But then he pulls up to the place, and it's clearly classy and expensive. A young, blonde woman at reception tells him to wait for a second, so he does, looking around. The decor is clean, minimalistic.
"Nervous?" He asks, and his voice is as low and gravelly as Connor had imagined. Maybe more so.
"Little bit," Connor squeaks, then clears his throat.
Connor has to concentrate on not tripping over his feet.
Hank offers him privacy and gentle instructions to strip and lie down.
When Hank comes back, Connor is ready.
"This your first time?"
"Yeah," Connor croaks.
Connor swallows hard
Hank touches his shoulder.
"There. Alright?" Hank asks.
Connor shudders. His hands are slick, but it doesn't stop him from feeling the roughness of his calluses. "Yes. This is fine."
Hank hums again, low and thoughtful.
"M'cop," he mumbles. "Stressful is an understatement."
"I can tell," Hank says, a soft laugh in his voice.
"You carry a lot of tension here."
Then Hank digs into a particularly painful spot.
"You have to take better care of your body," Hank says.
"I'm fine," he says automatically. "Nothing a log bath won't fix."
"Did you ever suffer a leg injury?"
Connor blinks. "Yes? A long time ago. Why?"
"Yeah," Connor says on a groan. "It sucked."
Hank places a heavy hand on the back of his calf and kneads it carefully. Connor's breath hitches.
Under Hank's firm instructions to relax, Connor makes another attempt at emptying his head. It's by no means easy, but he's also finding it more difficult to focus.
Hank just ignores it, of course, keeps up that clinical treatment.
"Very good," he says, briefly squeezing the back of Connor's neck. "Isn't it nice to unwind a little?" The firm press of his hands gentles into something that turns the burn -
Connor closes his eyes. He feels heavy, sort of floaty, and despite the continuous swirl of arousal, he's also becoming quite relaxed. He refuses to call the way Hank is kneading his shoulders, then his hands, then his palms, sensual.
He wakes - God knows how much later. He feels warm and soft and a little damp. The lights are low. His eyes won't quite open. There's a hand resting low on his spine, warming him like a hot water bottle.
"Woah now. Slow down, okay? Don't want you falling over from getting up too quick."
Connor huffs, embarrassed. His cheeks warm.
He's almost miffed that he missed out on any part of this, but he feels - better than he has in years, actually.
"It's a compliment," he says firmly. "And frankly, you needed it."
Then he shoots Connor a lopsided smile that punches the breath right out of him and makes him quickly scramble to make sure the sheet is covering everything.
He leaves Hank a generous tip. And then, despite the heart attack he nearly has at the price tags, he books another appointment for a full-body massage next week.
... It's awkward again.
Not for lack of trying. Connor takes a long, cold shower before he leaves the house next time, and despite the general lack of desire to, squeezes out an unenthusiastic orgasm as a precaution. He throws on loose-fitting clothing.
He keeps his mind firmly on boring, unsexy things. Paint drying. Taxes. The relentless passage of time and the inexorable, monotonous march towards death.
It almost works.
Because, he's nervous all over again, but then he looks at Hank's hands, and can't bring himself to walk out the door.
Hank has him lie facedown again. He hums softly, then apologizes when he catches himself at it.
Hank knuckles into a tender knot low near the base of his spine, hard enough to rip a small groan from Connor. It hurts, but as he squezes out whatever was holding him locked, the pain is replaced by a feeling of profound relief.
Connor bites down on a whimper. Then makes an undignified noise when Hank does it again, harder.
Connor shakes with quiet laughter. "It's okay, you're allowed to swear. My delicate, virgin ears can take it."
Hank laughs, deep and husky, which immediately extinguishes Connor's amusement.
"Well, thank fuck," Hank says, deadpan. "I've never been good at this whole 'be appropriate' thing."
Connor's mind helpfully informs him of several inappropriate things he could suggest. He clears his throat.
Hank chuckles. "Wouldn't go that far."
"I would," Connor says fervently.
"Mhm. How's your leg?"
Hank tuts sceptically. Then squeezes Connor's hip with one hand, pressing into the tender tissue in his thigh with the other, finding muscle that feels - sore, almost like it's inflamed. Connor flinches.
Connor winces. It's painful, but he can almost feel the edge of relief again. "No, don't stop. Last week - it was nice. After."
He punctuates this by rubbing Connor's back in a soothing little motion, then goes to work on his thigh. The touch feels white-hot for a while, but after a bit, fades into dullness.
His hands drift higher to take care of Connor's shoulders.
A laugh, quiet and low. "If you'd like to sleep, you can." His voice dips lower. "I'll take care of you."
And fuck, fuck if that doesn't send all of Connor's blood suddenly south. He sighs shakily. "Nah. I have to get my money's worth, right? Better pay attention."
Connor freezes. "Uh."
Hank launches into a detailed, surely very educational explanation of all the muscles he wants to poke and prod on Connor's front. Connor is only half listening.
"Take your time. Would you like some water?"
"Yes," Connor rasps, grateful for the distraction.
"Don't be afraid to ask," Hank says, retreating into a side room.
It's not very effective.
He sighs quietly as he's handed the glass and gulps down the water.
Hank touches his bare shoulder, which negates his efforts to calm down all over again. Connor's entirely in love with this man's hands. "More?"
"No. Thank you."
Connor shifts uneasily. "Yes. Right."
Hank pats the bed for him. Connor sighs, a flush crawling up his cheeks. He's embarrassed enough that it mitigates the problem a bit, but he still feels the need to apologize as he lies down.
He clears his throat, lips quirking. "Nothing to worry about. Happens a lot." Then he wraps his fingers around Connor's ankle, nonchalant as ever.
"Of course it happens a lot," Connor wheezes.
Connor chokes, head thumping back against the bed. He's thankful the towel over his hips is thick and relatively heavy.
He tries to keep that at the forefront of his mind. Thankfully, Hank is professional about all of this. He focuses on the task at hand, and chats idly to keep Connor distracted.
It does. But it also puts him to sleep again.
Not that he would. He's so careful not to do anything that could be interpreted as threatening or unpleasant or constraining.
Connor closes his eyes again. Everything is swimming in a soft, fuzzy soup. "Should do this again," he slurs. "S'very nice.
"You should," Hank responds earnestly.
When their session ends, Hank has to help him sit up. He feels limp, a little dizzy, but it's easier with Hank's offered shoulder to brace himself against. Hank pats his back.
Maybe not, but Connor feels like he's on the verge of hyperventilating anyway. He straightens up. "I'm alright. Thank you."
Hank squeezes his shoulders. "Alright. Just take it easy, okay?"
"There's a good boy," Hank says, all playful grin and warm light in his eyes. He steps away wipes his hands on a clean towel.
Connor stares at his shoulders, feeling coming back to his limbs more properly.
He makes another appointment.
The next time, Connor makes an effort to stay awake. That's much worse for his blood pressure.
"That's the point, kid. Good things happen when you take care of yourself."
"You're the one doing it," Connor mumbles. "You get the majority of the credit."
He's also particularly firm, kneading the soreness of the old injury out of him, paying particular attention to the stiffer areas - which -
And it's awfully easy like this, to wonder how it would feel to have his hips pinned down just like this in a very different context, and how nice it might be to hear the low growl of Hank's voice then.
When Hank's fingers brush accidentally against his inner thigh, Connor bites down on a sharp whine and jolts.
"It's fine," Connor manages, painfully hard against the bed. He does /not/ say 'do that again'. Oh, but he wants to. He really, really wants to. He can still feel the echo of that touch.
It doesn't fade, not even much later. When he goes home -
It still doesn't stop him from calling again.
It's comfortable, even when it's uncomfortable. Hank is warm and steady. Easy to trust.
It's the most rested Connor ever gets. He doesn't tell Hank why. It's not the sort of thing you say out loud, anyway. Hank just makes him feel safe. Connor's nightmares never seem to find him like this.
Occasionally, when he wakes with a start-
For a while, it feels like things are bound to stay like this forever. Comfortable, if not fully satisfying, but good.
It doesn't start changing until the one night, when Connor comes by after a particularly stressful three weeks.
"Sweetheart, what happened?"
A cool, dry hand touches Connor's back. Connor twitches, then groans because he's forgotten. It's been a few days.
"Not a very long drop," Connor amends, but winces. He's sure the bruising looks worse than it is, but - "I'm sorry. I forgot."
Hank sighs sharply.
Hank touches his shoulder. His side is sore and achy, although it's a dull kind of pain. The bruising is extensive, but the skin was intact. Maybe -
"No," Connor whines, pulse jumping. It's already been so long. "Maybe just. Just something else then."
"That's fine," Connor says, barely concealing his disappointment. Hank touching him is always nice -
"Hang on. I'll be right back." Hank says, his voice gruff.
When he comes back, he places a hand between Connor's shoulders. "You've seen a doctor about this?"
"Yeah," Connor says, a little impatient. It sneaks into his voice
"It's no big deal, Hank. Just some bruises." His side had taken the brunt of the damage.
Connor flushes. He feels like he's being scolded. Ridiculous.
There's a short, cold silence. "Right."
For a second, Connor thinks he's fucked up. That he's about to finally get the boot, and oh, the irony of it being over anything other than his rampant horniness would be too much.
And it's just - not enough. Connor needs to be /touched/. Something about this feels terrible, makes him feel -
"Hey. Hey, slow down," Hank says, warm and concerned again, and something in Connor's chest fissures sharpy.
He can't look at Hank, but he thinks he doesn't need to.
"I'm sorry about this," he breathes.
He smells like sandalwood, incense, oranges. He feels like he's five degrees warmer.
Connor almost laughs at his careful avoidance of the question 'are you okay.' It's just as well.
"Sore," he says. "Tired. Don't be sorry. It's not your fault I'm high-strung."
"You need a rest," Hank says, low and warm. "Would you like to lie back down?"
Connor slips out of his grip and flops down.
He thinks he hears Hank say a quiet 'you are', but abruptly decides he's hearing things. Wishful thinking, is what it is. Just wishful thinking.
Connor blinks at him. His cheeks turn a shade darker.
"I think I'd like to sleep," he confesses quietly. "But I'm not sure I can, without you - you always -"
"Right," Hank says sympathetically.
Connor winces. "I'm not sure. I've been sleeping on my stomach these last few days."
Connor chuckles despite himself. "No broken bones. Maybe one cracked rib."
Hank seems to stiffen. "You know you're incredibly lucky, right?"
Hank touches his neck and squeezes. Gently at first, but the pressure of his grip builds and builds until Connor feels like a kitten held by the scruff.
Hank leans over him, his other hand going up to squeeze Connor's shoulders. His breath is in Connor's hair. "Try to relax for me."
He also ignores the blatant lie, hands drifting to find another spot that's safe to touch. "Take deep breaths."
Connor laughs shakily. Then whines when Hank's thumb bites into his shoulder. "Fuck."
Hank laughs quietly. "Just like that."
"Keep breathing for me. Nice and deep, Connor."
"Relax. It's been too long," Hank mutters, soft and soothing. "You've been pushing yourself, haven't you?"
Connor hums. Hank rubs his shoulders, his neck, then behind his ears, and Connor groans quietly because /holy shit/.
"There we go. Very good," Hank says.
Connor wouldn't want him to either way.
Hank stays carefully away from the bruising, but he's not shy with touching.
Hank's hand comes to a pause low on the small of his back. "Don't thank me," he says, and it's not a request.
Hank is silent. His fingers trace a firm circle into his spine.
"Why not, Hank?"
He sighs, relaxing into the feeling of Hank's hands. It takes him a bit to notice, or maybe imagine -
"Hey," Hank reprimands him. "I can still hear you thinking."
Connor sighs. This isn't - it's not quite enough to shut his brain down the way their sessions usually do.
"Wanna talk about it?"
Connor considers this. Then laughs. "I'm not sure." There's things he doesn't want to think about, let alone say. "I think not."
"You don't have to explain," Hank says, smoothing his hand up and down Connor's back, too light to be satisfying. "I get it."
Hank's movements slow. He runs his fingers through Connor's hair again, rubbing his scalp gently. "I was an EMT for five years, and a paramedic for... longer."
Hank nudges him, trying to get him to lie flat again, but Connor can't look away from his face for a long while.
Connor no longer has the restraint to bite down on his soft whine.
"Yeah," Connor whispers, something hot and bright leaping through him like static.
"How's your back?"
Hank exhales slowly through his nose, like he's gathering his thoughts.
Connor shifts a little again, slightly closer. He should care that it crosses a line, and - he does, he doesn't want to make Hank uncomfortable - but he also can't bring himself to think or want anything else. "Mhm."
Hank brushes a lock of hair back from his face.
Connor blinks up at him owlishly, briefly thrown off by the question. "No."
Hank sighs, like this upsets him. "You should have someone."
"I manage fine on my own."
Hank's brow furrows. He looks away.
Connor has a tiny heart attack before he realizes Hank just wants to massage it.
He bites back another soft groan.
Connor squeezes his eyes shut. "Right. Yes."
"Is it hard to relax like this?"
Connor hrmphs. "No. Well, yes, but - not by a lot. I just prefer it when you can -"
Hank nods though, as if he hadn't just cut off mid-sentence. "You like a firmer touch."
"Yes" Connor says right as Hank presses gently between his fingers. It comes out more unsteady than he'd intended.
Because it wouldn't be, even if Hank wanted him. It would be...
Hank gives him an oddly intense stare. "I want to distract you. None of that thinking."
Hank shifts closer, rubs his fingers through Connor's curls, rough enough to make his eyes roll back in his head. The pressure at his back increases too, makes Hank's grip feel heavier than lead. Connor sucks in a sharp breath. He shifts uncomfortably.
"No," Connor breathes. He's not particularly interested in explaining that it makes him want to rut into the clean sheets underneath him. He's not sure it would go over well.
"Easy for you to say," Connor mutters.
Connor almost chokes on air, because what he /needs/ right now is to be fucked into next week. "You don't want to hear what I need," he says. A poor attempt at a joke.
"If I didn't want to know," Hank says, carefully enunciating his words, his voice almost a growl. "I wouldn't have asked."
Hank sighs. Rubs the spot behind Connor's ear again. "Have you ever just - let someone do this for you? Let someone take care of everything?"
Connor's breathing shallows.
"It doesn't have to be me," Hank says, almost idly, his touch still there, still maddening. Connor tries to gather up the remains of his self-control.
It's a little fast. It makes everything feel like a distant, foggy dream.
Connor shifts, rolls to his side so he can look up properly. His face feels like it's on fire. "I don't want anyone else."
Hank's shuttered look turns into something softer. Connor looks away, lashes low.
Hank laughs. Traces the seam of Connor’s mouth with his thumb. “I’ve been touching you for over a hour. Weeks actually. You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific than that.”
Connor feels a brief, fierce urge to bite him.
Hank grips his chin. Just a little on the edge of too-hard again. “Mmm. Still not specific enough.”
Connor does bite him then, lightly. Hank freezes. His hand tastes bitter and floral, like lavender and cedar.
“Help me relax,” he asks, breathless. “Please, Hank. I just want your hands everywhere.”
“Everywhere, huh? That can be arranged.”
Hank’s eyes warm. “I know. Relax, Connor.”
"Settle," Hank says. "I'm not doing a thing until you're lying here like a limp noodle."
Connor wants to say that /limp/ is the last thing he's going to be.
It's worth it though, to feel Hank slide his hand under the sheet just barely covering him up to tug it off.
He stays still. Very still.
Hank is quiet for a moment. "I'm going to take care of you. Your job is to do nothing. Just relax. And feel. Okay?"
"Okay," Connor whispers. "Hank, I-"
"Are you thinking again?"
Hank hushes him, rubs his hip slowly. "I know you don't. I wouldn't have offered if I thought any different."
Is that what happened? Connor's having trouble focusing enough to remember. The guilt doesn't want to leave him, either.
Connor twitches. "Really?"
"Mm. You're my last client of the night. I get to lock up after everyone else has gone. It's just you and me. Off the clock."
"See? Thought you might like that," Hank says, still soft. -
Connor's too lost in that fuzzy feeling again to process what Hank wants exactly - he just does as he's told, cheeks flooding with color when Hank slides a hand under his hips.
"This is comfortable," Connor mumbles sleepily. It's true. Hank's cupping him almost gently, but with enough pressure to feel - good. Very good, actually. Now if he would just wrap his fingers properly around his cock -
“I’ve been patient,” Connor mutters. “I’m tired of waiting.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Hank’s voice is entirely unconcerned.
“The faster you relax,” he says, tracing the skin around Connor’s ankle, “The faster you get what you want.”
Connor’s heart is /definitely/ about to explode. And on the heels of the pleasure is something dangerously close to panic. “Okay. Just don’t stop touching me.”
Connor freezes. He has no idea how to answer that, although Hank doesn’t seem to be expecting a response.
“You’re so sensitive. Like right here. I brush my fingertips here and - “
“See what I mean? I could do this all day.”
Connor is still momentarily beyond words.
It feels like hours before he nudges Connor's legs slightly apart.
He touches Connor's ass, squeezes it while muttering something appreciative, spreads the cheeks apart in a way that has Connor squirming, but then sighs and resumes the massage. And then again, taking great care.
And then he does /that/, and Connor moans helplessly.
"Don't you fucking dare," he snaps. Because Jesus, god, Hank's hands are so big, practiced and strong, and Connor needs him to never, /ever/ stop.
The pressure lightens just slightly.
"You sure? You seem agitated."
"Hank," Connor manages fervently, "if you don't fuck me in the next five seconds I'm getting up, driving home, and fucking myself on the biggest dil-fffffuuuck."
Connor's not even sure what Hank is /doing/.
Connor grinds into the little damp spot again, whimpering, because if he doesn't get more -
"Wish you could see yourself right now," Hank says. "You're so beautiful."
Beautiful is the last thing Connor feels, bruised up as he is, but he'll take the compliment if it means Hank using that hypnotic voice on him.
Hank doesn't let up, but he does use his other hand to pin Connor's hips down.
"Be still. It'll feel better," he rumbles.
Hank doesn't. He just keeps massaging him there, like it's the same as anything else.
Then Hank slows down, teasing the edge of the tight ring of muscle, and bends low over Connor to kiss his shoulder.
"You're doing so well," he says. "So good for me."
And if this is what it takes, well, that's what it takes. So he makes an effort.
Connor sighs. He's warm all over, his face and his hands tingling, toes curling from what Hank is doing to him, but as he repeats the same movements -
He closes his eyes and drifts.
And then Hank strokes down Connor's spine, between his legs, and presses a shockingly slick finger inside of him.
Hank pauses. He doesn't pull away, but he goes very still. One hand gently rubs a circle into Connor's hip. "Alright, babe?"
Connor laughs wetly. "Yes. Yes. More."
Hank hmmms softly, pressesing in a little.
Hank stills again. It's a warning; a warning to stay relaxed, but Connor can't take that anymore. Panting, he arches closer, hips stuttering in his attempt to take him deeper.
"I don't think so," he says, soft and playful but with enough bite that Connor knows he's serious. "You're being so good. Can you be good a little while longer?"
"Hank, please. Please."
"Beg all you want, baby," Hank soothes.
He keeps his hips steady, takes his sweet time fucking Connor open. Every time Connor tries to clench, or move, he slows down further.
When he does remember though, it's worth it, because Hank's hands are still made of concentrated magic. And /inside/ him.
Hank does something with his fingers that makes his vision white out again, brings tears straight to his eyes. "Yes?"
But Connor doesn't want anything specific he can articulate. Just the taste of Hank's name on his own lips, so he says it again, just as breathless.
His breathing deepens. If he can just - concentrate. And feel nothing else. Just this, just Hank. Open and soft as he feels, it can't possibly take more than that.
"Perfect," Hank says. "Just like that, love. You're so good."
Connor can't move. Can't breathe properly, let alone do this again. The breaths shuddering out of him are hard and broken, like he's a racehorse pushed far past its limit.
"Hank," is the only thing he's capable of whining.
Connor doesn't know whether to flinch, or to rock back into it. Somehow he attempts both at once, cries out because it mostly just hurts.
And Hank is good to him. Even gentler than before, less teasing and more focused on making Connor feel nice. Overstimulated, but nice.
It takes a long time for awareness to creep into this glow.
The second is that he's damp; a combination of oils, lubricant, sweat, and - other fluids. Including tears
Hank sits next to him, silently and efficiently cleaning up the mess they've made.
"Relax. Take a nap if you need."
This proves to be far more difficult than it seemed. There's a lulling quality to Hank's hand at his nape.
Well, warm, mostly. And dry. There's a blanket around him, the sheets are clean. He's curled up on his side and there's a hand in his hair, brushing it back from his forehead, and another resting at the center of his chest.
"Hank?" he croaks. His voice sounds wrecked.
"Right here. Took the liberty of getting you a little more comfortable." Hank tugs the sheet up over his aching shoulder. " How are you feeling?"
He feels weak, and rubbery, tired, but also - still high off Hank's undivided attention.
At least, until Hank arm around him tightens.
Connor curls up close, and Hank tucks him carefully into an embrace, rubs up and down his back, pets his hair. Connor shivers and sinks into it.
Not that he seems to mind. Connor can feel his heartbeat through his clothes and the thin sheet he's wrapped in. It's hard. And fast.
"I'm feelin' good, Hank," he mumbles into his chest. "S'very nice."
Hank's shoulders shake. "Tired?"
Hank noses into Connor's curls. "Why don't I drive you home?"
Connor's heart leaps into his throat. "Oh. I, uh -" He thinks about his apartment, barren and unwelcoming yet somehow in disarray, and flinches from the thought.
Connor giggles. "It's alright. My place is a bit of a mess though."
Hank considers this for a moment. "I don't have to go in if you don't want me there. Or -
Connor's face floods with warmth again. He thinks about the implications of going home with Hank after all of this, and they make him feel a bit like jelly all over again.
"I'd like that," he says.
Connor nuzzles into his chest. It's soft, hot, smells like sandalwood and sweat and cedar. "If you want," he says shyly, "I can take care of you, too."
Hank pulls back and cups his face. His smile is the sweetest thing.
"I'm not done with you yet," Hank mutters, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "But after? I'm all yours. Now, come on. Let's get some clothes on you so we can go."
Not that he's thinking that far ahead. Maybe this is a one-time thing. A fluke. Hank got horny, they're about to extend their little tryst into a one-night stand.
It's just, given how having just Hank's fingers inside him feels, he's not sure he'll ever be able to get off to anything else again.
It was worth it though, he thinks as him and Hank get out of the car.
"It's perfect. It's so - homey."
"That's usually code for cluttered."
It's warm. The lights are warm, and the space just feels - so full of Hank.
"Do you want something to drink, or a bite to eat?" Hank asks.
Hank hmmms with a slight frown. He makes for the kitchen and digs around while Connor hovers nearby, then brings out two bottles and a plate.
"You should have something with sugar in it."
Hank quirks an eyebrow at him. "If I haven't already, clearly I haven't done my job right." He sets down a bottle of plain and sparkling water, some grape juice, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
Connor's heart trips over 'next time'. He picks up the glass. Pours himself a glass that's half-juice and half seltzer.
He takes a bigger bite. He's suddenly ravenous, although a minute ago he could've sworn up and down he wasn't hungry.
Connor suddenly had no idea what to do with himself. Mostly, he's just feeling suddenly chilly, a little bereft without Hank's presence at his side.
Ridiculous. He's being ridiculous.
Connor steps forward tentatively. Stares, wide-eyed, when Hank takes his hand and brings it up to his lips to kiss Connor's knuckles.
Connor flushes pink. It feels like he's being courted, but...
"Hank, what are we - I mean, what are we doing? I don't-"
Hank hums. "Take a wild guess, sweetheart."
Hank tugs him closer, until they're standing chest to chest. Connor forgets what he'd been about to say. He's by no means small, but he feels like it this close to Hank.
"You smell so nice," Hank mumbles.
Connor exhales sharply.
Connor's brain scrambles frantically to remember if he left the stove on. It's weekend. He's off duty. He has no pets at home, no other obligations.
"Yes," he says, before Hank can interpret his pause as anything other than enthusiasm.
"Bed," Hank says quietly.
"No," he mutters, wrapping his arms low around Hank's thick middle. "Too far."
Hank snorts softly, tries to pry himself away.
Connor doesn't give him an inch. Just latches on and attacks.
"Bed," he repeats weakly. "I mean it, Connor."
Connor makes a frustrated noise. Tugs at Hank's shirt.
"/I'm/ relentless?" Connor laughs, incredulous. Then he reaches for Hank's belt.
Connor licks his lips. "Do you want me on my knees, or on the counter?"
Connor looks around. "I suppose the floor would do too, but your dog-"
An undignified sound leaves him. He clutches at Hank, scrambling for purchase, but Hank has him in a fireman's carry.
Connor yelps, and Hank freezes, catching him in a gentle hold. He's half on top of Connor, and breathing hard.
"You okay?" The concern in his voice -
Connor groans. "Yeah. Just need a moment. "
Hank smooths a large, callused hand up to his waist. It trails fire in its wake, and something even better, heavier. Connor's eyes slide shut.
"Dandy. Hank, I want you naked."
Connor almost screams. He settles instead for grabbing Hank's collar so he won't escape, and wrapping a leg around his hip.
He overshoots a little, because Hank makes a tiny, strangled noise and bows his head and grinds gently into him.
"Fuck,” Hank breathes, touching his forehead to Connor's. "Connor-"
"I just want to /feel/ you, Hank. Please "
Connor only sort-of hears his complaints. He tangles his hand into Hank's silver hair. It feels nice, silky between his fingers.
Hank rolls to his side. His legs are still tangled with Connor's. "I'm supposed to be taking care of you tonight."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"Don't take this the wrong way," Connor rasps, "but I kind of want you to ruin me."
Hank laughs. God, but Connor loves his laugh. "Ruin, huh?"
"Yes," Connor says, exasperated. "Now."
The fondness in his voice makes Connor warm from the inside out. Something twists in his chest. He reaches for Hank. There's no purpose he has in mind except to get closer, but the way Hank catches him -
He wiggles closer, and pets Hank's cheek. Watches his eyes flutter shut.
"You know, when I first saw you, I absolutely flipped out."
"The thought of you touching me all over for an hour. I didn't think I could do it without making an ass of myself. It's like - you ever have a fantasy, or a dream so vivid it feels real? That was you."
Hank's lips twitch.
Connor sighs. Tucks himself a little closer. "Don't know if you noticed the state you reduced me to earlier tonight, but I can assure you that wasn't flattery."
Hank rests a hand on his waist. "Round two?”
Hank stares at him. Then grabs Connor's hand by the wrist, drags it downward, places it between his own legs. Connor stops breathing. For that matter so does Hank.
More to the point though, he's got his hand on Hank, testing that hard length he'd been so intrigued by, feeling the heat and the weight of it.
They both groan quietly, nuzzling into each other.
He noses into Hank's hair. He sleeps of shampoo.
"Do you have any lube?" he breathes directly against Hank's skin.
"Not on your back," Hank says quickly shifting away. "Fuck- Connor, why don't you lie down on your -"
"I want to see your face this time."
If Hank wasn't holding him up, he'd have a puddle on his hands. He hand on Connor's hip and the one in his hair feel like the only thing keeping him vertical.
It would've been worth it though, Connor thinks as Hank pushes the denim down his thighs, stroking skin as he goes.
Hank touches his lips to the scar on his collarbone. "Mhm. These first." He snaps at the elastic.
"And then you'll get what you want," Hank says, helping him tug the thin cotton down his legs, then trailing his hands back up, first to rest on his hips, then high on his thighs.
Hank pulls his shirt over his head. Connor settles back down against his skin. Suddenly, he can't stand to be any further away.
"I agree wholeheartedly," Connor says. His throat is dry. But, importantly, Hank eagerly arches closer.
Soon the boxers are out of the way too. And they're sitting, skin to skin, heat on heat, basking in the warmth of their embrace.
Hank tugs him closer. Fumbles for a bottle of lube without breaking the kiss. Connor grabs it from him, impatient.
A curious, foggy sort of peace steals over him. He slows.
He reaches back, shifting to get into a better position, trying to make himself accessible. He grabs Hank's wrist to guide his hand where he wants it. Not that he'll need it there for long. He's so close to ready.
He tries to push down, but Hank grabs his hips, hard enough to bruise. He's radiating heat, everywhere. "Nice and slow, baby."
Connor moans. Buries his face in Hank's collarbone. There's a little space between them now, but his own cock is still sandwiched and pressed against Hanks soft belly, leaking profusely. He bites Hank's skin. Overstimulated again.
"Literally never better "
Hank's hands finally, FINALLY move into his hair. Connor makes a sound that's maybe a sigh but also maybe sort of a sob. It's just so /much/. Hank is so much. Physically, yes, but not only.
"You're - ah - you're wonderful."
Hank looks up at him. An eyebrow inches up.
Connor groans. Tilts back to make the angle that much deeper, better, taking Hank a little farther inside. He locks his legs around his waist.
Hank's little smirk makes something clench hard in his gut. "Didn't tell you you could stop," he growls, rubbing Connor's thigh.
"You're - fuck - taking your sweet time," Hank pants against his neck. Presses a wet kiss to his pulse. Connor tilts his head for easier access, groans when he feels the sharp drag of Hank's teeth.
He cups the back of Hank's neck and squeezes sharply. Tries to say something, but he can't get a single sound out that isn't a needy whine.
Hank laughs. Connor stops breathing, because the sound goes through him like a shockwave. He rides the movement of it like a wave, and has a moment to feel satisfied at Hank's response.
"Are you gonna come for me, Connor?"
Hank wraps an arm around his waist, presses closer to him, rubs his back. "Good boy. Come on, then, Come here."
Connor tucks his face into Hank's neck.
Hank's hands roam, running down his back, his ribs, his legs. He touches Connor with uncommon care. Or maybe common, for him. But only for him.
"Sleep," he says.
It shouldn't be this easy, Connor thinks just as he fades into unconsciousness. It's not allowed to feel this good.
Hank props himself up on his elbow, and stares at Connor's pale back.
Connor grunts softly and buries his face in his pillow. Hank's lips twitch. Figures he's not a morning person.
"Need help waking up?" he teases.
"Mornin' Hank," he mumbles, burrowing into the sheets. Then his eyes snap open, and he blinks rapidly.
Hank's cheeks warm. "Sure. You like maple syrup?"
Connor nods. But he doesn't stop staring at Hank, like he's trying to puzzle something out. He's still sleep-soft.
Hank shifts uneasily. "Too much? I can - leave you alone if you-"
"No!" Connor sits up. "No. I'm just..."
Bemused, Hank sets the waffles down. Lets Connor tug him closer.
"There," he breathes. "My back hurts. You're going to be my pillow."
Hank's grin steals back onto his face. He hands Connor his breakfast.
He sighs, soft and pleased. "Yes. But next time, I'm doing the nice things for /you/."
Hank's heart skips a beat over mentions of a next time, as it always does.
Connor gives him and odd look. "Yes."
Hank tries not think about Connor falling off a /roof/ again.
Connor's lips twitch. "It's not really my back that's sore, Hank."
And Hank would feel guilty, except he's abruptly full of /very/ good memories.
Connor shoves him playfully. "Don't look so smug. Anyone would feel sore after that."
Connor stiffens slightly. Hanks worried he's said something wrong, but then he tilts his head to get a better look at Connor's face and finds him looking - bewildered, pupils blown, color rising to his cheeks.
Connor blinks, as if snapping out of a trance. "I - yes."
"We need to have a talk."
Connor gives him a concerned look.
"Yes," Hank says, lowering his lips to Connor's naked shoulder. Mostly he just wants to taste his skin again. There's something comforting about kissing any part of him; he's warm, and responds easily with a relaxed breath and fingers that curl loosely into Hank's hair.
"Last night was not peak professionalism on my part," he admits.
Hank pinches his side. "I'm serious. I shouldn't have crossed-"
"Hank. No lines were crossed." Then his mouth twitches. "Well. Not ones I didn't want crossed, anyway."
Hank rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean. This is not the ideal start."
Hank blinks down at him. "Wait. Really?"
Connor sighs. "Yes, Hank. Really."
A giddy bubble floats into Hank's chest.
"Mhm. It was okay last night, and it's okay now. I wasn't kidding when I said I've wanted you for a long time, alright?" Connor says quietly. "You make me feel..." He trails off.
Connor smiles ruefully. "Basically since we met." He doesn't wait for Hank to answer him, just twists in his embrace and presses his mouth to Hank's, warm and tasting sweetly of maple. Hank hums, thoughts scattering abruptly.
Connor smiles at him, sly, like a fox. "I can manhandle people too, you know."
"Mhm," Connor purrs, bending low to kiss him again, still evidently amused. "I'm gonna get you back for last night."
"Now?" Hank wheezes, swimming when Connor releases his wrists to slide a hand under his shirt.
"You're so goddamn sweet.”
Connor Harrumphs, shifs. Then wiggles down to lick Hank's nipple.
"If you say so."
"Will you stay another night?"
And Connor laughs again, and not for the first time, Hank decides it's his favorite sound.
They spend the rest of the morning together, in bed, doing absolutely nothing. It's wonderful. Hank has his arms full of Connor's beautiful self, and Connor just keeps /touching/ him.
In the early afternoon, they take Sumo for his walk. To Hank's delight, they fall hard and fast in love.
Connor doesn't go home that night, or the night after that. It's too early for this; or it should be, anyway - but they both have too much trouble parting ways, even for a while. Making up for lost time, maybe. They shower together, and then Hank makes good on his teasing.
It's always been like this. He likes to grip his iron control, but when he trusts...
When he senses that Hank is getting close, he reaches around to grab the back of his head and pull him down. "Keep going," he says, breathless. "You're so good, Hank. Need - need you so much."
"Fuck," Hank whispers.
"Stay. Feels so nice."
So Hank obediently relaxes. Kisses his ear.
Hank tightens his grip on him. Laughs. "My heart might explode."
"Don't worry." Connor yawns. "I'll take good care of it."
He spends a disturbing percentage of his day fantasizing about holding him again. If there ever was a fool who was lovestruck...
he shakes the thought from his head. Not because it's not true, but because it's still so soon.
When Connor comes back to him the next night, he thinks 'to hell with restraint.'
Hank pushes him along to the kitchen.
Connor bows his head with a little groan. "How do you always know?"
Hank hums. "The way you carry yourself."
Hank brushes his hair back, shifts. "Of course I have."
Connor tips his head back to look up at him. His mouth curves prettily into a hesitant half-smile.
Hank kisses his forehead. "You want some food?"
The smile widens.
Hank snorts softly. "Always."
"Mm. Maybe something with carbohydrates then. And caffeine."
Hank ruffles his hair. "Why don't I make dinner, then?"
Connor rolls one shoulder with a wince. "Ah, are you sure? I don't want to make you work -"
Connor twitches. "I'd like to help."
Hank blinks. "Okay. It'll go faster that way. "
Color rises softly to his cheeks. "And then..."
Hank chuckles. "Why don't we cross that bridge when we get to it."
"Were you ever married?"
Connor suddenly flushes bright pink. "Nothing. Just thinking about - what it'd be like, you know. I mean - not like /that/ just-"
Connor coughs quietly. Attempts, semi-successfully, to cover his visible embarrassment with a wink. "Oh. You know. Must be nice to come home to your magic hands every day."
Hank continues combing his fingers through Connor's hair.
"Mhm. I'd really like to date you, Connor."
Connor twists to look at him, eyes dark, skin warm. He tilts his head. "I'd like that too. I thought it was rather obvious."
He sits down, dragging a chair up to sit next to Connor.
"I'm not going to push you into anything you don't want," Hank amends quickly, before he can get ahead of himself. "I know this is... a lot. That said, I think I should refer you to an old friend for your massage therapy needs form now on."
Hank grasps his forearm and smiles lightly. "I think it's something we both enjoy. I don't want you paying me for it. If you want me to keep taking care of you that way, I will, but I wanted you to have an out, too."
Connor pouts. "I like distractions."
Hank can't quite help himself. He leans in, gives Connor a whiskery kiss. "Oh, I've gathered," he mumbles against his lips. "Seems I like them too."
"Let's stay in. Order a pizza or something. Cuddle on the couch all night."
Hank blinks. "Really?"
Connor gives him a wicked little smile. "Mostly."
He kisses Connor's neck, sighs, closes his eyes. "You should move in," he muses, still too close to sleep to choose his words carefully. "I want to wake up like this every day."
Connor settles back down slowly, still staring. It's not until Hank maneuvers him back into his warm grip that he asks, "D'you mean that?"
Hank squeezes him.
Connor shivers. "Sometimes," he says, "I'm still not sure you're real."
Hank yawns, the last tendrils of sleep letting him go. He rubs his face against Connor's neck.
Connor's breath catches.
He stays quiet for a good while, but Hank gives him his time. He's learned a lot about the rhythm of Connor's thought process. It's not that hard to follow. It's a waltz.
"What's so funny?"
"I was doing a checklist of what I'd need to go back for. It occurred to me that - I probably have more stuff here than at my place."
Connor sighs. "I already do."
Connor smacks his hand over Hank's mouth. His eyes are sparkling with something warm and bright. "That's enough of that. I don't need any of it."
"I need it," Hank explains. "I want to feel you here. Feel like I've made room for you, properly. Like you're - in my space. In my life."
"I want to wake up next to you. And see your clothes hanging next to mine when I get ready in the morning, and trip over the shoes you've left somewhere stupid, and - see your books on the shelves, and fight over the music we listen to in the evening.
"My place never felt like home," Connor says quietly. "I think things will be different here." He looks up with a small, soft smile. "I like being here."
Slowly but surely, Connor seems to - unwind. Unravel into all his parts, scattered throughout.
One night it's Hank who's sitting on the couch with a sore shoulder.
He stirs, takes Connor's hand, just to hold it. Squeezes his fingers, and imagines a ring there.
"M'right here," Hank mumbles, lacing their fingers together.
"I know," Connor yawns.
And if Hank's eyes are suddenly a little wet, it' only because he's so damn happy.