Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Hank Anderson can't sleep.

Every damn night is the same old story. Night after night, he keeps staring into the darkness around him with his eyes burning like fire, hoping for the chance to eventually fall the fuck asleep and who knows, maybe, just maybe, he'll finally find the kind of freedom he so desperately needs. To forget everything. To find some peace. To never have to wake up again. But sleep never comes, not really. Instead, there's silence. And there's the pain. This constant, searing pain is with him all the time, in every fiber of his body. A pain that will never go away and will never allow him to rest.

Hank Anderson can't remember the last time he slept properly for more than an hour without a hangover. Probably before - before his life fell apart, before he was broken and bleeding inside. Before the pain. Before he lost his son. Shit. He's so pathetic.

Some nights are worse than others. But as soon as October rolls around, every night becomes a real challenge. Unable to find sleep, he is tormented by memories. The revolver on the table is on stand-by, just waiting to blow a bullet through his boozy little brain. Because he's a fucking coward, he's still alive. And when his useless mind is spinning out of control and he can't stop thinking about a round of Russian Roulette, Hank leaves it all behind and heads out into the night.

He just keeps driving, for hours and hours, through the city at night. A sixpack of cheap booze in the passenger seat, he drives through the streets of Detroit, without a specific route, at least that's what he always tells himself. But as usual, he ends up on the same old bench, the playground just behind him and the Ambassador Bridge in front of him, reflecting in the darkness.

Today he is sitting here again, on this bench. Biting cold seeps through his jacket and his skin is sore from the sharp air of this night, but all these things are nothing compared to the frost in his heart, the emptiness he feels every time he is confronted with these overwhelming, painful memories.

It's freezing, even though it's not even November yet. The fresh, crisp smell of the year's first snow fills the air. Tiny white clouds of Hank's breath rise into the sky. He cracks open another beer, the can's swish like an old friend's reunion, and takes a long swig. The flavour is all too familiar, just like a thousand other nights he's spent right here.

He fights against it, but his eyes keep flickering to the playground behind him - empty, so silent. The swings are creaking softly in the wind, swaying to a rhythm that sends shivers down his spine. His son used to play here. Hank can still hear the laughter, the sound of little feet running around, the high-pitched voice calling him.

The flashback is sharp, cutting through him like a blade, and it's always the same. It hurts, but there is also an innocent tenderness inside in it.

Hank's clammy fingers close tighter around the can, feeling the sharp aluminium dig into his palm.

"What the fuck am I doing here..." he whispers under his breath, his voice hoarse.

A sudden burst of bitter anger, even disgust, hits him like a shot, forcing him to slam the beer down on the bench, the sound shattering the night's peace. A nasty headache starts to creep up behind Hank's forehead. Another well-known friend he can always count on.

For fuck's sake. Why is he here? He's so pathetic, so useless.

He's so fucking tired. Fuck.

He should go home, try to get some sleep. Just for a few minutes. Shit, that sounds good. Instead, he reaches for his beer, just to keep drinking. Suddenly a car drives by, its headlights shining on the scene, and Hank flinches as if he's been caught in the act. He quickly turns his eyes away, waiting for the darkness to fall over him again. Exhausted, he takes another swig and stares at the dark outline of the Ambassador Bridge rising in the distance. It is a steel giant, cold and indifferent, like everything else in his fucking life.

He could go there and just let it happen.

But he's simply a coward. He's still there. He's still breathing, damn it. He should have done something, right? Be a better father. Be a better man. Go to AA meetings. Do more. Try harder. But he didn't. So now he's sitting here, wasting time and thinking about stupid things like… the gun. He could just end it. One bullet. Quickly. Clean. But he doesn't. Not yet. Because he's a big pussy.

And because a part of him is still hanging on to his life, clinging to the hope that there is something out there, something he can't yet see. Because part of him is still clinging to the hope that there is something out there that he can't see yet.

Something important. Something good. Someone.

The wind picks up, ruffling some dry leaves at his feet. The cold feels good. Aching, Hank runs his hands over his face, shaking his weary head to free himself from these stupid thoughts. He's too old for such nonsense. And clearly not drunk enough yet. His throat is raw as hell as he drinks the booze as if his life depends on it. He feels the rush kicking in, but it's a dull kind of numbness that doesn't do anything to calm the storm raging inside him.

Another sip. Another minute of silence. The city sleeps, but Hank doesn't. He never does. Not any more.

"You shouldn't drink so much. It's not good for you."

Out of nowhere, a voice comes from somewhere behind him. Soft but clear, breaking through the growing fuzziness that is slowly creeping into his mind. Hank, however, doesn't turn round. He doesn't give a shit. Company's the last thing he needs right now.

"Not good for me, tze" he mutters, a notch louder than necessary, his voice thick with booze and bitterness. "That's the fucking idea, genius."

Something gross spreads in his mouth. The beer tastes like shit. But that never stops him from hitting the bottle.

"You know, whatever you're looking for, you won't find it at the bottom of a beer can."

The half-full can almost slips out of Hank's numb fingers. Caught off guard, he flinches, barely perceptible. The other one's words are carried into the sky by a cold breeze, along with Hank's raspy breath.

He swallows hard. It hurts.

And he's definitely not drunk enough for this psycho shit.

"So what. Not your fucking problem," he sighs in a throaty huff, taking a deep sip of his drink. "And now fuck off. I need to think."

Trying to ignore the voice and whoever the fuck it belongs to, Hank pulls his jacket a bit tighter around him, staring straight ahead at the city's bright lights beyond the bridge. A long moment of silence follows. Good. Hank is pretty sure he's off the hook. Sadly, the goose bumps on the back of his neck let him know he's still not alone. Fuck.

Footsteps come closer, slow and deliberate.

"Thinking, mhm? Well, maybe you should be somewhere warm then, thinking somewhere else," the voice says softly, in a mild, soothing undertone.

Hank clenches his jaw. His hand clutches the can so tightly that his knuckles go white. What's so complicated about understanding that he just wants to be ALONE?! Wow. He really wants to tell this guy to fuck off again. But something stops him. Maybe it's the softness in those few words. Or maybe he just doesn't have the nerve.

Hank squeezes his eyes shut. His chest feels uncomfortably tight.

The footprints are getting closer and closer. Hank thinks he hears a faint sigh. As he opens his lids slowly, he spots out of the corner of his eye that someone's now standing next to the bench. His vision starts to blur, and for a moment he's not sure if it's the booze or something else.

He looks up at the stars above them, his breath also rising into the night sky in tiny white clouds. A cold wind brushes his pale face, swirling his brown hair into his forehead. When their eyes finally bump into each other, Hank's breath hitches and suddenly his mouth feels dry as hell.

Now he notices how young he is. Pretty damn young, with a scattering of lovely freckles and moles all over his face. He's actually extremely pale, almost translucent. There are deep bluish shadows under a pair of soft brown eyes, which give him an even more exhausted and drained look. Shit, the kid looks like a mess. Exactly the way Hank is feeling right now.

And yet he is fuckin‘ gorgeous.

Light as a feather, the corners of the other's mouth curl up.

"Nice view, isn't it?"

A tingling shiver runs down Hank's spine. He swallows again, blinking, wondering if he's hallucinating or just a bit more drunk than he thought. Nope, not a hallucination. The guy is actually here.

Still fuckin’ gorgeous…

Hank frowns, feeling a little dizzy.

"Is that so? All I can see right now is a little shit busting my goddamn balls." Before he even knows what he's saying, it's already too late. "Maybe you'd better move your nosy ass somewhere warm, as fucked up as you look. What the hell are you doing out here?”

As soon as that last line comes out of his mouth, Anderson really wishes he could bite his tongue off. Dammit! Why can't he just stop talking? He doesn't care and he doesn't want to know.

He gets an answer anyway, of course.

"I guess the same as you," says the other, still with that hint of a smile. "Enjoying the fresh air, thinking. Having a little chat. Just… trying to get through another night without losing my mind."

His voice cracks, barely audible. In a slow, drowsy gesture, he wipes his hair from his forehead. Hank is fully aware that he's still staring at him like an idiot. But he can't help it. The knot in his chest becomes painfully tight. A sharp pang. He doesn't know why, but something about the way the boy speaks - so honest, so raw - hits him unexpectedly, with full force.

Hank isn't really able to put it into words, but it is like there's an understanding between them, an invisible link connecting their chaotic, broken lives. And why not? After all, he can't be the only broken soul in this shitty city.

Heart pounding, Hank lowers his eyes, staring instead at the beer can in his hand. A moment ago he thought he was drunk, or at least a bit tipsy. Now he feels like he's completely sober.

The older man takes a deep breath. Cold air fills his lungs, pushing its way through his chest.

"Yeah, it's not that easy", Hank whispers, voice hoarse from the whiskey, from everything he's swallowed for months. "Life can be a real bitch."

They fall into silence, but it is not uncomfortable. Hank sips his beer without tasting much. Confused and also pretty damn fascinated, Hank shoots a discreet look at this strange guy who's burst into his life just like that. Basically, Hank would be free to pack his things and leave, just jump in his car and keep driving.

But he stays. Stays and can't help but stare at that pale, handsome profile. Those lips, now slightly parted and wet, shining in the light of the stars.

Fuck. Warmth rises in Hank's cheeks.

"It smells like snow," he hears the young man's dreamy whisper. His head thrown back, he inhales the ice-cold air greedily.

Hank hums in agreement, waiting.

What's he waiting for?

Pale, trembling hands find each other. Searching for some warmth, fingers and palms brush against each other. Almost in a kind of trance, they move back and forth mechanically, like a machine. When he realises what he is doing, the younger man freezes.

With a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, the boy studies his hands.

"Actually, I don't like the cold. Never have," he sighs under his breath.

Hank's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. "But you're here," he manages to say in a hushed rasp.

"I am." The brunet shrugs, a helpless gesture. "Strange how things change. But on nights like this, when the cold creeps under my skin and my lungs feel like they're going to explode, I know I'm real, that I'm really here… and… shit…"

"...that you still exist, somehow..."

Something inside Hank cracks, not physically, but deep down. Suddenly the heaviness around his chest becomes a little more bearable. The kid nods, he knows exactly what he's talking about. His adam's apple is fluttering in his throat.

"That's how it is… and yet…“ Taking another breath, he clenches his fists. "…and yet after all these nights, I still don't know what I'm looking for. I knew it once. Now I'm not sure anymore. I... can't remember. Well, maybe I was looking for you. Who knows..."

He tilts his head, just a touch, and then, oh fuck, Hank's heart skips a rapid beat or two when he sees that little teasing wink being thrown his way. In a flash, the warmth on his cheeks spreads to the rest of his head. That little...

"Fucking hell, boy. You drunk or something?" he grumbles, clearing his sore throat. FUUUCK.

The other man's pale face lights up with a tiny grin. "Nah, but sometimes I wish I was."

"We can fix that."

Hank has no fucking idea what's wrong with him. His body acts on its own, doing its own damn thing by grabbing a beer and handing it to the kid.

Then, out of the blue, he adds, "Name's Hank, by the way…"

"Connor," the kid nods at him, giving him a wry smile. "I'm Connor."

For a split second, the tips of their fingers brush against each other. Although this first physical contact between them isn't really worth mentioning, Hank feels it from tip to toe. Struggling to keep a straight face, his knuckles curl around his own half-full beer can and for a moment he is holding on to it as if his miserable life depends on it.

Connor, for his part, doesn't make a move to open his own beer. Instead, he takes a seat beside him on the bench, returning his attention back at the river, with its water almost black and full of secrets. The way he sits there, back straight, knees knocking together makes him look kind of… goofy.

Connor isn't wearing a coat. A light-coloured shirt peeks out from under a jacket that somehow looks like a uniform, the top buttons undone. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm. He's now much closer to Hank than before – so close that all he has to do is raise a hand to touch him.

God, Hank is forced to fight the impulse to take off his own jacket and wrap it around Connor.

Connor... Holy shit, what is he thinking! He barely knows this guy, wrong, he doesn't know him at all. And actually, he doesn't want any of this. All he wants is to get drunk. Alone, in peace. And when he's drunk enough to forget himself, he'll go back to his miserable life. Exactly, that's all he…

"You have a dog, right? I like dogs. What's your dog's name?"

Connor stops his train of thought.

"Sumo. Called him Sumo," he replies on the spot. Wait. "How do you know?"

Whether he likes it or not, his eyes snap back to stare into that pretty, pale face. Perplexed, Hank raises his eyebrows.

Connor smirks lightly. "There's dog hair on your jacket. See?"

It's an innocent, gentle touch as Connor leans in a bit and wipes his shoulder. Hank's stomach drops.

"Uhm, yeah. Big hairy hunk, ya know. Sumo, I mean."

Hank's head is whirring. Grumbling, he rubs his eyes, desperately trying to focuss. Shit, he wishes he wasn't so tired.

"You should go home. I'm sure Sumo's waiting for you."

Hank laughs bitterly, a nasty pounding behind his eyeballs. Jesus fucking Christ. He really is a walking cliché. A pathetic drunk with nothing left but his dog.

"Miss me? As long as there's enough food, he won't even notice I'm gone," he snorts.

He can't go home, not yet. Because at home, the gun with that one bullet is still waiting for him.

"I bet he does," Connor says softly. Teasingly, he blows Sumo's hair into the air.

The older man rolls his aching eyes. "Smart arse."

He takes another sip, more out of habit than anything else.

"You really shouldn't do that. It could have serious consequences for your health."

There is a tender note of concern in Connors voice. Anderson feels those brown eyes on him. He doesn't answer, at least not at first. What's the point? Whether he drinks or not the pain never stops. No matter how much he drinks, no matter how far he drives, it's always there.

"Don't care," Hank spits, his words a little slurred now. "I'm not lookin‘ for anything anymore. I just wanna forget."

"By torturing yourself?"

"Why not? I don't have the guts to pull the trigger so I kill myself a little every day…"

Fuck, why is he telling him that? He's probably too drunk to think clearly. And why doesn't Connor do him a simple fucking favour and get the fuck out of here? But Connor, that pain in the ass, doesn't leave him, doesn't let his bitterness get to him.

Be grateful to him. Or demonise him. Hank just doesn't know.

Then he calls him by his name for the first time, and Hank stops breathing.

"Hank? When was the last time you slept?" he hears him say, barely above a whisper.

"I dunno," he is honest. "In another life, probably."

Heat rises behind his eyes, but he won't cry. Not here. Not now.

Connor's gaze is fixed on the skyline. "In another life. That's what it feels like."

He stands up, soundlessly, like a shadow. As before, he starts rubbing his pale hands together. With the lightness of a sleepwalker, he reaches the railing, the river rushing below him. Hank follows him with his eyes, it is impossible for him not to. The wind runs through Connor's hair, pinning his jacket against his slender body.

Connor and he are almost the same height. Hank only notices when he steps carefully next to him.

"Nice view, eh?" the kid repeats himself.

Hank nods. "Yeah, I used to come here a lot. Before..."

"Before. Before what?"

"Mmm?"

Connor turns to him, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"You said you used to come here a lot before. Before what?"

Before he lost his son. Before his life collapsed. Before he became someone else. Before...

Hank's chest cramps painfully. Something hot is burning in his throat. He bites hard on the inside of his cheek. This small ache helps him not to lose himself completely.

"Before..." he tries to find the words, but his voice breaks and it feels like the whole damn world is coming crashing down. "Before... before I broke," he ends, the wind whistling softly in the background.

Time seems to stand still, as the silence wraps around them. Connor doesn't push, doesn't ask for more. He just keeps looking at him with those tired brown eyes, giving him time to breathe, to recover.

And that's when Hank realises more and more that he's not the only one who's broken.

Connor's face softens. His pale skin is glowing in the moonlight, and his freckles are shining like little stars.

"You're not broken, Hank. You're just… cracked. And cracks always make room for light."

The sound of the river flows between them, reminding them that time goes on, no matter what's happening in life. Hank watches the reflection of the city lights dancing on the water, and inside him there's a flutter of delicate tenderness.

He swallows, a wry smile on his lips.

"I'm a fucking wreck, Connor. Some things, I just can't forget. Whatever I do, they're always there. And… I'm just too tired to fix myself."

"It's not an easy road." One step. One step is enough to allow their breath to become one. "You might not want to hear this, but you don't have to go through this alone. You've been carrying this weight all by yourself for far too long."

A trembling hand rests on Hank's chest, right where his heart is racing. Naturally, the older man wraps his numb knuckles around this trembling, pale hand. The warmth of Connor's skin is overwhelming.

"Who the hell are you?" he whispers roughly.

Connor smiles, a mixture of tenderness, exhaustion and vulnerability.

"I'm whatever you want me to be," he sighs. "A little shit busting your balls. A buddy to drink with or just someone trying to deal with his own cracks..."

Another step. Now, Connor's fingers are tracing the line of his beard, gently cupping his cheek. The tips of their noses just a few inches apart, and Hank is falling into this breathtaking tenderness, drifting and drowning under its warmth.

In the end, neither can say exactly who leans in first, dragging the other close so that their lips collide in a tender, desperate kiss.

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Chapter Text

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A few minutes, hours or even an eternity later - Hank's sense of time is totally out of whack by now - they end up in the backseat of the Oldsmobile. Just like the kiss, he can't really remember who grabbed whose hand first to bring them out of the freezing cold and into the more intimate space of his car.

As soon as the door slams shut behind them, the ruins of Hank's inner walls collapse like a house of flipping cards. Whatever's going on between him and Connor right now, it's just impossible for him to keep his head above water. But that's not what Hank wants either. The younger man's attraction is like a bright flame shining through the darkness, and Hank is nothing more than a needy moth drawn to this beautiful light. The booze, the lack of sleep and all the feelings and emotions he's been pushing down for so damn long make it easy for him to finally let himself go and stop fighting.

To fall head over heels into this beautiful, bright light.

Being so close to Connor sends Hank into a tizzy, turning his world upside down and snapping him out of the lethargy he's been in for the last few years. Hip to hip, thigh to thigh, they squeeze into the back seat. It's cramped and uncomfortable, but that doesn't matter. Right now it's perfect. Protected by the shelter of the car, they find each other's lips, tongues and teeth, creating a slippery, sensual bond. Eager to taste, to lick and to feel everything in between.

At first tentatively, then with more hunger and desperate desire.

Hank's blood rushes to the wild rhythm of his heart. It's been years since he's actually kissed someone, since he's been this close to someone. And yet he doesn't seem to have forgotten a thing. Almost possessively, he dips his fingers into Connor's brown hair, and damn, it's as soft as Hank imagined it would be. In a low humming sound, he snaps the other man's lower lip between his teeth, flicking his tongue teasingly across the sensitive flesh before sliding his mouth carefully down to nip the smooth, flushed skin above the pulsing vein of Connor's throat. With a small gasp, the young man obediently tilts his head to the side and Hank can feel him reaching for his jacket, trying to steady himself.

Hank shudders as Connor's athletic body leans against him, their waists grinding together. Suddenly the kid's hands seem to be all over him at once. On his chest, his stomach, his waist and his shoulders. Without realising it, Hank moans a harsh, throaty growl. A searing, nostalgic tingling spreads through his groin. This feeling, so intense, so electrifying, is like a spark that sets the fire inside him into overdrive.

More forcefully than he planned, he drags Connor into another fierce kiss.

Overwhelmed, he moans into the kiss. With the same kind of urgency, he kisses back as Hank pushes his tongue back into Connor's wet mouth, their lips sealed in a greedy embrace.

God only knows where Hank finds the courage to do all this. It's probably the alcohol or the persistent insomnia that's already turned his mind to mush. A tiny part of him still thinks it's a dream, a hallucination. An old drunk like him and a handsome guy like Connor making out in the back of his shabby old car?

It's not a dream, not a hallucination. To his ears, the sound of his own lustful moans sounds pretty damn real. Blindly, Connor's hands wriggle their way under his jacket, over his tensed abs and then he's already tugging impatiently at the waistband of Hank's goddamn pants. Instantly, an embarrassing rush of fiery heat pools inside the silvery haired cop's crotch. In the same blind way, Hank clumsily grabs a wrist, slowing him down in his enthusiasm.

With a wet smack, Connor pulls back, breaking their connection.

"Wanna suck you off so bad," he whispers, his warm breath fluttering sweetly across Hank's face.

Words that send a sharp pang through the older man's guts. Plis a fresh wave of blood, so that his dick is twitching with a great deal of interest in his pants, which are now a touch too tight. The rest is rushing straight to Hank's head.

"Uh-um..." is the only thing he can manage.

Connor's lips are shiny wet, his pale cheeks flushed to rosy red. Shamelessly, he bites into his swollen lower lip with his teeth, nipping at its soft flesh. Just like Hank did moments ago.

"Can I?" he almost begs, giving him desperate puppy dog eyes. His His breath is hitching. "Hank, please?"

Once again, his hands are tracing smoothly the length of Hank's body.. A delicious shiver runs down his spine.

"kay, sure." Hank nods, unable to take his eyes off those lips. A mouth begging to be kissed.

One rough heartbeat later, there's a soft clatter. Another one, and Hank's head falls abruptly back onto his neck. The touch of delicate fingers sliding straight into his shorts and wrapping around his dick sends a harsh hiss through his dry throat. He's not quite hard yet, but just that little bit of contact is enough to speed up the whole thing.

Hank's pulse is throbbing between his thighs now. Hot and needy.

He wants to stop Connor, buy another moment to do ... whatever!? Instead, though, his lips curl into a high-pitched groan. The mild air from inside the car hits his half-hard dick right off the bat, but it's immediately replaced by something incredibly warm and wet.

Hank inhales sharply. Connor's own stifled groan vibrates all the way through Hank's pulsing dick as the younger man sucks him deep down into his mouth without even a second's hesitation.

Overwhelmed, unsure whether to moan or swear, Hank forces himself backwards into the seat. His head falls harder back onto his neck, his heart pounding out of control in his chest. Suddenly, liquid fire seems to be rushing through his veins, pooling between his trembling thighs.

His eyes fall shut, fluttering.

"Fuck, goddamn it," he swears through clenched teeth.

Hank knows he can't last much longer under these circumstances. But that doesn't stop him from allowing himself to be touched, treated like a king. It just feels too damn good, so hot, so alive.

Connor makes him feel alive again.

Groaning, Hank struggles to catch his breath. There's a dry click somewhere in his throat as he tries to swallow. The slippery heat of Connor's mouth is driving him crazy. All too clearly, Hank feels the delicious weight and searing heat of his body leaning against him, ith one hand digging into the fabric of his shirt, the other cupping his balls.

A thin film of sweat covers Hank's face. Following an irresistible urge, he straightens up a little, his blue eyes widening at the sinful sight Connor is serving him. Just looking at him is almost enough to send him over the edge, for fuck's sake.

Eyes closed, humming happily to himself Connor sucks Hank's thick, throbbing dick down his throat again and again, swallowing every inch of the impressive length. By now Hank's so hard it fuckkin‘ hurts. And he really is quite… big. After all, he is a massive guy, always has been and in the truest sense of the word. Giving him a blow job is definitely a bit of a challenge.

Connor, however, seems to be a natural. Slowly, his head rocks back and forth, back and forth - always in a smooth, steady motion. His saliva creates a glossy shine on Hank's dick. With breathtaking efficiency, Connor's tongue flicks over the heated flesh, applying pressure systematically and precisely. The rhythm he dictates is both a curse and a blessing. Anderson's abs contract in anticipation. Tiny drops of sweat trickle down his temples and seep into his beard.

There's sweat, alcohol and the smell of sex in the air.

Fingers of his right hand finally find their way into Connor's hair, pushing him deeper into his lap so that he can feel the tip of his dick nudging against the younger man's throat. Another muffled gasp rips through Hank's shaft. Connor trembles as well, shuddering and whimpering in a state of stimulation.

Hank's knees are as soft as butter as he leans back, now leading the rhythm.

"Holy… fucking shit. That's it… oh fuck…" he mutters, totally out of his depth. "That's good... you're so good…"

His fingers keep tangling in that ridiculously soft brown hair, running gently and firmly across those messy locks. Each time Connor's teeth scrape over his throbbing shaft, a soft hiss slips out. It's just a light tap, but it's also a nice little tease. Something between amusement and exhausting frustration is swirling inside Hank's chest.

His pelvis, though, is filled with a searing heat, a pulsating, living mass. Everything feels a little dizzy now, and suddenly there's a metallic taste on Hank's tongue as he bites his lower lip. Unaware of it, he starts gripping Connor's hair a little harder, pushing himself more forcefully into his sweet, willing mouth.

Close, so fucking close...

His moans and sighs mix perfectly with Hank's own rough noises. On impulse, Anderson's hand slips a little lower to rest on the back of Connor's neck, where a patch of pale skin peeps out from under the collar of his jacket. In a way, this gesture is so much more intimate than the actual sex itself. And beneath his sweaty fingertips, Hank can clearly feel the intense shuddering of the younger man's spine.

The next thing he knows, Connor is pulling away from him, still shaking and struggling to catch his breath. Hank winces, gritting his teeth. In sync with the flutter of his pulse, his neglected erection is twitching achingly. What the… He doesn't really get a chance to deal with it, though, because they're already crashing into each other again, losing themselves in another delicious, hungry-for-more kiss.

Now Hank is tasting himself as well as Connor. Greedily, the younger man licks into his mouth, brushing their tongues together. Hank's right hand rests naturally on his heated neck, the other wrapped around his waist, magnetically following the soft curve of his ass.

A whimper, shaky and low, rises between them.

"I need to feel you," Connor's voice is raw, desperate. "All the way… inside..."

Connor's face is covered with spots of flushed heat all over, a trace of saliva leaking from the corner of his mouth. When his hazel eyes crush into Hank's, they seem to be a shade darker somehow.

And Hank hears what he's saying, but doesn't get it, not exactly. At an alarmingly slow pace, these simple and yet so desirable words circle through his mushy, anaemic brain. Other parts of his body do, however, respond immediately. An imaginary branding iron burns deep into his guts, triggering an unbearable pressure below the waistline.

Then something clicks somewhere inside him.

A thick layer of saliva fills Hank's mouth, while his throat turns dry as hell. He tries to clear his throat, but it only makes it worse. With a struggle, he manages to force out a miserable croak.

"…hell you're talking about, kid," he slurs a guttural laugh, swallowing hard.

"You heard me," Connor purrs, his lips dancing delicately along the corner of Hank's mouth. "I want you to fuck me. And I'm not a kid."

Hank's teeth snap into place in a sharp, abrupt crack, as this little shit grabs him again, using his thumb to tease the swollen tip of his dick. Gottdamn it! With a combination of swearing and growling, Anderson reaches for Connor's sleeve.

"Connor, wait, hold… hold on a damn sec. Stop… it," he blurts out. "We won't… we can't. I can't…"

Fuck, he's a big fat liar.

He would like to, God forgive him, he wants this, wants him so fucking badly. He's just a man. An old drunk, but still a man. But tonight he's not nearly drunk enough to throw his principles completely out the window to fuck Connor in his old, wrecked car.

Well, that's what he's telling himself, at least. But then, out of the blue, there it is: a little crease starts to creep in between his dark eyebrows, and a flicker of uncertainty spreads across those beautiful brown eyes.

Connor's apple jerks up and down several times.

His lips part in a quiver. "You don't… want me?"

Hearing something so vulnerable in his voice, like he's about to cry, cuts a painful slice into Hank's heart.

"No... fuck no, that's bullshit." Soothingly, and still far too intimate for whatever it is between them, he cups a hand to his cheek. "It's not that, okay? I mean, look at you, you're...wow! I'd be a fucking idiot if I didn't want you. Anyone would be."

The thing he's trying to tell him feels suddenly too big and meaningful. A huge lump swells in the back of Hank's throat.

"What is it then?" Connor wants to know, his voice a bit more steady.

Cracking a fragile, ashamed kind of half smile, Anderson shrugs his shoulders. A helpless little move.

"It's just… I don't wanna hurt ya,” he says simply and honestly.

A beat of silence, broken only by the sound of deep, heavy breathing. Connor's face softens. The small wrinkle is gone now.

"You won't hurt me, Hank. You're not like that." He leans into Hank's rough palm, into his touch. "I know you won't."

Anderson's stomach drops. "You... You can't know that. Con, I'm not-"

"You are. And what I do know is that I want this just as much as you do. So please... "

Resting his forehead against Hank's, Connor closes the gap between them. Pale, trembling hands gently cup the older man's flaming face, bringing their lips back together. Their eyes never leave each other's

Hank's pulse is racing. "Connor... Con..."

"Please, don't push me away.“ Connor whispers into his mouth.. "Whatever you want me to be, I'll be. All you have to do is to let it happen. Please, just…"

Just let it happen.

Suddenly, everything around them is changing. The atmosphere grows thicker, becomes more intense, heating up with every single gasp of air. The space between them stops existing. A magnetic, almost hypnotic force is taking control. And out of nowhere, it doesn't seem like there's enough oxygen left.

Hank feels like he's drowning. Drowning in the brutal honesty of this young stranger, in his overwhelming desire and also in this tiny spark of hope that he can see in Connor's weary brown eyes.

Then their lips meet again, and they're both more desperate and urgent than ever, as if the world is about to fall apart beneath them. Now there's nothing going to stop them. They just let it happen. No way back. Impatient and greedy, hungering for what they are both desperately looking for.

It's all hands in someone's hair, mouths on mouths, bodies squashed together. They're tearing at each other, pushing and shoving. The sound of clothes rustling is like a storm in Hank's ears, and he feels so fucking dizzy with his heart pounding against his ribs in a non-stop, gut-wrenching pace.It's still cramped as hell and uncomfortable, and the streetlights barely lighten the night. Even his back is protesting, reminding him that he's actually too old for this kind of activity.

Doesn't matter. None of that matters.

Connor looks absolutely gorgeous in his lust. He's got his buttons open and his belt buckle undone, and he's revealing more and more of his bare, sweaty skin as he impatiently strips his pants and a pair of tight, sexy briefs off his legs.

Everything's happening at breakneck speed, here in this shitty back seat, and Hank can't take his eyes off him.

Turned on by all those new freckles and moles he's so shamelessly confronted with, Hank's veins are bursting with a fresh shot of adrenaline. Further down, between his thighs, his dick is already up and fully back in the game: throbby, wet and now so hard it hurts.

Without missing a beat., Hank yanks Connor right back to him, one arm still tangled in his own ruddy jacket. With his voice cracking into a low, rough rumble, he grabs his perky ass, guiding him onto his bulging lap. Instantly, his smooth, muscled thighs envelop his bucking hips in a greedy embrace, holding him tightly in place.

Connor can't hide his impatience. His fingernails are scratching all over the length of Anderson's arms and shoulders, digging into his pecs and slipping under the fabric of his loose shirt to tease patches of silver chest hair on top. Connor is fucking touch starved and isn't shy about showing it. Begging for more, he rocks his pelvis wildly, making it pretty obvious what he's after.

The sudden pressure around his groin hits Hank right on the spot, forcing a sharp, violent shudder straight through his abs, and sending his muscles into spasms. Behind his temples, his pulse is raging up and down in rapid waves.

Hissing, the older man grits his teeth. Shit!

Tension vibrates in the muscles of Hank's thighs, and he instinctively snaps his fingers, digging all ten of them into the plump flesh of Connor's ass.

"H-Hank," he pants. 

Forbidden sweet. 

And so manipulative.

They moan in unison and slippery, warm liquid spreads between their bellies as Hank thrusts into him. His knuckles are sweaty, but thick and rough and Connor is so goddamn tight. Their erections are rubbing against each other, swollen and slippery. Struggling to keep his balance, he reaches for Hank's shoulders, pushing himself onto theses burly fingers, needy to be fucked.

Connor's face, neck and collarbone are all covered in sweat. He's grimacing, biting his lip. Full of lust and full of pain. Hank can feel him getting tense, and he'd like to slow down a bit, but Connor doesn't give him much of a choice. Eyelids fluttering, he slides a hand between them, and Hank's head rolls back, gripping Connor's rocking hips as he slowly sinks back down onto his lap, sucking in his dripping dick.

Too much, too fast, too damn good. Goose bumps cover every inch of Hank's body in fucking no time. And holy shit, Connor is a real fucking tight one. Tight and piping hot and goddamn reckless. Under his bare palms, Hank can feel the heat rising from his skin and the way all the little tiny hairs stand up on top of it. Whimpering and moaning, his frantic breathing brushes along Hank's neck. Inch by inch, the massive shaft pushes inside him. Widening and stretching the tight, little hole – his most intimate spot.

More wetness spreads between them. Smacking, their bodies collide. Dick up his ass, right to the limit.

"Ah, shit!’ Connor yelps, arching his back.
 
"Fuck," Hank joins in, his pelvis bucking up in one sudden thrust, so hard that it makes Connor cry out with a throaty whimper.

The tightness around him quickly turns into a frenetic, bone-crunching embrace. Hank's dick feels like it's being squeezed by a vice. But there's no time to waste, because Connor is already matching up with him, giving him a hard ride. They're moving wild and fast, on a rhythm that's a bit of a goddamn rollercoaster. Restlessly, Connor leans closer to Hank, bouncing on his lap, and pushes himself into these rough hands gripping his ass.

"Don't stop," Connor whimpers, desperately inhaling Hank's smell. "Don't stop... Don't stop. Don't stop."

"You fucking killing me," Hank growls, fucking into him, "Holy fucking-"

He buries his fingers roughly into the soft, sweaty skin of Connor's rolling hips. With each heartbeat, searing heat is rushing like a fire to his core. He feels lightheaded and his balls contract painfully, muscles working inside him in areas he didn't even know existed.

More. More. More. Just a little more...

Hank stays inside him as they slide down the seat and he pins Connor's body onto the worn leather of the Oldsmobile. One of his long legs hits the back of the driver's seat as he spreads his thighs wide to feel Hank more intensely, more deeply. 

Sweaty and his vision blurred, Connor blinks up at him. He is smiling tenderly, but there's also a kind of sadness in that smile. Then his swollen lips curl into a shuddering moan, his head dropping back as Hank slams into him once more. 

After that...

After that, Hank doesn't know anything. Blackout. Knocked out by the freaky best orgasm of his goddamn life.

When he comes back to consciousness hours later, he's alone. Still lying in the back seat, with a terrible taste in his mouth, feeling all mushy and drowsy. He needs a long moment, maybe even two, to snap out of it and to get his shit together. Not much. Just enough to clear his head and start thinking straight, more or less.

His muscles ache like hell. Something he doesn't realise until he manages to drag himself onto his ass. He doesn't really notice the blanket he's wrapped in either. Well, until now. It's a shabby old thing, exactly the kind of blanket he keeps in the trunk for emergencies. 

Hank swallows, clears his throat. He blinks a few times before leaning over to wipe the steamed-up window. All of this is still happening pretty much on autopilot. A moment later, Hank is wide awake. Outside, the sun's already up, it's bright and windy. In other words, the new day is already in full swing all around him.

How long... how long has he been asleep?!

With a soft hiss, he is too old for such things, Hank peels himself out of the warm cocoon. Which isn't that easy in the shit-tight back seat. Next to him, he finds his jacket, neatly folded, but his shirt, pants and belt are all unbuttoned and open.

Warmth creeps up Hank's cheeks. 

"Co-Connor..."

Hank's heart skips a beat. Ignoring his fucked up body, he quickly fixes his clothes in, grabs his jacket and climbs out of the car. It's cold outside, but the fresh air feels so damn good. 

"Connor?" Hank mutters his name. Then a little louder, rougher. "Connor!?"

He turns around, looking for any sign of him. Snow crunches beneath his feet. Snow? Indeed, there is a thin layer of bright white all over the place. Snow in October. And he didn't even notice any of it. Because he was asleep. For the first time in ages, he was asleep. Dreamless. Far away from all his pain and suffering. 

Connor is gone. All he knows about him is his name. Just as Connor knows nothing more than his name. 

Hank takes a deep breath and stares over at the bridge. He doesn't know how long for. As he is about to slip into his jacket, something flutters to the ground. It's a small piece of paper. Written on it, in a neat, accurate hand, is:

𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬. 

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘬. 𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 ;)

𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 

𝘐'𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰. 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘳. 

Hank reads the message. Once, twice. Behind him, the swings begin to move, children's laughter echoing through the cold morning air. The wind picks up and the note slips from Hank's fingers, carried out to the river by a breeze that is filled with the scent of snow. 

Only now, too late, he sees the number on the back.

°•°•the end °•°•