Nobody offers a massage without ulterior motives, no one, and so Gansey must know what he’s doing when he says yes. He can’t be oblivious to the way Henry watches him take his shirt off – like a kid sneaking a peek at his Christmas presents – and if he were, the over-eager way Henry pats the ground between his knees for him to sit won’t go unnoticed, right? Right?

(Henry wishes someone would tell him that he’s right, but –)

He sets his hands on Gansey’s shoulders, and he isn’t sure. “Is this where you feel it?”

“Well, after that fall I took–” Gansey pauses to give a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m tight everywhere.”

(I bet you are, Henry thinks, but,) He presses his thumbs to skin, kneading carefully. He slides them down along the arc of Gansey’s neck, feeling the firm muscle beneath as he searches for knots. The fall he’d took – a seven foot whipper off the cliff face they were climbing – was partially Henry’s fault. He’d been belaying, and he had neither the weight nor the technique to cleanly stop the fall.

(Only one of them really had any athleticism, and anyway Henry had been hopelessly distracted watching Gansey’s ascent – the appeal of Laura Croft: Tomb Raider, had suddenly become crystal clear.)

Henry’s hands work their way down over Gansey’s shoulders. They’re still pumped from the hard climb the day before, but even if they hadn’t been… He takes a chance: “You’ve got nice shoulders.”

(It’s an understatement. He’s got the sort of definition you see on Hane’s models, well-worked muscle tapering where the swell of his biceps starts, the triceps sturdy beneath Henry’s hands as he glides his fingers down to Gansey’s elbow.)

(Maybe Henry should have said nice arms, instead)

Henry switches to the other arm, eyes rapt on the way Gansey flexes at the touch.

(Maybe he should have said I bet you could bench press me.)

Gansey seems flustered; his shoulders round when he hangs his head forward. “Thank you.”

Henry bites back a my pleasure and digs his thumbs into the meat of Gansey’s back. Here, it’s impossible to forget that he’d spent most of his high school career as a respected member of the rowing team. It wasn’t a sport that Henry had a particular interest in, but he’d gone to a few meets (races? relays? It didn’t matter.) The distance had kept him from seeing anything specific besides the controlled power of Gansey’s movements.

He wants to see it all up close. He drops some of the pretense of the massage as he traces the sculpted lines of Gansey’s back. He recognizes traps and delts, but there seem to be muscles he’s never heard of – certainly muscles he doesn’t have – straining taut and stiff beneath the skin.

Henry swallows, “You got really tense just then.”

Gansey chuckles again; this time it’s a little breathless. “You have really good hands… I… don’t know what to do about that.”

Rowing, climbing, conditioning, and good genetics had made Gansey strong and sturdy. Henry knew he’d be pinned – and fast – but his gut does a complicated twist at the realization of how easy it really is. Still, he squirms, bucking up as best he can. Flat on his stomach, Gansey sitting on his waist, his wrists pushed hard into the mattress – he isn’t going anywhere. He lets his head drop down, his labored breathing muffled by the covers as he catches his breath.

Gansey leans forward, the weight of him suffocating as it drives Henry’s body into the mattress. “I’ve seen you watching me.”

Henry turns his head, cheek to the bed to answer, “It’s not what you think.”

The set up has to be simple – kinder and more cliché than what Henry had in mind. His heart still races, though. It beats adrenaline into him, something like the edge of panic making him flex his hands under Gansey’s bruising hold. Struggling won’t end this. He can kick, he can writhe. He can say stop or no or don’t. Gansey won’t back off for that, won’t listen to the words.

The thing that really gets to Henry, though… the thing that makes his trapped cock ache between his legs… is that he could say his safeword, too, and even then, Gansey could go on if he really wants to.

“Don’t think I’m angry, please. I’m not mad about it.” Gansey’s voice is sinister sweet. He lets go of one wrist and runs his hand over Henry’s side, gentle petting along his ribs. At the sharp curve of Henry’s hip he stops, pushing his hand back up, this time rucking his shirt to touch skin. “Actually, I want to help you out.”

“Wait –” Henry reaches back with his free hand, pushing at that arm as it wraps around him. Henry feels fragile in Gansey’s hold; his breath comes short and stops completely when a thumb grazes his nipple. Feeling the futility of his pushing, his fingers scrabble to wrap around Gansey’s arm like he might hold him at bay. It’s not even a minor deterrent; Gansey’s thumb is joined by his forefinger, roughly rolling Henry’s nipple between them. His pleas come out on a shuddering breath. “Please. This isn’t what I wanted.”

It isn’t exactly a lie; Henry wants Gansey to hike his hips and hold his face down into the sheets until he can’t breath. He wants to be fucked raw and sore and past the point that over-stimulation makes tears prick in his eyes. He wants Gansey to force his fingers into his mouth, to push them so deep that he’s gagging on them when he cums. He wants to be a toy with no choice in how they play.

“Oh, really, Henry?” It sounds disbelieving, like there’s a laugh waiting just beyond the words. Gansey releases the other wrist. It doesn’t matter. The whole of him lain across Henry’s back is enough to stop an escape attempt. He doesn’t even pause teasing Henry’s chest as he shifts and tucks his other hand up against the front of Henry’s shorts.

The undeniably hard length of Henry fills his palm. He squeezes just once.

Henry whimpers at the touch, traitorous hips stuttering forward after the friction.

Adansey 

Bluesey 

Chengsey

Jorclan 

Pynch