Nothing regarding your feelings towards me ever feels inadequate, Hank. Not at all
[ He returns like one smooth criminal, far too eloquent to be a tool of the law. His smile is self-satisfied with Hank's harmless little choke of surprise; unless he's critically damaged, Connor will always be able to browse every memory with Hank and sling back his most salacious quotes. It's an 'evil' he's used only sparingly thus far, if only to keep the tactic potent. ]
I do, don't I? I am curious about what kind of pleasurable feelings can be produced by the new installs on my chest-- so far I'm entirely certain I understand 'itchy' and 'rough' well enough
[ As though to drive his point the android allows one sloping shoulder to shed the cover of his shirt. His knees fold around Hank's hips as he talks, squeeze while he lounges with his back to the large half-wall mirror very much like he's at home. ]
Yes, I was supposed to sit in your lap, wasn't I?
[ The hands drifting up his thighs and the warm weight of Hank's body easily aggravate the relatively low simmering of Connor's arousal; through his clothing, pressed dangerously low beneath Hank's stomach, the constrained weight of Connor's new hardware gives a notable twitch of interest. The accompanying shock has Connor half-swallowing down a crushed velvet groan and his knees grip tighter at Hank's hips. ]
Nothing more than wanting to feel you closer to me. Y-You're right... we should relocate
[ His eyes are hazy as smog-kissed midnight as his hands catch Hank's shoulders as though to brace himself-- but to let go, or hold on? They can just-- he can just--
But the dull ache of friction to his center is too good, too intense, too demanding. His brand new dick getting steely-stiff, more-so second by second, swelling in the narrow slice of space between them.
Connor's eyes widen a fraction further for every ounce that bordering terrible, already blissful pressure inflicts on him. A flurry of thoughts pelt him all at once, like flash-hail, but he can't actually articulate any of them. He wants too many things at the same time-- to pull off his clothing, Hank's clothing, to roll his hips and chase that friction and kiss Hank until he has to stop him to breathe and--
The only thing he does manage to string over a humid sigh, like a gossamer prayer, is Hank's name. The single syllable is all longing, enchanted disbelief at the sheer gravity of these new sensations. 'I can't believe how good this feels' and 'this is amazing' and just maybe a tremulant 'I love you' all rolled into the single flowing utterance of his partner's name. ]
no subject
[ He returns like one smooth criminal, far too eloquent to be a tool of the law. His smile is self-satisfied with Hank's harmless little choke of surprise; unless he's critically damaged, Connor will always be able to browse every memory with Hank and sling back his most salacious quotes. It's an 'evil' he's used only sparingly thus far, if only to keep the tactic potent. ]
I do, don't I? I am curious about what kind of pleasurable feelings can be produced by the new installs on my chest-- so far I'm entirely certain I understand 'itchy' and 'rough' well enough
[ As though to drive his point the android allows one sloping shoulder to shed the cover of his shirt. His knees fold around Hank's hips as he talks, squeeze while he lounges with his back to the large half-wall mirror very much like he's at home. ]
Yes, I was supposed to sit in your lap, wasn't I?
[ The hands drifting up his thighs and the warm weight of Hank's body easily aggravate the relatively low simmering of Connor's arousal; through his clothing, pressed dangerously low beneath Hank's stomach, the constrained weight of Connor's new hardware gives a notable twitch of interest. The accompanying shock has Connor half-swallowing down a crushed velvet groan and his knees grip tighter at Hank's hips. ]
Nothing more than wanting to feel you closer to me. Y-You're right... we should relocate
[ His eyes are hazy as smog-kissed midnight as his hands catch Hank's shoulders as though to brace himself-- but to let go, or hold on? They can just-- he can just--
But the dull ache of friction to his center is too good, too intense, too demanding. His brand new dick getting steely-stiff, more-so second by second, swelling in the narrow slice of space between them.
Connor's eyes widen a fraction further for every ounce that bordering terrible, already blissful pressure inflicts on him. A flurry of thoughts pelt him all at once, like flash-hail, but he can't actually articulate any of them. He wants too many things at the same time-- to pull off his clothing, Hank's clothing, to roll his hips and chase that friction and kiss Hank until he has to stop him to breathe and--
The only thing he does manage to string over a humid sigh, like a gossamer prayer, is Hank's name. The single syllable is all longing, enchanted disbelief at the sheer gravity of these new sensations. 'I can't believe how good this feels' and 'this is amazing' and just maybe a tremulant 'I love you' all rolled into the single flowing utterance of his partner's name. ]