Why, The Fax Machine Is Nothing But A Waffle Iron With A Phone Attached.
So all of this bullshit that I'm about to post? It's all stripedpetunia's fault. She basically harassed me until I wrote Alex and Scott being ridiculous and naked together. In haiku, no less. So you know, blame her. She was also kind enough to look things over, give me "Shamstralian" like the gift it is, and fix my most egregious errors, so none of you will be scarred by accidental duck porn. (You don't wanna know.)
And while I don't usually disclaim because I know you're all adults who can tell reality from fantasy, I figure it might be necessary for this story since I'm writing about real people. So disclaimer: this is not in any way real, Alex is not actually a fratboy in real life, Scott is not actually gay for Alex, real TV show sets don't work like this, although I'm pretty sure Grace is that nice and polite in real life. Also, there is clichés and schmoopy times galore. In between all the cursing and shenanigans. Because I am a sap. Just so you're fully aware.
So 5,571 words of Alex/Scott RPS wherein Alex gropes Scott because he is the most unsubtle man on the planet and Scott is noble and poetic in humiliating defeat.
When I Get Scandalous
Their first meeting goes something like this:
"Hey," Alex says with a sunny grin, "you're Sonny Corleone's kid."
"Hey," Scott says awkwardly, "you're that vampire… guy." Because he'd literally read the press release on the plane ride over to Hawaii and had seen the long list of shows that had died ignoble deaths at Alex's hands. He's hoping that this isn't a harbinger of things to come for this show. He's already had to fend off his dad's concern disguised as career advice, and he really isn't looking forward to the silent "I told you so" looks he's going to get if this show tanks.
Also, there's no good comeback for the Corleone thing. He's spent twenty-three years trying to come up with one, but he's just had to make peace with the fact that he's always going to be known as Sonny Corleone Jr. to some people and his asshole friends. Could be worse; he could still be Mad Skillz, for one.
Alex smiles wide and claps Scott on the shoulders, like he's going to lift him up in a bear hug at any moment. "You know," he tilts his head and looks Scott over intently, "you're a lot shorter in person. You're practically a midget."
It never gets any better after that.
***
The thing that Scott learns about Alex in the first few weeks is that he's completely crazy. He doesn't even mean that in a hyperbolic sense, like he does with all his other friends who are normal by Hollywood standards and crazy by normal peoples' standards, but actually crazy: Alex is psychotic on levels Scott didn't even know existed, and no one seems to have noticed but him. Alex invades everyone's personal space like he's got an engraved invitation, he flirts like he breathes, even with Grace who treats him with an irritated affection that seems to be the set's default reaction to his brand of humor, and constantly fights with the producers and stuntmen to jump off buildings and cargo holds and moving cars, despite his agent and the insurance company throwing epic shit fits.
Scott has an entire roll of film dedicated just to Alex's ass, okay? Alex had found out that he does photography on the side and spent a few weeks demanding that Scott take a picture of Alex's ass every time Scott was out with his camera. Scott is totally expecting to find a picture of Alex's balls when he develops his film because Alex likes to steal Scott's camera and take random pictures of shit he thinks is interesting, which is why Scott has two rolls of various shots of pavements around Hawaii and a couple of really pissy-looking gulls giving Alex stink-eye.
He's that guy.
Scott isn't sure if this kind of insanity is just an Alex thing or something endemic to Australians in general, but he rolls with it because he's professional like that. Someone has to be the dad on this show, and Daniel and Grace have actual families to be with after the day's over with, so it falls to Scott to try and keep Alex in line.
"How can you be Australian and not surf?" he asks Alex as they're waiting for their shot to be set up, both of them leaning against the car, arms crossed over their chests, heads tilted toward each other. "You're like a sham Australian. You're a Shamstralian."
Alex squints at him like he's pondering taking offense. "That's stereotyping, you know that," he says in that broad Australian accent that always jars Scott because he's so used to Alex's American accent when the cameras are rolling.
"I mean," Scott makes a complicated loop with his hand because he and Danny really aren't that far apart in terms of hand gestures, "don't they kick you out of the country for not knowing how to surf? Isn't there some kind of rule about that?"
"Your grasp of culture is really fucking appalling," Alex sniffs, offended now that he's had a chance to think about it.
"I didn't make a Crocodile Dundee joke, now did I?"
Alex has a sulky look on his face. It's kind of cute. "You made the Crocodile Hunter joke, though. You always take cheapshots at me."
Scott grins as the director gives them the signal that they're ready to shoot. "That's because you're cheap. Say 'crikey', Alex."
"See if I put out for you anymore," he huffs and walks away, getting to his mark as they call for action and the cameras start rolling. In the time it takes Scott to blink, he's gone from Alex to Steve, his shoulders straightening out, his spine stiffening, and his accent becoming tighter as he slips into his American persona. It's impressive, considering that thirty seconds ago, he was making jokes about being Scott's girlfriend and leaning up against Scott's hip like they actually are dating.
Regardless of what people think about Alex, he's a professional. He's crazy and completely inappropriate and he's constantly grabbing Scott's ass like it's the key to saving the planet, but he does his job with no fuss or complaints, and Scott appreciates people like that. He's worked with enough unprofessional fuckers in his career that he has a lot of respect for people who do their work with minimum dramatics or ego, and Alex is as easygoing and down-to-earth as they come.
Which doesn't mean that Alex doesn't do stupid shit to amuse people or intentionally flub lines when he gets tired and punchy or drape himself all over Scott like he's Scott's living Snuggie just because he knows it irritates the shit out of him. He's basically a gigantic overgrown kid who gets to play cops and robbers for a living, and the worst thing you can say about Alex is that he's a little too enthusiastic at times. You can't really get mad at him; it's too much like kicking a puppy. Come to think of it, he and Dot do make the same sad faces when Scott scolds them for misbehavior.
The sun hits the camera wrong and they have to stop rolling to readjust, so Alex comes back to the car. He hitches his hip against the door and leans into Scott, grinning like an asshole because that is his default setting. "So, dinner?"
"Thought you weren't putting out for me anymore," Scott says blandly, feeling a smile threatening to break out.
Alex shrugs easily. "I've forgiven you. You can't help being a fucker. It's part of who you are and I have to accept that."
Scott nods thoughtfully. "You watch Oprah when I'm not there, don't you?"
"Dr. Phil," Alex says lightly, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning his shoulder into Scott's, even though he has to duck down a bit to do it. "He makes a lot of sense."
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that." Scott checks his phone, ignoring the way Alex leans over and shoves his face against Scott's.
"Why are you always in my face?" Scott asks irritatedly, jabbing at Alex with his elbow until he gets some breathing room.
"Oh, honey, let's not fight in front of the family," Alex laughs, and Scott sighs and briefly wishes for George Clooney and his endless pranks because at least Scott could deal with that bullshit. George is a lunatic, but he has the decency to keep it restricted to toilet humor and the occasional witty bon mot when he's in the mood; Alex just mauls Scott like a tiger cub playing with its prey, and Scott's starting to to get sore from all the groping that Alex does as a matter of course.
"Blow me," he snaps at Alex, and to his credit, Alex seems to get that Scott isn't in the mood to play because he just holds up his hands and backs away slowly.
Scott feels his stomach twist into knots as Alex gives him a wounded look, calling himself an idiot even he caves like cheap cardboard because he is incapable of not giving in to Alex. "Pizza," he offers as Alex turns to leave. "We can order in." Alex smiles, bright and wide, and Scott's pretty sure that he's utterly fucked.
"Pineapple?" Alex asks cheerfully, squinting as the sun tries to blind him.
Scott glares at him. "Hey, just because I'm from L.A.--"
"So that's a no then?"
Scott flips him off and deliberately does not watch him walk away, his laughter ringing in Scott's ear.
***
It's the end of the day and Scott's heading toward his car, thinking about showering and hitting one of the clubs, when he notices Daniel and Alex leaning against each other, watching something on Daniel's phone. He has no idea what they're doing, and he doesn't want to know. He's learned the hard way that while Daniel is a lovely person by himself, he becomes an absolute menace around Alex, getting roped into his insanity until Scott has to take a walk or explode where he stands.
He's never forgiving either one of them for the shredded swimsuit incident. Some things you just don't forgive if you want to be able to live with yourself afterward.
Whatever it is they're watching, it seems to be amusing the shit out of both of them because Daniel's wiping his eyes like he's crying and Alex is making those high-pitched, weepy sounds that only come when he's laughing hard enough to lose his breath.
Not that Scott has spent a lot of time trying to make Alex sound like that. Or cataloguing every variation on his laugh in the two months they've worked together.
He walks by them and doesn't stop, waving when Alex calls his name. His life is ridiculous enough already, no need to make it worse by letting himself get pulled into Alex's reindeer games.
The next day, he's blocking out a scene with Grace and the director when Alex pops by, white headphones in his ears, iPod in his hand, shaking his limbs in uncoordinated, spastic movements like he's having a seizure. It had taken Scott a while to figure out that Alex just dances like that and he hasn't been able to stop laughing since.
"Hey, John Travolta," he calls to Alex over the director's shoulder, "this ain't Saturday Night Fever. You gotta go."
Alex just grins and heads over to him like Scott had meant for him to come over when he'd just told the guy to fuck off. In a polite way. He ignores Scott's eyerolling and just leans into him, his arm draped over Scott's shoulder. "Wanna hear this new band I discovered?" he asks Grace, a gleam in his eye that never bodes well for Scott.
The director rolls his eyes and tells Scott he'll be back in five. Scott would be pissed about how easily everyone gives in to Alex, but the man is a force of nature, smoothing over everyone's objections with his goofy charm and filthy humor. Scott has yet to find someone who can hate the guy after knowing him for five minutes.
Grace raises an eyebrow at Alex's interruption, too polite and Canadian to tell Alex that they're blocking a scene and he's interfering. It's something that Scott's never going to understand about her, that whole non-confrontational thing she does with people, even when they're rude to her, but he's trying to wean her off the niceness kick by letting her yell at him when he's being a dick. It isn't working so far -- she says "sorry," even when it's not her fault, and it drives him crazy, which just makes her say "sorry" some more, and they go on in an endless loop until he imagines that this is what hell is like -- but he's holding onto the hope that someday, he can get her to at least tell him to get bent if he goes too far.
Alex holds out his iPod like a gift, giving one earbud to Scott and one to Grace. He hits play and says, "I think you'll like it."
Scott doesn't even have time to protest before the song comes on and some squeaky kid raps, "I got mad style, I get buck-wild," and he swears his blood pressure goes through the roof as he recognizes his own fucking voice on Alex's iPod.
He's about to say something to Alex, possibly involving more creative swearing than he's ever had to do in his life, when Alex nudges him with his hip and leans in to whisper, "Can I have Steve say, 'Put your hands up' on the show? I think it'll add nuance to his relationship with Danny."
Scott sighs and walks away, Grace's delighted "That's Scott?" haunting him as he leaves the room. He stalks off to Daniel's trailer and finds him sitting in his chair, waiting for his scene to come up and reading Bukowski because Daniel is the very definition of unexpected. "You bastard," Scott says, not entirely sure how to feel, but pretty certain that it should be at least some form of anger. It's not that he's ashamed of his past work -- he was a pretty good rapper for a fifteen-year-old middle class Jewish kid from L.A. -- but some shit should not be aired in public for everyone to mock, and teenage years goddamn count.
To his credit, Daniel doesn't pretend not to understand what Scott's talking about. "Sorry, man," he says apologetically enough, although Scott can see the effort he makes to not smile. "I found it on YouTube and I had to share it."
YouTube has become the bane of his existence and this shit right here is exactly why. "With Alex?" he asks despairingly, his hands flying out to beg for an explanation. "You know he's going to constantly fuck with me now."
Daniel gives him a sympathetic look. "Maybe he'll forget," he offers hopefully. "He forgets things all the time."
"Not this," Scott sighs, certain that he's never going to hear the end of this. "He will make it a fucking point to remember this." Knowing Alex, there will be some sort of chart that keeps track of all the embarrassing shit that he knows about Scott. It will probably have doodles of unicorns on it, or maybe vampires and fangs, because Alex is fucking ridiculous and warped, and Scott cannot believes that he likes the guy.
Daniel makes a face. "Now I feel bad."
"Well, you should," Scott retorts. "You're bad and you should feel bad," but Daniel gives up the ghost and starts laughing hard enough that Scott can't even hear himself think. He stomps off in a huff and goes to do his job like the fucking professional he is and does not even once contemplate beating Alex with the prop gun.
Alex memorizes the lyrics to the song and sings them at Scott in this horribly off-key warble that grates on Scott's nerves every time he walks by. Scott kind of hates him a lot.
***
This happens:
He's doing a scene with Grace and she flubs a line and apologizes at least ten times in the span of a half-second. He tells her to relax, feeling mellow because Alex has Saxon for the week so he's off doing dad stuff and enthusiastically terrorizing tourists with his surprisingly grounded son (Scott figures that one of them has to be the adult in that family, and it looks like it's up to Saxon since his dad's a charming lunatic), so this means Scott's been able to walk around unmolested all day. He does not admit to missing Alex bugging the shit out of him with random, horrifying trivia about bugs or practicing his American accent on him or singing that one goddamn song about being from a land Down Under that Scott had managed to spend the last twenty years avoiding before he'd had the misfortune of meeting up with Alex.
He's happy, goddammit. He has freedom and his body isn't being aggressively groped by a six-foot-tall crazy person.
"You really miss him, huh?" Grace asks softly, her hand on Scott's arm like she's comforting him.
"Do I look like I miss him?" he asks, pouring as much sarcasm into it as he can handle, but Grace just smiles sweetly and pats his arm.
"It's okay, Scott. I know you do. I mean," she folds her hair behind her ear, looking a little sad and lost for a moment, "I miss my husband all the time, you know? It's not easy being away from him for so long." She cheers up a little when she says, "At least Alex is still here."
He blinks. "What?"
She looks at him like he should know better than to lie to her, and this is how he finds out that almost everyone on the crew thinks that he and Alex are fucking; those who don't think they're fucking think they're dating, and everyone has been betting on how long it's going to last. The current bet is that Scott is going to dump him for Daniel after three months.
Scott isn't sure if he's pissed that everyone thinks he's gay for Alex or that they think he's that goddamn sleazy that he'd dump the guy for a married dude.
Fuck his life, seriously.
***
Scott's taken to calling his dad at least once a week to keep him updated on the set shenanigans. It's costing him a small fortune in phone bills, but it's worth it to hear the old man laugh and commiserate with him on all the stupid, petty things that drives him crazy about working on TV. Plus, he loves hearing all of Scott's stories about the crazy shit that Alex does. Sometimes, he stops Scott and says, "No," in this delighted tone, like he thinks Scott is making it up, and Scott will have to say, "No, Dad, I'm not kidding. He really tackled me into the sand once they yelled 'cut' -- why would I make this up? What possible reason could I have to make this up? It's not like it makes me look good..."
So Scott's on the phone with his dad while Alex is doing some interview with the local news team, answering the same inane questions that they get asked whenever they have to do press for the show: how do you like Hawaii? Are you anything like your character? How is this show different from everything you've ever done?
The answers Alex never gives, but really should are: it's hot as balls and I'd walk around naked if it weren't for obscenity laws, I'm exactly like my character, only I wasn't trained by the military and the people here are too smart to let me have anything sharp or shooty, and this show hasn't been canceled yet.
"So," his dad says, amusement lurking in his voice, "has your guy done anything stupid lately?"
"Where do I start?" Scott sighs, and it goes from there. By the time he's done the laundry list of complaints about Alex's inappropriate ass-touching to his fetish for Scott's car to smoothly dipping Jean Smart and making kissy faces at her while she tries to glare him down, his dad's wheezing with laughter and Scott finds himself reluctantly grinning.
"I gotta meet this guy," he tells Scott, and Scott rolls his eyes.
"Christ, no," he barks, "you are not allowed anywhere near him. He's a danger to everyone around him."
"You must be talking about me," Alex says, suddenly showing up behind Scott and scaring about ten years off his life.
"Jesus," he yelps, starting badly enough that he almost drops his phone. "Warn a guy, fuck."
"What's going on?" his dad asks, his voice tinny over the phone and the connection.
"Alex almost made me piss my pants," Scott says raggedly, glaring at Alex who just smirks like the fuckhead he is.
"Is that your dad?" he mouths, pointing at the phone.
"Fuck off," Scott mouths back, leaning away when Alex tries to grab the phone from him.
"Hi, Mr. Corleone," Alex yells, leaning in as close to the phone as he can get while Scott tries to edge away from him, shoving him back with his arm, even though it does no good. "I loved you in 'The Godfather'. It's my favorite movie. I was really pissed when you died."
"Oh my God," Scott says exasperatedly, ducking when Alex tries for his phone again. "Go away and let me talk to my dad, you crazy Australian psycho."
Alex ignores him, continuing to yell his admiration for his dad into the general direction of the phone. "And 'Rollerball' was amazing," he adds loudly, laughing when Scott smacks his hands away. "I can quote most of the movie by heart. You want to hear me do it?"
His dad is laughing so hard that he's making that slow, wheezy sound that's more air than noise, and Scott's heart twists a little hearing that sound. He forgets sometimes how much he genuinely likes his father, likes hanging around him and talking to him and listening to his stories about growing up in the Bronx with clenched fists and a never-say-die attitude and working with some of the greatest actors of his generation.
"Put him on, Scott," his dad tells him, and Scott reluctantly hands the phone over to Alex.
"Hello, Mr. Corleone," Alex laughs, and Scott gives in and cuffs him upside the head for being such a dick. True to form, Alex just flips him off and turns away from him, Scott's phone jammed against his ear as he listens raptly to whatever Scott's dad is saying on the other end.
He's on the phone with Dad for about half an hour, laughing and talking in a low voice, like he's sharing government secrets, occasionally looking over at Scott and smiling in a secret way that makes Scott's face flush red. When he's finally done the conversation, he says, "Bye, Jimmy," and hands the phone over to Scott. "Your dad's a blast," he tells Scott sincerely, looking happy and about ten years old on Christmas morning. He almost skips as he heads back to his trailer and Scott thinks that this is one of the signs of the Apocalypse.
"What did you do to him?" he asks accusingly when he's back on the phone, and his dad just chuckles.
"I like him," he tells Scott, and Scott can just imagine the nod of approval that Alex has just gotten. "He's a nice boy. You be good to him."
"What?" Scott asks, feeling a bit slapped in the face by whatever the hell went on between Alex and his dad and whatever the fuck this is. He's really not ready for whatever Lifetime moment this is shaping up to be.
"I love you, kid," his dad says gruffly, and Scott's heart is a tight band of emotion.
"Love you too, Dad," he says, feeling a lump in his throat as they say their goodbyes and he hangs up.
"Hey," Alex calls out from behind him, "there's no crying in Hawaii."
Scott snorts, feeling something loosen inside him as he turns to find Alex looking at him affectionately. "That's baseball, jackass. There's no crying in baseball."
Alex considers that. "I dunno," he says thoughtfully. "I've played baseball. It made me cry."
Scott holds up his hands to stop him right there. "Oh, my friend," he says feelingly, walking toward Alex with intent, "let me tell you all about how wrong you are."
Alex's face creases into a smile as Scott comes up beside him, his arm automatically going around Scott's shoulders like a homing pigeon going to roost. "And I'll pretend to care," he promises.
***
How they end up in bed together goes like this: Alex comes over to eat his food and watch his TV and play with his dog. They have a few beers because what's a football game without beer, and cheer on the teams while Alex talks about the rules of rugby and cricket until Scott's head threatens to explode from information overload and boredom.
Halfway through an Iron Chef marathon on Scott's Tivo (he likes food and he likes competition, this show is perfect for him), Alex shuffles himself closer to Scott, his arm stealing carefully over Scott's shoulder like they're on a first date, and Scott wonders how the fuck he ended up being the girl in this scenario and whether Alex is actually going to try to grab boob or just keep his hand clenched tightly on Scott's shoulder all night.
"Have you even done this before?" he asks Alex in a dubious tone, thinking that this is probably not going to go well if this is Alex's opening move. He had better moves at thirteen than Alex does at thirty-four, and that shit is just sad.
"Fuck off," Alex scowls, thumping Scott's back in protest. "I'm trying to set a mood here."
"What mood?" Scott moves his hands around in vague disbelief. "Boredom? Awkwardness? Virginity? Because you're succeeding if that was the mood you were setting."
Alex lets out an inarticulate sound of exasperation and mashes his mouth against Scott's, gentling it when Scott shoves at him, tilts his head to a better angle so that their mouths and noses line up. Alex shuts him up with slow, lazy open-mouthed kisses that have Scott clinging to him in a kind of swoony way, his fingers knuckled tight against Alex's thin white T-shirt as he tries to remember to breathe. He'd be embarrassed about it, but Alex yanks his shirt off and licks at Scott's nipples, and Scott forgets all of his objections to being the girl or why that was even a bad thing.
"How's the mood now?" Alex asks from around Scott's stomach, a smug look on his face.
"Shut up and suck my dick," Scott retorts, gasping when Alex does exactly that, unsnapping his jeans and sucking Scott's cock into his mouth like he's been hungry for it for hours now. He's not exactly a pro at it, his mouth a little too sloppy and his teeth a little too sharp sometimes, but he's got his hand wrapped tightly around Scott's dick and he's making this high, whining sound in the back of his throat like he really wants it, and Scott knows that enthusiasm counts for a lot. He wasn't expecting a pro blowjob anyway because despite the stereotype, he knows that not everyone in Hollywood is an accomplished cock-sucker, at least literally speaking. Besides, he doesn't need a pro when Alex's clumsy, eager mouth is doing just fine on its own, making Scott curse and beg and arch back hard as his orgasm hits.
"I'm gonna," he breathes, and Alex sits back on his heels to watch Scott squeeze his cock and come all over his stomach, a fascinated look on his face like this is all new to him. Despite Alex's confidence around his dick, Scott is starting to feel like he's in a special Harlequin romance about Alex's first time, which is vaguely terrifying and makes him a little more gruff than he wants to be when he asks, "You've done this before, right?"
Alex looks startled out of his contemplation of Scott's cock, his eyes wide and dark, which makes him look absurdly young, and now Scott just feels perverted for coming all over himself in front of the guy. "Do you want an itemized list of every time I've sucked someone's dick?" he asks curiously, like Scott isn't half-naked in front of him and his cock isn't trying to dig its way out of his pants. "Because it's going to take a while."
Scott tries to focus on the fact that Alex has done this before -- many times, according to him, which is just so much bullshit -- and is still bad at it, and not the fact that "dick" sounds incredibly hilarious when said in Alex's natural accent. "Now you're just lying," he huffs, offended that Alex isn't even attempting to go with a believable story.
Alex laughs. "I didn't say I was good at it," he admits sheepishly, scratching his head in what looks like embarrassment. "I was mostly drunk, and they were mostly drunk, and..." He makes a short, vague hand gesture that looks like a punch, but probably means 'fucking' in some form. Alex is good at filthy non-verbal cues; it's practically his calling in life.
"So you're just shitty at sober blowjobs then?" Scott teases, enjoying the dull flush of red that creeps its way up Alex's chest and throat. "Rank amateur."
"My feelings are hurt, Scott," Alex says, but he's smiling like he can't help himself, and Scott's made peace with the fact that he is irrevocably fucked when it comes to this man. He likes a guy who thinks farting is the highest form of humor and would pants him in a second if he didn't think Scott would kick his ass hard enough to break it. He likes a guy he can barely understand when he's drunk and sloppy because Alex's accent gets thick and glottal and he starts using crazy slang just to fuck with Scott, and Scott makes "E.T. phone home" jokes because it's the only way he can participate in the conversation when Alex is wasted, and somehow, all of this has become normal and expected and something Scott looks forward to every day.
"C'mere," he tells Alex, waving him closer, watching as Alex slowly gets to his feet and lazily leans into Scott like he doesn't have a raging boner in his pants. "I," Scott says firmly, "am going to show you how to suck a guy's dick. Properly."
"Oh," Alex says with a nod, his mouth turned up at the corners like he's so amused by all of this, "this is going to be a learning experience for me?"
Scott sits up and starts undoing Alex's pants, hearing the slight hitch in his breathing as Scott's knuckles brush against his belly, as he leans in to lick at Alex's navel. "Yes," he says hoarsely. "I'm going to teach you this so that the next guy you blow will have no complaints about your technique."
"You're so generous," Alex gasps, his fingers combing through Scott's hair because he has this thing for messing up Scott's hair, for tangling his hands in it until it's in disarray, despite Scott spending hours trying to get it to look just right. Alex is a fucking jerk, and Scott likes him anyway. "Really, an unsung hero, a humanitarian for our times."
Scott bites back his retort because if he says anything, they're going to be doing this all night instead of getting each other off, and he's got Alex with his pants down right now. He just wants to savor the moment. So instead, he bends his head and takes Alex into his mouth, his hands tight against Alex's hips. He smiles when Alex shouts and almost buckles at the knees, only just managing to hold himself up through sheer will, and the angle is a complete bitch on Scott's neck, but it's worth it to hear Alex make these heartfelt little whimpering noises that will probably embarrass him when Scott brings it up later.
"I can't," Alex says, sounding like he's dying, his fingers tight and painful in Scott's hair. "I can't, stand, I need--" He pushes at Scott's head. "Couch," he finally grinds out, making a sharp sound when Scott sucks his balls into his mouth. "Jesus fucking Christ, Caan, let me on the fucking couch."
"God, you suck at this," Scott says irritably as he pulls his mouth off Alex's dick with a wet sucking sound, feeling equal parts annoyed, turned on, and humiliatingly sentimental as Alex shrugs off his pants and shirt and flops down on the couch next to him, his thighs spread wide in invitation. "How the fuck do you get laid at all when you're, like, the most annoying person in the world?"
Alex smirks. "I'm pretty." He points to his still-hard cock, which is still very interested in Scott's mouth. "Back to the lesson. I'm not sure I learned all about licking balls."
Scott bites back a smile. "Do you ever actually listen to any of the shit you say?"
Alex thinks about it. "I drift in an out," he smiles, his hand moving in a wavy motion.
Scott sighs and bends back to Alex's cock, silently appreciating how much easier this angle is on his neck and back. It takes almost no time to get Alex back to clutching at him desperately, his whole body curved into Scott as Scott gives him the best goddamn blowjob of his life, and when Scott reaches down and lightly presses a finger into Alex's ass and Alex comes with a yell, Scott is satisfied that he has completely blown Alex's mind.
He looks down at Alex and likes what he sees: Alex looks shaken, a red tint to his chest and face, and fucked-out, his limbs sprawled all over Scott's couch like a loose Slinky. "Well?" Scott asks after a moment, his hand curled around Alex's waist because it feels right. "What do you think of my teaching technique?"
"Crikey," Alex says sincerely, breathlessly.
Scott laughs so hard, he falls off the couch.
Ten points for anyone who knows where the story title is from. Hint: it's not Vanilla Ice, but it's just as painful.
I think the shame I feel for writing this might actually make me explode. I'm gonna... go over there now.
And while I don't usually disclaim because I know you're all adults who can tell reality from fantasy, I figure it might be necessary for this story since I'm writing about real people. So disclaimer: this is not in any way real, Alex is not actually a fratboy in real life, Scott is not actually gay for Alex, real TV show sets don't work like this, although I'm pretty sure Grace is that nice and polite in real life. Also, there is clichés and schmoopy times galore. In between all the cursing and shenanigans. Because I am a sap. Just so you're fully aware.
So 5,571 words of Alex/Scott RPS wherein Alex gropes Scott because he is the most unsubtle man on the planet and Scott is noble and poetic in humiliating defeat.
When I Get Scandalous
Their first meeting goes something like this:
"Hey," Alex says with a sunny grin, "you're Sonny Corleone's kid."
"Hey," Scott says awkwardly, "you're that vampire… guy." Because he'd literally read the press release on the plane ride over to Hawaii and had seen the long list of shows that had died ignoble deaths at Alex's hands. He's hoping that this isn't a harbinger of things to come for this show. He's already had to fend off his dad's concern disguised as career advice, and he really isn't looking forward to the silent "I told you so" looks he's going to get if this show tanks.
Also, there's no good comeback for the Corleone thing. He's spent twenty-three years trying to come up with one, but he's just had to make peace with the fact that he's always going to be known as Sonny Corleone Jr. to some people and his asshole friends. Could be worse; he could still be Mad Skillz, for one.
Alex smiles wide and claps Scott on the shoulders, like he's going to lift him up in a bear hug at any moment. "You know," he tilts his head and looks Scott over intently, "you're a lot shorter in person. You're practically a midget."
It never gets any better after that.
***
The thing that Scott learns about Alex in the first few weeks is that he's completely crazy. He doesn't even mean that in a hyperbolic sense, like he does with all his other friends who are normal by Hollywood standards and crazy by normal peoples' standards, but actually crazy: Alex is psychotic on levels Scott didn't even know existed, and no one seems to have noticed but him. Alex invades everyone's personal space like he's got an engraved invitation, he flirts like he breathes, even with Grace who treats him with an irritated affection that seems to be the set's default reaction to his brand of humor, and constantly fights with the producers and stuntmen to jump off buildings and cargo holds and moving cars, despite his agent and the insurance company throwing epic shit fits.
Scott has an entire roll of film dedicated just to Alex's ass, okay? Alex had found out that he does photography on the side and spent a few weeks demanding that Scott take a picture of Alex's ass every time Scott was out with his camera. Scott is totally expecting to find a picture of Alex's balls when he develops his film because Alex likes to steal Scott's camera and take random pictures of shit he thinks is interesting, which is why Scott has two rolls of various shots of pavements around Hawaii and a couple of really pissy-looking gulls giving Alex stink-eye.
He's that guy.
Scott isn't sure if this kind of insanity is just an Alex thing or something endemic to Australians in general, but he rolls with it because he's professional like that. Someone has to be the dad on this show, and Daniel and Grace have actual families to be with after the day's over with, so it falls to Scott to try and keep Alex in line.
"How can you be Australian and not surf?" he asks Alex as they're waiting for their shot to be set up, both of them leaning against the car, arms crossed over their chests, heads tilted toward each other. "You're like a sham Australian. You're a Shamstralian."
Alex squints at him like he's pondering taking offense. "That's stereotyping, you know that," he says in that broad Australian accent that always jars Scott because he's so used to Alex's American accent when the cameras are rolling.
"I mean," Scott makes a complicated loop with his hand because he and Danny really aren't that far apart in terms of hand gestures, "don't they kick you out of the country for not knowing how to surf? Isn't there some kind of rule about that?"
"Your grasp of culture is really fucking appalling," Alex sniffs, offended now that he's had a chance to think about it.
"I didn't make a Crocodile Dundee joke, now did I?"
Alex has a sulky look on his face. It's kind of cute. "You made the Crocodile Hunter joke, though. You always take cheapshots at me."
Scott grins as the director gives them the signal that they're ready to shoot. "That's because you're cheap. Say 'crikey', Alex."
"See if I put out for you anymore," he huffs and walks away, getting to his mark as they call for action and the cameras start rolling. In the time it takes Scott to blink, he's gone from Alex to Steve, his shoulders straightening out, his spine stiffening, and his accent becoming tighter as he slips into his American persona. It's impressive, considering that thirty seconds ago, he was making jokes about being Scott's girlfriend and leaning up against Scott's hip like they actually are dating.
Regardless of what people think about Alex, he's a professional. He's crazy and completely inappropriate and he's constantly grabbing Scott's ass like it's the key to saving the planet, but he does his job with no fuss or complaints, and Scott appreciates people like that. He's worked with enough unprofessional fuckers in his career that he has a lot of respect for people who do their work with minimum dramatics or ego, and Alex is as easygoing and down-to-earth as they come.
Which doesn't mean that Alex doesn't do stupid shit to amuse people or intentionally flub lines when he gets tired and punchy or drape himself all over Scott like he's Scott's living Snuggie just because he knows it irritates the shit out of him. He's basically a gigantic overgrown kid who gets to play cops and robbers for a living, and the worst thing you can say about Alex is that he's a little too enthusiastic at times. You can't really get mad at him; it's too much like kicking a puppy. Come to think of it, he and Dot do make the same sad faces when Scott scolds them for misbehavior.
The sun hits the camera wrong and they have to stop rolling to readjust, so Alex comes back to the car. He hitches his hip against the door and leans into Scott, grinning like an asshole because that is his default setting. "So, dinner?"
"Thought you weren't putting out for me anymore," Scott says blandly, feeling a smile threatening to break out.
Alex shrugs easily. "I've forgiven you. You can't help being a fucker. It's part of who you are and I have to accept that."
Scott nods thoughtfully. "You watch Oprah when I'm not there, don't you?"
"Dr. Phil," Alex says lightly, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning his shoulder into Scott's, even though he has to duck down a bit to do it. "He makes a lot of sense."
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that." Scott checks his phone, ignoring the way Alex leans over and shoves his face against Scott's.
"Why are you always in my face?" Scott asks irritatedly, jabbing at Alex with his elbow until he gets some breathing room.
"Oh, honey, let's not fight in front of the family," Alex laughs, and Scott sighs and briefly wishes for George Clooney and his endless pranks because at least Scott could deal with that bullshit. George is a lunatic, but he has the decency to keep it restricted to toilet humor and the occasional witty bon mot when he's in the mood; Alex just mauls Scott like a tiger cub playing with its prey, and Scott's starting to to get sore from all the groping that Alex does as a matter of course.
"Blow me," he snaps at Alex, and to his credit, Alex seems to get that Scott isn't in the mood to play because he just holds up his hands and backs away slowly.
Scott feels his stomach twist into knots as Alex gives him a wounded look, calling himself an idiot even he caves like cheap cardboard because he is incapable of not giving in to Alex. "Pizza," he offers as Alex turns to leave. "We can order in." Alex smiles, bright and wide, and Scott's pretty sure that he's utterly fucked.
"Pineapple?" Alex asks cheerfully, squinting as the sun tries to blind him.
Scott glares at him. "Hey, just because I'm from L.A.--"
"So that's a no then?"
Scott flips him off and deliberately does not watch him walk away, his laughter ringing in Scott's ear.
***
It's the end of the day and Scott's heading toward his car, thinking about showering and hitting one of the clubs, when he notices Daniel and Alex leaning against each other, watching something on Daniel's phone. He has no idea what they're doing, and he doesn't want to know. He's learned the hard way that while Daniel is a lovely person by himself, he becomes an absolute menace around Alex, getting roped into his insanity until Scott has to take a walk or explode where he stands.
He's never forgiving either one of them for the shredded swimsuit incident. Some things you just don't forgive if you want to be able to live with yourself afterward.
Whatever it is they're watching, it seems to be amusing the shit out of both of them because Daniel's wiping his eyes like he's crying and Alex is making those high-pitched, weepy sounds that only come when he's laughing hard enough to lose his breath.
Not that Scott has spent a lot of time trying to make Alex sound like that. Or cataloguing every variation on his laugh in the two months they've worked together.
He walks by them and doesn't stop, waving when Alex calls his name. His life is ridiculous enough already, no need to make it worse by letting himself get pulled into Alex's reindeer games.
The next day, he's blocking out a scene with Grace and the director when Alex pops by, white headphones in his ears, iPod in his hand, shaking his limbs in uncoordinated, spastic movements like he's having a seizure. It had taken Scott a while to figure out that Alex just dances like that and he hasn't been able to stop laughing since.
"Hey, John Travolta," he calls to Alex over the director's shoulder, "this ain't Saturday Night Fever. You gotta go."
Alex just grins and heads over to him like Scott had meant for him to come over when he'd just told the guy to fuck off. In a polite way. He ignores Scott's eyerolling and just leans into him, his arm draped over Scott's shoulder. "Wanna hear this new band I discovered?" he asks Grace, a gleam in his eye that never bodes well for Scott.
The director rolls his eyes and tells Scott he'll be back in five. Scott would be pissed about how easily everyone gives in to Alex, but the man is a force of nature, smoothing over everyone's objections with his goofy charm and filthy humor. Scott has yet to find someone who can hate the guy after knowing him for five minutes.
Grace raises an eyebrow at Alex's interruption, too polite and Canadian to tell Alex that they're blocking a scene and he's interfering. It's something that Scott's never going to understand about her, that whole non-confrontational thing she does with people, even when they're rude to her, but he's trying to wean her off the niceness kick by letting her yell at him when he's being a dick. It isn't working so far -- she says "sorry," even when it's not her fault, and it drives him crazy, which just makes her say "sorry" some more, and they go on in an endless loop until he imagines that this is what hell is like -- but he's holding onto the hope that someday, he can get her to at least tell him to get bent if he goes too far.
Alex holds out his iPod like a gift, giving one earbud to Scott and one to Grace. He hits play and says, "I think you'll like it."
Scott doesn't even have time to protest before the song comes on and some squeaky kid raps, "I got mad style, I get buck-wild," and he swears his blood pressure goes through the roof as he recognizes his own fucking voice on Alex's iPod.
He's about to say something to Alex, possibly involving more creative swearing than he's ever had to do in his life, when Alex nudges him with his hip and leans in to whisper, "Can I have Steve say, 'Put your hands up' on the show? I think it'll add nuance to his relationship with Danny."
Scott sighs and walks away, Grace's delighted "That's Scott?" haunting him as he leaves the room. He stalks off to Daniel's trailer and finds him sitting in his chair, waiting for his scene to come up and reading Bukowski because Daniel is the very definition of unexpected. "You bastard," Scott says, not entirely sure how to feel, but pretty certain that it should be at least some form of anger. It's not that he's ashamed of his past work -- he was a pretty good rapper for a fifteen-year-old middle class Jewish kid from L.A. -- but some shit should not be aired in public for everyone to mock, and teenage years goddamn count.
To his credit, Daniel doesn't pretend not to understand what Scott's talking about. "Sorry, man," he says apologetically enough, although Scott can see the effort he makes to not smile. "I found it on YouTube and I had to share it."
YouTube has become the bane of his existence and this shit right here is exactly why. "With Alex?" he asks despairingly, his hands flying out to beg for an explanation. "You know he's going to constantly fuck with me now."
Daniel gives him a sympathetic look. "Maybe he'll forget," he offers hopefully. "He forgets things all the time."
"Not this," Scott sighs, certain that he's never going to hear the end of this. "He will make it a fucking point to remember this." Knowing Alex, there will be some sort of chart that keeps track of all the embarrassing shit that he knows about Scott. It will probably have doodles of unicorns on it, or maybe vampires and fangs, because Alex is fucking ridiculous and warped, and Scott cannot believes that he likes the guy.
Daniel makes a face. "Now I feel bad."
"Well, you should," Scott retorts. "You're bad and you should feel bad," but Daniel gives up the ghost and starts laughing hard enough that Scott can't even hear himself think. He stomps off in a huff and goes to do his job like the fucking professional he is and does not even once contemplate beating Alex with the prop gun.
Alex memorizes the lyrics to the song and sings them at Scott in this horribly off-key warble that grates on Scott's nerves every time he walks by. Scott kind of hates him a lot.
***
This happens:
He's doing a scene with Grace and she flubs a line and apologizes at least ten times in the span of a half-second. He tells her to relax, feeling mellow because Alex has Saxon for the week so he's off doing dad stuff and enthusiastically terrorizing tourists with his surprisingly grounded son (Scott figures that one of them has to be the adult in that family, and it looks like it's up to Saxon since his dad's a charming lunatic), so this means Scott's been able to walk around unmolested all day. He does not admit to missing Alex bugging the shit out of him with random, horrifying trivia about bugs or practicing his American accent on him or singing that one goddamn song about being from a land Down Under that Scott had managed to spend the last twenty years avoiding before he'd had the misfortune of meeting up with Alex.
He's happy, goddammit. He has freedom and his body isn't being aggressively groped by a six-foot-tall crazy person.
"You really miss him, huh?" Grace asks softly, her hand on Scott's arm like she's comforting him.
"Do I look like I miss him?" he asks, pouring as much sarcasm into it as he can handle, but Grace just smiles sweetly and pats his arm.
"It's okay, Scott. I know you do. I mean," she folds her hair behind her ear, looking a little sad and lost for a moment, "I miss my husband all the time, you know? It's not easy being away from him for so long." She cheers up a little when she says, "At least Alex is still here."
He blinks. "What?"
She looks at him like he should know better than to lie to her, and this is how he finds out that almost everyone on the crew thinks that he and Alex are fucking; those who don't think they're fucking think they're dating, and everyone has been betting on how long it's going to last. The current bet is that Scott is going to dump him for Daniel after three months.
Scott isn't sure if he's pissed that everyone thinks he's gay for Alex or that they think he's that goddamn sleazy that he'd dump the guy for a married dude.
Fuck his life, seriously.
***
Scott's taken to calling his dad at least once a week to keep him updated on the set shenanigans. It's costing him a small fortune in phone bills, but it's worth it to hear the old man laugh and commiserate with him on all the stupid, petty things that drives him crazy about working on TV. Plus, he loves hearing all of Scott's stories about the crazy shit that Alex does. Sometimes, he stops Scott and says, "No," in this delighted tone, like he thinks Scott is making it up, and Scott will have to say, "No, Dad, I'm not kidding. He really tackled me into the sand once they yelled 'cut' -- why would I make this up? What possible reason could I have to make this up? It's not like it makes me look good..."
So Scott's on the phone with his dad while Alex is doing some interview with the local news team, answering the same inane questions that they get asked whenever they have to do press for the show: how do you like Hawaii? Are you anything like your character? How is this show different from everything you've ever done?
The answers Alex never gives, but really should are: it's hot as balls and I'd walk around naked if it weren't for obscenity laws, I'm exactly like my character, only I wasn't trained by the military and the people here are too smart to let me have anything sharp or shooty, and this show hasn't been canceled yet.
"So," his dad says, amusement lurking in his voice, "has your guy done anything stupid lately?"
"Where do I start?" Scott sighs, and it goes from there. By the time he's done the laundry list of complaints about Alex's inappropriate ass-touching to his fetish for Scott's car to smoothly dipping Jean Smart and making kissy faces at her while she tries to glare him down, his dad's wheezing with laughter and Scott finds himself reluctantly grinning.
"I gotta meet this guy," he tells Scott, and Scott rolls his eyes.
"Christ, no," he barks, "you are not allowed anywhere near him. He's a danger to everyone around him."
"You must be talking about me," Alex says, suddenly showing up behind Scott and scaring about ten years off his life.
"Jesus," he yelps, starting badly enough that he almost drops his phone. "Warn a guy, fuck."
"What's going on?" his dad asks, his voice tinny over the phone and the connection.
"Alex almost made me piss my pants," Scott says raggedly, glaring at Alex who just smirks like the fuckhead he is.
"Is that your dad?" he mouths, pointing at the phone.
"Fuck off," Scott mouths back, leaning away when Alex tries to grab the phone from him.
"Hi, Mr. Corleone," Alex yells, leaning in as close to the phone as he can get while Scott tries to edge away from him, shoving him back with his arm, even though it does no good. "I loved you in 'The Godfather'. It's my favorite movie. I was really pissed when you died."
"Oh my God," Scott says exasperatedly, ducking when Alex tries for his phone again. "Go away and let me talk to my dad, you crazy Australian psycho."
Alex ignores him, continuing to yell his admiration for his dad into the general direction of the phone. "And 'Rollerball' was amazing," he adds loudly, laughing when Scott smacks his hands away. "I can quote most of the movie by heart. You want to hear me do it?"
His dad is laughing so hard that he's making that slow, wheezy sound that's more air than noise, and Scott's heart twists a little hearing that sound. He forgets sometimes how much he genuinely likes his father, likes hanging around him and talking to him and listening to his stories about growing up in the Bronx with clenched fists and a never-say-die attitude and working with some of the greatest actors of his generation.
"Put him on, Scott," his dad tells him, and Scott reluctantly hands the phone over to Alex.
"Hello, Mr. Corleone," Alex laughs, and Scott gives in and cuffs him upside the head for being such a dick. True to form, Alex just flips him off and turns away from him, Scott's phone jammed against his ear as he listens raptly to whatever Scott's dad is saying on the other end.
He's on the phone with Dad for about half an hour, laughing and talking in a low voice, like he's sharing government secrets, occasionally looking over at Scott and smiling in a secret way that makes Scott's face flush red. When he's finally done the conversation, he says, "Bye, Jimmy," and hands the phone over to Scott. "Your dad's a blast," he tells Scott sincerely, looking happy and about ten years old on Christmas morning. He almost skips as he heads back to his trailer and Scott thinks that this is one of the signs of the Apocalypse.
"What did you do to him?" he asks accusingly when he's back on the phone, and his dad just chuckles.
"I like him," he tells Scott, and Scott can just imagine the nod of approval that Alex has just gotten. "He's a nice boy. You be good to him."
"What?" Scott asks, feeling a bit slapped in the face by whatever the hell went on between Alex and his dad and whatever the fuck this is. He's really not ready for whatever Lifetime moment this is shaping up to be.
"I love you, kid," his dad says gruffly, and Scott's heart is a tight band of emotion.
"Love you too, Dad," he says, feeling a lump in his throat as they say their goodbyes and he hangs up.
"Hey," Alex calls out from behind him, "there's no crying in Hawaii."
Scott snorts, feeling something loosen inside him as he turns to find Alex looking at him affectionately. "That's baseball, jackass. There's no crying in baseball."
Alex considers that. "I dunno," he says thoughtfully. "I've played baseball. It made me cry."
Scott holds up his hands to stop him right there. "Oh, my friend," he says feelingly, walking toward Alex with intent, "let me tell you all about how wrong you are."
Alex's face creases into a smile as Scott comes up beside him, his arm automatically going around Scott's shoulders like a homing pigeon going to roost. "And I'll pretend to care," he promises.
***
How they end up in bed together goes like this: Alex comes over to eat his food and watch his TV and play with his dog. They have a few beers because what's a football game without beer, and cheer on the teams while Alex talks about the rules of rugby and cricket until Scott's head threatens to explode from information overload and boredom.
Halfway through an Iron Chef marathon on Scott's Tivo (he likes food and he likes competition, this show is perfect for him), Alex shuffles himself closer to Scott, his arm stealing carefully over Scott's shoulder like they're on a first date, and Scott wonders how the fuck he ended up being the girl in this scenario and whether Alex is actually going to try to grab boob or just keep his hand clenched tightly on Scott's shoulder all night.
"Have you even done this before?" he asks Alex in a dubious tone, thinking that this is probably not going to go well if this is Alex's opening move. He had better moves at thirteen than Alex does at thirty-four, and that shit is just sad.
"Fuck off," Alex scowls, thumping Scott's back in protest. "I'm trying to set a mood here."
"What mood?" Scott moves his hands around in vague disbelief. "Boredom? Awkwardness? Virginity? Because you're succeeding if that was the mood you were setting."
Alex lets out an inarticulate sound of exasperation and mashes his mouth against Scott's, gentling it when Scott shoves at him, tilts his head to a better angle so that their mouths and noses line up. Alex shuts him up with slow, lazy open-mouthed kisses that have Scott clinging to him in a kind of swoony way, his fingers knuckled tight against Alex's thin white T-shirt as he tries to remember to breathe. He'd be embarrassed about it, but Alex yanks his shirt off and licks at Scott's nipples, and Scott forgets all of his objections to being the girl or why that was even a bad thing.
"How's the mood now?" Alex asks from around Scott's stomach, a smug look on his face.
"Shut up and suck my dick," Scott retorts, gasping when Alex does exactly that, unsnapping his jeans and sucking Scott's cock into his mouth like he's been hungry for it for hours now. He's not exactly a pro at it, his mouth a little too sloppy and his teeth a little too sharp sometimes, but he's got his hand wrapped tightly around Scott's dick and he's making this high, whining sound in the back of his throat like he really wants it, and Scott knows that enthusiasm counts for a lot. He wasn't expecting a pro blowjob anyway because despite the stereotype, he knows that not everyone in Hollywood is an accomplished cock-sucker, at least literally speaking. Besides, he doesn't need a pro when Alex's clumsy, eager mouth is doing just fine on its own, making Scott curse and beg and arch back hard as his orgasm hits.
"I'm gonna," he breathes, and Alex sits back on his heels to watch Scott squeeze his cock and come all over his stomach, a fascinated look on his face like this is all new to him. Despite Alex's confidence around his dick, Scott is starting to feel like he's in a special Harlequin romance about Alex's first time, which is vaguely terrifying and makes him a little more gruff than he wants to be when he asks, "You've done this before, right?"
Alex looks startled out of his contemplation of Scott's cock, his eyes wide and dark, which makes him look absurdly young, and now Scott just feels perverted for coming all over himself in front of the guy. "Do you want an itemized list of every time I've sucked someone's dick?" he asks curiously, like Scott isn't half-naked in front of him and his cock isn't trying to dig its way out of his pants. "Because it's going to take a while."
Scott tries to focus on the fact that Alex has done this before -- many times, according to him, which is just so much bullshit -- and is still bad at it, and not the fact that "dick" sounds incredibly hilarious when said in Alex's natural accent. "Now you're just lying," he huffs, offended that Alex isn't even attempting to go with a believable story.
Alex laughs. "I didn't say I was good at it," he admits sheepishly, scratching his head in what looks like embarrassment. "I was mostly drunk, and they were mostly drunk, and..." He makes a short, vague hand gesture that looks like a punch, but probably means 'fucking' in some form. Alex is good at filthy non-verbal cues; it's practically his calling in life.
"So you're just shitty at sober blowjobs then?" Scott teases, enjoying the dull flush of red that creeps its way up Alex's chest and throat. "Rank amateur."
"My feelings are hurt, Scott," Alex says, but he's smiling like he can't help himself, and Scott's made peace with the fact that he is irrevocably fucked when it comes to this man. He likes a guy who thinks farting is the highest form of humor and would pants him in a second if he didn't think Scott would kick his ass hard enough to break it. He likes a guy he can barely understand when he's drunk and sloppy because Alex's accent gets thick and glottal and he starts using crazy slang just to fuck with Scott, and Scott makes "E.T. phone home" jokes because it's the only way he can participate in the conversation when Alex is wasted, and somehow, all of this has become normal and expected and something Scott looks forward to every day.
"C'mere," he tells Alex, waving him closer, watching as Alex slowly gets to his feet and lazily leans into Scott like he doesn't have a raging boner in his pants. "I," Scott says firmly, "am going to show you how to suck a guy's dick. Properly."
"Oh," Alex says with a nod, his mouth turned up at the corners like he's so amused by all of this, "this is going to be a learning experience for me?"
Scott sits up and starts undoing Alex's pants, hearing the slight hitch in his breathing as Scott's knuckles brush against his belly, as he leans in to lick at Alex's navel. "Yes," he says hoarsely. "I'm going to teach you this so that the next guy you blow will have no complaints about your technique."
"You're so generous," Alex gasps, his fingers combing through Scott's hair because he has this thing for messing up Scott's hair, for tangling his hands in it until it's in disarray, despite Scott spending hours trying to get it to look just right. Alex is a fucking jerk, and Scott likes him anyway. "Really, an unsung hero, a humanitarian for our times."
Scott bites back his retort because if he says anything, they're going to be doing this all night instead of getting each other off, and he's got Alex with his pants down right now. He just wants to savor the moment. So instead, he bends his head and takes Alex into his mouth, his hands tight against Alex's hips. He smiles when Alex shouts and almost buckles at the knees, only just managing to hold himself up through sheer will, and the angle is a complete bitch on Scott's neck, but it's worth it to hear Alex make these heartfelt little whimpering noises that will probably embarrass him when Scott brings it up later.
"I can't," Alex says, sounding like he's dying, his fingers tight and painful in Scott's hair. "I can't, stand, I need--" He pushes at Scott's head. "Couch," he finally grinds out, making a sharp sound when Scott sucks his balls into his mouth. "Jesus fucking Christ, Caan, let me on the fucking couch."
"God, you suck at this," Scott says irritably as he pulls his mouth off Alex's dick with a wet sucking sound, feeling equal parts annoyed, turned on, and humiliatingly sentimental as Alex shrugs off his pants and shirt and flops down on the couch next to him, his thighs spread wide in invitation. "How the fuck do you get laid at all when you're, like, the most annoying person in the world?"
Alex smirks. "I'm pretty." He points to his still-hard cock, which is still very interested in Scott's mouth. "Back to the lesson. I'm not sure I learned all about licking balls."
Scott bites back a smile. "Do you ever actually listen to any of the shit you say?"
Alex thinks about it. "I drift in an out," he smiles, his hand moving in a wavy motion.
Scott sighs and bends back to Alex's cock, silently appreciating how much easier this angle is on his neck and back. It takes almost no time to get Alex back to clutching at him desperately, his whole body curved into Scott as Scott gives him the best goddamn blowjob of his life, and when Scott reaches down and lightly presses a finger into Alex's ass and Alex comes with a yell, Scott is satisfied that he has completely blown Alex's mind.
He looks down at Alex and likes what he sees: Alex looks shaken, a red tint to his chest and face, and fucked-out, his limbs sprawled all over Scott's couch like a loose Slinky. "Well?" Scott asks after a moment, his hand curled around Alex's waist because it feels right. "What do you think of my teaching technique?"
"Crikey," Alex says sincerely, breathlessly.
Scott laughs so hard, he falls off the couch.
Ten points for anyone who knows where the story title is from. Hint: it's not Vanilla Ice, but it's just as painful.
I think the shame I feel for writing this might actually make me explode. I'm gonna... go over there now.