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Connor removes the infuser from the teapot, shaking the contents into the garbage. The metal rim of the infuser is hot in his hand, the steam rising from it brushing his chin. He places the infuser gently in the sink before turning and replacing the lid on the small, blue teapot. He spoons exactly three quarters of a teaspoon of sugar into the bottom of his mug. Connor pours the tea, his middle and first finger on the lid of the pot to keep it closed. He sets down the teapot and picks up his spoon, stirring exactly three times clockwise.

He presses the hot curve of the spoon against his tongue, and he thinks about Hank.

Hank doesn’t drink tea. He drinks coffee with a splash of half n’ half, usually a literal splash, some of the liquid spilling out to pool near the base of the mug. He swears quietly when he gets some of it on his sleeve. Connor laughs at him. He tells Connor to shut up, but he smiles while he does it, and he presses the rim of the mug to his lips.

The spoon cools against Connor’s tongue, an equilibrium between his heat and the metal. His lips curve gently against the neck.

Connor’s finger taps against his mug below the handle, his nail clinking softly in the silence of the kitchen. He can hear his grandmother’s clock ticking quietly from the wall between the two banks of cabinets. The heater kicks on, stirring the air around his bare ankles. It tickles the hair there, warming him from his feet up.

He wishes Hank were here.

Connor slowly pulls the spoon from his mouth, letting the metal drag on the curves of his lips, closing his teeth gently against the very tip of the bowl of it. They click dully against the metal. He sets the spoon down again, adjusting it so it’s exactly perpendicular to the line of the counter’s edge.

His tea is a bit too hot to drink, he discovers with the first sip. It burns his tongue and he sticks it out slightly, holding it between his teeth. The mug is thick and the perfect warmth on his hands, so he keeps hold of it. He pads back to his room, the old carpet thick under his feet, and sits on his bed, yawning and lifting his phone where it sits plugged into the wall.

He doesn’t have any messages.

Hank is not good at texting. Connor does not take it personally. He unlocks his phone and lazily flips through his messages, trying the tea again. It’s a slightly more tolerable temperature and he sips idly as he reads over their last conversation. Hank was meeting with a client, wasn’t sure how long it was going to take. That was at four, just before he’d gotten off work. It was nine, now. Surely that was more than enough time.

Connor sets his mug down and slowly types out a message, sending it before he can second guess himself. Even after months of dating, the same anxiety crawls into him whenever he initiates a conversation. An old habit.

/Are you finished with your client?

Hank’s typing.

//Just finished eating. What

Connor can’t help it.

/You ate your client?

//I thought bad jokes were reserved for old men like me

/Not anymore, Hank. Times are changing.

//What do you want, Con

Connor bites his lip.

/Come over, please.

There’s a long pause before the chat indicates Hank’s typing again.

//I’m pretty fuckin tired

Connor sighs. He figured as much, but. He thinks about the heat of the spoon curved against his tongue. He thinks about Hank’s hand sliding down the curve of his thigh.

/Not for work, Hank. For

He can’t believe he’s about to type this.

/Not for work, Hank. For pleasure.

The gap between this message and the last is even longer, and Connor’s anxiety starts climbing the walls of his stomach. He exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding when those three bouncing dots appear again.

//Jesus Christ, kid. You’re gonna kill me

/Is that a no?

//No. Omw

Connor hums softly and replaces his phone on his bedside table, picking up the tea and climbing the stairs to the second floor. Everything is darker up here, the curtains drawn, the air a little less lively. He can see a shred of light from under Niles’ door, and he knocks gently.


Connor pokes his head around the door, catching Niles removing his headphones. He’s editing a video, the footage frozen on his computer screen, waveforms stilled in their rippling beneath the image.

“Hank’s coming over.”

Niles rolls his eyes, rubbing at his eyebrow and adjusting the blanket around his shoulders. “My favorite person.”

Connor gives him a look. “I’m letting you know because we may be. Loud.”

“Oh, he’s /coming over./” Niles emphasizes the words, absently twisting the cord of his headphones around his finger. “I’ll turn up the volume. Just close the door, if you would be so kind.”

“I’ll close your door and mine, as always.” He promises, leaning on the doorframe and sipping from his mug, blinking slowly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Niles turns back to his computer, rewinding the footage with a flick of his mouse. Rewinding exactly 2.5 seconds. Rewinding exactly another 2.5 seconds. “Is there something else, or may I resume.”

“That’s all.”

Niles gives a stiff half-wave of his hand and puts his headphones back over his ears, sitting stock still as he pushes play on the video. Connor shuts the door softly, slowly making his way downstairs. It will take hank about fifteen minutes to arrive. He sets his mug on the coffee table and returns to his room, turning around some of the dolls he knows particularly upset Hank. He’s considered getting cabinets for this, but he can’t bear the thought of locking any of them away.

Finished with that, he looks down at himself. Big sweater, binder, boxer briefs, patterned socks. Passable. Hank always seems excited to see him relaxing. The socks are covered in tiny planchettes.

Connor checks his phone again. Five minutes. He is slightly anxious. He is always slightly anxious, but that feeling is slightly elevated as he waits. Every time, he’s worried Hank is going to see something he doesn’t like. Every time, he’s worried he’s going to mess it up. He goes back to his tea for something to do, drinking down mouthfuls now that it’s cool enough. The liquid near the bottom is sweeter and he swirls it around on his tongue, pressing the muscle to the roof of his mouth and letting the tea drain down into the back of his throat slowly. He swallows hard.

His mouth will be sweet when Hank gets here.

Connor takes another drink, repeating the same process. He counts the flowers on the rim of his mug. There are twelve exactly, six pink, three yellow and three blue. He remembers his grandmother drinking out of this cup.

Someone knocks on the door, roughly. Three knocks, uneven space between them. Connor walks to the door and opens it, moving out of the way as Hank steps in, cold air sneaking in behind him that makes the hair on Connor’s arms rise. Hank’s hair is pulled back and he’s wearing his musty leather jacket. He smells like smoke, even though he doesn’t smoke. Connor closes the door behind him as Hank kicks off his shoes, locking the deadbolt. Hank straightens and looks back at him, turning slowly.

“It’s late, y’know.” Hank grumbles.

Connor smiles softly at his voice, biting the inside of his lower lip. Hank is leaning towards him, exterior cold but his hand warm and solid where it touches the dip of his waist, the sweater over it soft against Connor’s skin.

“You could have said no.” Connor says politely, knowing the tone will make Hank chuckle.

It does.

Hank kisses him chastely at first, but then Connor’s free hand snakes around to the back of his neck and Hank’s mouth opens up, his tongue swiping inside Connor’s mouth roughly. Connor sighs through his nose and lets his mouth fall open, licking back when he can, his fingers threading into the hair at the base of Hank’s nape. Hank pulls back and holds Connor’s face between his thumb and his fingers, holding Connor’s mouth in a pucker and kissing it wetly. He laughs when he releases the shorter man and Connor scrubs the back of his sleeve over his mouth.

“Why do you insist on ruining the mood like that every time?” Connor pouts, turning to put his mug back in the kitchen. Hank follows him, yawning and scratching his beard.

“I like how you pout.” He replies simply, dodging the kick Connor was aiming for his shin and trying not to laugh.

“I do not pout, Hank.” Connor says, filling his mug with water and leaving it there to soak. The tea turns the water a muted gold. Connor turns, leaning his back against the sink. Hank puts his hands on either side of him, leaning down to put his face just next to Connor’s.

“My mistake.” Hank nearly chuckles, his eyes half closed. Connor breathes the scent of him in. The smoke smell clinging to his jacket, the musk of Hank’s sweat, the old school cologne he wears. He closes his eyes as Hank presses a slow kiss to his cheek. “If we’re not gonna work, what kind of pleasure did you have in mind.”

The low rumble of his voice makes Connor shiver and he rubs his check against Hank’s beard, reaching out to loosely grip the soft leather of his jacket. “Nothing we can do in the kitchen. Niles is home.”

Hank lets his head rest heavy against Connor’s shoulder and sighs. “I don’t need to know that, Con.”

“He is editing a video and his headphones are noise-canceling.”

Hank pulls him away from the counter, holding Connor against his chest firmly for a moment before releasing him. In that single moment of contact, Connor’s brain goes quiet. It’s like being wrapped in a shock blanket that wants to fuck him. He loves it.

Hank closes the door behind them when they get to Connor’s room, looking around as Connor sits on the bed.

“You turned the dolls around for me.” Hank says, a question on the end of his breath.

“Some of them have turned back around in the last few minutes.”

Hank rolls his eyes and takes a step towards the bed, pulling his jacket off. The white shirt under it clings to the muscles of Hank’s arms in a way that makes Connor’s throat go tight. “I don’t need to know that.” Hank says, pushing Connor’s hair from his face. Connor blinks up at him, hands resting loosely on his own thighs. It’s hard to touch Hank at first, but Hank knows that.

“You good?” Hank murmurs, tracing one finger over the shell of Connor’s right ear, then another over his left.

Connor’s eyes flutter closed. “Yes.” He says the word clearly despite his insides trembling as Hank drags his fingers down the muscles in Connor’s neck. He drags them back up into Connor’s hair, slow, pressing, until he can get a grip on it. He gently pulls Connor’s head back, exposing his neck and licking a slow, hot stripe up the center. Connor’s entire body shudders and he feels his eyes roll back behind their lids. Hank presses his teeth to his windpipe gently and licks across his collarbones, exposed as they are by the drooping neckline of the sweater.

Hank pulls back and takes Connor’s wrists, kissing inside of each of them softly before licking at the sensitive skin. Connor manages to watch him through half-open eyes, mouth dropping open as Hank presses his teeth around each of his fingertips. He’s getting properly tingly now, especially when Hank presses his tongue to the tip of his pinkie.

As soon as Hank releases him Connor leans up for a kiss, pulling hank down on top of him on the sheets. Hank cages his head in with his arms, kissing back with little puffs of hot air escaping his mouth as their lips part. Connor’s sweater suddenly feels too hot, especially with Hank’s own heat seeping into him.

“I’m warm,” he murmurs into Hank’s mouth. Hank makes a small sound in return, pulling back to help push the shirt over Connor’s head. He smooths his hands over Connor’s binder, his hands huge and hot over the black fabric. The touch makes Connor sigh and close his eyes again, his breath catching as Hank’s thumbs skim over his nipples beneath it. Hank presses his mouth to Connor’s as Connor reaches up to cup his face, his neck, and Hank continues slowly pressing over his chest.

“You’re so fucking handsome,” Hank murmurs against the corner of his mouth, his voice rough and mildly breathless. Connor’s insides twist in a saccharine jolt. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.” Connor breathes, breath hitching as Hank’s hands press against his arms and push them against the bed over his head. The callouses on Hank’s fingers are rough against the soft skin, the sheets cool under them. “I want that very much.”

Hank chuckles against his neck. Connor knows he thinks he’s overly formal, especially during moments like this. Then teeth close against his skin and Connor’s back arches, his belly pressing against Hank’s. The fabric of Hank’s shirt is impossibly soft against the speckled skin of Connor’s front. Hank bites at his neck again and the juxtaposition has him reeling. Soft. Sharp. Hot. Cold. His toes curl in his socks and he’s suddenly aware that he’s still wearing them.

Hank swipes his tongue over the indents in Connor’s skin and sits back, pulling his shirt off. Connor’s hands are immediately pressed to his skin, to the scar on the left side of Hank’s stomach where he was stabbed fighting a perp, to the small knicks Hank put in his bicep to feel something, to the stretch marks along the curve of his stomach. Hank lets him touch, pushing Connor’s hair off his forehead and pulling gently. A sound catches in Connor’s throat, but he doesn’t stop. A few more cuts faded on his opposite forearm, the scars slightly shiny. The hair on Hank’s chest, the tattoo that spreads from his sternum. Hank tugs again, gently, and Connor’s eyes flutter closed.

“Still good?” Hank rumbles.

“Yes,” Connor gasps.

Hank lets Connor fall back against the bed again and climbs off him, kneeling on the floor and yanking Connor towards him by the hips. The drag of the sheets along his back is soft and familiar, and Connor doesn’t blink as Hank slides his underwear from his hips. The air is cold on his thighs as Hank pulls one of Connor’s feet through the leg hole, letting the garment dangle off his other ankle. Hank rubs Connor’s thighs, warming them as Connor slowly props himself up on his elbows, his head lolling forward as he does. His eyes focus as Hank kisses his inner thigh, his thumb sliding up the other. He spreads Connor gently, his breath heavy as he does. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and Connor feels his dick pulse. He must be wet, because it’s cold now that Hank’s opening him up, and he forces his eyes open as Hank leans in and swipes his tongue over the lips of Connor’s entrance, curving his neck to close his mouth over Connor’s cock.

Connor groans openly, letting his chin hit his chest as Hank sucks him, his tongue working slow waves over the rest of him. He’s impossibly hot and wet and Connor can feel his own mess in the hair of Hank’s beard where it touches his skin. His arms shake and Hank sucks at him harder, pulling off him with a wet sound before leaning down to slide his tongue inside. Connor’s thighs clench and he presses his heels into Hank’s back, an empty sound clawing out of his throat. It’s good, it’s burning and wet and too slow, it’s all too slow.

Connor finds himself writhing, one of Hank’s hands immediately reaching up to press his hips into the bed. “You want more?” Hank asks the question against his skin.

Connor nods weakly.

“Then ask for more.” Hank’s fingers dig into Connor’s stomach and his thighs twitch again.

“Please. Give me more, Hank.” Connor says as evenly as he can.

Hank immediately sticks his index finger into his mouth coating it generously before pressing it to Connor and sliding it inside, slowly. Carefully. Hank’s fingers are thick enough that one makes Connor moan, not satisfied but still pleased. Hank presses his mouth back over Connor’s dick, working his hand slowly. The joint sensation has Connor gripping at the sheets, Hank’s other hand holding one thigh down to keep Connor from suffocating him with his legs. It hasn’t been long enough for Connor to be completely tight again and soon he’s asking for another finger, toeing the line between asking and begging, and Hank is delivering, stretching him open carefully and lathing his tongue over Connor’s cock mercilessly.

“I’m going to… I’m…” Connor struggles to keep his voice even. It’s impossible now, with Hank moving like that, licking him like that, his own mess dripping out of him at an embarrassing pace. Hank growls against him and Connor’s eyes roll back a little.

“Do you wanna?” Hank asks against the crook of his hip, and Connor nods. “Words, Connor.”

“Yes,” Connor gasps, forcing his eyes open to meet Hank’s. “I want to come.”

Hank bares down on him then, sucking and licking, fingers stretching and pumping into him. Connor feels a tremble start at the base of his spine and his hands immediately lock in Hank’s hair, his hips rocking up desperately into his ministrations. His mind is blank, it’s totally blank, and the sweet heat building inside of him boils over suddenly, his feet kicking against Hank’s back an a sound tearing from him as he comes hard around Hank’s fingers. Hank licks him through it, messy and loud, only pulling away when Connor taps him twice with a shaking hand. He dries his face off against Connor’s thighs, and the added slick makes Connor shudder.


“Very good.” Connor breathes, struggling to open his eyes. He feels Hank’s weight on top of him again and Hank’s tongue brushes softly over his lips. Connor opens his mouth, let’s Hank lick into him, lazily swiping his own tongue over what he can. Hank’s mouth tastes like him, he smells like him, and something about that makes Connor’s stomach twist in that same sweet way.

Hank pulls back, lets him breathe, pushes Connor’s hair out of his face again. “What now. You wanna sleep?”

Connor shakes his head, opening his eyes slowly. “Again.”

Hank’s head lands heavy on Connor’s shoulder. “Again?”

Connor laughs at him softly. “Do you need hearing aids, Investigator?”

Hank bites his shoulder gently and Connor slaps his shoulder half-heartedly. “What do you want.”

Connor noses his way to the hinge of Hank’s jaw, biting at his earlobe. “I want your cock.”

Hank grunts in agreement, his thumbs running under the elastic of Connor’s binder. He sits there for a few moments, feeling the divots left in the skin. He pulls back suddenly, hoisting Connor up the bed until he’s laying against the pillows. Hank’s strength shakes him sometimes, when he forgets. Hank is gentle with him, a hand on the small of his back, tousling his hair, curling around his wrists. And then he lifts Connor like he’s nothing, like now, and it makes Connor hard.

“Can you hold yourself up?” Hank rumbles, pulling down his pants and kicking them away. He pauses to pull off Connor’s socks and Connor makes a noise in his throat, thankful. Hank’s cock is tenting his boxers, the dark fabric with tiny red triangles contorted over it. Connor almost forgets to answer, his brain swimming with images of his mouth closed around Hank’s dick.

“Oh. Yes.” Connor flips himself over, bracing himself on his elbows. Hank rubs a hand down over his back gently, his palm pausing in the dip just above Connor’s ass. It’s heavy and warm and perfect and Connor arches slightly, peeking at Hank over his shoulder. His legs are shaking, still, but he likes that. Hank grips his ass with one hand and shakes it gently, making Connor scoff softly.

“What? It’s nice.” Hank scoffs right back, climbing onto the bed on his knees, groaning as something in his joints pops. “I like looking at you like this.”

Connor feels heat crawl up his neck and studies the tiny patterns on his own sheets. Hanks fingers dig into his flesh, sturdy, and he shudders as Hank’s thumb presses slowly over the lips of his entrance. He hears the crinkle of a package and the rustle of fabric and then Hank’s pressing the tip of his cock to Connor, using the fingers of one hand to spread him open while he guides himself inside, slowly.

Hank is, in a word, Thick. Even dripping wet and stretched out it takes Connor a second to adjust as Hank sinks into him, careful, his breath catching as Connor swallows him up. Connor breathes through it, relaxing, his eyes fluttering closed. He hasn’t thought about anything but Hank and tactile sensations in the last thirty minutes. The thought makes him moan brokenly as Hank slips into him completely.

“Good,” Connor manages before Hank can even ask, his head dropping between his elbows. “So good.”

Hank laughs weakly behind him and starts to pull out slowly, knocking the breath from Connor’s lungs. Connor grips the sheets. Hanks so big that he presses into every corner of his insides, and the stretch is something Connor craves. And he’s getting it. Hank always gives him whatever he wants.

Hank snaps his hips forward and Connor keens, trying to keep his breathing even as Hank starts a rough and quick pace. In. Out. Nose. Mouth. He’s so slippery from his first orgasm, and he’s sensitive enough that the slight brush of Hank’s balls against his cock makes it twitch. Connor arches again, finding an angle that makes him clench around Hank without a second thought. Hank nearly chokes, gripping his hips and fucking into Connor desperately.

“Fuck, Con—”

“Good,” Connor manages. “So good.”

He feels Hank spread him again to watch where they intersect and Connor’s chest squeezes, tight in a good, desperate way. He breathes in. He breathes out. He licks his fingers slowly and reaches down to rub his cock, his forehead resting against his arm as he keeps himself propped up.

Hank swears softly when he realizes and his hips stutter, his pace slowing but his thrusts growing deeper, more forceful. Connor whimpers, hand trembling where it works between his legs. He wants Hank to come. He’s sure he’s wanted other things more in his life, but he can’t think of them right now.

Connor clenches hard around hank, swallowing him up desperately and bucking back into him. Hank growls, the sound curling warmly into Connor’s insides. Hank’s skin is so hot against his, sticky, slick. Connor can feel his own wetness dripping down his wrist.

“Come, Hank,” Connor bites out. His voice is deep and fractured, and he can tell it affects Hank by the way his fingertips bite into Connor’s skin. “Come inside me, please.”

“God.” Hank grits out, huffing a breath through his beard and fucking into Connor desperately, his grip in the crook of Connor’s thighs. Connor knows he will have bruises there. He likes it.

He presses his fingers harder against his cock and twitches his wrist, toes curling as he bucks back against Hank, his breathing forgotten. Back, forth. In, out. Empty, full. Full. So full.

Hank fills him.

He comes with a broken grunt, fucking Connor through it, Connor clenching desperately around him as he does. His thrusts slow and he pulls out, slowly, hissing quietly. Connor is so close, still helplessly grinding into his own hand, as Hank peels off the condom and ties it, tossing it effortlessly into the trash across the room.

There are hands on him, then Connor is on his back. Hank is spreading his legs and leaning down and all it takes is one deep lick and a hot mouth on his cock and he’s coming into Hank’s mouth again, body too tired to kick or fret and he just trembles, his fingers limp in Hank’s hair. Hank pulls off him with a smack and throws himself down next to Connor, panting hard and flopping an arm across Connor’s figure.

They breathe.



It’s quiet.
The sound of his fishtank’s filter bubbling quietly in the corner of the room.
The distant tick of the clock in the kitchen.
Hank’s breathing.



“I liked that… very much.” Connor says, smiling softly when he finally turns his head to meet Hank’s gaze. “Thank you.”

Hank snorts at him and ruffles his hair, his hand slowly tracing Connor’s jaw as he retracts it. “Nah. Thank you, Con.”

Connor winks at him and he makes a displeased noise, then laughs quietly, leaning over to kiss Connor’s forehead.


“You look chipper.” Gavin is standing next to him at the coffee machine. He is wearing a tie that is not even close to being centered. “I hate it.”

Connor turns his head back to the coffee machine, where it hisses out the last of his drink. Earl gray in a blue mug. He steps past Gavin to pluck two sugar packets from the bowl, snapping his finger against them to knock the granules to the bottom before ripping them open in a single, fluid motion.

Gavin shoves his coffee mug into the slot in the machine. He pushes the buttons like they have done something to offend him, personally. “Something good happen?”

Connor pours the sugar into his mug. The picks up his spoon and stirs three times clockwise.

“Not particularly.” He says.

He presses the hot curve of the spoon against his tongue, and he thinks about Hank.