Work Text:
The muggy Texas twilight settles over Rainey Street like a damp washrag. Nancy’s cherry-red sedan purrs out of the driveway, its taillights winking as she turns toward John Redcorn’s place. Dale watches from behind his dusty living room blinds, a Manitoba cigarette already dangling from his chapped lips. The second her car vanishes around the bend, he’s out his front door, the screen slamming shut behind him with a tired *whap*. He doesn’t bother locking it. Arlen’s safe enough, especially when you know how to rig a paint-can alarm.
He jogs across the dew-slicked lawn separating his house from Boomhauer’s, his worn work boots crunching on the gravel driveway. The spare key – filed down to bypass the lock’s tumblers, Dale’s own paranoid modification – slides smoothly into the deadbolt. Inside, the air is thick with the greasy, intoxicating aroma of pepperoni and rising dough. Boomhauer stands silhouetted in the harsh fluorescent light of his tiny kitchenette, meticulously arranging slices of delivery pizza onto chipped Corelle plates. He’s wearing faded Levi’s and a thin white undershirt smudged with engine grease, his blond hair sticking up in sweaty tufts.
"Workin' on the alley couch," Boomhauer says without turning, his voice a rapid-fire staccato, like a busted carburetor trying to idle. "Got the canopy frame welded, man, just needs the canvas stretched. Gonna be prime, sittin' out there, rain or shine." He gestures vaguely toward the back door with a pizza slice held precariously on a spatula.
Dale leans against the doorjamb, taking a long, deliberate drag. Smoke curls around his face, momentarily obscuring his faded blue eyes before he pushes his aviators – perpetually perched on his nose against the assault of ordinary daylight – further up the bridge. His gaze fixes on Boomhauer’s throat, remembering.
"Watchin' you slurp, slurp that Dew," Dale rasps, the cigarette bobbing. "Was fuckin' hot."
The image is vivid: Boomhauer sliding out from beneath the skeletal frame of the couch in the alley hours earlier, hands blackened with grease, unable to reach his Mountain Dew can. Dale kneeling beside him, holding the sweating can steady, guiding the striped straw past Boomhauer’s lips, the frantic sucking sounds as Boomhauer gulped the syrupy soda, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously. Boomhauer finally turns, a slow grin spreading across his face. His hazel eyes, usually darting and alert, hold a sudden, focused warmth.
"Y-yeah'man?" he stutters out, the words tumbling fast. "That right?"
Dale flicks ash onto the linoleum. "Started 'maginin' you suckin' somethin' else." His voice is low, gravelly, charged with intent. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.
Boomhauer’s grin widens. He drops the spatula onto the counter with a clatter. The forgotten pizza slice slides onto the floor. "You volunteerin', baby?" The question comes out in a breathless rush, anticipation crackling in the air between them.
Dale takes one last drag, crushes the cigarette butt under his boot heel on Boomhauer’s clean floor. "If you're willin', darlin'."
"Hell," Boomhayer breathes, already stepping away from the counter, grease-stained hands held slightly away from his sides. "Pizza can wait."
He strides past Dale, heading towards the dim living room. Dale doesn’t hesitate. The instant Boomhauer clears the kitchen threshold, Dale’s fingers are fumbling with his belt buckle and then the button and zipper of his faded Wranglers. They shove down over his narrow hips, taking his threadbare boxers with them in a single, practiced motion, pooling around his scuffed boots.
"Shirt," Dale commands, his voice tight. "Off. Now."
Boomhauer obeys instantly, peeling the grease-stained undershirt over his head in one fluid motion, revealing a lean torso dusted with blond hair. He tosses it aside. Before the shirt even hits the worn carpet, Dale is on him. He crowds Boomhauer backwards, not gently, until the taller man’s shoulder blades hit the living room wall beside a framed picture of a muscle car. Dale’s hands cup Boomhauer’s jaw, fingers pressing into the almost nonexistent stubble, and he crashes their mouths together. It’s not tender; it’s deep and demanding, a claiming.
Dale’s tongue pushes past Boomhauer’s lips, tasting the faint residue of Mountain Dew and engine oil. Boomhauer groans into it, his hands finding Dale’s bare hips, fingers digging into the skin. Dale breaks the kiss with a wet sound, breathing hard. His faded blue eyes, wide and intense behind the shield of his sunglasses, lock onto Boomhauer’s.
"Down," he orders, the single syllable sharp as a knife. "On your knees. Now."
Boomhauer doesn’t hesitate. He sinks down smoothly, the worn knees of his jeans hitting the carpet with a soft thud. He looks up at Dale, his hazel eyes wide and trusting, lips slightly parted. There’s no resistance, only eager submission. Dale’s hand snakes into Boomhauer’s sweaty, disheveled blond hair, fisting a thick handful near the crown. He doesn’t yank, not yet, but the possessiveness is absolute. With his other hand, he reaches out blindly, groping along the wall until his fingers find the rotary dimmer switch for the overhead light. He twists it hard. The harsh fluorescence dies, replaced by a single, low-wattage bulb in a dusty lamp across the room, plunging the corner where they stand into deep, intimate shadow.
Dale pulls off his aviators, folding them with one hand and stuffing them into the pocket of his discarded jeans. The dim light is kinder to his light-sensitive eyes. He looks down at Boomhauer, really looks. Boomhauer meets his gaze, unwavering. He gives a single, sharp nod. Dale braces his left hand flat against the cool wall, just above Boomhauer’s shoulder. His right hand tightens in Boomhauer’s hair, not painfully, but with undeniable pressure, pulling his head back just enough to expose the long line of his throat. A low, involuntary moan escapes Boomhauer at the sensation, vibrating against Dale’s knuckles.
"Slurp, slurp, darlin'," Dale murmurs, his voice thick and rough.
He guides himself forward, the head of his cock bumping against Boomhauer’s parted lips. Boomhauer opens wider, his tongue flicking out to taste the bead of moisture already gathering. Then Dale pushes in, slowly at first, feeling the incredible, wet heat envelop him. Boomhauer’s mouth is a furnace. His lips seal tight, creating suction as Dale feeds him more length. Dale’s breath hitches. He pushes deeper, past the resistance of Boomhauer’s throat, feeling the muscles flutter and contract around him. Boomhauer’s eyes water slightly, but he holds Dale’s gaze, his own pupils blown wide in the gloom. Dale pulls back almost all the way, then thrusts forward again, harder this time, burying himself to the hilt, the wiry hair of his groin pressing against Boomhauer’s nose.
Boomhauer’s nostrils flare as he breathes through them, a low, continuous moan humming in his chest. The vibration travels straight up Dale’s cock, a raw, electric buzz that makes his thighs tremble. The rhythm builds. Dale fucks into Boomhauer’s mouth with increasing urgency, short, deep strokes that push Boomhauer’s face firmly into his crotch with each forward drive. The sounds are obscene, wet, and guttural: the slick slide of flesh, the choked gags Boomhauer suppresses, the rhythmic shlck-shlck-shlck of suction, and Dale’s ragged gasps.
Boomhauer’s hands, which have been resting on his own thighs, come up to clutch Dale’s hips, fingers digging in, urging him deeper, faster. His throat works desperately around the intrusion, swallowing convulsively. The moan trapped in his chest vibrates against Dale’s cock constantly now, a filthy counterpoint to the thrusting. Dale feels the coil in his gut tighten unbearably—his vision blurs at the edges.
"Gonna…" he grunts, a warning lost in the wet noise.
His thrusts become erratic, frantic. He holds Boomhauer’s head hard against him, hips stuttering. Boomhauer feels the pulse, the swelling heat, and redoubles his efforts, sucking fiercely, hollowing his cheeks, milking him with his tongue. With a choked cry that’s half-snarl, half-sob, Dale explodes. Thick pulses of cum pump directly down Boomhauer’s throat. Boomhauer swallows rapidly, greedily, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically, taking every drop, the suction never faltering until Dale’s cock gives a final, spent twitch.
Dale’s legs shake violently. He sags against the wall, his grip in Boomhauer’s hair loosening. He tugs weakly, pulling his softening cock free with a slick pop. Boomhauer gasps for air, his lips swollen and glistening, a thin strand of saliva and semen connecting them to Dale’s glans for a second before snapping. Dale hauls Boomhauer up by the shoulders, his own strength spent. The moment Boomhauer is on his feet, Dale collapses against him, burying his face in the crook of Boomhauer’s neck, inhaling the scent of sweat, grease, and his own release.
Then he’s kissing him again, feverishly, desperately, licking into his mouth, tasting himself mixed with Boomhauer’s spit. Boomhauer staggers under the sudden weight, his back hitting the wall again. He wraps his arms around Dale’s trembling frame, kissing back with equal fervor, their mouths moving in a messy, breathless tangle. A thick string of mingled cum and saliva stretches between their lips as they momentarily part for air, catching the dim light before snapping. Boomhauer pants, resting his forehead against Dale’s, a dazed, satisfied grin on his face.
"Better than the Dew, baby," he stammers out, the words tumbling fast and breathless.
Dale, still trembling, manages a weak, breathless chuckle against Boomhauer’s lips. "Damn right," he rasps.
They slide down the wall together in a heap of tangled limbs, landing on the worn carpet in a tangle of denim and bare skin. Exhausted, exhilarated, they lean into each other, foreheads touching, breathing ragged but slowing. The forgotten pizza cools on the counter, the grease congealing on the slices. It doesn’t matter. The heat between them is enough for now. They can always nuke it later.