks, still reading the paper.
"Tall, dark, and close to illegally handsome. You probably need some sort of permit from the pretty police," Charles says, laughing throatily.
Erik snorts but does not bite.
"Anyway, I just had to talk to you," Charles presses onward.
"Why, exactly?" Erik asks.
"To hear how an angel sounds, of course," Charles says, his eyes alight with glee and triumph: Alex knew he had a fondness for horrendous pick-up lines, but then again, Alex was the one seeking guidance here, and maybe pick-up lines were the way to glory.
Erik raises an eyebrow without making eye contact.
“You are playing extremely hard to get, Erik,” Charles says grumpily.
Erik bats his eyelashes. “You don’t say.” Alex almost laughs.
“I am trying to teach here, Erik,” Charles says pointedly. Erik sighs and puts the newspaper down.
“You were saying?” Erik grunts out unhappily.
Charles leans in closer and puts a hand on Erik's arm. "You have some absolutely, positively groovy mutations. Your brown hair, your pale skin. The flecks of light and dark blue in your eyes." His voice seems to deepen, the sound colored by want and lust and other things that Alex can't put a finger on. Erik leans forward a bit, and his lips part. "I'm not just talking about magnetism, baby, though that's cool and all. I'm talking animal magnetism."
"Gag me with a spoon," Alex murmurs, but Erik doesn't seem to be paying attention: instead, Erik is focusing on Charles's hand, which seems to be traveling up and down Erik's thigh, diving precariously close to naughtiness. Alex is confused: just a second ago, the hand had been on Erik's arm. The taller man makes a low sound like the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance and Alex swallows, a little uncertain.
"At this point, it doesn't matter what the fuck I'm saying to the mark, Alex," Charles says calmly, silkily, "as long as it's said with an even kilt, I maintain eye contact, and I maintain a firm pressure on the inner thigh, here-" And Charles presses his fingers in a certain way, and Erik groans.
"Enough," Erik says in a low voice. Charles doesn't move his hand for a long moment, then withdraws.
"Okay," the telepath says. "Okay." He glances at Alex but does not move from the chair. "I think that's enough for today, Alex, don't you think?"
The first time Alex tries the move Charles had displayed with Erik, he gets slapped and called a pervert.
The second time Alex tries it, he gets the messiest blowjob of his life in the bathroom of the bar.
"You are a fucking miracle worker," Alex says, stars still in his eyes, as he rejoins Armando, Raven, Erik, Charles, and Hank at the table.
Charles looks at Hank with a strange expression on his face, then orders the scientist another shot before offering Alex his "sincerest congratulations."
"Mazel tov," Erik laughs, clinking his glass against Alex's beer bottle. "Today, you are a man."
Hank doesn't look at Alex for the rest of the night, but Alex is too wasted, too high on success to give a shit about what special order of bullshit is running through the bozo's head.
RULE THREE: “Connect.”
"But it's a dude," Alex says in a low voice.
"Practice makes perfect, Alex," Charles says. "If you can't charm the pants off that man, we might as well just go home now. You need to own this routine so well you could convince the barstool into having sex with you. Now go make me proud. And remember: once you have his attention, connect for God's sake. Find something in common. Or make something up, I don't really give a shit."
"But it's a dude," Alex repeats. In reply, Raven pushes Alex in the direction of the sad looking boy with plump lips and light brown hair that falls into his eyes a little too easily for Alex's tastes. What fucking tastes, he's a dude. And then, unconsciously, before Alex can restrain his thoughts, he wonders what the brunet would look like giving head.
"Hey," Alex says, waving a little. "Anyone sitting here?" The man shakes his head, and Alex pulls up a chair next to him. He nods toward Mark, the bartender, and two beers seem to appear out of no where. The magic of bartending, indeed.
"I'm Alex," he says, offering a hand.
"John," he says, after a small pause. "John Allerdyce." The guy has an accent: British, or Australian, or some shit. Alex runs a hand up the back of his neck, and ignores the goosebumps on his skin.
Alex notices a matchbox in John's hands, half-empty. Alex watches as John lights a match, holding it between his pointer and middle finger. He lets it burn until it reaches his fingertips, then flicks it into the glass of water before him. A tendril of smoke floats up from the water, and the match floats on the surface, black against the clear liquid.
"You like fire?" Alex asks, voice just loud enough to be heard over the babble of the bar.
John lights another match, but this time, when he flings the match into the water, he somehow keeps the flame hovering in the air above his palm. Alex's chest tightens somehow, God, even though this guy is definitely dangerous, and definitely a mutant, Alex is mesmerized as he watches the flames dance across John's knuckles: the controlled, even keel of the fire's slow crawl across John's skin is starting to make Alex sweat in more ways than one. Alex clears his throat shakily.
"You could say that," John says.
Alex lets his hand hover over John's flame. "Wicked."
John blanches in surprise at Alex's immediate acceptance, and Alex feels a deep sadness that reminds him of himself, before Charles and Erik had rescued him from prison: the young adult who thought himself too dangerous for general population, the kid whose power was too strange, too horrible to consider using. Alex knows how John has to hide himself, knows how hard it can be to keep that part of yourself from the outside world.
John's smile becomes a little less of a sad smirk and a little more of a hopeful grin.
"I'm going to tell you a secret," Alex says, scooting in closer. "And I think you're going to like it."
And that's when Alex tells John about his own powers and Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr and Westchester House, and as Alex talks, he slides a careful, brave hand up John's thigh.
"It doesn't sound real," John says in Alex's ear once they've made it to the bathroom and Alex has his hands down John's pants.
"I'll take you there tonight, that's how fucking real it is," Alex murmurs in John's ear, and John is sighing and moaning into the space between them, and suddenly it doesn't matter that John's not a girl. All that matters is friction and heat, and when Alex closes his eyes and sees not John, but another brunet, horribly familiar and bozo-like, and even despite seeing that big-footed imbecile on the inside of his eyelids, Alex cannot bring himself to care about whether or not he's got both feet in fantasy or reality: he really could not give less of a shit about it. Really.
"Did you know he was a mutant when you sent me over there?" Alex asks Charles the next day. "Did you send me over to recruit him? With a handjob?"
Charles takes a sip of his coffee. "Did you enjoy it?"
Alex crosses his arms and scowls. "Does it matter?"
"No," Charles says, and Alex knows he's not talking about the handjob anymore. "It doesn't."
Because John-no, Pyro, he'd asked Alex to call him Pyro in the stall, and Alex did it, called him Pyro and some other fucked up shit Alex doesn’t even remember coming up with-had disappeared last night after the bathroom incident, out into the dark inky blackness beyond the bar and into the unknown. Erik had shrugged at the story and said simply, "I'll find him when he wants to be found." Charles had said nothing, just fixed Alex with this look of utter disappointment and Alex had wanted to blast it off his face.
Alex storms out of the room and practically runs into Hank on the way out.
“You okay?” Hank asks in a concerned voice.
Alex pushes Hank into the hallway and against the wall outside the kitchen.
“What the fuck,” Alex growls, “do you know,” he continues, pushing against Hank with his upper body, “about okay?”
“Alex, don’t,” Charles calls out from the kitchen. Alex hears a chair scratch against tiled floor, but he’s seeing red and nothing else really makes sense except Hank's weak frame beneath his fists.
Hank doesn’t fight back. “I think I know a lot more about it than you do right now,” he says in a low voice.
“Maybe you do,” Alex says as Charles pulls him off Hank. “Maybe you fucking do.”
Alex pushes Hank back against the wall with one final shove before walking away.
RULE FOUR: “Fuck like a professional.”
“I don’t care how shitty the blowjob is,” Charles intones. “I don’t care how lousy a fuck they are. I don’t care if you’ve realized in the walk from the bar to the bathroom stall how ugly they are, or whatever else is going on in that pretty little head of yours.” Charles raises his fingertips to his temple and says his final instructions telepathically.
You make them come. You make them come hard. You give them the best orgasm they’ve ever had in their life. And you make it look easy.
Alex flushes, but he nods.
I’m going to only show you this once.
And then Alex is hit with a barrage of images: Charles, leaning over a girl with one blue eye and one green eye, and the girl is groaning guttural nonsense as he fingers her roughly; the next scene is Charles, balls-deep in a short haired blonde girl who isn’t saying anything at all, just clawing at the bed sheet beneath her, moving her hips erratically against Charles’s pelvis; then, it’s like Alex is looking out from Charles’s eyes, and his hands-Charles’s hands-are furiously jerking off a dark haired gentlemen with a wolfish face, but all Alex can focus on are the dog-tags that hang off of the other man’s chest; and finally, the last image that Alex sees is Charles slipping into another man from behind, pumping in and out fluidly… Alex cannot see the face of the man that Charles is fucking, but he’s taller than Charles, and there’s some sort of marking on his inner arm, and Alex can take a guess at the man’s identity, but he’s not sure he wants to.
“Get it?” Charles asks, a little breathless himself.
“Got it,” Alex says roughly. He’s hard, and there’s not point in hiding it.
Charles lowers his fingertips. “Good.” He glances down at Alex’s hard-on. “Now go take care of that.”
RULE FIVE: “But don’t get professionally fucked."
"The most difficult lay in the bar is often the bartender," Charles murmurs in Alex's ear. "He's been watching you all night, or, in Mark's case, all month, picking up people left and right. He knows your moves: so don't use them." Alex feels like Charles is revving him up, winding his inner gears so that when his mentor lets him go, he can really soar. "Go get 'em, tiger."
Alex smiles and then, bizarrely, looks to his left at Hank, who is staring at Alex, yet again, with an odd expression.
"What's got you all jumbled up?" Alex asks, steam dissipating slightly.
"Alex, it's now or never," Charles murmurs.
Hank shrugs his shoulders. "I'm not the one who's jumbled."
Alex puzzles over the words as he approaches the bar. He plops himself into a seat and waits until Mark isn't busy to make his order.
"You know when someone's trying to tell you something," Alex begins, after Mark hands him a cold one-again, hands brush for a little too long, and Alex can nearly taste the sparks-, "and it's the most important thing in the world, but you just can't figure out what they mean?"
"I get that feeling a lot," Mark says, giving Alex a level look.
"Do you?" Alex asks, now intrigued.
"Yeah," Mark sighs. "Sometimes I think the world is trying to tell me something through the mouths of others. You know, like, cosmic shit."
"Maybe people are just trying to talk to you, dude," Alex suggests with a shrug. Mark's eyes seem very brown, almost a dark honey color that reflects the low lighting of the surrounding bar. He's got dark lashes that brush against his lower lids. When Mark is quiet, Alex makes his move. "Can I wait for you later? When you get off?"
Mark appraises him for a moment, then nods.
It's the dirtiest, quickest fuck Alex has ever had. They do it on the floor of the bar, and Alex has barely finishing coming when Mark asks him to pack his shit and get out. There's nothing about this fuck that makes Alex feel good about himself: no sense of accomplishment or victory. Alex supposes that the bartender is the most difficult lay for a reason. And maybe, Alex thinks, maybe the bartender should just stay behind the fucking bar.
Alex can’t even keep track of the number of people he’s had intimate relations with in the past month and a half: it’s more than he can count on both hands, more than he wants to admit to. Alex has gotten his rocks off with girls and boys, one time with twins: even Charles had been impressed at that score. Alex can picture the blowjobs he’s received with perfect clarity, can reminisce about the languid fucks he’s had. Charles has his rules, and his rules work like a proverbial charm. Alex was never wanting for a partner.
Alex clenches his fists and begins to pace his room.
Why, then, did he feel like so vacant inside? Like someone had carved out his stomach and left this vacuum, this dark void within him that could swallow him up from inside out.
Alex finds Charles in the living room with Erik, sitting across from each other with a chessboard in between them. They’re looking at each other intensely, as if a bomb has just exploded in the room.
“Excuse me,” Erik says in a curt voice. Charles looks like he wants to go after him, but he lets Erik leave without another word before turning to Alex.
“What is it?” Charles asks.
“I need to know the next step,” Alex says.
“Next step?” Charles asks, confused.
“I mean, what’s the next rule, Charles?” Alex asks, a little too greedily. “There has to be more. More I can learn.” Charles raises an eyebrow.
“I’ve taught you all I know, Alex. You’re a pro now,” Charles replies, and Alex detects a little sadness in his voice.
“If I know it all now, Charles,” Alex asks, “why then do I feel like utter shit?”
“Perhaps because the be-all and end-all of the human existence does not begin with a pick up line and end with an orgasm, Alex,” Charles bites back, and Alex is silent. “Just because you are a member of homo superior does not make you immune to the feelings and desires that most humans experience in their lifetime: lust, yes, but also longing for fulfillment and wholeness.”
“Yes,” Alex says. “I want to feel that. I want it.” He raises an eyebrow. “Are you reading my mind? Can you feel… how empty I am?”
Charles’s brow furrows. “I try not to pry when I can help it, Alex. But I have been through what you’re going through right now. I have been the guy in the bathroom of the bar: you know I have.” Charles runs a hand through his hair. “You’re out there searching for something, Alex: something to fill you up and make you a different, better person.” Charles’s eyes harden unexpectedly, and Alex almost jumps. “If you’re looking for a someone to fill that void, Alex, what you’re looking for does not exist. It is, for our purposes, a fairy tale. And you would be wise to keep that in mind the next time you think sex is the answer to all your problems.”
As Alex leaves, he looks back at Charles and thinks to himself that this isn’t the same man he met just a few weeks ago. This man is more troubled, perhaps… but somehow, sturdier. Alex, on the other hand, feels like he could blow away with the wind.
Alex is in the bunker, blasting some spare mannequins: the first two shots are way off, ricocheting off the ceiling and forcing Alex to duck for cover. The third shot is a bit better, but not good enough by Alex’s standards. He lets out a yell of frustration at himself, at Charles, at the world: how could life had been so cruel as to trick him into thinking he could be a normal guy in a normal bar picking up a normal girl or boy or, fuck it-
“Am I interrupting something?” a voice asks from the doorway. Alex shuts his mouth and realizes that he has been venting to the wall.
“No,” Alex says gruffly, turning toward Hank. Alex’s eyes widen.
Hank is wearing his white lab coat, a little too large for his small form. His brown hair flops in front of his eyes and is unkempt less in the I-just-crawled-out-of-bed way and more a I-haven’t-slept-in-a-bed-for-three-days-thanks-to-tireless-lab-work kind of way. Alex can only see Hank’s too-blue eyes shaded behind his too-thick glasses and God, suddenly, it all fucking clicks.
Fuck tight jeans and leather jackets, Alex thinks. Fuck pick-up lines and ‘perfect’ orgasms. Fuck Charles and his secrets, fuck John, and Mark, and the emptiness in my stomach. Fuck it all. Because it doesn’t matter if Hank can’t take a shot without wincing. It just doesn’t matter.
What Alex does say is, “Screw the rules,” and the next this he knows he’s attacked Hank with his lips.
Hank’s exclamation of surprise is muffled by Alex’s mouth, and Alex can hear a handful of pens scatter on the floor beneath them, probably making their escape from Hank’s pocket-protector at long last. Alex feels Hank hesitate, hands hovering in the air on either side of Alex’s face, unsure what exactly to make of this new development. In response, Alex presses his tongue against Hank’s teeth and Hank subtly threads his fingers against the nape of Alex’s neck.
It’s far from perfect: Hank accidentally shatters one of his fallen pens and the two of them end up half-covered in black ink by the time they’re finished. Alex nearly cuts his own dick off in an attempt to unzip himself with only one hand and Hank laughs. They can’t really cuddle afterwards because they’re in the goddamn bunker of all places, and Alex is pretty sure something is still on fire at the end of the room. They don’t come simultaneously, and Alex certainly doesn’t see fireworks, and for a long while, neither of them really knows what they’re doing.
It’s not perfect. But it’s pretty damn good.
“Tell me this isn’t another one of your rules,” Hank says breathlessly, hiking up his pants. “Seducing a co-worker. Attacking people with tongues.”
“It’s not a rule,” Alex laughs, and he closes his eyes for a long moment. “I’m done with the rules.”
“Hence ‘screw the rules,’ I presume?” Hank laughs.
“Yeah,” Alex says.
Hank looks at Hank from under his lashes. “Still a bozo, though?”
Alex snorts. “Always.”
“I can’t win them all, can I,” Hank says, picking up the fire extinguisher and walking toward the open flame at the end of the hanger, and all Alex can think, all he can fucking hold in his head is the idea of how good it feels to be something won.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Alex/Hank, Erik/Charles (secondary), Alex/OMC (secondary), Alex/Pyro (secondary)
Rating: NC-17 for a very slutty Alex Summers and language.
Word Count: 5,200
Genre: Slash, Humor, Romance
Summary: Alex is dying to know how Charles is so successful in bed: thus, Charles guides Alex into becoming the most excellent pick-up artist possible. Meanwhile, Hank watches in bewilderment.
Author’s Notes: We're gonna handwave away that Pyro doesn't belong in the 1960s. Beyond that, this is supposed to take place in that indefinite time between getting to Westchester House and leaving for Russia.
He realizes it when he sees Charles sauntering into the kitchen that morning: hair askew like someone’s been running their fingers through it; plum-colored bruises on his neck and (from what little Alex can see beneath Charles’s open shirt) his collarbone as well; lips too red and slightly plump; and that smug expression that reads I fucked someone thoroughly last night that lingers far beyond the morning after.
“You look positively post-coital,” Raven laughs, slinking into the room and grabbing a mug from the cupboard behind Charles. Charles takes a sip of his coffee and gives her a wordless look, all bulging eyes and brow wiggling. Raven harrumphs. “That good, huh?” Charles laughs, and it is a smooth chuckle that makes Alex’s blood boil. By this point in the conversation, Alex is almost groaning in sexual frustration. He hasn’t gotten any since before prison, and shit, how exactly was he supposed to just sit there while other people were being… satisfied.
It’s not that Charles has moseyed just once into the kitchen like this: no, somehow every fucking night this week he’d managed to score some sort of tail. Alex wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Charles had mindfucked them all into ignoring his scores as they left the mansion for their walk of shame home.
“You have to teach me how you get these chicks,” Alex blurts out at last. Charles almost spit takes his coffee in shock. “I’m serious,” Alex begs. “Whatever it is that makes them want to fuck the shit out of you… God, I’m in some serious need of whatever you’re having. They can’t all be easy fucks… you don’t mind-bend them or any of that shit, do you?”
“Alex, I would never,” Charles says, voice shocked. Raven raises a single eyebrow at him. He purses his lips. “That was once, Raven-”
“He made himself look like Clark Gable,” Raven blurts out hastily. Charles looks half-annoyed, half-pleased with himself. “And he had like, fifteen girls hanging off him, in addition to the very cute, very male bartender that somehow ended up passing out in the backyard.”
Charles shrugs. “It was a good night.” A little smirk. A glint of pleased nostalgia. “And there were only three girls.”
“For the love of God, teach me your ways,” Alex pleads, hands pressed together in front of his chest as if in prayer. Please, please, please, Charles, do me this favor. Teach me.
Raven rolls her eyes. Charles looks thoughtful for a moment.
“Okay,” Charles says after a long moment of silent supplication from Alex as preamble. “But I have some rules.” Charles looks like he’s about to laugh, but Alex’s libido is too grateful for Alex to be embarrassed.
Hank walks into the kitchen as Alex does a victory lap of sheer elation.
“What did I miss?” the brunet asks, slipping his glasses off and rubbing them on his nightshirt.
“Charles is teaching Alex how to be a man whore,” Raven says dryly.
Hank tilts his head to the side. “A what?”
RULE ONE: “Dress the part.”
Alex frowns at his reflection.
“I’m not wearing this,” he yells to Charles.
Charles pokes his head out of the bathroom, shirt half buttoned, slightly bemused. “It appears that you are wearing that.”
“To clarify: I’m not wearing this in public,” Alex says.
“You’re wearing it,” Charles says with finality, clapping Alex on the shoulder. "I'm wearing a button down, Hank's wearing a button down. You're going to wear a button down. Deal with it."
"These are girl's jeans," Alex grumps. "And are you sure Hank should be coming with us tonight? Shouldn't we bring, like, Raven... or someone who can at least take a shot without wincing?"
"Just because they show you have an arse do not make them girl's jeans," Charles says, straightening out his collar in the mirror next to Alex. “Hank is coming with us. He’s had a long day in the lab, and he deserves a shot or three, no matter how much he may wince when he takes them. And, Raven is not interested in picking anyone up tonight, I already asked.”
Alex turns to look at his ass. “They do?” He raises his eyebrows appreciatively. “Raven’s just not coming just ‘cause she has the hots for Erik.”
Charles frowns. “Perhaps.”
They get to the bar and Charles takes command of the situation. “Go up to the bar and put your foot on the bottom rung of one of those bar stools,” Charles says in a low voice. “Just enough so that you can give everyone in here a good look at your arse. And take your time when you’re walking back from the bar: give the bartender his due diligence.”
“His name is Mark,” Hank says in a small voice that Alex cannot decipher.
“What the fuck is it with you and my ass,” Alex mutters, but he starts walking to the bar slow and sure, like he’s done it a thousand times. He puts his foot up on the bottom rung of the stool and leans forward, elbows on the edge of the bar.
He thinks he hears a murmur from somewhere behind him. He sticks his butt out a little more.
“Don’t look now,” the bartender says, sidling up to Alex, “but you’ve got two stupidly hot brunettes checking out your ass in the corner over there. What can I do you for?” Alex feels like the bartender is saying a lot of things with just a few words, and maybe that is the magic of bartending: that you can say so much, or so little, with What can I do you for. Mark has dark hair and scruff, and something about him is bizarrely comforting, like Alex has known him all his life. Alex feels something bristle deep in his stomach as his hand brushes the bartender’s when he hands him three beers and a couple of shots on a round plate, and he almost forgets to check the brunettes out in the corner of his eye. Almost.
The girls are stupidly hot, one with short hair bobbing just below her ears and a pouty lip, the other with long hair and absolutely massive tits. Alex allows himself a long look. When he gets back to Hank and Charles, Alex feels pretty pleased with himself.
“Well done,” Charles says with a smile. He grabs a beer and twists it open smoothly.
“The shots are for you, bozo,” Alex says, pushing the short glasses toward Hank after a short moment of Hank just staring at Alex like he’s never seen him before. Hank jumps a little and nods, taking one of the shots in his hand. Alex opens his beer.
“What now, wise guy?” Alex asks Charles. “What's the next rule?”
“Now, we drink,” Charles says. “You’re not ready for rule two.”
Hank takes his first shot as Alex’s mouth drops open.
“Not ready?” Alex says, voice low. Hank takes his second shot. Another wince.
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Charles says. “Now drink your beer and smile. You’re turning off the brunettes, and I’ve determined that Hank is going home with one of them.”
“Excuse you?” Alex says incredulously. Hank makes a sound as if someone’s just punched him in the gut.
“Charles, that is extremely unnecessary,” Hank stutters out.
“Can we take a moment to reflect on the fact that it was my ass that did all the dirty work this evening?” Alex points out. “Seriously.”
“Hank, you are two shots in and an incredible lightweight,” Charles says reasonably. “Take your inebriated state as a sign that you should just go for it.” Charles pushes Hank in the direction of the brunettes, and then turns back to Alex with a sly look in his eye. “I have greater plans for you, my student.”
“Greater plans that getting laid? I thought that was the plan,” Alex grunts, pulling up a seat at last to watch Hank stutter through perhaps the most awkward interactions of his entire life. Alex seethes, and he’s not sure who he’s madder at: Charles, for being an absolute dipshit about his little fucking rules, or Hank, for capitalizing on Alex’s ass. It was his ass, for crying out loud. Alex should be the one reaping its benefits, not Hank.
“This is bullshit,” Alex says gloomily.
“This is just the beginning,” Charles replies, as one of the brunettes appears to attack Hank with her mouth. Alex buries his head in his arms in aggravation.
“Want to know why that couldn’t be you?” Charles asks Alex, a little gleefully.
“WHY,” Alex asks, exasperated. “Why couldn’t it be me. And why, why the fuck does it get to be Hank.” Alex is nearly spitting with anger.
“Those two girls were never going to go home with you,” Charles says under his breath, trying to calm Alex. “They might have wanted you briefly, momentarily as you passed them by, but they’ve been staring daggers at Hank since he walked in the bar. They see you as a bad boy, dangerous, whatever the fuck they make up in their heads. They see Hank as they guy they can fuck silly and then take home to mom. They might want you, but they need Hank. Or at least, they can pretend until they wake up the next day.”
“This isn’t making me feel any better,” Alex says into his arms. “I want to feel better. Sex would make me feel better, Charles.”
Charles shoots him a look. “Go get us more booze,” Charles says in a strange tone, “and stop acting like a complete neophyte.”
RULE TWO: “Make your move.”
“For the purposes of right now,” Charles says, a smirk playing along his lips, “Erik is the target, and I am me. Pay close attention, Alex, and watch the master at work.” Alex rolls his eyes as Charles walks over to Erik, who has his nose buried in a newspaper. Alex isn’t sure exactly how Charles roped Erik into participating in this charade; perhaps, Charles had simply chosen the living room as their stage and Erik just happened to be sitting in the middle of it.
“You look bored," Charles drawls. Erik looks up at him from over the newspaper.
"Do I?" Erik asks lightly. Charles sits directly next to him.
"I am told I can be quite entertaining," Charles says. "Though I'm sure you get offers for entertainment all the time, looking the way you do."
"Looking like what?" Erik asks, still reading the paper.
"Tall, dark, and close to illegally handsome. You probably need some sort of permit from the pretty police," Charles says, laughing throatily.
Erik snorts but does not bite.
"Anyway, I just had to talk to you," Charles presses onward.
"Why, exactly?" Erik asks.
"To hear how an angel sounds, of course," Charles says, his eyes alight with glee and triumph: Alex knew he had a fondness for horrendous pick-up lines, but then again, Alex was the one seeking guidance here, and maybe pick-up lines were the way to glory.
Erik raises an eyebrow without making eye contact.
“You are playing extremely hard to get, Erik,” Charles says grumpily.
Erik bats his eyelashes. “You don’t say.” Alex almost laughs.
“I am trying to teach here, Erik,” Charles says pointedly. Erik sighs and puts the newspaper down.
“You were saying?” Erik grunts out unhappily.
Charles leans in closer and puts a hand on Erik's arm. "You have some absolutely, positively groovy mutations. Your brown hair, your pale skin. The flecks of light and dark blue in your eyes." His voice seems to deepen, the sound colored by want and lust and other things that Alex can't put a finger on. Erik leans forward a bit, and his lips part. "I'm not just talking about magnetism, baby, though that's cool and all. I'm talking animal magnetism."
"Gag me with a spoon," Alex murmurs, but Erik doesn't seem to be paying attention: instead, Erik is focusing on Charles's hand, which seems to be traveling up and down Erik's thigh, diving precariously close to naughtiness. Alex is confused: just a second ago, the hand had been on Erik's arm. The taller man makes a low sound like the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance and Alex swallows, a little uncertain.
"At this point, it doesn't matter what the fuck I'm saying to the mark, Alex," Charles says calmly, silkily, "as long as it's said with an even kilt, I maintain eye contact, and I maintain a firm pressure on the inner thigh, here-" And Charles presses his fingers in a certain way, and Erik groans.
"Enough," Erik says in a low voice. Charles doesn't move his hand for a long moment, then withdraws.
"Okay," the telepath says. "Okay." He glances at Alex but does not move from the chair. "I think that's enough for today, Alex, don't you think?"
The first time Alex tries the move Charles had displayed with Erik, he gets slapped and called a pervert.
The second time Alex tries it, he gets the messiest blowjob of his life in the bathroom of the bar.
"You are a fucking miracle worker," Alex says, stars still in his eyes, as he rejoins Armando, Raven, Erik, Charles, and Hank at the table.
Charles looks at Hank with a strange expression on his face, then orders the scientist another shot before offering Alex his "sincerest congratulations."
"Mazel tov," Erik laughs, clinking his glass against Alex's beer bottle. "Today, you are a man."
Hank doesn't look at Alex for the rest of the night, but Alex is too wasted, too high on success to give a shit about what special order of bullshit is running through the bozo's head.
RULE THREE: “Connect.”
"But it's a dude," Alex says in a low voice.
"Practice makes perfect, Alex," Charles says. "If you can't charm the pants off that man, we might as well just go home now. You need to own this routine so well you could convince the barstool into having sex with you. Now go make me proud. And remember: once you have his attention, connect for God's sake. Find something in common. Or make something up, I don't really give a shit."
"But it's a dude," Alex repeats. In reply, Raven pushes Alex in the direction of the sad looking boy with plump lips and light brown hair that falls into his eyes a little too easily for Alex's tastes. What fucking tastes, he's a dude. And then, unconsciously, before Alex can restrain his thoughts, he wonders what the brunet would look like giving head.
"Hey," Alex says, waving a little. "Anyone sitting here?" The man shakes his head, and Alex pulls up a chair next to him. He nods toward Mark, the bartender, and two beers seem to appear out of no where. The magic of bartending, indeed.
"I'm Alex," he says, offering a hand.
"John," he says, after a small pause. "John Allerdyce." The guy has an accent: British, or Australian, or some shit. Alex runs a hand up the back of his neck, and ignores the goosebumps on his skin.
Alex notices a matchbox in John's hands, half-empty. Alex watches as John lights a match, holding it between his pointer and middle finger. He lets it burn until it reaches his fingertips, then flicks it into the glass of water before him. A tendril of smoke floats up from the water, and the match floats on the surface, black against the clear liquid.
"You like fire?" Alex asks, voice just loud enough to be heard over the babble of the bar.
John lights another match, but this time, when he flings the match into the water, he somehow keeps the flame hovering in the air above his palm. Alex's chest tightens somehow, God, even though this guy is definitely dangerous, and definitely a mutant, Alex is mesmerized as he watches the flames dance across John's knuckles: the controlled, even keel of the fire's slow crawl across John's skin is starting to make Alex sweat in more ways than one. Alex clears his throat shakily.
"You could say that," John says.
Alex lets his hand hover over John's flame. "Wicked."
John blanches in surprise at Alex's immediate acceptance, and Alex feels a deep sadness that reminds him of himself, before Charles and Erik had rescued him from prison: the young adult who thought himself too dangerous for general population, the kid whose power was too strange, too horrible to consider using. Alex knows how John has to hide himself, knows how hard it can be to keep that part of yourself from the outside world.
John's smile becomes a little less of a sad smirk and a little more of a hopeful grin.
"I'm going to tell you a secret," Alex says, scooting in closer. "And I think you're going to like it."
And that's when Alex tells John about his own powers and Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr and Westchester House, and as Alex talks, he slides a careful, brave hand up John's thigh.
"It doesn't sound real," John says in Alex's ear once they've made it to the bathroom and Alex has his hands down John's pants.
"I'll take you there tonight, that's how fucking real it is," Alex murmurs in John's ear, and John is sighing and moaning into the space between them, and suddenly it doesn't matter that John's not a girl. All that matters is friction and heat, and when Alex closes his eyes and sees not John, but another brunet, horribly familiar and bozo-like, and even despite seeing that big-footed imbecile on the inside of his eyelids, Alex cannot bring himself to care about whether or not he's got both feet in fantasy or reality: he really could not give less of a shit about it. Really.
"Did you know he was a mutant when you sent me over there?" Alex asks Charles the next day. "Did you send me over to recruit him? With a handjob?"
Charles takes a sip of his coffee. "Did you enjoy it?"
Alex crosses his arms and scowls. "Does it matter?"
"No," Charles says, and Alex knows he's not talking about the handjob anymore. "It doesn't."
Because John-no, Pyro, he'd asked Alex to call him Pyro in the stall, and Alex did it, called him Pyro and some other fucked up shit Alex doesn’t even remember coming up with-had disappeared last night after the bathroom incident, out into the dark inky blackness beyond the bar and into the unknown. Erik had shrugged at the story and said simply, "I'll find him when he wants to be found." Charles had said nothing, just fixed Alex with this look of utter disappointment and Alex had wanted to blast it off his face.
Alex storms out of the room and practically runs into Hank on the way out.
“You okay?” Hank asks in a concerned voice.
Alex pushes Hank into the hallway and against the wall outside the kitchen.
“What the fuck,” Alex growls, “do you know,” he continues, pushing against Hank with his upper body, “about okay?”
“Alex, don’t,” Charles calls out from the kitchen. Alex hears a chair scratch against tiled floor, but he’s seeing red and nothing else really makes sense except Hank's weak frame beneath his fists.
Hank doesn’t fight back. “I think I know a lot more about it than you do right now,” he says in a low voice.
“Maybe you do,” Alex says as Charles pulls him off Hank. “Maybe you fucking do.”
Alex pushes Hank back against the wall with one final shove before walking away.
RULE FOUR: “Fuck like a professional.”
“I don’t care how shitty the blowjob is,” Charles intones. “I don’t care how lousy a fuck they are. I don’t care if you’ve realized in the walk from the bar to the bathroom stall how ugly they are, or whatever else is going on in that pretty little head of yours.” Charles raises his fingertips to his temple and says his final instructions telepathically.
You make them come. You make them come hard. You give them the best orgasm they’ve ever had in their life. And you make it look easy.
Alex flushes, but he nods.
I’m going to only show you this once.
And then Alex is hit with a barrage of images: Charles, leaning over a girl with one blue eye and one green eye, and the girl is groaning guttural nonsense as he fingers her roughly; the next scene is Charles, balls-deep in a short haired blonde girl who isn’t saying anything at all, just clawing at the bed sheet beneath her, moving her hips erratically against Charles’s pelvis; then, it’s like Alex is looking out from Charles’s eyes, and his hands-Charles’s hands-are furiously jerking off a dark haired gentlemen with a wolfish face, but all Alex can focus on are the dog-tags that hang off of the other man’s chest; and finally, the last image that Alex sees is Charles slipping into another man from behind, pumping in and out fluidly… Alex cannot see the face of the man that Charles is fucking, but he’s taller than Charles, and there’s some sort of marking on his inner arm, and Alex can take a guess at the man’s identity, but he’s not sure he wants to.
“Get it?” Charles asks, a little breathless himself.
“Got it,” Alex says roughly. He’s hard, and there’s not point in hiding it.
Charles lowers his fingertips. “Good.” He glances down at Alex’s hard-on. “Now go take care of that.”
RULE FIVE: “But don’t get professionally fucked."
"The most difficult lay in the bar is often the bartender," Charles murmurs in Alex's ear. "He's been watching you all night, or, in Mark's case, all month, picking up people left and right. He knows your moves: so don't use them." Alex feels like Charles is revving him up, winding his inner gears so that when his mentor lets him go, he can really soar. "Go get 'em, tiger."
Alex smiles and then, bizarrely, looks to his left at Hank, who is staring at Alex, yet again, with an odd expression.
"What's got you all jumbled up?" Alex asks, steam dissipating slightly.
"Alex, it's now or never," Charles murmurs.
Hank shrugs his shoulders. "I'm not the one who's jumbled."
Alex puzzles over the words as he approaches the bar. He plops himself into a seat and waits until Mark isn't busy to make his order.
"You know when someone's trying to tell you something," Alex begins, after Mark hands him a cold one-again, hands brush for a little too long, and Alex can nearly taste the sparks-, "and it's the most important thing in the world, but you just can't figure out what they mean?"
"I get that feeling a lot," Mark says, giving Alex a level look.
"Do you?" Alex asks, now intrigued.
"Yeah," Mark sighs. "Sometimes I think the world is trying to tell me something through the mouths of others. You know, like, cosmic shit."
"Maybe people are just trying to talk to you, dude," Alex suggests with a shrug. Mark's eyes seem very brown, almost a dark honey color that reflects the low lighting of the surrounding bar. He's got dark lashes that brush against his lower lids. When Mark is quiet, Alex makes his move. "Can I wait for you later? When you get off?"
Mark appraises him for a moment, then nods.
It's the dirtiest, quickest fuck Alex has ever had. They do it on the floor of the bar, and Alex has barely finishing coming when Mark asks him to pack his shit and get out. There's nothing about this fuck that makes Alex feel good about himself: no sense of accomplishment or victory. Alex supposes that the bartender is the most difficult lay for a reason. And maybe, Alex thinks, maybe the bartender should just stay behind the fucking bar.
Alex can’t even keep track of the number of people he’s had intimate relations with in the past month and a half: it’s more than he can count on both hands, more than he wants to admit to. Alex has gotten his rocks off with girls and boys, one time with twins: even Charles had been impressed at that score. Alex can picture the blowjobs he’s received with perfect clarity, can reminisce about the languid fucks he’s had. Charles has his rules, and his rules work like a proverbial charm. Alex was never wanting for a partner.
Alex clenches his fists and begins to pace his room.
Why, then, did he feel like so vacant inside? Like someone had carved out his stomach and left this vacuum, this dark void within him that could swallow him up from inside out.
Alex finds Charles in the living room with Erik, sitting across from each other with a chessboard in between them. They’re looking at each other intensely, as if a bomb has just exploded in the room.
“Excuse me,” Erik says in a curt voice. Charles looks like he wants to go after him, but he lets Erik leave without another word before turning to Alex.
“What is it?” Charles asks.
“I need to know the next step,” Alex says.
“Next step?” Charles asks, confused.
“I mean, what’s the next rule, Charles?” Alex asks, a little too greedily. “There has to be more. More I can learn.” Charles raises an eyebrow.
“I’ve taught you all I know, Alex. You’re a pro now,” Charles replies, and Alex detects a little sadness in his voice.
“If I know it all now, Charles,” Alex asks, “why then do I feel like utter shit?”
“Perhaps because the be-all and end-all of the human existence does not begin with a pick up line and end with an orgasm, Alex,” Charles bites back, and Alex is silent. “Just because you are a member of homo superior does not make you immune to the feelings and desires that most humans experience in their lifetime: lust, yes, but also longing for fulfillment and wholeness.”
“Yes,” Alex says. “I want to feel that. I want it.” He raises an eyebrow. “Are you reading my mind? Can you feel… how empty I am?”
Charles’s brow furrows. “I try not to pry when I can help it, Alex. But I have been through what you’re going through right now. I have been the guy in the bathroom of the bar: you know I have.” Charles runs a hand through his hair. “You’re out there searching for something, Alex: something to fill you up and make you a different, better person.” Charles’s eyes harden unexpectedly, and Alex almost jumps. “If you’re looking for a someone to fill that void, Alex, what you’re looking for does not exist. It is, for our purposes, a fairy tale. And you would be wise to keep that in mind the next time you think sex is the answer to all your problems.”
As Alex leaves, he looks back at Charles and thinks to himself that this isn’t the same man he met just a few weeks ago. This man is more troubled, perhaps… but somehow, sturdier. Alex, on the other hand, feels like he could blow away with the wind.
Alex is in the bunker, blasting some spare mannequins: the first two shots are way off, ricocheting off the ceiling and forcing Alex to duck for cover. The third shot is a bit better, but not good enough by Alex’s standards. He lets out a yell of frustration at himself, at Charles, at the world: how could life had been so cruel as to trick him into thinking he could be a normal guy in a normal bar picking up a normal girl or boy or, fuck it-
“Am I interrupting something?” a voice asks from the doorway. Alex shuts his mouth and realizes that he has been venting to the wall.
“No,” Alex says gruffly, turning toward Hank. Alex’s eyes widen.
Hank is wearing his white lab coat, a little too large for his small form. His brown hair flops in front of his eyes and is unkempt less in the I-just-crawled-out-of-bed way and more a I-haven’t-slept-in-a-bed-for-three-days-thanks-to-tireless-lab-work kind of way. Alex can only see Hank’s too-blue eyes shaded behind his too-thick glasses and God, suddenly, it all fucking clicks.
Fuck tight jeans and leather jackets, Alex thinks. Fuck pick-up lines and ‘perfect’ orgasms. Fuck Charles and his secrets, fuck John, and Mark, and the emptiness in my stomach. Fuck it all. Because it doesn’t matter if Hank can’t take a shot without wincing. It just doesn’t matter.
What Alex does say is, “Screw the rules,” and the next this he knows he’s attacked Hank with his lips.
Hank’s exclamation of surprise is muffled by Alex’s mouth, and Alex can hear a handful of pens scatter on the floor beneath them, probably making their escape from Hank’s pocket-protector at long last. Alex feels Hank hesitate, hands hovering in the air on either side of Alex’s face, unsure what exactly to make of this new development. In response, Alex presses his tongue against Hank’s teeth and Hank subtly threads his fingers against the nape of Alex’s neck.
It’s far from perfect: Hank accidentally shatters one of his fallen pens and the two of them end up half-covered in black ink by the time they’re finished. Alex nearly cuts his own dick off in an attempt to unzip himself with only one hand and Hank laughs. They can’t really cuddle afterwards because they’re in the goddamn bunker of all places, and Alex is pretty sure something is still on fire at the end of the room. They don’t come simultaneously, and Alex certainly doesn’t see fireworks, and for a long while, neither of them really knows what they’re doing.
It’s not perfect. But it’s pretty damn good.
“Tell me this isn’t another one of your rules,” Hank says breathlessly, hiking up his pants. “Seducing a co-worker. Attacking people with tongues.”
“It’s not a rule,” Alex laughs, and he closes his eyes for a long moment. “I’m done with the rules.”
“Hence ‘screw the rules,’ I presume?” Hank laughs.
“Yeah,” Alex says.
Hank looks at Hank from under his lashes. “Still a bozo, though?”
Alex snorts. “Always.”
“I can’t win them all, can I,” Hank says, picking up the fire extinguisher and walking toward the open flame at the end of the hanger, and all Alex can think, all he can fucking hold in his head is the idea of how good it feels to be something won.