Tank lifted his head slowly, his lips brushing Biff’s sticky sternum. A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through Biff’s spent body. “Messy,” Tank murmured, dragging a calloused thumb through the cooling streaks on Biff’s chest. He lifted his finger, examining the glistening smear under the lamplight before sucking it clean with a deliberate sucking sound that sent aftershocks down Biff’s spine.
Biff shuddered, still trembling. Tank’s gaze darkened as he traced the map of their release across Biff’s hairy abdomen. “Perfect canvas,” he growled, dipping his head to lick a broad stripe through the mess. The rasp of his tongue over sensitized skin made Biff gasp, hips jerking weakly. Tank grinned against his skin, teeth grazing a hip bone. “Still twitchy, huh?”
He rose, knees cracking, and hauled Biff upright with effortless strength. The abrupt movement jolted Biff, leaving him swaying. Tank steadied him, hands firm on Biff’s hips. His eyes raked over Biff’s nakedness — the sticky chest, the softening cock, the dazed expression. “Shower,” Tank ordered, voice rough but softer now. He didn’t wait, steering Biff toward the hallway.
The bathroom was small, tiled in cracked white. Tank shoved Biff under the spray before stepping in behind him, crowding him against the slick wall. Hot water sluiced over them, mixing sweat and sperm down the drain.
Tank grabbed a bar of plain soap, working up a lather in his hands. His touch was thorough, possessive — scrubbing Biff’s chest, his back, the thick curve of his ass. Biff leaned into it, boneless, as Tank’s soapy fingers slid between his cheeks briefly, teasingly.
“Clean slate,” Tank muttered, his erection nudging Biff’s thigh as he rinsed them both.
He shut off the water, grabbing a worn towel. His drying was just as deliberate, rubbing Biff’s hair to a messy dampness, patting his chest dry with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the raw hunger earlier. Tank tossed the towel aside, pulling Biff close. Skin to skin again, flushed and damp, with no pretense left.
Tank pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Hungry?” he asked, fingers tracing the shell of Biff’s ear.
Biff’s stomach growled on cue. Tank chuckled, steering him toward the kitchen. On the stove, a pot of chili simmered, filling the air with cumin and warmth. Tank ladled generous portions into chipped bowls. They ate at the small Formica table, shoulders brushing. No words — just the scrape of spoons and Tank’s boot tapping rhythmically under the table to the distant jazz still spinning.
Afterward, Tank cleared the bowls, his hand lingering on Biff’s shoulder as he passed. “Stay,” he said quietly, not looking back as he rinsed the dishes. It wasn’t a request.
The night pressed against the kitchen window, dark and thick. Biff traced a scratch on the tabletop, his mind replaying the raw intensity of Tank’s hands on him — the bite of calluses, the claiming weight. The scent of chili still hung in the air, earthy and comforting beneath the lingering musk of sex.
Tank returned, sliding into the chair beside Biff instead of across. His knee pressed firmly against Biff’s thigh. “Shoulda done this years ago,” he murmured, rough fingers closing over Biff’s wrist. He turned Biff’s hand palm-up, tracing the thick lines across it — the scars from steel cables, the ingrained grime no shower could erase.
Tank’s thumb rubbed slow circles into Biff’s pulse point. “Watched these hands work. Imagined ’em on me.” He lifted Biff’s knuckles to his mouth, kissing each one with a startling tenderness that tightened Biff’s throat.
Outside, a car door slammed. Tank didn’t flinch. His gaze held Biff’s, blue and unwavering. “Ain’t gonna hide this,” he stated, low and clear. “Not from the crew. Not from nobody.” He squeezed Biff’s hand hard enough to ache. “You with me?” The question hung heavy, stripped bare.
Biff saw the years of loneliness etched in the lines around Tank’s eyes, the fierce hope beneath the certainty. His own voice was rough sandpaper. “Yeah.” Tank’s slow smile cracked his face open — relief, pride, possession. He tugged Biff to his feet.
In the living room, Tank sank onto the worn couch, pulling Biff down beside him. He wrapped a thick arm around Biff’s shoulders, tucking him close. Biff rested his head against Tank’s collarbone, breathing in soap and skin. Tank’s heartbeat thudded steady beneath his ear. The jazz record had ended; the silence was deep, broken only by their breathing.
Tank’s fingers absently combed through Biff’s damp hair. “Gonna be hell at work tomorrow,” Tank rumbled, but his hand tightened possessively. Biff closed his eyes. The warmth of Tank’s body, the solidity — it anchored him. Years of stolen glances crystallized into this: Tank’s breath soft against his temple, the weight of belonging. Outside, the world waited. Here, Tank’s thumb stroked the nape of his neck, slow and sure, as the night deepened around them.
A sudden chill draft snaked through the room. Tank shifted, pulling a worn wool blanket from the back of the couch. He draped it over them, cocooning them in scratchy warmth. Biff burrowed closer, his cheek pressed to the thin cotton covering Tank’s chest. Tank’s scent — soap, leather, and lingering musk — filled his lungs. The silence stretched, thick and comfortable, broken only by the rhythmic tap of Tank’s fingers drumming a slow beat against Biff’s shoulder blade.
“Fell for you when you yelled at Crane Mike,” Tank murmured suddenly, voice low against the quiet. “That storm last March. Lightning flashing behind you, rain slicin’ down your face ... you looked like some pissed-off god.”
Biff remembered that day — mud sucking at his boots, Tank’s sharp orders cutting through the thunder. He’d never guessed Tank saw anything but incompetence. A lump formed in his throat. Tank’s hand slid down Biff’s spine, tracing the grooves of muscle beneath the blanket. “Kept replaying it. Cold shower didn’t help worth a damn.”
The furnace kicked on with a metallic clank, pushing warm air through the vents. Tank sighed, a deep exhalation vibrating through Biff. “Gotta be up at five,” he muttered, reluctance heavy in his tone. Yet he made no move to rise. Instead, his fingers traced the shell of Biff’s ear, feather-light.
Biff tilted his head, catching Tank’s gaze in the dim light filtering from the kitchen. Tank’s eyes were hooded, sated but fiercely awake. He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to Biff’s forehead — a silent promise, a claim.
Outside, the distant wail of a train echoed, a lonely sound swallowed by Tank’s steady heartbeat beneath Biff’s ear. The blanket felt like armor. The world could wait.
Biff stirred. "Five comes fast." His voice rasped against Tank’s chest, muffled by cotton and weariness. He didn’t move. Tank’s fingers tightened on his shoulder, grounding him.
"Too fast," Tank growled, his hand sliding down to cup the curve of Biff’s hip beneath the scratchy wool. His thumb pressed into the muscle, possessive and sure. "Stay here tonight." It wasn’t a question. His breath warmed Biff’s temple. "Bed’s softer than this damn couch."
Biff lifted his head. In the faint kitchen light, Tank’s face was stark—exhaustion etched around his eyes, but something brighter beneath it. Hope? Possession? Tank leaned forward, capturing Biff’s mouth in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of chili and shared breath. His tongue slid against Biff’s, lazy and claiming. When he pulled back, his thumb traced Biff’s swollen lower lip. "C’mon."
Tank rose, pulling Biff up with him. The blanket fell away, leaving Biff bare and shivering slightly in the cool air. Tank didn’t let go of his hand, leading him down the narrow hallway. The bedroom door stood open, revealing a simple space: a large, unmade bed draped in navy flannel sheets, a dented dresser, moonlight filtering through half-closed blinds.
Tank steered Biff toward the bed. "In." He nudged Biff’s shoulder until he sank onto the edge. The mattress groaned softly. Tank stood over him, silhouetted against the window, stripping off his undershirt with a rough tug. Moonlight caught the silver in his chest hair, the thick ridges of muscle. He kicked off his sweatpants, standing naked and unselfconscious. The sight — powerful, scarred, utterly familiar — stole Biff’s breath.
Tank climbed in beside him, the sheets cool against skin still flushed from the shower. He pulled Biff close, wrapping him in arms that felt like steel cables. Chest to chest, legs tangled. Tank buried his face in the crook of Biff’s neck, inhaling deeply. "Smell like me now," he murmured, satisfaction thick in his voice. His hand slid down Biff’s spine, palm rough against the damp skin, settling possessively on the swell of his ass. Biff shuddered, pressing closer, the exhaustion warring with the electric current still humming under his skin from Tank’s touch.
Moonlight striped the bed, painting silver lines across Tank’s shoulders. Biff traced Tank’s pectoral muscle, pinching the rubbery nipple as it shrank to a firm nubbin.
Tank’s breath hitched. "Love having my tits played with," he rasped, capturing Biff’s wandering fingers and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. He guided Biff’s hand lower, over the coiled power of his abdomen, down to the dense thatch of dark hair. "Notice this?" Tank’s cock, half-hard again, nudged against Biff’s thigh. Heat bloomed low in Biff’s belly.
Tank rolled them, pinning Biff beneath him. His weight was solid, anchoring. He kissed Biff slowly, deeply, his tongue exploring with a lazy intensity that felt like a brand. "Gonna learn every inch of you," Tank promised against his mouth, hips grinding down. The friction sent sparks skittering up Biff’s nerves.
Tank’s calloused hand slid between them, fingers wrapping around both their thickening lengths. He squeezed, a slow, deliberate pressure. Biff gasped, arching up. Tank chuckled, the sound vibrating against Biff’s collarbone. "Easy, kid. We got time." His thumb swiped over the slick heads, smearing pre-cum.
The furnace kicked off. Silence pressed in, broken only by their ragged breathing and the soft, wet sound of Tank’s fist moving in a slow, torturous rhythm. Biff’s hands gripped Tank’s biceps, feeling the muscles bunch and flex. "Tank —" he choked out, hips lifting off the mattress. Tank tightened his grip, holding him down, controlling the pace, the pressure.
"Look at me," Tank commanded, voice gravel. Biff forced his eyes open. Tank’s gaze was fierce blue fire in the moonlight, locked onto his, raw and unguarded. "Mine," Tank growled, thrusting into the tight circle of his own fingers, dragging Biff along with him. Pleasure coiled, tight and inevitable.
A distant clock chimed four times, the sound muffled through the walls. Tank’s rhythm faltered for a heartbeat. His eyes softened almost imperceptibly. He leaned down, kissing Biff with a sudden, desperate tenderness that stole his breath. Then his hand moved faster, rougher.
"Now," Tank rasped against his lips. Release crashed over them together — a shared gasp, bodies locking tight. Biff's sperm spilled hotly over Tank’s fist and their joined bellies. Tank followed, a low groan tearing from his throat as he pulsed against Biff’s skin. He collapsed forward, forehead pressed to Biff’s, sweat dripping between them. His hand stayed wrapped around them both, sticky and claiming, as their harsh breaths mingled in the predawn stillness.
Tank shifted first, rolling onto his side and pulling Biff with him. He grabbed a discarded flannel shirt from the floor, wiping them both roughly. The fabric scraped Biff’s sensitized skin. Tank tossed the shirt aside, then pulled the navy flannel sheet over them, cocooning them in warmth smelling faintly of detergent and sweat. His arm locked around Biff’s waist, fingers splayed possessively over his hip bone.
"Sleep," Tank ordered, voice thick with exhaustion. Biff drifted, lulled by Tank’s steady heartbeat beneath his ear and the deep rhythm of his breathing.
The moonlight faded, replaced by the first grey streaks of dawn filtering through the blinds. He traced the dense hair on Tank’s chest, the scar, the solid warmth anchoring him.
A sharp, electronic chirp shattered the silence. Tank’s alarm. He groaned, a sound muffled against Biff’s hair, and groped blindly for the nightstand. His fingers slapped the clock silent. For a moment, he lay utterly still, then tightened his arm around Biff. "Five minutes," he mumbled, burying his face in Biff’s neck. His stubble scraped Biff’s skin.
Biff listened to the sounds of the house waking – the distant hum of the refrigerator cycling on, the faint creak of pipes. Tank’s breath deepened again, slipping back toward sleep. His thumb rubbed slow, unconscious circles on Biff’s hip beneath the sheet. The intimacy of it – unguarded, effortless – clenched Biff’s chest tighter than any kiss.
Outside, the city began to stir. Here, tangled in sheets smelling of sex and Tank, Biff closed his eyes. Five minutes stretched, precious and stolen. Tank’s hand slid higher, fingers threading into the hair at Biff’s nape. A silent anchor. Dawn - and work - waited.
The alarm screamed again, shrill and insistent. Tank cursed, flinging out an arm to silence it. He rolled onto his back, scrubbing a hand over his face. The early light etched the exhaustion around his eyes, the silver stubble shadowing his jaw. His gaze found Biff’s. "Hell of an alarm clock," he muttered, voice thick with sleep and regret. His hand slid down Biff’s flank, a rough, possessive stroke.
They showered together under a weak spray, Tank scrubbing Biff’s back with impersonal efficiency, yet his knuckles lingered on the curve of Biff’s spine. Dressing was silent, punctuated by the rustle of denim and the clink of Tank’s belt buckle. Tank handed Biff a faded blue workshirt smelling faintly of him. "Wear this," he commanded, eyes dark. A claim. Biff pulled it on, the fabric soft against his skin, sleeves straining over his biceps.
The drive to the yard was tense, Tank’s truck vibrating with unspoken words. The radio crackled with static, ignored. Tank parked near the foreman’s shack, engine idling. He didn’t look at Biff. "They’ll know," he stated flatly, staring straight ahead at the chain-link fence. His jaw tightened. "There'll be stares. Shit talk." Finally, he turned, his gaze fierce blue steel. "You handle it?"
Biff met his eyes. "Yeah." The word felt solid, real. Tank nodded once, curt, then shoved open his door. The morning air hit them – diesel, dust, the promise of sweat.
They walked in together, strides matching. Heads snapped up instantly. Carl paused mid-swing with a sledgehammer, eyes wide. Mike lowered his coffee cup slowly. A ripple of silence spread across the yard, louder than the crane’s idle engine.
Tank’s expression hardened into the familiar granite mask. He stopped near Bay One, hands on hips. "What?" he barked, voice cutting through the quiet. "Never seen a man show up for work?" The challenge hung in the air.
Carl recovered first, a slow grin spreading. "Just admiring the shirt, Biff," he called, pointing his hammer. "Looks real familiar." Laughter erupted, nervous but sharp. Tank’s glare silenced it instantly. He jerked his chin toward the half-finished steel frame. "Move!"
Biff headed for his tools. Behind him, Tank’s voice rose, sharp and clear. "And Carl? Next comment like that, you’re cleaning the porta-potties with your toothbrush." The laughter died. Biff kept walking, shoulders squared, feeling Tank’s gaze burning between his shoulder blades. The shirt clung to him, smelling of Tank’s skin. It was armor.
Mid-morning, Tank strode past Biff’s scaffold. He didn’t pause, didn’t look up, but his knuckles brushed Biff’s boot as he passed – a deliberate, fleeting contact. Biff’s welding torch sputtered. Above him, Carl whistled low. Biff ignored it, adjusting the flame. His cheeks burned hotter than the molten steel pooling before him.
At lunch, Biff sat alone on a stack of rebar. Tank emerged from the foreman’s shack carrying two grease-stained paper bags. He tossed one onto Biff’s lap. "Pastrami," Tank grunted, loud enough for nearby ears. "Don’t choke." He walked away without stopping. Inside: thick rye bread, pungent mustard, extra pickles. Tank’s usual order. Biff unwrapped it slowly. Across the yard, Tank leaned against a loader, eating his own sandwich. His eyes met Biff’s. Held. Then he took a savage bite, tearing into the meat.
The afternoon sun hammered down. Biff wrestled heavy angle iron into place when a shadow fell over him. Tank stood there, clipboard in hand. "Alignment’s off," he announced brusquely, pointing. But his boot nudged Biff’s calf – a hidden press. "Shift it left." His voice dropped low. "My place. Six tonight." He moved on, shouting orders at Mike. Biff shoved the steel left, muscles straining. Sweat dripped into his eyes. Six. The word echoed louder than the rivet gun beside him.
The whistle screamed. Biff slammed his locker shut. Tank was already at his truck, leaning against the driver’s door. He watched Biff approach, arms crossed. The yard was emptying fast. Tank’s gaze raked over him. "Shirt suits you," he said, voice rough. He jerked his head toward the passenger seat. "Get in." No preamble. No hiding. Biff slid in. Tank cranked the engine. As they rumbled past the gate, Tank’s hand dropped heavily onto Biff’s thigh. Possessive. Unmistakable. His thumb rubbed slow circles through the denim. Outside the windshield, the city blurred. Tank didn’t glance over, didn’t speak. His grip tightened. The road stretched ahead.
Tank’s house smelled of frying onions and simmering beef. He’d left a pot on low. "More chili," Tank grunted, kicking off his boots. He didn’t turn on lights. The fading daylight painted stripes across the hallway.
Tank pushed Biff against the wall beside the coat rack. Heavy coats brushed Biff’s shoulder. Tank’s mouth found his, urgent, tasting of dust and salt. His hands slid under the borrowed shirt – Tank’s shirt – fingers digging into Biff’s hips. He pulled the fabric up, exposing Biff’s hairy chest. Tank broke the kiss, panting. His lips traced the coarse trail downward. He paused at Biff’s belt buckle. "Been tasting this all day," Tank growled against Biff’s belly button. The metal clicked open.
They ate standing at the kitchen counter, bowls of chili steaming, elbows bumping. Tank’s bare foot hooked around Biff’s ankle beneath the counter. He scooped a spoonful, blew on it, held it out. "Open," Tank commanded. Biff obeyed. The chili burned – smoky, rich. Tank watched him swallow. His eyes darkened. He leaned in, licked a stray drop from Biff’s lower lip. The spoon clattered into the sink.
Later, tangled on the couch, Tank traced the scars on Biff’s knuckles. "Got these fighting Crane Mike," Biff murmured while Tank pressed a kiss to each ridge. Tank stiffened. Biff chuckled. "Heard him badmouthing you. Saw red."
Tank looked up, fierce pride in his eyes. "Mine." He slid down, resting his head on Biff’s thigh. His thumb rubbed the scarred skin. The record player hissed softly, needle stuck in silence. Outside, rain began tapping against the window.
Tank’s breathing deepened. Biff’s fingers carded through Tank’s silver-streaked hair. The rain whispered promises Tank had already kept.
A sharp buzz sliced through the stillness —Tank’s phone vibrating on the coffee table. Tank ignored it, nuzzling against Biff’s thigh. The buzzing persisted. Tank sighed, hauling himself upright with a grunt. He snatched the phone, scowling at the screen.
"Mike," he muttered. "Bay Three leak." He thumbed a reply, then tossed the phone aside. His gaze settled back on Biff, darkened by annoyance and something hotter. "Gotta go in."
He stood, pulling Biff up with him. "Shower first," Tank decided, steering Biff toward the bathroom. Steam bloomed as Tank cranked the water scalding hot. He crowded Biff against the slick tile, hands roaming possessively over soap-slicked muscle.
Tank’s teeth grazed Biff’s shoulder. "You’re coming," he ordered, voice echoing off the walls. Not a request. His palm slid low, fingers pressing against Biff’s hole through the suds. "Need you where I can see you."
Dressed again in oil-stained jeans and flannel, Tank drove fast, one hand clamped on Biff’s knee. The yard glowed under emergency floodlights, rain sheeting down. Crane Mike waved frantically by a hissing hydraulic line. Tank stormed toward him, barking orders. He shoved a wrench into Biff’s hands. "Hold that valve shut!"
Water sprayed Biff’s face as he wrenched the mechanism tight. Tank hammered a replacement fitting into place, knuckles bleeding. Rain plastered his shirt to his back, muscles straining visibly.
Later, soaked and shivering in the foreman’s shack, Tank tossed Biff a dry shirt — his own, thick flannel smelling faintly of chili. He stripped off his wet tee, revealing the dense hair plastered to his chest. "Get changed," he commanded, eyes raking over Biff.
Outside, the crew dispersed under umbrellas. Tank locked the door. He leaned against it, rainwater dripping from his chin. "Didn’t need fixing," he rasped. "Needed you here." He crossed the small space in two strides. His damp palm slapped against the shack’s cold metal wall, caging Biff in. "Now," Tank growled, mouth crashing against Biff’s. The taste of rain and iron flooded Biff’s senses as Tank’s hips ground forward, demanding.
Biff gripped the wet flannel straining across Tank’s back, the fabric heavy with stormwater. Tank ripped his own soaked shirt open, buttons pinging against filing cabinets. His chest pressed flush against Biff’s — wet hair scraping skin, cold metal at Biff’s back contrasting the furnace heat of Tank’s body. Rain hammered the tin roof like a frantic drum solo.
Tank’s teeth scraped Biff’s jawline. "They saw," he breathed, rough and triumphant. His hand shoved between them, fumbling with Biff’s belt buckle. The leather hissed, metal clinking. "Let ’em know." Denim and briefs hit Biff’s ankles.
Tank dropped to his knees, the concrete gritty under his palms. His breath, hot and ragged, ghosted over Biff’s cock. "Been tasting this all shift," Tank snarled before taking him deep, throat working relentlessly.
Biff’s head thudded against the wall. Fingers tangled in Tank’s wet hair as rhythm and suction pulled him toward the edge. Tank pinned Biff’s hips, forcing stillness. His blue eyes locked upward — commanding, unblinking — even as tears welled from the strain. The roar of rain swallowed Biff’s choked cry when release tore through him. Tank swallowed convulsively, then rested his forehead against Biff’s thigh, panting.
Standing, Tank wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Rainwater slicked his silver-streaked hair to his skull. "Your turn," he ordered, voice shredded. He shoved his jeans down just enough, thick cock springing free. He grabbed Biff’s wrist, slamming his palm against heated flesh. "Show me," Tank demanded, hips thrusting into Biff’s fist. "Show everyone."
Biff obeyed, fingers tightening. Tank groaned, head falling back against the metal door. His hand clamped over Biff’s, guiding the rhythm — rough, urgent strokes that echoed the downpour outside. Tank’s other hand gripped Biff’s shoulder, nails digging through flannel. "Faster," he rasped, eyes squeezed shut. Sweat mixed with rain on his brow.
Outside, a flashlight beam swept past the shack’s fogged window. Carl’s muffled shout cut through the storm: "Tank? You in there?"
Tank froze, breath hitching. His hips stuttered against Biff’s grip. "Ignore him," he growled, tightening Biff’s fingers around his cock. "Don’t stop." He resumed thrusting, harder, faster, teeth gritted. The flashlight beam lingered.
Carl’s voice came closer. "Leak’s sealed! Heading out!" Footsteps splashed away. Tank shuddered — half-relief, half-desperation. His release hit violently, hot stripes painting Biff’s borrowed shirt and the shack floor. He slumped forward, forehead pressed to Biff’s chest, breathing ragged. The scent of rain, sex, and wet flannel filled the cramped space.
Silence fell, broken only by the drumming rain. Tank straightened slowly, grimacing at the mess. He pulled up his jeans. His gaze met Biff’s — dark, satisfied, exhausted. He tossed Biff a rag from his toolbox. "Clean yourself." A pause. Then, softer: "Ride back with me."
They exited into the downpour. The yard stood empty, floodlights cutting through sheets of rain. Tank’s truck cab felt like a sanctuary. He cranked the heat, knuckles bruised and bleeding from the repair. As they pulled onto the slick road, Tank’s hand settled heavily on Biff’s thigh — a silent anchor. Rain blurred the windshield. Tank didn’t speak. His thumb traced slow circles on denim, the only sound the wipers’ steady thump.
At Tank’s house, steam rose from bowls of reheated chili. They ate at the kitchen counter, shoulders brushing. Tank’s bare foot hooked around Biff’s ankle beneath the laminate. He blew steam from his spoon, held it out. “Open,” Tank commanded softly. Biff obeyed. The chili burned — smoky, rich. Tank watched him swallow. His gaze darkened. He leaned in, licked a stray drop from Biff’s chin. The spoon clattered into the sink.
Later, tangled in Tank’s bed, Biff traced the dense hair on Tank’s chest — the scars, the solid warmth anchoring him. Tank’s arm locked around Biff’s waist, fingers splayed possessively over his hip bone. Outside, rain tapped against the window.
Tank pressed his lips to Biff’s temple. “Stay,” he murmured against skin, already drifting. "Not just tonight. Forever." It wasn’t a command. It was a promise settling in Biff’s bones. Dawn could wait. Here, wrapped in Tank’s scent and the rhythm of his breath, Biff knew — this was home.
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