( he's drunk. that much is obvious even if you've never been tipsy a day in your life - his breath smells like whiskey and his clothes are all rumpled, and now they're wet, and. he's looking like a royal mess. cheeks red flushed under the duress of alcohol, lips tingly and rubbed raw from where his tongue has licked over them, a hundred times over. drunk is a good state of mind for hank to be in - it numbs the senses, dulls the pain, makes bad choices seem a lot better than they otherwise might've.
on the one hand, russian roulette.
on the other hand, connor.
his hand reaches out, latches on his tie. he doesn't remember when connor got here, but he knows it's necessary now for him to stay, for one reason of the other. fuck you and get out of my house is easy, but he's got a lying drunkard's tongue, and he's telling him to leave even as he's pulling him in, demanding that he stay. duality in it dictates one of a thousand things. you can burn up in a crisp, or you can drown together - a choice, it seems, hank has already made up. to his own credit.
he pauses, watches, listens. i don't know is not something he's used to connor saying, but there's an odd sense of relief in that. hank doesn't know either, what to do or where he's going with this. and yet ... )
Good. ( he says after a second, arching himself up in the bathtub while he tugs connor down by the necktie, foreheads almost touching. ) I do. Stop thinking.
( rich, coming from him. he doesn't hesitate - their lips come together like flame feeding flame, and it's not a soft kiss, measured or kind or thoughtful. it's hungry, imploring, tasting like whiskey and smoke and a whole fuckton of self-loathing hank will be able to swallow down in an hour so. not right now. for now, he's indulgent, selfish even, sucking the artificial lips of an android he should, by all weights of logic, absolutely hate. )
no subject
on the one hand, russian roulette.
on the other hand, connor.
his hand reaches out, latches on his tie. he doesn't remember when connor got here, but he knows it's necessary now for him to stay, for one reason of the other. fuck you and get out of my house is easy, but he's got a lying drunkard's tongue, and he's telling him to leave even as he's pulling him in, demanding that he stay. duality in it dictates one of a thousand things. you can burn up in a crisp, or you can drown together - a choice, it seems, hank has already made up. to his own credit.
he pauses, watches, listens. i don't know is not something he's used to connor saying, but there's an odd sense of relief in that. hank doesn't know either, what to do or where he's going with this. and yet ... )
Good. ( he says after a second, arching himself up in the bathtub while he tugs connor down by the necktie, foreheads almost touching. ) I do. Stop thinking.
( rich, coming from him. he doesn't hesitate - their lips come together like flame feeding flame, and it's not a soft kiss, measured or kind or thoughtful. it's hungry, imploring, tasting like whiskey and smoke and a whole fuckton of self-loathing hank will be able to swallow down in an hour so. not right now. for now, he's indulgent, selfish even, sucking the artificial lips of an android he should, by all weights of logic, absolutely hate. )