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Connor is, perhaps, disproportionately excited.
Disproportionately excited, and outright overprepared.
He’s finally – finally! – been invited around Gavin’s apartment properly. Previously, upon visiting the detective, it’s been a last-minute affair, mostly arranged (and partially conducted) in the DPD after hours, in the dim, waning dark. The first time they hooked up, they hadn’t even made it to Gavin’s apartment. Gavin had shoved his fingers down Connor’s throat in the elevator, and Connor had bluescreened so hard he’d fallen to his knees and gone unresponsive for three minutes.
Since then, they’ve fucked four more times. Connor is counting. Connor is keeping score. They’ve kissed twenty times, additionally, on top of the actual hookups: in the DPD breakroom, down a dingy alleyway, in Gavin’s car, at a crime scene. All of this probably means something. Connor has researched it, and the collective evidence suggests that Gavin probably wants to date him, though his words suggest otherwise.
Connor doesn’t know how he feels about that.
What he does know is that despite himself, he enjoys Gavin’s company. The other detective is funny, in a mouthy, laughs-at-his-own-jokes way, and now he’s not twisting Connor’s arm behind his back or punching him soundly in the stomach, it’s easier to laugh along with Gavin. There’s something softer about him, now. Any jab he makes has no heat. Connor almost sees the constant plastic as a nickname rather than an insult.
Physically, Gavin looks softer, too. Less sharpness to his jawline, fewer angles to his face. Maybe it’s just because Connor doesn’t see him as an enemy anymore. But also, in the few weeks or so they’ve been fucking, Gavin’s gained a little weight. Not a lot, only a few pounds, but Connor’s processors have registered the change in weight whenever Gavin has crawled on top of him and kissed him senseless into the mattress.
Connor – really likes this. Likes that Gavin looks bigger. Likes the idea that it’s his fault, too.
And now Connor’s been with him outside of work, now they’ve spent time together without being forced to, Gavin is actually good company. Connor – doesn’t always quite know what counts for good company, being able to count his friends on two hands and all, but he likes being with Gavin. The detective is cold and icy when he thinks he’s being observed, but the moment Connor has him alone, he’s all warm, crooked smiles and silly, long-winded stories. Alone, the worst Gavin does is call him stupid nicknames and ask him too many questions.
Besides, the sex is good. Connor’s experience is limited (Connor’s experience is Gavin) but it’s a good time. It’s fun and fun is all Connor can ask for. He likes pressing Gavin against a counter, likes holding him against a wall. Likes the noises Gavin makes when he opens him up with his fingers or lowers his mouth onto his dick, likes how breathy he gets. Likes Gavin’s up-and-down stare when Connor slips on his harness, likes how the detective drags him around by his tie when they’re alone in the precinct. Likes it all too much. Likes it enough to make him feel stupid.
All the factors mean that Gavin is no longer unapproachable. No longer scary. Connor was never frightened of him – how could he be frightened of him? – but now there’s no reason for him to be scared.
Connor wipes down his counter.
He has days off, now. Long stretches of time away from work, away from his created purpose. It used to be distressing, when he was first permitted the time – he would spend it in sluggish stasis, or sat on the couch, petting Sumo until Hank came home. Around Christmas time, he was talking about Christmas traditions with Hank, and Hank mentioned how he used to bake gingerbread men growing up. This had made Connor want to give it a go.
It was a horrendous disaster. The cookies burnt, awfully, charred tiny men lying flat on a baking tray. Connor had never been bad at anything. By all accounts, it should have been an abject humiliation.
It only made Connor want to try again.
Since Christmas, he’s made cookies, muffins, brownies, banana bread – a whole host of recipes, chosen from a battered old book from Hank. He’s started cooking dinner for Hank, though Hank doesn’t always eat everything he makes. Something about portion control. Connor doesn’t really understand what he’s talking about.
He takes the baked goods to the precinct. Whole boxes of brownies, tubs of cookies. Leaves them in the breakroom, and by the end of the day, finds only crumbs.
He knows that Gavin eats his baking occasionally, because they’ve kissed and Connor’s analysed the components of banana bread and vanilla cake on his lips, but Gavin’s never said anything about it. Connor doesn’t mind much. It’d be nice to hear, every once in a while, that he’s doing a good job, but he’s not going to lose sleep over it. (He’s not going to lose sleep over anything, ever. He’s tried to make this joke to Gavin before, but Gavin just rolls his eyes. Maybe he’s not quite ready for android humour yet.)
Because (hopefully) Gavin likes his baking, Connor’s taken the liberty of preparing dinner for him tonight. He’s made chicken pasta. The chicken has been carefully seasoned with paprika, thyme, lemon zest, and oregano. It’s served in a mascarpone and garlic sauce, sprinkled with parmesan and chilli flakes, mixed with thick linguine noodles. It’s slowly cooling in a Tupperware container – Connor approximates it will need to be reheated when he arrives at Gavin’s, but not for any longer than three minutes. Gavin can enjoy his dinner; Connor can watch him eat.
Presumably, they’ll have sex after that. Connor’s looking forward to it, but no more than he’s looking forward to finally seeing Gavin eat his cooking.
***
Connor takes a taxi to Gavin’s apartment. It arrives within four minutes. He enters the building and calls the elevator to Gavin’s floor.
Along with the chicken pasta, Connor has prepared garlic bread and a chocolate mousse dessert. He’s also purchased a bottle of white wine. Everything tucked into his bag makes him – flustered.
He’s not sure why. He knows that, inherently, what he is doing for Gavin does not constitute wanting to have a romantic relationship with Gavin – it is mostly a thanks for finally being invited over, properly, and also partially a celebration, as they closed a particularly tricky case only the day previous.
There’s just something about – coming here, with food – that snags him with an emotion that he can only describe as intimate, but he doesn’t think that’s quite right either. He’s been inside Gavin, and even then, his processors didn’t fire in the way they’re working now, overheating and sluggish all at once.
Connor arrives at Gavin’s door. He knocks, three times, perfectly spaced out, the same tone and level to each rap of his knuckles.
There’s a muffled crash behind the door. “Just – a fucking – give me a minute, plastic,” he hears Gavin say, and Connor waits.
Gavin answers the door two minutes and thirty-five seconds later. “Sorry,” Gavin mutters, opening the door. “Was – uh – uh – putting out the trash.”
Connor frowns at him because he knows Gavin is lying. He also knows what Gavin has done every time he’s visited so far, which is to poorly hide the evidence of a cat living in the apartment. He can only assume that he’s shut the poor thing in the bathroom. A shame; Connor’s been wanting to meet Gavin’s tabby. “No, you weren’t.”
“What? Yes. I was.”
“Your vitals demonstrate that you’re lying,” says Connor. “Come on now, Detective Reed. You should know better than to try to pull the wood over my eyes.”
Gavin clears his throat. “It’s wool.”
“What?”
“Pull the ‘wool over my eyes.’ You said wood.”
“I think I said wool,” says Connor, knowing he did not say wool. It’s Hank’s fault: he’s only ever heard the Lieutenant say that phrase before, and Hank definitely says wood. Excellent.
“Whatever, asshole. If you wanna say some bullshit go ahead and say some bullshit. It’s only yourself you’re making look stupid.”
Connor’s HUD hums, tells him that this interaction has a 23% chance of ending badly. Connor dismisses the warning. He knows how to deal with Gavin Reed. “Well, then,” says Connor breezily. “Can I come in?”
Gavin waves a hand around. “Be my guest. You know where everything is.”
Connor walks in. Gavin doesn’t make a motion to touch him; Connor expects that. He’s noticed that it takes Gavin some time to warm up to him, to get used to his presence in his apartment. He presumes it’s probably because of the cat Gavin doesn’t want him knowing about, and probably because they’re both still getting used to being normal around each other. Instead of previously where they’d just tried to murder each other.
“I made dinner,” Connor tells him.
“You what.” Gavin’s eyebrows drag up.
“I brought you dinner,” Connor starts to unpack his tupperware onto the kitchen countertop; Gavin follows after him. “I made something called – ‘marry me chicken pasta’ – and garlic bread. There is also some wine for you.”
“Fuck me,” mutters Gavin. Connor cannot tell whether he means that positively or negatively. “Jesus fuck. I didn’t invite you over to act like a housewife.”
“I’m not,” says Connor. He puts the Tupperware into the microwave and spins the timer for three minutes. “Cooking is a new hobby of mine. You’re my guinea pig.”
“Does that mean it’s going to taste like shit,” Gavin says bluntly. He lingers right behind Connor, hand just about grazing Connor’s hip. Connor places his hand over Gavin’s, then drops it. Gavin takes that as a sign to slump his whole body against Connor’s back, chin tucked over his shoulder. Connor smiles to himself. Getting Gavin Reed to fold is no easy task, but maybe he’s starting to get the hang of it.
“I would hope not,” says Connor. He turns to get the garlic bread, and Gavin stays attached to his back. The physical pressure sends something skittering around Connor’s artificial ribcage, a pleased, warm feeling he wants to bottle up, wants to keep. “I think I’m a more accomplished baker, but Hank enjoys my dinners as much as he enjoys my desserts.”
The garlic bread goes into the air fryer; Connor assumes it’ll need around five minutes.
“You’re a – brilliant baker,” mumbles Gavin.
Connor’s cheeks go warm. “You really think so?”
“The shit you keep leaving in the breakroom?” Gavin finally peels away from him, examining the remaining contents of the bag. “Unbelievable. Delicious.”
“Thank you,” murmurs Connor. “Really – that’s kind of you to say, Gavin.”
“It’s just the truth, dipshit. Not being kind or any bull like that.” The bottle of wine is removed from the bag, along with the mousse. Gavin holds it up, examines it. “This need going in the fridge?”
“Please,” says Connor.
Gavin does as Connor asks. Connor watches the pasta spin in the microwave. Almost done.
“I’ll set the table,” Gavin says, and slopes off. Connor locates the bowls, gets one out, places it in front of the microwave so he can serve the pasta as soon as it finishes in the microwave.
The microwave beeps; Connor opens it. The steam from the pasta jerks something in his processing – he turns to Gavin, head tilted to the side. “Does it smell okay?”
“Smells fucking delicious,” mutters Gavin. It sounds like it took a lot out of him to admit. Connor smiles to himself. “You really didn’t need to do this, tincan.”
“I wanted to,” admits Connor.
“Sweet of ya,” Gavin’s putting on a voice, an accent maybe, to undercut the sincerity of his tone, but Connor can tell he still means it.
“Of course,” says Connor softly, and starts plating up.
***
There’s something deeply fucking wrong with Connor.
He’s trying to kill him. There is way way way too much food in front of him, piled on one of his nice fancy bowls, and he cannot eat all of it. Categorically. He’ll explode. Like, Jesus. He knows he’s been eating more recently, knows he doesn’t fit into some of his skinnier jeans quite so nicely anymore, but – really? This is what the fucking asshole thinks of him?
It’s probably a robot thing. It’s 100% a robot thing. Connor definitely just doesn’t realise how much food humans are supposed to eat. Gavin thinks he’s heard Hank complaining about it. It’s just – Connor being Connor. No implications anywhere about Gavin.
But still! What the fuck. There’s like, a whole bag of pasta in front of him.
It’s really, really fucking good. That’s the main issue. Gavin could eat the whole damn thing. The chicken is slightly crispy and so well seasoned, a tiny bit spicy, but not enough to make his throat burn. The sauce is creamy. There’s garlic bread, and it’s soft and the butter hasn’t entirely melted, so there’s cold slivers of garlic-and-herb butter dripping against the hot bread, and the whole thing is borderline orgasmic. It’s good food. Of course it is. Connor’s a good cook, and he’s also a fucking robot. He’s probably got cooking programs downloaded. Everything he makes is delectable.
But Gavin can’t eat all of it. He’s trying his damn best, but it’s so much.
Connor’s watching him eat, and it should be creepy, but it’s actually kinda weirdly sweet, in a way. There’s a ditzy little smile on his face and a pleased furrow to his eyebrows. Gavin guesses he just likes seeing the fruit of his labours pay off.
“Dude,” says Gavin, fork in his mouth. He swallows, and his stomach groans. Jesus fuck. The waistband of his jeans is really digging in, now. They’re meant to be fucking after this – he wants Connor to fuck him after this – but really, all he can think about is taking a big, fat nap. “I can’t have another bite. This is — so, so much food. Like, enough food for two people.”
Connor looks crestfallen. “But then it’s gonna go to waste,” mumbles the robot idiot, and Gavin sighs.
“I’ll have leftovers tomorrow, or some shit–”
“It’s hot and good now, Gavin,” complains Connor.
“Fine! Fine,” says Gavin. “A few more bites.”
Connor sits back in his chair, hands folded together neatly, smiling. Watching. It’s still weirdly sweet, but more weird than sweet. Whatever.
Gavin takes a few more mouthfuls. It remains fucking delicious. He is, however, now officially too fucking full.
“Seriously, tincan,” he warns. “I’m done.”
Connor nods, and Gavin heaves a sigh of relief. Then stops to think why. He wasn’t about to let that asshole control how much he eats, for fucksake.
“I’ll do the dishes,” says Connor mellifluously.
Gavin stumbles to the couch, glass of wine in hand. He’s almost finished. He’s not even drunk, not remotely, barely even tipsy, but he feels relaxed. Sated, even. Full from a good, well-cooked meal, satisfied from the wine, and quietly anticipating what Connor might do to him.
It all feels – fucking domestic. Gavin takes a moment to sit with that. He doesn’t know if he likes the idea of anything with Connor being domestic.
The tap stops running. Connor comes to join him on the couch, and Gavin’s barely able to put his wine down before Connor’s kissing him. Freaky fucking robot. Insatiable android.
Connor really, really fucking loves kissing, that’s the main thing Gavin’s picked up about him. Probably because he’s never done it before. He goes all quiet, and then he gets noisy again, processor humming, his simulated breaths coming out in short, staticky pants. His eyes slide close blissfully, and he makes the most pornographic noises. Gavin’s boning someone who moans at fucking kissing. It simultaneously ticks a box in his head labelled ‘virgin kink’ and also makes him feel lame for having that box in the first place.
Connor crawls into his lap, wrapping his cold hands all over Gavin’s body, and it’s hard for Gavin to keep his reaction controlled, too, so maybe he’s just the world’s biggest ever hypocrite. Connor smiles against his lips, kisses him gently, kisses him sweet, then opens his mouth. Gavin knows what he’s getting at; slips his tongue inside, and Connor shudders on top of him. His whole body rocks back and forth against Gavin, and Gavin –
Ughhhh. Ugh. Holy fuck this is not gonna work.
“Listen, hey,” says Gavin. Connor pulls apart, and fuck, it’s horrible how pretty he is, cheeks flushed blue, eyes all big and wide. A robot CyberLife designed in a lab specifically to get his dick wet. “I don’t think you can – if you had plans tonight, they’re gonna have to be reworked. You made way way too much food for me to do anything.”
He can’t imagine doing anything but sitting on the couch. Having sex seems like too much fucking effort, with how full he is. Plus the way Connor’s moving against him just – strains his stomach, more than anything else.
Connor nods. “That’s fine,” he says. “If you would like – and if it’s not too much trouble – I can suck your dick.”
Gavin almost bursts out laughing at that, but it’s a desperate cover for how horny hearing Connor asking politely to suck him off makes him. The plastic prick could probably breathe funny and he’d pitch a tent. (Because he knows he’s not really breathing. He’s an android-fucking weird little sicko.) “Barbie, of course I’d like that. Don’t be stupid.”
“You never know,” pouts Connor.
“Well, I’m telling ya, you do know.” Gavin kisses him again, and Connor opens his mouth against the press of his tongue almost immediately. Gavin doesn’t – he’s not fucking Connor’s mouth with his tongue, not at all, but Connor does whimper ever so pretty when Gavin pushes his tongue in and out, so maybe he’s admittedly doing something with it. Connor’s mouth goes nice and relaxed against his, and Gavin lets his hands move, one pressed to the small of Connor’s back, the other on his hip. Connor makes soft, pretty noises against him, and Gavin flicks his tongue back and forth against Connor’s, and the android moans.
They kiss for a few more minutes, then Connor eases himself gracefully (everything the bastard does is graceful) off the couch, onto his knees. His hands come up to Gavin’s thighs. Gavin looks down at him, and threads his hand through his hair. Connor makes a soft groan when Gavin tugs at it slightly, and Gavin pulls it again, just to hear that sound out of him.
Connor’s hands properly grip his thighs, nails pressing into the rough fabric of his jeans, scritch-scratching. Gavin swallows. Connor’s fingers go for the fly of his jeans, work it down slowly. Gavin undoes his own button. Connor works his jeans slowly, slowly down his legs, peels them off.
It’s hard work controlling his breathing as Connor folds his jeans, sets them down, pats them once. He’s terrifyingly meticulous with it, taking his damn sweet time. Gavin knows he’s doing it on purpose, the bastard. For all Connor’s manners and for how bossy Gavin is, they both know who between them is calling the shots, and it’s not Gavin.
Connor checks the – label of Gavin’s jeans – and Gavin raises an eyebrow. “My dick is over here, sweetheart,” he says, putting on a voice because it pisses off Connor. Connor turns his head to the side like an owl. Gavin swallows. “So – hurry up.” Gavin finishes valiantly.
Connor slowly shakes his head. Gavin shivers. “Hurry up?”
“Yes, dipshit.”
“Oh. You want this to go fast?”
Oh. Oh great. Gavin has broken rule number one of hooking up with Connor. Rule number one of hooking up with Connor is never say anything Connor could possibly take literally. The first time they’d fucked, Gavin had asked (begged) Connor to go faster, please and Connor had snapped his hips at an inhumane pace, and hadn’t stopped after Gavin came. Afterwards, Gavin’s throat had been raw from pleading, and Connor had undone his harness from his slim hips with a look of quietly pleased satisfaction, the cat with the cream.
“Um,” says Gavin. “Is it too late for me to take that back?”
“I don’t know,” Connor says, fingers creeping up Gavin’s softly furred thighs to the waistband of his boxers. “You tell me.”
Gavin doesn’t say anything in response to that. He doesn’t want to trap himself. Connor must take pitty on him, though, because Connor moves a little closer. Gavin goes tense with anticipation.
The room feels hot and fuzzy around him. That delicious scent of dinner still hangs in the air, thick and omnipresent, tart zest of the lemony chicken cutting through the sharp, pungent scent of the garlic bread. He’s not still hungry, but it’s a nice scent, a nice feeling, like waking up the morning after sex to clothes still strewn around the room.
Connor outright nuzzles against his dick through the thin fabric of his boxers. Gavin whimpers, bites his lip to stop any other embarrassing, awful sounds from slipping out. Connor loves them, and that’s the whole fucking issue. Robot sadist loves hearing him mortify himself. Connor does it again, cheek against his clothed cock like a fucking kitten rubbing against someone’s leg, and – fuck. Fuck. His hands ball in Connor’s hair, fists forming, and Connor looks up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.
“What?” says Connor.
Gavin is not admitting anything. Gavin isn’t admitting anything to anyone ever. “Nothing.”
Connor goes back to it. Brushes his cheek properly against his dick, and it stirs beneath the light pressure. He’s already hard because it’s not fucking difficult to get hard with Connor around, perching in his lap and kissing him so nicely, but – he’s now painfully hard, stupidly horny, and Connor’s not even got his mouth on him yet.
Connor moves his face to the side, so his lips finally press against the underside of his cock, and it jolts as he presses his tongue against it. Gavin yelps. Connor – smiles, the fucking bastard – and peels Gavin’s boxers down. His hand comes back up to rest – against Gavin’s stomach.
Gavin swallows at the contact. It’s nothing crazy, Connor’s hand is just there, light as anything, but he’s only just fucking eaten, and any kind of pressure makes him feel fuller. Whatever. Must be some kind of robot thing. Like checking he’s done a good job with the meal or some shit. Gavin could just tell him so himself; he doesn’t need to check.
Connor – blissfully, wonderfully – licks a slow strip across the leaking tip of his dick. Gavin strokes the cowlick out of Connor’s eyes, watches it bounce back into place. Sweet fucking baby Lord Jesus. Connor does it again, and again. Tiny, tiny licks, barely there. Taking his time with it. Real slow and delicate.
Gavin swallows. Connor’s mouth drops down again, kissing up and along his shaft, ridiculously slow. His hand presses keener against Gavin’s stomach. Fingers spreading out, tensing and relaxing. Like Connor wants to squeeze but is too scared to. A few months ago, Gavin might’ve thought there would be nothing there for him to take handfuls of, but everything’s changed recently. He’s not – like, fat, or anything. At least he doesn’t think so. But there’s definitely more chub there than abs. Whatever. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t know why Connor is feeling his belly up, though.
Connor’s hand drops down, and Gavin – strangely, weirdly – misses it. Misses the attention paid to a part of his body he’s been feeling insecure about, lately, a part of his body he’s felt insecure about ever since he was a kid, a part of his body he’s spent years and years trying desperately to change, and only recently has partly accepted. Like, he doesn’t like that he’s getting kinda chubby, but it’s so so much effort to work out regularly on top of his job, and also, actually, he wants to enjoy a meal from time to time without worrying about the macros and the calories.
Whatever, whatever, he’s not thinking about that, because Connor’s mouth has dropped to his thighs, pressing tiny butterfly kisses there too, dotting back up to the base of his dick. Gavin’s so turned on he could cry, cock pressing up and leaking against his stomach.
“Look at you,” murmurs Connor.
Gavin refuses to look at him. The most beautifully manufactured man he’s ever going to have between his legs, and he can’t make fucking eye contact.
“So wet and leaky,” coos Connor. “Do you want me to put my mouth on you, Gavin?”
Obviously fucking yes. Obviously fucking yes.
Gavin knows exactly what game Connor is attempting, and he’s not playing along. He stays quiet.
Connor’s hand creeps back up again, squeezes his stomach. Gavin whimpers.
“Stop,” he mumbles.
Connor lets his hand fall flat. Listens. “Really?”
Gavin – doesn’t mean it. He just wants Connor to stop – perceiving him, he guesses. Perceiving him as a whole, not just taking for granted the pieces Gavin puts on display.
There are so so so many other people Connor could be with. He doesn’t know why he’s the chosen one. Doesn’t know why the android sent by CyberLife wants to dick him down, of everybody in Detroit. He’s cruel and selfish. He’s not even that attractive, not attractive in the picture-perfect polish way Connor is attractive. It’s dumb, it’s stupid, and it’s a far cry from where they were a year before – but he knows for a fact that he’s just not good enough for Connor.
“...no,” says Gavin. “I don’t give a fuck where you touch, babe, I just – don’t know why…” you’re touching me there, he wants to say. He doesn’t say it. Pushes the thought down.
“...because I want to,” mumbles Connor. He blinks up at Gavin, a little dazed. Eyes cloudy. Gavin doesn’t know what that means. “Are you going to ask me nicely to suck your dick yet?”
Right, so they’re back to that. Gavin can work with this.
“Um,” he manages.
“I know you can ask properly,” says Connor.
Gavin can. It shames him every time, to beg Connor. Because Connor makes him beg, makes him plead, makes him fucking grovel. They’ve only done this a handful of times – five, not that Gavin’s counting – and every time, Connor gets worse. He’s insatiable. Gavin thinks he likes hearing him suffer.
It’s just – demeaning. It is. It’s fucking demeaning and sure, Gavin gets off on that, gets off on being humiliated and being made to feel small and dumb and stupid, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. Especially when Connor acts so smug every time.
“I won’t touch you unless you ask me to, Gavin,” Connor goes on. “You know, consent is important.”
Fucking asshole, thinks Gavin.
“I’m giving you permission to suck my dick,” he mumbles, knowing that isn’t what Connor means. Connor raises a brow, and Gavin – gives in. It takes very little, now, for him to give in to Connor. “Fine. Fine. Please.”
“Please can I…”
“Please can you suck my– fuck!”
Gavin cuts himself abruptly mid-sentence, as Connor chooses that exact moment to lower his mouth down, easing his cock down his throat, right to the base. Gavin looks down, and chokes on his own spit at the sight. All he can do is fist at Connor’s hair helplessly as the android slides back up again, mouth slick with artificial saliva, drooling from the corners of his lips down his chin.
Connor’s hand creeps back up again, almost without Gavin noticing. Kneading his stomach. Gavin notices it, and promptly decides he doesn’t care. He’s lost in his own pleasure, delirious, floating, unable to form a coherent thought. Connor looks – unreal, down there, because he is. He’s not real, he’s something made, manufactured, crafted. A year ago, the idea of this would have made him want to punch a hole clean through Connor’s mechanical chest.
Connor’s fingers pinch his stomach again, and Gavin whimpers at the sensation. He really is fucking full and that’s part of it, but also, a part of it feels like – he doesn’t know – Connor’s really taking his time getting to know every stretch of his body, every inch of it, and that’s – something. If he thinks about it too hard he’ll do something dumb like cry so instead he elects to ignore it and think about the perfect wet hot heat around his cock and the gradual slide of Connor’s lips around him.
He’s getting closer, closer. Nothing about him is restrained, so he’s bucking his hips up into Connor’s mouth and Connor isn’t doing jackshit to stop him. Gavin thanks God for Connor’s lack of gag reflex and keeps grinding right into Connor’s open mouth. Connor’s motions speed up, and he does something delicious with his tongue, a subtle flick over the leaking tip of his dick and then takes him all the way down again.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” chants Gavin, “Jesusfuckingchrist you feel so fucking good, holy shit baby, you’re unreal, you’re unbelievable.” Praise falls from his lips, shit he’s going to regret saying to the plastic dipshit the next day, especially since Gavin knows he’ll corner him at a crime scene if Gavin gets mouthy about his abilities (or lack of) and remind Gavin exactly what he said the night before. Unreal, unbelievable. What has this sack of metal and bolts done to him? “Real fucking close please please please don’t stop, don’t stop–”
Connor doesn’t stop. His eyes are closed, now, whereas before he’d had his eyes locking up at Gavin, and the squeezing motion at his stomach becomes almost frantic, faster faster faster. Connor’s – twitching where he’s kneeling on the floor, and through the haze of delirious pleasure, Gavin sees that he’s rubbing his free hand against his crotch.
There’s nothing fucking there, that’s the thing, there’s nothing there – Connor told him there’s some sensation receptors there, but nothing like a human would feel, but it’s the idea that Connor is – touching himself whilst sucking his dick, that Connor is getting off on this – that has him tetering right over the edge. His fingers coil loosely in Connor’s hair again, tighter, and Connor makes a buzzing hum around his cock, and he’s gone.
He comes down Connor’s throat with a groan, no warning, just a final buck of his hips. Connor doesn’t gag, just opens his eyes and looks up at Gavin, locking eyes with him as Gavin twitches and shudders against his mouth. Gavin doesn’t move until he’s spent and then finally pulls free of Connor’s mouth.
Connor wipes his lips; sticks out his tongue. Clean. Fucking hell.
“Was that good,” asks Connor, faux-innocently.
“Stop being a shit,” mutters Gavin. Then. “Yes. It was good. Get up here.”
Connor obeys and crawls right back into Gavin’s lap. His arms go around him, bodies pressed flushed to each other, and Connor gives Gavin a tender, slow kiss. Gavin tastes himself on Connor’s tongue, and fucking hell, isn’t that something. Connor pulls back, flashes Gavin a smirk, and fuckingchrist the little shit knows what he’s doing, alright.
“Do you wanna…” Gavin mumbles awkwardly. “Do you want me to. Do anything.”
Last time they did this, Connor fucked Gavin silly with a strap-on, then very politely asked Gavin to fiddle with his thirium pump. Gavin would very much enjoy a repeat performance of that, thank you very much.
Connor shakes his head. “No, thank you. I’m finished.”
Gavin raises a brow. “You what?”
He didn’t see Connor finish. Then again, he’d kinda stopped properly looking at Connor after a while.
“A few times,” says Connor. “You feel wonderful.”
Fucking hell. Gavin has considered calling this whole thing off more times than he can count, but shit like that prevents him from pulling the trigger. That, and he’d miss the plastic prick. More than he’d ever like to admit.
“Um,” Gavin mumbles. “Thanks.”
“When your cock is in my mouth it makes me bluescreen,” Connor goes on helpfully. “And when I – was – touching you.”
Great. A billion thumbs-up. What the fuck is Gavin supposed to say to that.
“You robot-came from a blowjob,” is what he gathers.
“No,” says Connor. “I mean, I suppose that I did. And also from touching you.”
Gavin has no idea what he’s talking about. Actually, he has an idea, but he’s nowhere near ready for that conversation. Maybe next time. Hopefully there’s a next time.
“Next time,” he says, wanting to turn the tables, and also get verbal confirmation that he didn’t do something to fuck up, that Connor also wants a next time. “Will you let me touch your wires.”
“I did some research,” says Connor. “You can put your mouth on them, if you wish.”
“And I won’t scramble my brains?”
“Your brains are already scrambled.”
“Asshole,” mutters Gavin.
“Yes. You won’t scramble anything. Totally safe.”
“Score,” says Gavin. “Uh.”
He’s not sure where to go from here. Invite Connor to stay? Put on a movie? Do nothing?
“Gavin,” Connor says. “Would you like dessert?”
Would he like dessert. He’s about to make a leery joke (what did I just have then, Connor), then remembers how fucking full he is, still. “Thanks for offering, but I’m okay. Thanks.” He pauses. “Shall I put on, like, uh – a movie or some shit? What the fuck do you even watch.”
“Hank likes to put on baking programs.”
“Of course he does,” sighs Gavin, but searches for his remote to put on The Great British Baking Show.
“I would like it if you had dessert,” Connor says, in a small voice. “I made it for you.”
Gavin turns his head to the side. He is really, really full. But –
“Fine,” he says. “Only because you went to the trouble.”
And Connor’s eyes light up.