Chapter 2: Daddy's Rules
The word hung in the air between them like smoke—heavy, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.
Connor's breath came in shallow gasps, his chest rising and falling with a rapidity that made Hank's own lungs ache in sympathy. The streetlight outside painted stripes of amber and shadow across his body, illuminating the sharp geography of his bones in a way that was both beautiful and devastating. Every rib. Every vertebra. Every hollow where flesh should have been but wasn't.
Hank wanted to look away. He couldn't.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "And you're killing yourself. Both of those things are true right now, and I don't know how to hold them at the same time."
Connor's eyes glistened in the darkness. "Then don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't hold them at the same time. Just hold me."
Hank's chest tightened. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to Connor's, breathing him in—cigarettes and stale air and something underneath that was just Connor, just the boy he'd somehow fallen in love with despite every reason not to.
"You're gonna eat tomorrow," Hank said. It wasn't a question.
"Don't—"
"That's not a request." Hank pulled back, just enough to look him in the eye. "If you want this—if you want me—then you're gonna eat. You're gonna drink water. You're gonna stop trying to disappear on me."
Connor's jaw tightened. That stubborn set of his mouth, the one that drove Hank insane, the one that made him want to shake him and kiss him in equal measure.
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll tie you to this bed and feed you myself." Hank's voice dropped, rough and low. "You think I won't?"
A shiver ran through Connor's body—Hank felt it, felt the tremor pass from Connor's skin to his own. The boy's pupils dilated, dark and hungry, and something shifted in the air between them.
"You'd do that?"
"Try me."
Connor licked his lips. A nervous gesture, unconscious. "Maybe I want you to."
Hank's cock twitched, already half-hard from the closeness, from the heat of Connor's body beneath him, from the way the boy looked at him like he was the only fixed point in a spinning world.
"You want Daddy to take care of you?" Hank asked, and the words felt strange in his mouth—new, unfamiliar, but right somehow. "You want me to make sure you're okay?"
"Yes." The word came out breathless, desperate. "Please."
"Then I need to look at you first." Hank sat back on his heels, straddling Connor's hips. "All of you. I need to see what we're working with."
Connor tensed beneath him, every muscle going rigid. "Hank—"
"Shirt off."
"I—"
"Shirt. Off."
Slowly, haltingly, Connor reached for the hem of his t-shirt. His fingers trembled as they gripped the fabric, and Hank watched his throat work, watched him swallow down whatever protest was building there. The shirt came up, revealing the pale expanse of his stomach—the sunken hollow where his navel rested, the sharp ridges of his ribcage, the way his collarbones jutted like handles on a jug.
He pulled it over his head and dropped it onto the floor.
Hank's breath caught. He'd seen Connor shirtless before—in the bathroom, changing in the morning, the brief glimpses that came with living together. But never like this. Never laid out beneath him, exposed and vulnerable, every flaw and bone and secret on display.
"Christ," he whispered.
"Don't say it." Connor's voice was thin, tight. "Whatever you're about to say, don't."
"I was going to say you're beautiful."
"Bullshit."
"Truth." Hank reached out, ran his fingers down the center of Connor's chest—sternum, ribs, the soft hollow of his stomach. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and that terrifies me because every day you look a little less like yourself."
Connor's eyes were wet, but he didn't blink. Didn't look away. "I can't stop."
"I know."
"I've tried. I've tried so many times, Hank. I just—" His voice broke. "I don't know how."
Hank leaned down and kissed him. Soft this time.Gentle. A promise more than a demand.
"Then we'll figure it out," he murmured against Connor's lips. "Together. Like I said."
Connor made a sound—half sob, half laugh—and his hands came up to grip Hank's shoulders, pulling him closer, pulling him down until their bodies pressed together. Hank's weight settled over him, and Connor gasped at the contact—the heat, the pressure, the feeling of being covered, held, protected.
"You're so warm," Connor whispered.
"You're so cold." Hank nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in. "You're always so fucking cold."
"I'm always cold. It's a thing."
"It's a symptom. Your body's eating itself because you won't feed it."
Connor flinched. "Can we not do this right now?"
"Right." Hank pulled back, looking down at him. "Right. Sorry."
The air between them shifted, charged with something unspoken. Connor's hands slid from Hank's shoulders to his chest, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his flannel. Hank let him—watched him work, watched the concentration on his face, the way his tongue peeked out from between his lips as he focused.
"You're cute when you're trying to get me naked," Hank said.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
Connor's eyes flashed up to meet his, and there was something there—a spark, a challenge. The first glimpse of the fire that Hank knew still burned somewhere inside all that ash.
"Maybe I will."
Hank groaned, low in his throat, and surged forward to kiss him again. Harder this time, dirtier, all teeth and tongue and the wet sounds of two mouths finally giving in to what they'd both been holding back. Connor's hands found his belt, worked the buckle, pulled the leather through the loops with a rasp that made Hank's cock jump.
"You want this?" Hank asked, breathless against Connor's mouth.
"Yes."
"You want Daddy to fuck you?"
The word hit Connor like a physical blow. He arched up, gasping, nails digging into Hank's shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"Say it again."
"You want Daddy's cock inside you?"
"Fuck—yes.Yes. Please."
Hank sat back, shucking off his flannel and undershirt in one fluid motion. Connor watched him, eyes dark and hungry, tracking every inch of skin that appeared. Hank wasn't a young man anymore—his body bore the evidence of too much whiskey and too many years of not caring—but Connor looked at him like he was something precious. Something wanted.
"Touch yourself," Hank commanded.
Connor blinked. "What?"
"Touch yourself. Show me how you get off when you're alone."
A flush spread across Connor's chest, pink and warm against the pale canvas of his skin. Hesitation flickered in his eyes, but then his hand moved—slowly, deliberately—down his stomach, past the waistband of his jeans, which were still unbuttoned and gaping open.
"That's it," Hank murmured. "That's my good boy."
Connor's breath hitched. His hand moved beneath the fabric, and Hank could see the shape of his knuckles through the denim, could imagine the thin fingers wrapping around his cock, already hard and leaking.
"You think about me when you do this?"Hank asked.
"Always."
"What do you think about?"
Connor's eyes fluttered closed. His hand moved faster. "Your hands. Your mouth. The way you—" He bit his lip, cutting himself off.
"Say it."
"The way you look at me." His voice was barely a whisper. "Like I'm something worth looking at."
Hank's chest ached. He reached down and pulled Connor's hand away, ignoring the whimper of protest.
"Not yet," he said. "You don't get to come until I tell you to."
"Please—"
"I said not yet." Hank's voice was firm, but his touch was gentle as he tugged Connor's jeans down his legs, taking his boxers with them. Connor's cock sprang free—hard, flushed, slick with precome—and Hank had to stop himself from leaning down and swallowing it whole.
"Fuck, you're pretty," he breathed.
"Shut up."
"Not a chance." Hank shifted down the bed, settling between Connor's legs. He could see everything now—every inch of skin, every sharp angle, every place where bone pressed against nothing. The inside of Connor's thighs was bruised, yellow and green in places, evidence of a body that had nothing to protect itself with.
"What happened here?" Hank asked, touching the discoloration.
"I bruise easily."
"Because there's nothing between your skin and your bones."
Connor looked away. "Hank—"
"I'm not mad." Hank pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh. "I'm just... I hate this. I hate what's happening to you."
"Then stop looking."
"No." Another kiss, higher. "I'm never gonna stop looking at you, Connor. Not ever."
He licked up the length of Connor's shaft, and Connor gasped, his whole body jerking like he'd been electrocuted.
"Holy fuck—"
"You like that?"
"Yes—fuck, yes—"
Hank took the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip. Salt and musk exploded across his taste buds, and he moaned around the shaft, the vibration making Connor cry out and buck his hips.
"Easy," Hank said, pulling off just long enough to speak. "I've got you."
He worked Connor with his mouth—slow and wet and sloppy—until the boy was writhing beneath him, fingers twisted in the sheets, breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"Please," Connor begged. "Please, Hank, I need—"
"What do you need?"
"You. Inside me. Please."
Hank pulled off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You sure?"
"Don't make me ask again."
"You're gonna have to ask again anyway." Hank reached over to the nightstand, fumbling in the drawer for the lube he kept there. His hands were shaking. He didn't know why. "Can't do this without it. You're too—"
"Too what?"
"Too tight. Too thin. Too everything." He found the bottle and flipped the cap. "You're gonna have to relax for me, okay?"
Connor nodded, but his body was tense—rigid, almost. Hank could see the fear in his eyes.
"Hey." He cupped Connor's face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. "I've got you. I'm not gonna hurt you."
"I know."
"Then breathe." Hank kissed him, soft and slow. "Breathe with me."
Connor inhaled. Exhaled. His body loosened, just a fraction, just enough.
"That's my good boy." Hank poured lube onto his fingers, warming it between his palm. "Now, I'm gonna work you open. You tell me if it's too much, okay?"
"Okay."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
Hank pressed the first finger against Connor's entrance, felt the resistance, the way Connor's body clenched against the intrusion. He waited—patient, steady—until Connor breathed out and the muscle gave way.
"That's it," Hank murmured. "That's it. Good boy."
Connor's head fell back against the pillow. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Just breath. Just air.
Hank pushed deeper, past the first knuckle, past the second. Connor's channel was hot and tight and so impossibly soft. Hank could feel his own cock throbbing, desperate for its turn, but he pushed the thought aside.
"You're doing so good," he said. "So fucking good."
"More."
"Greedy."
"Please."
Hank added a second finger, scissoring them gently, stretching the muscle. Connor winced—a sharp intake of breath, a tightening of his jaw—but he didn't tell him to stop.
"Okay?"
"Keep going."
A third finger. Now Connor's body was yielding, opening, making room. Hank moved his hand slowly, carefully, trying to memorize the feel of this—the heat, the tightness, the way every move made Connor's breathing hitch and his hips shift on the mattress. He crooked his fingers, searching, and found the spot that made Connor cry out—a sharp, broken sound that echoed off the walls.
"There it is," Hank said.
"Do that again."
"Greedy little thing." But Hank obliged, pressing against that spot again, rubbing in slow circles until Connor was sobbing into the pillow, hips rocking, desperate sounds tearing from his throat.
"Please," he gasped. "Please please please Hank I need—"
"What do you need?"
"You. I need you. I need—" His voice cracked. "I need you inside me. Please. Please Daddy—"
The word undid him. Hank pulled his fingers out, ignoring Connor's moan of protest, and slicked up his cock with a quick, efficient hand. He'd been hard for so long it ached. The head was red, leaking, desperate.
"Tell me again," he whispered. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you inside me." Connor's voice was raw, wrecked. "I want to feel you. I want—I want to belong to you. Please. Please make me yours."
"You already are mine." Hank positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against Connor's entrance. "You've been mine since the first day I saw you. Even if I didn't know it yet."
And then he pushed in.
Slow—agonizingly slow—one inch at a time, watching Connor's face for any sign of pain, any signal to stop. But Connor just breathed. Just opened. Just took him, inch by inch, until Hank was buried to the hilt and they were shaking together, trembling, two bodies trying to figure out where one ended and the other began.
"Full," Connor whispered. "I'm so full."
"You're so tight." Hank's voice was strained, wrecked. "Jesus Christ, Connor, you feel like heaven."
"Move. Please move."
Hank did.
The first thrust was shallow—a test, a question. Connor's answering moan was the only answer he needed. He pulled out and pushed back in, harder this time, and Connor arched beneath him, mouth falling open, eyes rolling back.
"Fuck—"
"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."
Each thrust pushed the air from Connor's lungs. Hank could see it—the way his chest deflated, the way his ribs pressed against his skin like fingers on a piano. He was so thin. So impossibly, terrifyingly thin. And yet every time Hank pushed in, Connor pushed back—meeting him, matching him, taking everything Hank had to give.
"You take what Daddy gives you," Hank growled, hips snapping forward. "You hear me?"
"Yes—yes—"
"You're gonna eat tomorrow. You're gonna drink water. You're gonna stop trying to kill yourself because your body belongs to me now."
Connor sobbed—a broken, wet sound that tore from somewhere deep in his chest. But his hips never stopped moving. His hands never stopped gripping the sheets. His body never stopped yielding, never stopped taking.
"Yes," he gasped. "Yes. Yours. I'm yours."
"That's my boy." Hank drove deeper, harder, chasing his own pleasure now, chasing the edge of the cliff. Connor's body was tight around him—wet, warm, perfect—and Hank could feel himself getting close, could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine.
"Come for me," he commanded. "Come on my cock. Show me you belong to me."
Connor's hand found his own cock, worked it frantically—a blur of pale fingers and flushed skin—and then he was coming, body convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream. His walls clenched around Hank, pulsing, squeezing, milking him for everything he had.
Hank followed a heartbeat later. He buried himself to the hilt and let go—spilling inside Connor with a groan that rattled his teeth, his whole body shaking with the force of it.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Hank stayed where he was, still inside Connor, still connected, feeling the rapid pulse of Connor's heartbeat through the thin walls of his body.
"Stay," Connor whispered. "Don't pull out. Not yet."
"I'm not going anywhere."
Hank leaned down and kissed the back of Connor's neck, tasting salt and sweat.
"You did so good," he murmured. "So good for me."
"Really?"
"Really." Hank pulled out slowly, carefully, and rolled onto his side, gathering Connor into his arms. The boy felt impossibly light, impossibly fragile, like something that might break if Hank held on too tight. "You okay?"
"I'm okay." Connor's voice was sleepy, sated. "I'm... I'm good."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He burrowed closer, face pressed into Hank's chest. "I think... I think I might actually sleep tonight."
"That's good, baby. That's really good."
Silence settled over them—warm and heavy and safe. The streetlight outside flickered, then steadied. Somewhere in the house, a door closed. Niles, probably, going to bed. Or going somewhere else. Hank didn't care.
"Hey, Hank?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you." Connor's voice was muffled against his skin. "For... for all of it."
"Don't thank me." Hank stroked his hair, fingers carding through the tangled brown strands. "Just stay."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." Hank closed his eyes. "That's what scares the hell out of me."
Connor laughed—soft, tired, but real. A real laugh, the first one Hank had heard in days.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
They lay there together as the night deepened around them, the weight of the day slowly bleeding away into something softer, something almost like peace. Connor's breathing evened out, slowing, deepening, until Hank was sure he was asleep.
But then, just as Hank was drifting off himself, Connor spoke again.
"Hank?"
"Mm?"
"I'm gonna try. Tomorrow. I'm gonna try."
Hank's throat tightened. He pressed a kiss to the top of Connor's head.
"I know you are, sweetheart. I know."
And for the first time in a long time, Hank let himself believe it.
The quiet held them for a while. Hank's chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm beneath Connor's ear, a metronome marking time in the dark. The room smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, lingering ghost of cigarette smoke from the open window.
Connor's mind drifted. The edges of his thoughts softened, blurred, became something almost like sleep. His body ached in ways that felt earned—not the hollow ache of hunger, but the deep, satisfied soreness of being thoroughly used. Hank's arm was heavy across his back, grounding him, keeping him from floating away.
He was just beginning to slip under when the phone buzzed.
The sound was jarring—a sharp, mechanical vibration against the nightstand, rattling against a half-empty glass of water and a bottle of pills. Connor's eyes snapped open.
"What the hell?" Hank muttered, stirring beneath him.
The phone buzzed again. Then again. A rapid-fire staccato of notifications lighting up the screen.
Connor pushed himself up on one elbow, squinting at the brightness. His whole body protested the movement, muscles screaming, head swimming with that familiar, dizzying fog.
His whole body protested the movement, muscles screaming, head swimming with that familiar, dizzying fog. The phone buzzed again—a violent shudder against the nightstand—and Connor reached for it blindly, fingers fumbling across the cluttered surface.
"What time is it?" Hank's voice was thick with sleep, gravelly and low.
Connor didn't answer. He'd gotten his hand around the phone, thumb swiping across the screen, and what he saw made his stomach drop through the mattress.
GAVIN: niles
GAVIN: niles hey
GAVIN: i think the ceiling is breathing
GAVIN: not in a bad way
GAVIN: or maybe in a bad way
GAVIN: theres a lot of colors
GAVIN: did you know colors have sounds
GAVIN: i can hear purple
GAVIN: purple sounds like
GAVIN: like a fridge
GAVIN: niles
GAVIN: niles i took something
GAVIN: i dont remember what
GAVIN: there were pills
GAVIN: maybe four
GAVIN: maybe more
GAVIN: the floor is very soft
GAVIN: did you know the floor could be soft
GAVIN: i think im in the bathroom
GAVIN: or maybe the kitchen
GAVIN: the tiles are cold
GAVIN: so kitchen
GAVIN: niles
GAVIN: i cant feel my hands
GAVIN: thats probably fine
GAVIN: i love you man
GAVIN: youre like a brother to me
GAVIN: a brother whos also a fridge
GAVIN: purple
GAVIN: everything is purple
GAVIN: come get me
GAVIN: or dont
GAVIN: its fine
GAVIN: im fine
GAVIN: im so fine
GAVIN: niles
Connor stared at the screen. The words blurred, reformed, blurred again. Gavin. Niles's friend—his best friend, actually, the only person Niles had ever brought around the house, the only person Niles seemed to actually give a shit about besides Connor himself. Gavin, who was twenty-four and worked at a record store and had a laugh that filled whatever room he was in.
Gavin, who was clearly fucking wasted on something and texting the wrong person.
"Connor." Hank's hand landed on his shoulder, warm and grounding. "What is it?"
"It's Gavin." Connor's voice came out flat, hollow. He handed the phone to Hank without looking away from the wall. "He's texting Niles. But he's texting my phone."
Hank took the phone, squinting at the screen. Connor watched his expression shift—confusion, then recognition, then something harder. Something that looked like the old cop coming back to the surface, the detective who'd spent twenty years watching people destroy themselves in every way imaginable.
"Jesus Christ," Hank muttered.
"He's on something. He doesn't know where he is. He's talking about sounds and colors and—" Connor stopped. Swallowed. "He said he took pills. He doesn't remember how many."
"Where's Niles?"
"I don't know. His room, maybe. Or he went out." Connor was already moving, swinging his legs off the bed, reaching for his jeans. His body screamed in protest—every muscle fiber aching, every joint stiff—but he ignored it. "I need to find him."
"Whoa, whoa." Hank sat up, grabbing Connor's wrist. "You're not going anywhere."
"Gavin's alone somewhere. He's fucked up. He needs—"
"He needs someone with a car and a clear head." Hank was already reaching for his own clothes, pulling on his jeans with the practiced efficiency of a man who'd done this dance a hundred times before. "You can barely stand. You're shaking. You're not driving anywhere."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're running on fumes and whatever's left of your body's reserves, and if you get behind the wheel right now, you're gonna wrap yourself around a telephone pole." Hank's voice was hard, but his hands were gentle as he tugged Connor's jeans from his grip. "Sit down. I'll go."
Connor wanted to argue. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to move, to do something, to not just sit here while Gavin was God-knows-where doing God-knows-what. But Hank was right. He could feel it in the way his vision swam, in the way his heart was pounding too fast and too hard in his chest, in the tremor that had taken up permanent residence in his hands.
"Let me call him," Connor said. "At least let me call him."
"Fine." Hank was already dressed, already grabbing his keys from the dresser. "Call him. Keep him on the line. See if you can figure out where he is."
Connor grabbed the phone and hit call.
It rang once. Twice.Three times. Then—
"Hello?" Gavin's voice was stretched thin, warped, like a record playing at the wrong speed. "Hello? Is this—who is this?"
"It's Connor. Niles's brother."
"Connor!" A long pause. A laugh that turned into a cough. "Connor, Connor, Connor. You know I always thought you were—you were like a cat. A really skinny cat. That's a compliment. Cats are cool."
"Gavin, where are you?"
"I'm... I'm in the kitchen. I think. Or the bathroom. The tiles are cold." Another pause. "There's a lot of tiles."
"Are you at your apartment?"
"I don't—maybe? There's a poster. The poster with the—the thing. The band. You know the band."
"Which band?"
"The... the one with the guy. The guy with the hair." Gavin made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob. "I can't remember. I can't remember anything. Is that bad? That's probably bad."
"No, it's not bad. You're okay." Connor's voice was steady, calm, a tone he'd perfected over years of talking himself down from his own ledges. "I need you to look around. What do you see?"
"I see... I see the fridge. The fridge is purple. Everything's purple. Did you know purple sounds like—"
"I know. You told me. The fridge."
"Yeah." Gavin's voice cracked. "Yeah, the fridge."
"Okay. So you're in the kitchen. That's good. That's really good." Connor was already moving toward the door, phone pressed to his ear, Hank following close behind. "Can you stand up?"
"I don't... I don't think so."
"Try. Just try for me, okay?"
Silence. A shuffling sound. A thud.
"Gavin?"
"I fell."
"That's okay. That's fine. Just stay there. Stay on the floor." Connor was in the hallway now, feet bare against the cold wood, the phone clutched so tight his knuckles had gone white. "Hank's coming to get you. He'll be there soon."
"Hank?" Gavin's voice went dreamy, distant. "I like Hank. He's got a nice voice. Like a... like a bear. A sad bear."
"Yeah. He's a sad bear." Connor pushed open the door to Niles's room. The bed was empty, sheets tangled, a half-empty glass of Gatorade on the nightstand. No Niles. "Gavin, I need you to do something for me."
"Anything. I'd do anything for you, Connor. You're like a... you're like a really skinny cat."
"Stay on the line. Don't hang up. Just keep talking."
"Okay. Okay, I can do that." A pause. "The ceiling is still breathing."
"I know. Just ignore it."
"Okay."
Connor turned to Hank, who was already pulling on his boots by the front door. "He's at his apartment. 4B on Morrison. He's on the floor in the kitchen."
"I know the place." Hank grabbed his coat, his keys. "What about Niles?"
"Not here. I'll try his cell."
"Do that. And keep Gavin on the line."
Connor nodded, already dialing Niles with his other hand. The phone rang and rang and rang. Voicemail. He tried again. Voicemail again.
"Hank."
Hank paused at the door, keys in hand, looking back at him.
"Find him. Please."
Something soft flickered across Hank's face—something that looked almost like tenderness. "I will. Stay here. Lock the door. Don't do anything stupid."
"You know me."
"That's what I'm worried about."
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and Connor was alone in the apartment with Gavin's voice still murmuring nonsense in his ear.
He sank down onto the couch, phone pressed to his head, and tried to breathe.
"Connor?"Gavin's voice had gone quiet, almost childlike. "Are you still there?"
"I'm here."
"I'm scared."
Connor closed his eyes. His chest ached—not from hunger, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper. Something that had been cracked open hours ago, in Hank's bed, and hadn't quite sealed shut.
"I know," he said. "I'm scared too."
"Will you stay with me?"
"Yeah." Connor pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped his free arm around them, and leaned his head back against the couch. "I'm not going anywhere."
The night stretched on, and Connor waited, and Gavin talked about colors and sounds and ceilings that breathed, and somewhere across the city, Hank drove through the dark, and Niles didn't answer his phone, and the world kept turning, indifferent and cold and impossibly beautiful.
Connor stayed on the line.
He didn't let go.