Chapter Twenty-Six

Finn

Now

“Fuck, it’s cold!” Finn jumped on the spot, his dick bouncing up and down behind his boxers, Hank starting the shower. “For a second there, I thought my balls were gonna fall off.” He grinned stupidly at the image of the both of them running the last stretch of the road in the rain on their way back from the diner. What’d been forecast as snow ended up being ice-cold rain instead, soaking them both to their underwear within minutes.

“You’re a nurse, so you oughta know, I guess,” Hank smiled back at him, his cheeks flushed, drops of rain hanging from his beard. “Can balls actually freeze off?”

“Hmmm.” Finn pretended to think long and hard. “They’d have to be frozen solid, I guess, and then you’d have to break them off.” He made a snapping gesture with his hands, a crunching sound like a branch being broken in half, and his best sadistic facial expression.

“For Pete’s sake, kid!” Hank winced. “Don’t say stuff like that. Now my balls hurt!” He instinctively grabbed said balls in front of his drenched jeans, phantom pain flashing in his eyes. Finn chuckled, rubbing his arms, the skin all dark pink from the cold. Hank reached inside the shower again, humming. “Get in. It’s ready. Nice and warm.” He nodded at the small shower, steam filling the air around them.

“Don’t you ever just wanna say fuck instead of Pete’s ? I mean, who’s Pete, anyway?” Finn squinted through the steam, his lenses fogging, making it impossible to read Hank’s expression. He was probably making that overbearing frown right now that was usually accompanied by an I-give-up sigh. Like he was only just able to put up with Finn. He wished he could tell over the running water if Hank was sighing. He bet he was. It was strangely reassuring, satisfying almost, that he could predict all these small things about Hank by now. Expressions he used often, like that ever-present now, or his low humming sounds and familiar mannerisms.

Removing his glasses, Finn folded them, placed them on the sink, and then pulled down his wet boxers.

“No idea, but I guess I’m from a different generation,” Hank spoke. “Kids nowadays throw that word around like goddamn confetti. F this and f that.” He shrugged, before starting to remove his pants, too, then his navy Henley that clung to his broad chest and soft stomach like a second skin. Inches of delicious skin covered by a thick layer of hair, a mix of black, brown, and gray. The familiar scent of the woods and sweat now mixed with the smell of rain blending into an intoxicating fragrance. The slope of his broad shoulders that begged—just fucking begged —to be licked. The outline of his pecs, and in the center, the protruding nipples that were just a tone darker than his skin. His soft waist, the hip bones covered in a layer of cushiony fat. Love handles. Finn had always wondered about that expression, but now he knew exactly what it referred to. Were they still love handles if you weren’t in love? Hmmm… Hank’s thick cock stood proud against his bulky stomach, his balls hanging heavily between his furry tree trunk thighs.

Fuck, despite his teeth clattering from the cold still lingering in his bones, Finn’s mouth began to water at the sight in front of him. He was so goddamn delectable. Hank was everything that Finn had always loved in a man. A body that deserved to be fucking worshipped and have a city—no, scratch that—an entire country named after it. If he wasn’t so useless with his hands, he would build a fucking altar in honor of Hank’s gorgeous body and pray to it on his knees every goddamn day. Shit, he was already on his knees for this man, wasn’t he? Literally and figuratively speaking.

“What’s wrong?” Hank stood naked in front of him, a puzzled look in his eyes. “You feel sick?” There was an edge of worry in his voice.

“Nah, I’m good.” Finn shook his head before entering the shower, the scalding hot water hitting his sensitive skin like tiny bullets. Just fantasizing about building a temple where I can pray to your cock. Shit, his hole clenched around nothing, reminding him it’d been close to twenty-four hours since Hank had last been inside him. Closing his eyes, he tipped back his head and surrendered to the hot water, the pleasure-pain all-consuming. When he started to feel that prickly sensation on his skin, he opened his eyes, Hank standing right in front of him, his familiar hazel eyes looking straight at him, drops of water clinging to his brows and lashes.

Reaching for the body wash, some no-brand cheap stuff from the local store in a toxic-looking aquamarine color, Finn moved a little so that Hank could get under the hot spray too. Reaching out his hand between them, Hank nodded at the body wash, and Finn opened the cap and poured a generous dollop of the Pacific Blue fragranced soap into Hank’s open palm. After placing it back on the small metal shelf in the shower, Hank soothingly started from his neck, moving outwards over his shoulders as he soaped up Finn. His hands, so large, the skin rough, and yet his ministrations were so careful and tender. Finn failed to bite back a pitiful moan when Hank started massaging his shoulders, digging his thumbs into the tense muscles and achy joints, tension slowly bleeding from his bones.

“Fuck… Hank, that’s nice. Don’t stop,” he nearly sobbed, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as the warm spray hit his face. Hank’s hands swept in circular movements along his chest, one large palm covering each of Finn’s pecs, rubbing across them, his thumbs brushing lightly at first, then more demanding, across Finn’s pointed nipples.

“Like this,” Hank hummed. “You like it like this?”

“Yeah, exactly like that,” Finn moaned, the sound outdrawn, echoing off the tiles. Or perhaps he was delusional, and he was just imagining it, the sound so loud inside his head. “Don’t stop.” Don’t let me go. Don’t ever let me go.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Hank purred, and Finn’s eyes sprang wide open as he looked at Hank. He was met by a smug yet shy smile, eyes filled with heat. Then Hank pinched his nipples at the same time, the lovely pain coursing through Finn’s chest like an electric current, luring a clipped hiss from his lips.

“You said fuck ,” he spoke in disbelief, the pain turning into a dull throb as Hank’s thumbs circled soothingly back and forth over his raw nipples.

“Only for you, kid.” Hank smiled, and why did it suddenly feel like Hank had just handed him the entire world on a platter with those words? Only for you, kid. Only for me. “Yes.” Hank smiled even broader, and it wasn’t until then that Finn realized that he’d actually spoken the last sentence. “There are many things that I do for you, with you, that I’ve never done with or to anyone before.” His face transformed, a sudden seriousness inhabiting it, his eyes turning a shade darker. “You make me wanna do things, try things that I never thought I’d want. Need .” Finn swallowed, the shower so, so hot—too hot—his skin itchy and heated. He took a step forward, trying to move around Hank, but Hank spread his right hand across his chest, stopping him. “Don’t run away from me, Finn. Just because some things are hard to hear, don’t mean they don’t need to be said.”

Fuck, who was this Hank, and what had he done to the man of few words that he usually spent his days with? He wasn’t entirely sure that he liked this version of Hank. Well, perhaps dislike was too strong of a word. Unnerving, maybe. Yes, Hank’s words were unnerving. So was the scrutinizing way he looked at Finn right now, his eyes boring into his, almost as if he was trying to invade him. Like one of those sci-fi movies that used to scare the fuck out of him as a kid. Body Snatchers or some shit like that.

Reaching for the body wash, Hank poured more soap into his palm and started washing Finn’s stomach and obliques, his strong hands pulling needy noises and mewling moans from Finn’s lips. Brushing his hands through the soaped-up hair beneath Finn’s belly button, he leaned in, pressing a faint kiss to Finn’s lips before slowly dropping to his knees. Finn wanted to protest—this was not a good position for Hank—but the words died on his tongue when he felt blunt fingers coasting along his crease, then brushing, prodding, poking at his hole.

“Fuuuck,” he whimpered. “Shit. That’s… Hank, what’re—” His stream of words was cut off, morphing into a string of unrecognizable expletives and pathetic sounds as Hank sucked his hard length all the way to the back of his throat. Finn fumbled blindly for the shower wall to steady himself, his legs threatening to give way beneath him. Swallowing around his cockhead, Hank pushed a thick finger inside him roughly, the sting excruciatingly lovely, causing his thighs to shake.

“Hank, Hank, Hank,” he chanted, his right hand sliding on the wet tiles, their semi-coolness doing a piss-poor job at grounding him. His other hand grabbed desperately for Hank’s hair—perhaps a little too hard—but he no longer had any control over his body. It was no longer his. It belonged to Hank.

Adding another finger, Hank bobbed his head up and down, water cascading over his furry shoulders and further down his broad back. Muscles rippled beneath the skin, Hank’s entire body working at giving Finn pleasure. Pushing his ass back against Hank’s hand, Finn started riding his fingers in incoherent thrusts, his hole so hungry, so fucking hungry, for those fat fingers.

“I’m gonna come, Hank. I’m gonna come like this,” he babbled, thrusting harder, faster, against Hank’s fingers, angling his hips so the tips would hit that spot deep inside again and again just right. “Please… Please, Hank.” He needed to fucking come, but he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. Of course, he couldn’t. Giving him a long, lazy lick, Hank released his throbbing cock from his mouth. Looking up at Finn, who continued to hump his fingers, Hank swept the back of his other hand across his mouth. He, too, looked wrecked. More wrecked than Finn had seen him before. It was a good look on Hank. Especially because he, Finn, put it there. Burying his fingers even deeper inside Finn, Hank’s eyes darkened as he licked his bottom lip.

“Come,” he coaxed, ever so softly, his voice so calm, yet so demanding. How could Hank be so fucking calm when Finn was a storm inside, threatening to blow the fucking roof right off the cabin? “Come for me, Finn.” Yes. Whatever you want, Hank. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t let me go. Finn’s entire body shook as his release washed over him, threatening to steal his feet away from under him. “I got you,” Hank promised, grabbing both of his thighs, not allowing him to fall. “I got you, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. Sweet. Heart.

“Hmmm.” The semi-annoyed lilt to Hank’s voice didn’t escape him. Even though his body had lost all pretense of being present, his mind the equivalent of mashed potatoes at this point, Finn’s hearing at least seemed to be functioning.

“What?”

“They’re fading,” Hank mumbled against his left inner thigh, and if Finn didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought that Hank was pouting. But Hank didn’t pout. He would grump around when he couldn’t find his truck keys, and they were exactly where they always were. He would huff when Finn said something millennial , and he would groan— fuck , could that man groan like a grizzly—when he was balls deep in Finn. But, no, he didn’t pout.

“What are you talking about?” he chuckled, Hank’s tongue and the tips of his fingers licking, trailing across the sensitive skin of his thighs, the tickling sensation close to painful if it hadn’t been so goddamn exquisite.

“The marks. My marks. They’re fadin’,” Hank hummed, and yes, there was definitely a pout to his voice.

“Oh, yeah?” He hadn’t noticed himself, but since Hank spent an obscene amount of time down there, he would have to take his word for it. “So? Can’t you just—” The rest of his question died in a loud, pitiful squeal as Hank’s teeth latched onto his skin, sucking it crudely, hungrily into his mouth like some famished beast. Fuck, that felt good. Finn had done drugs a couple of times in his life—nothing hard or anything—but this… this feeling of Hank marking him like that. It was the biggest high ever. Like hot lava coursing through his veins, igniting tiny sparks on its way, bringing every fiber of his body to a higher plane of being until finally bursting inside his heart and in his mind. Like fucking fireworks on steroids.

Hank’s heavy hand held him down as he moved to a new patch of skin and sucked it into his mouth, growling possessively around it. Squirming beneath him at first, the pain initially so all-consuming and intense, Finn eventually relaxed, giving into the sensation of being devoured. Of being owned. He owns you. He does not. He does too. With small sighs and cries of contentment, he melted into the mattress as Hank moved toward his other thigh, creating a pink, crimson, and purple colored canvas there, too.

“Look at you,” Hank mumbled against his overstimulated skin. “Such a beautiful, beautiful boy, aren’t you? My own little beast of burden. My Finn.” Shit. This wasn’t just fucking anymore, was it? Things were changing between them. He felt it. Hank must feel it too, right? The last couple of times when they’d fucked, they’d both slipped in and out of this state more often, where they would confess things to each other that usually only lovers would. Where dangerous—potentially life-altering—words like mine, yours, and beautiful would escape their mouths. As much as it should’ve scared him, freaked him out, and made him run screaming and crying for the woods, there was another feeling that won out. A feeling that he recognized because it had been his invisible, needy twin all his life.

Need me, it whined. Want me, it pleaded. Love me, it cried. Please, please, please love me and never let me go. It had never been a romantic kind of urge, nor an egotistical one. It was a starving little animal that fumbled blindly for scraps. When everyone else had had their fill of love, warmth, and affection, it would scramble out from the darkest corners and suck up, lick up, and wrap itself in the sad leftovers. That hunger. He knew it so well. It was so bottomless, so insatiable. Although lately, with Hank, there were moments, fragments of moments, where he would feel almost sated and content. Where the hunger wouldn’t pull at his screaming intestines, and that nagging voice in his head would shut up for just a few blissful moments.

It won’t last. It never does, was replaced by a but what if it can?

Don’t get too happy. Don’t rest. Don’t relax, was starting to give way to a but what if I want to be happy? What if I, too, deserve it?

When they realize who you are, what you are, they won’t want you. You’ll be back out in the cold again. Don’t get too comfortable. The words still hurt. They did. But not as much as they used to, because another small voice grew in strength with every word, kiss, and caress from Hank. But what if he does want me? What if he wants me? Being with Hank was the closest he’d ever come to making those voices shut up. At least momentarily. Because, of course, it couldn’t last.

“C’mere.” Hank tugged at his hips, pulling him down towards him. “Need to kiss ya.” His voice sounded tired, sated; like he’d just had a feast. Well, he kind of had. Scooting down, Finn wiggled beneath Hank’s solid grip. Once they were aligned, lying on their sides facing each other, Hank leaned in, his lips bruised and bright red. A satisfied smile swept across his face seconds before he closed his lips around Finn’s. The kiss was chaste at first, just a few pecks to each corner of Finn’s mouth and to his Cupid’s bow. Carefully, he pressed his mouth against the small scattering of freckles above Finn’s upper lip. Once, twice, he lost count, succumbing to the feeling. Tenderly, Hank’s tongue teased Finn’s lips apart. Separating his lips, he let Hank in, sucking his tongue lazily into his mouth. Hank hummed inside him, his arms squeezing Finn closer— so close, but never close enough —against him, his heavy right thigh resting across Finn’s hip. There was nothing demanding about the kiss, no hidden agenda. It was just a kiss.

“You’re such a good boy, aren’t you Finn?” Hank spoke against his lips. Finn nodded; what else could he do? He wanted it so badly. To be good. Because if you were good, you could perhaps be forgiven too, right? “You’re my good boy, Finn,” Hank promised, causing Finn’s heart to do happy little somersaults. When Hank called him his good boy , it felt like having dessert and then, later, ice cream, just because. Like celebrating Christmas three days in a row. Like racing down an open road on your bike, arms reaching for the blue sky. Or like the first day the whales returned to the coast of Oregon, the moment the giant magnificent creatures would finally— fucking finally! —break through the still surface of the ocean.

Brushing at the skin beneath Finn’s eyes, Hank swallowed, his voice dipping to a low drone.

“Why are you crying, sweet boy?” he whispered, a worried frown between his bushy brows.

“No reason,” Finn gulped. He hadn’t realized he was crying. It was all just suddenly too much. Hank was everywhere, and he missed his family. His mom and his dad. Cara. God, he missed Cara.

“Don’t cry, Finn. Everything’s okay. Right now, everything’s okay.”

“I know. Thank you, Hank. Thank you.” Thank you, thank you, thank you.

“You’re good, kid. You’re good.” Hank pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, before pulling him flush against his broad chest, his chest hair offering up a cushion for Finn to rest his head on. His thighs were throbbing, Hank’s marks on his body reminding him that he was someone’s. However fleeting and temporary, at this moment, he belonged to someone like he’d once before, for twenty-five years, belonged somewhere else, too. Breathing in the familiar scent of Hank, he closed his eyes, a clipped sigh slipping from his lips. “You sleep now,” Hank soothed. “You sleep now.”

“Goodnight, Hank.”

“Goodnight, Finn.”