[ this is why he hates bars that have way too many people not minding their own business -- people inevitably come in looking for hookups the hopeful, sleazy, or asshole way, and it's anybody's guess however they choose. hank chooses to be here instead of his preferred watering hole because one of the doctors are leaving, and hank finds him passable enough to at least make an appearance.
unfortunately, so does the very desirable object of his unresolved sexual tension: connor detroit and his fucking asshole of a boyfriend, reed. as if seeing them both around the hospital isn't enough to set him on edge, they have to be here, too. connor's too good for reed in so many ways, and yet it's no longer hank's place to say a damn thing, not when he doesn't deserve connor either. it's a good thing that he's moved on from hank, right? after all, what can hank truly offer him, really? he's a difficult man, damaged and bitter and his relationships have always just about ended similarly.
the only thing he has going for him is his skill -- and perhaps that charm; the intensity of his own principles and humanity, but that does not a perfect partner make. and connor deserves one who can love him properly, who isn't as rough around the edges as hank is.
so he's nursing his drink when he'd witnessed the whole thing go down: reed blows his ridiculously beautiful boyfriend off for another bar downtown with the guys, connor is dismayed, and shortly after gets hit on by someone else and is naturally trusting enough not to pay attention to his drink.
hank does, even when he looks like he doesn't care. he's keeping a protective watch on him because of the kind of bar this is, and when his new companion reaches behind him and empties a small vial of something into his drink behind his back is when he's decided he's had enough of it. hank is large and tall enough that most others instinctively back away when they see him -- especially when he decides to pull himself to his full height. nobody wants to fuck with him, especially not the individual that's somehow intent on drugging the hell out of connor for whatever reasons. he'd stepped between them, then, intimidated that asshole into backing down, shamed him for the attempted roofie before quietly offering to take connor home.
he knows he shouldn't, that he should probably get someone else to do that, but this is connor, and hank can't let go even if he should -- and this is why they're here, right in front of connor's apartment door and hank fighting valiantly not to think of all the things they could do if only hank had been less stubborn, less fucked up and oh, what if he'd finally given in, just pressed a kiss to those lush, soft lips, so full and soft and --
-- no. he's here to be a good guy, not give in to his base, raging desires. so what if he's wanted him for as long as he remembers? so what if there never was a night when he hadn't desired him, wanted him, jealous of the fucking bastard reed for having connor in his bed instead of hank's?
he swallows hard, and pushes those thoughts away, deciding to ask instead: ]
( connor has a lot of feelings regarding gavin reed, and he informs hank about all of them on the drive to his apartment. it's supposed to be bragging, a petty little move brought about entirely by the fact that he decided to accept a speed challenge from one of the surgeons and chugged an entire beer only an hour earlier.
( which he won, not that it makes a difference. )
it's just that the bragging doesn't really feel like bragging, as if shining a light on his relationship has just revealed how tarnished it really is. 'he lets me have my freedom' reveals how little time they spend together, 'he understands my job' just means they don't have much in common, 'he's so passionate' is just a nice way to say he's a moody bitch most of the time.
they arrive at connor's door right about at the same moment he arrives at the conclusion that gavin is an asshole. because he's fine, tonight could be either a funny or a scary anecdote that he'll tell one of the other residents at work tomorrow. but the scenario where things went really badly was only prevented by hank. it's not a pleasant thought, and when he starts digging through his pockets he uses the excuse to stabilise himself against hank's shoulder with a hand. )
Somewhere, hang on–
( he snorts slightly, checking jacket pockets again, patting them down until he's checked them all twice. and that's right about when he finds them in the back pocket of his jeans. the first one he had checked, naturally. connor pulls them out and smiles lazily up at hank as he dangles them on one finger. )
Would you look at that.
( he's squinting at the keys now though, flipping through several without recognition before he just shoves the whole set into hank's hand and all out leans his entire shoulder against hank's. coaches hank through the process of finding the right key to his door, and in a moment of pure dignity almost walks directly into his own wall as he decides on the bright idea of pulling his sweater over his head at the same time as entering through the doorway. he gets his head out just in time to save himself a serious bruise and instead swerves and stumbles at the last minute. his cheeks flushed, a little embarrassed but mostly just warm. )
You got me home, Doctor Anderson. ( he smirks, giving a little salute and locking his eyes on hank's closely. he sways a little, but he stays standing at least. ) Your good deed for the year, done. Right?
[ hank has a lot of feelings about connor's feelings about gavin reed -- mostly that reed is an asshole. he might not be a great partner, but he's excellent at reading people, and every boast and bluster connor's uttered in defense of his boyfriend (ugh) seems like one rooted in denial and misery, like he's desperate to convince himself instead of rubbing hank's face into it like he's wholly entitled to.
it rankles, of course -- it pisses him off that connor isn't with him (which is entirely hank's doing, really), but what really gets under his skin is that connor sounds sad. he sounds miserable and sad and hank could have gone on his way as long as connor was happy. he really would have. wished them well and all that shit and stayed out of his business. but then reed dumped connor (of all things, why would one want to blow off someone like connor, soft and gorgeous and everything hank has ever desired, all wrapped in one person) for his friends and left him and look what's happened.
connor leans, and hank's breath catches. it's nothing, he tells himself, and he almost misses connor when he's out of his arms, watching him pull his sweater over his head as he enters, the glazed, warm, unguarded look in his eyes making his heart hurt something fierce.
god, but he really is beautiful. he might be a pain in the ass so often, but in a moment like this hank aches to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him close and give him something real to brag about. it's so easy to imagine that lazy smile in the morning, when connor wakes beside him, blinking slowly and coming awake the way the sun slowly rises. those flushed cheeks, the way his lips part, tasting, perhaps, of the alcohol he'd so recklessly chugged.
hank wants him, and he can never have him.
he's keeping an arm on his, holding him steady so that he doesn't hit his head anywhere. ]
Look at you, you're so damn drunk. [ he says instead of addressing that remark. his words are, surprisingly, without bite this time. he's stepping in this time, attempting to guide him to the couch where he can at least be seated. ] Sit down. C'mon.
( connor is so fucking sad, and if he ever admits it to himself he'll probably drown in it – but he's not there yet. he's still somewhere in between really busy and 'maybe something isn't' right and that's fine for now. even that is lured out with the alcohol though, and as fun as connor can be on those rare occasions that he actually gets out and gets drunk it's not so fun that he's immune to the ease at which a laugh can become a wince, can become a scowl, can become a cry.
but it's fine, because he's not sad yet.
connor is really fucking happy, and that should blare alarm bells and wave red flags all over the place. it shouldn't be important to him that hank walks into his apartment when he could quite easily have left him at the door. could have left him at the bar, although that's a bit of a stretch – even on his worst days hank was never malicious.
another wonderful quality held by his wonderful boyfriend, is the vicious and nasty and not wholly inaccurate thought that comes unbidden to connor as he rearranges the hold hank has on him and instead looping his arm around hank's so that he's the one holding onto the older man instead. there's got to be a metaphor in there would be the next nasty thought, but he just clings instead.
happy drunk. fun drunk. two glasses of wine and a chugged pint of beer drunk. connor smiles again, it's bright and brilliant and connor doesn't even look away when he reaches the couch. he doesn't sit down, and he doesn't take hank's hand either but he does squeeze his fingers just above the man's wrist. he does look at hank. he is standing closer than he thinks he remembers. )
Do you think I can still recite the bones of the hand like this?
[ connor is so fucking sad, and hank knows it to his bones. he doesn't smile genuinely all that much anymore, and when he does, it's fleeting and bittersweet, and hank doesn't look directly at him anymore because then the heartache sets in and never goes away.
he knows exactly how connor feels for him and how he feels for the man in turn, but neither of them are willing to take that leap of faith to turn it to something more. they could be good together, they might be a disaster in the making, but hank hasn't wanted to find out, wanted to preserve this precarious balance between them so badly that somehow he feels that he's fucked the hell up on this one.
he's in love with connor, fiercely, relentlessly so, but connor is too damn young to realise what he'll get into, the misery and regret -- and what will they do then?
so hank lets him cling, watches him smile and silently curses reed out for not knowing a fine thing when he has it, for not treating connor the way he ought to be treated. he's guiding him to sit on the couch, acutely aware of how close he is, and his mouth is dry when he chooses to take him up on that idle musing-- anything to take his mind off just how intimately close he is. ]
Try it for me, then.
[ he challenges softly, aching to brush that endearing wisp of stray hair from his face. he can't. if he does, he knows damn well he won't stop at just that. ]
( connor has been in love with hank for six months, one week and four days. he knows this because he's been trying to get over hank for six months, one week and three days. it's never been said out loud, but he knows. and he knows hank knows, which makes it so much worse. they stopped before they even started, hank built walls and connor wasn't bold enough to tear them down, and now he's just riddled with what if's.
what if hank had hurt him? what if he'd had to work as a junior doctor under the man that broke his heart? what if they had hated each other? what if connor had hurt hank? what if hank refused connor specialist opportunities because they ended painfully?
what if they'd been great.
but connor has enough alcohol coursing through him and making him brave. he resists the guide to the couch, instead lifting hank's hand by his wrist and raising it up between their face. he brings the other up and clasps the other man's hand gently, like he would a patient with a suspected fracture.
he's cradling hank's hand between his two, thumbs pressed lightly against the palm, and he applies a little more pressure, rubbing the centre of his palm. and then he brings them down to the base, just above hank's wrist, tracing gently over different spots along the hand as he speaks so softly, almost reverently. )
Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can't Handle. ( he struggles to maintain a serious face, because drunk connor is absolutely a child that giggles about sex stuff. when he speaks again he digs the nail of one of his thumbs above the spots of each bone. ) Scaphoid. Lunate. Triquetral. Pisiform. Trapezium. Trapezoid. Capitate. Hamate. Metacarpals one through five.
( and then, because he's drunk and he's brave and he's basically flirting with anatomy, he pushes the boundary they've firmly set for the last six months, one week, four days. not crossing it, not quite, but he's balancing dangerously. he smiles again, locking eyes with hank, and then he laces his fingers with the other man's and gently squeezes his hand. holding tight.
still watching him closely, he's basically whispering when he finishes. )
[ hank can barely take his eyes off him, inexplicably charmed by something he can rattle off in his sleep -- and apparently, so can connor while drunk off his ass and so giggly it's almost endearing when you don't take into account the alcohol.
his cheeks are flushed pink, eyes bright and mouth dewy, and hank tries not to think about the fact that if connor had been his, he would've carried him to bed and made love to him all fucking night long for looking like this. it's a revelation that makes hank despise reed even more, and he feels his breath catch when connor takes his hand in both of his, threading his fingers with his, sealing it with a word that should mean nothing, and yet.
what if they were great together, indeed. connor had left his own indelible mark on him, had actually made him want to be better, subconsciously. connor had slowly and steadily sanded some of his rough edges down. not enough for him to be a whole new person because people don't work that way, but even a veteran doctor like him had learned a thing or two from connor's relentless pursuit of excellence, of wanting to make a difference despite the odds.
connor is exactly who he cannot have, and right now every ounce of him is rebelling against it. he is so very beautiful, so soft and sweet, and hank is tortured, torn between his own burning desire and his sense of propriety.
connor has a boyfriend that's not him; hank had his chance and he had knowingly blown it, and as much as he despises reed this is worse.
look at him now, wanting another man's boyfriend so much that his chest aches. he squeezes his hand now, other hand coming to brush over his cheek, the line of his jaw before tracing over an elegant cheekbone. they're holding hands right here in his apartment and hank can't summon up the will to leave, to keep that wall right between them. ]
Connor.
[ is all he manages to say, strained and haunted -- and all he fucking wants is to have him. ]
( it's absolutely awful, but connor isn't thinking about gavin at all.
tomorrow, when the hangover makes him want to press his face into the freezer and never leave, this is the part that will sicken him the most. gavin hasn't even crossed his mind, not since hank stepped into his apartment, and when he painfully replays this night in his mind that is the fact that he'll try to bury and repress. connor has been seeing gavin for a few months now, they have each other's house keys. connor doesn't love him and there' more problems than he can count, but there's no denying that they are serious. connor has a boyfriend, but he holds hank's hand and gavin reed just...blinks out of existence.
hank touches connor's face and he honestly gasps. he clings to the hand tighter, the other coming up over hank's hand and holding it to his cheek tight. and then he slides it to cup his jaw. )
Mandible. ( this again. his voice is hushed, breathy if he's honest, and connor isn't entirely sure that he can breathe right now at all. his chest feels tight, his throat feels tight and constricted. acute onset of asthmatic symptoms exacerbated by rising adrenaline levels and ethyl alcohol consumption, his brain helpfully supplies – though it's wrong, connor isn't asthmatic, he's just so desperate for hank to touch him that he thinks he might burst with it. ) Zygomatic.
( he's moving hank's hand to the appropriate places as he speaks, now it's back to his cheekbone and connor's head tips just enough into the touch. he almost sighs, but he still has a shred of control left. or maybe he doesn't
hank's hand is moved again. he drags it until it is resting on his upper jaw below his nose, and when connor speaks his lips brush against hank's palm. risky, so fucking risky, he thinks that might not be pushing the line so much as toeing over it. fuck the line. )
[ hank isn't even paying attention to those words now -- they're all correct, but they're irrelevant in the silence between each of them, when connor lets on so much more than he's ever dreamed of. hank can read him like a book; he can recognise just how touch-starved he is, now he's fixated on nothing else but him.
and moments like these, moments like these make hank wonder what if, what if they were great together, what if hank had been brave enough to take a chance with him, what if he had the courage to make connor his instead of another fucker's who can't even be assed to take his inebriated, lovely morsel of a boyfriend back home.
he lets his hand be moved, smoothing over soft, supple skin, and god the line is blown right out when connor touches his lips to his palm. it's beyond dangerous, it's a spark lit to the powder underneath the both of them, and hank, hank is so tired of inaction, of escaping and running away, and under those intense brown eyes he finds he has nowhere to hide.
connor wants him, he wants him, and no amount of alcohol can hide that away from him, his inhibitions falling away and revealing that heartbreaking yearning, clear as day and written all over his expressive face, and hank makes a soft, tormented little sound before he's darting forward, sealing his mouth over his in a kiss.
fuck the line -- he has to taste him, the softness of those lips will haunt hank all the damn days of his life. ]
( there's about six seconds between hank's palm grazing connor's lips and the moment where the other man rushes him where connor's brain explodes. it's a wonder that he can do anything at all honestly, there's parts of him screeching BAD and screaming GOOD in equal measure. and then hank's lips find his and it all goes completely silent.
his reaction comes with a brief delay, in part the alcohol and in part the sheer fact that he's kissing hank anderson. this has been almost happening for so long; his heart is thundering in his throat. when he finally reacts, it's all at once. connor slips his hands up and catches hold of hank's face, cupping his cheeks and surging up against him. he raises up on his toes, kissing back with a clear edge of desperation. it's hot, so hot, and connor presses the entire length of his body up flush against hank.
the couch cushion bumps against his legs. connor immediately moves his hands to hank's hair instead, using the hold as leverage when he drops his weight towards the couch and drags hank down with him. )
[ connor tugs him down onto the couch and hank willingly goes with him, bracing himself on the back and arms and inadvertently caging connor down on it. he's a big guy, and the couch can barely take him, but he doesn't care.
he's finally, finally discovering for himself what connor tastes like, what his mouth feels like, and it's a hundred times more incredible than even his own most vivid imagination. he's kissing him like a man bereft of air, passionate and searing and a little rough, as if he's cramming months and months of longing into these few moments where nothing else matters.
nothing else matters -- not the hospital, not his job; only connor. hank might regret this tomorrow, but now, connor's opening up so sweetly under him, their mouths sealed and tongues sliding up against each other. he can also feel connor's hand in his hair, the intoxicating warmth of him and all he thinks is that this feels right, this feels so, so good that he's greedy for more, a hand cupping his face as he pauses to get air, and then kissing him again, equally desperate, equally wretched in this love for him.
he can feel connor's body melt against his, and hank finds himself cursed with the knowledge that he feels so perfect, fitting against every nook and cranny, filling in every deficiency hank possesses, and yet, connor is still not his to have.
he's continuing to kiss him, to lose himself in the touch, taste, smell of him -- call it madness, call it stupidity, he doesn't care as long as connor keeps making those adorable little noise and kissing him back. ]
( now that he's had this, connor doesn't know how he's ever supposed to go back. this is going to kill him tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that too, but right now connor is pretty sure that he's never felt more alive.
there's barely enough time, but connor gasps in a few quick shaky breaths when hank breaks for air. his chest shudders, and connor honestly can't tell if it's from a lack of air or just hank, hank, hank. the arms either side of him do nothing to help that. he should be more uncomfortable with feeling this trapped, feeling as if hank could just break him. connor is decidedly very comfortable with this.
part of him wants to say something, but connor's instincts all but shout that if the spell is broken it will be broken for good. connor isn't about to risk that just to moan some sweet nothing's against hank's lips, so he stays quiet and instead arches his body up into hank's. grinding would probably be too forward, might scare him off. so connor sighs into the kiss and winds his arms around hank's shoulders tighter, pulls him closer, trying to get every bit of him that hank will give.
so connor's greedy. it wouldn't be the first time he's heard it. )
[ this is going to kill them both tomorrow, probably -- hank finally giving in to what he's always wanted to do for the past six months, what he found he desperately needed to do, and yet here they are, doing what hank had told himself he could never allow himself to do, kissing connor like his life depends on it, pushing his tongue into his mouth and tasting the alcohol on it, savoring the tangy sweetness of his mouth and god he will never, never forget this for as long as he lives. there is an intoxication in finally indulging himself in forbidden fruit, and when he feels those arms wrap around him hank doesn't pull away.
he can't. it's as if connor has lured him into that silken trap and there is nothing to do but lean into it, taking a breath before he kisses him again, a hand boldly sliding up that firm, taught stomach under his shirt, resting over connor's pounding heart. hank's heart is pounding away too, blood rushing in his ears as he steals every kiss he can from that willing mouth, desperate and yearning and pouring every repressed emotion into the kiss. he can't think of anythign else, he can't think of how wrong this is, and how he's probably fucked things up all over again -- no, everything revolves around connor and his mouth and that sweet little sigh. he's curling up into hank and he feels wild, feels unhinged, feels self-destructive and god he can't keep himself away from him. ]
Tell me to stop.
[ he finally says when he parts again for air, his blue eyes intense and wild, dangerous. surely, connor can say no. ] If you want to, tell me --
( connor is out of breath, panting under hank and almost frozen in place by hank's gaze. connor stares hard into the other man's eyes, lips parted and heart thundering. he should stop this now. they can't go back, it's too late for that, but surely it's still salvageable at least. the damage has been done but it's not irreparable. he could...tolerate being around hank knowing what the man's lips feel like against his.
but he's been restrained for this long already, and what little resolve connor has is quickly crumbling as he gasps for air. his head spins in a dizzying rush, and his eyes drop to hank's lips. he knows as certainly as he knows his own name that he'll never tell hank to stop. he wants anything, everything, and while hank is willing to give it to him connor will lap up every scrap. )
Don't stop.
( he murmurs the words, voice heavy and throat tight as he stares, and stares, and then he tightens his arms around the older man and drags him down again. his lips crush against hank and he licks into his mouth with a fierce insistency. there's a frantic energy, entirely unlike the panting trembling mess he had been moments earlier.
connor is pressing now, rising against hank and digging his fingers into the man's hair. he tugs, not painfully but enough to sting, and digs his teeth into the mans lower lip. it's hard to get leverage off the couch, but connor manages the job anyway, enough to roll his hips slowly into hank's. he can't help but feel like hank will be the one to pull the plug – it clearly won't be boozy, thirsty connor – and connor wants as much as he can claim before hank tells him to stop. )
[ either connor has way too much faith in hank or he grossly underestimates just how much hank craves him, how fiercely he's desired him up until now, the ache an almost constant thing, he's so surprised it hasn't developed a life of its own yet.
he swallows a groan when connor just about demands that he not stop, wearing away at the tatters of his self-control. connor takes, and hank gives -- of course he gives, but demands more in turn. the softness of his mouth is intoxicating, the heat and press of his tongue makes his heart ache with renewed longing. it'll be worse for him now, too, now that he knows the shape of connor's desire, the flavour of it branded onto his skin.
if he says no to him, he'll come away from it knowing exactly what he's letting slip through his fingers. connor is a drug and hank has gone too long without. giving him the space to move up against him, hank reconnects with him again mercilessly, ruthlessly tugging him up in response to the pull at his hair.
jesus, they've only just kissed and connor already knows how to light every nerve on fire.
his hand comes to curl under his ass, pulling him up sharply as he firmly settles onto the couch, sure that he's rushing towards his own destruction. but oh, how it all feels so, so good that he wouldn't mind crashing and burning just like this.
he's hissing and pressing his tongue against his lips, his tongue, demanding entry, response, wanting to sear every iota of him into his memory. he's so turned on and it's so damn wrong, but connor feels too damn good for him to let him go.
not now, not yet. his hand slips from that ass to curl in his hair, too, tugging in turn and pulling him back, forcing him to bare his throat as he presses his mouth to it, ravenous. ]
( connor can't help himself. every time hank gives any indicators that he's willing to go further, connor grabs the sign and runs with it. he'd rather push until hank tells him to slow or spot than not take everything possible now that they're potentially on the cards.it took six months of heartache and a lot of alcohol on connor's part to finally get them here. who knows what, if anything, will make this happen again.
if this is the only time, connor will greedily take everything hank is willing to give him. and right now that feels like everything.
hank's hand is on connor's ass and he gives a short gasp against his mouth. it's permission to hold hank tighter and bring the older man with him as he shifts to lie back on the couch. once he's properly horizontal it's so much easier to get the angle right to grind his hips up into hank's roughly, and he's got no shame about the fact that he's already half-hard.
connor resists the tug at his hair, enough that it stings just a little when hank pulls, but after the moment of resistance he bares his throat quickly. when hank's lips touch his skin, connor rolls his hips up into hank's again. he can't stop the breathy moan that falls from his mouth, desperate and unbidden.
he wants to ask him for more, wants hank to bite and mark him, but at least one of them is off limits. so connor presses his hand to the back of hank's head and pulls him back to his throat, while wrapping a leg around hank's hips and digging his heel into the man's lower back insistently. )
[ there is everything terrible about this, from hank just about ravaging a tipsy connor on his couch to the fact that connor is very much attached -- to a man hank just about despises. so many reasons to stop this where it is, to nip this thing in the bud before it gets worse and it's impossible to explain away, but hank has turned away for too long, avoided the truth of connor's feelings and his own, and tonight it seems like all of this is rearing up with a vengeance.
it doesn't help, too, that connor clings so tightly to him, pulling him back and wrapping a leg around his hips, so much so that he can feel him, hard in his trousers just from this, is it? he finds a bruise, a fading one, and it's madness that takes over him when he bites over it, aware that it was probably a 'gift' gavin had left for him. hank takes these, too, feeling a perverse, forbidden rush of taking something from the man, of taking connor for himself.
he'll regret this, perhaps; or he won't. perhaps this will be yet another casualty on the list of bad decisions that hank seems to keep making, perhaps he won't. all he knows is that he needs him, that hank can't find it in himself to stop, especially not after that desperate, sweet, soft moan.
he's rearing up to kiss him deeply now, again, his own dick stiffening at how connor's grinding them both together, how he can feel him right there, and how can hank not take what's there, how can he stand back again and let him go? so he grasps connor and kisses him deeply, again and again, as desperate as he is, his other hand coming to tug on his belt buckle, his zipper, insistent and ferocious. he's held himself back too damn long, denied himself the incredible wonder of connor's embrace and he can't find it in himself to continue holding back.
( connor thinks, not at all dramatically, that if he doesn't get his hands on hank's skin he might die.
hank bites at connor's throat and in response connor's hips snap up against hank's, a ragged groan ripped from his throat. it's not enough, he needs more, and he's not worried with letting hank set the pace any more. connor wants him, more than he's wanted anyone before, and he's never been so convinced that he needed skin to skin contact.
connor's hands drop to hank's hem, and then one dips under the shirt to feel slowly up hank's stomach and chest as the other drops to his waistband. hank is already undoing himself and connor quickly helps the process along. he hooks his hand into the pants once they're undone, sliding around to grope hank's ass briefly before shoving the pants down as best as he can in this position.
he doesn't want to speak, something he's sure will break the moment, but he wants to let hank know just how badly he wants him, how pressing his need really is. so he doesn't even pull away from hank's desperate kissing, lips moving against hank's as he speaks straight into his mouth. )
Touch me, please. ( he sighs again, shoves at hank's pants again and grinds up harder. ) I need you.
[ if hank doesn't get to touch him properly, he definitely will die. he can practically hear that groan right to his dick, lovely and stunning and everything he's ever desired, and when connor feels him up hank knows he's lost.
he's lost to that seeking touch, to the way connor's fingers track over his heated skin, searing where it touches, and hank's reaching for connor's without thinking, when he pushes down his own pants so his dick's practically springing out, almost fully hard and flushed dark with arousal. he's pressing up against him, demanding and wanting, and when connor speaks against his mouth hank only growls. ]
Pants off. Off.
[ wrong, so wrong, but connor tells hank that he needs him and that's all hank thinks about. connor must not be wholly happy with reed, then, if he can say this to him, and perhaps hank might be doing the right thing here, saving connor from his misery. he's fumbling for connor's pants, unzipping him and tugging it down firmly, licking into his mouth to ravage it, and when he finally gets connor out, his hand comes to curl around his dick.
he wants to feel him, to touch him, to hear him whine and moan and curl around him. he loves being needed by connor like this, like he's the only one who can grant him absolution, and he nips at his tongue softly. ]
( hank's cock springs free from his pants and connor honest to god moans at the sight, a move that makes him feel more like a horny, lusty med school slut than a distinguished doctor in his own right. he doesn't much care though, because as soon as hank is free the man is working to get connor out of his pants too.
he's only too happy to assist, shoving them down at the back as hank handles the zipper and button, and once his own dick is out of his pants connor quickly focuses his attention on getting them down enough that his ass is out too. not that he has plans in mind for how this needs to go now, or anything.
( he definitely plans on hank fucking him until he can't walk, if the other man is agreeable )
with his pants down just about enough, connor brings one hand back up to the back of hank's neck, holding him close and kissing him hard to muffle the sounds. connor has always been vocal, and while that's fine in some situations sometimes it's a little...embarrassing. he's already writhing and pleading with hank, he doesn't need to be moaning and whining at every tiny touch too.
he grasps the man's cock, grip firm, and when he realises his fingers don't fully reach around his girth connor moans again. still, it doesn't stop connor from slowly pumping his fist slowly along hank's length, hips rocking into hank's hand and teeth nibbling along hank's lower lip sweetly as he formulates a coherent reply. )
Don't wait any longer then. ( he murmurs, squeezing hank's cock a little harder than is strictly pleasurable, and he drops his body fully back down to the couch, space appearing between them as he looks up at hank. all intensity, lust, need. god, he hasn't burned with desire like this in a long time. ) Make me yours.
[ make me yours, and connor seals it just as much as hank does, when he squeezes his cock and hank goes out of his his mind with lust, with his own irrepressible desire for all that connor is. he's groaning now, low and wrecked and so entirely gone for the sake of connor's pleasure, caught on just how delicious he sounds, how he feels.
it's too late to turn back now, too late to explain that it's a fluke without breaking something between them, and hank finds that he doesn't want to, even if he can, so he's rocking his hips into connor's lovely hand, thrusting deliberately into him as if proving yes, yes, he's definitely fucking bigger, and he can't help the thudding of his heart. however, he knows he must do something better than this -- he has to, because this couch is too small for the both of them, and hank fully intends to make this one count if he's going to be doing a shitty thing, anyway.
so he moves, away. not far enough to deny connor, but enough to make a point. and fuck, oh, hank knows exactly what he's doing. ]
Bed. Not here.
[ bed, where reed ostensibly fucks connor -- bed, where hank will defile it all over again and where connor will remember the memory of this night branded into every ounce of him. ]
( when hank moves away from him there's a moment where connor's eyes widen and he reaches out quickly, one hand still on hank's dick as the other grabs hold of the first thing it reaches. it's hank's upper arm, and he grips tightly, and – oh.
hank says bed and connor's hand immediately loosens – doesn't let go, but he's not digging his fingers in hard enough to leave little red marks now. hank isn't pulling away, he's just relocating, and as soon as the idea is put out there connor is seized with thoughts of hank in his bed. just like that, connor knows he has to have him in there. just once, just this time, just to know what it could have been like.
just once, and then never again.
connor quickly surges up, presses his lips up against hank's into a clumsy kiss that lands closer to the corner of hank's mouth than his lips. he manages to get up to his knees on the couch without ever having to let go of hank's cock, quite an achievement really considering he's still pretty damn tipsy, and once he's up like that he presses their chests together, leaning in and resting his forehead against hank's. he craves the contact, pressing himself up against hank and struggling to think of any scenario where he isn't touching hank. they've got to get to the bedroom somehow, but it's so far away. )
Yes. Yes. ( connor mumbles quickly, finally letting go of hank's dick and cupping both of his cheeks again. this time the kiss lands on target, and he's quick to deepen it, licking into hank's mouth and brushing his tongue against the older man's teasingly.
just like that connor pulls away entirely, tugs his pants back up over his hips so that he can actually walk unencumbered, and gestures for hank to follow. ) This way.
( he smiles, heated and so, so turned on. he's hard enough for his pants to tent over his erection, and when he turns to walk to his room without checking to make sure hank follows he's already pressing the heel of his hand into his crotch to give himself a taste of friction to grind against. it kills him not to check for hank behind him, but connor manages to get into the bedroom without looking.
and once he's in there, he shoves his hand down the front of his pants and quickly draws his cock out, lazily pumping down the length with his eyes closed as he stands in his bedroom, waiting for hank. )
[ hank is unable to help himself, barreling towards what is surely mutually assured destruction. connor pulls away and moves ahead of him and a part of hank wonders if connor is regretting it -- it doesn't look like he is, even when he pulls his pants back up. the line of the younger doctor's back is impossibly attractive; supple and sleek and made just for fucking, to be put on his back and pounded until he's giddy with it.
he entertains those thoughts as he follows after him, and it's a welcome sight when connor draws his cock out -- it means that he's as serious as hank is and they're most definitely cheating on gavin and hank doesn't bring himself to care. his connor is getting off in front of him, shameless and innocently sweet all at once, and hank can't help but close the distance between them, grasping his chin and tilting his face up to his firmly.
he kisses him now, deeply and passionately, wanting the slide of his tongue against his, wanting not to think as he pushes connor's pants off, then his own. there are too many clothes between them, and he's waited too damn long to be thwarted from what he wants. ]
Off.
[ he almost snarls, backing him towards the foot of the bed. ]
Everything -- get naked.
[ he's dreamed of this moment for so long, so damn long that he doesn't want to give it up now; he wants to see all of him, he wants him, and everything about this is like a page out of his wettest dreams because fuck if connor isn't wholly fuckable, if people won't go to their knees just for him. ]
( hank takes hold of his chin, tips his head, and connor opens his eyes – half-opens, really, he's still lazily stroking his erection and it's hard to do much more than that – but when hank kisses him connor stops touching himself long enough to help shove his pants back down.
and he's backing him to the bed, ordering him around, and heat immediately pools in his abdomen, his dick twitches and he complies without so much as a whisper of protest. he sheds his shirt, doesn't even bother to tease, and though he takes a moment to fold it before dropping it on the floor, the pants don't get any of the same care. he kicks his pants and underwear off his ankles, tossing them away quickly.
now he's fully naked, so hard he thinks it might start to hurt soon, and he levels his eyes at hank. he's not drunk any more, it's been enough time that he's just tipsy now and he doesn't sway as he looks at hank with a heady, lusty gaze that just screams desire. this has been the object of a number of fantasies he's had – ones he's been having since he met hank, if he's being honest. )
How do you want me? ( he asks, a slight smirk curving at his lips as his hand comes back to his cock, though he doesn't actually start stroking himself again, just gripping it now. ) Just– take me Hank, however you want. Ruin me, please.
( okay, maybe he's a little more than tipsy. or maybe hank is just able to get connor to ask for exactly what he wants. )
[ it's in this moment that hank knows there's no turning back. connor is looking back at him, clear-eyed and determined, and hank should probably feel guilty about fucking someone behind his boyfriend's back -- he's never really been that kind of guy until connor came along, with all his bad decisions and wearing his heart on his sleeve -- and he decides fuck it.
fuck it, because he's always wanted connor more than he's wanted anything else, and he shoves aside that pang of conscience before he shoves him to the bed, crawling in above him as he gives him a hungry, ravenous once-over. connor is beautiful, so beautiful tonight that his breath catches in his throat. the scant light from the windows illuminate his fair, fair skin, the smattering of moles and freckles only serving to make him more comely.
and then he's grasping his cock, and while hank knows alcohol tends to have the opposite effect on dicks, it's heartening to know that connor's already hard. he's leaning down to kiss him just to shut him up, his hand curling around connor's to join him, tightening briefly so that he can thrust into it. ]
Want you on your back. [ he tells him gruffly. ] You're looking at only me when I fuck you.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
why are we still in denial when we know we're not happy here.
unfortunately, so does the very desirable object of his unresolved sexual tension: connor detroit and his fucking asshole of a boyfriend, reed. as if seeing them both around the hospital isn't enough to set him on edge, they have to be here, too. connor's too good for reed in so many ways, and yet it's no longer hank's place to say a damn thing, not when he doesn't deserve connor either. it's a good thing that he's moved on from hank, right? after all, what can hank truly offer him, really? he's a difficult man, damaged and bitter and his relationships have always just about ended similarly.
the only thing he has going for him is his skill -- and perhaps that charm; the intensity of his own principles and humanity, but that does not a perfect partner make. and connor deserves one who can love him properly, who isn't as rough around the edges as hank is.
so he's nursing his drink when he'd witnessed the whole thing go down: reed blows his ridiculously beautiful boyfriend off for another bar downtown with the guys, connor is dismayed, and shortly after gets hit on by someone else and is naturally trusting enough not to pay attention to his drink.
hank does, even when he looks like he doesn't care. he's keeping a protective watch on him because of the kind of bar this is, and when his new companion reaches behind him and empties a small vial of something into his drink behind his back is when he's decided he's had enough of it. hank is large and tall enough that most others instinctively back away when they see him -- especially when he decides to pull himself to his full height. nobody wants to fuck with him, especially not the individual that's somehow intent on drugging the hell out of connor for whatever reasons. he'd stepped between them, then, intimidated that asshole into backing down, shamed him for the attempted roofie before quietly offering to take connor home.
he knows he shouldn't, that he should probably get someone else to do that, but this is connor, and hank can't let go even if he should -- and this is why they're here, right in front of connor's apartment door and hank fighting valiantly not to think of all the things they could do if only hank had been less stubborn, less fucked up and oh, what if he'd finally given in, just pressed a kiss to those lush, soft lips, so full and soft and --
-- no. he's here to be a good guy, not give in to his base, raging desires. so what if he's wanted him for as long as he remembers? so what if there never was a night when he hadn't desired him, wanted him, jealous of the fucking bastard reed for having connor in his bed instead of hank's?
he swallows hard, and pushes those thoughts away, deciding to ask instead: ]
You got your keys?
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( which he won, not that it makes a difference. )
it's just that the bragging doesn't really feel like bragging, as if shining a light on his relationship has just revealed how tarnished it really is. 'he lets me have my freedom' reveals how little time they spend together, 'he understands my job' just means they don't have much in common, 'he's so passionate' is just a nice way to say he's a moody bitch most of the time.
they arrive at connor's door right about at the same moment he arrives at the conclusion that gavin is an asshole. because he's fine, tonight could be either a funny or a scary anecdote that he'll tell one of the other residents at work tomorrow. but the scenario where things went really badly was only prevented by hank. it's not a pleasant thought, and when he starts digging through his pockets he uses the excuse to stabilise himself against hank's shoulder with a hand. )
Somewhere, hang on–
( he snorts slightly, checking jacket pockets again, patting them down until he's checked them all twice. and that's right about when he finds them in the back pocket of his jeans. the first one he had checked, naturally. connor pulls them out and smiles lazily up at hank as he dangles them on one finger. )
Would you look at that.
( he's squinting at the keys now though, flipping through several without recognition before he just shoves the whole set into hank's hand and all out leans his entire shoulder against hank's. coaches hank through the process of finding the right key to his door, and in a moment of pure dignity almost walks directly into his own wall as he decides on the bright idea of pulling his sweater over his head at the same time as entering through the doorway. he gets his head out just in time to save himself a serious bruise and instead swerves and stumbles at the last minute. his cheeks flushed, a little embarrassed but mostly just warm. )
You got me home, Doctor Anderson. ( he smirks, giving a little salute and locking his eyes on hank's closely. he sways a little, but he stays standing at least. ) Your good deed for the year, done. Right?
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it rankles, of course -- it pisses him off that connor isn't with him (which is entirely hank's doing, really), but what really gets under his skin is that connor sounds sad. he sounds miserable and sad and hank could have gone on his way as long as connor was happy. he really would have. wished them well and all that shit and stayed out of his business. but then reed dumped connor (of all things, why would one want to blow off someone like connor, soft and gorgeous and everything hank has ever desired, all wrapped in one person) for his friends and left him and look what's happened.
connor leans, and hank's breath catches. it's nothing, he tells himself, and he almost misses connor when he's out of his arms, watching him pull his sweater over his head as he enters, the glazed, warm, unguarded look in his eyes making his heart hurt something fierce.
god, but he really is beautiful. he might be a pain in the ass so often, but in a moment like this hank aches to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him close and give him something real to brag about. it's so easy to imagine that lazy smile in the morning, when connor wakes beside him, blinking slowly and coming awake the way the sun slowly rises. those flushed cheeks, the way his lips part, tasting, perhaps, of the alcohol he'd so recklessly chugged.
hank wants him, and he can never have him.
he's keeping an arm on his, holding him steady so that he doesn't hit his head anywhere. ]
Look at you, you're so damn drunk. [ he says instead of addressing that remark. his words are, surprisingly, without bite this time. he's stepping in this time, attempting to guide him to the couch where he can at least be seated. ] Sit down. C'mon.
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but it's fine, because he's not sad yet.
connor is really fucking happy, and that should blare alarm bells and wave red flags all over the place. it shouldn't be important to him that hank walks into his apartment when he could quite easily have left him at the door. could have left him at the bar, although that's a bit of a stretch – even on his worst days hank was never malicious.
another wonderful quality held by his wonderful boyfriend, is the vicious and nasty and not wholly inaccurate thought that comes unbidden to connor as he rearranges the hold hank has on him and instead looping his arm around hank's so that he's the one holding onto the older man instead. there's got to be a metaphor in there would be the next nasty thought, but he just clings instead.
happy drunk. fun drunk. two glasses of wine and a chugged pint of beer drunk. connor smiles again, it's bright and brilliant and connor doesn't even look away when he reaches the couch. he doesn't sit down, and he doesn't take hank's hand either but he does squeeze his fingers just above the man's wrist. he does look at hank. he is standing closer than he thinks he remembers. )
Do you think I can still recite the bones of the hand like this?
( he's so damn drunk. )
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he knows exactly how connor feels for him and how he feels for the man in turn, but neither of them are willing to take that leap of faith to turn it to something more. they could be good together, they might be a disaster in the making, but hank hasn't wanted to find out, wanted to preserve this precarious balance between them so badly that somehow he feels that he's fucked the hell up on this one.
he's in love with connor, fiercely, relentlessly so, but connor is too damn young to realise what he'll get into, the misery and regret -- and what will they do then?
so hank lets him cling, watches him smile and silently curses reed out for not knowing a fine thing when he has it, for not treating connor the way he ought to be treated. he's guiding him to sit on the couch, acutely aware of how close he is, and his mouth is dry when he chooses to take him up on that idle musing-- anything to take his mind off just how intimately close he is. ]
Try it for me, then.
[ he challenges softly, aching to brush that endearing wisp of stray hair from his face. he can't. if he does, he knows damn well he won't stop at just that. ]
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what if hank had hurt him? what if he'd had to work as a junior doctor under the man that broke his heart? what if they had hated each other? what if connor had hurt hank? what if hank refused connor specialist opportunities because they ended painfully?
what if they'd been great.
but connor has enough alcohol coursing through him and making him brave. he resists the guide to the couch, instead lifting hank's hand by his wrist and raising it up between their face. he brings the other up and clasps the other man's hand gently, like he would a patient with a suspected fracture.
he's cradling hank's hand between his two, thumbs pressed lightly against the palm, and he applies a little more pressure, rubbing the centre of his palm. and then he brings them down to the base, just above hank's wrist, tracing gently over different spots along the hand as he speaks so softly, almost reverently. )
Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can't Handle. ( he struggles to maintain a serious face, because drunk connor is absolutely a child that giggles about sex stuff. when he speaks again he digs the nail of one of his thumbs above the spots of each bone. ) Scaphoid. Lunate. Triquetral. Pisiform. Trapezium. Trapezoid. Capitate. Hamate. Metacarpals one through five.
( and then, because he's drunk and he's brave and he's basically flirting with anatomy, he pushes the boundary they've firmly set for the last six months, one week, four days. not crossing it, not quite, but he's balancing dangerously. he smiles again, locking eyes with hank, and then he laces his fingers with the other man's and gently squeezes his hand. holding tight.
still watching him closely, he's basically whispering when he finishes. )
Phalanges...
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his cheeks are flushed pink, eyes bright and mouth dewy, and hank tries not to think about the fact that if connor had been his, he would've carried him to bed and made love to him all fucking night long for looking like this. it's a revelation that makes hank despise reed even more, and he feels his breath catch when connor takes his hand in both of his, threading his fingers with his, sealing it with a word that should mean nothing, and yet.
what if they were great together, indeed. connor had left his own indelible mark on him, had actually made him want to be better, subconsciously. connor had slowly and steadily sanded some of his rough edges down. not enough for him to be a whole new person because people don't work that way, but even a veteran doctor like him had learned a thing or two from connor's relentless pursuit of excellence, of wanting to make a difference despite the odds.
connor is exactly who he cannot have, and right now every ounce of him is rebelling against it. he is so very beautiful, so soft and sweet, and hank is tortured, torn between his own burning desire and his sense of propriety.
connor has a boyfriend that's not him; hank had his chance and he had knowingly blown it, and as much as he despises reed this is worse.
look at him now, wanting another man's boyfriend so much that his chest aches. he squeezes his hand now, other hand coming to brush over his cheek, the line of his jaw before tracing over an elegant cheekbone. they're holding hands right here in his apartment and hank can't summon up the will to leave, to keep that wall right between them. ]
Connor.
[ is all he manages to say, strained and haunted -- and all he fucking wants is to have him. ]
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tomorrow, when the hangover makes him want to press his face into the freezer and never leave, this is the part that will sicken him the most. gavin hasn't even crossed his mind, not since hank stepped into his apartment, and when he painfully replays this night in his mind that is the fact that he'll try to bury and repress. connor has been seeing gavin for a few months now, they have each other's house keys. connor doesn't love him and there' more problems than he can count, but there's no denying that they are serious. connor has a boyfriend, but he holds hank's hand and gavin reed just...blinks out of existence.
hank touches connor's face and he honestly gasps. he clings to the hand tighter, the other coming up over hank's hand and holding it to his cheek tight. and then he slides it to cup his jaw. )
Mandible. ( this again. his voice is hushed, breathy if he's honest, and connor isn't entirely sure that he can breathe right now at all. his chest feels tight, his throat feels tight and constricted. acute onset of asthmatic symptoms exacerbated by rising adrenaline levels and ethyl alcohol consumption, his brain helpfully supplies – though it's wrong, connor isn't asthmatic, he's just so desperate for hank to touch him that he thinks he might burst with it. ) Zygomatic.
( he's moving hank's hand to the appropriate places as he speaks, now it's back to his cheekbone and connor's head tips just enough into the touch. he almost sighs, but he still has a shred of control left. or maybe he doesn't
hank's hand is moved again. he drags it until it is resting on his upper jaw below his nose, and when connor speaks his lips brush against hank's palm. risky, so fucking risky, he thinks that might not be pushing the line so much as toeing over it. fuck the line. )
Maxilla.
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and moments like these, moments like these make hank wonder what if, what if they were great together, what if hank had been brave enough to take a chance with him, what if he had the courage to make connor his instead of another fucker's who can't even be assed to take his inebriated, lovely morsel of a boyfriend back home.
he lets his hand be moved, smoothing over soft, supple skin, and god the line is blown right out when connor touches his lips to his palm. it's beyond dangerous, it's a spark lit to the powder underneath the both of them, and hank, hank is so tired of inaction, of escaping and running away, and under those intense brown eyes he finds he has nowhere to hide.
connor wants him, he wants him, and no amount of alcohol can hide that away from him, his inhibitions falling away and revealing that heartbreaking yearning, clear as day and written all over his expressive face, and hank makes a soft, tormented little sound before he's darting forward, sealing his mouth over his in a kiss.
fuck the line -- he has to taste him, the softness of those lips will haunt hank all the damn days of his life. ]
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his reaction comes with a brief delay, in part the alcohol and in part the sheer fact that he's kissing hank anderson. this has been almost happening for so long; his heart is thundering in his throat. when he finally reacts, it's all at once. connor slips his hands up and catches hold of hank's face, cupping his cheeks and surging up against him. he raises up on his toes, kissing back with a clear edge of desperation. it's hot, so hot, and connor presses the entire length of his body up flush against hank.
the couch cushion bumps against his legs. connor immediately moves his hands to hank's hair instead, using the hold as leverage when he drops his weight towards the couch and drags hank down with him. )
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he's finally, finally discovering for himself what connor tastes like, what his mouth feels like, and it's a hundred times more incredible than even his own most vivid imagination. he's kissing him like a man bereft of air, passionate and searing and a little rough, as if he's cramming months and months of longing into these few moments where nothing else matters.
nothing else matters -- not the hospital, not his job; only connor. hank might regret this tomorrow, but now, connor's opening up so sweetly under him, their mouths sealed and tongues sliding up against each other. he can also feel connor's hand in his hair, the intoxicating warmth of him and all he thinks is that this feels right, this feels so, so good that he's greedy for more, a hand cupping his face as he pauses to get air, and then kissing him again, equally desperate, equally wretched in this love for him.
he can feel connor's body melt against his, and hank finds himself cursed with the knowledge that he feels so perfect, fitting against every nook and cranny, filling in every deficiency hank possesses, and yet, connor is still not his to have.
he's continuing to kiss him, to lose himself in the touch, taste, smell of him -- call it madness, call it stupidity, he doesn't care as long as connor keeps making those adorable little noise and kissing him back. ]
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there's barely enough time, but connor gasps in a few quick shaky breaths when hank breaks for air. his chest shudders, and connor honestly can't tell if it's from a lack of air or just hank, hank, hank. the arms either side of him do nothing to help that. he should be more uncomfortable with feeling this trapped, feeling as if hank could just break him. connor is decidedly very comfortable with this.
part of him wants to say something, but connor's instincts all but shout that if the spell is broken it will be broken for good. connor isn't about to risk that just to moan some sweet nothing's against hank's lips, so he stays quiet and instead arches his body up into hank's. grinding would probably be too forward, might scare him off. so connor sighs into the kiss and winds his arms around hank's shoulders tighter, pulls him closer, trying to get every bit of him that hank will give.
so connor's greedy. it wouldn't be the first time he's heard it. )
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he can't. it's as if connor has lured him into that silken trap and there is nothing to do but lean into it, taking a breath before he kisses him again, a hand boldly sliding up that firm, taught stomach under his shirt, resting over connor's pounding heart. hank's heart is pounding away too, blood rushing in his ears as he steals every kiss he can from that willing mouth, desperate and yearning and pouring every repressed emotion into the kiss. he can't think of anythign else, he can't think of how wrong this is, and how he's probably fucked things up all over again -- no, everything revolves around connor and his mouth and that sweet little sigh. he's curling up into hank and he feels wild, feels unhinged, feels self-destructive and god he can't keep himself away from him. ]
Tell me to stop.
[ he finally says when he parts again for air, his blue eyes intense and wild, dangerous. surely, connor can say no. ] If you want to, tell me --
[ turns out, connor isn't the only greedy one. ]
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( connor is out of breath, panting under hank and almost frozen in place by hank's gaze. connor stares hard into the other man's eyes, lips parted and heart thundering. he should stop this now. they can't go back, it's too late for that, but surely it's still salvageable at least. the damage has been done but it's not irreparable. he could...tolerate being around hank knowing what the man's lips feel like against his.
but he's been restrained for this long already, and what little resolve connor has is quickly crumbling as he gasps for air. his head spins in a dizzying rush, and his eyes drop to hank's lips. he knows as certainly as he knows his own name that he'll never tell hank to stop. he wants anything, everything, and while hank is willing to give it to him connor will lap up every scrap. )
Don't stop.
( he murmurs the words, voice heavy and throat tight as he stares, and stares, and then he tightens his arms around the older man and drags him down again. his lips crush against hank and he licks into his mouth with a fierce insistency. there's a frantic energy, entirely unlike the panting trembling mess he had been moments earlier.
connor is pressing now, rising against hank and digging his fingers into the man's hair. he tugs, not painfully but enough to sting, and digs his teeth into the mans lower lip. it's hard to get leverage off the couch, but connor manages the job anyway, enough to roll his hips slowly into hank's. he can't help but feel like hank will be the one to pull the plug – it clearly won't be boozy, thirsty connor – and connor wants as much as he can claim before hank tells him to stop. )
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he swallows a groan when connor just about demands that he not stop, wearing away at the tatters of his self-control. connor takes, and hank gives -- of course he gives, but demands more in turn. the softness of his mouth is intoxicating, the heat and press of his tongue makes his heart ache with renewed longing. it'll be worse for him now, too, now that he knows the shape of connor's desire, the flavour of it branded onto his skin.
if he says no to him, he'll come away from it knowing exactly what he's letting slip through his fingers. connor is a drug and hank has gone too long without. giving him the space to move up against him, hank reconnects with him again mercilessly, ruthlessly tugging him up in response to the pull at his hair.
jesus, they've only just kissed and connor already knows how to light every nerve on fire.
his hand comes to curl under his ass, pulling him up sharply as he firmly settles onto the couch, sure that he's rushing towards his own destruction. but oh, how it all feels so, so good that he wouldn't mind crashing and burning just like this.
he's hissing and pressing his tongue against his lips, his tongue, demanding entry, response, wanting to sear every iota of him into his memory. he's so turned on and it's so damn wrong, but connor feels too damn good for him to let him go.
not now, not yet. his hand slips from that ass to curl in his hair, too, tugging in turn and pulling him back, forcing him to bare his throat as he presses his mouth to it, ravenous. ]
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if this is the only time, connor will greedily take everything hank is willing to give him. and right now that feels like everything.
hank's hand is on connor's ass and he gives a short gasp against his mouth. it's permission to hold hank tighter and bring the older man with him as he shifts to lie back on the couch. once he's properly horizontal it's so much easier to get the angle right to grind his hips up into hank's roughly, and he's got no shame about the fact that he's already half-hard.
connor resists the tug at his hair, enough that it stings just a little when hank pulls, but after the moment of resistance he bares his throat quickly. when hank's lips touch his skin, connor rolls his hips up into hank's again. he can't stop the breathy moan that falls from his mouth, desperate and unbidden.
he wants to ask him for more, wants hank to bite and mark him, but at least one of them is off limits. so connor presses his hand to the back of hank's head and pulls him back to his throat, while wrapping a leg around hank's hips and digging his heel into the man's lower back insistently. )
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it doesn't help, too, that connor clings so tightly to him, pulling him back and wrapping a leg around his hips, so much so that he can feel him, hard in his trousers just from this, is it? he finds a bruise, a fading one, and it's madness that takes over him when he bites over it, aware that it was probably a 'gift' gavin had left for him. hank takes these, too, feeling a perverse, forbidden rush of taking something from the man, of taking connor for himself.
he'll regret this, perhaps; or he won't. perhaps this will be yet another casualty on the list of bad decisions that hank seems to keep making, perhaps he won't. all he knows is that he needs him, that hank can't find it in himself to stop, especially not after that desperate, sweet, soft moan.
he's rearing up to kiss him deeply now, again, his own dick stiffening at how connor's grinding them both together, how he can feel him right there, and how can hank not take what's there, how can he stand back again and let him go? so he grasps connor and kisses him deeply, again and again, as desperate as he is, his other hand coming to tug on his belt buckle, his zipper, insistent and ferocious. he's held himself back too damn long, denied himself the incredible wonder of connor's embrace and he can't find it in himself to continue holding back.
hurry. hurry the fuck up. ]
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hank bites at connor's throat and in response connor's hips snap up against hank's, a ragged groan ripped from his throat. it's not enough, he needs more, and he's not worried with letting hank set the pace any more. connor wants him, more than he's wanted anyone before, and he's never been so convinced that he needed skin to skin contact.
connor's hands drop to hank's hem, and then one dips under the shirt to feel slowly up hank's stomach and chest as the other drops to his waistband. hank is already undoing himself and connor quickly helps the process along. he hooks his hand into the pants once they're undone, sliding around to grope hank's ass briefly before shoving the pants down as best as he can in this position.
he doesn't want to speak, something he's sure will break the moment, but he wants to let hank know just how badly he wants him, how pressing his need really is. so he doesn't even pull away from hank's desperate kissing, lips moving against hank's as he speaks straight into his mouth. )
Touch me, please. ( he sighs again, shoves at hank's pants again and grinds up harder. ) I need you.
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he's lost to that seeking touch, to the way connor's fingers track over his heated skin, searing where it touches, and hank's reaching for connor's without thinking, when he pushes down his own pants so his dick's practically springing out, almost fully hard and flushed dark with arousal. he's pressing up against him, demanding and wanting, and when connor speaks against his mouth hank only growls. ]
Pants off. Off.
[ wrong, so wrong, but connor tells hank that he needs him and that's all hank thinks about. connor must not be wholly happy with reed, then, if he can say this to him, and perhaps hank might be doing the right thing here, saving connor from his misery. he's fumbling for connor's pants, unzipping him and tugging it down firmly, licking into his mouth to ravage it, and when he finally gets connor out, his hand comes to curl around his dick.
he wants to feel him, to touch him, to hear him whine and moan and curl around him. he loves being needed by connor like this, like he's the only one who can grant him absolution, and he nips at his tongue softly. ]
Waited too long.
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he's only too happy to assist, shoving them down at the back as hank handles the zipper and button, and once his own dick is out of his pants connor quickly focuses his attention on getting them down enough that his ass is out too. not that he has plans in mind for how this needs to go now, or anything.
( he definitely plans on hank fucking him until he can't walk, if the other man is agreeable )
with his pants down just about enough, connor brings one hand back up to the back of hank's neck, holding him close and kissing him hard to muffle the sounds. connor has always been vocal, and while that's fine in some situations sometimes it's a little...embarrassing. he's already writhing and pleading with hank, he doesn't need to be moaning and whining at every tiny touch too.
he grasps the man's cock, grip firm, and when he realises his fingers don't fully reach around his girth connor moans again. still, it doesn't stop connor from slowly pumping his fist slowly along hank's length, hips rocking into hank's hand and teeth nibbling along hank's lower lip sweetly as he formulates a coherent reply. )
Don't wait any longer then. ( he murmurs, squeezing hank's cock a little harder than is strictly pleasurable, and he drops his body fully back down to the couch, space appearing between them as he looks up at hank. all intensity, lust, need. god, he hasn't burned with desire like this in a long time. ) Make me yours.
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it's too late to turn back now, too late to explain that it's a fluke without breaking something between them, and hank finds that he doesn't want to, even if he can, so he's rocking his hips into connor's lovely hand, thrusting deliberately into him as if proving yes, yes, he's definitely fucking bigger, and he can't help the thudding of his heart. however, he knows he must do something better than this -- he has to, because this couch is too small for the both of them, and hank fully intends to make this one count if he's going to be doing a shitty thing, anyway.
so he moves, away. not far enough to deny connor, but enough to make a point. and fuck, oh, hank knows exactly what he's doing. ]
Bed. Not here.
[ bed, where reed ostensibly fucks connor -- bed, where hank will defile it all over again and where connor will remember the memory of this night branded into every ounce of him. ]
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hank says bed and connor's hand immediately loosens – doesn't let go, but he's not digging his fingers in hard enough to leave little red marks now. hank isn't pulling away, he's just relocating, and as soon as the idea is put out there connor is seized with thoughts of hank in his bed. just like that, connor knows he has to have him in there. just once, just this time, just to know what it could have been like.
just once, and then never again.
connor quickly surges up, presses his lips up against hank's into a clumsy kiss that lands closer to the corner of hank's mouth than his lips. he manages to get up to his knees on the couch without ever having to let go of hank's cock, quite an achievement really considering he's still pretty damn tipsy, and once he's up like that he presses their chests together, leaning in and resting his forehead against hank's. he craves the contact, pressing himself up against hank and struggling to think of any scenario where he isn't touching hank. they've got to get to the bedroom somehow, but it's so far away. )
Yes. Yes. ( connor mumbles quickly, finally letting go of hank's dick and cupping both of his cheeks again. this time the kiss lands on target, and he's quick to deepen it, licking into hank's mouth and brushing his tongue against the older man's teasingly.
just like that connor pulls away entirely, tugs his pants back up over his hips so that he can actually walk unencumbered, and gestures for hank to follow. ) This way.
( he smiles, heated and so, so turned on. he's hard enough for his pants to tent over his erection, and when he turns to walk to his room without checking to make sure hank follows he's already pressing the heel of his hand into his crotch to give himself a taste of friction to grind against. it kills him not to check for hank behind him, but connor manages to get into the bedroom without looking.
and once he's in there, he shoves his hand down the front of his pants and quickly draws his cock out, lazily pumping down the length with his eyes closed as he stands in his bedroom, waiting for hank. )
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he entertains those thoughts as he follows after him, and it's a welcome sight when connor draws his cock out -- it means that he's as serious as hank is and they're most definitely cheating on gavin and hank doesn't bring himself to care. his connor is getting off in front of him, shameless and innocently sweet all at once, and hank can't help but close the distance between them, grasping his chin and tilting his face up to his firmly.
he kisses him now, deeply and passionately, wanting the slide of his tongue against his, wanting not to think as he pushes connor's pants off, then his own. there are too many clothes between them, and he's waited too damn long to be thwarted from what he wants. ]
Off.
[ he almost snarls, backing him towards the foot of the bed. ]
Everything -- get naked.
[ he's dreamed of this moment for so long, so damn long that he doesn't want to give it up now; he wants to see all of him, he wants him, and everything about this is like a page out of his wettest dreams because fuck if connor isn't wholly fuckable, if people won't go to their knees just for him. ]
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and he's backing him to the bed, ordering him around, and heat immediately pools in his abdomen, his dick twitches and he complies without so much as a whisper of protest. he sheds his shirt, doesn't even bother to tease, and though he takes a moment to fold it before dropping it on the floor, the pants don't get any of the same care. he kicks his pants and underwear off his ankles, tossing them away quickly.
now he's fully naked, so hard he thinks it might start to hurt soon, and he levels his eyes at hank. he's not drunk any more, it's been enough time that he's just tipsy now and he doesn't sway as he looks at hank with a heady, lusty gaze that just screams desire. this has been the object of a number of fantasies he's had – ones he's been having since he met hank, if he's being honest. )
How do you want me? ( he asks, a slight smirk curving at his lips as his hand comes back to his cock, though he doesn't actually start stroking himself again, just gripping it now. ) Just– take me Hank, however you want. Ruin me, please.
( okay, maybe he's a little more than tipsy. or maybe hank is just able to get connor to ask for exactly what he wants. )
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fuck it, because he's always wanted connor more than he's wanted anything else, and he shoves aside that pang of conscience before he shoves him to the bed, crawling in above him as he gives him a hungry, ravenous once-over. connor is beautiful, so beautiful tonight that his breath catches in his throat. the scant light from the windows illuminate his fair, fair skin, the smattering of moles and freckles only serving to make him more comely.
and then he's grasping his cock, and while hank knows alcohol tends to have the opposite effect on dicks, it's heartening to know that connor's already hard. he's leaning down to kiss him just to shut him up, his hand curling around connor's to join him, tightening briefly so that he can thrust into it. ]
Want you on your back. [ he tells him gruffly. ] You're looking at only me when I fuck you.
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