Connor Walsh doesn't tell people this, but his penis really is magic.
It doesn't work the way most of the other grade-grubbing, boot-licking, doe-eyed asshole law students Connor works with on a daily basis think it does, but Connor can stop time when he orgasms, so if that isn't some kind of magic voodoo shit, he doesn't know what is.
And then there's this guy.
Okay, back up a second here.
Yes, Connor's been able to do this since he very first time. That happened on a quiet October evening after school while he tried jerking off to pictures his older sister's boyfriend. (They may hate each other now, but he's never been able to fault her taste in men.)
He'd like to say that he was super cool about it, that he'd known exactly what he was doing. Really, Connor just tucked himself away in his bedroom and looked the guy up on the high school's website (Everett Jacobs, star of the swim team and who was more than willing to pose for team photos while wearing an extremely tiny speedo). He was sitting at his desk, laptop open in front of him and blasting music to cover his noises. He palmed himself through his pajamas pants and thought about the lines of Everett's abs, the cut of hips, the curve of his lips.
It didn't take much to get him hard. It took even less for him to come in his boxers.
He closed his eyes as he shuddered his way through it, and when he opened them again, something was different. The world had become fuzzy, hazy, bright with splashes of new color, reds and blues and greens. He had expected it to feel amazing from the way the other boys would whisper about it, and it did, but this was way beyond anything he had expect.
Also, his dick was glowing. That was definitely not okay. (See? Literally magic. Asher would have a conniption if he ever found out about it.)
It took him a little longer to figure out that time itself had broken.
His laptop had frozen on the image on the image of Everett Jacobs and wouldn't budge even when Connor messed with trackpad and keyboard. The seconds hand of the clock on his wall had stopped. But those were easy to explain away with reasonable explanations. A crash in his operating system, a couple of dead batteries.
He didn't figure out the true extent of things until he creeped out of his room to find new batteries. His mother was halfway up the stairs, mouth open to yell at them to go to sleep. Her eyes were open and unmoving. Her arms were frozen mid-swing.
It was more Twilight Zone shit than Connor wanted to deal with, and yeah, he was freaked out like the thirteen year old he was, so he changed out of his dirty boxers and went to bed pretending like it hadn't happened.
And in the morning, it was like like nothing had ever happened. His laptop and his clock were working. His dick was definitely not glowing. His mom was downstairs cooking some breakfast and getting into an argument with his sister about properly studying for her SATs.
Connor sat down at the breakfast table and didn't say anything about it to anyone. It seemed safer that way.
Well, it kept happening. Connor wasn't ever that systematic about keeping track of how everything worked, but it was pretty simple, really. He orgasmed, time froze, and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted until he could get it up again.
He was a teenage boy, so he ended up watching as much porn as he could get away with, and he ended up scouring the internet for information about how gay sex was supposed to work. It turned out that by pretty much everyone's standards, gay and straight alike, he was kind of a freak.
It didn't really matter, though. Connor really liked it, this part of himself that made him different, that made him powerful. He sometimes jerked off just so he could get away with things. Sneaking out of the house in ways that his parents couldn't notice, breaking into his sister's bedroom and leaving gross things on his sister's bed to freak her out, getting out of classes that were boring him silly.
He lost his virginity to a boy named Max in their middle school bathroom. To be fair, Max lost his virginity to Connor there, too. Max was the kind of kid who had been flaming since he was seven, and everyone kind of expected that he'd grow up to like dick. Connor liked that he was a safe bet.
Connor didn't exactly have game back then, but Max wasn't that difficult to convince. They snuck into the bathrooms during third period study hall, and Max kissed Connor first, sloppy and off-center. It was good enough that Connor went through with his plan of sticking his hand down Max's pants.
Max came almost as soon as Connor touched his cock. He slumped there, panting against the metal wall of their stall. Normal and boring. When Connor himself came, with his teeth digging into Max's shoulder and his dick pressed against Max's thigh through their pants, it was barely any different from all the times he came by himself. Max was frozen in place. His eyes were closed. His head was tilted back. His mouth was half-open. He wasn't really there.
Connor was alone in his weird in-between Twilight Zone place, where Max couldn't follow him.
By the time Connor was in high school, he had figured out how to have fun with it.
His parents wanted to guarantee Connor a place in the Ivies, so they shipped him off to the most prestigious all-boys boarding school they could find. Connor made the most of his newfound opportunities by fucking his way through every closeted 'straight' guy who was half willing to follow him into bed. It was a rush, to be able to see their gasping, sweaty faces, caught in a single moment. Connor would take pictures of them like that, for his own amusement and also as a contingency plan in case he was ever found out. Blackmail is such a crude tool, but it seemed like a waste to not take advantage of the opportunity when it presented itself. He's sure he's going to make a killing on those photos one day. He's half-tempted to send Michaela the one he has of Aiden, but that's a little too cruel, even for him.
He waited for one of the guys to say something to him about it, for the rumors to circle through the incredibly speedy mill, but they didn't seem to notice anything odd had happened. And besides, for most of them talking about it with anyone else would mean admitting that they'd had Connor's dick up their ass or Connor's mouth on their dicks, and apparently, most of them didn't do that. Their loss.
At Stanford, Connor would freeze time in order to get some reading and studying in after he was done screwing his latest conquest. In the hazy in-between time, he'd crack open his textbooks, cram as much as he could, and then hop back onto the bed as soon as he was ready for round two.
His entire social circle was convinced that he was paying someone else to write his papers for him while he was getting laid every other night. Connor would just smirk at them and say that a gentleman never gives away his secrets.
But really, fuck them, because he graduated with an acceptance letter from Middleton Law, and most of them didn't.
And then there's Oliver, who's quiet and awkward and pretty much the dweebiest guy Connor has ever hooked up with. He sometimes rambles on about computer shit that Connor doesn't care about. His smile always looks shy, as if he's not even sure if it's allowed on his face. He can't see more than three feet in front of him without his glasses. He lets Connor in whenever Connor knocks on his door, even when he's pissed at Connor for one reason or another.
And there's Oliver, who is the only person Connor has ever met who can freeze time when he orgasms, too.
Yeah, Connor's dick is magic, but apparently his is not the only one.
At first, Connor does just want to get Oliver to give him the e-mails. He's cute enough in his frumpy business suit and glasses, and he knows all sorts of stuff about passwords and firewalls and things Connor has no clue about. He's easy enough to seduce once Connor sets his sights on him. It mostly takes some smiling, some staring, a tilt of his head. Oliver caves so quickly it makes Connor's head spin, but there's something about him, a spark in his smile, the way he ducks his head, that makes Connor want to find out what he's like in bed.
Oliver takes him home, lets Connor pull his shirt off, and moans loudly when Connor rims his ass. There's not much different about Oliver from all the other guys Connor's fucked before. He's eager, he's intense, and he's surprisingly toned underneath his clothes, but Connor's seen all of it before. It follows the M.O. of most of Connor's hookups, like reading lines off of a script. Connor can fuck him, get copies of the e-mails, and take off with a lie about calling him later.
After Connor comes, it's usually a chance for him to relax for a bit, enjoy the moment before he has to put his bitchface back on. He has his hands on Oliver's hips, his lips pressed against Oliver's back. Oliver smells like sweat and sex and man, like every good thing in the world, and Connor almost wants to stay, but he pulls out, discards the condom. In the hazy in-between place, Connor stretches his arms and his back, willing to enjoy the swirls color it for a bit before time starts up again.
Oliver shifts beneath him. "Fuck," he says, "that was good." He flips over, flopping over onto his back. His smile is brighter, unrestrained, spreading across the bottom half of his face.
"Oh shit," Connor says. "Your dick is glowing, too."
It's not really his best moment.
Oliver puts his head in his hands and mumbles when Connor asks for his story. "Not much to say," he says, knees pulled to his chest, like he can hide the fact that he's shirtless. "It's always been like this."
The apartment is silent. That's the thing that Connor's always liked about it (and what always made it awesome for studying). The sink doesn't drip, the neighbors upstairs aren't blasting
their television too loudly, the radiators don't hiss and pop. "Come on," Connor says. "It's awesome."
Oliver shrugs his shoulders. "It was like, I always thought I'd be alone, right? People always said that sex was supposed to be about connecting with someone else, but it was always weird when I'd come, and they'd..." He makes a vague gesture with one of his hands. Connor knows what he means.
"And now?" Connor asks. He raises an eyebrow.
Oliver smiles, sweet and shy all over again, and Connor has to be careful. He might fall out of the in-between state if thinks too much about jumping Oliver's bones again. Oliver says, "I like the idea that I can share it with someone else now."
"Yeah?" Connor says.
"Yeah," Oliver says.
Connor leans over and kisses him, pressing in hard enough that their teeth click together. That drops them back into regular time, but Connor barely even notices. He has better things to focus on right now.
So they keep having sex. A lot of sex. Connor brings the takeout. Oliver provides the table and helps out with the orgasms. Those aren't necessarily mutually exclusive, either.
Connor's not one for seconds or thirds with the same guy, really, but it's so novel, someone Connor can't just ditch for the fun of it, who can match Connor step-for-step, and it turns out Connor doesn't want to ditch him all that much anyway.
"Admit it," Connor says, licking his lips. "All this illegal breaking and entering, and you don't even have to put on pants. I bet it gets you hot."
Oliver snorts. His glasses as sliding down his nose as he types into the computer in front of him. "You can say that all you want, but I'm pretty sure you're projecting there. Besides, this is perfectly legal. She gave us her credentials."
Connor just finds himself grinning. He likes it when Oliver talks nerdy, even if he can't understand half of it. "You ever write code with a hard on?"
Oliver doesn't respond. He's frowning at something on screen. "Hmm?" he says, distracted. Sometimes when Oliver's doing work, he gets so engrossed in it, Connor wonders whether or not he's accidentally come without noticing it or something, leaving Oliver and everything else frozen. But then Oliver will start humming or nod his head or tap his fingers, and Connor will know he's in there somewhere. They've tested it out a bit, and they need to come at close to the same time in order for them to both end up in the in-between world. Otherwise, only one of them will freeze, and then it's just sort of weird. It's been making Connor a lot more generous with his orgasms, lately.
If it were any other guy, Connor would try to distract him with sex right about now, but Annalise really wants to a complete dump of anything in this client's social media accounts that mentions her ex-boyfriend by tomorrow, and Connor wants to make sure he's still in the running for the trophy. It sucks that computers don't work when time is frozen. Connor has to take all of his notes by hand or else they're useless to him.
"Yes!" Oliver says, pumping his fist in the air. "That should be everything. The Facebook API is terrible, but it was easy enough to pull down everything and then filter the data locally, and Twitter was..." He's grinning, ear to ear, and it's fucking adorable, and okay, that should be enough to feed to the wolves tomorrow morning.
"Okay," Connor says. "You're right." He reaches out to tug down the waistband of Oliver's boxer briefs. "I think all this hacker shit is really doing it for me. "
The problem with sleeping with a guy more than a couple of times in a row is that everyone all of a sudden feels the need to have an opinion on it.
"You missed a call," Wes says when Connor plops back into his seat in Professor Keating's little slave labor circle after a rough dressing down with Bonnie. "I think it was your boyfriend."
"For the millionth time, we're not boyfriends," Connor says, because they definitely aren't. The point of being gay is that you don't have to do all of this dating bullshit. You can fuck and then get out and it doesn't have to be messy and emotional.
"Sorry," Wes says with a huge-eyed innocence that Connor is sure he's faking, "your not-boyfriend." Laurel raises her eyebrows. Michaela titters. Asher makes an even douchier face than usual.
Connor is usually one to brag, but now he almost wishes he kept his big mouth shut.
Even though there's a lot they could do with it, he and Oliver don't do much in the frozen in-between time besides talk. It's not relationship bullshit about how much they love each other or what kind of tea doilies they're going to have at their wedding. Other stuff, like work or school bullshit or that one annoying asshole that they can't stand to be around (Michaela for Connor, some guy named Rick for Oliver) or what movies they loved as a kid (Oliver liked Disney, Connor was more into Power Rangers because the Green Ranger was hot) or the worst things they've done while time is frozen (Oliver used it to help his nerd frat pull off a tricky prank that involved breaking into a university building after hours, Connor once framed his arch-nemesis in boarding school for vandalism of school property).
When time is frozen, Connor can say whatever the fuck he wants, he can be be whoever the fuck he wants to be, and it doesn't fucking matter. That's always been true before, and it isn't any less true now that Oliver is with him. Oliver doesn't mention the stuff they talk about when they're functioning in normal time, but he's listening. He asks questions. He nods in the right places. He laughs at Connor's jokes. The ability to freeze time has always meant power to Connor, but now he's coming around to thinking of it as freedom, too.
Connor's not really someone who does friends anymore than he's someone who does boyfriends. He does people he fucks and people he uses because they can give him things and people he's socially obligated to spend time with. Oliver is convenient in that he can function as two out of the three, and talking to him is more interesting than not, and Connor likes the way he babbles like a lunatic when he's nervous.
"I get it," Oliver mumbles, turning on on the bed. "It's not that sort of relationship." He yawns, mouth gaping open before snapping shut again.
Connor says, "Why do we even need to define it? Sex is fun. And this is fun. And there's nothing wrong with having fun." They must look ridiculous like this, lying next to each other with their matching glowing penises. Connor's is bigger, not that he holds that against Oliver or anything. They haven't shared sexual histories yet -- Oliver hasn't asked, and Connor doesn't care -- but Connor is pretty sure he's the biggest Oliver has ever been with. He could tell from the way Oliver cursed and twisted his fingers into the sheets the first time Connor fucked him.
Oliver huffs out a breath. "I can tell you're going to be a lawyer someday."
You know that saying, about how when you have a hammer, every problem starts to look like a nail?
Paxton is pretty. Paxton pings Connor's gaydar hard. Paxton is also hiding something, and if there's anything Connor's learned, sex does wonders for loosening people's tongues.
Paxton likes it on the dirty copy room floors with a dick up his ass and a hand on his cock. Connor makes sure to come while Paxton is still sprawled out on the floor, boneless and relaxed. He's extremely pretty while frozen in time, his eyes half-lidded and smokey and unable to notice that Connor is rigging up a second cell phone to record any conversations he has. (Cell phones are one of the weird exceptions to the 'technology doesn't work in when time has stopped' rule. Connor doesn't get that one either.)
When time picks up again, Paxton smiles at him with a bit of an edge to his grin. Connor makes sure to smile back.
And then Paxton is just body, carted off by an ambulance from where he splattered himself against the pavement.
And then Connor's fucked up for a bit.
And then Oliver puts two and two together
And then Connor gets tossed out on his ass in his underwear.
That's not his finest moment, either.
Connor tries to apologize over Facebook. It's more than a little pathetic, but Oliver refuses to answer his calls, and Connor can't figure out how to get everything into a text.
Look, I realize that we had a bit of a miscommunication, but we didn't say were exclusive, and I thought it would be helpful for the case. You know what Professor Keating can get like. Can I come by sometime and just talk to you?
Oliver's reply is short and mostly non-explanatory.
Don't bother. It wasn't going to work out in the long run anyway.
Connor spends the entirety of his constitutional law class staring at it, wondering what the fuck that's supposed to mean.
Julian reminds Connor of the douchebags he knew in boarding school, smug assholes who could get by on their family names alone and knew it, too.
That's part of why Connor fucks him again. He liked the high he got when he fucked guys like Julian as a teenager, making them want him and using it against them. No drug could have been sweeter than that.
In the bathroom, it's fast, and it's hard, and it's unsatisfying. Connor leaves Julian like that, with his pants down, his expression caught in an ugly-looking O-face, and okay, maybe he does still enjoy that much of it. He's almost tempted to pull out his phone and take a picture of it, just for old time's sake.
But it's a fleeting feeling, insubstantial, gone before Connor can even revel in it. If it were Oliver, Connor could use the extra time to wheedle some embarrassing childhood story out of him about visiting his cousins in the Philippines, and that would be--
-- and that would be Connor realizing how truly fucked he is.
And then there's this other guy holding a spatula in Oliver's doorway while Oliver is in the shower, who probably has a perfectly ordinary penis, and who is almost definitely less of a shithead than Connor.
And then he's outside Oliver's apartment after he just helped his classmates cover up the murder of his professor's husband. All in a night's work, really. He's cold and sweaty, and his clothes are covered in dirt and ash, and he's so pathetic he has nowhere else to go.
He bangs on the door, half-expecting the new guy to answer it, but it's just Oliver in a t-shirt and his pajama pants, squinting without his glasses. "What are you doing here?" Oliver asks.
Connor just laughs, wiping at his nose, and it's funny, right? This whole thing is funny, and Oliver will laugh at the joke when he hears it. Oliver laughs at most of Connor's jokes. Connor knows he's losing it, that he's pacing the hallway, unable to stand still, that he keeps running a hand through his hair.
"I screwed up, Oliver," he says. He leans against something to keep himself upright. There's something at his back, a wall, maybe? His legs give out, and he slides down it. "I screwed up so bad." He can't breathe, but he can't stop saying it. "I screwed up."
He must lose a few minutes or seconds or something because suddenly he's on Oliver's couch with his head between his knees and Oliver's hand on his back. Connor's always hated this couch, too. It was always too tall for Oliver to fuck him over the back of it comfortably.
"Good," Oliver says. "Keep breathing. I'll get you some water or something." He leaves a cold spot against Connor's side that Connor instantly misses. God, when did he become so fucking needy?
Connor nods. His eyes are itchy, and they're watering at the edges, and he can't tell if he's crying or if he's just so messed up that his eyes and nose are running nonstop.
Oliver presses a cool glass into Connor's hands, but Connor is shaking too hard to hold onto it. Oliver takes it back and tips it against Connor's lips. Connor tilts his head back, letting the water run into his mouth, down his throat.
That settles things a little bit. He can focus on things again, and Oliver is sitting next to him, watching him with sleepy eyes. Connor tries to smile, but it keeps slipping, like a mask with shitty elastic bands. "Hey," he says.
Oliver's expression doesn't budge. "Why are you here, Connor?"
"I have no fucking idea," Connor says. That's the second funniest thing Connor's thought about all day, all week even, and he starts to giggle.
Oliver shakes his head. "Connor…"
A sob escapes from Connor's throat. He grabs a fistful of Oliver's t-shirt. "Make it stop," he says. He wants to drop into the in-between place, because his world is so fucking dark right now. He wants the time to think. He can't get himself off right now because his head is fucked up and spinning, but Oliver is right here, and Oliver can help him with this. Oliver can be right there with him.
Oliver's head is furrowing in confusion, and no, Connor can explain this to him. He can get Oliver to agree to this.
He leans in for a kiss, but Oliver yanks back, and Connor can't reach his lips. "What are you--" Oliver starts.
"Please," Connor says. He tries to do the smoldering thing with his eyes that usually gets Oliver to take off all his clothes, but he's sure he's entirely off his game right now. Maybe Oliver will be down for a pity fuck.
"I'm not going to sleep with you, Connor," Oliver says. He doesn't even stutter in the slightest when he says that. It's not working.
"It's not-- it's not like you'll be taking advantage of me if that's what you're worried about. It doesn't have to mean anything," Connor says. He climbs into Oliver's lap before Oliver can pull too far away or stand back. He presses his forehead against Oliver's. He rests his hands on the back of Oliver's neck. Oliver smells the way he always does in the mornings, like mediocre coffee and pajamas that have been slept in a few too many times. And after last night, now that Connor's life is crumbling around his ears, it's perfect. It's everything that he's ever wanted.
From there, he can hold Oliver's head still so he can kiss Oliver again, no finesse, all wet saliva and sharp teeth, and the taste of Oliver's lips underneath Connor's tongue. With anyone else, it would be embarrassing: Connor Walsh is fucking up kissing, someone call in the police. Ha, the police. But Oliver won't judge. Oliver's too nice for that.
But there are two hands against his shoulders pushing him back. As desperate as Connor is right now, his adrenaline is burning off, and it's leaving him without the ability to put up a fight.
"We're really, really not going to have sex right now," Oliver says. His eyes flick over Connor's face, and something must show there, because his expression softens. Fuck, Connor must look as terrible as he feels. "Come on. I think you need some sleep." He stands up and walks towards the bedroom.
Connor stumbles after him, because it might be possible to get Oliver to give in when there's a bed involved. But the mattress is so soft, and the covers are so warm, and Connor falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.
When Connor wakes up again, it's dark. The clock on the side of the bed says that it's ten minutes past seven.
Oliver is typing away at his computer in the other room. tap-tap-tap Connor wonders if Oliver's new man knows that Connor is sleeping in Oliver's bed again. He entertains an idle fantasy of the guy showing up at Oliver's door with a bag full of groceries, ready for a quiet Saturday night in, only to find that Connor's already here, disheveled and sweaty and with his tongue down Oliver's throat. (It's a fantasy, okay? He can embellish if he wants to.)
He shifts on the bed, and Oliver looks up. "You're awake," he says.
"Yeah," Connor manages to croak out. Despite the water Oliver gave him earlier, his throat is dry.
"Knowing you and your boss, I'm betting that I'm better off not knowing what happened," Oliver says. He's at the doorway to the bedroom now, the light from the living room pouring in behind him. Connor can't see his expression.
"Yeah, you're probably right," Connor says. His whole body aches, even his face. Who knew he had so many muscles in his face? He would get up, but it's so much more comfortable like this. He's always liked Oliver's bed. And the things he got to do on Oliver's bed.
"This doesn't mean I've forgiven you," Oliver continues.
Connor's getting a headache. Maybe it's from all the smoke inhalation. He knew waking up was a mistake. "Thanks anyway," he mumbles.
Oliver sighs. It disturbingly reminds Connor of the sigh his father would give him when Connor would get in trouble at school. "I'll get you more water," Oliver says.
He vanishes into the kitchen. Connor figures out how to pull himself into an upright position. It hurts. A lot.
And then there's another glass of water in his face. He takes it. His hands are much steadier this time around, and it doesn't spill. This water is quite possibly the best thing Connor has ever tasted.
Oliver is wearing his glasses again. Connor thinks about taking them off. Connor thinks about licking the line of Oliver's neck, peeling the t-shirt off his body, tugging down the waistband of his pants, and giving him an amazing blow job.
"How long?" Oliver asks.
Connor frowns. It's not like Oliver to be cryptic. Obtuse, maybe, but not cryptic. "How long what?"
"How long until you can leave."
Connor's blood runs cold at the tone of Oliver's voice, but it doesn't matter, does it? He fucked things up, and now he gets to re-enact his forcible ejection from Oliver's apartment again just for the fun of it. He turns to read the clock. It now reads 7:24. "Give me another ten minutes," he says, putting on his best fake smile, "and then I'll be out of your hair."
He drags his body out of bed and manages to stand up. Oliver didn't bother undressing him for bed, so he's still in the dirty, rumpled clothes he showed up in. They still smell like smoke. It makes Connor want to retch, his stomach turning at the memory.
He checks his phone. There are a dozen messages there. Some are from his mom, who is angry that he hasn't called her yet this week. Some are from this guy Connor hooked up with in his contracts class and who somehow still hasn't figured out how to take a hint after two weeks.
One is from Wes. run, is all it says. It was sent twenty minutes ago.
Connor hands start shaking again. He nearly drops the phone. He needs to sit down. The bed is too soft, but it's stable enough to keep him from falling over.
"Connor?" Oliver is asking that. Oliver can help. Oliver might be the only person in the whole fucking world who can help.
"Please," Connor says. His voice is a mess. "I swear this isn't a fucked up attempt to get you back or anything, but I need you to help make it stop. Right now."
Oliver kneels down next to him. Oliver is right there, his eyes calm, studying. Connor knows his own desperation is written all over his face. Oliver takes one look at the phone in Connor's hands before he takes it away, shaking his head in the process. "Fine," he says.
He pulls Connor into a fierce, messy kiss, and Connor goes along with it, lets Oliver rearrange them so that Connor is on his back. Oliver is over him right now, arms framing Connor's face. Connor usually hates this position. It makes him feel stifled, trapped, but right now, he just feels safe.
Oliver isn't playing nice tonight. His hands are rough when they pin Connor's wrists to the bed, when they yank open the buckle of Connor's belt, when they undo the fly of Connor's pants. Oliver is usually a full-nudity kind of guy, even when he's already late for work, but this isn't-- this isn't like those other times.
Oliver's teeth dig into Connor's bottom lip, and it sparks a familiar heat through Connor's body, making him arch up and gasp. He'd forgotten, in the panic and fear of last night, how simple and uncomplicated and how good sex can be.
It shouldn't surprise Connor that Oliver knows how to touch him, that Oliver's hand on his cock is tight, that Oliver's cock is hard as it rubs against Connor's thigh. It's perfect, and it's not enough. Connor grabs hold of Oliver's shoulders, digs his fingers into the soft cotton of Oliver's t-shirt. "More," he says. "Please."
They manage to get Oliver's pajama bottoms and boxers down over his hips, letting his hard cock spring free. Connor's mouth waters at the sight of it, but they don't have the time for that.
Oliver lines them up, their cocks rubbing together, heat and friction and bodies moving together, Connor could cry from how good it feels. Oliver makes a soft noise against Connor's neck and thrusts his hips down.
"Close," Connor gasps out. He can feel the arousal winding up, tightening and tightening, almost on the edge.
A knock on the apartment door interrupts them. "Oliver Hampton?" a voice shouts through it.
That almost kills the mood right there. Oliver stills, but Connor can't-- it's not going to end like this. "Come on," he says. He bites down on the lobe of Oliver's ear, the way Oliver likes it, and grabs hold of Oliver's skinny ass to pull him closer.
"Okay," Oliver says, huffing out breath. "Okay." He presses a kiss to Connor's neck.
They're almost there. Oliver is making those short, rough moans the way he does when he's close, and Connor knows that he himself doesn't need much more than this. He arches up so he can get access more skin, so that he can get closer.
The knocking gets louder. "This is the police. You're not in trouble. We just have some questions for you."
"Please," Connor says.
Oliver pulls back, looks him straight in his eyes, and digs his fingers into Connor's hips, hard enough to leave bruises. There's something in his expression, something tender and gentle and kind. It rips Connor open.
Connor tosses his head back and moans as he comes. He can hear Oliver gasping into his ear as he follows.
And then it's just the two of them, alone in the in-between place. It's quiet. The knocking has stopped. All that's left is their heavy, post-sex breathing. The world is bright with color again, hazy and strange. Connor's jizz, miraculously enough, is still floating in the air.
Connor starts to laugh. He knows it's a terrible laugh, something manic and horrible, but he can't stop laughing. He hasn't been able to stop laughing for days. Him and his fucking magic penis.
Oliver pulls his pajama pants up over his hips and straightens out the shoulders of his t-shirt. He looks almost exactly the way he did when he opened the door this morning. "Are you going to be okay?" Oliver asks.
Connor's not sure how to answer that. He's got a few hours at least, maybe longer, to get out and get lost. Cars don't work with time stopped, so he's going to have to do all of this the hard way. He might be able to steal one of the bikes in the bike rack outside Oliver's building. It could get him as far as the train station in almost no time at all.
He does his own pants back up, tightening the buckle of his belt. He looks like a mess, but that's fine. The only one who can see him like this right now is Oliver.
Connor says, "You could--" He swallows. "You could come with me." It's probably not love, not in the way anyone else talks about it. But this, whatever it is, isn't something Connor's ever had before. He wasn't ready to lose it a month ago. He's not ready to lose it now.
Oliver sighs. "Connor--"
"You don't even like your job that much," Connor says. "Remember how much you enjoy breaking into people's computers? It could be like that all the time."
Oliver barks out his own ugly laugh. "You're not going to be able to argue your way out of this one," he says. He steps in closer.
Connor can feel the way his heart rate kicks up, not enough to get him in trouble, but enough to make him feel like his chest his caving in, just a little.
Oliver leans over and kisses him, not much pressure, close-mouthed and soft. They've only really ever kissed as part of sex before, either as a prelude to sex or during it. This is different, and this is new, and Connor realizes that this is the last thing he'll ever have from Oliver. This is all that Oliver is willing to give.
When Oliver pulls back, he smiles. This smile is the small one that tilts up the left side of his mouth. He only wears it when he's uncertain about something. Oliver says, "There's a lot of people out there. I'm sure you'll find someone else who can do this. I hope he makes you happy." He nods towards the door. "You better get going."
Connor pulls on his shoes. They're still caked with mud and crushed leaves. "I'm sorry," he says, meaning it this time, really meaning it, "for everything."
Connor opens the door. Right outside, there are two officers standing there, one man and one woman, intently watching the door. The man's arm is outstretched, mid-knock. Connor doesn't panic at the sight of them. He can handle this. He ducks beneath the arm and disappears down the stairs.
Outside, it's cold, icy and silent. He sees cars frozen on the street, a dog being walked with its rear leg lifted up standing next to a tree, a couple with their heads bent together with ugly matching beanies.
He turns back one last time and tries to pick out Oliver's window in the array of windows that line his building. He thinks he sees a flicker of movement in one of the third-floor apartments, but he can't be sure.
It's enough. He takes a deep breath.
And then he leaves.