Archive of Our Own

Loneliness drives Connor out of his dorm room, and it is fear that leads him away from his fellow students and the more popular queer bar downtown. Jimmy’s Bar had come up in his search for gay bars in the city—it doesn’t even have a proper website, just a dying MySpace page that’d blared I’ve Got to Break Free by Queen at him across his laptop’s tinny speakers, the sparkly rainbow background nearly drowning out the text on top of it.

Connor trudges down the network of trails in the valley at the back of his university campus to a poorly illuminated road lined with a collection of shops and takeaway places with boarded-up windows. It’s not like he’s even really out in the sticks—he’s only a few blocks from downtown, right on the edge of the built up metropolitan area—but walking under the flickering streetlights on the unfamiliar street he’s half convinced he’s going to get himself murdered before he even makes it to the bar. 

He scowls and tries to push that thought out of his head, but he can still practically hear his mother’s voice lecturing about how dangerous it is for a girl to be out all alone in the dark. 

He still has his doubts when he finally comes across the bar itself. It would have been easy to mistake it for another abandoned shop, except for the neon sign proclaiming Jimmy’s in hot pink cursive lettering and the smattering of vehicles already filling the car park. Despite the pink sign it doesn’t look like a gay bar, though when Connor steps closer he can see the faded rainbow stripes painted on the backboard behind the sign. 

He hesitates outside the door and wonders what the hell he’s even doing here. He thinks about turning around and just going back to his dorm where he can curl up under his blankets and watch youtube videos until he falls asleep. Boring, but familiar… and safe. The decision is made for him, though, when an older man nearly walks into him as he goes out for a smoke. The man steps aside and holds the door open to let him in first, and it would be too awkward to not step inside.

Connor perches with one leg tucked under him on a stool at the end of the bar and orders a glass of the cheapest wine on the menu. The place is clearly marketed more towards the older generations, more of a laid back bar than a club. There’s music, but it’s quiet enough to allow for easy conversation. Connor sips his drink and wonders if he’ll ever work up the nerve to actually talk to anyone. 

He won’t. He knows he won’t—but he still thinks about what it might be like if he was less of a disappointment, more confident, less awkward. He thinks about what it would be like to start a conversation with someone that neither of them want to end, only parting at the end of the night because it’s closing time: perhaps with a phone number… maybe even a kiss. 

Connor sighs and picks at a loose thread on his sweater. It feels even worse to be lonely in a room full of people. He wants to go back to his dorm and forget he even bothered with this, but he tells himself that he at least has to finish his drink before he leaves. 

He’s still sipping his wine, trying to not grimace at the taste, when someone sits down at the stool next to him and waves down the bartender with an easy familiarity, chatting amicably with them while they pour him a drink. The man is nearly twice his age and built like an absolute wall—Connor tries not to stare, but the man is wearing an eye-wateringly bright shirt that reminds him of tropical fish. 

He decides that maybe one more glass of wine won’t hurt. 

Connor really doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but this man’s voice is just as enthralling as his shirt. He’s talking about some woodworking project he’s been doing, making Connor’s gaze settle on his hands—broad, with long, thick fingers. He looks down at his own more slender hands and presses two of his fingers together, thinking that could compare to one of the man’s. His hands look strong, but somehow Connor thinks they would be gentle too. 

Whiskey in hand, the man leans back enough that he notices Connor’s staring, but he just raises his glass slightly in a salute and Connor’s face feels so hot that he thinks he’s going to spontaneously combust. He wishes he would. Just to avoid the embarrassment.

It’s all Connor can do to nod in response, ducking his head, wondering if he can slink off without it being too noticeable. But the man asks him, “so, what do you do?”

“I’m a student,” Connor replies after what is probably far too long of a pause.

The man looks at him like he’s expecting more than that, and Connor awkwardly clears his throat before mumbling that he’s studying business. The man nods, making a face like he’s impressed. “Sounds like real brainy stuff.” It’s enough that Connor straightens; it’s been a while since anyone has said anything even as vaguely complimentary as that.

The man swaps his glass to his left hand and holds out his right. “Name’s Hank. Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.” 

Connor reaches out to shake Hank’s hand, once again so distracted by its size, the thickness of his fingers, and the firmness of his grip that he forgets to say his own name in return for too long. 

“Connor,” he finally squeaks out, his tortuous mind filling with thoughts of what it would feel like if Hank’s hands were on any other part of his body. He feels the hot-cold swoop of arousal hit the pit of his stomach, followed closely by mortification that he’d react like this to a simple handshake.

Hank’s eyebrows bunch, lips pursed like he’s about to ask if something is wrong, so Connor blurts out the first thing he can think of, hoping to distract Hank for a moment. “You do woodwork?”

Hank’s eyebrows arch, a look of amusement crossing his face, and for a moment Connor thinks he’s going to get called out. But Hank entertains him, starts talking about the project he’s been working on. Connor doesn’t understand half of it, but Hank’s voice is full of passion, and he gestures with his hands while he talks, taking the time to explain things in depth when he notices the confusion that crosses Connor’s face. It’s enthralling, captivating; Connor finds himself hanging on every word. His mind conjures up fantasies of quitting his major and taking up carpentry. His mind conjures up fantasies of Hank’s hands pinning him down, pressing red marks and bruises onto his skin. Connor shifts in his seat, feeling a wet spot already forming in his boxers. People tend to point out awkward erections as a downside to having a dick, but Connor thinks that he would much rather deal with the discomfort and potential embarrassment of an unwanted erection than the discomfort of feeling damp all night. At least a boner will eventually go away, but now he’s going to be uncomfortable until he gets home and can shower and change.

Hank pauses to finish his drink: the fourth, Connor thinks, maybe the fifth? He’s lost track of how many drinks Hank has flagged the bartender down for, insisting he buys Connor one as well every time. It’s making Connor drink more quickly than he usually would, his body starting to feel warm and buzzy, his brain syrupy and sluggish. It makes him feel like Hank’s voice is winding through him with every word, so when Hank smacks his lips and sighs a satisfied sound at the last drop from his glasses, Connor feels that sound shiver through him. A sound catches in his own throat, something strangled, pitiful and wanting, but it’s covered by the scrape of wood against wood as Hank pushes his bar stool back and pivots towards Connor. 

“Excuse me a moment, gotta hit the head.” Hank says as he slides off the bar stool. At the same time his hand lands on Connor’s thigh, hot and heavy even through the fabric of his pants. 

Hank’s hand is dangerously high; Connor can feel the heat between his legs and he wonders if Hank can feel it too. The noise he makes is undignified—but just as quickly as the touch begins, Hank’s hand disappears as he walks away from the bar. 

Connor sucks in a breath, his lungs burning like he’s forgotten to breathe for too long. His cunt throbs, and he presses his thighs tight together. He wants to squirm on his stool but he holds himself as still as he possibly can, willing his body to relax. 

The bartender collects Hank’s empty glass, pausing long enough that Connor looks up, feeling his face burning with embarrassment. The bartender gives him an undecipherable look and shakes his head as he turns back to rinse the glass. 

Connor can’t help but feel like he’s missed something.

It takes long enough for Hank to come back that Connor starts to think he might have just left. The thought hollows out a space in Connor’s chest, lets the loneliness sneak in like it so often does.

“I think I had better call it a night.” 

Connor jerks his head up fast enough that the room spins and sways dangerously before it settles and he can see that Hank is back, standing on the opposite side of the bar stool he had occupied before. The warm expression he had been wearing is gone, a slight frown pulling his eyebrows down, and Connor can’t help the sinking feeling that somehow he’s disappointed Hank just like he disappoints everyone else in his life. 

“I—I still owe you a drink,” Connor blurts out, tripping over his own words in his haste to say them. Something akin to confusion crosses Hank’s face before he shakes his head.

Connor slides off his bar stool, the room sways again and it feels like his feet have touched the floor before his brain is even aware he was moving. He fumbles for his wallet in his pocket. He needs to get Hank to stay, to keep talking to him about belt sanders and planes. He wants Hank to explain the difference between a box joint and a dovetail again. 

A weight falls on his shoulder. Connor turns his gaze to it; Hank’s hand rests there, thick and warm, fingers curling over the back of his shoulder, thumb resting on the hollow above his clavicle. He shivers, his throat clicks as he swallows, and somewhere, someone makes a strangled sort of whining sound. 

“Save your money, kid,” Hank’s voice rumbles, not unkind, but devoid of the amiability that it held before.

Connor knows now that he’s done something wrong, but he can’t trace back to figure it out fast enough. Suddenly Hank’s hand is gone, and Connor can hear him talking to the bartender. 

“Jimmy, call the kid a cab.” 

When Connor looks up again, the bartender is picking a bill up from the bar top and Hank is already disappearing between the other bar patrons. 

The loneliness is already back, hitting him even harder than before as it winds its way deeper into his chest, clenching around his heart as he watches Hank disappear out the door. He can feel the sting of tears behind his eyes threatening to spill—he focuses on keeping his breaths even and steady as he tries to blink them away. It would be humiliating if he started to cry here. 

He really can’t take any more humiliation tonight.

“Your cab’s here.” The bartender’s impassive voice interrupts his desperate attempt at controlling his breathing.  

Connor nods, not trusting his voice. His hip knocks against one of the chairs as he unsteadily makes his way out of the bar and it suddenly feels like everyone in the bar is staring at him. His face burns with shame—he bets that they all know what he did to chase Hank away.

The tears that he’s been holding back start to fall as Connor slumps into the back seat of the cab. He manages to choke out that he’s going to the university even though all he wants is to run far, far away. His stomach turns sickeningly, though thankfully it’s self loathing more than the alcohol—he knows he couldn’t afford the cleaning fee if he threw up.

The most mortifying part, though, is that despite everything, the heat that has settled in his groin all night hasn’t fully disappeared.

///

“Don't think I’ve seen you here before.”

The words scrape hot across the side of Connor’s neck, making his skin prickle and his hair stand on end. He shivers. Electricity shudders down his spine as he feels fingers follow, tracing across his skin, the touch so hot it feels like it is going to peel him right open. 

Hank moves behind him, hand curling around his hip, sliding across his skin to settle on his thigh. He can feel Hank’s dick, hard and thick, push against the small of his back, right there against him, right at the top of the cleft of his arse. Hank’s fingers squeeze his thigh, his other hand resting low on his stomach, the tip of his pinkie finger dipping into Connor’s navel, pressing hard enough he feels like it’s pulling his whole stomach down, swooping hot and cold and shuddering the feeling through him. 

Hank’s hand squeezes his thigh again, then moves, sliding across his skin to cup around his groin. The heel of his hand presses between Connor’s legs, giving him something to rut against while two of Hank’s thick fingers press into his cunt.

Hank’s erection slides down between his arse cheeks, before it pushes inside him: thick, long, splitting him open, filling him up. He can’t breathe, but he can hear himself whining, mewling pitiful cries of pleasure as Hank thrusts into him again and again. 

There’s music coming from somewhere—voices chattering around them, something bangs loudly—but all Connor can think about is Hank’s dick inside him, fucking him hard and fast. His whole body aches in the most glorious way; he tries to buck his own hips, to rub himself off against Hank’s hand.

Something bangs again. 

Connor looks up, sees the bartender standing there, looking at him with an indecipherable look before he shakes his head and turns away. 

Shame sinks into the pit of Connor’s stomach. Hank grunts behind him, bends him over the bar and continues to thrust into him hard. His body tingles, his stomach and thighs feel tight. He knows he’s about to come.

The bang comes again, shaking the bar against his chest.

Connor jerks awake at the sound. He can hear someone shouting his last name from the other side of his dorm room door. 

His phone shrieks an alarm at him from his desk. He reaches for it blindly, fumbles with it until it shuts up. 

“Fucking finally!” Comes the exasperated voice from outside. 

He doesn’t have enough energy to reply. His head feels foggy and disjointed; his stomach dips and rolls unhappily but not bad enough that he’s reaching for the waste paper basket under his desk. It’s a small mercy. The cheap wine he’d been drinking last night had tasted awful enough; he doesn’t want to imagine how much worse it would taste now mixed with bile. 

Settling back onto his mattress, Connor covers his eyes, trying to block out the light that’s streaming through the open blinds he hadn’t shut the night before. He shifts to try and get a better position, rolling onto his side. The movement pulls his pyjama pants tight across his crotch, making him suddenly aware of how wet he is.

Connor buries his face into his pillow, rutting against his mattress. He groans. He’s hungover, lonely and horny—and he doesn’t even have enough time to get himself off before he has to get up and suffer through the day. He’s not sure how much worse his life can get at this point. 

///

It takes a week for Connor to work up the nerve to go back to the bar. He picks the same night he’d gone previously and sits in the same spot at the bar in the hope that maybe Hank will come and find him again. Then maybe he’ll have a chance to figure out what it was that he did wrong—to finally know what made Hank go from entertaining him with woodwork talk for over an hour to just patting him on the shoulder and leaving without even saying goodnight. 

He isn’t sure why he wants to know so badly or why this particular stranger’s opinion of him matters so much. He’s used to being disliked and unwanted, to being the butt of the joke, or the one who was only invited out of pity if at all. He’s used to people telling him that he’s too weird, or too awkward, that he’s too quiet or too much. But, for a moment, it had felt like Hank could really actually like him and that had felt so good.

Hank doesn’t show that night. Or if he does, he never approaches Connor. Connor sits there for hours at the bar, ordering drinks he really can’t afford, knowing the bartender is giving him pitying looks whenever he hands over another glass of the cheapest wine that Connor can barely even manage to swallow without grimacing.

The bar is nearing closing time before Connor finally slides off his bar stool and wobbles his way towards the door. Most of the patrons have already left; only a few couples remain, tucked together in corner booths, and two men sway together in front of the jukebox, their slow waltz not matched to the beat of the music. 

It makes the loneliness twist tighter in Connor’s chest. 

///

Hank’s hand squeezes Connor’s, his other arm curled around his waist. “Relax, kid.” 

Connor tries to breathe through the nervous rabbiting of his heart where it is lodged in his throat. Hank is so close, so warm, so big. His smile is intoxicating, the gap between his front teeth so enticing. Connor wants to kiss him, to touch his tongue to those teeth, to be so wrapped up in Hank’s arms that he never gets free again. 

“It’s easy, sweetheart, just follow my lead.” Hank ducks his head, whispers the words of reassurance in Connor’s ear, as he squeezes gently on his hand again, his other hand pressing lightly against his spine, holding him steady as he guides Connor back in a graceful swirl. 

Their dancing doesn’t match the music, but Connor can feel the beat in Hank’s heart, in his breath as it fans across his face. He loses himself in Hank’s smile, the brightness of his eyes, and he forgets all about how nervous he feels. 

He smiles back, feels it soft and fluttery on his lips and Hank holds him closer. 

“You’re beautiful, sweetheart.” 

The music changes.

Connor wakes up to his alarm blaring at him, and the sound of other people already starting their day. The pipes in the wall rattle as the showers two rooms over get turned on. 

He rolls over, turns his alarm off and buries his face in his pillow. His throat feels tight, his sinuses and eyes burning with the threat of tears and he isn’t even sure why he wants to cry, but he does.

Another sex dream would have been easier to deal with. At least then he could shove his hand between his legs, rub his clit until he came, and he’d get some sort of relief. But you can’t jerk away loneliness.

Everything has been feeling like too much for Connor lately. He hates his major, hates the dorm room he’s been stuck in since last year. He hates that he’s uncomfortable in his body, hates the scratchy binder he wears in an attempt to smooth his chest, hates that he can’t afford to get T or top surgery. He hates his classes, his lectures, the plodding existence of doing the same thing every day and having no idea what he wants to do with his life. 

He’s lonely, homesick for a place that isn’t home, for friends he doesn’t have.

He knows he isn’t old enough for a midlife crisis, but he thinks maybe he’s having one anyway.

///

The looming project deadline should keep Connor in his dorm room or at the library, but both places feel like they are closing in around him until it feels like he’s going to suffocate. He saves his work, closes his laptop, grabs his sweater and heads out. 

He tells himself it’s just a walk to clear his head. Half an hour and then he’ll go back to work on his project. But even before he reaches the car park of the bar, he knows he was lying to himself.

Jimmy is at the bar again. He raises an eyebrow and nods in Connor’s direction when Connor settles against the bar. He orders a beer, something cheap and bitter, but the hangover from the wine last time has left him apprehensive of going down that path again. 

“You’re starting to become a regular,” Jimmy comments as he sets the drink down in front of him and takes the money that Connor had set on the bar. 

Nodding, Connor thinks that maybe that will be enough interaction, but Jimmy stays there, keeps looking at him as though he expects a response. Taking a sip of his beer, Connor stews over all the possible ways in which he could reply. He knows he’s out of place, at least a decade younger than most people here. He knows if he was really just after any human interaction he could go to the university tavern on campus and drink with his fellow students. But he knows there is really no denying it.

“I was hoping to see Hank again,” he admits.

Jimmy nods, sets Connor’s change back down in front of him. “Why’s that?”

Connor shrugs, picks at the label on his beer bottle, rubs his thumb against the condensation on the outside of the glass. “I thought he liked me. But then he just left.”

Jimmy grimaces, but he’s no longer looking at Connor, but at someone a couple of bar stools over. Connor shifts his attention, sees Hank standing there, an unreadable expression on his face. Connor’s heart leaps, happiness and excitement shooting through him, a grin splitting his face. He stands up suddenly, lifting his hand to wave at Hank. 

But his elbow catches the beer bottle, toppling it over. Desperately, Connor grabs at it, tries to catch it and spills beer all over his hands. By the time he sets it back upright, he looks around again only to discover that Hank is no longer there.

Panic lodges his heart in his throat at the same time as a sinking feeling drags his stomach down. Not wanting to miss another chance, Connor scrambles away from the bar, weaving his way back towards the door. 

He bursts out into the night, eyes desperately searching the car park, but Hank is still there, shoulders hunched against the cool night air, heading towards a car parked by itself in the far corner. 

“Hank!” Connor calls out, not sure where the sudden surge of courage comes from as he starts to follow. “Wait.” 

Hank pauses, then with a resigned sigh, he turns back. His expression is tired, his jaw set. He doesn’t say anything, and now that it’s just the two of them alone in the car park, Connor isn’t sure what to say either. 

“I was hoping to see you.” Connor eventually manages to get out, feeling exposed and dissected as Hank stands there watching him. 

One eyebrow arches, sardonic and questioning. “Were you now?” 

Nodding, Connor dares to step closer. He’s close enough he can feel the warmth radiating off Hank. It pulls fractured memories of his dreams back to the surface of his mind: Hank holding him close while they danced, Hank’s bulk behind him as they fucked against the bar. His cheeks burn, mouth going dry, and mortifyingly his stomach clenches in arousal. “I really liked talking to you the other night.” 

Hank sighs heavily. He shakes his head and frowns. “I don’t have the time or energy for whatever stupid little games you’re playing, kid.” 

“Wha—?”

His confusion makes Hank glare harder. “I got your rejection loud and clear the first time, so whatever fucking games you’re playing, find someone else to toy with. I’m not rich enough to be your sugar daddy, and I don’t hate myself enough to be your gay little experiment or rebound fuck from some pissant little boyfriend who dumped you.” 

The words hit Connor like a physical blow, and he flinches back, mind reeling. Hank’s anger cuts through him, cracks open his chest, and by the time he’s blinked the shocked tears out of his eyes, Hank is already gone, in his car and pulling out of the car park. 

The rumble of the engine has long faded before Connor can even bring himself to move. His chest aches, loneliness and failure digging their claws deep into his heart. 

///

“What’s a good boy like you doing in a place like this?” 

Hank’s voice rumbles through him—Connor has to suppress a shiver, and bite back the whine that tries to wriggle out of his throat. A hand settles around his throat—not tight enough to cut off his breathing, but enough to be aware of a thumb pressing up under his jaw to tilt his head to one side. 

“I’m in the library,” Connor tries to protest. Impossibly high stacks of books tower around him, but he loses sight of them as his eyelids fall shut. Hank chuckles against his neck, breath warm and facial hair scraping at the sensitive skin. His lips press to the pulse that flutters beneath Connor’s skin, his tongue swiping across his pulse before his teeth clamp down hard. 

The pain makes Connor shiver, a broken mewling sound tearing out of his throat. Hank’s hand tightens. 

“Are you sure about that, sweetheart?” The question growls against Connor’s chest, Hank’s mouth now dragging across his ribs. When Connor blinks his eyes open he’s staring up at the dark sky, the bright spots in the corners of his vision from the streetlights and the neon sign of the bar. 

Warm metal at his back and the smell of gas fumes tell Connor he’s draped across the hood of Hank’s car, the hand at his throat pinning him down. Hank’s other hand drags across his chest, fingers pinching at his nipple. Connor arches up against his touch, feels Hank’s grin somewhere down near his navel just before his teeth sink in again.

“You hang out in places like this in the hopes that dirty old men like me will fuck you.” Hank nips at his stomach again, hand squeezing around Connor’s throat, tighter now. Hank pinches his nipple again, pain lancing through him. When Hank’s hand moves away, his nipple still throbs, feeling strangely heavy. 

“Just a little cock tease, a dirty little slut, leading men on only to just deny them at the last moment,” Hank growls, squeezing his throat tighter, dragging Connor down across the hood until he’s right there in his face, glaring at him, expression dark. 

Fear shivers through Connor as breathing gets harder. Hank free hand trails down over his stomach before slipping between his legs. His broad hands force Connor’s legs apart, not even pausing before he’s forcing his fingers into Connor’s hole. Too many, too fast. 

Pain shoots up Connor’s spine and he gives a breathless yelp. The sound is drowned out by Hank’s dark laughter.

The pain in Connor’s spine wakes him up. He’s slumped over his desk, face pressed into the crook of one elbow, half smothering his mouth and nose. He lifts his head, feels drool sticking his sleeve to his chin; the movement makes the edge of the desk dig more sharply into his chest, pinching his right nipple. 

He tries to straighten up, his back and shoulders protesting, and the humiliating fragments of his dream swim back into his mind. Tentatively he touches his chest, but both his nipples still feel normal. 

He feels awful, out of sorts; he wants someone to hug him and tell him everything is alright. He wants the rumble of Hank’s comforting voice telling him he’s good, calling him sweetheart, but he remembers the night before, what Hank had said to him and how badly the whole situation hurt. 

///

The listlessness and despondency lingers after that night at the bar. The dreams featuring Hank that twist into nightmares are there every time Connor tries to sleep. He stops sleeping, filling his night with youtube videos about carpentry. He stops going to his lectures, just watches the recordings online afterwards. He stops going out at all, so when he runs out of food he stops eating too. 

When he fails to meet the deadline on his project he knows he needs to do something. 

He drags himself through a shower, pulls on the last of his clean clothes, and heads out. He knows the chance of seeing Hank at the bar are slim, but he knows if he doesn’t resolve this problem he’s going to keep spiraling. He needs to get out of this rut before he fails any more projects. 

Hank’s car isn’t at the bar. Defeat tries to worm its way into Connor’s mind, but he pushes it down with sheer jittery determination. He tucks his hands in his pockets and balances on the curb at the edge of the footpath. He gets to a count of five hundred and thirty two in his head before he pulls his hands out of his pockets and hugs his arms around himself. He tucks himself back into a dark corner, leans against the wall and tells himself he’ll wait another half hour before he heads home. 

Headlights pan across the car park as a car turns in off the road. The engine sounds familiar enough that Connor straightens up, but it’s only once the vehicle pulls into the park down the back corner, the engine dies and the interior lights come on that Connor knows for sure it’s Hank’s. 

He steps away from the corner he’s in, starting across the car park just as Hank gets out of the car. Their eyes meet and Hank freezes. His eyes narrow to a glare. 

Even across the distance Connor can hear Hank’s grumbled, “You have to be fucking kidding me.” 

“Hello, Hank,” Connor greets; he hears the shivery, jittery tremble to his words, voice husky and brittle from disuse. 

“No,” is all Hank replies as he turns and gets back into his car. 

Panic rears in Connor’s chest, heart lodging in his throat. He can’t fail, not now. He won’t survive if he fails again. Hurrying forward, Connor hears the engine start, the white glow of the reverse lights illuminating the asphalt under his feet, the vehicle starting to move. He stands his ground behind the vehicle, pulse pounding in his ears, half sure Hank hasn’t even seen him and is going to back right into him until the brake lights flare red and angry around him. 

The door flies open and Hank half leans out of the car. “What in the ever loving fuck are you playing at, I could have hit you!” 

Connor doesn’t respond: he dashes around the passenger side of the vehicle, wrenches open the door and throws himself into the passenger seat before Hank’s door has even shut. Both doors slam shut, the pressure buffeting at Connor’s eardrums, his head spinning with adrenaline, but he still hears Hank’s growl of frustration. 

“Get out of my car.” 

Reaching for the seat belt, Connor tugs at it too harshly, feeling the strap lock in place before he lets it go and tries again. The buckle clicks into place. “No.” 

Hank’s bulk shifts towards him, arm reaching over to tug at the door handle. The door opens. Connor grips the seat belt, braces his feet against the door column and waits for the shove that doesn’t come. 

“Get out.” Hank growls again, close and angry, and still Connor feels some confused mixture of fear and arousal roll through him.

“You’re not an experiment!” Connor all but shrieks, desperate to make Hank listen to him. He can’t fail. Not again. 

Instantly Hank retreats back to his side of the car, hands bracing against the steering wheel. He shakes his head, brows bunching with confusion, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Connor takes the silence as a chance to keep talking, still clinging to the seat belt across his chest and bracing himself for an impact he doesn’t think is going to come. “Everything is so shit in my life right now, I hate my degree, I hate my dorm, I’m terrified of what is going to happen if I fail. I’m terrified of what is going to happen when everyone finds out that I—I’m—” The word trans catches in Connor’s throat, he isn’t sure if Hank already knows—if he doesn’t, Connor knows he should tell him, but he’s terrified of risking another rejection. He swallows hard and shakes his head before continuing. “That’s why I came here a couple of weeks ago, instead of any one of the gay clubs on campus or in the city, and you were talking to me and it was—it was nice. I never wanted it to stop. I don’t need you being a—a jerk!” 

He’s breathing hard by the time he finishes, chest heaving. 

Over the sound of his own breath and the pulse in his ears, Connor thinks he hears Hank scoff and repeat the word jerk to himself.

“And—and you rejected me!” Connor adds desperately, grimacing as he hears his voice go shrill on the last note. 

Confusion flashes across Hank’s face, and then indignation. He raises a hand, finger pointed and jabbing towards Connor’s face as he winds himself up to argue, but Connor forges on before he has the chance. “I waited for ages for you to come back from the bathroom! You—you had your hand on my thigh before that, I thought maybe you liked me, but then you just tried to send me away. Like I was nothing!” 

His words are all bleeding together, but he can see the moment Hank understands what he’s saying; the anger falls from his face, replaced only with weariness. Hank slumps back into his seat, opens his mouth like he is going to say something, then shakes his head and sighs. “What do you want, Connor?” 

Connor twists his hands around the seat belt, feels the edges of it digging into the palms of his hands, the hard tug of it down over his shoulder. The cold air slips in through the open door, saps some of desperate fire out of him. “I just wanted you to like me.” his voice wobbles slightly.

Hank sighs again, scraping his hand over his face, pressing the palm of his hand over his mouth, catching the exhale and smothering the noise. He tilts his head towards Connor, just looks at him for a long moment. Connor feels exposed, like he’s being dissected. He already felt so raw and frayed when he threw himself into Hank’s car; now he feels like he’s been picked clean to the bone. 

Hank’s hand drops away from his mouth, it hesitates in the air for a moment before he reaches towards Connor. He pats him gently on the shoulder, the touch burning warm through the thin fabric of Connor’s shirt. He didn’t dress well enough for the night’s cool air, but it’s only at the contrast of how warm Hank is that his mind finally catches up with the fact. He can’t suppress the shiver; he barely manages to hold back the undignified sound he wants to make. 

Eyebrows bunching with concern, Hank squeezes his shoulder gently. “I’ll give you a lift home. Too cold for you to walk in this weather.” 

It feels like a dismissal again; Connor feels his heart sink. He doesn’t want to move, he can’t bring himself to reach for the door to close it; he wants to stay and make Hank talk to him more. Hank seems to pick up on the downturn in his mood; his hand raises from Connor’s shoulder, and he knocks his knuckles gently against the edge of his jaw. “For the record, kid, I liked you just fine that first night.” 

The words make something warm clamour in Connor’s chest, fighting back against the cold loneliness that still clings there. He tries to smile, holds back the question ‘but what about now?’ because he’s not sure he wants to know the answer. It’s not entirely a failure, but he doesn’t feel like it is exactly a victory, either. Connor reaches for the door, pulling it shut again. There’s still time on the drive back to the university to try and salvage something, he tells himself. It’s better than being kicked out of the car and made to walk home, after all. 

Hank’s hand lingers at his jaw though, thumb rubbing across the skin in front of his ear. It’s such a gentle touch that Connor doesn’t think before he leans into it, pressing the side of his face to Hank’s hand. The soft sound of contentment that wriggles its way out of his throat is just as involuntary. 

Hank huffs a quiet laugh, rubs his thumb over the shell of Connor’s ear before his hand shifts to grip the back of his neck, squeezing gently. “I should have guessed you weren’t the sort for a quick fuck in a bathroom.” 

He’s so lost in the sensation of Hank’s hand on the back of his neck, this thumb stroking back and forth through his hair, that it takes Connor’s mind a fraction too long to comprehend what Hank said. The words slide through him, leaving embarrassed frustration in their wake, because he doesn’t know what is going on and he feels like that is entirely his own fault. Like all the jokes and anecdotes that he fails to get in class. He jerks his gaze towards Hank, the question clawing desperate and high pitched out of his mouth. “What?” 

Hank’s expression shifts to uncertain, starting to grow guarded again, his thumb stilling against Connor’s hair. “That first night at the bar, I tried propositioning you.” 

“No you didn’t!” Connor squeaks, because surely he wouldn’t have missed that.

Amusement colours Hank’s face, the corner of his mouth ticking up slightly. “Sure I did. The bathroom. The—”

He trails off and gestures to Connor’s lap; Connor suddenly remembers Hank’s hand on his thigh, the way the touch had made him shiver and squirm. There’s a latent throb of arousal still there, that one touch that has been haunting his dreams ever since. That touch that had been laced with so much intent that Connor had just missed entirely in his own naivety. He covers his face, feels his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Oh god.” 

Hank squeezes the back of his neck comfortingly. “It’s alright. I should have known better. You looked too classy for that.” 

“I’m not classy,” Connor mumbles into his hands. He hasn’t felt classy since he left home and was no longer stuffed into expensive, stiff clothing. He feels like a disaster. 

Hank huffs that laugh again, strokes his hand up the back of Connor’s head, ruffles his hair gently. “You were wearing a fucking sweater vest that night. But, you know, too classy to be a hipster.” 

Connor jerks his head up from his hands again, glares at Hank despite the burning in his cheeks. “I am not a hipster. And I’m not too classy for—for—”

He can’t quite bring himself to say ‘a quick fuck in a bathroom’ but he thinks Hank knows what he meant to say. The way Hank’s eyebrows raise in amusement and that smirk grows is telling enough. 

“I’m not!” Connor insists. 

Hank ruffles his hair again, and Connor fights back the shiver it causes. “Maybe not, but I doubt you’ve ever done it before.” 

The truth stings slightly, as does the amused expression on Hank’s face, but it also feels like he’s goading him deliberately. Like this is a challenge. And that is his mistake, Connor thinks, because he doesn’t back down from challenges. 

He starts moving before he even really thinks about it, jabbing the release on the seat belt and throwing it off of him as he pushes himself up onto the seat, twisting onto his knees. He sees Hank’s eyes go wide with realisation as he leans over enough to brace one hand on the opposite door column, gets one leg over the top of Hank’s thighs before he wriggles his body into the minimal space between Hank and the steering wheel.

He hits his head on the roof, jams the steering wheel into the small of his back, and hears Hank swear and scramble to kill the engine again. 

For a moment the interior lights flare on and Connor knows he must look ridiculous, trying to fit himself into his space, but then Hank’s hands close around his thighs and he’s dragged forward and down until he’s settled firmly in Hank’s lap, both knees wedged into the seat backrest, but it pulls him away from the steering wheel slightly. 

“Jesus H. Christ, kid,” Hank pants, one hand lifting to cradle the top of Connor’s head, shielding it from hitting the roof again. His other hand squeezes the outside of Connor’s thigh, once, hard, before sliding back around to cup his arse. 

Whimpering, Connor wriggles, tries to get more of Hank’s touch. He rests his hands on Hank’s chest, fingers clenching around the ridiculously loud fabric of his shirt. He wriggles again, wanting to rock his hips forward to rut against Hank and get some friction against his cunt.

But if he does that it’s going to be really obvious that he doesn’t have a dick, and he doesn’t know if Hank will be okay with that. Connor knows he needs to say something, and that he should say something sooner rather than later, but he just got through Hank’s initial rejection; he isn’t ready for that to happen again. He isn’t ready for this to be over. Not yet…

He feels desperate and strung out like an exposed nerve, like he simultaneously needs both more and less of everything that is going on. Hank’s hand on his arse squeezes, fingers pressuring into the cleft between his cheeks, digging into the sensitive spaces there. Memories of all his dreams resurface, flooding his mind and he makes an involuntary mewling, wanting sound. 

“Fuck,” Hank growls softly, palms harder at Connor’s arse. “Look at you, sweetheart.” 

Connor chokes on an undignified sound, shivering and squirming at the endearment. It’s even better hearing it out of Hank’s mouth than it had been in his dreams. This time he can’t stop the way his hips twitch forward as he tries to rut his crotch against Hank’s thick thigh.

They’re close enough that even in the dark Connor sees Hank’s eyebrows knit together, a brief flash of confusion on his face, before his hands move from his arse to his hip, pulling him even closer, definitely unable to miss the heat but lack of hardness between Connor’s legs. 

“I just… You’re so… I wanted—” he stumbles over his explanation with his heart lodged in his throat as he prepares himself for rejection. “I’m sorry!” Connor blurts, hoping it might soften the blow a little. “Are you mad at me?”

Connor can’t read the expression that crosses over Hank’s face, but his words are gentle. “No, sweetheart, I’m not mad,” he assures him. “You don’t need to apologise, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s exactly what he wanted to hear, and he wants to say something but he kind of feels like he’s about to start crying. Not trusting his voice, Connor leans closer, shifts a hand to the seat backrest, bracing himself there as he cranes his neck and presses his mouth to Hank’s. 

The bristle of Hank’s facial hair is foreign, Connor almost flinches back at first contact, but past that he can feel Hank’s lips, soft and receptive as they move softly to capture Connor’s. Hank's hand shifts to cradle the back of his head, fingers stroking through his hair gently, almost a counterpoint to the hard press of Hank’s hand on his arse. 

He pulls back enough to get a breath in, rests his forehead against Hank’s and loses himself for a moment in the stroke of Hank’s fingers through his hair. Hank tilts his face up to kiss Connor again, just the softest brush of his lips. 

“You like that, sweetheart?” Hank rumbles softly between one kiss and another. 

Connor shivers again, tries to squirm his way closer, but there isn’t room to move his legs, so he’s stuck with this infuriating gap between his body and Hank’s. Belatedly he nods, realising he hadn’t answered the question. He tries to capture the sound of Hank calling him sweetheart in his mind, tries to press his own appreciation into the next kiss. He shifts his hand on Hank’s chest, skates it lower, feeling the grate of hair beneath the fabric and he can’t help the longing sound he makes in the back of his throat at this discovery. Trailing his hand over Hank’s torso he can feel the soft swell of his pecs then lower to his stomach, rising and falling with each breath he takes. It presses out against Connor’s hand, only adding to the impression of Hank’s size. He wants to feel Hank’s bulk pressing him down: to a bed, the hood of his car, or even the bar in Jimmy’s; he can’t find it in himself to care which right now, he just wants to be smothered in all things Hank. 

He finds the waistband of Hank’s jeans, just getting his fingers on the button when Hank’s hand on his arse moves, catching his wrist and lifting his hand off of his goal. Connor huffs in indignation, whines a short protest that Hank kisses off his lips, his other hand still cradling his head so gently. 

“Not here, sweetheart,” Hank whispers, almost apologetic. 

Huffing again, Connor sits back, the steering wheel digging into his back and the car horn giving a short grunt of sound when he knocks it. It startles him badly enough he knocks his head against the roof again, shame and embarrassment burning across his face as Hank gives an amused chuckle. 

“Oh sweetheart.” A frown of concern crosses Hank’s face as he runs his fingers soothingly through Connor’s hair. “Are you alright?” 

Trying to wriggle his arm free of Hank’s grip to reach for his fly again, Connor grumbles under his breath, renewed determination burning through him after the shame. “I’d be better if you’d let me touch you.” 

Hank chuckles softly, shifting Connor’s arm to pin his hand to his own thigh, covering it with his much larger hand. The size difference in their fingers distracts Connor for a moment, as does the way Hank’s thumb curls down to press as the inseam of his trousers, so much so that he almost misses what Hank says. “I’m not letting your first time be in a car in a bar parking lot.” 

Indignant rage flares in Connor’s chest when he finally comprehends the words; he can’t control the way his voice breaks as he squeaks out a protest: “I’m not a virgin!” 

Hank looks at him, brow raised a little as if in surprise, like he doesn’t quite believe him; it makes Connor feel jittery, like he’s on display. His fingers flex against his thigh; he wants to start scrubbing his hand at his thigh, but Hank’s hand still pins it in place. He pulls his other hand back off the seat back, wipes his hand on his thigh, wobbling as he loses support. It only exacerbates the jittery feeling. It makes Connor want to open the door and scramble out of the vehicle as fast as he had scrambled into Hank’s lap. 

“I’m not.” Connor reiterates, just as indignant as before, though his voice waivers a fraction. “I’ve had sex before.” 

It’s not a lie, but right now Connor feels like it is. Every doubt surges up inside him, the clawing fear that Hank is suddenly going to hate him now because he isn’t that experienced. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been willing, that he hadn’t wanted to have sex more, it was just there had never been the time or the opportunity. His first and last boyfriend had been in the summer between finishing high school and his first year of university, over and done with when Richard had left his family’s company and moved away to another city entirely. Opportunities had been lacking after Richard; he’d never exactly been out and proud. It feels now as though Hank can see all of that: like Connor has put it all on display, peeled himself open, and Hank can see all the inexperience and the self doubt. 

“I didn’t say you were,” Hank reassures him, voice a low and comforting rumble. It’s a sound that Connor wants to wrap himself up in, even if the words feel like a lie.

“You did,” Connor argues, petulant and frustrated more at himself for losing control of this situation than at Hank. He should have protested differently; if he hadn’t squawked like that, had said it with more confidence, then maybe Hank would have believed him. He worries that Hank can see right through him, that despite all his drive and determination only minutes before he is nearly as inexperienced as Hank assumed. If he had been that obvious, why was Hank even entertaining him?  

“I guess I kind of did,” Hank agrees, tone shifting to apologetic. His fingers stroke across the back of Connor’s head, through his hair, a slow soothing motion; the touch helps to slow down Connor’s mind. “I didn’t mean it to insult you, sweetheart, I just wanted to take care of you.” 

The sentiment hits Connor square in his chest, longing clenching around his heart, and he can’t help the pitiful sound that he makes. He had been so focused on getting whatever he could out of this that he never really let himself think about what he really wanted until it was right there in front of him. Being taken care of; the affectionate way that Hank was touching him and the softer kisses just a taste of what is on offer. 

He falls forward, bumping his nose harshly against Hank’s in his desperate attempt to kiss Hank again. He feels both of Hank’s hands shift to gently cradle his face, to reposition him so they fit better, guiding Connor through several slow lingering kisses, lips moving softly against lips until Hank tilts his head back away, breath fanning warm across Connor’s face. 

“Will you let me take care of you, sweetheart? I want to do this right, can I do that?” Hank’s words rumble in the scant space between them, warm and comforting, his thumbs stroking over Connor’s cheekbones, the soft sweeping motion almost hypnotic. 

Connor nods, leaning into the touch. He feels warm inside, not the same warm buzz of arousal that he had felt before, but something else, all-encompassing, wrapping around him comforting and tight. “I—I’d like that.” 

Hank angles Connor’s face down again to kiss him, just once, softly. “Then let me do this properly, let me treat you right.” 

Nodding again, Connor tries to get closer for another kiss, whining when Hank tips his head up to kiss the tip of his nose before gently pushing him back. Hank’s hand slides down the side of his neck and out over his shoulder, trailing down his arm until it settles on his hip. He gives it two gentle pats, the whole mood starting to shift. 

“As much as I enjoyed this whole little exercise, sweetheart, we really don’t fit like this.” Hank admits, settling his hand on the outside of Connor’s thigh, touch warm and broad. 

“Not really,” Connor agrees; he can already feel a crick forming in his neck and a tugging pain between his shoulder blades from how hunched over he is, the steering wheel still digging into his back. 

Hank’s hand drags across his thigh, reaching back around to palm at his arse. “Plus this bony thing is making my legs go to sleep.” 

Connor huffs in indignation, but the sound trails off into a groan when Hank’s fingers press back in between his arse cheeks. His cunt clenches around nothing, not deterred at all from his original intentions, despite the shift in the mood. “Don’t tease.” 

Hank chuckles, but tries to form his expression into one of sympathy. It hardly hides the smile. “I can’t help myself, sweetheart, you just react so beautifully.” 

“I don’t think anything I do could be described as ‘beautiful’,” Connor mumbles self-deprecatingly; he feels awkward, too cramped to fit into Hank’s lap like he wanted to, caught somewhere between wanting to do more and feeling just as inexperienced as Hank thinks he is. 

Hank’s knuckle knocks against his chin, tilting his face up again so he can see the crooked smile that Hank offers as he drags his thumb across the skin just below Connor’s lip. “Nah, you’re a bit of a force to be reckoned with. Can’t say I’ve ever been so aggressively pursued before.” 

Connor’s jaw drops; he opens his mouth to protest, but Hank presses a finger to his lips. 

“And I’d say there’s something beautiful about that.,” Hank continues, his smile turning soft as he shifts his hand to brush his knuckles over Connor’s cheek. “And the way you blush is pretty damn beautiful too.” 

The heat in Connor’s face increases tenfold, embarrassment crawling through him, but there is something pleasing about the whole thing as well. He feels like he shouldn’t like it. His parents used to call him beautiful, always followed by daughter or girl, and he’d hated it every time. It doesn’t feel feminine when Hank says it, doesn’t make the dysphoria claw at him. When Hank says it, it feels like a good thing. Like praise, affirmation that he’s done something right, even if he feels like a mess after a week of barely eating or sleeping. He wants Hank to say it again.

Hank’s fingers caress his cheek, move back to smooth his hair as though tucking it behind his ear, his thumb lingering to trace the shell of his ear. The touch makes Connor shiver, but he leans into it when Hank’s hand starts to move away. 

“Do you like being called beautiful?” Hank asks, as if he could read Connor’s thoughts.

The question takes a moment to sink in, but Connor nods, pressing his head harder against Hank’s hand. His face still feels too warm, but it’s a pleased flush that makes his whole body fill with a warm, buzzing feeling. It takes conscious effort to croak out a reply: “Yes.” 

Hank leans forward again to kiss Connor once more, runs his thumb over the shell of his ear one last time before he drops both his hands to settle on Connor’s thighs. “Well, beautiful, as great as this has been, I wasn’t kidding about my legs going to sleep. 

“Oh, shit,” Connor mumbles, guilt washing in over the top of all the good feelings from the last few minutes. “I’m sorry.” 

“No need to apologise, kid,” Hank tells him, running one hand against Connor’s thigh, almost soothing, while he reaches for the door handle. “Any other place I’d be happy to have a guy like you sitting in my lap.” 

He feels his face flush further, but it’s not entirely a bad feeling. He’s not entirely sure what Hank means by a guy like him, but he tries not to think of it being a bad thing. Hank cracks the door open and the cool rush of air back into the overheated interior of the vehicle makes Connor shiver and his skin prickle; he’s not really looking forward to the walk back up the valley towards campus. 

The shuffle out of the vehicle is more difficult than the action of wedging himself into Hank’s lap, partly because he’s too conscious of his movements, partly because his own legs had started to go numb and moving them makes nausea swim through his body as the blood returns to where it is supposed to. Hank keeps one hand on his waist as though he’s trying to steady him the whole time, until Connor feels the asphalt under both his feet and manages to straighten up, leaning on the top of the door for support. Hank’s hand slides lower, down his thigh, settling just above his knee. 

Now that he is standing outside the car, Connor isn’t sure what he is meant to do; everything he’d done before had been spur of the moment, an act of desperation to get Hank to not kick him out of the car, to try and prove a point. With that all gone, he can feel the listlessness and despondency starting to creep back in. 

As if picking up on his internal conflict, Hank squeezes his leg comfortingly as he shifts in his seat, trying to adjust himself in his jeans with his other hand. Connor gets the vague impression of just how big Hank’s dick is before Hank settles back into the driver's seat again. 

“You getting back in the car?” Hank asks, squeezing Connor’s leg again, the press of his fingers and sweep of his thumb making it hard to focus. 

“I thought—” Connor cuts himself off, because he isn’t sure what he thinks anymore. He’d assumed that the night was over now that he was out of the car, and he doesn’t know what is going on now. 

“I’ll give you a lift home,” Hank offers, tone as comforting as the way his hand has started rubbing small circles above Connor’s knee. “I still want to do this, sweetheart, I want to treat you right, but I need a day to get some things sorted.”

He has no idea what that is even supposed to mean, but Connor nods anyway. “I can walk.” 

“And I can drive you,” Hank counters, eyes narrowing a fraction. “Stop arguing and get in the car.” 

The command does something to Connor, he starts following it before he even thinks. As he turns he feels Hank slap him lightly on the arse and his stomach clenches hot, his cunt throbbing. A startled sound catches in his throat; it didn’t hurt, but he still covers his arse on reflex and takes several quick steps forward before glancing over his shoulder. Hank grins at him, then tilts his head towards the passenger seat to emphasise what he wants.

Connor circles the car, hearing Hank’s door shut and the engine turn over as he makes his way towards the passenger side. The door pops open as he gets there, Hank leaning across the seat to open it, as though he had been worried that Connor might miss and just keep walking.  

“Do you know where the university campus is?” Connor asks as he settles into the passenger seat again, clipping his seat belt in place. 

“I’ve been there before,” Hank replies, the corner of his mouth upturning in a smirk; something about the expression hints that there is a story behind that statement. 

“You went to university?” Connor thinks back to the first night they met, the way Hank had seemed impressed with his academia. 

Hank pulls out of the car park, turning in the direction of the university campus, the opposite way than he’d come from, solidifying his statement from earlier. “You don’t have to sound so surprised at the prospect.” 

“Sorry.” Connor ducks his head, then glances at Hank from the corner of his eye. “What did you study?”

Hank laughs, deep and amused, reaching over to ruffle Connor’s hair as he stops at a traffic light. “Nothing, I was a cop, had plenty of call outs to the university over the years.” 

Connor rolls that statement over in his mind; he doesn’t doubt it, he’s heard some interesting rumours, even if he hasn’t seen many incidents himself. It’s a bit hard to see much of anything from inside his dorm room. Hank certainly has an imposing presence, but he doesn’t really strike Connor as the police type. Something about the drinking at bars, wearing bright colourful shirts feels like it is a far cry from the starched uniforms he sees them in. “Are you still a cop?” 

Hank’s hand slips from his hair and settles on the back of Connor’s neck, the mirth disappearing from his expression. His mouth twists self deprecatingly. “Nah, I gave that up years ago, thank fuck, with all the bad press the police force is getting.” 

It settles in Connor’s mind then just why the idea of Hank being a cop didn’t feel right. He cares too much. He’s too nice, too sweet. He tips his head towards Hank, resting the side of his face against Hank’s arm. “What do you do now?” 

Hank fingers flex against Connor’s neck, his thumb sweeping through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I work at a no-kill dog shelter. It was set up by an old farmer when the urban sprawl started to take over the surrounding area. Stubborn old bugger wasn’t going to give up his little plot of land, so he started building dog kennels.” 

“A dog shelter?” Connor perks up. “I didn’t even know there was one nearby.” 

Hank tips his head backwards to indicate behind them. “It’s about fifteen miles out the other side of Jimmy’s, it's a good little spot.” 

Shoulders slumping, Connor sighs, “that’s far.” 

“It's not too bad of a drive,” Hank replies, ruffling Connor’s hair once more before he extracts his hand to settle it back on the steering wheel. The smile of his face slips off when he looks at Connor, frowning slightly at the crestfallen expression on his face. “What’s the matter?” 

Embarrassment crawls up Connor’s spine, shame settling heavily in his chest. There’s so much going on in his life right now, most of which he knows he shouldn’t want to tell a relative stranger about. Hank shouldn’t have to put up with him complaining about everything; his little blow up in the car earlier had been bad enough, just another instance of his mouth running away from him and getting him in trouble. Taking a deep breath, feeling it shudder in his lungs, Connor gives Hank a wobbly smile. “I don’t have a car.” 

“Broke uni student, right?” Hank asks, but there is no meanness about it. He reaches back over after a turn, hand settling just above Connor’s knee, patting his leg. “I remember my broke days from early in the academy. Wasn’t much fun, but you’ll get there one day.” 

It’s more than just being broke—though that is a big part of it; the blow of being cut off by his parents had made him numb to the lack of money at first. Somehow it’s comforting, though, to have Hank tell him that it will be okay. Maybe it’s because his life has been so short on reassurances, but it is easy to believe him. Carefully Connor sets his hand over top of Hank’s; Hank’s hand turns instantly underneath his, fingers closing around Connor’s and squeezing tight. 

Hank doesn’t let go of Connor’s hand again until he follows Connor’s directions to turn off onto the University drive, and navigate his way around the winding interior roads to get to the car park closest to Connor’s dorm. He pulls up on the road instead of into one of the designated parking spaces, putting the car into park and pulling the handbrake on but not turning off the engine. “This close enough?” 

Connor nods; he’s suddenly not sure what to do. He knows he can’t invite Hank inside, between the fear of someone in the dorm seeing them and Hank’s comments about wanting to do things right. He knows he should get up and go back to his room, but he doesn’t want to say goodnight to Hank just yet. 

“How about I pick you up tomorrow night?” Hank asks after the silence goes on too long. 

He jerks his head around to look at Hank. “You still want to?” 

Hank’s brow furrows and he reaches over to squeeze Connor’s knee. “Of course I do, kid. Told you, I want to do this right.” 

He doesn’t even know what it means, but Connor can’t help but like the sound of it. “Tomorrow night?” 

“If that suits. I’ll be here at, I don’t know, seven o’clock?” Hank offers, squeezing Connor’s knee once before he lets go, reaching to open his door. 

Connor watches as Hank gets out of the car and circles around the front of it, lit up by the headlights for a moment, so stark and bright, his shirt nearly lurid until he cuts back into the shadow of the underlit car park. The door cracks open a moment later, lighting the interior of the car and Hank’s hand that extends towards Connor. 

“C’mon, kid, this is your stop.” 

Connor takes the hand that Hank offers him, letting himself be guided out of the car. Hank doesn’t step back as Connor stands, leaving barely any space between them. It highlights the difference in their size; Connor shot up to nearly six feet tall just after he finished high school, but despite that Hank is still taller and broader. It makes Connor feel small in all the right ways, and brings that buzzy, electric feeling back into his body. It makes him shiver. 

Hank frowns slightly in concern, guiding Connor up onto the footpath so he can reach past him to shut the door. When he straightens up again he wraps an arm around Connor’s shoulders, drawing him in close. “You cold?” 

Connor can’t help but burrow closer to Hank; he hadn’t felt particularly cold before, but the warmth radiating off of Hank feels like it’s drawing him in. He feels Hank’s other arm wrap around him too, hand settling on the back of his head and guiding him gently to press his face against his shoulder. He wraps his arms around Hank’s waist in response, suddenly all encompassed by Hank, wrapped up in everything about him. It's too comforting. It’s really nice. Connor can feel a tight lump of emotion starting to form in his throat and he knows that if he wants to avoid embarrassing himself he’s going to want to leave soon. 

Hank’s fingers comb through his hair and Connor feels his throat grow tighter. He feels Hank’s arms loosen around him and he relaxes his own hold, letting Hank step back, a steadying hand still on Connor’s shoulder. “You should get inside, before you get too cold.” 

Connor nods, stepping back, wrapping his arms around himself to stave off the cold feeling that floods all the parts of him that had previously been touching Hank. “Thanks. For the ride home.” 

Hank squeezes his shoulder once, leans close enough to press a brief kiss to his forehead before his hand drops away and he steps back. Connor feels himself sway forward as though he is trying to follow the contact, before he manages to pull himself back upright. 

Hank offers him a wry smile. “Thanks to you too.”

“What for?” Connor asks, confused.

Hank waves a hand, like he’s trying to indicate something that is obvious to him, but Connor can’t see. “For, you know, for being a stubborn little prick. For not just letting me fob you off.” 

Warmth creeps up Connor’s cheeks, but the flush of embarrassment doesn’t feel bad like it usually does. Something about Hank’s use of an insult feels more like a term of endearment than anything else. He blinks, trying to process how that is possible, but offers Hank a wobbly, unsure smile in response. “I can be stubborn.” 

“I noticed. It’s a good quality to have.” Hank’s smile broadens as he steps off the curb and starts to pass back in front of his car. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

The promise fizzes excitement through Connor; tomorrow night feels impossibly far away, but tantalisingly close at the same time. “Seven, right?” 

“Seven,” Hank confirms as he climbs back into the driver's seat. The passenger side window winds down and he leans over to look at Connor. “Get some sleep, kid, you’re going to want plenty of energy.” 

Hank winks before he sits back up, shifting the car back into drive and pulling away from the curb. Connor feels himself flush, cheeks burning and arousal dropping hot and cold into his stomach, making him shiver with excitement. 

He watches Hank’s tail lights disappear back down the road before heading back towards the dorm building behind him. For the first time in a long time he feels hopeful about how things are going to progress, the warm buzz of excitement buoying his mood. 

///

The steering wheel digs painfully into Connor’s back. His neck aches from where it’s bent forward, the back of his head hits the roof again. His head feels fuzzy, the air around him too warm, almost suffocating him, like the hands around his throat, squeezing. Hank’s thumbs press up under his jaw, tilting his face up, Hank mouth pressing roughly against his. 

“You like that, do you sweetheart?” 

Hank’s teeth scrape across his throat, hand squeezing tighter until Connor can’t even breathe. He tries to bring his hands up to fight off the hold Hank has on him, but his arms won’t move, hard metal biting into his wrists, holding his hands behind him. 

He struggles; there’s a jingle of metal, accompanied by the husky sound of Hank’s laughter, deep and rumbling, shaking his whole body and knocking Connor back into the steering wheel again. The car horn gives a short sharp blast and Hank chuckles again. 

“You keep doing that, kid; it’s like you want people to notice and come and see you. Is that what you want? Slutty little boy like you? You want people to watch me fuck you?” 

“No,” Connor whines, shaking his head the best he can with Hank’s hands still around his throat. His lungs are aching, head swimming. His head hits the roof again as Hank’s hips buck up underneath him, rubbing their crotches together. Connor hears himself whimper. 

“I think that is what you want,” Hank disagrees, voice rough, breath warm where it grates across Connor’s ears, beard rasping against his cheek. “Slutty little sexual deviant like you, I’d have to arrest you for public indecency.” 

Hank’s badge glints where it rests on his chest, the gun holster on his hip digging into Connor’s thigh. There’s too much give in the leather for the gun to still be in it. Connor can feel the weight of it resting on the inside of his thigh, the barrel of it pushed between his and Hank’s bodies, the very tip of it pushing against his hole through his pants. 

“And maybe the misuse of police property?” Hank teases, pushing the gun to dig harder into Connor. “I think this is something we need to get sorted.”

Connor wakes up with his face pressed into the mattress, his pillow on top of his head and the inside of his underwear soaked through. He can still feel the embarrassing burn of arousal through him. Knocking his pillow aside, he lifts his head enough to reach for his phone, fumbling around on his desk until he can find it. The screen lights up, nearly blinding him, and through squinted eyes he can read the time is still somewhere before 3AM. 

Groaning, Connor drops his head back down, a shock of pain bursting in his nose when he hits the mattress too hard. He knows he’s too turned on to sleep, and nearly too scared to try in case the dream gets any more intense. Hank hadn’t acted anything like that in real life; he’d been careful and caring the entire time, and yet Connors’ brain has dragged up some dominating and rough alter ego for him. He’s not sure he wants to see that version of Hank again any time soon. 

He knows he should get up and study, kill a few hours before he can politely go and shower before heading to class, but instead he rolls over onto his back and stares into the dark above him. There’s enough light that he can make out the vague shape of his bedroom, the peeling paint in the corner above the door being the only thing out of place. It’s too neat, too tidy; it makes him feel out of place after the dream of being in Hank’s slightly messy car. He remembers the dust on the dashboard, the loose papers in the backseat, the used napkin in the cup holder. If he thinks about it hard enough he can almost smell it: the vague, stale scent of cigarette smoke, something doggy; that Connor now wonders if it comes from Hank’s work. 

There had been dog hair on Hank’s jacket. Connor remembers noticing it, even though he hadn’t really catalogued it at the time, but he can remember the texture of it beneath his fingers at the first touch. Like Hank’s chest hair that he had felt beneath his shirt. The memory buzzes anticipation beneath Connor’s skin. The promise of having Hank’s naked body pressed against his, of being able to drag his hands through Hank’s chest hair, maybe even the chance to press his face against it. 

He skates his hand over his chest, brushing past his nipples; his own smooth body is a sharp contrast to Hank’s hairy chest. His stomach clenches with arousal, heat pooling between his legs. There’s no ignoring it. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Connor huffs a breath out, feeling embarrassment crawl over him; he slides his hand down further, across his stomach, and hooks his fingers under the waistband of his underwear. His fingertips slide between his slick folds and he chokes slightly on the breath he sucks in through his teeth. There’s no point wasting time, he decides, pushing his underwear down off his hips with one hand. He can feel arousal coil through him, still so keyed up and on edge from the dream that he had.  

Despite that, though, he can’t quite get there, the edge he’s trying to tip over tantalisingly close, but frustratingly unreachable. He moves his fingers faster over his throbbing clit, whining as he tries to chase the feeling, trying to pull up memories of what it had felt like being wedged in Hank’s lap, Hank’s hand on his arse, the sensation of Hank’s beard scraping against his face. Arousal spikes through him, clenching his stomach and tugging down into his groin as he wonders, briefly, what Hank’s beard would feel like between his thighs, rubbing his skin raw and sensitive. He thinks about Hank’s hands on him, how big and rough they would be, how small it would make him feel, and excitement shivers through him. He can feel himself getting closer, but still can’t quite reach the tipping point. 

His mind drags up memories of his dream, of Hank’s gun against his thigh, the push of the barrel of it against his arse. He shivers, unsure whether he likes where his dream had been going or not, but it’s enough to make him brace his feet against the bed and tilt his hips up, coiling his body so he can reach between his legs with his other hand, fingers wiggling between his arse cheeks to tease his hole. 

He feels weak sparks of pleasure between his legs as he eventually manages to get himself over that edge, his hips twitching as he finally comes. 

The feeling of pleasure is short-lived before discomfort starts to sink in. He’s a mess, sweaty and sticky, and there is a creeping sense of shame and embarrassment crawling through him in the aftermath. He knows he needs to clean up and try to get back to sleep, but for a long moment he just lies there and wonders what the hell he is doing. 

///

Connor doesn’t sleep well between jerking off and his alarm sounding several hours later. Grogginess follows him out of the shower and to his morning class despite downing several large mugs of too-hot black coffee in the dining hall before trudging out of the dorm building and towards the university campus proper.

Sitting in his lectures, one after the other, Connor feels like everyone is watching him. As though they can somehow tell what he’s been doing, what he’s been thinking. He can still hear the echo of dream Hank’s words. “Is that what you want? Slutty little boy like you? You want people to watch me fuck you?”

It isn’t what he wants at all: being seen, being found out. He knows he shouldn’t even have gone to Jimmy’s in the first place; that in itself had been too risky. He should never have gone back, or gotten into Hank’s car, shouldn’t even be thinking about seeing Hank again tonight. 

Except that the promise of seeing Hank again—the knowledge that Hank wants to see him again, wants to do things with him that involve thought and preparation, doing things right—fizzes warmth through him like a perfect summer breeze. He wants to see Hank again, more than anything, even though it twists his stomach with nerves. He knows he’s going to be waiting in the carpark at seven that night, just like they had agreed on. 

Something deep and aching in his chest, the chasm filled with loneliness, makes him feel like if he can win Hank’s affection and approval, then nothing else will matter. 

///

Classes seem to drag on forever; Connor knows that it’s just the anticipation of the evening to come, but that doesn’t help him to relax. By the time he gets back to his dorm room he feels keyed up and frayed around the edges. It’s only as he wobbles when he dumps his bag on his desk that he realises that despite the trip to the cafeteria that morning he still hasn’t eaten. 

There’s two hours before he is supposed to meet Hank, and Connor briefly entertains the idea of going to find something to eat before he gets ready, but with how nervous he is he isn’t sure he can stomach anything anyway. Writing that idea off as a lost cause, he grabs his towel and a change of clothes and heads towards the showers. 

He spends too long in the shower, scrubbing every inch of himself in nervous anticipation. Standing under the tepid flow of water after he’s rinsed the conditioner out of his hair, Connor blinks at the crack in the wall tile just below eye level, absently wondering how it even got damaged as he churns over the possibilities for the evening in his mind. Hank had said he wanted to treat him right, but what that even means, Connor isn’t sure. Things had gotten hot and intense in the car last night, and nervously Connor hopes that whatever happens it will be more like that. He’s not sure he will survive his own dreams if he goes another night without Hank touching him. Without Hank fucking him. 

The thought alone clenches warm, sweet arousal in the base of his stomach, and Connor has to brace his hand against the wall to stop himself from wobbling at the impact. He feels need starting to buzz through him but now that it’s more than just a fantasy that will probably never happen he can also feel the heavy weight of apprehension. 

Everyone always talks about how good sex feels and how amazing orgasms are. Connor pretends to agree, because it seems like that’s what he was supposed to say; but really, he’d always found sex to be awkward at best but more often uncomfortable, even painful. 

He reaches down to tease himself, feels his clit twitch under his fingers. It feels good but it would be easier if it didn’t because then he wouldn't want to want sex. But he does want it, he desperately wants it. 

Despite the cramped awkward space he remembers how nice things had felt in Hank’s car. It’s enough to give him hope that maybe with the proper space he’ll finally manage to control his body enough that it won’t feel bad—maybe this will be the time that he’ll finally manage to get it right and it will finally feel good. 

If there’s any chance of him finally getting things right this time he knows he needs to start with cleaning himself thoroughly, at least as thoroughly as a public bathroom will allow, in anticipation of the night to come. He contorts himself in the shower wincing as he works a soapy finger between his cheeks and into his arsehole when the bathroom door gets thrown open so violently it hits the wall with a bang. The sound startles Connor bad enough he just about smacks his head against the cracked wall tiles, and pulls his fingers out so fast it twinges something slightly and makes him hiss in discomfort. 

Several loud voices fill the room, echoing and bouncing around, making it hard for Connor to pinpoint who they are, though they sound familiar. 

“There had better still be hot water left, arsehole!” someone shouts, and Connor flinches away from the sound.

He doesn’t say anything in response. His throat feels like it has locked up, as though if he says anything, they’ll all know exactly what he was doing in there. Someone bangs on the cubicle door, slapping their hands against it in a rough beat. Squeezing his eyes shut against the embarrassment, Connor quickly washes his fingers off and turns off the shower. He reaches for his towel, scrubbing himself dry as quickly and efficiently as he can, pulling on his day-old pants and shirt, though he waits until he hears other cubicle doors shut further along the line and the showers start before he braves the short walk back to his room. 

///

Connor arrives at the car park fifteen minutes early and spends the next ten minutes checking his watch more times than he can keep track of, trying to convince himself that Hank hasn’t stood him up. It would be too easy, he thinks; Hank is the one with the car after all, and the one who knows roughly where Connor lives. All Connor knows is that Hank occasionally goes to Jimmy’s, and going to wait there again for the chance to see him feels desperate, even to him. 

At five minutes to seven, Connor sees headlights come around the corner into the carpark, shielding his eyes as they pass over him before the car pulls up along the curb near the path where Connor stands. He recognises it instantly, old and with a slight rattle in its engine, and his heart rate is picking up even before the driver’s side door opens and Hank steps out. 

“Evening,” Hank greets, leaning against the top of his car as he looks at Connor; even in the dark he can feel the sweep of Hank’s eyes over him. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

Connor fidgets, fingers picking at the bottom of his sweater. He’d tried to dress nicely—having hastily done his washing the night before—picking some of his nicer clothes that didn’t feel too formal. He knows the soft grey of his sweater suits him, and the ocean blue shirt beneath it compliments his skin; he remembers all the fashion tips his mother had taught him over the years, but somehow it feels different knowing that someone else appreciates the efforts. 

“Hi, Hank,” Connor replies, lifting one hand up to wave at Hank. 

Hank taps his hands on the top of his car in a loose rhythm. “You look good, kid. I, uh, hope you weren’t expecting anything too fancy.” 

Connor brushes his hand back down over his sweater. It’s soft and nice, but not anything he thought was inherently fancy. “I don’t need anything fancy.” 

The smile on Hank’s face shifts to something softer, his head tilting to one side slightly as though he is puzzling over something. “Maybe not, kid, but just warning you, all I have on offer is a mostly clean house and a family recipe for homemade pasta sauce.” 

The nervous twist in Connor’s stomach is still there, twisting and all-consuming, but beneath that, his stomach grumbles with hunger at the prospect of food that isn’t of the instant or mass produced style. He has no idea how loud the sound is; surely Hank can’t hear it over the rumble of the car engine, but he still offers a sheepish smile. “Honestly, you have no idea how good that sounds.” 

Hank cracks a grin at that, slapping the flat of his hand against the roof of his car one final time. “Dorm food, hey?” 

“Something like that,” Connor replies, feeling his own lips twitch up further, almost as though Hank’s cheeky grin is contagious. 

“Guess there’s no point wasting time then, is there?” Hank adds, nodding his head towards the passenger side of the car. “Unless you’re having second thoughts.” 

Connor doesn’t even dignify that with an answer. No matter what thoughts are churning over and over in his mind, he has no intention of backing out of this now, not after he’d fought so hard to get Hank to give him time.  

///

Hank’s house is small and tucked away in one of the culs-de-sac with a canal running behind it. Connor can smell the dampness of the water as he gets out of the car, can hear it faintly lapping over the ticking of the cooling engine and the traffic nearby. It looks tired in a way that Hank does, but Connor just thinks that suits him. 

“It’s not much to look at,” Hank tells him in a self-deprecating joking tone as he rounds the front of the car, gesturing for Connor to follow him up onto the porch, rummaging through his pocket to retrieve his keys. Unlocking the door, he looks back over his shoulder, giving a wry grin. “Just like me, hey?” 

Connor blinks. “No.” 

Hank’s grin falters a fraction, eyebrows scrunching down. 

“I—” Connor starts, not sure if what he’s about to say is foolish or not; surely it has been plainly obvious to Hank all along. “I like the way you look.” 

It’s hard to tell, with how fast Hank turns back towards the door, but Connor thinks maybe he blushes; it makes warmth bloom in Connor’s chest and across his own cheeks. 

“Kind of figured,” Hank grumbles under his breath, but he sounds pleased as he opens the door, stepping through to lead the way inside, toeing his shoes off and kicking them against the wall as he goes. “It’s not strictly a shoes-off house, but you can if you want.” 

The idea of walking around in just his socks isn’t something that Connor’d usually do, but Hank had invalidated what he said by taking off his own shoes, so it feels only right to follow suit. In the back of his mind Connor can hear his mother berating him for needlessly wearing his socks out, but somehow he thinks Hank will find it weird if he takes them off too. 

The house opens up into the living room on one side with a small divider wall separating it from the entryway, and the kitchen on the other side. A hallway continues on in front of Connor, and as Hank flips on the lights on the kitchen, he can make out two doors further on, nearly opposite each other. Inside it’s warm and Connor can smell something rich with tomatoes and herbs. 

“Bathroom is just down the hall to your left, if you need it.” Hank calls out from the kitchen, turning away from the stove and spotting Connor still standing in the entry, catching his eye and offering a soft, lopsided smile. “Dinner will be about ten minutes.” 

Connor feels his brain stutter, somewhere between Hank’s soft smile and the juxtaposition of memories of the expectations Richard had held. His stomach twists nervously again. “I showered before.” 

Hank jerks to a stop in his turn back towards the kitchen, the smile slipping off his face. “I wasn’t telling you to shower.” 

It leaves Connor feeling unsettled, stomach still twisting in knots. He doesn’t have a lot of experience, but both Richard and the few internet searches he had dared to do made it clear that being clean was good practice. Even if he’d just showered at home he’d always showered at Richard’s too before the few times that they’d had sex, his skin still damp when he’d be pressed down onto the bed. 

“Christ, sweetheart, I know you’ve showered, you made my car smell like a goddamn fruit cocktail,” Hank grumbles, abandoning the stove to walk back towards Connor, face pinched into something Connor thinks is trying to be reassuring. 

The urge to touch his hair crawls up Connor’s arm, tingling in the tips of his fingers like an itch; he knows that his shampoo and conditioner have a strong fruit scent, not exactly something masculine, but it’s cheap and suits his hair the best. 

Hank reaches him in a few strides, reaching out slowly to settle his hand on the back of Connor’s neck, thumb rubbing at the short hairs there. It’s the first contact they’ve had since Hank had squeezed his thigh as they left the dorm parking lot, and it settles some of the nervousness fizzing inside Connor. 

“And I don’t mean that as a bad thing,” Hank continues, pulling him in and wrapping his other arm around Connor’s shoulders, head dipping so his nose settles against Connor’s temple. He breathes deep, like he’s proving a point, rumbling a satisfied sound in his chest that Connor feels vibrate through him. “You smell good, sweetheart. Strawberry, right?” 

Connor nods, his face grating against the fabric of Hank’s shirt. Hank smells good too, different than he had the night before; the faint, stale scent of cigarettes is gone, all that Connor can smell is laundry detergent and dryer sheets and whatever generic masculine scented deodorant Hank uses. It’s even better than the night before, somehow the hug is even more all encompassing and reassuring. He feels Hank’s lips press against his temple. 

Then Hank’s arms loosen around him and he pulls away slightly, one hand settling on the side of Connor’s face, and Connor lets himself be guided up into a kiss. Hank’s moustache rasps against his top lip, tickling slightly, a stark contrast to the softness of his lips. It’s so different from how his dreams make Hank behave: there’s none of the demanding ferocity in the real life Hank, and Connor wouldn’t trade. 

Hank draws back after a moment, leaving Connor’s lips feeling raw and warm, and it takes him a moment to blink Hank back into focus. 

Hank strokes his cheek gently, then bumps his chin softly with his knuckles before he steps back. “Now, sweetheart, have a seat and let me get this dinner cooked for you.” 



Connor does sit, but only because he feels unsteady as Hank lets go of him and heads back into the kitchen. There is a small, scarred round table in the middle of the kitchen, and despite the stains littering the surface it is clean and already set with two places. Connor pulls out the chair in front of the place setting that gives him the best view of Hank, refocusing on him in time to witness Hank tying an apron around his waist. He can’t see the pattern on it from this angle, but it makes the whole situation feel bizarrely domestic, making him feel jittery—nervous—and slightly out of place, watching as Hank bustles around the kitchen, setting a pot of water on the stove top to boil and starting the burner beneath another pot again. 

When the out of place feeling gets too much, Connor glances around what he can see of the house from his vantage point. In the far corner of the kitchen, almost behind Connor, he spots a set of pet food and water bowls on the floor, and there’s a large pet bed in the living room against the wall by the television. He glances around again, hoping to spot any sign of the dog that he is sure Hank has. 

“What are you rubbernecking for?”

Hank’s voice catches him by surprise and Connor snaps his attention back to Hank, seeing him leaning against the counter, hands braced on the edge of the bench top behind him, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“You have a dog.” The words come out more as statement than a question, but the evidence has certainly led Connor to believe it’s true. 

Chuckling, Hank nods. “Good detective work, yeah, I do.” 

Connor waits, gazing at Hank expectantly, knowing he’s practically vibrating in his seat in excitement. It’s been so long since he last got to pat a dog or spend any time with animals, and he’s missed it desperately. 

Huffing another laugh, Hank turns back towards the stove, lifting the lid off the pot of water and dumping pasta into the boiling water. A moment later he turns back, pulling the other chair out from the table and sitting down. “His name is Sumo. He’s a Saint Bernard.” 

The warm affection in Hank’s voice as he talks gives away how much he loves his dog, not that that surprises Connor at all. What he can’t quite figure out though, is how he has missed noticing the dog. “Where is he?” 

“He’s staying with a friend for the night,” Hank replies. “He’s a lot of dog, and I wasn’t sure how you felt about dogs. Figured it was the safest bet.” 

Hank’s words take some of the excited fizz out of Connor, even if he can understand the logic behind his actions. It was a sweet gesture. “I like dogs.” 

Hank’s face lights up, grin wide and warm. “Had I known that, I would have kept Sumo here. He’s better at breaking the ice and entertaining than I am.”

Connor hesitates a moment, then reaches out and grips Hank’s hand where it rests on the table top. “It would have been lovely to meet Sumo, but I wanted to spend time with you.” 

Hank’s cheeks go pink under his beard, hand twitching beneath Connor’s, his thumb hooking over Connor’s fingers and squeezing. “Shit, kid, almost forgot what you were like when you wanted something.” 

Connor feels his own face flush, but he forges on. “I do want. You, I mean. I want you.” 

“Fucking Christ.” The words escape Hank in a rush, his cheeks turning a darker shade, the colour starting to creep into his ears. “Anyone else tell you you’re a blunt, pushy little prick?” 

The words are harsh, but Hank’s voice is thick with affection, and his thumb sweeps placatingly across Connor’s fingers. He keeps talking before Connor can try to untangle his brain enough to reply. 

“I want you too, sweetheart, did since the first moment I saw you looking all wide-eyed and out of place at Jimmy’s.” Hank leans around the edge of the table then, cups Connor’s face in his hand and kisses him soundly. “But I’m doing this right by you.” 

Connor feels like his head is still spinning when Hank stands up and moves back towards the stove. His face is warmer where Hank’s hand had been, like an echo of the touch, and he fights the urge to press his own hand over the place. “You’re being really nice to me.” 

“Hey, I can be nice,” Hank jokes, voice light as he bustles around the kitchen; steam erupts from the sink as he strains the pasta. 

“I said you are nice,” Connor repeats, frowning slightly; he bunches his hands into a fist, fingernails digging into his palms. He might not know Hank very well, but he is finding that he really doesn’t like it when Hank puts himself down even slightly. 

Hank stills momentarily, then turns back towards the table with a plate in each hand. “I know, kid, I’m sorry.” 

He sets the plates down on the table, one in front of Connor; the scent of tomatoes and herbs stronger than before, the bed of penne pasta covered in a thick red sauce. It’s a far sight better than anything Connor has seen come out of the dorm cafeteria, or that he could make in his own room with only a kettle. A hand settles on the top of Connor’s head, ruffling his hair gently. He glances up, finding Hank watching him cautiously. Connor pushes his head back against Hank’s hand, seeking the contact. “It looks really good.”

“So do you, sweetheart,” Hank replies, running his hand through Connor’s hair once more before sitting in his own chair. 

Connor feels his face flush to rival the tomato sauce. 

He busies himself with picking up his cutlery, staring intently at the food as he tries to stab a piece of the naked pasta on the edge; it’s halfway to his mouth when he feels Hank’s attention on him. He looks up, sees the bowl of grated cheese being offered to him. 

“It adds to the experience, trust me,” Hank offers with a wink, grabbing a generous pinch of cheese and adding it to his own pasta before setting the bowl down in front of Connor. He mirrors Hank’s actions, spreading cheese across the top of the sauce, before resuming the projected path of his fork. 

They eat in silence for a while, Connor carefully picking his way around the edge of the plate, taking the bare pasta first without any thought, a habit he had picked up since moving to university, not something he ever would have been allowed to do at home. He’s aware that Hank is watching him, not even trying to hide it, probably waiting for his reaction—it makes him feel self-conscious, too seen, but he tries to ignore it. 

“How’s university going?” Hank asks, breaking the silence, finally looking away from Connor and back to his own plate, seemingly satisfied that Connor is eating. 

Poking at his meal, Connor picks a piece of pasta out from amongst the sauce. The answer he gives is the one he responds with by rote. “University is fine, thank you.” 

Hank’s brow scrunches down, mouth pulling down in the corner, and he tilts his head back towards Connor, regarding him for a long moment. “You know, yesterday you said something completely different.” 

Connor bites down so hard on the piece of pasta that he clacks his teeth against the fork tines. He winces, extracts the fork from his mouth and chews slowly and carefully, not even sure how to answer. 

“Yesterday you said that you hated your degree,” Hank continues, still studying him and for a moment it is so easy to believe that Hank used to be a police officer. “Must have been a good day of classes today for you to change tune so quickly.” 

Shaking his head, Connor keeps chewing on the single piece of pasta until it has broken down into a pulpy paste, clinging to the insides of his mouth and across his tongue. He gave away too much last night, though he never imagined it would come up again. He hadn’t meant to let all that slip; it makes it hard to stick to his script of polite conversation. He tries to think of a way to salvage the conversation, wonders briefly if it is too much to unload further on Hank, whether Hank really cares to hear how he’s drowning in coursework for subjects he doesn’t even care about, that the only reason he was doing Business in the first place was to appease his parents and now he’s not even sure why he is trying to stick to it anymore. 

“Bugger,” Hank sighs, something sympathetic crossing his face as he looks away. He blows out a breath, then turns back to Connor with a smile, pushing his chair back from the table. “Did you want a drink?” 

He stands up before Connor can answer, turning back towards the kitchen cabinets, opening and closing several before returning back to the table. It’s a stalling tactic, Connor can see that plainly enough; Hank’s giving him a chance to get his head back on straight, and he appreciates it more than he can say. His throat feels tight with emotion and he has to try to swallow past it. 

Hank turns back after a long enough moment to be carefully calculated, setting two wine glasses down on the tabletop and cracking the top of a bottle of red wine. The sound of the metal cap makes something stuffy and snobby twitch in Connor, too much time spent with his parents and all their fancy friends, and he has to bite his tongue so he doesn’t comment on the glasses being for white wine instead of red. He hates that he knows these things, hates that he’d been conditioned to care, when it doesn’t matter one bit. Hank could have served the wine in coffee mugs for all that it mattered, and this is still a far sight better than the last fancy meal he’d had with wine. 

This is so much better, Connor decides as he watches Hank checking the glasses for dust, grabbing the dishcloth to wipe them out before pouring two glasses of wine. 

Hank moves one glass closer to Connor, setting the bottle down and taking his seat again. He picks up his own glass, taking a sip, and winces slightly, his smile more of a grimace. “Jimmy said this is what you were drinking. It’s, uh…” 

“Robust?” Connor offers, feeling his lips twitch in an attempt at a smile, finally clearing his mouth, picking up his own glass, swirling it around as he sniffs it. The smell reminds him of the hangover he’d gotten the last time he drank wine; it curls his stomach. He sets the glass back down. 

“That is one way to put it. I was going to say it tastes like shit,” Hank admits with a chuckle, screwing his nose up even more as he sets his glass back down, as far away from himself as he can reach. “I’m more of a beer or whiskey man myself, but I don’t know how you can drink that shit. ” 

Connor pokes at his plate again, feeling his own lips tug up into a smile. “I think that’s my primo taste on a student budget.” 

Picking his fork up again, Hank takes another bite of the pasta, making a show of enjoying it, as though he is clearing the taste of the wine out of his mouth. “I’ll give you a tip, sweetheart, there is a lot of cheap and nasty stuff out there that is a lot less nasty than that.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Connor replies, poking at his own food again; he spears another piece of pasta out from amongst the sauce, popping it in his mouth and consciously stopping himself from over chewing it again. “This is really really good.” 

“Yeah?” Hank asks between bites, that light pink tinge coming back beneath his beard—Connor wants to press his tongue against it. “It's always a hit with the family, the kids especially.” 

“Kids?” Connor hears himself squeak, unable to hold back the edge of panic in his voice. He’d just clawed himself back to a stable level, and now he feels like he’s spiraling again. Richard already dropped the surprise double life on him; he can’t do that again.

Hank’s eyes go wide and he nearly chokes on his food. “Shit, no, not mine.”

He coughs again, looking nearly as panicked as Connor feels, which makes something unclench in his chest. 

“Jesus Christ,” Hank coughs and laughs at the same time, shaking his head and grinning at Connor. “I wouldn’t have dropped that on you like that. I just come from a big family.” 

It’s hard to imagine what that could even be like; Connor isn’t sure what Hank even classifies as a big family, but he imagines it is larger than his own two singular cousins, Niles and Alexander, one of each side of the family. “A big family?”

Shaking his head ruefully, Hank grins again. “Not to scare you off, but I’m the first of six, and my siblings have twelve kids between them. So you can imagine family gatherings do get quite loud.” 

“I can’t even begin to imagine,” Connor admits, but he doesn’t want to think about the stuffy family gatherings of his childhood, the stiff collars and reproachful looks if he spoke. “It must be nice.” 

“It is nice, though I think complete and utter chaos is a better descriptor,” Hank counters, smiling fondly. “Gets loud and full on, and this is a good meal to feed the masses. I think I’m looking at about three weeks of leftovers. I seem to be able to manage meals for one or meals for eighteen. There is no in between.” 

It is clear that Hank loves his family. It is such a warm and foreign concept that Connor doesn’t really know what to do with it. Just being on the periphery of Hank’s love and affection feels like it could burn, like if he gets too close it will hurt. Except he wants to get close, he wants to press himself into the spaces around Hank and take whatever he can get, even if it is just one meal and some bad wine. If he can do this right then maybe Hank will kiss him again. Maybe he’ll be allowed to feel some of that warmth, even if only for an evening. Even if it burns him. 

“It’s better than I can manage,” Connor admits, twitching his mouth into a self-deprecating smile. “I have a kettle, the best I can manage is instant ramen.” 

Hank nods thoughtfully. “Don’t worry, I think I lived on tinned spaghetti in the academy.” 

It’s cheeky and teasing, and it makes Connor feel better for admitting his own inadequacies when it comes to looking after himself. He’s sure that it is just as deliberate as everything else Hank has done tonight. “So you’re saying there is hope for me yet?” 

Hank shrugs amicably. “Well, you’re never going to know what your cooking skills are if you only have a kettle, now can you?” 

“I guess there is no arguing with that,” Connor agrees, busying himself with picking more pasta up on his fork.

“I take it that the parents never left you and your siblings to fend for yourselves? Never had the chance to go wild in the kitchen with whatever you could find in the fridge?” Hank asks as he finishes scraping his plate clean, setting his fork neatly atop it and leaning back in his chair. 

“It was just me,” Connor replies; even in the instances when Alexander and Niles had been visiting, they had spent most of their time reading, studying or playing tennis. “And we had a live-in cook, so no, I was never allowed much time in the kitchen to experiment.” 

Hooking his arm over the back of his chair, Hank twists slightly in his seat to face Connor more. He’s looking at him again like he did before, like he’s trying to work out a problem. Or solve a case. Connor wonders just how far Hank would have gone if he’d stuck to policing. 

“So a live-in cook growing up, and yet you’re a struggling university student now.” Hank tilts his head to look at his wine glass, as though he’s contemplating drinking it after all, and Connor can’t blame him; his looks more inviting the closer they get to this topic of conversation. Neither of them reach for their glasses. Hank turns his attention back towards Connor, not quite looking directly at him; it feels like a tactic to take the pressure off. “So either you’re one of those families that made big and lost big and now you’re all broke, or this is some sort of bullshit pull yourself up by your bootstraps abusive parenting tactic that rich arsehole parents decide to do. Or…” 

Hank stops then, and Connor can hardly breathe past the well of anxiety in his chest. Hank knows, somehow he does, but it isn’t terror that Connor feels, or even embarrassment. Mostly he just feels relieved that he can talk about it. “Or they cut me off.” 

“Shit, sweetheart,” Hank grumbles under his breath, rubbing his hand over his face, eyebrows scrunching down. “What the hell did they do that for?” 

Connor sets his fork down, suddenly not hungry anymore. It reminds him of the dinner with his parents when it had all started falling apart. “I, uh, I said the wrong thing, when I was home over the summer.” 

Hank leans forward, elbows braced against his knees, hand cupped against his chin. His other hand reaches out, fingertips brushing against the outside of Connor’s thigh. “What the hell kind of thing could a kid say that would make their parents cut ‘em off like that. That’s bullshit.”

“I—” Connor’s right leg starts bouncing, shaking his whole body in the process. He feels jittery, high strung and nervous all over again. Hank’s fingers brush against his thigh again, and Connor reaches for his hand, relieved when Hank instantly hooks their fingers together and squeezes. “I couldn’t keep pretending to be the daughter that my parents so badly wanted me to be.”

“Fucking hell,” Hank exhales heavily, shaking his head, his expression shifting to near murderous. 

Connor shuts his eyes, not wanting to see Hank mad at him, flexing his fingers in Hank’s grip. There’s a tug against his hand, and then the whole world shifts as Connor’s chair is dragged closer. He wobbles, feels like he’s going to tip off his seat, snapping his eyes open in time to feel Hank’s arm wrap around him and be lifted off his chair and into Hank’s lap. Instinctively Connor wraps his arms around Hank’s shoulders, tries to perch himself as lightly across his legs as he can, leaning back slightly against the arm looped around his waist. “Hank?”

Hank’s other hand cups the side of his face, draws him down until their foreheads touch. “Whatever they said, sweetheart, whatever bullshit they’ve told you, none of that is true. There’s nothing wrong with you as you are. If they can’t see that, then they’re fucking idiots.” 

Throat tight and jaw wobbling, Connor nods, rubbing his forehead against Hank’s; he wants to believe it, finds he does believe it when Hank is the one saying it. The tip of his nose brushes past Hank’s as he rocks his head from side to side; he can’t think of anything else to say so he tips his head down further to press his lips against Hank’s. Hank hums a little, surprised and pleased, his fingers flexing against the side of Connor’s face, carding back through his hair. The arm around his waist pulls him closer; Connor shifts his own arms, holding himself closer to Hank with one while stroking his other hand through Hank’s hair, winding the strands between his fingers, trying to angle himself better to kiss him. 

Hank palms his hip, dragging his hand around to the small of Connor’s back as he tips his head back enough to put some space between them, breath hot as it fans across Connor’s face. “Christ, sweetheart, anyone tell you how good you are at that?” 

The praise causes a tingle to run down Connor’s spine, warmth blooming through his chest. “Only you, just now.” 

“Yeah, well it’s the fucking truth,” Hank growls in response, tugging at Connor again like he wants to get him even closer. He runs his hand up and down Connor’s back, broad, even strokes, tipping his head back further so he can really look at Connor, his expression unreasonably soft. “It is the truth.”

The praise, the soft expression, the hand on his back, everything about the moment makes Connor feel warm and tingly, the pleasant buzz coming back under his skin. He’d forgotten what it was like, to feel nice, to feel special. It’s hard to keep the smile off his face. “You’re good at it too. Kissing. I mean.” 

The corner of Hank’s mouth ticks up into a smirk, roguish and confident. He drags the backs of his fingers over Connor’s cheek, bumps his knuckles against his chin. “I’m good at a lot of things.” 

The statement is accompanied with a suggestive lift of Hank’s eyebrows that sends a shiver of anticipation down Connor’s spine. Arousal simmers in the pit of his stomach, but before he can even act on it, Hank’s hands settle on his hips and he’s lifted off of his lap and back onto his feet. Connor wobbles, catches his balance and feels Hank pat him on the arse twice, firmly, nudging him back towards his own chair. 

“Now finish your dinner so I can show you just how good at cleaning up and doing the dishes I am.” Hank pushes himself to his feet, giving Connor a pointed look and nods towards his half finished dinner. “Don’t go giving me a complex by not eating my cooking. I’m still trying to recover from knowing I have a shit taste in wine.” 

It’s hard not to smile at Hank’s cheeky grin, or giggle in protest when Hank leans in and kisses the tip of his nose. Connor sits down again, shuffling his chair back into the right place as he does, picking up his fork again. “The wine was my fault, wasn’t it?” 

“Like fucking hell, I’m blaming Jimmy for the shit suggestion,” Hank replies with a conspiratorial wink, picking up his plate and taking it to the sink. “He’s not here to argue.” 

Connor ducks his head to hide his smile, poking at his dinner again, picking out the last of the pasta. “That hardly seems fair.” 

“I wouldn't worry about Jimmy, he gives as good as he takes.” Hank sets the water running in the sink as he rummages through a cupboard for several containers, starting to put the leftovers away. “He is a bartender after all. Speaking of, since the wine is shit, do you want something else to drink? I’ve got beer, whiskey, and one can of Sprite from the last time the kids were here.” 

Finishing the last of his meal, Connor pushes his chair back from the table, taking his dishes with him to the sink. “Sprite is good, thank you. Did you want a hand with the dishes?” 

Stacking up the last of the dirty dishes, Hank tilts his head to look at Connor, eyebrows drawn down in thought, lips pursed. “Maybe dating etiquette has changed, but it seems pretty mean to invite you to dinner and then make you clean up.” 

Nudging his shoulder against Hank’s arm, Connor smiles back at him. “I did offer. I would rather do something to help than not.” 

“You drive a hard bargain, kid,” Hank relents, grabbing the tea towel from where it hangs in front of the stove and swats Connor with it, shuffling him aside so he has access to the hot water in the sink. “But I’ve learnt there is no point in arguing with you, you’re a stubborn little shit.” 

Cocking his hip against the bench, Connor waits for Hank to start washing. “It’s good that you learn these things early.” 

Hank hands the first plate over, foregoing the dishrack entirely, giving Connor a considering look. “That sounds like there is a vague threat of more tricks up your sleeve. What else should I look out for?” 

Connor offers him a brittle smile. “You’ve seen me, Hank, I’m a bit of a mess.”

“A hot mess,” Hank counters, one corner of his mouth quirking up. He lifts one hand up, covered in suds, as though he’s going to reach out before he thinks better of it, bracing his hands on the edge of the sink so he can look at Connor more levelly. “Sweetheart, you’re not a mess. You just put too much pressure on yourself. Trust me, all you have to do is find something that makes you happy.”

The attention is almost too much; Connor scratches his forehead just to try and shield himself from it. “I’m not sure what that is.” 

“Which is why you have to find it.” Hank replies, grabbing the next stack of dishes and dropping them into the sink, breaking the intensity. “It’s not always easy. Fuck, I thought being in law enforcement was what made me happy, but that all went to shit. It takes time. It takes energy. The important thing is not giving up.” 

With how his life has been going, Connor thinks not giving up is all that he’s been doing: just barely clinging to the things he’s meant to be doing, budgeting his dwindling savings, desperately looking for part time work, and trying to study subjects he has no passion for. “I haven’t given up on anything.”

Hank holds out a bundle of sudsy cutlery as an offering. “I’m not accusing you of giving up on anything. All I was saying is that you don’t ever fucking give up on being happy.” 

Connor nods stiffly, taking the offered cutlery; he forces himself to breathe through the sudden punch of emotion in his chest, the tightness in his throat. “What makes you happy now? Since you left the police force?” 

“Dogs,” Hank replies instantly, simply, with a lopsided smile. “It was really simple for me. I was on track to join the K-9 unit, before everything turned to shit. Always knew I liked dogs. My best mate from the academy, Jeff, set me up with the dog shelter; the boss is some family friend of his.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Connor tries with a smile, feeling a little wobbly, and he can see it reflected in the smile that Hank gives him in return. 

“It was far from easy, sweetheart, but I survived. And so will you.” Hank nudges him gently with his elbow, and in the moment, Connor thinks that maybe he does believe him. 

They finish tidying up the kitchen, Hank chuckling as he wipes down benches, trying to direct Connor through finding where all the clean dishes go. Connor feels warm and lightheaded in the best way as they move about the kitchen, feels like he is positively buzzing by the time that Hank hands him the cold can of Sprite from the fridge.

Hank cracks his own can of beer and wraps an arm around Connor’s shoulders, kissing his temple. “What do you want to do now, sweetheart?” 

Connor isn’t really sure what he wants to do; initially this had been all about wanting Hank to want him. Between that and all the dreams he’d been having, he had thought that that would mean sex. Except the evening has been slow and comfortable and it doesn’t feel like it’s about sex at all anymore. Not right at the moment, anyway. It’s easy to snuggle against Hank’s side, lean into the comfort of his size and bulk. Connor feels Hank tuck his chin over the top of his head, the comforting squeeze of Hank’s hand around the point of his shoulder. “I’m not sure what the usual protocol is for dates like this.” 

He doesn’t say that he isn’t really sure what the protocol for any dates are. Richard hadn’t really been the sort for this; it was all heated moments in the office working together, and then Connor arriving at his apartment later. This is entirely different, much nicer, and Connor tries not to think too much about how this is everything he wants, because it’s only going to hurt more to lose it. 

“How about a movie?” Hank asks, giving Connor another gentle squeeze.

“A movie sounds nice,” Connor replies, snuggling up against Hank, pressing his face against his neck. He’s not sure how much attention he’s going to be able to pay to the movie, if he’s going to be sitting on the couch with Hank. 

“I’ve got a bit of a collection. Why don’t you go pick one, there’s DVDs in the cabinet under the TV,” Hank replies, slowly drawing back from Connor, giving him a gentle pat on the arse as he nudges him towards the living room. 

Reluctant to extract himself from Hank’s arms, Connor lingers, trying to take in as much of the embrace as he can, enjoying the way Hank’s hand settles on his arse, broad and warm through his clothes. His mind snags on the thought of Hank’s hands on him without any fabric in the way and his stomach dips, the earliest hints of arousal tugging at his groin. Hank’s fingers flex, and he feels another scratchy kiss being pressed to his temple. 

“If you don’t pick a movie, I will, and I can’t say you’ll appreciate my choices.” Hank whispers teasingly. He pats Connor on the arse again, nudges him gently as if to encourage him to move. 

“Bold of you to assume that my choices are going to be any better,” Connor replies, finally relenting, backing away enough to look at Hank’s face. The expression he finds there is overtly fond and it makes warmth bloom in Connor’s chest. It overrides the nervousness he feels at the prospect of choosing the wrong movie. 

Hank gives his shoulders one more squeeze before Connor steps back and turns towards the television. Connor kneels down in front of the cabinet, pulling the drawer out and looking at the titles along the spines of the DVD cases. Most of them he doesn’t recognise, though as he flicks through the cases to see the covers of them, he can see that the movies seem to split into three categories; mindless action movies, cult classics and movies aimed at children. “You have a lot of kids' movies.” 

“I’ve got a lot of nieces and nephews,” Hank counters, moving to stand behind Connor, looking down over his shoulder. “I get lumped with them from time to time. Sumo loves them, so I can’t complain. But when all twelve of them are here, it’s worth having stuff to keep them entertained.” 

Connor tilts his head back to look at Hank, catching the fond look on his face that just makes Connor feel a pang of longing in his chest. The longing for a family and a childhood he never had. He tries to push it down, but he thinks maybe Hank can see it in his face because Hank reaches down and runs his hand through Connor’s hair. Connor leans into the touch, closing his eyes and pushing a smile onto his face. “So, any suggestions?” 

Hank cards his fingers through Connor’s hair again, trying to smooth the stubborn little cowlick from his forehead. “The one in your hand is pretty good.” 

Reluctantly Connor tips his head forward again and opens his eyes, looking at the DVD case that his fingers are currently resting on; the bold title Shrek stares back at him, bold and green and stylised. He pulls the cover up, sees the cover illustration of assorted animated characters, all bright and bold. “I don’t know this one.” 

Hank huffs out a disbelieving sound. “You’ve never seen Shrek? C’mon, it’s a modern classic, so we’ve got to change that. Hand it over.” 

Handing over the DVD case, Connor pushes the drawer back in and shuffles out of the way so Hank can access the DVD player below the TV. As the TV screen lights up and the menu screen comes up, music already starting, Connor goes back towards the couch. He pauses there, studying the cushions of the couch, trying to establish the most used one; the one closest to the kitchen, against the armrest is more worn. Connor settles carefully onto the middle cushion, perching on the edge of it, knowing that he must look silly, but it feels impossible to relax. 

Hank finishes setting up the DVD and turns back towards the couch, picking his beer up off the coffee table. Shaking his head slightly, he gives Connor a soft smile, before flopping down onto his seat, making the whole couch bounce. Connor wobbles, nearly thrown off balance, but then Hank wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him in. With an undignified squeak, Connor falls back against Hank’s side, Hank’s arm wrapping around his shoulders and holding him close. 

“Relax, kid, or you’re never going to enjoy the movie.” Hank teases, dropping a kiss onto the top of Connor’s head. 

The movie is bright and loud, the animation bold, and it is like none of the fairytales that Connor read as a child, tucked away in the back corner of the school library with books he’d never dare to borrow and take home. The soundtrack is full of songs, some that are familiar, others Connor has never heard, but he feels the rumble in Hank’s chest, pressed against his side as Hank quietly sings along. 

Despite the animation, the movie is full of jokes targeted at an older audience, and Connor feels the way Hank’s body shakes with mirth before each joke even happens, catches sight of the way his lips move as he soundlessly says the same lines as the characters in the movie. He knows the movie inside and out; Connor wonders how many times he’s seen it, how many afternoons he’s sat on the couch with nieces and nephews watching the same movie over and over again. It’s endearing, cute even, and whatever attraction Connor had felt from Hank in those first moments of meeting him is nothing compared to how he feels now; his chest feels warm and full—it’s gone beyond simple attraction. 

It hasn’t been nearly long enough, but Connor knows he already cares too much about Hank, and that there is a very real danger that he will fall for him. 

The final musical medley plays and Hank squeezes his arm around Connor’s shoulders, pulling him in tight against him and nuzzling a whiskery kiss to the top of Connor’s head. “So, what did you think?” 

“It was very funny,” Connor replies, snuggling into the embrace as best he can, wriggling until he’s turned towards Hank, tilting his head back to look up at him, his whole front pressed against Hank’s side. “And wholesome.” 

“There’s a whole lot of sequels too, all that are good. But the first has always been a favourite with the kids.” Hank squeezes Connor a little closer, his hand sliding down along his spine, palm broad and warm as it settles against his arse. “What would you like to do now? I can make hot chocolate? We can watch the sequel?” 

Connor fidgets, trying to settle with his arms more comfortable; one arm is still wedged down between his body and Hank’s and he has no idea where to rest his other hand. Hank’s thigh seems too forward; his chest or stomach seem too familiar, even though Connor wants to wrap his arms around Hank just to feel how broad he is. Eventually, he carefully settles his hand on the midpoint between Hank’s stomach and chest, directly on top of one of the buttons of his shirt.

Just as he is settled, Connor feels Hank shift, arm squeezing against his back briefly, hand shifting to rest lightly on his hip. “Or if you’re tired I can give you a lift home again.” 

There’s something guarded about Hank’s expression, as though he half expects Connor to take him up on the offer and is trying not to show his disappointment at the prospect. Despite the hand that had so blatantly rested on his arse just moments before, or even any of the charged moments earlier in the kitchen, Connor realises that there is the very real possibility that Hank isn’t going to make a move on him. That maybe ’taking care of him’ was always going to be like this: Hank waiting for Connor to make a move. 

As lovely as snuggling on the couch watching movies together is, it isn’t at all what Connor thought this night was going to be about. Dinner and a movie was so far from what he thought would happen, and after all the anticipation and stress, he’s not sure if he can survive going home without having achieved anything. 

A voice, longing and wistful, in the back of his mind tries to insist that dinner, movies and cuddling is definitely achieving something, but Connor pushes that thought down. He can’t let himself hope for too much; it only hurts all the more when those hopes are dashed. 

“I can also make tea or coff—” 

Connor doesn’t let Hank finish that sentence, jamming his toes against the carpet and pushing himself, surging up until his mouth collides with Hank’s, smothering his words. 

Hank makes a surprised noise, but his arm tightens around Connor’s back, dragging him closer and holding him there as Hank tilts his head down to change the angle of the kiss, softening his mouth against Connor’s. Connor can feel his socks sliding against the floor, feet slipping, but Hank’s other hand comes around to grip his bicep, helping to hold him in place, even as his forearm pushes Connor’s hand higher across his chest. 

Even through the fabric, Connor feels the rasp of Hank’s chest hair against his palm and he can’t stop the undignified whimper that claws its way out of his throat. 

Hank’s mouth pulls away from his, his head falling back against the couch backrest, breathing hard, eyes squinted with concern. “Christ, kid, you alright?” 

“Yes,” Connor pants, feeling arousal burning in the pit of his stomach, his head spinning from the lack of oxygen. Belatedly, he realises his fingers are flexing against Hank’s chest, not quite grabbing at it, but close to it. Swallowing thickly and trying to catch his breath, Connor tries to press his lips into a smile. “That was a good noise.” 

“A good noise, hey?” Hank asks, lips twitching up in one corner, his eyes sparkling. His hand drags back around to rest on Connor’s arse, squeezing gently as he pulls Connor closer to him. “Well, we like those, don’t we?” 

The movement shifts Connor more on top of Hank, pressing his crotch flush against Hank’s thigh. The pressure knocks another sound out of him, wanting and needy, and he can feel Hank’s grin against his lips as he drags Connor into another kiss. 

Connor scrabbles against Hank’s chest, his fingers hooking around the collar of Hank’s shirt, fingertips brushing against his chest hair; the contact makes him shiver, a delightful wanting feeling rolling up his spine and making him squirm. He rolls his hips without thinking, pressing his crotch against Hank’s thigh, whimpering out a sound that’s met with an amused noise from Hank. The hand on his arse grips tighter, the other hand on his bicep tugging him closer, and Connor feels the whole world shift as Hank hauls him up. His feet leave the floor, and Hank’s hand leaves his arm and catches his thigh, pulling his leg up and over until he’s settled over Hank’s thighs, knees jammed into the couch. 

Hank looks up at him, eyes hooded, his mouth slick and red, breathing heavy and warm into the space between them. Connor shifts, trying to get more comfortable; the way he’s sitting, with his legs spread across Hank’s thighs, pulls the fly of his pants against his crotch, putting pressure on his throbbing cunt. He needs to adjust himself, but he can’t get his hands to move away from Hank’s chest to do it. He can feel Hank’s heart beating, steady and strong, against the palm of his hand. 

“How are you doing there, sweetheart?” Hank asks, smoothing his hands up and down Connor’s thighs.

“Good.” It doesn’t feel like a sufficient word, but Connor isn’t sure how to handle the level of conversation Hank seems intent on keeping up during this situation. Richard had never been one for asking questions, and certainly not one to attempt a conversation, not once the first contact was made. It makes Connor feel out of sorts and unprepared, like he doesn’t know the rules.

Running his hands up to settle on Connor’s hips, pushing up under the bottom on his shirt, thumbs brushing against his skin. The contact is so distracting that it takes Connor a moment to comprehend the next question Hank asks.

“How do you want this night to go?” 

The night hasn’t been going anything like Connor had expected, he chews the inside of his bottom lip as he thinks about how to say what he wants. “I thought you’d fuck me.” 

Unexpectedly, Hank’s eyebrows draw down, the furrow between them indicating his displeasure. Dread instantly starts to brew in Connor’s chest; he doesn’t know how he has made a mess of this, what Hank had been expecting him to say, or why the invitation to fuck him made Hank recoil. Hank’s hands stay steady on his hips though, holding him in place when he thinks otherwise he’d already be trying to scramble away.

“Thought I would,” Hank says slowly, deliberately, like he really wants Connor to listen to what he’s saying. “Or hoped I would?” 

Connor feels his own brow bunching in confusion; he isn’t sure what the difference is between the two. If it isn't what Hank wants in the end, Connor isn’t even sure why he’s here. “Does it matter?” 

Hank breathes audibly, deeply, like he is trying to reorient himself; he softens his expression. His thumbs sweep distracting arcs across the points of Connor’s hip bones. “It does matter, sweetheart. Thought makes it sound like there’s some kind of preconceived expectation on you to bottom without even discussing it. If you hoped, though, then that makes it sound like something you actually want.” 

It’s hard to breathe for a moment; Connor’s throat feels tight as his heart beats too fast, pulse pushing against his ears, making it hard to hear. Hank’s thumbs keep sweeping comforting arcs on his hips, palms pressing down with a steady weight; it’s grounding, but only just. Somehow everything feels right and wrong at the same time. The concern and discussion is as unfamiliar as dinner and a movie, and Connor is starting to think that despite having lost his virginity nearly two years ago, he is lacking a lot of experience. Hank’s call not to fuck him in the front seat of his car the night before was probably the right one. 

Hank’s hand shifts up, sliding to settle on Connor’s waist, broad and warm, both distracting and comforting. His expression is soft and patient. “Do you know which one it is?” 

Connor nods, because he does know; he’s been dreaming about Hank fucking him in various ways and places too frequently to not know. He’s spent too much time furtively masturbating while recounting those dreams to not know. He tries to steady himself, breathes evenly for a few seconds before he tips his head down, pressing his forehead against Hank’s, letting his eyes slip shut. Hank’s right hand shifts to his back, fingertips pressing into the dip of his spine, holding him in place. Trying to put a more confident effect on his voice, Connor responds, “I hoped. If that is okay with you.” 

Hank hums a sound, tilting his head back to press the sound against Connor’s lips, kissing him slow and hot, without any urgency. When he finally draws back his breath fans warm across Connor’s face. “That’s more than okay with me. You wanna tell me what sort of things you like before we start? Anything you don’t like?”

Connor can feel his cheeks flush, embarrassment crawling through him as he tries to think of how to put things into words. Richard had tried various things with him that he hadn’t really liked, but the idea of saying them out loud makes him want to squirm. Even with how intense some of his dreams have been—playing on some of those fears, making them hot—Connor doesn’t think he wants to try them again tonight. 

“Let’s start with something simpler,” Hank offers when Connor doesn’t reply right away, rubbing gently at his back, soothing, like he is trying to calm a spooked animal. “You said you hoped I would fuck you; where would you prefer that?”

“I thought…” Connor blinks at Hank, his eyebrows knit together. Hank had said he wanted to do this properly, and Connor didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he’d pictured them in Hank’s bed. He glances down the hallway at the two doors. “The bedroom…?” Connor stammers. He really wants to see Hank’s bedroom. “Or here!” he quickly adds, because as much as he wants to see Hank’s bedroom, he mostly just really wants Hank to fuck him and he will take what he can get. 

There’s a puff of warm breath against Connor’s cheek as Hank chuckles softly. It’s not a mean laugh, not like the ones he usually gets when he doesn’t understand something or misses a social cue that seems to make sense to everyone besides him, but his hands still ball into fists hard enough that he knows there will be little crescent marks in his palm for the rest of the night. The twist in his stomach is no longer the pleasant swoop of arousal. 

“Hey, hey… that was my bad, sweetheart. I could have worded that better,” Hank murmurs softly. His hands still rest on Connor’s hips; his grip isn’t restraining him, but it still keeps him in place while he tries to figure out what he missed this time. The soothing sweep of Hank’s thumbs on his hips is back, and the scratchy soft feeling of his beard as he softly nudges his cheek with his nose make him feel less out of sorts. 

“We can absolutely have sex in my bedroom.” Hank’s voice is a low rumble. Connor’s cheeks still feel hot and red, but he’s at least able to look at him again. “How did you hope I would fuck you?” Hank clarifies. “Do you prefer anal sex, or…” 

“I’m a man!” Connor interrupts, quick and sharp. He doesn’t understand. Hank had been so sweet and affirming, he’d told him everything that his parents said was bullshit; Connor can’t understand why he’d ask that. “I’m a man.” His voice shakes this time, and he can feel the sting of tears behind his eyes. “I want to have sex like a man.” 

“I know you’re a man.” Hank’s voice is slow and deliberate as he cups Connor’s cheek in one broad hand, nudging him to meet his gaze. “I know you’re a man, Connor,” he repeats, “and if I ever say or do anything that makes you question that I need you to tell me, okay?”

Connor gives a jerky nod. 

“There we go,” Hank hums as he slowly rubs his back until Connor’s breathing returns to normal. “Good boy.” 

Connor’s body gradually relaxes into Hank’s again, but his mind is still reeling. Richard had always just fucked him; there was never any discussion before sex, not even their first time. 

Hank keeps up all his gentle touches with the occasional soft rumble of reassurance, but he seems to understand that Connor is feeling overwhelmed and gives him time to get his thoughts together, waiting for him to talk. 

“I want to have sex like a man,” Connor says again, more confidently this time. 

There’s a stutter in the soothing motions, and Hank’s expression tightens slightly. “I’m a man, and you’re a man, so no matter how we have sex you’ll be having sex like a man,” Hank says slowly. “Can you tell me what having sex like a man means to you, sweetheart?” 

Connor is still confused by the question. Men have anal sex. It’s just a fact. But sitting here, under Hank’s soft, patient gaze, with him asking what it means, Connor is questioning that for the first time. “Richard said men only get fucked in the arse,” he mumbles. 

Hank closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. “Thank you for telling me, sweetheart,” Hank murmurs, stroking a hand through his hair before Connor can start to worry that he’s said something wrong again. “You’ll always be a man, and the way you prefer to have sex will never change that.” Hank’s voice is soft and firm at the same time. “But if you want me to fuck your arse, then I am happy to do that.” Hank’s voice is rougher, and Connor shivers at the promise, a reminder of how turned on he’d been just a few minutes ago. “I want to give you everything you want. I just need you to tell me what that is.” 

It should be a simple question, but Connor finds that he has a hard time answering. Hank doesn’t rush him and push for an answer—he’s just there, his presence comforting and grounding as Connor works through the question that he’s never been asked before. Anal sex in the past has never felt particularly good, but he really, really wants to have sex with Hank and honestly, the alternative doesn’t sound much better either. He knows it feels good to play with his clit and he thinks that maybe he’d like to feel Hank’s thick fingers teasing and stroking him there, but the thought of Hank’s fingers or dick in his vagina makes his stomach twist with discomfort, far more than he’s ever felt when he’s gotten his arse fucked. He even avoids touching himself there. 

“I want you to fuck my arse,” Connor finally says. 

“Then I’ll do that,” Hank hums, leaning in to brush his lips against Connor’s in a soft kiss. 

Connor surges into the kiss as his hands fist in the front of Hank’s shirt, trying to pull him even closer, feeling the softness of his lips and the scratchiness of his beard. He wants to keep kissing Hank. Kissing Hank is nice—it’s so much easier than talking. Hank keeps asking Connor things he’s never been asked before. Connor has never really had the chance to have preferences, let alone say them out loud, and he feels like he doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to want or what he’s allowed to ask for. He doesn’t have to worry about giving the wrong answer when they’re kissing. 

Hank keeps the kiss soft and gentle even as Connor tries to deepen it and Connor can’t help the frustrated groan when Hank pulls back slightly, their foreheads pressed together, still close enough that Connor can feel his breath against his lips but it feels so far away. 

“You’re good at that,” Hank tells him again. 

“Then why won’t you fuck me?” Connor knows that he’s pouting. 

“I will,” Hank promises, pulling Connor’s hips closer so he can grind up against him. “I want you, sweetheart.” There’s a roughness to Hank’s voice that sends a shiver of anticipation down Connor’s spine. “But we’re doing this right, remember?” The roughness is gone, his voice soft and warm. It wraps around Connor like a soft blanket, still warm from the dryer, and all he can do is nod. “I still need to know what you like, sweetheart, and what you don’t. I don’t want to do anything you don’t like. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

The endearment, the reassurance: it makes Connor feel warm through, soft and glorious. It gives him the courage to say what he needs to say, makes it easier to find the words he couldn’t earlier. “I don’t like being tied up. Or hit.” He drops his gaze, staring at the open collar of Hank’s shirt, fiddling with the buttons that his fingers are touching.

Hank’s hand stroking his back stutters, stopping, his fingers curling in against Connor’s spine, before he breathes out hard and returns to the gentle stroking. “That’s good. Thank you for telling me.” 

Glancing up at Hank through his eyelashes, Connor can see that his face is pinched, the frown juxtaposing his softer tone. Connor feels once again like there is more that Hank isn’t saying. He’s not sure he wants to know what it is. Maybe he hesitates too long, because Hank starts talking again. 

“I don’t like being hit either,” Hank says softly, rubbing his hand against Connor’s thigh. “I'm not going to do anything to you without your permission. And none of that permission is permanent either. You can change your mind on anything; even if you’ve said yes before, you can make that a no at any stage. And I promise that I’ll respect that.” 

Hank reaches up, nudging his knuckles under Connor’s chin, lifting his gaze up, raising a questioning eyebrow, waiting for some form of acknowledgement. Connor nods, eager, rubbing his chin against Hank’s fingers. He can feel Hank’s callouses on the sensitive skin of his face; a shiver tingles down his spine, the skin on the back of his neck prickling. Every time he thinks that he might have ruined the moment, a single touch starts him off again. 

Hank’s lips quirk, like he can tell exactly what is playing in Connor’s mind. It’s endearing, and it makes Connor consider just how much danger of losing his heart he’s in with Hank. His heart feels light and fluttery as Hank’s hand gently moves along his jaw, cupping his cheek; Connor leans into the touch, letting his eyes close as he savours the moment. He curls down into Hank’s space, lets the hand on his cheek guide him into a kiss, loses himself in the sensation of Hank’s lips and the scratch of his facial hair. 

Hank’s hand rubs at his back again, harder than before, creeping lower until his hand is palming at Connor’s arse. The kiss is getting dirtier, Hank’s teeth and tongue teasing at his bottom lip, the hand on his jaw slipping down to the side of his neck. It feels steadying, reassuring, but also gently possessive in a way that makes Connor shiver and squirm slightly. 

He feels Hank smile against his lips before he draws back, holding him steady as he tries to follow him. He strokes his thumb over the column of Connor’s throat, earning another shiver. Connor tries to tilt forwards further, to get closer again, seeking more contact with Hank. He feels Hank’s chest rise and fall beneath his hands, the staccato movement caused by Hank laughing softly, his breath warm across Connor’s face. 

“You want to take this to the bedroom, sweetheart?” Hank asks softly. 

“Finally!” Connor blurts. He can feel his heart in his throat, pulse rushing in his ears; the world feels like it is spinning, and everything is exhilarating. He nods too, just in case that wasn’t clear enough, and it makes the world spin harder. 

“Eager little thing,” Hank laughs, the sound low and sweet and perfect. Connor doesn’t even disagree, he just grins dopily back at Hank.

Hank’s hands settle on his waist, gripping tightly and gently guiding him back. Connor feels his knees right on the edge of the couch cushion, unsteady but for Hank’s hands on him. He doesn’t want to get up, despite the promise of more; the loss of contact is enough to make him want to wriggle back closer. He lets Hank steady him back onto his feet, feeling cold and alone, even though Hank is right there, and his arms are back around him as soon as they are both standing. 

Tilting his head back, Connor looks up at Hank, eyes lingering on his lips until Hank ducks down enough to kiss him, one hand caressing his back gently until it settles at the top of his arse. 

“You have to move your feet if you want to take this to the bedroom. Unromantic as it is, I don’t think I can carry you there,” Hank teases, the corner of his mouth quirking in that subtle smile of his. 

Carefully, Connor takes a tiny step backwards, shifting his weight onto his back foot. Hank sways with him, hands still steady on his back as he guides him into another step backwards. Dizzying exhilaration fills him, exciting and nerve racking all at once as he slowly walks backwards. He knows he should turn around, that the likelihood of tripping over something is high and he should avoid it, but Hank’s arms around him are steadying and strong and the heady excitement of the whole situation is too hard to give up. He’s never had this before, the build up, the lead into sex, and a part of him wants to make the most of it while it lasts. 

Looping his arms around Hank’s neck, Connor lets himself be walked backwards, one small step at a time, and even though he doesn’t want to turn his head, his eyes keep trying to look to the side to see where he is going. There’s amusement in Hank’s expression, fond and soft, as he ducks his head and presses his lips to Connor’s. The world slips into darkness as he shuts his eyes, wholly trusting Hank to guide him. He feels his elbow brush against the wall at one point, barely even making contact. He flinches away from the contact, but Hank just pulls him in a little closer, holding him steady.

They stop eventually, Connor feeling the pressure of a solid wall behind him, Hank crowding him against it with his body, one knee slotting between his legs, pressing against his crotch. Connor hears himself whine, high and needy, twitching his hips forward to rub against Hank’s thigh. 

Hank leans in, swallowing Connor’s whine as he kisses him hard. It’s a messy kiss. No finesse, no careful adjusting of the angle to better slot their mouths together: it’s all slick lips and tongue as Hank presses Connor’s body against the wall and Connor clings desperately to his shoulders. It’s the kind of kiss where you’re too turned on to care about making it good because you just need more. 

It isn’t that he thought Hank didn’t want this too, but he’s been so composed all night while Connor has felt like he’s going to fall apart with every little touch; it makes Connor’s stomach swoop to think that he made Hank lose even this little bit of control. He arches his body, trying to press impossibly closer and chokes on a needy sound as he feels Hank’s erection pressing into his hip. 

Connor’s hands wiggle between their bodies to get to the button of Hank’s pants. He’s reminded of doing this in the front seat of Hank’s car, wedged between him and the steering wheel—that was last night, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Hank pulls back from the kiss to rest their foreheads together, but he doesn’t give Connor any more room. If anything he presses Connor even harder against the wall. 

A high noise escapes Connor’s throat—frustration and need and desperation rolled into one. He’s about to say something—to protest or whine or beg—to tell Hank that he’s already waited long enough. But the words die in Connor’s throat as he looks up at Hank, his gaze sliding up from his spit slicked hips to his soft blue eyes that are now darker with desire. 

“I thought you wanted to take this to the bedroom?” Hank leans in, the words spoken right against Conor’s ear. “We’re not going to get that far if you do that here.” 

Connor nods and wiggles out from where he is pressed against the wall, eagerness finally winning over the need to be wrapped up in Hank’s arms for the moment. He grabs Hank’s hand, practically dragging him though his own house into his bedroom. 

“Eager little thing,” Hank chuckles, letting Connor pull him along. 

“I am,” Connor agrees. “I’ve been dreaming about this ever since that first night at the bar.” 

“Dreaming about this, huh?” Hank raises a brow. “Hopefully I live up to expectations.” 

“You will.” 

Connor licks his lips and gazes up at Hank. They’re in Hank’s bedroom now, and even though he’d been the one to make the first move in the living room and had been ready to let him fuck him on the couch or against the wall in the hallway, Connor suddenly feels nervous. Nothing that has happened so far is at all like sex with Richard—and he certainly doesn’t want it to be anything like sex with Richard—but Connor thinks that maybe he wouldn’t mind if Hank would tell him what to do next. 

One of Hank’s large hands settles on his hip, the other comes up to cup his cheek. The feeling of Hank’s thumb tracing along his jaw sends a shiver down Connor’s spine and melts away that spike of nervousness with each swipe. Hank’s other hand slides from his hip to his arse, giving it a squeeze and pulling Connor against him. It’s even better than Hank telling him what to do. 

The desire is still there—Connor can feel the hardness of Hank’s length pressed against him, and the heat between his own legs, but the first touch of their lips now is soft, almost chaste. Connor doesn’t know what this night is, doesn’t know if he’ll ever get this again, so he wants to take the time to savour it. The kiss doesn’t stay slow for long, the need and desperation taking over after having waited for so long. 

“Hank, I need—” Connor pants against his lips. 

“Anything, sweetheart.” Hank’s voice is rough with arousal. “Tell me what you need.” 

Connor whimpers and squirms against Hank—he needs more, he needs everything. “Need you, need more,” he pants, his fingers already working open the buttons of Hank’s shirt. 

“You’ve got me,” Hank promises, shrugging out of his shirt as Connor unbuttons his jeans and shoves them off his hips. 

Connor hasn’t even had time to appreciate the sight of a mostly naked Hank when his gaze settles on his chest, his eyes widening when he realizes Hank’s nipples are pierced. 

Hank groans as Connor’s thumbs brush over his nipples, teasing at the silver barbells, before tweaking them again. 

“It was a dare, back in my academy days,” Hank explains, his breath catching as Connor keeps playing with his chest. “Kept them in because I ended up liking them and—fuck—” Hank gasps as Connor replaces his fingers with his tongue, licking his nipples before sucking one into his mouth gently, “—and because they feel really good.” 

Connor runs his fingers through the soft hair on Hank’s chest while he alternates between licking and sucking his nipples. He grins at Hank’s grunt and the way his fingers tangle in his hair like he can’t decide if he wants to hold him there or pull him away with his first gentle nip. Connor could do this all day, seeing all the reactions that he could get out of Hank. 

“Christ, sweetheart, that feels real good.” Hank’s voice is rough as he gently tilts Connor’s head up for another kiss. “But I think you’re overdressed, hm?” 

Connor nods and can’t help the whine that escapes his throat as Hank gives his arse a squeeze before his hands slide around his hips to settle at the button of his jeans. “Is it okay if I take these off?” 

“Yes,” Connor says, wiggling his jeans the rest of the way down his legs after Hank unbuttons and pushes them down his hips. 

“Gorgeous,” Hank murmurs, fingering the hem of Connor’s soft grey sweater. “Can I take this off too?” 

Connor tilts his head slightly, his brows knit together. Richard never had him take his shirt off during sex. “You don’t have to.” 

That pinched expression is back on Hank’s face for a moment, though Connor isn’t really sure what caused it this time. “I know I don’t have to, sweetheart. But I would really like to, if it’s something you’re comfortable with.” Hank’s voice is soft as he gently nudges Connor’s chin up to look at him. “Only if you’re comfortable with it,” Hank emphasizes, “it’s always okay to say no.” 

“I—” Comfortable isn’t exactly the right word… but Connor does want it. He wants to be able to feel the heat of Hank’s body against his skin as he presses him to the bed underneath him, to know what Hank’s chest hair feels like against his own smooth chest, to know what Hank’s beard and hands feel like against his bare skin. “I want you to. I just… You like men, so I thought you might not like it.” 

“You are a man, and I will love every single bit of your body,” Hank assures him. “Would you like me to take your shirt off, sweetheart?” 

Connor bites his lip and gives a jerky nod. He lifts his arms up as Hank tugs both the sweater and t-shirt off at once, leaving him in just his boxers and a flesh toned binder. 

“Gorgeous,” Hank whispers against his lips as he kisses him. “You’re beautiful, Connor.” 

He can feel the heat of Hank’s hands running up his sides and down his back through the rough material of the binder, but it’s not enough. He needs more. 

Hank’s hands hover at the hem of his binder, and before he can ask Connor is already wiggling it up over his head and tossing it in the pile on the floor where the rest of their clothes had ended up. 

“Beautiful,” Hank repeats, kissing him softly. 

Connor presses against Hank with a content sigh as he finally gets to feel his body against his with only their boxers between them. He follows easily as Hank shifts them, turning them around without breaking the kiss and guiding him a few steps back until Connor feels the edge of the bed against his legs. He lets himself be gently laid back on the soft blanket and tightens his grip on Hank to pull him down with him. 

It’s awkward to try and shift in the bed, especially because Connor whines and tries to pull Hank back every time he breaks the kiss to get them into a more comfortable position. 

“Give me one second, sweetheart,” Hank grins against Connor’s lips at his eagerness. “One second and then I’ll give you whatever you want.” 

Connor pouts when Hank pulls away, but doesn’t try to pull him back this time. Hank guides Connor properly onto the bed, so that he can lay back onto the pillows before he crawls over him, one knee slotting between his legs as he presses Connor into the bed with his bulk, not leaving an inch of space between them. 

“There we go,” Hank purrs and Connor can feel the rumble of the words against his chest. “Wasn’t that worth the wai—” The words are cut off by Connor’s fingers tangling in his hair and pulling him into a rough kiss. 

Connor can feel Hank’s grin against his mouth and his hold doesn’t relax until he’s sure he’s not going to pull away again. Kissing Hank, being underneath him like this and feeling their bodies pressed together is all very distracting. The feeling of Hank’s tongue against his makes him forget how eager he was to get to explore Hank’s body and it’s all Connor can do to hold onto his shoulders and get lost in the sensations. 

He gasps and jerks slightly in surprise when Hank nips at his bottom lip; the movement pushes his crotch harder against Hank’s leg and he chokes on a desperate sound. Hank pulls away enough to let Connor catch his breath but he never stops kissing him, his lips trailing over his jaw and down his neck. 

It feels like Connor doesn’t have full control of his body and he can’t decide if he loves it or hates it. His head tilts to the side to give Hank’s lips more room while his hips twitch and roll, rubbing his cunt against against Hank’s leg. There’s no finesse or rhythm, just the desperate need for more. 

“More good noises, hm?” The words are hot and damp against his neck. 

It takes Connor a second to understand the question—he didn’t even realize that he was making any sounds, but he gives a jerky nod. 

“That’s good, sweetheart. I like hearing you." Hank hums between kisses, shifting slightly to press his knee more firmly between Connor’s legs. “Christ,” he groans, at Connor’s needy whines as he grinds more insistently against his leg. “I can feel how wet you are, baby.” One of Hank’s hands slides down Connor’s side to grip at his hips, encouraging his movements. “Bet you could come just like this, couldn’t you—just from rutting against my thigh?” Hank has hardly even been touched yet and his voice is already starting to sound wrecked. 

Connor whines, his hips stuttering before pausing—he could come like this but that isn’t what he wants. He wants Hank to touch him, he really wants to touch Hank but the kisses and the feeling of Hank’s body on top of him are very distracting. “I want to touch you.”

“You can touch me wherever you want, sweetheart.” Hank tells him, like he isn’t the one who distracted Connor from touching him in the first place. 

Connor’s hands are already working their way between their bodies—Hank groans as he gets distracted with his nipples, gently rolling them between his fingers and teasing at the piercings. It feels good to get reactions out of Hank, makes Connor feel like maybe he isn’t bad at this despite his inexperience. It feels even better when a slightly harder pinch causes Hank’s hips to jerk forward, pressing his hardness against Connor’s hips and reminding him about what he’s been trying to do since last night. 

It’s awkward to try and get Hank’s boxers off from this position, but Hank seems to want it as much as Connor does and he shifts his body so that Connor can push his boxers off his hips and he can kick them off to the foot of the bed. 

“Oh,” Connor breaths as he finally wraps his hand around Hank’s cock and his finger tips barely meet. “Oh,” he says again, eyes wide, as he slowly strokes from the base to the tip and back down again, getting a feel of just how big Hank is everywhere. 

Hank must be able to read the apprehension on his face, because he runs a soothing hand down Connor’s back and murmurs, “don’t worry sweetheart, we’ll make sure you’re good and ready before I fuck you, if that’s still what you want.” 

“I do,” Connor insists. “I want you.” 

Hank kisses Connor softly. “You’ve got me,” he says against his lips. 

A choked sound gets caught in Connor’s throat and he buries his face against Hank’s neck to hide the emotions that he’s sure are written all over his face—those words fill him with a desperate sort of want. Not a want for sex, though he certainly does want that, but a want for more. It’s only their first… date? At least, Connor thinks it’s a date; he’d called it one earlier and Hank hadn’t corrected him. But he can already feel the sickening twist of anxiety in his stomach, knowing this evening will end and he’ll go back to his dorm room alone. He should be used to being alone by now, but it hurts more to think about now. 

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next, and the uncertainty almost makes him want to cry—but he really doesn’t want to think about that right now. Especially if this is going to be a one-time thing, he doesn’t want to be so lost in his own anxieties that he doesn’t enjoy it. He needs something to distract himself, and he knows just the thing. 

Connor squirms underneath Hank, trying to wiggle his way down the bed while still underneath him. 

“Sweetheart?” Connor can feel the rumble of a chuckle in Hank’s chest with the words. “What are you doing?” 

“I want to see,” Connor mumbles, trying to nudge Hank to roll over a bit so he can get further down the bed. “I want—” I want to suck your dick is what he wants to say. He thinks Hank would like it if he did say it, but something about it makes Connor feel awkward, like something he isn’t supposed to say. It feels too forward somehow, it feels—it feels foreign, Connor realizes. Sex with Richard was never about what he wanted, and if it was ever something he said it was always for Richard's benefit.

Hank has rolled off Connor to lay on his back beside him. “What is it that you want, baby?” he asks, reaching out to stroke a hand through Connor’s hair. 

“I want to suck your dick,” Connor blurts before he can talk himself out of saying it. 

Judging by the groan and the way Hank’s cock twitches slightly Connor thinks that he was right that he would like hearing it. 

“I’m good at it,” Connor promises as he crawls between Hank’s legs. 

“Yeah, I bet you are, sweetheart,” Hank hums, shifting slightly to give Connor more room. “I bet you’re real good at it.” 

Connor settles on his stomach between Hank’s legs, he rests his head on one of his thighs as he gives Hank’s cock a few slow strokes, feeling the weight of it in his hand—it seems even bigger now that he can properly see it. Connor wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have promised he’d be good at this; he knows he was good at sucking Richard’s much more manageably-sized dick, but he isn’t even sure how much of Hank’s he’ll even be able to get in his mouth at once. 

Hank strokes a hand through Connor’s hair, murmuring that he’s gorgeous, and Connor forgets about his momentary nervousness. He drags his tongue up over the length of Hank’s dick, slowly from base to tip, making Hank’s fingers flex in his hair—they don’t grip or pull it, though he kind of wishes they would. 

“Fuck,” Hank groans as Connor laps up the bead of precome before taking the tip of Hank’s cock between his lips. “Feels real good, sweetheart.” 

Connor hums a content sound as he takes more of Hank’s length into his mouth—he can feel the twitch of Hank’s hips as he stops himself from trying to push in deeper to the wet heat. 

“You look gorgeous, Connor.” Hank’s voice is rough, catching as Connor’s tongue circles the head of his cock and teases at that sensitive spot right under the head. “Christ, that’s it, such a good boy.”

Connor reaches up to where Hank’s fingers are threaded though his hair, nudging them in an attempt to wordlessly get Hank to grip and tangle his fingers properly in his hair. 

“Fuck,” Hank breaths out giving Connor’s hair a slight tug and making him moan around his cock. “This want you want?” he asks, gently nudging his hips up to push deeper into Connor’s mouth. 

“Mhm,” Connor nods the best he can with Hank’s grip on his hair. He focuses on steady breaths through his nose, swallowing around the thickness of Hank’s length, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks. Each moan and bit of praise he gets from Hank goes straight to his cunt and to his heart. It feels good to make Hank feel good, and all the praise and sweet words make it so easy to imagine, to hope, that maybe Hank wants him as much as he wants Hank. 

“You’re doing so good, Connor. Taking me so well.” Hank’s hips roll in a smooth rhythm, fucking Connor’s mouth, having figured out from the way Connor’s fingers would dig into his hips exactly how deep he could go before it got uncomfortable. “That’s it, look at you. Fuck. I’m glad I got off after dropping you off last night or else I would have already come in your perfect mouth.”  

Connor chokes slightly before suddenly pulling off of Hank’s dick. “You masturbated after that?” He blinks up at him. 

Hank scrubs a hand through his hair, looking a bit sheepish for the first time that evening. “Well, I mean… yeah. I had a pretty little, insistent thing like you in my lap… getting to kiss you. I don’t think I ever had anyone quite that eager to get their hands on me since… well, since ever.” Hank gives him a slightly awkward grin and shrugs. “Really strokes an old man’s ego, I was still half hard by the time I got home.” 

“You imagined me?” Connor bites down hard on his bottom lip trying to muffle his whine. 

“You like that, don’t you, sweetheart?” Hank’s voice is soft, but still full of heat as he caresses one of Connor’s blushing cheeks. “You like knowing I thought about you while I got myself off?” 

Impossibly, Connor’s cheeks get even more red as he nods and tries to hide his face against Hank’s hand. 

Hank grins at that blush. “I did this morning in the shower too,” he purrs, enjoying the way that the words make Connor squirm. “I didn’t want to make any assumptions about what would happen tonight, but it’s been a while since I’ve really had any desire to get off, even longer since I’ve been with a partner; wanted to make sure things wouldn’t be over too quickly if we ended up here.” 

“I did too… this morning,” Connor admits. “I mean—I thought of you when I…” He can’t quite bring himself to say when I masturbated, but judging from the way Hank’s eyes darken as he licks his lips it’s clear he knows what he means. 

“I’d love to see that sometime, sweetheart—to see you all spread out in my bed, showing me how you touch yourself, what feels good.” Hank’s voice is nearly a growl as he reaches down to give Connor’s arse a squeeze. “But right now, I want to be the one touching you—making you feel good.”

“Please—” Connor can hear the desperation in his own voice as his arousal burns even hotter in the pit of his stomach and he presses his thighs together, realizing how absolutely soaked he is. It was easier to focus on Hank’s pleasure rather than on his own body, but it’s impossible to ignore now. “Please fuck me.” 

Hank pulls Connor up for a proper kiss. “I can do that,” he whispers against his lips. 

Connor feels Hank shift, about to roll them over so that he’s underneath him again but he squirms out of his hold to flop down on the bed on his stomach. 

“Like this,” he says, getting his knees under himself so that his arse is in the air with his chest still pressed against the bed. “I like it like this.” 

It isn’t exactly a lie. Richard had only ever fucked him from behind like this. Connor thinks that he might like to be able to see Hank while they have sex, but it’s easier this way because he isn’t sure how well he can control his facial expressions.

“Yeah? I like you like this too.” Connor hears a drawer open and close, and feels the shift of the mattress as Hank settles on the bed behind him. Hank runs his hands down his back from his shoulders all the way to his arse, giving it a squeeze. His hands are warm and so broad they span nearly the entire width of Connor’s back—he can’t tell if the shiver that runs down his spine is more anxiety or anticipation at the reminder how big Hank is. 

“You have such a cute little arse.” The desire in Hank’s voice is tangible as he tugs Connor’s boxers down off his hips and spreads his cheeks apart, exposing his tight little hole. Connor sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut but trying to keep the rest of his body relaxed as he prepares for the stinging ache that always came with the initial penetration. He squeaks and nearly jumps in surprise when instead of a cool, slick finger he feels the warmth of Hank’s breath against his hole. 

“Connor? Are you okay, babe?” Hank’s thumbs rub soothing circles over his hips and Connor feels the scrape of his beard on the small of his back. Hank’s thumbs rub soothing circles over his hips and Connor feels the scrape of his beard on the small of his back. 

Connor looks back at Hank over his shoulder. “You were going to lick my arse,” he says incredulously. 

“I was,” Hank replies, trying to bite back a laugh at the look on Connor’s face. 

Connor frowns, his brows pulled down. “I didn’t know that people actually do that,” he mumbles as he hides his face in the crook of his arm. 

“It’s definitely a thing people do.” Hank strokes Connor’s back until he unburies his face. “I’m sorry,” he adds softly, “I should have asked you first.” 

Connor gives a jerky shake of his head. “You don’t have to,” he insists. He somehow feels even less experienced at sex than when he actually was a virgin—Richard had always just told him what to do, he’d never had to stop and consider what he wanted or liked. He’s starting to realize that it may not have been particularly good sex, but in a lot of ways it was easier. 

Just as he feels the panic that he must be disappointing Hank like he disappoints everyone else begin to set in, Connor feels the reassuring warmth of Hank’s body drape over his back, and the scratch of his beard on his shoulder as he presses a kiss there. 

“I like asking you though, sweetheart,” Hank rumbles next to his ear. “I want to know what you like and how to make you feel good.” 

He presses one more kiss to Connor’s shoulder before settling back to his spot behind him and giving his arse a squeeze. “Do you want to see if you like it?” 

“If you want to…” Connor says after a moment of hesitation. He’d already gotten himself mentally prepared for Hank to finally touch him, but this isn’t what he expected and it completely throws him off. Everything with Hank has felt so much better than he’s used to so far, but it’s always been the actual penetration that’s been the worst and while he’s cautiously optimistic that maybe that will finally be good too, part of him just wants to get it over with. 

“I really do,” Hank promises. “You just let me know how you like it, babe.” 

Connor can feel Hank’s grin against his back before he pulls away and spreads his cheeks again. He’s prepared for the warm breath against his sensitive hole this time, but Hank just pauses there—Connor knows it’s only for a couple seconds, but after everything it feels like an eternity. He whimpers and pushes his hips backwards, trying to get Hank’s mouth on him because the anticipation is too much. He feels another warm puff of air as Hank huffs a soft, fond chuckle before dragging his tongue over his hole. 

“Ah!” A strangled, desperate whimper forces its way out of Connor’s throat at the first touch of Hank’s tongue. “Good noise,” he pants, wanting to make sure that Hank doesn’t pause what he’s doing to ask. 

He can feel Hank’s groan as his mouth presses more insistently against his entrance, starting with long licks with the flat of his tongue that make Connor moan and squirm and his cunt drip and clench around nothing. 

Hank shifts his grip on Connor’s arse, his thumb circling that tight pucker before flicking the tip of his tongue over it. “Hank, fuck!” Connor gasps, fists gripping the blankets as Hank repeats that quick little motion with his tongue over and over. 

“Feels good, hey, Con?” 

“So good,” Connor nods, wiggling back to press against Hank’s tongue as he pleads for more. 

“I can do that,” Hank hums, burying his face back against Connor’s arse to eat him out like he’s starving. 

Connor can’t stay still or quiet as Hank’s tongue licks and sucks and teases his arse—his beard rubs against his soft skin in a way that Connor would have expected to be irritating but just makes him feel even more sensitive. The sounds that he’s making are high pitched and needy but between his burning arousal and Hank’s own pleased noises he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed. 

When Hank first works his tongue into his tight entrance Connor’s body jerks back and he cries out a broken, wordless sound that was maybe supposed to be Hank's name, or could have been something else entirely, but the message of please don’t stop is very clear. 

“Christ, sweetheart. Come here,” Hank growls, pulling Connor’s hips back against his mouth and trying to hold his squirming body still as he pushes deeper into Connor’s hole with the pointed tip of his tongue. 

“Hank, please. Please fuck me!” Nothing has ever felt this good before and Connor feels giddy thinking that maybe he’s finally managed to do this right. 

“Yeah, yeah, I can do that babe,” Hank rasps, giving Connor’s hole one last, wet lick before pulling away.

Anxiety and arousal twists in Connor’s stomach when he hears the soft sound of the bottle of lube opening. He swallows hard. Everything Hank has done, last night in the car and tonight, has felt amazing—if he can just be good and make his body relax like it’s supposed to then this can feel good too. Just like everyone else says it’s supposed to. 

 Hank is taking his time, he smooths a hand down Connor’s back and gives his arse a squeeze. “Christ, you look so good like this, Connor. Gonna look so good on my cock.”

Connor whimpers, having to bite back the urge to snap at Hank to please just do it already. After what feels like an eternity, Hank finally spreads his cheeks and Connor feels his thick, slick finger press against his hole. 

Connor’s entire body tenses—it makes him want to scream and cry and throw a temper tantrum. He wants this. If anyone can make sex feel good he’s certain that it is Hank—Connor knows that he will take his time with it, be gentle and make sure that it’s good for him. But his body isn’t reacting to what’s actually happening right now, it’s reacting to what it anticipates will happen based on all his previous experiences. 

He hopes that maybe Hank won’t notice and will just keep going. 

“Relax for me, sweetheart.” The heat is gone from Hank’s voice, replaced with soft concern that makes Connor want to cry. His hand rubs soothing circles over his back, his hip, his thigh. “Need you to relax so I don’t hurt you, baby.” 

“Just do it!” Connor insists, trying to push back against Hank’s finger. “I can take it. I’m used to it,  just do it.” 

He feels the warmth of Hank’s body pull away and he slumps down onto the bed to curl up on his side. He wonders what Hank’s doing, but can’t bring himself to lift his head and look back because he knows that seeing Hank disappointed or upset at him will make him cry—he’s already embarrassed enough. 

The bed dips beside Connor; he can feel the warmth of Hank next to him but he doesn’t touch him. It makes Connor curl in on himself even more. 

“Would it be okay if I held you right now?” Hank asks softly, his fingers carding gently through Connor’s hair. 

Connor nods, not yet trusting his voice. Hank wraps him up in a soft blanket and pulls him into his lap. He finally chances a look at Hank's face, finding nothing but a soft look of concern which makes a sob try to claw its way out of Connor’s chest. He messed up again—Hank should be mad—he doesn’t deserve this. 

Connor waits for Hank to say something but all he does is rub his back and nuzzle his face against his hair. He knows that he should say something, but Connor isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. Eventually the silence gets to be too much and Connor squirms in Hank’s lap to look up at him. There’s still no anger or irritation on Hank’s face. Connor’s thankful for that but at the same time it leaves him unsure about what he’s supposed to do next. 

“You didn’t have to stop, you know.” Connor finally says. 

“Yes, I did,” Hank says flatly after he takes a deep steadying breath. “You were clearly uncomfortable.” 

“Sex is always uncomfortable,” Connor shrugs. “But I wanted to make you feel good.”

“Connor,” Hank’s voice is tight as he scrubs a hand through his mussed hair. “Do you actually enjoy sex?” 

“I want to!” Connor blurts. “You made everything else feel so good, I thought that this time might be different.” He frowns, pulling at a loose thread on the blanket. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” he mutters softly.

“You’re not doing anything wrong.” Hank assures him. 

“But—”

“There’s two people involved in sex, Connor.” Hank cuts off his protest. “If you’re uncomfortable that’s an issue between both you and your partner—it doesn’t mean that you’re doing something wrong.” 

“But it seems so easy for everything else.” Connor frowns, picking at another loose threat in the blanket. 

Hank shifts them so Connor is still in his lap but straddling his hips and facing him now. He tucks the blanket back around his shoulders where it slipped down. “Have you had sex with anyone besides Richard?” he asks softly. 

Connor looks anywhere but Hank, giving his head a little shake. 

“Hey, that’s okay,” Hank cups Connor’s flaming cheek, rubbing his thumb over the line of his jaw. “Did Richard ever ask you what you enjoy in bed?” 

Judging by the expression on Hank’s face Connor’s pretty sure he already knows the answer. He gives his head another little jerky shake before nuzzling his cheek back against Hank’s warm hand. “We never really had much sex in a bed. It was mostly in the office or his car,” Connor admits. 

“And I’m sure he didn’t ask about any of your preferences there either,” Hank mutters under his breath. 

Connor huffs a rueful sort of half laugh at that. 

Hank pulls him closer, running his hands up and down his back in long, soothing strokes. “If you still want to do this,” Hank murmurs against his ear. “I think we need to slow things down a bit.” 

Connor’s eyes snap open and he looks up at Hank in almost a panic, mouth open to say something, but he isn’t sure if he wants to insist that yes, yes he still really wants this, wants anything that Hank will give him or to protest that they have already been going slow. 

Hank cups his cheek. “Going slow can be fun,” he promises. “We get to figure out what you like, what makes you squirm, what gets you to make all those pretty little noises.” 

“I don’t see what you get out of any of that,” Connor mumbles. 

“Oh, I get a lot out of it.” The deep, rumbly voice that Connor loves so much is back and it makes him squirm in Hank’s lap. “I like seeing you feel good, want to watch you fall apart for me.”

A protest dies on the tip of Connor’s tongue when he looks up at Hank and can see the heat and desire in his gaze. It’s clear that he wants this, even if Connor doesn’t think that there is anything in it for him. 

“It doesn’t have to be tonight, either,” Hank presses a kiss to Connor’s forehead. “You’ve already been through a lot, if you want to just cuddle for a bit, or put our clothes back on and watch a movie, or have me drive you back to your dorm… we can always do this another time.” 

The prospect of seeing Hank again sends a shiver of excitement down Connor’s spine and it makes him consider it just so he knows that he’ll get to see Hank again. The night isn’t even over and he already really wants to see Hank again. But he’s been building this up in his head ever since that first night at the bar and he doesn’t think that he can wait. And even if he can, he doesn’t want to risk messing something up and ruining things before another time comes. 

“I don’t want to wait,” he shakes his head. “I want this, I want you.” 

Hank nods, not looking even a little bit surprised at that answer. He already knows that Connor is a blunt, pushy little prick when he wants something. “I want you too, sweetheart.” 

Connor is already sitting on Hank’s lap but he still tries to wiggle even closer, ready to get back to where they left off. But Hank’s large hands settle on his hips—not pushing him away but holding him in place. 

Connor's face pinches, and his questioning sound comes out sounding more like a pathetic whine. 

“Yeah, I know,” Hank huffs a soft laugh at Connor’s eagerness. “But I already told you I want to do this right.” His thumbs rub those soothing circles on Connor’s hips as Hank licks his lips, pausing for a long moment, clearly carefully considering his words. “When I ask you if you like something, I genuinely want to know. It’s never a bad thing to dislike something, I won’t be upset or disappointed.” Despite the gentleness of the words, it feels like a reprimand. It makes Connor’s chest feel tight and his eyes sting. “There’s no expectations here, Connor—no such fucking thing as supposed to.” 

Hank brushes a stray hair away from Connor’s face, and kisses the top of his head. Connor pushes into that touch, nuzzling against Hank’s hand. “Okay,” he mumbles. This time when he tries to shift closer in Hank’s lap he isn’t held back. “Can we have sex now?” he asks, his breath ghosting over Hank’s lips. 

Hank presses his lips against Connor’s in answer. Hank had said that they should slow things down a bit, but there is nothing slow about this kiss. It’s hard and deep and desperate as all of Connor’s arousal feels like it rushes back at once. He whines against Hank’s mouth, his fingers clutching at his back and threading through his hair as he presses their bodies together. Hank hands drag around to Connor’s arse, squeezing it and pulling his body against his. 

More undignified sounds are dragged from Connor with each press of their lips, each touch of their tongues, each time their bodies press together—Hank responds with his own pleased hums and groans; he doesn’t need to ask if those are good sounds this time. 

Connor shrugs the blanket off his shoulders, the heat of their arousal starting to feel smothering from underneath it. He shivers slightly as the cooler air hits his bare skin but he knows he’s not going to be cold for long. 

It sends a thrill through Connor that Hank seems to be as desperate for this as he is—he doesn’t wait for Connor to plead for more before shifting their position until he’s on top of Connor again. 

“Let’s start with something we know you like.” Hank’s words are as rough against Connor’s ears as his beard is against his cheek. He carefully adjusts himself until his leg is slotted between Connor’s and presses his knee firmly against his crotch. 

Connor’s breath catches, his cunt throbbing at the sudden contact. His hips twitch slightly, the feeling so much more intense now that his boxers aren’t between them. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Hank encourages that movement. “Let me see you feeling good.” 

That’s all the encouragement Connor needs to properly roll his hips, his head thrown back in pleasure as he rubs off against Hank’s thigh. 

Hank takes that invitation and kisses the length of his neck. Connor’s hips stutter with each nip to his sensitive skin. Distantly he thinks that he’s supposed to be embarrassed right now. He can feel the slick mess that he’s making of Hank’s thigh—he doesn’t think he’s ever been this wet before. He’s never been loud during sex, but he can hear the way his needy whimpers and bitten off words fill the room. But there’s no room for embarrassment when all his senses are overwhelmed by Hank.  

“Christ, babe,” Hank groans, somehow looking just as wrecked as Connor feels even though he’s hardly been touched. “I could watch you get off just like this.” 

Connor shakes his head hard but doesn’t stop moving his hips, knowing he needs more but too blissed-out to be able to articulate that. 

“You want me to touch you?” 

Connor nods desperately, managing a choked sound that could be yes or please or just a wordless sound of pleasure, but the meaning is clear. 

Hank starts with neutral places, smoothing a hand over Connor’s shoulder and down his arm, over his stomach and back up his side. Connor presses into each of those touches. “Is it okay for me to touch your cute little nipples?” Hank asks, his thumbs tracing over Connor’s collarbones. 

Connor can feel the weight of Hank’s gaze on him. He blinks up at him, the words processing slowly. He opens his mouth to answer, and then closes it again, his teeth sinking hard into his bottom lip. His hips slow, but don’t stop occasionally twitching as he tries to sort through his jumbled feelings. Connor tries to pretend his chest doesn’t exist—binders and baggy clothes, anything he can do to hide it. It feels wrong that he’s considering drawing attention to it, but Hank’s hands have felt so good everywhere else, and he’d seemed to enjoy it when Connor played with his nipples. 

Hank moves his hands away from his chest, clearly taking the lack of a response as a no. Before he’s even aware that he’s moving Connor grabs Hank’s wrists and pulls his hands down to his chest. His hands are so broad, covering most of Connor’s chest making it feel even smaller in a way that maybe feels good. It definitely doesn’t feel bad. 

He can see the reservation on Hank’s face. “It’s okay,” Connor promises, arching his back to press his chest more firmly into Hank’s hands and gasping as that presses his cunt more firmly against Hank’s leg. “Please, I want you to.” 

Hank watches his expression closely and moves slowly, clearly giving him plenty of time to change his mind. “Ah!” Connor gasps, his body jerking as Hank’s thumbs finally brush over his nipples. Hank pauses, clearly trying to figure out if that was a good noise when Connor grabs his wrists again holding his hands there. “More.” 

“Good boy,” Hank hums, brushing his thumb over them again and grinning at the way it makes Connor writhe under him. “I love it when you ask for what you want.” 

Connor’s response turns into a moan as Hank carefully pinches those sensitive nubs and rolls them between his fingers. Hank’s lips move to kiss back up Connor’s neck and nip at his earlobe. “Want to see if you like my tongue there too?” he asks. 

Connor nods without hesitation this time, cursing at the first wet swipe of Hank’s tongue. He can’t help but think that something that has caused him so much anxiety and grief has no right to feel this good. But then Hank sucks one of his pebbled nipples into his mouth and the only thoughts left in Connor’s head are please, don’t stop and more. 

He whines when Hank begins to lower, trailing hot wet kisses over his sternum and down to his stomach. “You look fucking gorgeous like this,” Hank licks his lips as he looks up at Connor. “I’d really like to go down on you if you’d be comfortable with that.” 

“I’m a man!” Connor insists almost frantically; his legs would have pressed tight together had Hank’s not still been slotted between them. 

“You are,” Hank agrees, rubbing his hands up and down Connor’s sides. “And no matter what we do here that’s not going to change.” 

Connor squirms underneath Hank focus. His cunt is soaked, and his clit is throbbing, practically begging to be touched. Despite his initial reaction, he desperately wants it. “I’m still a man,” Connor says, the words slower and more deliberate this time. 

“Mhmm,” Hank assures him. “No matter how you decide you like to have sex that won’t change the fact that you’re a man.” 

“But… you’re gay…” Connor says slowly. 

Hank raises an eyebrow at him. “And why would that stop me from sucking your cute little dick?” he challenges. 

Connor makes a half strangled sound, gesturing vaguely to his body. Hank calling his clit a dick makes warmth spread through his chest; it gives him a giddy feeling that makes him resent his body just a little bit less. But as good as it feels to hear those words, it doesn’t change the reality of what’s between Connor’s legs, and he knows that it isn’t something a gay man is usually interested in. 

“I’m not—I don’t—it isn’t—” Connor stammers, trying to protest but not able to get the words out. 

Hank’s chin rests low on his stomach, his eyes soft as he gazes up at Connor. “Sweetheart, all being gay means, for me, is that I like men. That’s it. It doesn’t have anything to do with what bits they may have.” 

Connor opens his mouth to argue before realizing he doesn’t have an argument. “Oh.” 

“If you don’t want it, that’s okay—no questions asked, no need to elaborate—but if it’s because you think that I don’t want it…” Connor watches Hank’s tongue lick his lips slowly; it makes his breath stutter in his chest and his clit throb. “I promise you, I really want it.” 

“Okay,” Connor chokes out. Hank doesn’t move right away; he’s still gazing up at Connor as if looking for something more. “Please,” Connor adds, his hips twist, trying to get closer to Hank’s mouth. 

Hank slides lower on the bed and Connor spreads his legs so that Hank can settle his body between them. He doesn’t put his mouth on Connor right away and that makes him twitch with anticipation. Hank’s hands rub the outside of his thighs, eventually settling on his hips. Connor’s back arches slightly and his fingers tangle in Hank’s hair at the feeling of the first whiskery kiss pressed to the inside of his thighs. Connor’s wound tight with anticipation; he gasps at the feeling of Hank’s warm breath against his cunt and shivers at the promise of finally feeling Hank’s mouth against him. 

The sound that squeaks out of him when Hank’s finally presses his tongue against his clit is a half strangled moan. The next drag of his tongue is harder and nearly too much—it makes Connor’s entire body jerk trying to pull away, even as his fingers tangle tighter in Hank’s hair to drag him closer. 

“Alright, sweetheart?” The question is pressed with hot kisses against the inside of his thigh. 

Connor whines a high sound in the back of his throat. The feeling of Hank’s tongue on him is almost too much—a confusing mix of pleasure layered with shame. He shifts his hips, wanting to get Hank’s tongue back on him, wanting to be overwhelmed with feeling so that he doesn’t have to think about how he isn’t supposed to want this. 

Hank’s lips stay pressed against his thigh, his thumbs rubbing those soothing circles on Connor’s hips again—that simple movement begins to slowly untangle the tight ball of anxiety in Connor’s chest. It’s clear that despite his wiggling hips, Hank’s mouth isn’t going to move until he gets a proper answer. 

“It’s a lot,” Connor rasps, the answer more honest than he’d intended. 

Hank hums his acknowledgement. The vibration makes Connor twitch, his toes curling, and he doesn’t quite feel in control of his body. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“No, please don’t stop.”  

Hank’s mouth is back on him, starting with circling his tongue around his dripping hole, letting the tip just barely dip in before dragging his tongue up the length of Connor’s cunt, avoiding licking his clit too directly, letting him adjust to all the new sensations without overwhelming him. 

Connor’s hips tilt up against Hank’s mouth as his tongue presses harder against his hole, the pointed tip dipping deeper inside this time. Connor whines, his hole clenching around the slight intrusion as he trembles under Hank. 

“Fuck, you taste good, baby,” Hank groans with one last teasing lick over Connor’s hole before his tongue is replaced by his thumb dragging up and down the length of his cunt, from his hole to his clit, spreading his slick through his folds until Connor is squirming. Hank’s thumb circles around his slick hole. “Want my fingers in you, sweetheart?” His voice is ragged, clearly affected by this even though he hasn’t even been touched. 

“Yes,” Connor gasps, surprising even himself with the answer. He’s never had more than one of his own slender fingers dipped curiously into his slick hole. And even that has never lasted for long before the memories of Richard scoffing that real men would never use that hole push their way to the surface leaving Connor too ashamed to keep going, even when he’s thought that it might feel better than when a finger forces its way into his arse. 

Hank’s index finger circles his twitching hole. It makes Connor squirm and his breath stutters in his chest when it just barely dips into him. 

“You’re doing so good, Connor,” Hank praises as Connor whimpers at the unfamiliar feeling of his finger slowly pressing in even further. It’s hot and so much thicker than his own and even though it’s only pushed into the knuckle it is already deeper than Connor has gone himself. “I’ve got you, baby,” Hank murmurs soothingly as Connor’s body begins to tense up again. “Just relax for me. I know you can do it, you’re always so good for me.”

“I’m trying,” Connor promises in a strangled voice. His eyes squeeze shut and hands ball into fists as he wills his body to cooperate. “Please don’t stop this time,” he begs, “I want—” The rest of his words get caught in his throat as Hank’s hot, wet tongue licks directly over his clit. The sensation is just as intense as it was before, and it’s enough of a distraction that his body finally relaxes and he feels Hank’s finger effortlessly slide in deeper. 

Hank keeps his hand still as his tongue laps over his clit, just letting Connor get used to being filled. His hole clenches around the finger inside him and it makes it feel even bigger. It’s too much and not enough all at once. The first twitch of his hips isn’t intentional. It makes him gasp as it shifts Hank’s finger inside of him slightly, making pleasure spark up his spine. 

He experimentally shifts again, whimpering at the little bursts of sensation. Hank hums an encouraging sound against him, not taking his tongue off his clit. Connor cries out a wordless, broken sound as he rolls his hips properly, fucking himself on Hank’s finger. 

Hank’s thumb rubs soothing circles over his hip, giving him a reassuring squeeze as he finally starts to move his hand—just barely pulling out before pressing back in, at first. The movements are a little more each time, not faster or harder, just more of his finger slipping out before pushing back in slow, steady movements. 

“Hank, fuck! Oh my god. It’s so much. Don’t stop,” Connor pants. He lets go of the blankets to grasp at Hank again—his hair, his shoulders, his back, anywhere his hands can reach, just needing that extra bit of contact. Connor can hear how wet he is with each movement, slick dripping down between his arse cheeks and leaving tackiness on his thighs. “Please,” he sobs. The feeling is almost too much. His thighs tremble and his muscles twitch, leaving him not feeling quite in control of his body. It almost makes him want to pull away, but Connor can feel the warmth of his orgasm pooling in his stomach and spreading through his groin—it feels like so much more than it ever has before. The edge is so tantalisingly close while also feeling impossibly far away. 

“Hank, please. I’m close, I—” 

Hank’s lips close around Connor’s clit and he sucks at the same time that he crooks his finger, pressing against the front wall of Connor’s cunt, hitting a spot that makes him cry out. He practically shoves his fist in his mouth to muffle his shout as his orgasm shudders through him, toes curling and muscles clenching as pleasure sparks through every one of his nerves. 

The feeling seems to go on forever before Connor sags bonelessly into the mattress, still breathing hard. 

“—beautiful. You did so good for me.” It takes Connor a moment to realize that Hank is speaking, and another to sort himself out enough that he can actually make out the words that he’s saying. 

Hank cheek is pillowed on his thigh, gazing up at him with a soft smile. Connor blinks slowly down at Hank. He thinks that he’s probably supposed to say something right now but all he can manage right now is a dopey little grin. 

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” The roughness of Hank’s beard rubbing against his thigh as he speaks makes Connor shiver. 

He hums a pleased sound as he tries to find the right words. “‘m good.” That word isn’t sufficient, it’s not even close, but it’s the only word he can find in the pleasant, buzzy haze of his brain at the moment. 

“I like you feeling good,” Hank hums, slowly crawling up Connor’s body to kiss him. The feeling of Hank’s erection pressing against his thigh makes Connor whine, remembering how badly he wants to touch him. A thrilling spike of arousal courses through him as he presses closer to Hank, licking insistently into his mouth. 

Hank kisses him back just as desperately, not bothering to try to adjust or soften the kiss as their slick lips slide together sloppily. Connor wraps his hand around Hank’s dick, making his hips twitch forward, thrusting into Connor’s loose fist and groaning into his mouth when his thumb teases the tip, spreading precome over the sensitive head of his cock. 

Connor’s cunt clenches around nothing, feeling desperately empty after having one of Hank’s fingers inside him. He considers asking Hank to fuck him, to fill him up again—the thought makes him squirm and press his thighs together at the way his stomach twists in arousal. But Hank is hot and hard and large in his hand—he’d felt full with just one of Hank’s fingers. The thought of fitting Hank’s dick into him is daunting—something to work up to—and he doesn’t have the patience for that right now. 

Connor had come here tonight to get fucked by Hank and he is still determined to make that happen—Hank had said that his stubbornness was a good quality to have, after all. With one last nip at Hank’s lip Connor wiggles his way out from under him to get on his hands and knees, arse in the air and chest pressed against the bed. 

He feels so exposed like this, and despite everything he feels his face heating up with a blush as he asks Hank to fuck his thighs. “I know it’s not—” 

“It’s hot as hell, is what it is,” Hank growls, already moving behind him. Connor hears the click of the lube opening, and the slick sound of Hank stroking himself makes Connor’s clit throb. He wiggles his arse trying to get Hank to move faster. “Such an eager little thing,” Hank purrs, one hand gripping Connor’s hip, the other settling low on his stomach. “Press those thighs together nice and tight for me, sweetheart.” 

Connor’s groan echoes Hank’s as he feels the slick heat of his cock push between his legs. He can feel the heat of Hank’s cock so close to his cunt, and it makes him whine and clench around nothing. He’d been more focused on wanting to make Hank come; he hadn’t even considered that this would feel good for him too. 

“So good for me,” Hank pants. He grips Connor tighter, the smooth rhythm of his hips stuttering slightly. “I can feel you sweetheart—feel how hot your cunt is, how wet you are for me. Christ, you feel so good.” 

“You too,” Connor gasps, “you feel good too.” So good, but it isn’t enough. Each of Hank’s thrusts make his cunt throb with need and he can’t quite seem to recall why asking Hank to fuck him was a bad idea in the first place. 

His knees slide further apart, spreading his legs instead of keeping them pressed tight together. Connor can hear the despair in Hank’s confused, questioning sound. 

“Fuck me,” he pleads, arching his back to present himself for Hank. 

“Connor.” Hank growls in warning, though the impact is lessened by how absolutely wrecked he sounds. “We don’t need to rush this, sweetheart.” His grip on Connor’s hip is bruising trying to hold him still and Hank practically trembles with the effort it takes to keep himself from letting himself sink into that tight, wet heat. “I want to do this right, take our time. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“Fuck me,” Connor repeats more insistently, pushing his hips back until the head of Hank’s cock is pressed against his slick hole. He twists to look over his shoulder at Hank. “I trust you,” Connor promises—and he does, far more than he should after only knowing Hank for one night. “I know you won’t hurt me.” 

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Hank hisses through his teeth. The hand that was resting on Connor’s stomach moves to tightly grip the base of his throbbing cock to keep himself from going over the edge. He doesn’t push forward into the welcoming heat of Connor’s cunt, but he doesn’t pull away either. 

“Please.” Connor rocks his hips back against Hank even more, whimpering as he feels himself stretch around the thick, blunt head of Hank’s cock. 

“Shit. Fuck, okay,” Hank mutters. There’s something thrilling about him losing that little bit of control after how restrained and careful he had been all evening. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart.” His voice is strained with the effort it takes to stay still. “Go nice and slow, baby, I don’t want you to hurt yourself, we can stop if you need to.”

Connor gives a jerky nod. His eyes squeeze shut and he breathes heavily through his nose as he works himself back onto Hank’s dick impossibly slowly. There’s a dull, cramping ache in his pelvis as he feels his slick channel slowly opening up inside. 

“Jesus, you’re so fucking wet—so fucking tight,” Hank groans. “You feel so fucking good, so perfect for me.” 

The stretch of Hank inside him makes him ache and Hank hisses as his cunt clenches, impossibly tight around him. Connor whines, high and tight in the back of his throat as he tries to get Hank even deeper despite how it feels like his entire body is trying to lock him out. 

“Hank, please.” The word is laced with desperation. Connor’s breath shudders in his chest—he got this far, he can’t stop now, he needs Hank inside of him. “Please—” It’s almost a sob. “—I need it.”

“Shh, it’s okay Connor. You’re doing so good for me,” Hank soothes. “C’mon, sweetheart, take a deep breath for me and relax. I know you can do it.” 

Connor sucks in a deep breath before letting it all out in a rush. He focuses on the feeling of Hank behind him, his steady breathing and the warmth of his hand on his hip. He buries his face in the blankets and inhales deeply—it’s the same scent of laundry detergent and dryer sheets that he’d smelled on Hank earlier—it’s soothing and familiar in a way that it has no right to already be. He feels his body begin to relax in increments, but his cunt stays vice tight around Hank’s cock. 

“That’s it, good boy.” Hank murmurs more praises, keeping his voice soft and soothing, but there’s an undercurrent of tension as he struggles to keep things slow and gentle after being so hard for so long. “I’m going to move now, okay sweetheart?” 

“Okay,” Connor squeaks out. It makes him a little nervous to not be the one in control right now, but he trusts that Hank won’t do anything to hurt him. 

Hank’s other hand returns to his hip to firmly hold him in place as he begins to move—it hardly even counts as movement at first, just withdrawing the tiniest bit before pressing back in, making sure to not push any deeper than before. Hank repeats that again and again, withdrawing a little more each time until he’s shallowly fucking into Connor’s dripping cunt. 

The aching feeling eases with each movement—his cunt is still clenching around Hank’s thick cock, but now it feels like his body is trying to pull him in deeper rather than keep him out. Connor curses and moans, trying to rock back into Hank’s careful movements, but the hands on his hips squeeze tighter, holding him still. 

“Fuck, there we go. That’s it, you’re taking me so well,” Hank groans. “Christ, you’re soaked, practically dripping. Think you can take more, baby?” 

Connor nods desperately, his cheek rubbing against the blankets. “Please. Fuck, please Hank, I want more.” 

Hank’s hand slides from his hip back to his stomach, and then even lower until his thick fingers are resting so tantalisingly close to Connor’s aching clit. That shift pushes Hank’s cock slightly deeper into him, forcing a gasp from Connor and making him beg for more. His entire body twitches as Hank’s finger slides over his clit and he sinks in slightly deeper. 

“Fucking hell. Shit. You feel so goddamn good. So good—so fucking perfect for me.” Hank groans. “You can take more, can’t you? You want all of me inside you, don’t you?”

“Yes! Yes, I want it.” And he doesn’t want to wait for Hank’s careful, gentle movements. Connor sucks in a deep breath and rocks back hard against Hank, taking the rest of his length all at once. He whimpers at the feeling—-somewhere between pleasure and pain—breathing through it until all he feels is a pleasant fullness. He can feel Hank, hot, thick, hard and pulsing inside him; it makes his toes curl and his hole clench around him which just makes Hank feel even bigger. 

“Shit! Fucking Christ, goddamn!” The words are punched from Hank’s chest as Connor’s arse meets his hips. “Fuck, sweetheart, don’t move.” His voice is strained as he leans over Connor, burying his face against his neck. “If you move I’m going to come.” 

Connor can’t see the problem with that. “But I want you to come.” He tries to rock his hips, but it’s nearly impossible to move with how Hank’s body is surrounding him. 

“Oh, I will,” Hank pants against Connor’s neck, trying to keep that tight hold on his control. “But you went through all this work to get me inside you, would be a shame for it to be over so soon.” He presses hot, wet kisses against Connor’s neck, his finger working a tight little circle over Connor’s clit. “Want to feel you come on my cock first.” 

“Oh.” Connor squeaks. He hadn’t even considered the possibility of coming again; most of the time with Richard he never came at all. The thought makes him squirm, his cunt throbbing around Hank’s length. 

“You like that idea, huh, sweetheart?” Hank kisses up Connor’s neck to nip at his earlobe. 

Connor bites his lip, trying to hold back a whine as he nods eagerly. 

They both groan when Hank straightens out, his dick shifting inside Connor. He stays completely still for a long moment and Connor wonders if it’s to let him adjust or to prevent himself from coming. He figures it’s probably both. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Hank says as he finally starts to move.

Whatever sound Connor was going to make gets stuck in his throat, his mouth open in a perfect little “o”. It’s so much; he thinks the ache is still there somewhere in the background but mostly he feels full, and every movement makes all his nerve endings spark with pleasure. It feels so much better than he’d ever imagined sex could. 

“Fuck, you’re taking me so well,” Hank groans, keeping up his slow, steady rhythm. “Such a good boy.” 

The praise lights Connor up inside—those words, Hank’s voice, feel nearly as good as the sex. It makes him want more: more sex, more of this feeling, more of Hank. 

“Hank,” Connor twists, reaching back and trying to grab at whatever part of Hank he can. 

“Alright, sweetheart?” Hank’s voice is gentle as he takes Connor’s searching hand in his. 

 Connor nods, giving Hank’s hand a squeeze. “I want…” 

“I’ve got you,” Hank hums. He shifts them slightly, pulling Connor up to kneel. He groans as the change in position makes him feel even more full. 

Hank’s arms wrap around Connor, holding him close with his back pressed against his chest, somehow knowing exactly what Connor needs even if he can’t find the words to ask for it. He tilts his head back against Hank’s shoulder and captures his lips in a kiss. 

The first movement makes Connor whine into the kiss, the new angle pushes Hank’s cock against a sensitive spot against the front wall of his cunt. Connor gasps a curse every time Hank hits it; it makes the muscles in Connor’s thighs twitch, his toes curl and makes him feel even more wet. 

“Fuck, you feel so good, Connor.” Hank’s breath is ragged against Connor’s neck. “Gonna make you feel good too.” 

“You already do. So good—” He’s interrupted by Hank’s hands on his body—one hand moves to his chest to tweak a nipple and the other slides down his stomach and between his legs to rub circles over his clit. 

It feels so good that he can hardly breathe. “Hank, I—” Connor isn’t even sure what he’s trying to ask for. There’s so many sensations all at once—it’s so much more than he’s ever felt before that part of him wants to ask Hank to stop. The other part of him is pretty sure that he would cry if Hank stopped right now. 

“You’re close, aren’t you babe?” Hank pants, his breath hot and wet against Connor’s neck. “Christ, Con. You’re so tight, clenching around me like a vice.” There’s no rhythm left in Hank’s movements. “I know you’re right there. Can you be a good boy and come for me, I want to feel you—” 

Connor gasps and trembles through his second orgasm, his legs shaking so much that he’s sure he would have slumped bonelessly to the bed had Hank not been holding him up. He chokes on a sob as Hank gives a last few rough thrusts, groaning as he finally stills, pressed deep inside of him. Connor’s panting, his cunt clenching and pulsing around Hank making him hiss. 

He can feel the way Hank’s cock twitches inside him, and he thinks that maybe he can feel the wet heat of Hank’s come, but he’s so wet and so unfamiliar with these sensations he isn’t sure if that’s just in his head. 

His thoughts feel fuzzy and slow, and it takes him a moment to hear the rumble of Hank’s praises. “Good boy. Such a good boy for me.” 

The praise feels good, it feels warm and makes his brain feel even more fuzzy. Connor leans back, letting more of his weight rest against Hank’s chest, hissing and twitching in oversensitivity as that moves Hank’s dick inside of him. 

Hank grunts, his grip tightening around Connor for a moment. “One second sweetheart, I’ve got you.” 

Connor whimpers when Hank pulls out, squirming at the way his slick and Hank’s come feels between his legs. But then Hank is gently guiding him down onto the bed, arms wrapped around him, holding him close. 

It’s nice to be held by Hank—or at least Connor thinks it would be nice if his bones didn’t itch with the need to start moving to clean up and get dressed. Richard was never one for any affection or cuddling after sex—once he finished it was just over and Connor would shower, get dressed and leave. He might get a half hearted hug, or a peck on the cheek before leaving, but more often than not Richard would already be engrossed in work and he’d get a half hearted nod, or a reminder of what reports he had to have ready to submit tomorrow. 

It’s completely foreign to him but he desperately wants to enjoy this moment just to be close and cozy and give his brain a minute to catch up on everything that has happened but not doing the things that he thinks he’s supposed to be doing makes Connor feel like he wants to scratch his skin off. 

Hank looks surprised and maybe a little guarded when Connor wriggles out of his embrace and off the bed. 

“Should I have a shower?” There’s a tightness in his chest as he asks the question. It’s what he’s used to doing, but something about the expression on Hank’s face makes him feel like it’s the wrong choice and feeling like he’s once again missing something leaves him feeling uneasy.

He wants to say never mind—he’d rather deal with the physical discomfort than feel like he’s somehow managed to disappoint Hank.

“If you want to have a shower, you certainly can,”  Hank is already saying before Connor can even manage to  get the words out. “There’s clean towels and face clothes in the cabinet, soap and shampoo in the shower, and be careful the temperature can be a bit finicky.”  

“Okay,” Connor nods, still trying to make out the expression on Hank’s face. 

He must have paused for too long because Hank leans in to press a kiss to his forehead. “Just holler if you need anything else.” 

Connor isn’t sure why such a chaste kiss has him blushing so much after everything they just did, but he nods and hurries out of the room hoping that Hank doesn’t notice. 

Connor thinks he’s supposed to be happy right now. He really wants to be happy right now, but he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do when he gets out of the shower. With Richard he would see himself out after sex and either walk home or take the bus but Hank had picked him up and his house was on the other side of the city from campus—Connor wasn’t even sure if there were buses running out this far. He can taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue as he tries to recall exactly how much money he has in his bank account and if it’s enough for a cab back to campus. His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he scrubs his skin until it’s almost raw as if he can wash away the uncertainty. 

He really doesn’t want to go back to campus—he’s not ready for this night to end. He hasn’t even left Hank’s yet but he can already feel loneliness working its way back into his chest. It would be so much easier if he could just ask Hank what happens next. It’ll hurt if this was just a one off thing between them, he’ll be disappointed but he thinks he’d be mostly okay—it’s the not knowing where they stand or what is going to happen next that has his stomach twisting in knots. Was this a date? Are they going to do this again? Hank was sweet and affectionate and they had sex—does that mean they’re dating now? He really hates how much he wants that because he knows his feelings are too much, too soon but doesn’t know how to stop them. If he at least knew how Hank feels then he’d have a better idea how much he’s supposed to feel right now and he thinks that that would make things easier.

He isn’t sure how long he’s been standing under the spray of water, but he knows that if he was at campus he would have been hassled about using all the hot water a long time ago. It’s nice to not feel rushed, but the longer he stays in here the more he’s going to work himself up. 

Even once he finally convinces himself to get out of the shower, he takes the time to meticulously dry every inch of his body while trying to not look too hard at himself in the mirror. He works his fingers through his hair to get rid of any tangles, but gives up on trying to do anything to style it. 

He clings to the towel wrapped around him as he peeks into the bedroom. The laundry hamper is now overflowing, so he must have changed the sheets  before making the bed that Hank’s now sitting on top of in just a pair of boxers. Part of Connor is surprised that he’s still there, not that he knows where else he’d go, it is his house afterall. 

“Hey,” Hank’s soft smile when he sees Connor hovering at the door makes the knot of anxiety in his stomach loosen slightly. 

“Hey,” he echoes, stepping uncertainly into the room. 

“I folded your clothes, they’re just on the dresser over there.” 

“Thank you,” Connor says as he grabs his pile of clothes, eager to be more covered than just the flimsy towel. 

He pauses for a moment, debating if he’s supposed to change here or if he should go change in the bathroom. Before he can figure it out Hank adds, “I left out a t-shirt and an old pair of sweats that might be at least slightly closer to your size, in case…” 

Hank sounds hesitant. Connor’s brow furrows. He knows what he wants Hank to mean but doesn’t want to get his hopes up and assume anything. He also really doesn’t want to ask Hank what he means, because he’s sure it’s one of those things that he’s just supposed to understand. 

“In case you wanted to spend the night,” Hank clarifies when Connor doesn’t respond. “I can drive you back to your dorm now if you prefer—”

Connor was shaking his head before Hank even finished his sentence. “I can stay?” he asks, just to be sure. 

“Christ, sweetheart, did you think I was going to just kick you out after that? Of course, you can stay, if that’s what you want.” 

“I do. Yes. I definitely do want that.” Connor practically trips over his words with how fast he tries to get them out. 

“Alright,” Hank smiled wide enough that Connor could see the slight gap between his front teeth. “I’m going to grab a quick shower myself then while you make yourself comfortable.” He pressed a kiss to Connor's damp hair. 

The clothes that Hank had left out are soft. It’s clear that at one point they were worn regularly. Something about that makes Connor feel warm and fuzzy inside. It’s awkward being in Hank’s bedroom on his own, he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself so he sits at the foot of the bed to wait. 

“You could have made yourself comfortable, babe.” Hank chuckles from the doorway. 

Connor’s face flushes. “I wasn’t sure if we were going to bed, or going to watch another movie or…” 

Hank settles on the bed next to Connor, wrapping his arm around his shoulder to pull him against his side. “We can do whatever you want.” 

“I—” a long yawn interrupts Connor before he can even make a decision. 

“Well I think that answers that question,” Hank hums, pressing a kiss to the top of Connor’s head. 

It’s surprisingly easy to settle into bed with Hank—there’s no awkward shifting or tangling of limbs—Hank holds his arm out and Connor slots perfectly against his side like it’s exactly where he belongs. 

“Hopefully that was worth the wait,” Hank murmurs while he strokes Connor’s hair. 

“It was,” Connor smiled, tilting his head up and nudging at Hank’s cheek until he turned his head for a soft kiss. “It was better than I could have ever dreamed of.”