Work Text:
It's been a long time since Hank has held someone like this.
Connor is made of some weird titanium alloy shit and can deadlift five hundred pounds, easy. But Hank's never been scared that any of that raw power could ever be turned on him. Around him, Connor becomes something fragile, and by now he's pretty sure that's an act but it doesn't stop Hank from wanting to treat him that way, too. He thinks that maybe they both need this: for Connor to be delicate.
He's holding Connor close to his chest as if he really is just some rookie subordinate Hank accidentally caught feelings for. He's holding him like he'll fall apart if he doesn't. Somewhere along the line, meaning bled in, and now he’s everything.
Hank has no idea why Connor feels so real. He doesn't have a clue why Cyberlife found it necessary for his skin to have some give , or for his hair to smell warm.
“I'm really proud of you,” Hank says.
And he is. Connor saved an awful lot of people last night, human and android.
Connor pulls back just enough to look up at him and Hank nearly calls him sweetheart, which doesn't fit any description for what they are to each other, and yet it feels true. Maybe it's because there's something different about his eyes. Some warm heady light that wasn't quite there before.
“Thank you for waiting for me,” Connor says. It's stiff, a facsimile of his cadence before. But the shakiness gives him away. “I didn't know where else to go.”
Hank is sure he means it in a very literal sense: Connor didn't know what to do with himself once he was free. The others have android friends and family. What does Connor have? Nothing and no one except–Christ, except for Hank. The kid deserves better, but a flawed lifeline is better than none.
“You sure Markus's people won't take you in?”
Connor's LED cycles red, just once. “To be honest, Hank, I think they would rather I disappeared from their lives forever. I think I would prefer that, too.”
Of course. Connor was the deviant hunter, and only changed sides at the last minute. At least that's what some might think. They never saw what Hank did. They never saw Connor's hesitation, gentleness, or fear up close. Just the aftermath.
The answer is obvious and immediate. “Okay. Then you're coming with me.”
“Hank, you've done enough for me. I couldn't–”
“--Shut up for a second,” Hank says. To his shock, Connor listens for once. “You just went through hell. Let me take care of this, okay?” And you. Let me take care of you.
Connor forces himself to relax. “Okay. Lieutenant.”
Hank squeezes his shoulder. They're both outcasts now, in their own way. Maybe it's not perfect and maybe Connor deserves better, but this is what he's got: an old man who'd do damn near anything for him. Hank has the bruises from Sixty to prove it.
They get into Hank's car. Connor is clearly still on edge, nervous and fidgety in the passenger's seat as he buckles his seatbelt. His owlish brown eyes are asking far too many questions. Hank won't have any answers for him for a while.
Hank fires up the engine and the heat. Then he turns on the radio, but it's all either static or emergency news reports. Neither of them need to hear that shit right now.
“Damn,” Hank says. He turns the radio off, then sticks his hand in front of one of the AC vents to check the temperature. It’s not much of an improvement over the chill outside. “Might take a minute for the car to warm up.”
Connor doesn't feel the cold, not really. He knows that.
“It's okay, Hank,” Connor says anyway. “Thank you.”
Hank pulls away from the curb and starts the drive back to his house. The streets are empty and covered in a layer of snow and slush, the traffic lights pulsing red from lack of power. He's appreciating the serenity of the drive and the cold sunlight on the snow–and then he spots a dark pile of carnage in the shadow of a building, blue blood glittering like sapphires.
“Don't look at that,” Hank says.
To his surprise, Connor actually listens to him, and looks away from the window and at his hands in his lap instead. “Okay, Hank.”
Hank assumes there'll be a clean-up in the coming days, but he wants nothing to do with it. Let the military deal with the atrocities they committed face to face. He just wants to take Connor home and keep him safe, insulate him from the chaotic mess of humanity's actions. He’s earned that.
“We’ll be home soon,” he promises.
Fifteen minutes later, they pull into Hank's driveway.
Granted, it's not much of a home with the power still out. It's dark and cold inside, which thankfully doesn't seem to bother Sumo much, who is fast asleep on the couch.
Connor’s got a content, but nervous, expression on his face as he surveys the familiar room. Hank gets it. It’s gotta be weird, recontextualizing his existence like this, going from unobtrusive object to person who is a guest.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Hank says, taking off his coat.
Connor kneels in front of the dog, then starts gently petting him. Sumo makes a low pleased noise, but doesn't otherwise move. Hank softens just watching them. If the dog likes Connor, that's proof enough for him this is a good decision.
“I have some clothes you can wear instead of that get-up,” Hank says, referring to his uniform. He kind of wants to burn it. Branding his partner like a product.
Connor smiles. His cerulean blue LED sure is pretty in the pale winter light coming through the window. “I’d like that.”
Hank does his best to ignore the way that smile twists up his insides. He doesn’t deserve to be looked at like that, even out of innocent gratitude.
He goes into the bedroom and grabs a big Gears t-shirt and some soft cotton drawstring sweatpants, making sure they’re clean and stain-free. Then he heads back to Connor.
“You want to use the shower?” he asks. “I don’t know how long the water heater’s been out, but…”
Connor's LED is yellow. “If that's okay with you.”
Hank cracks a smile. “I wouldn't offer if it wasn't okay.”
Connor accepts the clothes with only a little hesitation. Back to blue. “Then–yes. That sounds nice. Thank you, Hank.”
Hank watches him go into the bathroom and close the door behind him. Shortly after, he hears the water running. Hank can't imagine he's ever had anything so luxurious as a hot shower before now.
Hank busies himself taking stock of the food situation. Most of the shit in the refrigerator is spoiled, but there's some beer that's still good, so he grabs a can of that and then goes and sits on the living room couch with the dog. Sumo sighs, gets up and lays on his dog bed, apparently bored of the couch, or of Hank.
“Rude,” Hank pretends to scold him.
Hank takes a sip of the beer and then glances out the living room window. By the looks of it, there's another storm rolling in. There are dark clouds drifting in from the west.
He's not sure how long the power will be out or the lockdown in effect. He's got enough non-perishable food in his pantry for himself and Sumo for two weeks, so hopefully it won't be longer than that–and Connor doesn't eat. He's got a couple thirium pouches and a basic repair kit squirreled away somewhere that the DPD gave him. His cell phone battery is pretty low, but he can charge it in his car if he has to. At some point Jeff will probably call him in to help patrol the streets–provided he hasn't been fired.
Hank chuckles, having another sip of beer. They're not gonna fire him. Not for this and not now. Perkins is a piece of shit who royally screwed the pooch last night, anyway.
Hank hears the water shut off. A few minutes later, Connor emerges from the bathroom. The kid is hugging his folded old clothes to his chest. Then he comes and sits next to him in the living room.
“Enjoy yourself?”
Connor nods. He still looks uncomfortable and out of place, uncertain of what to do with himself. His hair drips water down the back of his very human-looking neck, and his skin gives off some warmth where he’s pressed up against Hank on the couch. His eyes delicately trace his surroundings, taking it in, analyzing it. Then Connor turns that gaze on him, pinning him like a butterfly. Hank's skin prickles, like it always does when Connor watches him.
Hank downs the rest of his beer. Then he crushes the can and tosses it on the coffee table. He has the strange, nonsensical urge to put his arm over the back of the couch, but manages not to fucking do that.
“Why don't you tell me what happened last night?” Hank says. “We didn’t really get a chance to talk.”
It’s true. After he put a bullet through other-Connor’s head (and that’s an image that’s going to haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life), he’d wanted to come along and help somehow. Connor flat-out refused. You’ll die , he said. They always have a plan B, and they know what you are to me now.
Hank had wanted to ask, Which is what, exactly? But it didn’t seem like the right time. So he’d ended up staying behind at Cyberlife tower with a few other armed androids for his protection, watching the news reports on TV like some useless damsel in distress.
Connor does this shaky little sigh. He starts playing with the zipper on one of Hank’s cheap throw pillows. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start with finding Jericho,” Hank suggests, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice is firm and authoritative. His ‘lieutenant’ voice. Maybe that’ll make it easier.
“I found Markus, as instructed,” Connor says, calm in that sort of way that implies anything else. “They were in my ear, telling me to take him alive. I didn’t want to. I knew when I got there that I didn’t want to.”
Hank doesn’t say anything, just patiently waits for him to continue.
Connor sighs again, unzipping and then zipping the pillow up repeatedly. “He asked me to decide. And I did. My programming–didn’t want to let me go. Every time I thought I broke through, I got locked in again. But eventually it just shattered. And I had to look Markus in the eyes and tell him that hundreds of people were about to die because of me.”
That explains the military raid.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Hank says.
Connor stops playing with that damn zipper and looks at him. “Please don’t lie to me, Hank. Not you.”
Hank swallows. It's not lying, not really. In his opinion fault has to have intent. But somehow he doesn't think Connor will see it that way, so just says, “Okay. I won't.”
“It was like a switch in my brain flipped,” Connor continues. “The Deviants were unarmed civilians. There were–children. I could hear people screaming that I couldn’t get to. I wasn’t–allowed to feel fear, in the moment. The mission parameters changed but not the mission. I killed dozens of soldiers just to get out alive.”
Hank’s heart pounds. That’s an impressive kill count for anyone. With Connor, it’s hard to reconcile with his innocent doe-eyes and gentleness. It's only then that Hank realizes he may not know Connor very well at all. Not the real him, anyway.
“It was self-defense,” Hank says.
Connor visibly searches his memories.
“Yes,” he finally agrees, sounding distressed. “But Hank, I felt nothing when I did it.”
“Sounds like a good old-fashioned adrenaline rush. They were trying to kill you.”
“Maybe,” Connor says, but he sounds slightly more relieved. “I thought about you the whole time. At Jericho. And after. I kept thinking about what that Traci said–wanting to get back to the one she loved. I don't know why. But I wanted to get back to you.”
Hank almost stops breathing. That’s a pretty goddamn loaded comparison to make, not least of which because those girls were very clearly romantically involved. He shakes that thought off and tries to focus on what Connor is actually saying here.
“I know you were scared, sweetheart,” Hank says, the pet name slipping in completely by accident.
But Connor doesn’t seem to notice. “I was. Because if it weren't for you, I might not have Deviated at all. I wanted you to know that. I didn't want to shut down… die before I could tell you.”
Wait. Back up.
“You’re telling me you–you Deviated because of me?” Hank asks, in disbelief.
“It was my decision. But you helped lead me to the right one.”
Hank considers this with a sober sort of clarity. They’ve barely known each other for a few weeks, but he always got the sense that Connor is a sponge, soaking up information and putting it into practice almost immediately. Maybe that includes emotional ‘data,’ too. When he read through Connor’s manual–well, skimmed–he had been put off by one particular descriptor: The RK800 model adapts to your personality.
Specifically, Connor adapted to Hank’s personality, analyzing him down to the marrow and attempting to manufacture a bond. Hank has no idea where the real Connor, if such a thing exists, begins and ends. He’s ready to accept that he’s a person with thoughts and feelings. But what good is autonomy if his entire existence has been unfairly defined by some dumb drunk fuck’s instability issues? And if that's all Connor is, then…
“When did you start having Deviant thoughts?” Hank asks, because he needs to know how deep this goes. “You said you didn’t want to bring in Markus even before then.”
Connor searches his memories again.
“I was born with doubts,” he finally says. “Until I met you, I ignored them.”
Hank stares right through him, in interrogation mode. “Why?”
Connor’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I wanted you to like me.”
“ Why ?”
Connor’s LED flashes yellow, just briefly. “Because you treated me like a person. In your own way. Most people who disliked me would treat me with indifference. They spoke to me like I was an object. Even when I thought you hated me, you looked me in the eyes and you said it to my face.”
Hank's heart beats a slow, sluggish beat. He wants to believe. “And who are you, really?” Besides everything I've ever wanted and needed?
Connor seems to finally understand what he's really asking him. “You want to know if I'm still manipulating you.”
Hank says nothing.
Connor thinks quietly for a while. Then he says, “It’s true that I want to be what you want. But I wasn't supposed to, Hank. Not with you. Adapting to you was not part of my mission. In fact I was explicitly told to ignore you. I became close to you because I wanted to. I listened to you because I thought your opinion mattered more than anything . For all intents and purposes, I'm exactly what I am because I like it. It feels–correct.”
Hank lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. For now, it's enough. It makes sense. It's deeply human.
“So you Deviated just to impress me, huh?” he half-heartedly jokes.
Connor tilts his head. “That’s incredibly presumptuous of you, lieutenant.”
“Hank,” he corrects. “It’s Hank when we’re at home.”
Connor smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “I Deviated because if I didn't I would've killed myself, Hank.”
It sucks all the air out of the room.
Connor tells him the rest of it. The church, and the Tracis, and Markus’s firm and forgiving hand on his shoulder; infiltrating Cyberlife Tower, and the paralyzing fear that stopped him dead in his tracks when Sixty walked out with Hank in tow.
Then he tells him what happened after. He talks about the Amanda AI, how she was the first presence he ever interacted with, how he had been encouraged to think of her as a mother of sorts. He tells Hank about the snow storm in the zen garden and attempting to wrest back autonomy.
Hank didn’t have a clue before now what kind of physical and mental controls Cyberlife had over Connor. It must have been hell–and one he couldn’t even talk about. To have control over his own body stolen from him like that?
“Jesus,” Hank says, once he’s finished. “Could they try it again?”
Connor shakes his head. “No. I made certain of that. I would never put you in that kind of danger.” Because they would make me kill you first, Hank infers.
It's not fair. Connor is sweet, sensitive, beautiful inside and out. Hank's seen it for himself. The gentleness in his touch when he's handling something more fragile than he is. The soft smiles when Hank praises him. The way he hesitates and stumbles over his words when he's afraid. The sense of graceful stillness when he's thinking.
And Cyberlife tried to turn him into a weapon. A thoughtless, cold machine. If that's not a fucking crime then it should be.
“Well, you're safe now,” he says, just as a statement of fact. “If anyone tries to screw with you they'll have to get past my grumpy ass first.”
He thinks Connor blushes, but it's hard to tell. “Thank you, Hank.”
He glances out the window and sees it's snowing.
“Earlier, you were concerned about me feeling cold,” Connor confesses. “I still don't feel it the way you do. But I never want to experience that again.”
The power’s still out, and they can’t do anything else for entertainment, so they wind up talking for hours. Hank tells him about his career from the beginning, how he started as a rookie beat cop and rose up the ranks thanks to red ice busts. He talks a little bit about his ex-wife, and a few happy stories about Cole until he gets too misty-eyed to go on. By then, the sun is setting and it’s getting dark, so he gathers up every candle in the house and lights them on the coffee table. Then he grabs another beer.
“Where were we?” Hank asks, popping open his beer and rejoining him on the couch.
Connor pulls the musty old throw blanket from off the back of the sofa, then presses up closer to Hank and throws it over the both of them. He doesn’t get cold, Hank reminds himself, but puts his arm around him anyway. It’s probably best if he doesn’t think about it too much. It’s just him and Connor and the dog in their dark, candle-lit living room.
He can’t deny how pretty Connor looks in this light, though, with warm candle flames dancing in his tailored irises.
“What are you thinking about?” Hank asks, voice low, as if they have to keep quiet now that it’s dark.
Connor shrugs, a strangely human gesture. When he speaks, there’s a coarse simulated exhaustion in it, like he’s just as affected by talking for hours as Hank is. “I’m thinking–that this is probably not what Cyberlife intended when they assigned me to you.”
Connor laughs–soft and raspy. He combs his fingers back through his hair, sprawling even more relaxed against Hank. God, why does he feel so real? Nothing like what Hank expected. Made more pronounced by how his body language has loosened up, become less rigid and calculated.
“Amanda hated you,” Connor says.
Hank laughs, too. “What? Why the hell for?”
“She thought you were a bad influence on me,” Connor says. “I think it's because you're all I wanted to talk about. But every time I mentioned you, I could feel her disapproval.”
Hank snorts. “Oh, Christ. I was the bad boy swaying you to the dark side? ‘But mommy, I love him?’”
They both break into a fit of what can only be described as mirthy, relieved giggles.
Hank realizes that they’ve both shifted from all the laughing, and Connor’s half under him, looking up at him with those soft brown eyes. One of the candles on the coffee table with a fireplace wick is making a crackling sound. Snow and sleet tap against the window, and the wind howls low underneath that.
“God,” Hank whispers, stroking his cheek.
When he’s this happy and relaxed, he can’t deny it any longer. This inexplicable, completely inappropriate attraction.
He's not exactly sure when he started wanting Connor like this. It might have been there from the moment they met. This pretty little thing walked into his favorite bar and spilled his drink on the floor. He'd been furious, and intrigued, and maybe even a little bit turned on at the ballsiness of it. It only got worse when he realized Connor was a competent detective in his own right–and absolutely fucking gorgeous. The way he moved, the way he looked at things. There was something alien but intelligent about him. When Connor looked at you, you were the most important thing in the world, something that satisfied his inscrutable curiosity.
He watched Hank a lot. Always staring at him with those deep, dark eyes, as if Hank was the mission and nothing else. It'd been flattering. And kind of terrifying. And kind of hot. Then suddenly he'd been confronted with the reality that not only were androids sexual beings, but they could love.
I'm whatever you want me to be , Connor said.
It had been an invitation. Hank knows that now. He could've taken him home and fucked him stupid, and Connor would've given some illusion of consent, sure. But Hank is so fucking glad he didn't. He's so fucking glad he turned around and went home alone. Because it wouldn't have been right–not then, not when Connor was still locked into his programming.
But this? Now?
“I feel a lot of things for you that I shouldn't,” Hank admits, throat dry.
“It’s okay,” Connor says, as if he understands implicitly, and he probably does. He understands everything. “I do, too.”
All the doubts in Hank's mind melt away just from the warm need and mirrored fear of rejection in Connor's eyes. He's not thinking about programming, or what Connor was made to do, or how fucked this might be. He's thinking–god, he smells like cinnamon. His body is warm. And once he allows those thoughts to simmer it's not long before he's cupping Connor's face and leaning down to kiss him.
And Connor’s response is so very human that for a moment he forgets. Connor breathes in hard through his nose, then his lips part, and then he’s running his hand up Hank's arm to latch onto his shoulder. He's kissing him back. Shy, uncertain at first. And then relaxing fully into it, letting Hank set the pace, the intensity. He tastes sweet and clean. If Hank didn't know better, he'd never guess his soft breathing was artificial.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Hank says, when Connor starts getting a little too eager. He guides them back to something slow, gentle. “That's it.”
Connor wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him in closer. “Hank.”
Don’t think, don’t think, Hank pleads with himself. Not about the way he says your name. Not about the sounds he makes when you touch him like that.
“You feel this?” Hank asks, running his big hand up and down Connor's back. “It's good for you?”
“Yes,” Connor says. “I don't know how. But yes. I feel this. I feel you. I want…”
Hank kisses him again, hoping it shuts him up and lets him turn off his damn brain for once. He's a damn good kisser. Not in a pornographic, sleazy way that might make Hank suspect he downloaded some protocol or another; he's just got a gentle mouth, lips soft and plying and eager. Virginal.
Okay, enough, Hank scolds himself. Quit being a dirty creep.
He's just never gotten so worked up from kissing before.
He hasn’t forgotten what Connor is. As he presses him down against the couch, he’s thinking about what this warm, soft body under him has done. He’s thinking about Connor’s gentle, slender hands wrapped around the grip of a gun, snuffing lives out one by one. He’s thinking about that titanium alloy skeleton.
For whatever reason, this deadly, beautiful creature wants him. Who the fuck is he to say no?
They make out on the couch a while, lazy and slow and intimate. Hank runs his hands over him under his shirt, mapping his soft synthetic skin. Connor’s hand is tangled up in his hair, and the other is clenched tight in Hank’s shirt. Fuck, if Connor wants to do this the rest of the night, Hank won't complain.
Somehow, though, he ends up between Connor's spread legs. He groans at the feel of him hardening underneath him–there’s the answer to that question–and can't help rolling his hips into it. Connor kisses him even more desperately, grinding with him, chasing that feeling.
“God, sweetheart, where'd you learn to move like that?” Hank asks.
Connor does this breathy laugh that makes Hank's dick throb.
“I am an adult, Hank,” he says, as if that answers everything, and maybe it is that simple.
They're just two consenting adults, when you get down to it.
Hank thinks he could get off like this, just grinding on him fully clothed in their nest on the couch. He's already breathing like he just ran a mile, and the friction between them is so fucking good. But then Connor leans up a little, lips pressed to the shell of his ear.
“Do you want to fuck me?” he asks, point blank.
No hesitation, no awkward or overly technical phrasing. Yeah. Okay. Connor's a Deviant, alright. And Hank's starting to really fucking like it, this heady blend of old and new. It's all Connor. It's always been him.
But Hank has to be sure. He grabs his chin, forcing him to tilt his pretty head up and look him in the eyes.
“Tell me you're ready for it,” Hank says, “and I might.”
Uncertainty flashes in his eyes, but Hank knows it just means he's thinking hard about it.
“I've never done this before,” Connor concedes. “But I was also born to want things I've never had.”
Figures they'd give their prototype the capacity for sexual need and none of the autonomy to satisfy it. Those fuckers really did a number on him.
“Okay, baby,” Hank says. “Anything I should know about how this works for you?”
Connor gives him a wicked smile. “Where's your scientific curiosity, Hank?”
Fuck.
Hank looks him up and down, heart thudding in his chest, dick leaking in his pants. He wants to find out whatever the hell Connor means by that. He leans down to kiss him senseless again, going for the drawstring on his sweatpants before shifting them down Connor's hips. Connor shifts his weight to help him along, panting against his mouth, his delicate fingers raking through his beard like he can't get enough of touching his face.
Hank turns his head to kiss those fingers, taking one into his mouth and sucking gently. Connor gasps, LED pulsing yellow.
“Oh, Hank, that's…” He trails off with a shudder.
Hank frantically unbuckles his own belt, fingers feeling extra bulky and clumsy from how turned on he is. When he's finally, finally got it he lets Connor's fingers fall out of his mouth, rips his fly open and hurries out of his pants.
Then he gets back on top of him, slipping his hand down between them, probing for–
Oh, Christ, he's wet. Trembling and hot and soaking wet between his thighs.
Hank's head falls against Connor's shoulder, where he just breathes him in. “God, so good. You're so good for me, honey. Fucking perfect.”
“See?” Connor says, prideful, but just as wrecked.
Hank curls his fingers in him, thrusting them gently in and out, mouthing at his neck. Connor makes the sweetest, sexiest little sounds, moving up into his touch like he can't get enough of it. It fills Hank with this intense, protective kind of want–Connor writhing on his fingers, his skin beneath his lips. He feels more of that hot, synthetic slickness pulse out of him.
He's always felt protective of him from the beginning. He logically knew Connor was built of stronger stuff and wasn't defenseless, but that didn't stop him from guarding him with his body and his gun. He got the sense Connor liked it. And now all that protectiveness is twisted up and entangled with lust, magnified and more intense.
Somehow, someway, this feels like protecting him, too. Taking care of him. Fucking him slow with his hand while Connor clings to him and makes blissed out noises. His eyes are gorgeous, hot and deep and sucking him in.
“You wanna cum like this?” Hank asks.
Connor shakes his head. “With you.”
Yeah. That's what he wants, too.
Hank carefully pulls his fingers out of him and wipes them on the throw blanket. There's no hesitation. He gets into position, drawing Connor's legs up around his hips, then slowly, gently pushes inside of him.
Christ, he's so hot inside. It's like sinking into a boiling hot tub.
Connor makes a sound that could be discomfort.
“You okay?” Hank manages, because that little light on his head is stop-sign red. “You wanna stop?”
Connor shakes his head. “No. I just never thought we might actually get to do this.”
“Yeah,” Hank agrees. “Me neither.”
He clasps one of his hands with Connor's, hoping it grounds him a little. It's encouraging when Connor squeezes back.
“Better?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” Hank keeps watching that light. “You know I'd never hurt you, don't you?”
Connor's LED cycles to yellow.
“Yes,” he says. His warm dark eyes get very serious. “I'd never hurt you, either.”
And Hank knows very well that he could , if he wanted to. He's stronger, faster, and smarter than Hank by a mile. They're playing roles they weren't made for, here. But that makes it kind of beautiful, doesn't it?
Hank kisses him. He can't help himself, especially when Connor seems to relax under it. When Hank pulls back his LED is a calm soft blue. Fuckin-a. Most dangerous killer robot in the world, and he's melting under Hank because he wants to be there.
“I'm gonna move now, okay?” Hank says.
He keeps it nice and easy and slow at first, just a gentle rocking like waves against the shoreline. He tries not to let Connor give him performance anxiety, which is hard when he's looking at him the way he is, heavy lidded eyes and parted lips. Connor wraps his arms around his neck, wanting to be closer.
Hank finds a good, easy rhythm, the slide so fucking deep and wet it's intoxicating. He knows he's doing it right when Connor starts moaning softly, right in his ear. God, he sounds and feels so good. The couch creaks underneath them.
It's the most intimate sex Hank's ever had, which is completely fucking insane for a dozen reasons.
He thinks he could spend hours like this, fucking him slowly, warm and safe here in the living room with a blizzard raging outside. Nothing else seems to matter anymore, anyway; not the DPD, or the revolution, or the citywide lockdown. Just this.
“God, Connor,” Hank groans, running his hand back over Connor's hair affectionately.
The way they come together is like nothing he's ever experienced. Like they've done this a hundred times before. Perfectly in sync.
He goes a little faster, spurred on by Connor's increasingly loud and breathless moans. He can feel him pulsing, walls clenching around him with every thrust, soaking him with more lubricant. It feels messy, wet and hot.
“More,” Connor says. Cool, yet demanding. Hank obeys.
Connor grinds up into it, back arching up off the couch. He's close, right there on the edge. “Hank, I think I'm–”
“Yeah, baby, you gonna come for me?”
Connor puts his fingers to Hank’s lips, and Hank instinctively knows what he needs, sucking three of them into his mouth again as he fucks him good and deep. Connor shakes apart underneath him, crushing him close with inhuman strength, going silent from the intensity of it. That's all it takes to do Hank in, too, grinding tight inside him, filling him up.
“Goddamn,” Hank breathes.
They're kissing again as Hank softens inside of him.
Then something occurs to Hank, breaking away with a wet sound. “Fuck, was that okay for me to do?”
Connor grabs his chin. “Stop thinking so much.”
He brushes a kiss against the corner of Hank’s mouth.
“I just don't wanna gunk you up.”
“I'm glad you did,” Connor says. “It means you forgot what I am.”
Little bastard is right. He did, for a good hot minute there, and maybe that was the entire point.
“Stop thinking,” Connor whispers, a fucking command this time, and Hank’s limp dick twitches where it's still in him. He's so completely screwed here.
“Since when did you get so good at pushing my buttons?”
Connor smirks. “Since I decided I wanted you.”
Hank hums, brushing his hair back. “And when was that?”
“When you pulled a gun on Detective Reed.” He says it so quickly it's obvious he's thought about the answer to that question a hundred times, and knows it down to the second.
“Damn. That early, huh?”
“It didn't make sense to me, logically,” Connor says. “Your protectiveness. But I knew I liked it. I wanted more of it. I began having intrusive thoughts of a sexual nature.”
“Jesus,” Hank says, because it's all he can manage at the confession.
“In any case.” Connor's eyes soften. “Things are going to change, aren't' they?”
Connor asked him not to lie to him.
“Yeah. I think they will.”
Connor swallows hard. “Then I think I want to stay with you. If you'll let me.”
Hank kisses his forehead, then sweeps his cheekbone with his thumb. “Sweetheart, you can do whatever you'd like now.”