Thread by @robofingering

Hank feeling like a super creep thinking about Connor when he jerks off, in the time before he can even entertain the idea Connor might return his feelings, but he can't *quite* keep himself from doing it at all
He only lets himself think about certain things.

Connor disrobing for him. Kissing his neck, tracing the patterns of freckles across his shoulders, imagining the sounds he might make. Not chaste fantasies by any means, but he feels less ashamed of these thoughts if he can have some restraint.
But it doesn't last.

He can only be good for so long. He imagines kissing his way down Connor's slim torso, taking him in his mouth, moaning as Connor pulls his hair and bucks up into his throat. He thinks about Connor riding him, pinning his wrists down on the bed while he takes what he needs.

The first time he lets his mind wander in this direction, he comes so hard he nearly pulls a muscle in his leg. Guilt washes over him, but still his resistance is lower the next time he lets himself think about Connor that way. He can't stop.

He imagines Connor calling him baby as he sinks deep inside him, and he's deeply embarrassed when he cries a little at the thought of it, even though no one's around to see his red, blotchy face. He feels pitiful that he wants to be wanted like this, the way he wants Connor.

Pitiful and selfish. His time to be an object of desire has passed, if it ever was that time for him at all. This fact hurts now in a way it never has. He never cared about this, before Connor, and now that he does, he spends a great deal of effort to shove the feeling aside.

For a while, things are tense between them. Hank's so uncomfortable with the fantasies he can't stop himself from indulging in that he pulls away from Connor a bit, as if that would remove the temptation or make his feelings diminish. All it does is hurt Connor's feelings.

Connor corners him one night, when he's had enough to drink that he's feeling looser than usual but not so shitfaced he can't string a coherent sentence together. He asks why Hank's upset with him, what he's done wrong. "It's not you," Hank says. "I'm just an asshole. I'm sorry."

Connor looks so sad at this that Hank hates himself just a little bit more for putting him through all of this. He gulps down the rest of his glass of rye, too quickly, but the burn is a helpful distraction.
"What is it, then?" Connor asks. "It's something, even if it's not me."

"You go to bed early even though I know you're still awake, you won't stand close to me or even sit next to me when we're at home, and you've barely spoken to me for the past two weeks. Ben asked me yesterday if we were fighting."

Hank winced at that. "What did you say?"

"I told him that as far as I know, we are not, but that I understood why he asked. Can you help me understand what's happened between us?"

*Between us, he says, like we're together* Hank thinks. He's lost track of the bottle of rye--did Connor move it?--but he wishes he had it.

"You won't like it," he mumbles. "You'll want to leave."

"I don't think so," Connor says calmly, "but I can't know if you won't talk to me."

Hank leans his head against the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling. If he's been so bad at hiding his discomfort from Connor

that folks at work are noticing, he's fucked either way. May as well come clean about it. He already feels pathetic enough.
"I think about you," he says slowly, "like...like I shouldn't."
"Like how?" Connor asks.
Hank waves his hand aimlessly in the air as if he could conjure

up a vision of his fantasies to save himself the embarrassment of discussing them. "I want..." he starts. His hand thumps down on the armrest. He feels like he's made of lead, dropping to the bottom of the ocean.
"I want you," he says, "like I've never wanted anyone

in my whole fucking life, and sometimes I think about what it would be like if you wanted me that much, and if I could--" he lifts his hand again, briefly, but can't bring himself to reach out. "If I could touch you like I want to."
Connor just watches him, eyes wide and calm.

"And you don't deserve that shit from me, it isn't fair to think about you that way, so I tried to stop but. I can't. And I don't want you to know about any of it." Hank laughs and tips his glass up to capture the single drop left there. "Too late for that now, I guess."

"Thank you for telling me," Connor says softly. His face is still completely unreadable; Hank's gotten better at parsing out his expressions, but he has no idea what he's seeing now. The LED is a soft yellow pulse at his temple.
"No," Hank says, harsher than he means to.

"That's the wrong answer. 'Hank, you're disgusting, I'm going to stay with my beautiful android friends who'd never think of me that way, I hope your dick rots off,' that's how it should go. Try it."
"I'm not going to try it," Connor says, and now he sounds exasperated. Good.

That's halfway to the anger he should be feeling right now. Hank *wants* him to be angry, knows he deserves it. He doesn't know how to deal with this placid acceptance of what he's said.
"Sure, write your own script. 'Fuck you, Hank' is a good one, too. I believe in you."

Hank's head is swimming, and he tries to remember just how much booze he knocked back all at once.

"I'm not going to tell you to fuck off. I want to know what else you were thinking."

Hank hadn't really noticed that he'd closed his eyes, but he cracks them open again.

He squints at Connor, who's taken a seat on the couch beside him. "What?"

"You said," Connor says, "you thought about what it would be like if you could touch me, if I wanted you in the same way."

Hank nods, embarrassed.

"What did you think about?"

"Uh," Hank says. "I don't. Um. Specifically? Specific things."
"Yes."
"If you want to make fun of me, don't you have enough to go on already? Do you need to push like this? You don't want to hear this shit, Connor." Hank puts his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, I really am."

"Hank," Connor says softly. He waits until Hank lifts his head to look at him, and places a hand on Hank's sternum and pushes just hard enough that he slumps back against the couch with a startled grunt.
Hank's eyes struggle to focus as Connor climbs onto his lap. "Why are you--"

Hank shifts under Connor's weight, convinced at first that this is a test he's failing, that he needs to get up, but Connor's hand is still there, still pinning him in place. Fuck. His dick can't do much when he's this drunk but he still feels it twitch.

"Let's trade," Connor says. His mouth is so close to Hank's ear that he can feel his breath, slightly warmer than a human's. "If you tell me something you like to think about, when you imagine what it would be like if I wanted you, then I'll tell you one of mine."

"Kissing you," Hank manages to say. He's not sure he entirely understands what's happening, but Connor's hand is a solid point of contact he can focus on. And Connor's asked him, so he guesses it's safe to answer. "Maybe with you up on my lap, uh, like you are now."

"Seeing where you're sensitive."
"That sounds nice," Connor murmurs, still very close. "My mouth has so much sensory equipment in it, kissing should be very pleasurable." He leans back slightly and traces a path down the column of his neck with his free hand.

"I think I might be particularly sensitive here." Connor strokes the underside of his forearm. "Maybe here as well. Hmm." He takes a moment to think, then squeezes his inner thigh, fingers just barely brushing against Hank's leg.
Hank's mouth is suddenly very try.
"Mostly here."

Hank just nods; he doesn't trust himself to speak. The alcohol's fogging his brain, but even without it this would feel unreal.
"My turn now," Connor says. "I like to think about you running your fingers through my hair," he says. "Or pulling it. I think I'd enjoy that."

And oh, it's an appealing thought, one that's made an appearance in Hank's fantasies as well. Without thinking, Hank lifts a hand to touch Connor's hair, but he intercepts it smoothly.
"No, we're just talking now," he says, and pins each of Hank's hands beside him on the couch.

Connor's grip is gentle but firm; Hank has no desire to struggle, but he suspects that if he did, he wouldn't be able to get anywhere.
"I want to," Hank says roughly. "Fuck."
Connor shifts slightly on Hank's lap, brushing against his half-hard dick, and Hank moans softly.

"This is one," he manages to say. "You holding me down like this."
"Is that all?" Connor asks, with a wicked gleam in his eye.
Hank can feel himself sweating under the intensity of Connor's gaze, the scrutiny he's opening himself up to.
"No." He can't--he can't say it all.

"Please," Connor says, close to his ear again. Hank can feel that he's hard too, pressed up against Hank's soft belly, and he thinks maybe he's going to die. Maybe he's already dead and an incubus is torturing him in Hell.
"Please tell me the rest."

"You holding me down, and." Hank closes his eyes. He can't look at Connor as he says this."Fucking yourself open on me, taking your time. Not letting me move until you say I can. Using--using me however you want."
"That's one of mine too," Connor purrs. "A favorite."

"I want to taste your ejaculate," Connor says then, like it's the most natural thing to say, like he isn't completely in control of a game Hank doesn't quite understand. The weirdness of this situation, the booze in his gut, his worries about thinking about Connor this way;

all of them crash together.
"Jesus, Connor, you can't just say these things like you--"
"Like I what?"
Connor is so close, and Hank knows he could just lean forward and kiss him; despite being pinned down he has that much room.

But it feels like there's still so much space between them, and he isn't sure if he's allowed to close that gap just yet.
"Like you mean them."
Connor's face falls. He lets go of Hank's wrists and presses his hands to either side of his face, his fingers tangling in Hank's beard.

"This is--Hank, all of this is completely sincere on my part. I wouldn't tell you any of these things if they weren't true." He deflates a bit, forehead resting against Hank's. "How about. How about we go back to the first thing you said."
"The first...?"
"Kissing."

Still cupping Hank's face, Connor tilts his head down and presses his lips gently, tentatively, to Hank's mouth. "This is what I think about too," he whispers, and kisses him again.
Hank sighs, a small sound in the back of his throat, and parts his lips.

Connor's mouth is so warm.
There's a deep relief, Hank thinks, to kissing Connor - to wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer - and feeling some of the shame that's plagued him for weeks bleed away. Not all of it, god no, but he feels it fading.

"I thought you'd be upset with me," he murmurs against Connor's cheek. "I couldn't stop thinking about you."
"I don't want you to stop."
"Yeah, okay." Hank doesn't know what to do, but kissing Connor seems to be safe now, and it's what he wants anyway so he goes for it.

Connor makes a soft, happy noise into Hank's mouth when he slides a hand into his hair and pulls, very gently.
"Oh," Connor says, breaking the kiss with a sound that raises the hair along Hank's forearms. "I thought I'd guessed how good it would feel, but..."
"Is this better?"

"So much better than I imagined, yes."
"What else?"
Connor pulls back a bit and meets Hank's eye. "You're drunk," he says quietly.
"Yeah, usually." Hank feels the shame prickling back again.
"Not as often, lately."
Hank shrugs.

"I just don't want to do these things with you when you've been drinking, Hank. Talking is good, although I don't know that I did that right either, but."
He flexes his fingers in a way Hank recognizes as shorthand for "I wish I had my coin to fiddle with right now."

"But," Hank prompts him, when it looks like Connor's forgotten to continue his thought.
"But I'm not comfortable with more than this right now."
"Hey, that's fine," Hank says. "'s my fault for drinking too much tonight, and for being a general shithead to you over this."

"You weren't--well. You did hurt me by pulling away. But I understand. It's not my turn, but I have one more thing to tell you."
"All right."
"I think about being in bed with you, at night. Being wrapped up in your arms while you're asleep."
Hank smiles. "That's one of mine."

"Well," Connor says cautiously, "do you think I could join you, tonight?"
Hank kisses him again. "Of course. Please."
"And...we can pick things up in the morning?"
"I'd love to."
Hank's head is swimming, and he doesn't know if it's the nerves or the booze hitting him harder.

Hank is used to waking up hungover. He hates it, every time, but it's a familiar sort of hatred. He's also used to taking a moment in the morning to indulge himself in his favorite well-worn fantasies of Connor; even when guilt sneaks up on him, he can't help himself, lately.

Hank's a restless sleeper, and usually wakes up wrapped around a spare blanket that's bunched up beneath him overnight. It's bright in the room already, even without opening his eyes, so he keeps them shut and stays wrapped up and warm in bed, half-asleep and thinking of Connnor.

Yesterday morning he was so beautiful, Hank thinks lazily, and he shifts his hips, pressing his morning erection against the blankets beside him. He imagines Connor slipping into the shower with him; he'd lather Hank up, tease him by brushing against his cock as if by accident.

Surely, he thinks, Connor would be an unholy terror of a cocktease, watching his pulse or something to see how worked up he could get before giving in and jerking him off. Before that he'd stand behind Hank under the hot spray, working soap over his chest and teasing his nipples.

Hank would be panting by the end of it: Connor's hand in a loose fist over his cock, giving only the slightest pressure as he pinched and pulled at his nipples; maybe he'd lean up and whisper in Hank's ear that he couldn't come until he asked nicely.

"Oh, fuck," Hank groans out loud, then. He isn't even touching himself yet and his arousal is painful, a hot ache he can't ignore. He thrusts against the mass of blankets again, more firmly. "Connor, please--"
He's completely unprepared to receive a response.
"Please what, Hank?"

It's at this moment that Hank opens his eyes, fully wakes up, and realizes several things.
1) the blankets he's wrapped around are, in fact, Connor.
2) the vaguely-remembered dream about Connor pouncing on him and trading fantasies was not a dream.
3) Connor hasn't run away yet.

"You aren't a dream," Hank says, because he's still trying to find his footing and stating the obvious is the best he can do in the moment.
Connor turns over so he's facing Hank, and pulls Hank's arm back around him when he nervously starts to draw it away. "Do you remember what

we talked about last night?"
"Yeah. Thought I made it up, but here you are."
"Here I am." Connor presses himself closer, somehow; his thigh gently nudges against Hank's cock, still hard. "Do you want to tell me what that 'please' was for?"

"Shit, you really do want this, don't you?"
"As much as you do, I think." Connor kisses Hank's collarbone where it's peeking out of the undershirt he slept in, and licks a hot trail up his neck to his ear. "Will you tell me?"
There's no way Hank can say no to this. Not to Connor.

He rocks gently against Connor's thigh as he tells him. "I thought about you in the shower with me, soaping me up. Teasing me. You weren't--" his voice hitches as Connor slides a hand down to squeeze at his ass. "Weren't going to let me come until I asked for it."