Title: Say It
Rating: M (mature).
Word Count: 2106 words.
Pairing: Eliot Spencer/Alec Hardison
Content Notes: Explicit sexual content.
Summary: Hardison likes hearing something very specific from Eliot. It's just his bad luck that it requires so much work each time he gets the itch to hear it. Or would you really call it bad luck at all?
[[ ... One-Shot ... ]]
The only time he ever heard it was when they were alone, when he managed to wring it from Eliot's lips. It took a lot of work, as much set up and prep work as any of their best jobs. More, in fact, Alec would say. But the rewards were worth it. Worth every aching moment.
It would begin easily enough: a good game on the big screen, a pack of beers carefully stashed in the fridge- far enough in the back to avoid suspicion, but not so far that they looked forgotten. Eliot would come in, muttered curses fading away as his eyes landed on the screen. Couldn't show interest, not right away; had to let Eliot find the six pack and get settled, shaking his hair back out of his face as he cracked open the first drink.
Then it was time to move in.
Remote in hand, Alec would close the distance between them, taking up one of the nearby chairs with a practiced-casual approach, one that even Sophie would have been proud of. Feet up on the edge of the table, laptop balanced on the hand without the remote, he'd turn up the sound just a little, as though he hadn't been watching the game himself, as though he were indulging in something for the sake of the man so casually knocking back the glass bottle.
The first time, that was as far as he got. They spent the entire night watching game after game- when you had 700 channels of sports, there was always a game on- until finally Alec must have passed out, because he woke up in the chair, remote on the table within arm's reach. Eliot had been gone, of course.
It happened that way several nights, until he finally had mustered up the courage for the next step. That one had been trickier, but he realized too late that Eliot must have been expecting it, must have been prepared for it. They had ended up, both laughing back at Hardison's room; one thing led to another, and suddenly, Eliot had been sitting too close, looking at him too intently. Then the kisses had started- neither of them could blame alcohol for it; Alec didn't drink alcohol, and Eliot didn't drink enough to impair his judgement.
And later that night, when the kisses evolved into something far more primal, that was when Hardison had heard it for the first time. Whispered, low and gravelly, breath hot over his ear while those hands were everywhere, touching everything, he hadn't believed it at first. Then, the more they moved, the hotter things got, the louder it was whispered until Eliot had nearly shouted it, surging into him in the same motion.
After that, Hardison had been hooked. It was a drug, a craving that he couldn't fight, that he didn't want to fight. He wanted to keep hearing it, to pull it from Eliot's lips over and over again until it was the only thing the hacker heard from him any more.
Now, they were on their second beer. That meant that Hardison had exactly enough time to shut down the laptop and stretch in his seat, arching back, pretending he didn't notice how Eliot's eyes followed him. When the hitter tilted up the bottle to drain it, Hardison pushed away from the table, walked oh-so-casually out of the room with the laptop under his arm. A little grin crossed his face, and then he was ducking into his own room.
The computer was set onto the desk, and Hardison had no more than pulled his shirt over his head than his door was opening. The soft fabric slipped from his fingers and crumpled against the ground as the door clicked shut, the lock twisting in the same smooth motion. Eliot crossed the room; his hand lifted to catch Hardison's head and pull him down. Then those lips were against his, and the hacker was kissing back, his own hands tangled in that long hair.
Eliot's mouth was trailing down and over his neck then, and dark eyes closed, Hardison's hands picking just for a moment at the shirt still on the hitter. Then Alec pushed him away, and when Eliot's eyes flashed, Hardison found his mouth suddenly dry, knowing what sort of retaliation was going to come from that. He slid his hands under the edges of the sweater, and when Eliot shoved him back and down against the bed, he scrabbled far enough back to give himself some breathing room. The offending shirt was stripped off, and then Eliot crawled across the bed, overtaking and overpowering as easily as he did everything else.
The only thing that put Hardison at any ease was knowing that this was how Eliot liked it, having him stretched out under the hitter this way, vulnerable. Eliot's hands busied themselves with touching, caressing and feeling the way Alec's muscles stretched and strained under the skin, particularly when Hardison grew tired of just laying there, letting him touch. His own hands moved to touch Eliot's hips, and he gasped softly when his partner leaned down, his mouth ghosting over Alec's chest before settling on a nipple. Hardison moaned.
The weight pressed against him was unbearable as it was, but when paired with Eliot's mouth and the way his hands couldn't keep still, kept teasing and touching and caressing, Hardison knew that he wouldn't last long. He let himself get too bothered from the start, from the moment Eliot ever came in the room to watch the game. He knew better, but he couldn't help the little sneak peaks, couldn't stop being so hyper aware of every look and glance that the hitter sent his way. He fed on them, loved them.
Now, with Eliot's tongue on him, Eliot's hand opening the front of Hardison's jeans, he didn't think it had been very wise to indulge as much as he had. Then those fingers were wrapped around him, and his hips were jerking up and Hardison knew he couldn't stand it, and if he was going to get to hear it, he was going to have to take control of the situation. He drew a deep, shuddering breath as Eliot's tongue curled around his ear, and then he rolled them swiftly, using a move Eliot had taught him weeks ago, one he had gotten quite proficient in once he'd seen a more ... practical application for it.
Eliot had that look on his face, the one that made Hardison want to shake him, to rattle that smooth confidence, and he pushed Eliot back against the bed, his own fingers busy with the buckle on his partner's jeans. Belt stripped off and dropped to the side, jeans opened and pushed down with boxers in a single practiced motion; Eliot didn't try to stop him. He never did at this point though. And Hardison wasn't about to let him either. Instead of trying to pin him, Alec slid down, casting a quick look up at his partner as he moved to kneel between Eliot's tanned thighs.
Eliot made only the slightest of noises, until Hardison was in position, until the very tip of Eliot's length was lightly brushing against his lips. It was in that moment- the heartbeat when Hardison opened his mouth, when his breath spilled over that silken skin- the hitter was so tensed up that the muscles along his thighs were jumping, his hands were digging into the blankets. For that minute, Hardison savored it, drank in the sight of Eliot, so open, so vulnerable before him.
And then one of those hands was on the back of his head, forcing him down, forcing him to stop teasing, to deliver on the promises he made all throughout the day in front of the crew. Deliver was what Hardison did. He wrapped one of his hands around the base of Eliot's length, he closed his eyes, and he started to suck, taking in as much of Eliot as he could before he eased back. Eliot's hand was firm- not pushing, not forcing; but certainly not letting him pull back either. And Hardison had to admit, he really didn't mind.
He found his rhythm easily enough, letting Eliot's soft gasps and the way the other man tried not to make a sound guide him. He let his pace speed up slowly, gradually letting his hand slide away until it was just his mouth, until Eliot couldn't help it and was digging his fingertips into the back of Hardison's head. Eliot's hips suddenly pressed back, into the bed, and Alec had just enough time to gasp in a deep breath before the hitter had hauled him back up, kissing him so roughly that Alec was sure his lips were going to be bruised.
Another kiss, desperate hands fumbling at pushing his jeans off- had to level the playing field; it was only fair- and then Alec was face down in the pillow, dragging in deep breaths as Eliot pressed against him for a moment. He could see it when Eliot reached for the bottle of oil by the bed, could hear the tell-tale click of the cap opening, and then there was the sudden rush of cold as the oil was slowly dribbled over him. He jerked forward, hissing and grumbling just slightly at the soft chuckle from his partner, and one of Eliot's hands pressed down against his back holding him in place before he worked that first finger into him. Hardison drew in deep breaths, grateful that with practice the pain had lessened, even if the shock of the temperature of the oil always caught him by surprise.
A twist of the wrist, and then Hardison was moaning, his back arching as Eliot's fingertip flicked over- THAT spot, the one that made him want to scream and beg and cry all at once. Another finger, and he was pressing back, biting his lip, squeezing his eyes closed in an attempt to keep himself in control. Then the fingers were gone; he could hear the tearing of a wrapper, the momentary pause before the heat pressed back against him, this time larger than a finger.
Alec exhaled as Eliot pushed in, having learned from practice that it helped with keeping oneself calm. The feel of being stretched, of having someone pushing in so damn deep-
Another shuddering breath, and Eliot wasn't moving, just digging his fingers into Hardison's hips, into that little crook where he always put his hands. Alec was pretty sure he kept bruises there. He shifted then, gasping slightly as he pushed himself up to where he wasn't completely pressed into the pillow. Eliot shivered, and his hands tightened their grips, and then Hardison was moaning as Eliot pulled almost all the way out.
"E-Eliot," and he was groaning as the hitter pushed back in. With each thrust, Eliot was hitting against that spot, pushing against it, rubbing it, and Hardison was whimpering, his hands grabbing fistfuls of blankets to keep from out-right begging. He needed this, needed Eliot to shove into him, to do that low growl- that one.
Eliot was leaning further over him, his voice pitched low and deep as he moved, as he rocked into Hardison. His hands kept Alec from meeting his movements, let him control their pace and motions. When his hips jerked particularly roughly, Hardison's arms gave out, and he was moaning, eyes still tightly shut; he was begging then, tightening around Eliot. Eliot groaned and then he was gasping for breath, same as Hardison, their ragged breathing the loudest sound in the room.
And suddenly, Hardison heard it; what he'd been waiting for the whole time: "Alec."
This was it, the only time Eliot ever said his first name, and when he said it like that, pitched low, desperate, it was always more than enough to send Hardison over the edge, his own breath caught in his throat. And when he tightened around Eliot, his face buried in the pillow, muffling his own cries, his partner lost control too, pushing in one last time, his moan bitten back. For several moments, neither of them moved.
Eliot moved first though- he always did- reaching for the little trash can that Hardison kept tucked just under the edge of the bed, out of sight but just within reach. Alec on the other hand just sort of collapsed on the bed, not caring that he was laying in his own wet spot, too boneless to try to move any further. In the end, it was Eliot that rolled him over, that threw him the rag to clean up with. It was always Eliot who took care of things like that, took care of him.