Thread by @robofingering

Hank tries, he really does, to convince Connor that he doesn't need to make a fuss over his birthday. It's fine.
"You get to be a certain age," he says, "and no one gives a shit about birthdays anymore. Getting older stopped getting fun a few decades back."

"Besides, it feels weird when people make a fuss over me, you know? I don't need the attention."
"You like it when *I* make a fuss over you," Connor says. He'd pulled Hank down until his head was in Connor's lap; one hand strokes his hair while the other rests on his chest.

"I'm not asking you if you want me to throw a party where everyone sings to you," Connor continues, and he laughs at the horrified look on Hank's face at the mention of singing. "I'm saying I want to plan a nice night out with you. I want to treat you a little. Show you off."

Hank scowls at this, but he leans into Connor's touch all the same. "You make it sound like you're my sugar daddy. No one's ever wanted to show me off anywhere, except maybe as a cautionary tale of what happens when--OW!" he breaks off mid-sentence as Connor pinches his nipple.

Connor grins and pats Hank's chest soothingly. "Sorry, Hank. When I hear you disparaging yourself, my finer motor functions start to break down and accidents like this are statistically more likely to occur. You should probably refrain from speaking about yourself that way."

"Or what, you'll put my nipple in a death grip again?"
Connor just smiles.
"All right, you asshole," Hank grumbles. "You want to show me off? Be my guest." He grabs Connor's hand before he can do any more pinching and presses a kiss to the palm. "I mean it, though, I really don't

need you to do anything. I'm not much of a birthday guy."
"It's an excuse to do something nice for you. And," he says, pre-emptively putting his hand over Hank's mouth to stifle any protest, "to show off my handsome partner to the world."
Connor's silent for a moment, and Hank

watches his LED flicker. "All right, I've made dinner reservations for next Tuesday. Would you like to know where we're going in advance, or should I keep it a surprise?"
"Srrpmffff," Hank says, because Connor's hand is still over his mouth.

So. Hank's steeled himself for a birthday dinner of some sort, which seems easy enough once he stops being grumpy about it on principle. He knows, when he pries back the top layer of awkwardness he feels when Connor or anyone else wants to "celebrate" or shine a spotlight on him,

that it's a sweet gesture, that he should appreciate that Connor cares about him enough to strong-arm him into letting himself be taken out on a nice date. And he does appreciate it, he really fucking does. Connor's nicer to him than he could ever deserve.

Hank isn't a total asshole about birthdays. He'd asked Connor about his, once; his initial activation day was in August, but he said if he had to choose a day to celebrate as a birthday, he'd rather use the date of his deviation. Hank already has a couple ideas for that day.

In this, as in so many other things, it's easier for Hank to think of things he can do for Connor than to feel at ease letting Connor do them for him.

Which brings him to the package that arrives via drone on Sunday afternoon, two days before his birthday.

"Oh good, it's here," Hank hears Connor say from the living room, and he pokes his head out of the bedroom, where he's been half-organizing and half-reading through a stack of old magazines and paperbacks.
"What's here, hon?" he calls out.

Connor looks extremely pleased with himself as he carries a largish box into the bedroom and sets it on the bed as if he's presenting a precious artifact. "This is part of your birthday present."
"Isn't my present getting to have a nice night out with you?"

"Of course," Connor says, "but I'm showing you off, remember?"
Hank has a rush of phantom pain in his nipple and knows better than to argue. "Sure, I remember."
"So," Connor continues, slicing the packing tape neatly with a fingernail, "I took the liberty of picking something out

for you to wear." He hesitates a moment before opening the package, and Hank can see a hint of worry beneath his self-satisfied expression. "I hope this isn't overstepping, but I find the idea of dressing you for an evening out very appealing."

Hank thinks maybe it *is* overstepping, just a bit, but it's also...kind of a relief, really? Maybe he finds the idea of Connor dressing him appealing too, although he isn't sure exactly what to make of that feeling. Like a lot of things about his relationship with Connor, it's

weird but good, and at this point in his life, he'll take good and doesn't care as much about shit being weird as he used to.
"Hell, we both know my wardrobe's a mess. I can probably use all the help I can get if I want to look nice for you, so." He pulls Connor close and kisses

him softly. "You're real sweet, Connor, you know that?"
"So I've been told," Connor says.
"Should I try this stuff on, make sure it fits?"
"I'm sure it'll fit properly; I did scan you for precise measurements before ordering it. You should make sure you like it, though."

Once the box has been unpacked and its contents spread out on the bed, Hank finds himself staring at a suit.
A *nice* suit. Probably nicer than anything he's owned. Hell, definitely better than the suit he wore at his own wedding.
"Are you serious, Connor? This is..." he's not

sure what to say. He sees Connor's face fall, just a fraction, and scrambles to correct course. "I love it, I just. You know me, I don't wear this sort of thing much, don't you think I'll look, you know, out of place in it?" He sighs. "I don't want to look like I'm playing

dress-up while you're on my arm looking like a supermodel."
Connor sits on the edge of the bed and pulls Hank down beside him. "I think," he murmurs, "everyone's eyes will be on you as they wonder why they aren't lucky enough to be in my place. You're so handsome, Hank, and I

chose this to accentuate your features. I know it isn't your usual style, but..." he trails his hands over Hank's chest and pushes him over, straddling his waist as he falls back onto the bed. "Give it a chance? I promise I'll be very appreciative."
"Well with a fancy speech like

that," Hank drawls, "how can I refuse?" He tilts his head up as Connor leans down, expecting a slow, lazy kiss, but instead Connor gives him a quick smooch before sliding off the bed and yanking Hank's sweatpants off before he can even process what's happening. When he sits up in

surprise, Connor takes the opportunity to whip off Hank's shirt as well, leaving him disheveled and confused. "Jesus, what got into you?" He goes to grab for Connor's shirt in retaliation, but he's already stepped away and is closing the door behind him as he leaves the room.

"Just getting you ready to try everything on!" Connor says, peeking around the door with a wink before he clicks it shut. "Come out and do a fashion show for Sumo and I when you're done, will you?"
Hank rolls his eyes, but what else can he do? He faces down the suit, which really

is gorgeous, and steels himself for the inevitable disappointment he knows will come once he puts it on. Surely Connor has unreasonable expectations for what some nice clothes can do for his general Hank-ness. He shrugs; for Connor, he'll give it a go and hope for the best.

The pants and jacket are slate gray; they're almost blue, but not quite, and the color reminds Hank of a cat his grandma had when he was young. The shirt is a muted lavender, and the fabric feels good against his skin when he slips it on. He's a bit concerned when he starts to

button it, though; he doesn't have to suck in but it's a very close fit.
"You got some measurements wrong," he calls out the doorway. "Shirt's too small, I think."
"It's fine," Connor replies, even though of course he hasn't seen what Hank looks like in it. "You just aren't

used to wearing clothes that fit you properly."
Hank doesn't have a good answer for that, especially since Connor's probably right, but he isn't convinced in this particular case. Still, he finishes buttoning it up and slides the pants on; thankfully, while they're also snug the

button does meet the buttonhole without too much fuss. They're cut slimmer on his legs than he's ever thought to wear pants, and he's still sure the end result will be ridiculous, but he presses on. There's a tie rolled up neatly next to the jacket, and here Hank feels comforted;

Connor found one with the sort of loud design Hank favors, a geometric pattern of lavender, mint green, and lime green on a dark gray background, but somehow in a tie format it looks less atrocious than Hank's favorite shirts do. He shrugs on the jacket and bypasses

his full-length mirror on his way out the door; he figures if he catches a glimpse of himself looking like a fool he'll tear the whole thing off before Connor gets a chance to look.
"Well," he mumbles, as he rounds the corner into the living room, "I hope it's not too bad."

When he finally pulls his gaze up from the carpet, he sees Connor staring with his mouth slightly parted. His LED is spinning frantically, as if he's processing a lot of information at once.
"Oh," Connor says quietly. "Hank, it's perfect. You look..." he trails off.

"It's not a disaster?" Hank asks. Sure, Connor just said the suit was perfect, but what about him *wearing* it? His own lousy self-image aside, he doesn't want to be a disappointment to Connor, and he's always worried he will be. He doesn't much care if he looks good for himself,

but he at least wants Connor to be pleased.
"Not a...Hank, you look even better than I'd imagined." Connor stands up from the couch and walks towards him but stops a few feet short, silently drinking in the sight of him. "Here, come into the kitchen where the lighting's better."

Connor drags Hank next to the row of windows in the back of the kitchen and fusses at his clothes, smoothing the line of the jacket's shoulders and loosening the tie just a hair. "There," he says as he stands back to admire his work again. "My handsome man."
Hank blushes.

"You really picked out something special," he says, because he *is* grateful, even though he feels awkward and out of his depth in such expensive, form-fitting clothes. He takes Connor's hand and brushes a line of kisses across his knuckles. "You're sure this shirt fits, though?"

He shrugs off the jacket and hands it to Connor, who looks thoughtful and does a little turning motion with his finger, prompting Hank to turn around slowly.
"It's a perfect fit, Hank." Connor preens a bit; Hank's sure he's pleased with himself for whatever scans he did that let

him order clothes without whipping out a measuring tape or letting Hank in on his plans at all.
"I just feel kind of shrink-wrapped in this, is all," Hank grumbles, rubbing his hand along the curve of his gut, which the shirt outlines in perfect detail.

Connor's hand joins his, pressing into his bulk and giving him a little squeeze. "Like I said," he says, "I chose this outfit to accentuate your most attractive attributes. The colors emphasize your eyes. The cut of the suit accentuates your height. And I don't want you hidden

behind a loose, billowing shirt; this makes you look powerful and confident in your size."
"Powerful, huh?" Hank says. Connor's fingering his buttons like he's about to pop a few of them open. "You want to help me take this off again, so I can show you just how powerful I am?"

"Mmm, that sounds good," Connor says, and anything he's planning to say after that is swallowed by Hank's mouth as he kisses him, hot and messy. Connor pulls the tie off and starts unbuttoning Hank's shirt as he herds him backwards down the hall to the bedroom. Hank's shoulder

clips the wall as they round a corner, but he's too distracted to care.
Once they're in the bedroom, Connor finishes unbuttoning the shirt and pushes it off Hank's shoulders. He's careful to hang it and the jacket up before they get wrinkled, and while Hank's impatient,

he's glad his new clothes aren't going to be a mess before he has a chance to wear them for real. He starts to remove his pants, but Connor sinks to his knees in front of him and takes over before Hank's managed to do more than undo the belt.
Connor moans softly as he presses

his face against Hank's half-hard cock, and he eases his fly open so he can mouth over it through his boxers without getting any saliva on the clean material. Hank pulls Connor's hair gently as he holds him there, rocking against his mouth. A suggestion of what's to come.

"Is this what you want, sweetheart?" Hank growls. Okay, maybe having Connor fuss over how good he looked was doing it for him, even if Hank isn't entirely sure he buys into all of it. Still, it's hot as hell to hear what Connor says when he's drooling over him. Literally, even,

he thinks, as he feels the damp heat of Connor's tongue press against his cock. "You can have it if that's what you want," he continues. He knows Connor likes it when he fucks his throat. Maybe he'll ask Hank for it. He loosens he grip enough to give Connor room to speak.

Connor mouths against the head of Hank's cock and kisses it through his underwear before he speaks. "It sounds good, like I said," he purrs, and he starts to pull the wool trousers off entirely, getting a handful of Hank's ass as he does. "But."
There's a pause after the "but,"

during which Connor taps Hank's calves in turn so he steps out of the pants.
"But...?" Hank asks, puzzled.
"I think it would be even better to wait." Connor stands up and folds the trousers, smoothing the crease to keep it sharp, and hangs them next to the rest of the suit.

A moment ago, Hank had been 100% sure he knew where the afternoon was going, and it feels a bit like he's just tripped over something invisible in his path. "Wait for what?" he asks.
"I want to admire you wearing that suit all night, looking forward to what's going to happen once

I get you back home. I think that's worth waiting for, plus I must admit I like how you get when you're a little. Hm." Connor wraps his arms around Hank's neck and presses very closely against him. "Frustrated? Desperate?"
"You like blue-balling me, is what you mean."

Connor laughs. Even in this moment, Hank thinks fondly that he'll never get tired of the sound. "Yes, that's exactly it. I promise, I'll make it up to you, with interest, on Tuesday."
"And let me guess, you're going to be a terrible tease up until then, right?"
"Of course."

"I think I can live with that," Hank says, and he huffs out a dramatic sigh but makes sure Connor can see that he's smiling, that he's willing to wait. Connor has played this game before, although usually it's more a matter of getting him worked up first thing in the morning and

making good on it before bed. Not drawing things out for a few days. There was the one time he--
Hank groans and realizes he needs to steer his thoughts *away* from sex with Connor, not dwell on the day he edged Hank for hours before finally letting him come. Hank had actually

been hoarse at work the next day and had to fake-cough all morning so no one would ask about it.
Anyway.
Hank scoops Connor into a hug and nuzzles the side of his neck the way he knows he likes.
"Thank you," he says simply. "I'm looking forward to Tuesday. And not just because

I can't get off until then, either. You've put a lot of thought into this, haven't you?"
"It's our first birthday together," Connor murmurs into Hank's chest. "I wanted to do something special for you."
Hank kisses Connor's forehead, then swats his ass as he steps back towards

the pile of books he'd been sorting through earlier. "You should probably clear out so I'm not distracted, I'll finish this up and help you make dinner later." Hank would still much rather waste the afternoon in bed, but sure. He's happy to wait, if that's what Connor wants.

True to his word, Connor *is* a terrible tease for the next day and a half, brushing past Hank like they live in a shoebox and there's just no room for two grown men to walk near each other without one rubbing against the other's ass or pulling him in for a heated kiss that only

lasts a minute before he's slipping out of Hank's arms with a wink. Monday night, Connor rests his feet in Hank's lap while they watch tv after dinner, and Hank absently rubs his ankle but otherwise mostly forgets he's there, until Connor's nimble little feet "accidentally" nudge

up against his cock. Hank knows how this game works; he pointedly ignores Connor and manages to hold out until he's mostly hard and Connor's rubbing the sole of one foot smoothly along his shaft with just enough pressure to make him rock his hips up for more but not enough to get

him any farther than the frustrated mess he's turned into over the past day. The moment he grabs Connor's foot and grinds against it with a low growl, Connor decides it's time for Sumo to go on one final walk before bed and gives Hank a chaste kiss on his way out the door.

It's maddening.
(It's perfect.)

Tuesday morning, Hank wakes up to the feeling of Connor pressed closely behind him, his erection nudging against Hank's ass. Hank's hard enough to cut diamonds, and he knows if he asks nicely--hell, it is his birthday, after all--Connor will fuck

the life out of him before work. It's tempting, especially in the fuzziness of early morning, but Hank does want Connor to be able to see his plan through, whatever it is. Plus, he knows it'll be worth it. Instead, he rolls out of bed and takes a shower as cold as he can stand.

Work is uneventful, thank god; with their line of work Hank knows any reservation might have to be cancelled at the last minute if there's an emergency or a breakthrough in a case. But it's business as usual, with nothing to keep them late and threaten the 7:30 dinner reservation

Connor made for them. Hank still doesn't know where they're going, but that's all right. He can just let Connor work out the details, like he did with the suit, and lead the way. Honestly, not having to make decisions is a fantastic gift on its own; he's happy to coast a bit.

They have about an hour between when they get home and when they need to leave for dinner, and Hank's determined to make the most of it. While Connor lets Sumo out back for a bit, Hank stares himself down in the mirror, towel wrapped around his waist, and trims his beard more

carefully than he has in months, neatening the edges and clipping it just a little shorter than usual. He washes his hair, scrubs himself thoroughly in the shower (he has no idea what Connor's post-dinner plans may be, but he wants to be prepared for anything), and takes an extra

moment after he gets out to rub some of the fruity-smelling stuff Connor bought him into his hair so it will look better when it dries. On a whim, he decides to pull it back; he doesn't do it often, but Connor seems to like it.
He considers himself in the mirror for a moment.

"I'm fifty-four fucking years old," he tells his reflection. He looks tired. His skin's rough, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Still, he knows he looks a hell of a lot better than he did a year ago. He's drinking less, sleeping a little more. Grief had made his face

more gaunt, and while he knows he'll never look like a cheerful man to anyone passing by on the street, he looks less haunted, now. Most of the time.
He still has his bad days.
But not today. Today, Hank stares at himself in the mirror, with his cheeks red from the shower's steam

and his hair pulled back, and he thinks about the expensive suit he doesn't deserve and the beautiful man who chose it for him, and how much he fucking loves him, and he thinks *somehow I'm doing okay. I'm fifty-four and I want to see fifty-five.*

When Hank leaves the bathroom, Connor calls out from the living room, "don't come out here, I want us to see each other when we're both ready," and Hank can't help himself.
"Can't see the bride all dressed up before the ceremony, huh?"
The moment the words leave his mouth, he

half-regrets them; not because he has any aversion to thinking about Connor and marriage, really, but they certainly haven't discussed it and he doesn't want to treat it like a joke. Connor just laughs, though, and doesn't comment further, so Hank shrugs and goes to get dressed.

Something pokes at Hank's mind, a feeling of familiarity, and he worries at it like a loose tooth as he gets dressed in the clothes Connor's chosen for him. As frustrated as he'd been when Connor got him so worked up, only to whisk off the suit and hang it up neatly,

he's thankful now that it looks good as new and he doesn't have to try and iron anything. He wants so badly to look good for Connor, who he's sure will be so stunning no one will notice if he's a bit disheveled, but Hank will know if he's not polished enough. He can't compare to

Connor, of course, but that doesn't mean he can't try. He fusses with the shirt as he puts it on; was Connor fucking with him by saying it looked good to have it fit so tight? He's still skeptical, but when he looks in the mirror on his closet door he thinks he sees Connor's

point. It does make him look confident, he guesses, if he's willing to walk around with a shirt that clings so closely to his gut. "What the hell, why not," he says to his reflection. The only person he's trying to impress picked the damn thing out, so he can't complain.

The familiar feeling resolves itself the moment he steps out into the hall.
Of course.
Connor's face lights up when he sees him, and Hank smiles back because how can he not, when faced with such affection?
He remembers another night. A much, much shittier night, almost

an entire year ago, when he fumbled his way into the clean clothes Connor had set out for him and walked out of the bathroom to be met with that same smile.
It was more muted then, of course. But Hank still smiled back, as miserable and angry and drunk as he was, and he knew.

He fucking knew, even then. Not what Connor would be to him, not exactly, but he knew something was there. He started to understand, in that moment.
Somehow it all led him back to here, standing in the same hallway, wearing clothing Connor had chosen for him, giving him the same

cheesy grin he can't wipe off his face because Connor just *does* that to him, all the time.
"You look beautiful, sweetheart," is what Hank says, because he has no idea how to say the rest of it. And because Connor does, of course. He has on a thick, forest green sweater with

a cowl neckline deep enough to show off the spray of freckles across his collarbone, and Hank can't help himself; he leans down and kisses him across that pale expanse of skin. "Do I get to unwrap you later?" he asks.

"Hmmm, we'll see," Connor murmurs, and he cups the side of Hank's face and pulls him into a kiss. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind Hank's ear and makes a small, pleased sound. "You look so handsome like this, with your hair back. If we didn't have to leave in a moment,"

Connor says thoughtfully, giving Hank's tie a gentle tug, "I'd pull you into bed right now. After all, you have been very patient."
"Patient while you torment me." And yes, there's that particular brand of torment back again, as Connor slides a hand under Hank's jacket to brush

a thumb over his nipple. Hank moans and pulls Connor closer; Connor responds by pressing his thigh between Hank's legs.
"You've done so well, Hank," Connor says, "that I know a few more hours won't be a problem." And with that, he pulls away, although he keeps a hand on Hank's

back as he herds him towards the door. "We really do need to go if we want to make our reservation."
Connor makes a brief detour to bend down and give Sumo some gentle pats, and Hank's gaze is immediately drawn to the sight of Connor's ass in his obscenely tight pants.

"Fuck me," he mutters to himself, and if Connor notices he doesn't say anything, but Hank knows he's doomed anyway. Always has been, where Connor's involved.

~

The restaurant Connor chose is one Hank hasn't heard of.
"Nice place," he says, as the cheerful host leads them down

a staircase at the back of the main dining room to a smaller, more intimate lounge. There's a piano at one end of the room, and they're seated on the opposite side, close enough to hear the music but far enough away to be able to hold a conversation. Their booth is small,

but Hank likes the layout; they're seated at adjacent sides of the table so he can set a hand on Connor's thigh once they get settled in. "You chose a real cozy spot, hon," he says, leaning in to kiss Connor's cheek.
Connor's smile is bright enough to light up the dim room.

"Hank, could I--" Connor pauses for a moment. "I'm not sure if this is weird or not."
Hank shrugs. "Only way to find out is to ask. I like weird though, right? I like you, so I must not be too put off by weird shit." He laughs as Connor rolls his eyes at him.

"Could I order for you?"
Not weird, exactly, but. Not something Connor's ever asked about before, either. Gentle prodding at Hank's formerly-abysmal dietary habits aside, Connor never wanted that much control in this area. Considering the suit, though, and this whole plan for the

evening, Hank gets the feeling Connor has had a whole host of very specific details in mind for a while, and he does enjoy sitting back and letting things come together without his input. Anyway, he trusts Connor's taste, and Connor certainly knows what he likes well enough.

"You've picked everything for tonight perfectly so far," he says, and the hand that's still settled high on Connor's thigh gives it a gentle squeeze. "Go for it, I'm sure you'll order something I love."
Hank had been too distracted by Connor's face in the low light to even look

at the menu, so he has no idea what he might be in store for, but this just means he doesn't have to pull his gaze away from him at all. He nods politely at the android server who comes to their table a few minutes later, but he just strokes Connor's thigh with his thumb and

watches the flicker of his LED as he silently transmits their order, and doesn't engage with the server any further. He hopes it isn't rude, but surely anyone could see why he'd rather keep his eyes on Connor than on anything else.
"I'm getting sentimental in my old age,"he says.

"You're not that old yet," Connor says with a wink, "but I like it." He looks like he's about to say something else, but the server returns with a pair of drinks and the moment's lost.
"Is yours just thirium in a fancy glass?" Hank asks, looking at Connor's. His own drink smells

deliciously peaty and spicy; he can tell before taking a sip that it's an incredible scotch.
"They put some bitters in it," Connor says, after giving it a sniff. "I haven't tried this before, but I've heard from other androids with oral sensors that bitters are interesting to

analyze. Maybe it's silly to pay more for the experience, but since I can't eat it's nice to sit here with you and have something to put in my mouth."
Hank raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't comment. He's got plenty more ideas of what Connor could put in his mouth, later on.

Connor raises his glass. "Cheers, and happy birthday," he says. They clink glasses gently, and Hank takes a sip of his whisky. It's a step above the shit he used to chug by the bottle, that's for sure. Kind of like licking a mossy rock someone threw in a campfire. In a good way.

He closes his eyes to savor the taste, and when he opens them Connor's watching for his reaction. Hank licks his lips and sees Connor's mouth drop open just a bit. "You picked the perfect one," he says, and takes another sip. "I don't want more than one drink tonight, so I can

pay attention to you like you deserve, but if I'm just going to have one, this is it. Thank you."
"Thank you for letting me take you out like this. Letting me take care of so many details."
"It's real sweet," Hank says. "I can't think of a time anyone's put so much effort into

something for me." His hand hasn't left Connor's leg and he smooths his big palm over the soft fabric clinging to his thigh before giving a gentle squeeze.
"I wanted you to be able to relax and enjoy yourself, without having to plan or worry about anything."
"I think I can manage

that just fine, sweetheart." Hank leans in for a kiss, quick but not entirely chaste, and if his hand slips up just a hair higher on Connor's thigh, well. It's dark in their little corner. Surely no one can see.
The pianist starts playing some Brubeck right as the server returns

with the first part of Hank's dinner. He's presented with a little dish of olives marinated in herbs and citrus peel and a pile of small peppers that have been charred and sprinkled with coarse salt.
"I fuckin love these," Hank says, as he pops a pepper into his mouth.

He goes to grab an olive, but Connor's quicker than he is. He holds one up to Hank's mouth, and he grins as he bites it out of Connor's hand.
"I see where this is going," he says, leaning in so his lips are close to Connor's ear. "You just want to get your fingers in my mouth."

Connor tries to put on an innocent face, but he's completely transparent; the next time he tries to feed Hank an olive, he sucks the tip of his finger into his mouth and scrapes his teeth gently across it. Connor moans, just loud enough to hear, and Hank laughs and takes another

sip of his drink, enjoying the contrast between brine and smoke.
He takes his hand off Connor's thigh and cradles the back of his neck, stroking the soft skin behind his ear. As Connor's eyes flutter shut, he says, "You've been teasing me for a few days, did you think I wouldn't

want to do the same? Do you think I'm not going crazy thinking about getting my hands on you when we get home? Peeling this lovely thing off of you?" He fingers the soft cowl of Connor's sweater, trails his fingers along the edge of the collar where it dips past his collarbone.

"I haven't told you just how good this looks on you, baby. Makes you look so soft, I don't want to stop touching you." He slides his hand back to its position on Connor's thigh. "But your pants are a bit of a problem."
"You don't like them?" Connor asks.
"Mmm, it's not that," he

says, as his fingers trail just a bit higher along Connor's inseam, "it's just that they're so tight I'm not sure they're decent to wear in public." He's exaggerating, but just barely. The sight of Connor's ass as he bent over just before they left home is seared into his mind.

Hank thinks about Connor playing innocent while rutting up against him this morning, and casually strokes his fingers further up Connor's thigh. He isn't usually into doing this much in public, but it's dark, no one's paying attention to them, and Connor deserves some payback.

As he presses his hand higher, though, he doesn't happen upon what he expects; his hand makes contact with the junction between Connor's thighs with no sign of what was there earlier--although Connor does shift and sigh just a bit when Hank makes contact.

"What's this?" he asks quietly, rubbing his first two fingers gently over the spot that makes Connor's hips twitch. "Did you swap things around when I wasn't looking?"
"I changed my 8401p component for 7633v while you were in the shower."
"Were you in the mood for something in

particular, or did you just want a change from this morning?"
Hank has no strong preference for what genital component Connor uses; he likes a lot of different kinds of sex and is happy to explore them with whatever configuration Connor wants to have that day. Hell, sometimes he

swaps in the smooth plate he came with, if he wants the focus to be on something else or doesn't want to think about his parts during the day.
Connor trusts his input, trusts him to be honest, but all the same it did take some convincing until he really got that Hank didn't have

a hard and fast preference. Hank didn't want to influence what was an extremely personal decision, but in the end he got the most exciting option for him anyway which was that Connor just wanted one of everything. They went with one phallic and one vaginal plate to start with,

since they were pretty expensive. Hank was sure Connor would have an entire collection of mix and match genitals to play with before long.
Connor squirmed just a bit beneath his hand. "I didn't want to ruin the line of the trousers," he said. "They are, as you noticed,

cut very slim, and my penis would change the silhouette."
"You weren't hoping I'd do this? Notice the change and get you a little worked up, since you've been doing the same to me?"
Whatever Connor might have said in return was interrupted by their server returning; she gives

them a bright smile as she sets down a plate of garlic and lemon shrimp, but Hank can tell by the tightness around her eyes that she 100% knew what he'd been up to. He pats Connor's thigh and picks up his glass, awkwardly taking a too-large gulp of scotch and nearly choking.

"Maybe I'll just. Enjoy my dinner for now," Hank mumbles, once the burn in his throat has died down, but he can feel a hot flush on his face that's not going to fade any time soon. Connor laughs and agrees, and for the rest of the meal he watches Hank eat, occasionally feeding

him a bite of shrimp or chorizo or another olive, but mostly just watching. Hank's gotten used to this. It took a while to adjust to Connor sitting with him at dinner and watching him eat, with no food to distract him, but it eventually became just one of the long list of weird

things Connor did that he no longer bothered to care much about.
For the rest of dinner, Hank determinedly keeps his hands to himself, as much as he wants to be touching Connor. "Wanting to touch Connor" feels like his default state a lot of the time these days, and he has a lot

of practice holding off at times when it's not appropriate, like when they're at work, but the pull tonight is so strong; while Connor's watching him, he's doing plenty of looking himself.
"I'm so lucky," he says, after he's popped the final shrimp into his mouth, "to be here

with such a handsome and charming date. You really made tonight special."
"The night isn't over, Hank," Connor says with a look so laced with desire that Hank's cock stirs. "I'm not done with you yet."
Any further discussion of Connor's plans for the evening is interrupted by the

return of their server; thankfully, she doesn't do anything to make Hank feel any more awkward about earlier.
"Would you gentlemen like some dessert?" she asks.
Hank knows the question's for his benefit alone, of course, and a little apple crumble or whatever fancy shit this

place has for dessert sounds good, but he looks to Connor for a response. He'd said he wanted to order for Hank, after all.
Connor seems incredibly pleased by this and offers Hank a small smile before turning to the server, saying "no thank you, we have something sweet waiting

at home."
"That's news to me," Hank says, as she bustles off to retrieve their check. "Or do you just mean yourself?"
"I'm on the menu," Connor says, sliding a foot up Hank's calf. "But I did bake something I'd like you to enjoy first."
"You're really determined to make me wait

before I can peel those clothes off of you, huh?"
"I can guarantee it'll be worth the wait," Connor says, and his foot slides higher.
"Fuck," Hank says quietly. He imagines tearing Connor's pants off right there, hoisting him up on the edge of the table and eating him out in the

middle of the restaurant. Letting everyone hear how amazing Connor sounds when he comes. There's a limit to his restraint, after all. He's been patient, at least as patient as he can manage, and now he's ready for Connor to make good on his promises.

"So," Hank says, as he pulls out of the parking lot towards home, "it sounds like you have a plan for how the rest of this night's going to go."
"I do," Connor replies. He traces a line up Hank's thigh with a fingernail.
"You going to let me in on any of it before we get home?"

"All right. But I won't ruin the surprise."
"God forbid," Hank drawls. "Wouldn't want to do that."
"There's one more gift for you at home, in the bathroom. You'll know what to do with it. Please unwrap it when we get home and wait for me on the couch while I get ready."
"I can do

that," Hank says. He lifts Connor's hand to his mouth and gives it a kiss, making sure to keep his eyes on the road. "Anything else you want me to do?"
"Lots of things," Connor purrs. "But for now, just keep this on--"he plucks at the suit jacket and the shirt underneath--"so I

can continue to admire how handsome you are in it. I'll take care of everything else."
As he says this, his hand slides down to Hank's groin, brushing against his cock.
"Not while I'm driving, you menace," Hank snaps, but there's no heat to it.
Well. No anger. Plenty of heat.

Connor doesn't entirely manage to keep his hands off of Hank for the rest of the drive home, but thankfully he's not *too* handsy, either; Hank's so worked up he's pretty sure he'd swerve off the road if Connor got too enthusiastic.
Connor ushers Hank into the bathroom the moment

they unlock the door, despite Hank's attempts to pull him into a kiss. "There'll be time for that in a moment," he says.
"You're so bossy," Hank grumbles, but he lets himself be led where Connor wants him.
"You enjoy it," Connor says, and swats him on the ass as he saunters off.

Fuck. He really does.
"You don't have to rub it in," Hank says, as he looks for the gift Connor said would be there. In the cupboard under the sink, he finds a package wrapped in shiny silver paper. He takes a breath, completely clueless as to what it might be, and tears it open.

Beneath the paper is a sleek, matte black box with VIBE-R-LYFE PLEASURE EXPERIENCES written on the side in deep red text. Nestled inside is a plug, slightly larger than the one he already had, with a curve that looked perfect for hitting his prostate.
"You'll know what to do with

it," Connor had said. He'd tucked a tiny bottle of lube into the box as well, so the intent is clear: this is a gift for right now. Whatever plans Connor has for later, Hank already knows he approves.
Working a new, decently-sized plug into his own ass while half-dressed in a

suit isn't a skill Hank had ever thought to practice, so it takes him a minute and a small amount of cursing, but it's worth it; the moment it slides home, he lets out a low moan of pleasure. Next comes the trickier part: washing the lube off his hands before it gets everywhere.

Eventually, he's nearly presentable again. Connor wanted him to stay in the suit, so he tucks everything in and straightens himself up in front of the mirror. His hair's coming out of the ponytail, so he pulls it out and combs his fingers through it to neaten it up a bit.

The distance from the bathroom to the couch isn't very far, but every step rocks the plug inside him. "Fuck," he hisses, as he settles himself down and the cushion beneath him presses firmly against the plug. It feels fantastic, but he's more than ready for Connor to join him.

Happily, he doesn't have to wait long. Once he's settled in, he hears Connor approach from down the hall. "Don't peek," he says. "Your dessert's almost ready."
"You did say you were on the menu, didn't you? Do I get a taste?"
"You'll get more than a taste, Hank," Connor says, and

any coherent response Hank might have made to that dies in his throat when Connor steps in front of him.
He's beautiful. Of course he's beautiful, it's painfully obvious to anyone who looks at him, but he's especially gorgeous in this moment. He's carrying a plate with a

slice of cake on it but Hank barely notices it; save for a pair of delicate, lace-trimmed, dark red underwear, Connor is completely naked.
"Fuck, baby," he breathes. He can't help but rock his hips forward as his cock throbs, and the motion shifts the plug deep inside him.

Connor sets the plate on the end table next to the couch, and stands right in front of Hank, just barely between his spread legs. "I assume you found your gift?" he asks, but before Hank can answer, he holds a hand up to stop him. "There's a simple test I can do to find out."

There's the tiniest hint of sadistic glee in Connor's eyes as he licks his lips, watching Hank. His LED blinks at the exact moment that the plug in Hank's ass comes alive, buzzing gently.
"Jesus Christ, Connor, what--" Hank jerks to attention and nearly jumps out of his seat, but

Connor's hand on his chest holds him still, presses him back into the couch. Hank takes a steadying breath and then lets himself relax again, at least as much as he can relax with a surprise vibrator shoved up inside him.
"You really are full of surprises tonight, aren't you?" he

manages to say, somehow.
"Do you like it?"
"Hell yeah, I like it, it's just. Startled me a bit." Hank closes his eyes for a moment and sinks into the sensation. "Yeah, that's, uh. It's real nice."
The vibrations taper off to a faint hum and then fade out entirely. "I wanted to

test that feature, but for now I'll leave it turned off. We'll have plenty of time to explore the different settings later." Connor smiles brightly and retrieves the plate from the table. "For now," he says, "I'd love for you to try this cake I baked for you."
The cake does look

delicious, now that Hank's looking at it, it's just that it's hard to focus on anything but Connor and the expanse of skin he's showing. Still, he doesn't want to turn down something Connor put effort into making for him; he figures if Connor wants a cake interlude, he's happy to

have one. After all, Connor's run the show so far tonight, and he's done a damn fine job of it.
"Sure, hon," Hank says, and holds his hand out to take the plate from Connor. "What kind is it? Tell me about it."
"It's a dark chocolate cake with marzipan and blackberry jam between

the layers, and a thin coating of chocolate ganache," Connor says, but he doesn't hand Hank the plate. Instead, he nudges Hank's knees together with one foot, then clambers into Hank's lap.
"That, uh, that sounds good," Hank says, unsure of where this is going. His hand's still

frozen in mid-air, ready to take the cake that Connor is pointedly not handing to him. "Can I have it?"
"That's the point, yes," Connor says dryly. He spears a bite with the fork, and holds it up to Hank's mouth.
Oh.
This is new. Connor popped a couple olives in his mouth at

dinner, sure, but. *This* is new. He feels a flush prickle across his face. Suddenly the suit is far too warm.
Hank drops his hand from where it's been awkwardly hanging in mid-air and rests it on the softness of Connor's thigh. He closes his eyes as he takes the first bite.

The cake is good, probably the most delicious cake he's had in a while, and he moans a little as the tartness of the blackberry jam spreads in his mouth.
"How is it?" Connor asks.
If Hank felt stared at before while he was eating dinner, now he feels pinned beneath the weight of

Connor's gaze. He slides his hands up Connor's thighs, running a finger under the lace edging of his underwear as he does so, and pulls gently to encourage Connor to settle more closely on his lap. "Wonderful," he says, and Connor immediately offers another bite. Hank maintains

eye contact as he eats it and feels Connor press up against him when he sucks a stray bit of ganache off of his bottom lip. "You're really spoiling me tonight," he says.
Connor proves his point by cutting a slightly larger bite of cake. "You don't usually let me do so much for

you," he says, as he slides it neatly into Hank's open mouth. "I appreciate the chance to take care of you like this. And, yes, spoil you a little." He balances the plate on the arm of the couch and tugs Hank's tie, gently pulling him forward into a kiss. He loosens the tie as

Hank moans into the kiss, eventually sliding it out of his collar entirely. Connor flicks open the top two buttons of Hank's shirt as Hank kisses his neck. "I like having you all to myself now that we're home, but do you know what the best part of taking you out tonight was?"

"Was it when I did this, under the table?" Hank asks, and he slides his hand to cup Connor's pubic mound, grazing one thick finger over his clit.
Connor whines and ruts against Hank's hand. "No, it wasn't--oh, Hank, you'll distract me."
"Am I ruining your plans? Do you need me to

stop?" Hank eases up on the pressure but doesn't remove his hand entirely; Connor's still grinding against it, so it would be rude to just stop altogether.
"No, don't stop, please." Connor seems to find his focus again. He scoops up another piece of cake, holding his hand beneath

the fork as he transports it to Hank's mouth.
"My favorite part," he continues, determined to finish his thought, "was watching how the people around us looked at you."
"At me?" Hank wants to say, but he only raises his eyebrow skeptically as he chews.
"I can scan the vitals of

people in my immediate vicinity, Hank, and I can guarantee that many of the signs of arousal I noticed from the people around us were a direct response to seeing you." He feeds Hank another bite of cake, and rests one hand on his chest, fingers brushing against the upper curve

of his gut. "I saw how they looked at you. Everyone could see what I see." He pulls Hank's hand away and kisses his palm before pressing it to the back of the couch next to Hank's head.
"What's that?" Hank asks. He knows, even though he doesn't always understand, but he does like

to hear it sometimes. And he knows Connor loves to tell him.
The plug, nearly forgotten, vibrates back to life within him, and he grunts in surprise and pleasure, rocking his hips up against Connor. He's pinned between Connor's solid weight above him and the thick, pulsing plug

inside him, and it's fucking perfect.
"Everyone in that restaurant," Connor murmurs, "saw how handsome you are." He rubs his hands down Hank's sides, teases at the tightest buttons low on his shirt, slides one hand up to rub against his nipple. "How big you are."
"How proud I am

to to take you out and spoil you. I'm sure they all wanted to take you home, climb on your lap and feed you something nice and take care of you." He picks up a small bite with his fingers, and Hank sucks them clean as he eats it. "But no one else gets to do this. Just me."

"Only you," Hank sighs. He grabs Connor's hips and ruts up against him. "Please," he moans into Connor's shoulder. "You wanted me desperate, baby, I'm desperate."
"I know. Just how I want you."